Constable by the Sea (9 page)

The pig and the sheep caused no real problems because they were easily rounded up, although their moments of blissful freedom did entail wild and noisy gallops through the streets with posse-like constables in hot pursuit on foot or cycle. I do know that one such chase, with a very noisy pig as the target, aroused several streets of slumbering residents and many bewildered holiday-makers, some of whom thought that Count Dracula had come to the town. A screeching pig can produce a most unholy noise.

In spite of the noise, the general idea was simply to corner the animal, secure it and return it protesting to its death chamber.

The cow was rather different. She was bigger for a start, and when a cow takes fright and blunders about the streets at night, she can demolish shop windows, damage cars, leap into
sitting-rooms
and do all manner of wild and irresponsible acts which amount to genuine vandalism. So a rampaging cow has to be quickly halted, and sadly the solution is often a powerful rifle.

This particular cow, a hornless Red Poll of a delightful chestnut colour, was such an animal. In the thrill of the chase, she turned into a galloping powerhouse of beef, and we sensed tragedy if she wasn’t halted in her tracks.

To cut a long story short, we knocked out of bed a member of the local Rifle Club, a territorial army firearms instructor, who joined the hunt with a .303 rifle. We drove the terrified beast into the coal yard, where she was put out of her misery by one well-aimed shot to the head.

The bullock was a similar problem, but he, being a lively young lad, took a good deal more catching than the cow of previous weeks. He was smaller for one thing, faster for another and very cunning too.

He was spotted in a shopping arcade by one of the patrolling constables, and seemed docile enough. He was not galloping
aimlessly about the place, so the constable rang the office and alerted the sergeant, who in turn recruited the rest of us as reluctant matadors. We all set off in pursuit of the bullock, a handsome Hereford. His large, flat white face was like a beacon in the darkness, and it caught the light from the few street lamps as he moved casually about the town with us in close
attendance
. This had not yet developed into a chase, it was more like easy cattle-droving, for we were endeavouring to persuade him to walk into some enclosed space.

The snag is that town centres are not rich with enclosed spaces of the kind that will accommodate a frisky young bullock, and as he moved about the streets, we racked our brains as we sought a suitable paddock. Then the sergeant recalled Cragdale Hall, a large, deserted mansion close to the town centre. It had large iron gates and a high surrounding wall which provided a total enclosure, and the house was empty too. It was surrounded by overgrown lawns and gardens and was an ideal place to contain a bullock. He sent one of the constables ahead to open the gates in preparation, and the rest of us were briefed to guide the bullock in that general direction.

Things went very well until the bullock turned into one of the dark yards which riddle the town centre. These are long and narrow and link one street with another which runs parallel to it. As the bullock turned into the narrow entrance, the sergeant yelled.

‘Two of you, get to the other end. Hold him in. We’ve got him.’

Two young constables ran ahead and disappeared down one of the adjoining yards, and we could hear them galloping along its echoing sandstone base. Then we heard the galloping of hooves followed by a shout of alarm, and it seems that as those two policemen emerged at the distant end of their yard, a shop-breaker, complete with his illicit haul, with a young bull hard on his heels, emerged with some speed and anxiety from the adjoining yard.

He had just climbed out of a rear ground-floor window of the Co-Op as the bullock arrived at that point; I did wonder if he thought the police had recruited bulls as well as dogs for such
duties, although I imagine he never gave it a thought, at least not just then. However, his shout of alarm had frightened our quarry; it caused the bullock to begin a fast gallop hard behind the worried shop-breaker, who immediately ran for his life. The pair of them sped from the end of that yard like two peas exploding from a peashooter, the crook maintaining the slenderest of leads.

And the shop-breaker had the wit not to release his haul, which comprised a large carton of cigarettes, the result being that he was caught red-handed. Happily, the constables who emerged from the adjoining yard at about the same moment were quick enough to appreciate the situation and grabbed the villain, while the bullock did its best to avoid the drama and vanished towards the harbourside.

As the two happy arresters escorted their man to the police station, the remaining matadors pursued their quarry at a sedate pace, not wishing to panic him into a burst of sudden activity. Their droving skills directed him along the edge of the harbour, and we were delighted when he entered one of the herring sheds. We reckoned we could contain him there while the owner of the slaughterhouse was contacted; and so we did. The man arrived shortly afterwards with a cattle-truck and two of his own men. With remarkable ease, they persuaded the bullock to enter it.

And that was that. The excitement was over, except that I wonder how many shop-breakers have been arrested by a bullock on night duty.

Another interesting hunt was started by a drunk who rang the police station about half-past eleven one warm summer night to say that he had seen a ferocious unidentified beast on the harbour wall and that it had washed its supper in the harbour water before vanishing below deck on one of the fishing cobles.

Unlikely as it seemed, it was a good enough yarn to be relayed to the policeman who was patrolling the harbourside, and he promised to keep his eyes open. Half an hour later, he rang the office to confirm the sighting. There
was
a peculiar animal upon the boats, and he had no idea what it was. He said it was about as
big as a badger and of a nondescript colour so far as he could see; but it wasn’t a badger, and it was jumping from one boat to the next. It certainly looked dangerous.

All the night-duty constables, including myself, were told to volunteer to help catch the fearsome thing before it spread rabies or did some other irreparable harm to the town. To help in this task, we recruited the fire brigade, the fishermen
themselves
and anyone else who could be found at that time of night. This resulted in all the drunks from the harbourside pubs volunteering, along with many strolling holiday-makers and several motorists who shone their car lights across the resting boats which bobbed and swayed on the water.

Some of the fishermen had the bright idea of driving it towards a wall of fishing nets which they would hold up, and so the trap was set. At this point, we weren’t really sure where it was, and we certainly didn’t know what it was, which meant we didn’t know what it might do. Nonetheless, we all boarded the boats and began to beat upon their wooden decks, hoping to flush out the beast.

Under lights beaming down from the boats’ masts and in the glow of car headlamps, we set about our mission, and it is fair to say that there was a good deal of nervousness which was hidden among the noise and laughter. None of us knew whether he was going to be savaged by some ghastly creature from another country as the noisy, bawdy hunt continued.

Suddenly, the large furry thing bolted from below deck and scurried across one of the boats. Accompanied by shouting and banging on buckets and dustbin lids, it sped from deck to deck, crossing the fleet of fishing cobles with remarkable dexterity and avoiding the outstretched fishing nets until it was able to leap onto the side of the harbour wall. Then, remarkably, it clung to the seaweed and stones of the wall and somehow scuttled along the side of the wall until we saw it disappear beneath the wooden flooring of the pier extension.

‘What is it?’ asked someone when that minor panic was over.

‘Dunno, but it looks like a giant bloody rat!’ said one man. ‘I’ve not seen owt like yon, never. And it has a bushy tail. Rats haven’t bushy tails, leastways not ships’ rats.’

The police officers present gathered to discuss the next phase of the operation, and Sergeant White, on duty that night, asked:

‘Right, you all saw it. What was it?’

Our answers ranged from a giant mouse to a giant cat, by way of a monster mongoose or a massive squirrel. It was about the size of a badger, that was not in dispute, but the darkness of the night and the animal’s rapid movements made it impossible to get a clear view of it. We all agreed that it seemed to be a brownish grey colour, although the darkness made it difficult to make a proper assessment. Someone said its tail was bushy, and black and white, and we all felt it wasn’t either a dog or a fox, nor even a badger. Such animals could never cling to the side of the harbour wall in the remarkable manner it had shown.

Now, however, it was somewhere under the pier extension, probably clambering over the mass of steel supports and girders. At least it was isolated to a degree, and if it emerged from there, we would be able to see it.

Sergeant White spoke. ‘PC Rhea, go to a telephone kiosk and ring Gerard Bright,’ he announced. ‘He’s got the pet shop. His home number will be in the directory. Tell him what’s happened – he might know what it is and what to do. Then report back to me. I’ll remain here and supervise.’

I rang Mr Bright from the fishmarket kiosk, and he asked me to explain all that I knew. I relayed a tale of the chase and a varied descriptions of the animal which was based on all the garbled accounts I’d heard.

‘Bloody hell!’ I heard him exclaim. ‘Hang on a minute, officer.’

He left the telephone and returned saying, ‘I’ll be down there right away. Don’t chase it any more – leave it to me.’

I relayed this advice to Sergeant White, who called for all the hunters to keep back, to remain at a distance and under no circumstances to approach the animal. An expert was on the way, he announced with all the seriousness he could muster.

I tried to tell him that Mr Bright had not indicated the thing was dangerous, his advice being simply to leave it alone, but White was not taking any risks. He moved everyone back from
the pier extension and waited. Somehow he managed to generate all the tension of a man-eating tiger hunt.

Mr Bright arrived on a pedal cycle and from the saddlebag lifted a vacuum flask of water, a dog’s dish and two hard-boiled eggs.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Everyone keep back. I’m going for it.’

He walked to the end of the wooden pier extension, filled the bowl with water, put it on the ground and placed the eggs close to it. Then he shouted:

‘Rocky, Rocky, Rocky.’

We all watched, breathless, and heard a scratching noise from beneath and then the head of a sharp-eared animal appeared. Then the rest of its body scrambled onto the surface of the extension and scuttled across to the eggs. It seized one, washed it in the water and settled down to eat it.

Mr Bright picked the creature up, and it snuggled against him as he carried it towards us.

‘It’s my pet racoon,’ he said. ‘He’s escaped somehow. He’s completely harmless, but very nervous when there is a lot of noise and shouting. Thank you for finding him.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Sergeant White. ‘A real pleasure. Now, can we get the town back to normal?’

Of all the animals that have befriended mankind, the seaside donkey is surely one of the most lovable. Stubborn at times, their overall patience with tiny children is renowned, and a donkey ride remains one of the highlights of a day on the beach. Grouped together in small numbers, seaside donkeys spend their working lives plodding a well-worn path along the sands to the gleeful shouts of youngsters and the tinkling of bells on their harnesses. And then, in the winter, they are split into singles or perhaps pairs and despatched to inland farms, there to enjoy a few months relaxation. Lots of moorland farms are hosts to a donkey or two during the winter, and I recall a friend of mine riding two miles or so to primary school on a donkey which was boarded out at his father’s farm.

The Strensford donkeys were no exception. There would be about fifteen of them, small patient beasts whose working day
was like that of seaside donkeys everywhere.

They lived high on the cliff near the abbey, and each morning during the summer they were driven down the donkey path which dropped steeply from the abbey and followed a tortuous route into the town. From there, they made their colourful way through the narrow streets, their ever-tinkling bells marking their journey. They were an attraction among the cars and holiday-makers with their doleful faces, decorated harnesses and their names emblazoned across their foreheads. Their steady progress accompanied by the clip-clop of their dainty hooves brought the town’s traffic to a slow grind behind them as they were cheered along their route, usually with a procession of happy children prancing around them. Children would
sometimes
run ahead to their pitch on the yellow sands and make their bids for the first ride on Blossom, Snowdrop, Daffodil or whichever donkey attracted them.

Throughout the long summer days on the beach, the donkeys would stand in an orderly and silent group, regularly carrying happy children or sometimes a giggling adult along the beach and back again for 3d a ride. And then, as evening fell, the tired little troupe would make its return journey through the busy streets for a night’s rest.

The lady in charge of them, a dour woman in her sixties, seldom spoke as she ushered them along their daily route through the town; sometimes her grandchildren would
accompany
her and sometimes her husband, but the donkeys were hers. She owned them, she paid for their upkeep, and she took their earnings as her living.

Within the purple moors which surrounded the town, and indeed within the town itself, there was, and still is, a good deal of folklore surrounding the donkey. For example, there is a legend that suggests no one has ever seen a dead donkey. This is one of those enduring folk beliefs, just as the dark cross on a donkey’s back is a reminder that this humble beast carried Christ into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. And deep in the moors there lingered, until comparatively recent times, a belief that by riding a donkey many cures could be effected, and that the hairs from the cross on its back possessed curative powers. If those
hairs were carried in a little bag around the neck of an ailing person, they would prevent toothache, whooping cough and other diseases.