Constable on the Hill (19 page)

“I paid, I always do. Good compensation. They’ll have to tolerate Topsy, Officer. There’s nothing I can do, I’m sorry.”

“You could sell him.”

“Sell him? He was a gift from an admirer of mine! No, I couldn’t sell him, he’s a real pet.”

“Miss Fiona,” I said, trying to appear threatening. “I might have to consider a prosecution, for letting him stray on the highway.”

“If you must, you must,” she said, and stalked away, thrashing her thigh with the crop. I watched her stride down the street, her body swaying in time with her leg movements, and I wondered what the answer could be. I didn’t want to book the woman, but if she persisted in allowing Topsy the freedom of the main street, it would be necessary. It would be necessary too, if I was to appease the villagers; at least it would prove I had done
something.
If Sergeant Blaketon heard about it, he’d start asking questions and he’d demand a prosecution. But would court action stop the horse?

It was perhaps fortunate that Sergeant Bairstow met me a few days later and asked if I had any problems. I thought it a fine opportunity to discuss the pony, as he was such a seasoned and experienced police officer.

He listened carefully with his gentle smile and when I had
concluded, he said. “I don’t think we need report her for summons, Nicholas. I mean, it’s a well-behaved animal, isn’t it? It’s not dangerous to people – it doesn’t go around biting and kicking them. It knows what to do in traffic and it doesn’t cause severe problems.”

“It eats flowers and lettuce,” I reminded him.

“That’s a civil matter, lad, not a crime. And she pays compensation. What more can the injured parties expect? We must not involve ourselves with civil matters.”

“I must do something, Sergeant. That woman must be taught that the pony is her responsibility.”

He smiled faintly. “Suppose it wasn’t a horse or a pony. Suppose you found it. What would you do?”

“I don’t follow.” I had to admit I was confused.

“Well, suppose it was a pet cat or a dog, or something like a hamster or little lad’s rabbit. You found it in the street. What would you do?”

“I’d take it to the owner’s house, if I knew where that was.”

“Exactly, Nicholas,” he smiled again. “And suppose the owner was out?”

“I’d put it somewhere safe until they returned.”

“Of course you would,” he said. “I mean, if the kitchen door was open, you’d probably pop it in there, wouldn’t you? Or if a hen-house was open, you’d use that …”

“She has no hen-houses,” I said. “And her stables are locked when the horses are in the fields.”

“But she always leaves her kitchen door open, doesn’t she?”

“Does she?” I asked, surprised at his local knowledge.

“Always,” he nodded gently. “We had trouble with her once before – it was a randy stallion she kept. It fancied everything from articulated lorries to poodles, and I often called to see her about it. She sold it to a circus, I think. I’ve no idea what kinds of tricks it got up to. I seem to remember they had to keep the elephants out of its way.”

“You’re not suggesting I put it in her kitchen, are you?” I asked, horrified at the suggestion.

“I wouldn’t suggest a thing like that, Nicholas!” he said, leaving me to my thoughts.

During that summer, I must have received a further
half-dozen
complaints about Miss Fiona’s pony, and one day I was
in the village street when Topsy came trotting along, utterly alone.

This was my moment of decision. I was faced with the problem in person.

“Topsy!” I shouted, and the pretty pony came willingly to me. It nuzzled its face under my arm and I patted its head, as it rubbed itself against me.

“You’ve done it again,” I heard myself say to the animal. “Come along, it’s time for action.”

Holding its long mane, I walked the length of the street and several villagers smiled their greetings. I said I was taking Topsy home for tea, and they smiled, some with happiness and other with expressions of bewilderment. I reached her house. It was a lovely cottage with a large white gate opening onto the road. Inside the gate was a converted farmyard, with outbuildings all around, all locked. Her cottage was on the left as I entered. It had a white door of the old stable-door type, and this led directly into her kitchen.

I knocked.

There was no reply. I reached up for the latch of the top half of the door and found the pony’s muzzle nudging my hand. It managed to press the sneck and the door swung open on oiled hinges, swinging with its own weight to rest inside the kitchen.

“Clever stuff,” I stroked its head. “Can you smell the metal or something?”

I reached down for the lower sneck but the intelligent animal was with me. With its nose, it depressed the handle and the door swung open, to lodge beneath the upper half. The way into the kitchen was clear. I led Topsy inside and left him standing on the tiled floor, as I closed the door behind myself. I didn’t think he could let himself out because the doors would only open inwards – whether the horse would reason that, I did not know. But I left the house feeling very happy. Fiona now had a horse in her kitchen. I was to learn later, that this had registered in Topsy’s head. Each time he let himself out of his field, he made his unerring way to the kitchen, opened the door and let himself in.

It would be several weeks later when I met Miss Fiona.

“Ah, Officer!” she beamed. “I’ve good news for you.”

“Really?” I wondered what it could be.

“Topsy!” she said. “He’s with a riding school at Eltering now. I donated him on a permanent-loan basis. He remains my property, but they use him for lessons; they feed him and so on. Good wheeze, eh? He’d found a way of opening my kitchen doors you know. Let himself in, opened the bloody fridge and pinched all my vegetables and fruit. The bloody animal!”

“He’s an amazing horse,” I smiled. “Very intelligent.”

“Too bloody intelligent!” she laughed.

When I told Sergeant Bairstow, he smiled quietly. “It was better than taking her to court over the pony,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” and I knew the villagers regarded my action as being very correct. Several asked if I had considered joining the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

With an abbey full of Benedictine monks virtually on my doorstep, it was not unexpected that I should become
involved
with the church in one or more of its forms. Life within the shadows of an abbey was fascinating – the Benedictines of Maddleskirk are Roman Catholics but their philosophy is that all men are children of God and therefore to be treated with the respect due to them. There were precious few religious barriers and even members of the Wee Frees of Scotland would find a welcome within the portals of that mighty Christian church, an invitation that was not expected to be reciprocated. But true men of God are full of forgiveness.

Monks in long black cloaks, or tee-shirts and jeans, or sports gear, wandered about our countryside and were part of the scenery. Because they were a living part of the local populace, they had lost a lot of their mystique. The villagers found the monks very human, very kindly and very
knowledgeable
, as was expected of an ancient and historic teaching order, and it was not unusual to find oneself enjoying a pint of beer in the pub, with a monk standing next to one, also enjoying a pint.

Soon after my arrival in Aidensfield, I discovered that their local ecumenical movement had already started. The two chief faiths of the district, Anglican and Roman Catholic, were friends. They shared churches, they shared services and they even shared priests. The latter came as a surprise to me, having been schooled in the village the Reformation had missed, i.e. Egton Bridge in North Riding’s lovely Eskdale. I had been reared in the ancient Roman Catholic faith which tended to isolate Catholics from other faiths, but out here, this thriving Catholic monastery was the centrepiece of rural
life where other faiths were openly accepted and the views of their adherents respected.

This important lesson was given to me about nine-thirty one Sunday. It was a bleak, wintry morning with sleet in the air and a powerful easterly wind blowing across my exposed hilltop. I was enjoying a week-end free from police duties, when Sunday morning meant attending Mass with the family. We had breakfasted and were washing up in the kitchen when I spotted a bedraggled figure at my garden gate. He was propping a pedal cycle against a gate post and through my steamed-up window I watched him enter the garden and make for the front door. His head was bowed against the driving sleet and his clothes blew in the cruel wind.

I dried my hands as I went to answer the door and found a young man standing before me, sensibly dressed in heavy cycling gear. He was saturated about the face and feet, his outer clothes were dripping and he looked nigh frozen to death.

“Good morning,” he smiled apologetically, the words
finding
difficulty in leaving his frozen face. “I wonder if I might use your telephone?”

“Certainly,” I agreed, bidding him enter the house. He did, and I closed the door. It was bitterly cold outside; the temperature was dropping and it wouldn’t be long before the sleet turned to snow. And with this wind, there’d be problems in this locality. Lanes would become blocked with drifts and lonely farmsteads would be cut off. But all that was later … now, I led him into the office where his dripping clothes would not damage anything. He stood on my polished floor, making pools on the shining surface.

“Are you going far?” I asked, surprised that anyone would cycle in this weather.

“Crampton,” he rubbed his hands to encourage circulation. “At least, I was. My bike’s got a puncture and I wanted to ring the abbey for help.”

“The abbey?” I wondered if he was talking about a pub.

“Maddleskirk Abbey. I’m a monk,” and he opened his waterproofs to reveal his dog-collar. “I’m on my way to Crampton to play the organ for the ten o’clock service.”

“Oh!” that explained his journey. “I see,” and I then pondered slightly. “But you’re Catholic monks, aren’t you? Crampton Parish Church is Church of England?”

“That’s right,” he smiled. “The vicar rang us up in a panic. It seems his organist fell ill last night with ’flu, and he asked if we could help. The Abbot agreed, as he always does, so I’m
en
route
to play their hymns like a good Anglican.”

“I thought Catholics weren’t allowed to attend Protestant services?”

“They weren’t. It’s a long story, as you know; the
differences
between our faiths are historic, and the Abbot regards our churches as two sisters who aren’t on speaking terms. It’s a temporary state of affairs, in his opinion. Eventually, they will learn to speak with one another and then I’m sure we’ll find we have a lot in common. The Reformation did a lot of harm, but in the end it will be shown to have done a lot of good. In the end, we’ll all be one church again, just as God intended. This is just one of the ways our Abbot has of making those two silly sisters take a long close look at each other, and to make them realise that they do share a lot of common ground.”

“He sounds a very sensible man,” I said.

“He is, he’ll go far. Now, could I use your phone please? I’ll get the monastery garage to send a car out for me.”

“I’ll run you down,” I offered. “It’s only a couple of miles.”

And so I did. I said I’d ring the Abbey upon my return and arrange collection of his cycle, as I’d be at Mass myself, in the village Catholic church. I did that and later that afternoon, I mended the puncture in his back wheel. He called a day or two later and had a cup of tea, telling me he’d welcomed the experience of playing in an Anglican church. He’d enjoyed listening to the hearty Anglican singing. It transpired that the vicar hadn’t announced him as a visiting Catholic monk, but had simply identified him as a visiting priest, without telling the congregation of his faith or place of origin.

“Isn’t that cheating?” I asked. “Surely those good
Anglicans
should have known you were a Catholic? They would think you were a visiting member of their own faith?”

“Does it matter?” he asked me. “I was there to play the organ not to convert them or to argue about religion. I think
one old lady summed it up afterwards – she came to me, shook me by the hand and said, ‘That was fine playing, vicar’. She said it was plain to see I was a man of God. She was right, you know.”

And off he went. I saw him cycle past several times in the future and he always waved.

My next spell of duty involving the church came with a telephone call from a passing motorist.

“Ah!” he said breathlessly into the mouthpiece. “Is that the policeman?”

“It is,” I confirmed.

“Oh well, there’s been an accident. There’s a car on its roof between Thackerston and Aidensfield. It’s in a field, just past the quarry,” and he rang off before I could ask for more details.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning, and he’d caught me just before I left the office on my rounds. I told Mary I was just popping down the road to deal with an accident, and there I’d be for about an hour. The Sergeant could find me there, if he came visiting.

Mounted on my trusty motor-cycle, I drove slowly down the gently sloping incline which led from my house into the village of Thackerston, about two miles away. I sought
indications
of the accident, but arrived in Thackerston without finding any sign of trouble. Had it been a hoax call?

The fields lay to the south of the road and I’d kept my eyes peeled as well as I could while riding a motor-cycle and watching the road ahead, but there was nothing. There were no signs on the road, no broken glass, no deposited mud, no skid marks or other debris. I began to feel sure I’d been dragged out on a false call. I mounted the bike and made the return journey, remembering that the caller had mentioned the quarry. The quarry lay roughly between the two villages, so I parked my motor-cycle near its entrance and walked along the verge, seeking the accident.

And then, as I peered over the hedge at that point, I saw a car on its roof in the field. It was half-way down a steep incline and invisible from the road. I clambered over the drystone wall and ran down the grassy slope to the vehicle, but it was empty. It was a tiny black Austin A30, the
successor of the Austin 7 and ancestor of the BMC Mini. There it was, finely balanced on its roof, rocking to and fro as I touched it. There was a distinct whiff of petrol but little sign of damage, other than a dented roof. I looked for the injured people, but there wasn’t a soul around. I made a note of the registration number from which I could trace the owner, and returned to the road.

Once there, I sought indications of a battle with steering or brakes, but found none. Judging by its position, it had left the road, run across the wide grass verge and dived through the hedge without even attempting to brake or change course. Its point of entry into the field had been precisely where a drystone wall and a hawthorn hedge met – the car had bolted through them at that exact place. The hedge had parted and had closed after it, thus leaving no trace of its remarkable journey. It had nose-dived into the steep field and had rolled over several times, to end its trip upside down.

I rang Durham Taxation Authority, with whom the car was registered and learned that it belonged to a vicar from that part of the world. Having not heard from anyone about this accident, other than the anonymous caller, I rang his home address and a woman answered.

“Mrs Dwyer?” I asked, hoping I was talking to the wife of the Rev. Sidney Dwyer.

“Yes?” there was a question in her voice.

“I’m P.C. Rhea of Aidensfield, in the North Riding,” I began.

“Ah!” she said. “My husband said you might ring. Is it about his car?”

“Yes it is, as a matter of fact.”

“Well,” she said. “He was on his way to Filey with three of his colleagues, where they are attending a conference. He ran off the road, near Thackerston, he tells me, but no one was hurt. They flagged down passing cars and got lifts to the conference. They’re all very well, and he rang a garage to arrange removal of his car.”

“Oh,” I was pleased at his efficiency. “He’s got it all organised.”

“He’s very good at organising,” she said. “I do hope there’s no problems.”

“No,” I assured her. “No problems, so long as you know about it.”

“Thank you for ringing,” she sounded very pleasant. “He’ll call in on the way back for you to see his insurance and licence, by the way.”

“He thinks of everything,” I said.

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” and she rang off. But even now, all those years later, I marvel that a car full of people could leave a road, cross a wide grass verge and plunge through a hedge without leaving a mark of any kind. And then to land upon its roof without causing any injury to its four inmates. It was a tiny car, so perhaps they’d been so tightly packed that they’d escaped injury?

It was almost as if the hand of God had lifted the little car off its wheels and plonked it upside down in the field. But why would He want to do that?

Lairsbeck is a hamlet some miles off my beat, and it lies deep in the North Yorkshire moors, hidden in a timbered valley called Lairsdale. It comprises a scattering of
farmsteads
, a telephone kiosk, some ant hills, a pillar box and the chapel. The chapel is the dominant feature. It was erected in that upsurge of religious fervour that followed Wesley across these remote parts, and it stands on the road side just beyond the first clump of pines after the watersplash. The door is of oak and very strong but inside the walls are covered with flaking whitewash and the whole place smells musty and damp.

The chapel is not used very often, perhaps once a month at the most, which means that modern heating and lighting systems are luxuries the tiny congregation cannot afford. The full congregation totals eleven, and they rely on oil lamps and paraffin heaters for light and warmth.

The task of filling the heaters had long been in the hands of Joshua Atkinson while his wife, Martha, looked after the lights. Other chapel folks had jobs like dusting, sweeping, winding up the clock, storing hymn books and stocking the tiny place with flowers. Everyone had a job of some kind, 
which was one way of ensuring they attended services.

That ploy gave some indication of the wisdom of Pastor Smith. He was a cunning old character, I found, and I liked him. He did not live at Lairsbeck but commuted to this outpost once a month; I met him in Ashfordly from time to time. He once told me of his first days with this small congregation.

It seemed they did not want to stand as he entered the chapel to begin the service, and this was something he felt was a vital part of the proceedings, a show of respect for him and his office. He had spoken of this from the pulpit on one occasion, and asked them to stand up next time he entered. They did not obey. He repeated his request from the pulpit but the sturdy and stubborn congregation refused to get to their feet as he entered the body of the chapel. Then he realised they always stood up to sing their hymns, and he hit upon the bright idea of having an entrance hymn as he walked towards his pulpit.

Sure enough, as the organ burst into life, they all leapt to their feet and launched into their favourite hymn as Pastor Smith moved down the aisle with a smile of satisfaction upon his face. But that was the last time they stood up, even for hymns. He told me the tale, and one of his flock told me the same tale one afternoon, over tea at his farm.

“Yon’s a crafty aud sod,” the farmer said. “By, he thowt he’d tricked us inti standing up for him, but nivver again. He’ll nivver trick us again like that – we allus sings hymns sitting doon now, just in case he’s trying to catch us out again.”

It would be late on autumn afternoon when Pastor Smith hailed me in Ashfordly. “I’d like a word with you,” he said.

I stopped and listened.

“I try to get men and women from the professions to read a lesson in my chapel, at the Lairsbeck services,” he began. “I’ve had doctors, shop keepers, veterinary surgeons, and many others. Would you read for me one Sunday evening, Mr Rhea?”

It was a bolt from the blue. I’d never been to a Methodist service in my life, and told him of my own faith. He seemed surprised to find a Catholic policeman, but was even more
surprised when, bearing in mind the monk and the organ playing, I said, “I’ll have a word with the Abbot of
Maddleskirk.
If he agrees, I’ll read for you.”