Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 12

  Having been primed to that notion, mother-in-law accepted his story without question. It was the break he needed. Within a month, Chris was saying that Marie was needed at some of the classes. The instructor suggested she attend to familiarize Cassius with any regular commands she might have to make — the dog needed to know all his human companions for it must not become a one-person dog.

  And so mother-in-law found herself looking after the children while Chris and Marie took Cassius to his classes. Then, quite deliberately, they omitted to tell her that there was no class on one Sunday. They let her believe there was. And so Chris and Marie went off for the day, alone.

  That single outing, following the challenge of training Cassius at Malton, had finally persuaded Marie that they ought to have more time to themselves, more time away from her mother’s constant and not-so-subtle demands.

  With Cassius quoted as the reason for missing that Sunday lunch, it was Marie who suggested to Chris that they take the children out and show them the moors, to show them sights she had only just discovered. They could play with Cassius in the streams and among the heather, and with summer coming along there would surely be some wonderful outings …

  Chris was delighted, especially as the idea had come from Marie, but it backfired. Marie’s mother insisted on coming too. Once she heard that Chris, Marie and the children were going out for a picnic, she invited herself along. It was a crush in the car, with mother-in law, two children and Cassius on the rear seat, but there was no option.

  Thereafter, mother-in-law inflicted herself upon Chris and Marie — she even went to the dog-training classes when they resumed.

  ‘At least we get out of doors,’ Chris smiled ruefully one day when he told me all this. ‘It’s better than sitting indoors all day, and we do see something of the countryside. But she won’t leave us alone … not even for a day!’

  ‘You’ll have to take Cassius for very long walks, then,’ I laughed.

  And so he did.

  He told mother-in-law that they were going for a twelve-mile hike across the moors with Cassius, and invited her to join them. She declined, saying there was no way she could cope with such a trek at her age, and offered to look after the children. And so off went Marie, Chris and Cassius once again, but it seems the children were not too happy about that arrangement. Having tasted a world beyond granny’s front room, they made their noisy, argumentative presence felt until she did not enjoy them at all. They wanted to be with their mum, dad and Cassius and they let their grandma know in no uncertain way — the good children of those earlier days had changed into noisy, demanding kids.

  Then, one week, mother-in-law suggested that Chris and Marie take the children out with them; she’d stay at home, by herself, alone, with nothing to do and no one to see. If nobody wanted her, she would cook lunch for herself. She’d sit and watch television, all by herself. She’d do some knitting. She might do the washing, seeing she was alone …

  ‘I know she’s piling on the agony, but we’ve got to make the break,’ Chris had told Marie yet again. And so they did. Marie now appreciated that they must not allow her mother to dominate their lives, and so they left her alone that Sunday while they took the children and Cassius onto the moors.

  The last time I saw Chris, his weekends had fallen into a new pattern — he had given up dog-training classes, but he and his family did avoid the trap of being committed for lunch every Sunday with mother-in-law. It was not easy — they had to be alert to all her ploys — but they did visit her, they did take lunch with her once a month or so, and they did have picnics with her and the children. But all were enjoyable occasions, not imposed upon them by Royal Command.

  ‘It’s all thanks to Cassius,’ he smiled one day.

  But I did wonder what would happen when Cassius was too old to go for long walks. Would mother-in-law look after him while the others went out?

  No one knew, but I was pleased to see that this young couple had learned to be as cunning as mother-in-law.

  *

  Britain is rich in stories of dogs whose faithfulness to their master or mistress has become part of our folklore. One of the best known is surely Grey friars Bobby, a terrier owned by a Borders shepherd called Jock Gray. When Mr Gray died in 1858, Bobby went to his grave in Greyfriar’s churchyard in Edinburgh and watched over it.

  He remained at that graveside until he died in 1872, an astonishing period of fourteen years. He was fed by the local people and adopted by the city as a mascot. Upon his death, he was buried beside his master. A fountain near the church bears a statue of Greyfriars Bobby and that tiny dog’s unfailing loyalty to his master has been a talking point ever since; his statue is now one of the tourist attractions of Scotland’s capital city.

  But many villages and towns offer similar stories of dogs, albeit lacking the sheer endurance of Bobby. One such dog was a Border collie owned by a retired Aidensfield farm worker. The dog was a black and white sheepdog, locally known as a cur. These dogs are very popular with the sheep farmers of the Yorkshire dales and moors for they are hard working, very devoted and highly intelligent. The dog’s name was Roy. His master was called Douglas Grisedale. Doug had laboured on local farms all his life and had retired, with his wife, to an old folks’ bungalow in Aidensfield. He was a frail-looking man, hardly the robust character one tends to associate with heavy farm work. Very slender, with gaunt cheeks and dark eyes, he had retained his black hair even though he was going on for seventy. Doris, his wife, was a round and cheerful lady with pink cheeks and plump legs; she liked being busy and involved herself with all manner of organizations. She helped to run the village hall, she cleaned the church, joined the WI, became a parish councillor and so on.

  Doug, on the other hand, was a quiet man who preferred to be alone, a legacy of his years of solitary work in the fields. He occupied his time with his bees and his garden and seemed quite content with his very peaceful retirement.

  His constant companion was his dog, Roy. Although Roy was a sheepdog, he had never been used for shepherding, although from time to time he did reveal his natural instinct by rounding up hens and ducks in the village, then lying to watch over them as he contained them in the corner of a paddock. Doug would call him away and the dog would release his captives.

  Man and dog went everywhere together. If Doug walked down to the post office for his pension or across to the pub for a pint and some tobacco, then Roy would accompany him. Doug seldom spoke to Roy, although he would sometimes say ‘sit’ or ‘stay’ and the dog would obey without hesitation. At other times, we would hear Doug say, ‘Come on, awd lad’, or ‘Shift thysen, awd lad’. Awd lad was a term of endearment, meaning ‘old boy’.

  Roy was not a young dog; he had accompanied Doug during the latter years of his work on the farm and I guessed he would be around nine or ten years old when I first encountered him and his master. In observing them, it seemed as if there was some mental telepathy between the two because if Doug turned left or right, the dog did likewise at exactly the same time. Sometimes, it was uncanny to watch them.

  On one occasion I saw them walking towards the post office when the dog suddenly stopped outside a cottage and sat down on the footpath. There had been no command from Doug; indeed, he continued along his way to leave Roy sitting alone. Then I saw a lady calling from the upstairs window of that cottage. She was trying to catch Doug’s attention. Within seconds, her loud voice had halted him, but Roy was already waiting …

  The lady, a friend of Doug and Doris Grisedale, had seen him passing and wanted him to bring her some stamps. Had she called to Doug from inside the house so that, at first, he had not heard her voice? Could that call have been heard by the dog? Did the dog respond to a call of ‘Doug’ as it would have responded to its own name? Or maybe Doug had heard the call and was spending a few moments debating whether or not he should obey it? Had Roy made up his mind for him? We shall never know. It was a minor incident, but rich with interest; a curious example of the r
apport between Doug and his dog.

  In following his master everywhere, Roy’s patience was endless. Whenever Doug went to the toilet, for example, Roy would lie outside the door and wait, even if it took Doug half an hour. I was to learn that the dog even slept outside Doug’s bedroom door and that when he sat in at night to watch television, Roy would lie at his feet; but if Doug moved, Roy was on his feet in an instant, ready to follow wherever his master went.

  Whenever Doug went to the post office or into Ashfordly for some garden seeds or equipment, Roy would go with him and wait outside the premises.

  Their companionship spanned the years and then, one fateful morning, I spotted Roy lying outside the surgery. He was stretched out with his chin on the threshold of the door which stood open and I knew Doug must be inside. Indeed he was; it was a rare event for him even to speak to a doctor let alone visit one, and I wondered what was the problem. But I didn’t ask. After all, in the twilight of their years, many men did have problems and ailments which could benefit from a doctor’s wisdom.

  But the next thing we knew was that Doug was being whisked off to a hospital in York for tests. It was decided to detain him there. No one spoke openly of their worries about Doug because one never likes to air one’s hidden fears, but it was Doris who hailed me soon afterwards. She caught me as I was filling the tank of the police van at the garage.

  ‘Mr Rhea,’ she said, ‘Roy’s run away. I’ve tried to keep him in but he got out the day before yesterday. I’ve looked everywhere Doug used to sit or go, but I can’t find him.’

  ‘He’ll be pining for Doug, is he?’

  ‘Aye.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Aye, he is,’ she said quietly. ‘They’re inseparable, those two.’

  ‘I’ll put a note in our books. We’ll ask our lads to keep their eyes open,’ I promised her. ‘Has he got a collar on?’

  ‘Aye, with our name and address on it,’ she nodded. ‘Doug said we’d better do that if Roy was coming to live in a village.’

  ‘Good. It’ll help if he has wandered off.’

  It was next day when I got a call from York Police.

  ‘PC Stevenson, York City,’ said the voice. ‘We’ve got a stray dog here, a sheepdog, with the name Grisedale, Aidensfield on the collar. They’re not in the telephone directory so can you call and ask them to pick him up? He’s a lovely dog, but a bit thin and dirty. We wouldn’t want to see him stuck away in the dogs’ home.’

  ‘Where was he found?’ I asked.

  ‘Hanging about at the County Hospital. He’s been trying to get inside. They found him in one of the corridors and brought him down to us.’

  ‘His master’s in there,’ I said softly, with more than a hint of tears in my eyes. ‘Keep him safe, will you? I think he’s walked all the way to York to be with Doug …’

  ‘You’re joking! It’s all of twenty miles!’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I assured him after telling him about Roy’s devotion.

  Doris did not drive, and I could hardly justify use of the official van to drive into York to collect the dog, so when I went to inform Doris that Roy had been found, I said,

  ‘Doris, you’ll be wanting to visit Doug, won’t you? So if I drive you in this evening when I’m off duty, I can leave you at the hospital while I pop down to Clifford Street to collect Roy. Then I can fetch you both back home.’

  ‘That would be nice, Mr Rhea,’ she smiled. ‘I get the bus in as a rule.’

  While I was with her, I remembered to pick up a lead for Roy.

  Our local bus went to York on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings and returned in the afternoons, so poor Doris would not see much of Doug, although I knew that several of the villagers would take turns to drive her in. My offer was therefore accepted with pleasure. It was during that drive into York that I learned the truth about Doug’s condition — he had cancer of his intestine. It had only just been discovered but it was so far advanced that he would not survive. It must have been eating away at his innards for months, perhaps years. But he had never complained. If only he’d gone to a doctor earlier … he must have known things weren’t right … I learned he had only a short time to live, six months at the most. Doris was very brave about it.

  I dropped her off at the hospital and went to the Clifford Street headquarters of York City Police to collect Roy. He recognized me, but he was thin and dirty, not the handsome dog I knew so well. But he jumped into my car without any trouble and sat on the front seat as I drove back to the hospital.

  Even as I approached, his mood began to change; he whimpered and wagged his tail, looking at me as if trying to ask me something, and I knew what he wanted. He wanted to visit Doug. That’s why he had walked all the way to York, without food or shelter …

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, awd lad.’ I used Doug’s own phrase as I patted Roy on the head.

  I went into the office on Ward 4 and was fortunate to find the duty doctor, Dr Holt. I explained about Roy’s adventure and I could see the doctor was moved. He went so far as to say that the presence of the dog might cheer up Doug who was miserable in his enforced inactivity. I did explain that Roy was, at this moment, somewhat dirty after his escapade, and did remind him that Roy had already been here of his own accord, hoping to visit Doug. Holt remembered the dog …

  ‘We had no idea.’ He shook his head. ‘We thought he was just another stray nicking scraps from our wastebins … but even if we’d caught him and seen the name on the collar, I doubt if anyone would have linked the two …’

  I felt sure that Roy’s visit would not be a surprise to Doug because Doris would have told him, but as I led him into the ward and released his lead he galloped directly to the room in which Doug lay. He knew exactly where to go. The emotion of their reunion was overwhelming, not only for Doris and me but for all the occupants of that small ward, men who had learned of Doug’s attachment to his dog. They and their visitors wept as the crying Doug fondled his dog’s ears and the happy Roy made a fuss of his master. The meeting had a powerful effect upon all of us. Then everyone cheered up. The other patients wanted to meet Roy, they wanted Doug to tell them about him; some were city people who knew nothing of the relationship between a farm worker and his dog. They wondered how on earth he could have found his way from Aidensfield to York — that was something no-one could determine. And as I watched, wiping my own eyes, I knew we could not separate the two, not now. Not after what Doris had told me. As the couple and their dog made friends with everyone, I slipped out to find Dr Holt.

  ‘I saw what happened,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s astonishing.’

  ‘You know my next request?’ I put to him.

  He nodded. ‘It’s not been done before — hygiene, you understand. Dogs are not really allowed in the hospital, let alone in the wards, and he is more than a bit scruffy.’

  ‘Doug would soon put that right,’ I said. ‘Roy is house trained and he would not come into the ward unless he was allowed. This really is an amazing relationship. Roy would lie outside all day, just waiting. He’d need the occasional walk, that’s all, and some food … Doug would see to that.’

  ‘Doug’s not fit to see to that, Mr Rhea,’ said the doctor. ‘He is a very sick man, more than his wife realizes, more than he realizes.’

  ‘But not more than Roy realizes?’ I said.

  ‘Point taken. OK, the dog can stay,’ Dr Holt said. ‘I will clear it with the authorities …’

  ‘Doug will tell Roy what to do, how to behave and so on,’ I assured him.

  And so, contrary to hospital regulations, Roy was allowed to remain. The nurses fell in love with him and he had no shortage of walks. One of them bathed him to clean him up and they took turns to feed him. Another found some old discarded blankets and made him a bed outside the ward door. But Roy never ceased his observations of Doug. As predicted, he spent his time lying just outside the door of the ward, his nose to the floor as he watched the passing events inside.

  At visiting time,
he was allowed in — he went in whether or not anyone escorted him, following the other visitors even if Doris was not there. In those final days of Doug’s life, man and dog were happy; there was no doubt that the dog’s presence did help to ease that time for Doug. But after less than two weeks, the ailing Doug passed away in his sleep. Dr Holt knew because Roy began to whine and ask for admission to the ward, but there was nothing anyone could do.

  At the funeral, Roy walked beneath the coffin as the bearers carried it towards the altar, and during the service the vicar allowed Roy to lie on the altar steps, his eyes always on the coffin. After the service, he again walked beneath the coffin on the way out to the churchyard, tail between his legs.

  He whined miserably as the coffin was lowered into the dark earth and uttered a weird, heart-rending howl as the vicar threw a handful of loose earth onto the coffin. Then, like Greyfriars Bobby, Roy lay down beside the grave and refused to move. In spite of pleas from Doris and her friends, he would not go home to eat or drink nor would he touch any food brought to him. He simply faded away.

  Roy died three weeks after Doug and the vicar allowed him to be buried in the same grave. Later, when the family erected Doug’s tombstone, there was an addition to his epitaph.

  Beneath the inscription to Doug’s memory, there were the simple words: ‘Roy, his friend -1953-1966.’

  7. Men of Letters

  It is a place with only one post a day.

  Revd Sydney Smith (1771-1845)

  Aidensfield and the villages which surround it are most fortunate with their postmen and postwomen. The service they provide has always been infinitely more than the mere delivery of letters and parcels, and this is because the postie, as he or she is affectionately known, visits every home in the area. The postie does not visit every home every day of course, but because of the nature of their job, these uniformed messengers are in a unique position to meet everyone and to become aware of any social problems that might arise. This is especially so among the lonely, the elderly and the infirm.