Free Constable Among the Heather by Nicholas Rhea

petrol-driven – that was their only modern contraption.
    By the time this tour ended, Albert had arrived. He used a pedal cycle of considerable size and vintage. His shovel, rake, hoe and gripe were tied to the crossbar. He placed his bike in a shed, then came towards me.
    â€˜Now then,’ he said in the local manner of greeting.
    â€˜Now then.’ I shook his hand. ‘I’m PC Rhea.’
    â€˜Albert Potter,’ he introduced himself. ‘Thoo’ll be coming in for thi dinner then?’
    â€˜No thanks. I had my ’lowance here not long since.’
    â€˜But it’s dinner time now, and Ah shall be having mine, so you might as well join me.’
    And so I did; I was not expected to refuse.
    He was a tall and lanky fellow with arms and legs that seemed too long for his thin body. He wore a thick blue-and-white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but with no collar. The neck was open, and a collar stud occupied one of the buttonholes. Heavy brown boots and thick brown trousers with braces completed his outfit. Fit and bronzed, he looked remarkably strong for a man in his middle sixties, but he was a man of few words. He sat and ate in silence, and I did likewise, savouring the potato and onion pie, then the apple pie and custard that followed. Then, without speaking, he went to a cupboard and opened it to reveal shelves full of bottles without labels. They contained fluids – red, yellow, brown, dark brown, dark blue, orange and other variations. He selected one which was full of a purplish liquid, removed the cork with a corkscrew, then poured me a glass full.
    â€˜Sup that,’ he said. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked, tentatively sniffing at the potion.
    â€˜Bilberry wine, good stuff. Eight years old if it’s a day. Our Dot makes it,’ and he drank deeply.
    Wary of the fact that I was on duty and that I had to drive back, I took a sip. It was lethal. I had but a thimbleful and even with that tiny amount could sense its power – but it was really beautiful, smooth and full, rich with the flavour of the moors. But for all its beauty and delectability, it was powerful stuff.
    â€˜Good year for bilberries that year,’ he said. ‘Have some more, lad. See whether you can tell me whether them berries came from Sutton Bank Top or Bransdale or Fryup Dale.’
    â€˜You mean they all taste different?’
    â€˜They do that! Once you know ’em, they’re as easy to tell apart as French grapes.’
    I tried a little more, hoping for some indication of its source …
    Weakening, I tried still more, encouraged by this sombre character.
    â€˜I think it’s Bransdale,’ I said, but in truth I had no idea.
    â€˜No, this ’un’s Bransdale,’ and he produced another bottle from somewhere. ‘Now, just you see t’difference.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I mean, I am on duty …’
    â€˜Rubbish, it’s good for your arteries, cleans ’em out, gets rid o’ clots … here.’
    He poured a huge helping and, in order to satisfy myself that there was a difference between Sutton Bank bilberries and Bransdale bilberries, I took a sip. Then I took a little more, just to make sure I was receiving the full flavour.
    As I was doing my best to identify any distinctions, Dorothy came in.
    â€˜There’s a couple of hikers at the door,’ she said to her husband. ‘They’re asking for two bottles of Rievaulx rhubarb, two Ashfordly elderberry, two Egton Bridge gooseberry, two Rannockdale raspberry and a couple of Bransdale bramble.’
    â€˜There’s enough, I reckon,’ said Albert.
    And as I became aware that I was slightly fuddled by the strong liquor, he poured me another helping, saying this was Fryup bilberries and maybe I’d like to compare it with the Fryup brambles or perhaps the Hollin Wood sloes. I was