“This is crazy!” I stared in disbelief at the animals. I was no equestrian, especially when it came to barebacked carthorses. “We can’t ride those bloody things! And what about Fred Welburn? What’s he going to say?”
“All taken care of. I’ve got permission from Fred to use them whenever I want them. Come on, now, I’ll give you a leg up.”
I was still protesting when he hoisted me onto the nearest animal and scrambled onto the other. He dug in his heels, gave a joyous whoop, and before I knew what was happening we were thundering down the grassy slope.
“Hang on,” cried Calum. “There’s a beck at the foot of the hill.”
He didn’t have to tell me. I was hanging on as never before, gripping the mane tightly, eyes popping, absolutely certain that, within seconds, I would be cast from the great smooth back into the outer darkness. But somehow I kept my seat as our mounts leaped the stream like steeplechasers, then we were off again, galloping up the hill on the other side.
We were going at a terrifying pace, but it didn’t seem to be fast enough for Calum, who kept yelling encouragement at his steed. Dimly ahead, I saw him hurtling through a narrow gateway and I suffered a moment’s panic at the certain thought that my fat animal would never get through that opening. I was partly right because the gatepost caught my knee such a fearful whack that I thought my leg had been torn off.
We made a hectic traverse of another long field, then my colleague pulled up and dismounted.
“My, that was great!” he breathed as I slithered, groaning, onto the grass. “But you’re lame—what’s wrong?”
“Cracked my knee on the gate back there,” I grunted as I hobbled around, rubbing the painful joint.
“Oh, sorry about that, but it saved us a long walk. We’re right up to the woods now.”
We climbed a fence and he led me among the dark trunks to his hide, which he had built near a clearing. In the first pale light I could see that it was a well-hidden place, carefully constructed of branches of larch and spruce and tufts of grass.
“Sit here,” whispered my colleague. He was clearly in a state of high excitement, his eyes wide, a half smile on his face.
We hadn’t long to wait. As the dawn light filtered through the branches, there was a rustling and a sound of movement among the trees, then, one by one, the deer began to appear in the clearing. Through all the years, I had never seen a deer in these woods but they were there in profusion; gentle does and majestic, antlered stags pacing around, cropping the grass. It was a scene of indescribable peace and beauty, and with the feeling that I was a privileged observer I sat there enthralled, all my discomforts forgotten. There was a badger sett nearby and Calum pointed in delight as his favourite animals came out to play with their young.
Afterwards we walked through the scented silence of the woods, the pine needles soft under our feet, and he talked, not only about the deer, but about the other wild creatures of the forest and about the plants and flowers that flourished in those secret places. He seemed to know it all and I began to understand the depths of the interest that coloured his entire life. He held the key to a magic world.
As we reached the field the sun came out and, looking back, I could see long drifts of bluebells among the dark boles of the trees, and in the glades, where the first rays struck through the branches, primroses and anemones shone like scattered jewels.
By the time we had ridden back up the hill—slowly and gently at my request—and had limped to the car, my knee had stiffened up and I groaned as I dragged my leg inside.
“Oh, bad luck about your knee.” Calum gave me a sympathetic smile, then his expression changed. “But never mind, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
I could feel my eyes narrowing to slits as I looked at him. “What kind of surprise?”
He grinned widely. “I want you to come to dinner with me.”
“Dinner? Where?”
“In my flat. You know Helen’s going to a meeting tonight and she was to leave you something to eat. Well, I’ve arranged it with her. I’m going to give you a meal. We’re having roast duck.”
“Duck! Who’s cooking it?”
“I am. It will be plucked and roasted by my own fair hand.”
My head began to swim a little. I knew he kept ducks at the bottom of the garden—an activity Siegfried regarded with a jaundiced eye as being part of a “menagerie”—but all this, coming from a man who had no interest in food and, in fact, seemed to eat only on rare occasions, was difficult to take in. But I was sure he was trying to be kind.
“Well, Calum…it’s very good of you…what time do you want me?”
“Eight o’clock on the dot.”
At the appointed time I climbed the stair to the flat and received an effusive welcome. Calum sat me down with a drink and as he went through to the kitchen I looked round the little sitting room. It was exactly as when he walked in that first day. Other occupants had added or altered things according to their taste but Calum had not the slightest interest in carpets, curtains or furniture. The table was bare except for two sets of knives and forks and salt and pepper.
He was soon back again, banging down a plate for each of us, then a delicious aroma drifted in from the kitchen as he opened the oven door.
“Here we are, Jim!” he cried triumphantly as he carried in a roasting tin containing two ducks. He speared one bird with a fork and clumped it on my plate, then took the other for himself.
I was waiting for the vegetables and other trimmings, but Calum dropped into his chair and waved a fork at me. “Wade in, Jim, I do hope you’ll enjoy it.”
I looked down at my plate. Well, this was dinner with Calum. A duck apiece with no adornment. He was eating busily and I started on my bird, but I was slowed down by the fact that my colleague had left quite a lot of feathers on and I had to pick my way gingerly among the quills and crisped-up plumage.
Nothing seemed to deter Calum, however, and he ate rapidly, then sat back with a sigh of deep contentment. I was surprised at his speed, then it occurred to me that he probably hadn’t bothered to take any nourishment for the last twenty-four hours or so.
We didn’t have dessert or coffee or anything of the sort and it wasn’t long before he was ushering me out.
Around ten o’clock Helen came back from her meeting. “Well, how was your day with Calum?” she asked as she took off her coat.
I rubbed my knee. Somehow it wasn’t an easy question to answer. “I enjoyed it. It was fun…exciting …quite fascinating…” I was casting around for the word…“It was different!”
She laughed. “You’ve just about described Calum.”
“That’s it,” I said, laughing too. “It was a Calum day.”
Chapter 31
“THAT WAS OLD WILLIAM Hawley,” Siegfried said as he put down the phone. “Sounded a bit agitated. One of his calves is laid out unconscious, thinks it may be dying, and he hasn’t many of them, poor old lad. We’ll have to get there quick.”
I looked up from the day-book. “But we’ve got to take those tumours off Colonel Foulter’s horse at ten o’clock this morning.”
“Yes, I know, but we can drop in at Hawley’s place on the way. It’s in the same direction.”
It was a familiar situation as we drove off together. Siegfried eagerly anticipating one of his equine operations, myself, his anaesthetist, by his side and our enamel tray with all the freshly sterilised instruments rattling behind us in the back. It was a fine morning, which was good, because the open fields were our operating table.
After three miles we struck off down a narrow side road and soon we could see the Hawley farmhouse, not much bigger than the grey stone barns that dotted the wide green miles of the fell above. To me, those barns, squat and sturdy, and the pattern the endless stone walls traced on the high pastures were at the very heart of the Dales scene. As I looked from the car, I thought as I always did that there was nowhere else in the world quite like this.
The farmer, whit
e hair straggling from under a tattered cap, watched anxiously as Siegfried bent over the prostrate calf in a pen in the corner of the cow house.
“What do ye make of it, Mr. Farnon?” he asked. “I’ve never seen owt like it.”
The appeal in his eyes was mingled with a deep faith. Siegfried was his hero, a wonder worker, the man who had brought off miracle cures for years, before I had even come to Darrowby. William Hawley was one of a breed of simple, unsophisticated farmers who still survived in the fifties but who have long since melted away under the glare of science and education.
Siegfried spoke gravely. “Very strange indeed. No scour, no pneumonia, yet the little thing’s flat out like this.”
Carefully and methodically he went over the little body with his stethoscope, auscultating heart, lungs and abdomen. He took the temperature, opened the mouth and peered at the tongue and throat, examined the eyes and ran his hand over the roan hairs of the coat. Then slowly he straightened up. His face was expressionless as he looked down at the motionless form.
Suddenly he turned to the old man.
“William,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me a piece of string?”
“Eh?”
“A piece of string, please.”
“String?”
“Yes, about this length.” Siegfried spread his arms wide. “And quickly, please.”
“Right, right… I’ll get ye some. Now where can I lay me hands on a bit that length?” Flustered, he turned to me. “Can ye come and give me a hand, Mr. Herriot?”
“Certainly.” I followed him as he hurried from the cow house. Outside he clutched at my arm. It was clear he had only asked me to come with him to enlighten him.
“What does ’e want a piece of string for?” he asked in baffled anticipation.
I shrugged. “I really have no idea, Mr. Hawley.”
He nodded gleefully as though that was only what he expected. An ordinary vet couldn’t possibly know what was in the mind of Mr. Farnon, a man of legendary skill who was known to employ many strange things in the practice of his art—puffs of purple smoke to cure lame horses, making holes in jugular veins and drawing off buckets of blood to cure laminitis. Old William had heard all the stories and he was in no doubt that if anybody could restore his animal to health by means of a piece of string, it would be Mr. Farnon.
But the maddening thing was that as we trotted round the buildings he couldn’t find such a thing.
“Dang it,” he said. “There’s allus a coil of binder twine hangin’ there, but it isn’t there now! And I’m allus trippin’ ower bits o’ string all ower t’place, but not today. What’ll he think of a farmer wi’ no string?”
In a growing panic he rushed around and he was almost in tears when he saw a piece lying across a heap of sacks. “How about this, Mr. Herriot? Is it t’right length?”
“Just about right, I’d say.”
He grabbed it and ran as fast as his elderly limbs would carry him back to Siegfried.
“Here y’are, Mr. Farnon,” he panted. “Ah’m not too late, am I? He’s still alive?”
“Oh, yes, yes.” Siegfried took the string and held it dangling for a moment as he measured the length with his eye. Then, as we watched, wide-eyed, he quickly tied it round his waist.
“Thank you so much, William,” he murmured. “That’s much better. I couldn’t work with that damned coat flapping open as I bent over. I lost a couple of buttons yesterday. Cow got her horn underneath them and tore them off—it’s always happening to me.”
“But…but…” The old man’s face was a picture of woe. “The string…ah thought ye’d…Ye can’t do anything for my calf, then?”
“Of course I can. Whatever makes you think that?”
“Well…do ye know what ails him?”
“Yes, I do. He’s got C.C.N.”
“What’s that?”
“Cerebrocortical necrosis. It’s a brain disease.”
“It’s a terrible big name. And his brain? It’ll be a hopeless case?”
“Not a bit. I’m going to inject vitamin B into his vein. It usually works like a charm. Just hold his head for a moment. You see how it’s bent over his back? That’s called opisthotonos—typical of this condition.”
Siegfried quickly carried out the injection and got to his feet. “One of us will be passing your door tomorrow, so we’ll look in. I’d like to bet he’ll be a lot better.”
It was I who called next day and indeed the calf was up and eating. William Hawley was pleased.
“Must have been wonderful stuff Mr. Farnon gave ’im,” he said.
To him it was another miracle, but in his manner I sensed something of the deflation I had seen the day before when Siegfried fixed up his coat. His favourite vet had done the trick again, but I knew that in his heart there was still the wistful regret that he hadn’t done it with that piece of string.
Chapter 32
SIEGFRIED, LOUNGING BY THE fireside, was at his most expansive. “Nice of you to drop in, James. Good to see you at any time—we don’t get much chance to talk during the day, eh?”
I had called in at his home after an evening call nearby. He had pressed a drink on me and flopped down in the armchair, exuding bonhomie. “Any problems?”
“No, no. I’ve just been to a milk fever at John Lancaster’s. The cow was up when I left.”
“Ah, splendid, splendid. He’s a nice chap, is John.”
“Yes, a good bloke. He was really pleased when I poked that beast in the rump and she staggered to her feet.”
“Excellent. The little triumphs of veterinary practice. I’ve had that sort of day, too—everything going well, and my word, isn’t it grand to settle down by the fire on a cold night and relax with a quiet mind. What time is it?” He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Half past seven. Nice feeling to be off duty and looking forward to a few hours of peace.”
“That’s right, Siegfried. I’m on. You’re in the clear till tomorrow.” I sipped my drink and regarded him with affection.
He reached a long leg towards the fire and poked a log into place with a slippered toe. “And there’s another thing—it adds to the pleasure to have that television to look at.” He pointed to the new TV set flickering across at the other side of the hearth with the sound turned down. “There’s a lot of inverted snobbery going around—people talking about the goggle box and the idiot’s lantern but I enjoy a lot of the programmes. I know it’s a new-fangled thing in the Dales, but I tell you I’ve just been sitting here watching an interesting programme and I find it very soothing.”
He sank lower in his chair and stretched his legs to the blaze. “I was at Derek Mattock’s place this afternoon. They’d had a pig killing and they gave me a great pile of cuttings—spare-rib, liver, fillet—they are the most generous people.”
“Yes, you could say that about the Dales farmers in general. I’m always getting presents. Butter, eggs, vegetables from their gardens.”
Siegfried nodded. “How true. I had a long talk with Derek and he mentioned something I’d better tell you about. You promised to do some dehornings for him about a fortnight ago and he hasn’t heard from you.” He gave me a quizzical look.
“Oh, damn, yes! I’ll get on to him tomorrow. The beasts aren’t taking any harm, anyway.”
He smiled again from down among the cushions. “Yes, my boy. But you forgot, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I did. But I’ll put it right.”
“I’m sure you will, James.” He nodded gravely and was silent for a few moments. “Strangely enough, there was something else in the same vein. Bob Hardy told me his tuberculin test was overdue. You said you’d do it last month.”
I shrugged. “Oh, hell, that’s right. But it’s only a week or two overdue. Not serious. I’ll see to it.”
Siegfried gave me the smile again and wagged a finger. “But you forgot, didn’t you?”
“Okay, okay, but as I say…”
“If y
ou’ll excuse me, James, for just a moment.” He held up a hand. “You are inclined to forget things quite frequently. It is a tiny flaw in an otherwise excellent character. There is no more conscientious and capable veterinary surgeon than yourself and yet being forgetful can project quite a different image. People can think you’re not concerned about their animals, that you don’t care.”
“Wait a minute…”
“Let me finish, James. This is for your own good.” He put his fingertips together. “Forgetfulness is a trait that can be easily cured if you know how to go about it. These unfortunate incidents can be prevented if you simply impress on your mind right at the beginning what it is you want to remember.”
“My God, this is really rich…what about…?”
“One moment more, my dear chap. As I say, whenever you make an appointment, make a definite conscious effort to imprint that promise strongly on your mind. It’s perfectly easy—I use this method regularly myself. You’ll always remember that way.”
I was about to raise my strong objections to being lectured on forgetfulness by the most forgetful man in Yorkshire when the phone rang.
Siegfried extended a languid arm and picked up the receiver. “Ah, how are you, Wilf, my old friend?” His eyes were half closed as he burrowed deeper in the cushions.
“I’m awright, Mr. Farnon,” came the full-throated reply. It was Wilf Bramley, president of the local farmers’ discussion group. He was one of the old school who considered it helped the voice to carry across the miles if they shouted, and I could hear him clearly from where I sat. “But I just ’ope you’re awright, too.”
“I’m absolutely grand, Wilf,” Siegfried murmured, holding the receiver well away from his ear.
“Ah well, that’s good. We just thowt something had happened to you.”
“Happened…? Why is that?”
“Well, the hall’s full—packed to t’doors, and we were expectin’ you half an hour ago. We worried you might have had an accident on your rounds.”
Siegfried snapped suddenly upright and his mouth fell open. “Hall…?”