(Damn you, Mr. Sims, damn Beal Close and damn your twiltin’ gurt ’oss.)
“Well, I’ll be along straight away. Try to have some men handy just in case we have to throw him.”
“Throw ’im? Throw ’im? You’d never throw this ’oss. He’d kill yer first. Anyways, I ’ave no men here so you’ll ’ave to manage on your own. Ah know Mr. Farnon wouldn’t want a lot of men to help ’im.”
(Oh lovely, lovely. This is going to be one for the diary.)
“Very well, I’m leaving now, Mr. Sims.”
“Oh, ah nearly forgot. My road got washed away in the floods yesterday. You’ll ’ave to walk the last mile and a half. So get a move on and don’t keep me waiting all night.”
(This is just a bit much.)
“Look here, Mr. Sims, I don’t like your tone. I said I would leave now and I will get there just as soon as I can.”
“You don’t like ma tone, eh? Well, ah don’t like useless young apprentices practising on my good stock, so ah don’t want no cheek from you. You know nowt about t’damn job, any road.”
(That finally does it.)
“Now just listen to me, Sims. If it wasn’t for the sake of the horse I’d refuse to come out at all. Who do you think you are, anyway? If you ever try to speak to me like that again …”
“Now, now, Jim, get a grip on yourself. Take it easy, old boy. You’ll burst a blood vessel if you go on like this.”
“Who the devil …?”
“Ah, ah, Jim, calm yourself now. That temper of yours, you know. You’ll really have to watch it.”
“Tristan! Where the hell are you speaking from?”
“The kiosk outside the Drovers. Five pints inside me and feeling a bit puckish. Thought I’d give you a ring.”
“By God, I’ll murder you one of these days if you don’t stop this game. It’s putting years on me. Now and again isn’t so bad, but this is the third time this week.”
“Ah, but this was by far the best, Jim. It was really wonderful. When you started drawing yourself up to your full height—it nearly killed me. Oh God, I wish you could have heard yourself.” He trailed off into helpless laughter.
And then my feeble attempts at retaliation; creeping, trembling, into some lonely phone box.
“Is that young Mr. Farnon?” in a guttural croak. “Well, this is Tilson of High Woods. Ah want you to come out here immediately. I ’ave a terrible case of …”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Jim, but is there something the matter with your tonsils? Oh, good. Well, go on with what you were saying, old lad. Sounds very interesting.”
There was only one time when I was not on the receiving end. It was Tuesday—my half day—and at 11:30 a.m. a call came in. An eversion of the uterus in a cow. This is the tough job in country practice and I felt the usual chill.
It happens when the cow, after calving, continues to strain until it pushes the entire uterus out and it hangs down as far as the animal’s hocks. It is a vast organ and desperately difficult to replace, mainly because the cow, having once got rid of it, doesn’t want it back. And in a straightforward contest between man and beast the odds were very much on the cow.
The old practitioners, in an effort to even things up a bit, used to sling the cow up by its hind limbs and the more inventive among them came up with all sorts of contraptions like the uterine valise which was supposed to squeeze the organ into smaller bulk. But the result was usually the same—hours of back-breaking work.
The introduction of the epidural anaesthetic made everything easier by removing sensation from the uterus and preventing the cow from straining but, for all that, the words “calf bed out” coming over the line were guaranteed to wipe the smile off any vet’s face.
I decided to take Tristan in case I needed a few pounds of extra push. He came along but showed little enthusiasm for the idea. He showed still less when he saw the patient, a very fat shorthorn lying, quite unconcerned, in her stall. Behind her, a bloody mass of uterus, afterbirth, muck and straw spilled over into the channel.
She wasn’t at all keen to get up, but after we had done a bit of shouting and pushing at her shoulder she rose to her feet, looking bored.
The epidural space was difficult to find among the rolls of fat and I wasn’t sure if I had injected all the anaesthetic into the right place. I removed the afterbirth, cleaned the uterus and placed it on a clean sheet held by the farmer and his brother. They were frail men and it was all they could do to keep the sheet level. I wouldn’t be able to count on them to help me much.
I nodded to Tristan; we stripped off our shirts, tied clean sacks round our waists and gathered the uterus in our arms.
It was badly engorged and swollen and it took us just an hour to get it back. There was a long spell at the beginning when we made no progress at all and the whole idea of pushing the enormous organ through a small hole seemed ludicrous, like trying to thread a needle with a sausage. Then there were a few minutes when we thought we were doing famously only to find we were feeding the thing down through a tear in the sheet (Siegfried once told me he had spent half a morning trying to stuff a uterus up a cow’s rectum. What really worried him, he said, was that he nearly succeeded) and at the end when hope was fading, there was the blissful moment when the whole thing began to slip inside and incredibly disappeared from sight.
Somewhere half way through we both took a breather at the same time and stood panting, our faces almost touching. Tristan’s cheeks were prettily patterned where a spouting artery had sprayed him; I was able to look deep into his eyes and I read there a deep distaste for the whole business.
Lathering myself in the bucket and feeling the ache in my shoulders and back, I looked over at Tristan. He was pulling his shirt over his head as though it cost him the last of his strength. The cow, chewing contentedly at a mouthful of hay, had come best out of the affair.
Out in the car, Tristan groaned. “I’m sure that sort of thing isn’t good for me. I feel as though I’ve been run over by a steam roller. Hell, what a life this is at times.”
After lunch I rose from the table. “I’m off to Brawton now, Triss, and I think I’d better mention that you may not have seen the last of that cow. These bad cases sometimes recur and there’s a chance that little lot may come out again. If it does, it’s all yours because Siegfried won’t be back for hours and nothing is going to stop me having my half day.”
For once Tristan’s sense of humour failed him. He became haggard, he seemed to age suddenly. “Oh God,” he moaned, “don’t even talk about it. I’m all in—another session like that would kill me. And on my own! It would be the end of me, I tell you.”
“Ah well,” I said sadistically, “try not to worry. It may never happen.”
It was when I saw the phone box about ten miles along the Brawton road that the thought struck me. I slowed down and got out of the car. “I wonder,” I muttered, “I wonder if I could do it just once.”
Inside the box, inspiration was strong in me. I wrapped my handkerchief over the mouthpiece, dialled the practice number and when I heard Tristan on the line I shouted at the top of my voice. “Are you t’young feller that put our cow’s calf bed back this morning?”
“Yes, I’m one of them.” Tension sprang into Tristan’s voice. “Why, is there something wrong?”
“Aye, there is summat wrong,” I bawled. “She’s putten it out again.”
“Out again? Out again? All of it?” He was almost screaming.
“Aye, it’s a terrible mess. Pourin’ blood and about twice size it was this morning. You’ll ’ave some job with ’er.”
There was a long silence and I wondered if he had fainted. Then I heard him again, hoarse but resolute. “Very well, I’ll come straight away.”
There was another pause then he spoke again almost in a whisper. “Is it out completely?”
I broke down then. There was a wistful quality about the words which defeated me; a hint of a wild hope that the farmer may have been exagger
ating and that there might be only a tiny piece peeping out. I began to laugh. I would have liked to toy with my victim a little longer but it was impossible. I laughed louder and took my handkerchief from the mouthpiece so that Tristan could hear me.
I listened for a few seconds to the frenzied swearing at the other end then gently replaced the receiver. It would probably never happen again but it was sweet, very sweet.
TEN
“YOU WANT MR. HERRIOT? Certainly, I’ll get him for you.” Siegfried cupped the phone with his hand. “Come on, James, here’s another one prefers you to me.” I glanced at him quickly, but he was smiling. He was pleased.
I thought, as I took the phone, of the tales I had heard of the other kind of boss; the man who couldn’t bear to be knocked off his little pedestal. And I thought, too, of the difference a few weeks had made in the farmers’ attitude; they didn’t look past me now, hoping that Mr. Farnon had come with me. They were beginning to accept me, and I liked to think that it wasn’t only their hospitable traditions that made them ask me in for a “bit o’ dinner.”
This really meant something, because, with the passage of time, an appreciation of the Dales people had grown in me; a sense of the value of their carefully given friendship. The higher up the country, the more I liked them. At the bottom of the valley, where it widened into the plain, the farmers were like farmers everywhere, but the people grew more interesting as the land heightened, and in the scattered hamlets and isolated farms near the bleak tops I found their characteristics most marked; their simplicity and dignity, their rugged independence and their hospitality.
This Sunday morning it was the Bellerbys and they lived at the top of Halden, a little valley branching off the main Dale. My car bumped and rattled over the last rough mile of an earth road with the tops of boulders sticking up every few yards.
I got out and from where I stood, high at the head, I could see all of the strangely formed cleft in the hills, its steep sides grooved and furrowed by countless streams feeding the boisterous Halden Beck which tumbled over its rocky bed far below. Down there, were trees and some cultivated fields, but immediately behind me the wild country came crowding in on the bowl where the farmhouse lay. Halsten Pike, Alstang, Birnside—the huge fells with their barbarous names were very near.
Up here, the trappings of civilisation seemed far away. The farm buildings had been built massively of stone hundreds of years ago with the simple object of sheltering the animals. Those ancient masons were untroubled by regulations about the light and ventilation and the cow byre was gloomy, thick walled, almost windowless. The floor was broken and pitted, and rotting wooden partitions separated the cows from each other.
I went in, groping my way until my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. There was nobody there but a roan cow had a label tied to its tail. Since this was a common way of communicating with the vet I lifted the tail and read “Felon, back quarters.”
I pushed the cow over and began to examine the back teats. I was drawing out the stringy, discoloured milk when a voice addressed me from the doorway: “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Herriot. I’m right glad you’ve come to see us this morning. You could do us such a great favour if you would.”
I looked up and saw Ruth Bellerby, a fine-looking woman in her late thirties. She was the go-ahead member of the family and had an intelligent, questing mind. She was a great believer in self-improvement for the Dales people.
“I’ll be glad to help you if I can, Miss Bellerby. What is it you’d like me to do?”
“Well, Mr. Herriot, you know they are putting on the Messiah at Darrowby church this afternoon and we did badly want to go, but it’s such a job getting the pony and trap ready and it’s so slow. If you could give us a lift down in your car, I know we’d be able to get a ride back. It would be such a help.”
“Of course I’ll run you down,” I replied. “I’ll be delighted to do it. I’m going myself as a matter of fact. You don’t get many chances to hear good music in Darrowby.”
It was good to have a chance to help these kindly people. I had always marvelled at the Bellerbys. They seemed to me to be survivors from another age and their world had a timeless quality. They were never in a hurry; they rose when it was light, went to bed when they were tired, ate when they were hungry and seldom looked at a clock.
Ruth led the way over to the house. “There’s just mother and dad and me going. Bob’s not interested, I’m afraid.”
I was slightly taken aback when I entered the house. The family were just sitting down to Sunday dinner and were still in their working clothes. I stole a look at my watch; a quarter to twelve and the performance started at 2 p.m. Oh well, I probably had plenty of time.
“Come on, young man,” said little Mr. Bellerby. “Sit down and have a bit o’ dinner.”
It was always a bit tricky refusing these invitations without causing offence, but I pointed out that my own meal would be ready when I got back and it would be hard on Mrs. Hall if it were wasted.
They were quick to appreciate this argument and settled down round the scrubbed kitchen table. Mrs. Bellerby served a large, round Yorkshire pudding to each of them and poured a pool of gravy into it from a quart-size enamel jug. I had had a hard morning and the delicious scent that rose from the gravy as it ran over the golden slabs was a sweet torture. But I consoled myself with the thought that the fact of my sitting there would make them hurry.
The pudding was consumed in leisurely silence, then Bob, an amiable, thick-set youth in his twenties, pushed out his empty plate. He did not say anything, but his mother planked down another pudding on the plate and plied the gravy jug again. His parents and sister watched him benevolently as he methodically demolished the thick, doughy mass.
Next, a tremendous roast appeared from the oven and Mr. Bellerby hacked and sawed at it till they all had a heap of thick slices on their plates. Then mountains of mashed potatoes were served from something that looked like a washing-up bowl. Chopped turnip followed and the family went into action again.
There was no sign of haste. They ate calmly and quietly without any small talk. Bob had an extra helping of mashed potatoes.
The Bellerbys were relaxed and happy, but I couldn’t say the same about myself. Hunger was tearing fiercely at me and the minutes on my watch were ticking away relentlessly.
There was a decent interval before Mrs. Bellerby went over to the old fire oven in the corner, opened the door and pulled forth a great flat baking tin of steaming apple pie. She then proceeded to carve off about a square foot for each of them and deluged it with something like a pint of custard from another towering enamel jug.
The family set to as though they were just beginning the meal and once more a busy silence fell on the group. Bob cleared his plate in effortless style and pushed it wordlessly into the middle of the table. His mother was ready with another great rectangle of pie and another copious libation of custard.
It was going to be a close thing, I thought, but this surely must be the end. They would realise time was getting short and start to change. But, to my consternation, Mrs. Bellerby moved slowly over to the fire and put the kettle on, while her husband and Bob pushed their chairs back and stretched out their legs. They both wore corduroy breeches with the lacing undone and on their feet were enormous hobnailed boots. Bob, after a search through his pockets, brought out a battered packet of cigarettes and lay back in a happy coma as his mother put a cup of tea in front of him. Mr. Bellerby produced a clasp knife and began to cut up some plug tobacco for his pipe.
As they rearranged themselves round the table and began to slowly sip the hot tea, I found I had started to exhibit all the classical symptoms of tension. Pounding pulse, tightly clenched jaws and the beginnings of a headache.
After a second cup of tea, there were signs of activity. Mr. Bellerby rose with a groan, scratched his shirt front and stretched luxuriously. “Well, young man, we’ll just have a bit of a wash and get changed. Bob’ll stay and talk to you—he’s
not coming with us.”
There was a lot of splashing and spluttering in the big stone sink at the far end of the kitchen as they made their ablutions, then they disappeared upstairs. I was greatly relieved to find that it didn’t take them long to change. Mr. Bellerby was down very soon, transformed in appearance by a stiff and shiny suit of navy blue serge with a faint greenish tinge. His wife and daughter followed soon in a blaze of flowered cotton.
“Ah well, now here we are. All ready, eh?” There was a note of hysteria in my heartiness. “Right, then, off we go. After you, ladies.”
But Ruth did not move. She was pulling on a pair of white gloves and looking at her brother sprawled in his chair. “You know, Bob, you’re nowt but a disgrace!” she burst out. “Here we are going off to hear this lovely music and you’re lying there in your muck, not caring. You’ve no interest in culture at all. You care no more about bettering yourself than one of them bullocks out there.”
Bob stirred uneasily under this sudden attack, but there was more to come.
Ruth stamped her foot. “Really, it makes my blood boil to look at you. And I know we won’t be right out of t’door before you’re asleep. Aye, snoring there all afternoon like a pig.” She swung round to Mrs. Bellerby. “Mother! I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to leave him snoring here. He’s got to come with us!”
I felt the sweat start out on my brow. I began to babble. “But don’t you think, perhaps … might be just a little late … starts at two o’clock … my lunch …”
But my words were utterly lost. Ruth had the bit properly between her teeth. “Get up out of there, Bob! Get up this minute and get dressed!” She shut her mouth tightly and thrust out her lower jaw.
She was too much for Bob. Although an impressive eater, he didn’t seem to have much mind of his own. He mumbled sulkily and shuffled over to the sink. He took off his shirt and they all sat down and watched as he lathered his torso with a large block of White Windsor and sluiced his head and neck by working the pump handle by the side of the sink.