humour him, the horse would take an immediate turn for the better and
thrive consistently from then on. Farmers are normally reticent about
our successful efforts for fear we might put a bit more on the bill but
in these cases they cast aside all caution. They would shout at us
across the market place: "Hey, remember that 'oss you knocked wolf teeth
out of? Well he never looked back. It capped him."
I looked again with distaste at the tooth instruments; the vicious
forceps with two-feet-long arms, shar.pjawed shears, mouth gags, hammers
and chisels, files and rasps; it was rather like a quiet corner in the
Spanish Inquisition. We kept a long wooden box with a handle for
carrying the things and I staggered out to the car with a fair
selection.
Dennaby Close was not just a substantial farm, it was a monument to a
man's endurance and skill. The fine old house, the extensive buildings,
the great sweep of lush grassland along the lower slopes of the fell
were all proof that old John Skipton had achieved the impossible; he had
started as an uneducated farm labourer and he was now a wealthy
landowner.
The miracle hadn't happened easily; old John had a lifetime of grinding
toil behind him that would have killed most men, a lifetime with no room
for a wife or family or creature comforts, but there was more to it than
that; there was a brilliant acumen in agricultural matters that had made
the old man a legend in the district. "When all t'world goes one road, I
go "'other' was one of his quoted sayings and it is true that the
Skipton farms had made money in the hard times when others were going
bankrupt. Dennaby was only one of John's farms; he had two large arable
places of about four hundred acres each lower down the Dale.
He had conquered, but to some people it seemed that he had himself been
conquered in the process. He had battled against the odds for so many
years and driven himself so fiercely that he couldn't stop. He could be
enjoying all kinds of luxuries now but he just hadn't the time; they
said that the poorest of his workers lived in better style than he did.
I paused as I got out of the car and stood gazing at the house as though
I had never seen it before; and I marvelled again at the elegance which
had withstood over three hundred years of the harsh climate. People came
a long way to see Dennaby Close and take photographs of the graceful
manor with its tall, leaded windows, the massive chimneys towering over
the old moss-grown tiles; or to wander through the neglected garden and
climb up the sweep of steps to the entrance with its wide stone arch
over the great studded door.
There should have been a beautiful woman in one of those pointed hats
peeping out from that mullioned casement or a cavalier in ruffles and
hose pacing beneath the high wall with its pointed copings. But there
was just old John stumping impatiently towards me, his tattered,
buttonless coat secured only by a length of binder twine round his
middle.
"Come in a minute, young man," he cried. "I've got a little bill to pay
you." He led the way round to the back of the house and I followed,
pondering on the odd fact that it was always a 'little bill' in
Yorkshire. We went in through a flagged kitchen to a room which was
graceful and spacious but furnished only with a table, a few wooden
chairs and a collapsed sofa.
The old man bustled over to the mantelpiece and fished out a bundle of
papers from behind the clock. He leafed through them, threw an envelope
on to the table then produced a cheque book and slapped it down in front
of me. I did the usual - took out the bill, made out the amount on the
cheque and pushed it over for him to sign. He wrote with a careful
concentration, the small-featured, weathered face bent low, the peak of
the old cloth cap almost touching the pen. His trousers had ridden up
his legs as he sat down showing the skinny calves and bare ankles. There
were no socks underneath the heavy boots.
When I had pocketed the cheque, John jumped to his feet. "We'll have to
walk down to striver; 'osses are down there." He left the house almost
at a trot.
I eased my box of instruments from the car boot. It was a funny thing
but whenever I had heavy equipment to lug about, my patients were always
a long way away. This box seemed to be filled with lead and it wasn't
going to get any lighter on the journey down through the walled
pastures.
, ."
The old man seized a pitch fork, stabbed it into a bale of hay and
hoisted it effortlessly over his shoulder. He set off again at the same
brisk pace. We made our way down from one gateway to another, often
walking diagonally across the fields. John didn't reduce speed and I
stumbled after him, puffing a little and trying to put away the thought
that he was at least fifty years older than me.
About half way down we came across a group of men at the age-old task of
'walling' - repairing a gap in one of the dry stone walls which trace
their patterns everywhere on the green slopes of the Dales. One of the
men looked up. "Nice mornin', Mr. Skipton,'he sang out cheerfully.
"Bugger t'mornin'. Get on wi'some work," grunted old John in reply and
the man smiled contentedly as though he had received a compliment.
I was glad when we reached the flat land at the bottom. My arms seemed
to have been stretched by several inches and I could feel a trickle of
sweat on my brow. Old John appeared unaffected; he flicked the fork from
his shoulder and the bale thudded on to the grass.
The two horses turned towards us at the sound. They were standing
fetlock deep in the pebbly shallows just beyond a little beach which
merged into the green carpet of turf; nose to tail, they had been
rubbing their chins gently along each other's backs, unconscious of our
approach. A high'cliff overhanging the far bank made a perfect wind
break while on either side of us clumps of oak and beech blazed in the
autumn sunshine.
"They're in a nice spot, Mr. Skipton," I said.
"Aye, they can keep cool in the hot weather and they've got the barn
when winter comes." John pointed to a low, thick-walled building with a
single door. "They can come and go as they please."
The sound of his voice brought the horses out of the river at a stiff
trot and as they came near you could see they really were old. The mare
was a chestnut and the gelding was a light bay but their coats were so
flecked with grey that they almost looked like roans. This was most
pronounced on their faces where the sprinkling of white hairs, the
sunken eyes and the deep cavity above the eyes gave them a truly
venerable appearance.
For all that, they capered around John with a fair attempt at
skittishness, stamping their feet, throwing their heads about, pushing
his cap over his eyes with their muzzles.
"Get by, leave off!" he shouted. "Daft awd beggars." But he tugged
absently at the mare's forelock and ran his hand briefly along the neck
of the gelding.
/> "When did they last do any work?" I asked.
"Oh, about twelve years ago, I reckon."
I stared at John. "Twelve years! And have they been down here all that
time."
"Aye, just [akin' about down here, retired like. They've earned it a."
all." For a few moments he stood silent, shoulders hunched, hands deep
in the pockets of his coat, then he spoke quietly as if to himself.
"They were two slaves when I was a slave." He turned and looked at me
and for a revealing moment I read in the pale blue eyes something of the
agony and struggle he had shared with the animals.
"But twelve years! How old are they, anyway."
John's mouth twisted up at one corner. "Well you're t'vet. You tell me."
I stepped forward confidently, my mind buzzing with Galvayne's groove,
shape of marks, degree of slope and the rest; I grasped the unprotesting
upper lip of the mare and looked at her teeth.
"Good God!" I gasped, "I've never seen anything like this." The incisors
were immensely long and projecting forward till they met at an angle of
about forty-five degrees. There were no marks at all - they had long
since gone.
I laughed and turned back to the old man. "It's no good, I'd only be
guessing. You'll have to tell me."
"Well she's about thirty and gelding's a year or two younger. She's had
fifteen grand foals and never ailed owl except a bit of teeth trouble.
We've had them rasped a time or two and it's time they were done again,
I reckon. They're both losing ground and dropping bits of half chewed
hay from their mouths. Gelding's the worst - has a right job champi."
his grub."
I put my hand into the mare's mouth, grasped her tongue and pulled it
out to one side. A quick exploration of the molars with my other hand
revealed what I suspected; the outside edges of the upper teeth were
overgrown and jagged and were irritating the cheeks while the inside
edges of the lower molars were in a similar state.and were slightly
excoriating the tongue.
"I'll soon make her more comfortable, Mr. Skipton. With those sharp
edges rubbed off she'll be as good as new." I got the rasp out of my
vast box, held the tongue in one hand and worked the rough surface along
the teeth, checking occasionally with my fingers till the points had
been sufficiently reduced.
"That's about right," I said after a few minutes. "I don't want to make
them too smooth or she won't be able to grind her food."
John grunted. "Good enough. Now have a look a "'other. There's summat
far wrong with him."
I had a feel at the gelding's teeth. "Just the same as the mare. Soon
put him right, too."
But pushing at the rasp, I had an uncomfortable feeling that something
was not quite right. The thing wouldn't go fully to the back of the
mouth; something was stopping it. I stopped rasping and explored again,
reaching with-my fingers as far as I could. And I came upon something
very strange, something which shouldn't have been there at all. It was
like a great chunk of bone projecting down from the roof of the mouth.
It was time I had a proper look. I got out my pocket torch and shone it
over the back of the tongue. It was easy to see the trouble now; the
last upper molar was overlapping the lower one resulting in a gross
overgrowth of the posterior border. The result was a sabre-like barb
about three inches long stabbing down into the tender tissue of the gum.
That would have to come off - right now. My jauntiness vanished and I
suppressed a shudder; it meant using the horrible shears - those great
longhandled things with the screw operated by a cross bar. They gave me
the willies because I am one of those people who can't bear to watch
anybody blowing up a balloon and this was the same sort of thing only
worse. You fastened the sharp blades of the shears on to the tooth and
began to turn the bar slowly, slowly. Soon the tooth began to groan and
creak under the tremendous leverage and you knew that any second it
would break off and when it did it was like somebody letting off a rifle
in your ear. That was when all hell usually broke loose but mercifully
this was a quiet old horse and I wouldn't expect him to start dancing
around on his hind legs. There was no pain for the horse because the
overgrown part had no nerve supply - it was the noise that caused the
trouble.
Returning to my crate I produced the dreadful instrument and with it a
Haussman's gag which I inserted on the incisors and opened on its
ratchet till the mouth gaped wide. Everything was easy to see then and,
of course, there it was - a great prong at the other side of the mouth
exactly like the first. Great, great, now I had two to chop off.
The old horse stood patiently, eyes almost closed, as though he had seen
it all and nothing in the world was going to bother him. I went through
the motions with my toes curling and when the sharp crack came, the
white-bordered eyes opened wide, but only in mild surprise. He never
even moved. When I did the , `5~, , ~ I ."
other side he paid no attention at all; in fact, with the gag prising
his jaws apart he looked exactly as though he was yawning with boredom.
As I bundled the tools away, John picked up the bony spicules from the
grass and studied them with interest. "Well, poor awd beggar. Good job I
got you along, young man. Reckon he'll feel a lot better now."
On the way back, old John, relieved of his bale, was able to go twice as
fast and he stumped his way up the hill at a furious pace, using the
fork as a staff. I panted along in the rear, changing the box from hand
to hand every few minutes.
About half way up, the thing slipped out of my grasp and it gave me a
chance to stop for a breather. As the old man muttered impatiently I
looked back and could just see the two horses; they had returned to the
shallows and were playing together, chasing each other jerkily, their
feet splashing in the water. The cliff made a dark backcloth to the
picture - the shining river, the trees glowing bronze and gold and the
sweet green of the grass.
Back in the farm yard, John paused awkwardly. He nodded once or twice
said "Thank ye, young man," then turned abruptly and walked away.
I was dumping the box thankfully into the boot when I saw the man who
had spoken to us on the way down. He was sitting,. cheerful as ever, in
a sunny corner, back against a pile of sacks, pulling his dinner packet
from an old army satchel.
"You've been down to see "'pensioners, then? By yaw, awd John should
know the way."
"Regular visitor, is he."
"Regular? Every day God sends you'll see t'awd feller ploddin' down
there. Rain, snow or blow, never misses. And allus has summat with him
bag o' corn, straw for their bedding."
"And he's done that for twelve years."
The man unscrewed his thermos flask and poured himself a cup of black
tea. "Aye, them 'osses haven't done a stroke o' work all that time and
he could've got good money for them from the horse flesh merchants. Rum
'u
n, isn't it."
"You're right," I said, 'it is a rum 'un."
Just how rum it was occupied my thoughts on the way back to the surgery.
I went back to my conversation with Siegfried that morning; we had just
about decided that the man with a lot of animals couldn't be expected to
feel affection for individuals among them. But those buildings back
there were full of John Skipton's animals - he must have hundreds.
Yet what made him trail down that hillside every day in all weathers?
Why had he filled the last years of those two old horses with peace and
beauty? Why had he given them a final ease and comfort which he had
withheld from himself?
It could only be love.
Chapter Fifteen.
The longer I worked in Darrowby the more the charms of the Dales
beguiled me. And there was one solid advantage of which I became more
aware every day - the Dales farmers were all stocksmen. They really knew
how to handle animals, and to a vet whose patients are constantly trying
to thwart him or injure him it was a particular blessing.
So this morning I looked with satisfaction at the two men holding the
cow. It wasn't a difficult job - just an intravenous injection of
magnesium lactate but still it was reassuring to have two such sturdy
fellows to help me. Maurice Bennison, medium sized but as tough as one
of his own hill beasts, had a horn in his right hand while the fingers
of his left gripped the nose; I had the comfortable impression that the
cow wouldn't jump very far when I pushed the needle in. His brother
George whose job it was to raise the vein, held the choke rope limply in
his enormous hands like bunches of carrots. He grinned down at me
amiably from his six feet four inches.
"Right, George," I said. "Tighten up that rope and lean against the cow
to stop her coming round on me." I pushed my way between the cow and her
neighbour, past George's unyielding bulk and bent over the jugular vein.
It was standing out very nicely. I poised the needle, feeling the big
man's elbow on me as he peered over my shoulder, and thrust quickly into
the vein.
"Lovely!" I cried as the dark blood fountained out and spattered thickly
on the straw bedding beneath. "Slacken your rope, George." I fumbled in
my pocket for the flutter valve. "And for God's sake, get your weight
off me."
Because George had apparently decided to rest his full fourteen stones
on me instead of the cow, and as I tried desperately to connect the tube
to the needle I felt my knees giving way. I shouted again, despairingly,
but he was inert, his chin resting on my shoulder, his breathing
stertorous in my ear.
There could only be one end to it. I fell flat on my face and lay there
writhing under the motionless body. My cries went unheeded; George was
unconscious.
Mr. Bennison, attracted by the commotion, came in to the byre just in
time to see me crawling out from beneath his eldest son. "Get him out,
quick!" I gasped, 'before the cows trample on him." Wordlessly, Maurice
and his father took an ankle apiece and hauled away in unison. George
shot out from under the cows, his head beating a brisk tattoo on the
cobbles, traversed the dung channel, then resumed his sleep on the byre
floor.
Mr. Bennison moved back to the cow and waited for me to continue with my
injection but I found the presence of the sprawled body distracting.
"Look, couldn't we sit him up against the wall and put his head between
his legs?" I suggested apologetically. The others glanced at each other
then, as though deciding to humour me, grabbed George's shoulders and
trundled him over the floor with the expertise of men used to throwing
around bags of fertiliser and potatoes. But even propped against the