second in the stones and loose soil of the verge, then we were off
again.
This was a longer stretch and even steeper and it was like being on the
big dipper with the same feeling of lack of control over one's fate.
Hurtling into the bend, the idea of turning at this speed was
preposterous but it was that or straight over the edge. Terror-stricken,
I closed my eyes and dragged the wheel to the left. This time, one side
of the car lifted and I was sure we were over, then it rocked back on to
the other side and for a horrible second or two kept this up till it
finally decided to stay upright and I was once more on my way.
Again a yawning gradient. But as the car sped downwards, engine howling,
I was aware of a curious numbness. I seemed to have reached the ultimate
limits of fear and hardly noticed as we shot round the third bend. One
more to go and at last the road was levelling out; my speed dropped
rapidly and at the last bend I couldn't have been doing more than
twenty. I had made it.
It wasn't till I was right on to the final straight that I saw the
sheep. Hundreds of them, filling the road. A river of woolly backs
lapping from wall to wall. They were only yards from me and I was still
going downhill. Without hesitation I turned and drove straight into the
wall.
There didn't seem to be much damage. A few stones slithered down as the
engine stalled and fell silent.
Slowly I sank back in my seat, relaxing my clenched jaws, releasing,
finger by finger, the fierce grip on the wheel. The sheep continued to
flow past and I took a sideways glance at the man who was shepherding
them. He was a stranger to me and I prayed he didn't recognise me either
because at that moment the role of unknown madman seemed to be the ideal
one. Best not to say anything; appearing round a corner and driving
deliberately into a wall is no basis for a rewarding conversation.
The sheep were still passing by and I could hear the man calling to his
dogs. "Get by, Jess. Come by, Nell." But I kept up a steady stare at the
layered stones in front of me, even though he passed within a few feet.
I suppose some people would have asked me what the hell I was playing
at, but not a Dales shepherd. He went quietly by without invading my
privacy, but when I looked in the mirror after a few moments I could see
him in the middle of the road staring back at me, his sheep temporarily
forgotten.
My brakeless period has always been easy to recall. There is a piercing
clarity about the memory which has kept it fresh over the years. I
suppose it lasted only a few weeks but it could have gone on
indefinitely if Siegfried himself hadn't become involved.
It was when we were going to a case together. For some reason he decided
to take my car and settled in the driver's seat. I huddled
apprehensively next to him as he set off at his usual brisk pace.
Hinchcliffe's farm lies about a mile on the main road outside Darrowby.
It is a massive place with a wide straight drive leading down to the
house. We weren't going there, but as Siegfried spurted to full speed I
could see Mr. Hinchclit~e in his big Buick ahead of us proceeding in a
leisurely way along the middle of the road, As Siegfried pulled out to
overtake, the farmer suddenly stuck out his hand and began to turn right
towards his farm - directly across our path. Siegfried's foot went hard
down on the brake pedal and his eyebrows shot right up as nothing
happened. We were going straight ~
Buick and there was no room to go round on the left.
Siegfried didn't panic. At the last moment he turned right with the
Buick and the two cars roared side by side down the drive, Mr.
Hinchcliffe staring at me with bulging eyes from close range. The farmer
stopped in the yard, but we continued round the back of the house
because we had to.
Fortunately, it was one of those places where you could drive right
round and we rattled through the stockyard and back to the front of the
house behind Mr. Hinchcliffe who had got out and was looking round the
corner to see where we had gone. The farmer whipped round in
astonishment and, open-mouthed watched us as we passed, but Siegfried,
retaining his aplomb to the end, inclined his head and gave a little
wave before we shot back up the drive.
Before we returned to the main road I had a look back at Mr.
Hinchcliffe. He was still watching us and there was a certain rigidity
in his pose which reminded me of the shepherd.
Once on the road, Siegfried steered carefully into a layby and stopped.
For a few moments he stared straight ahead without speaking and I
realised he was having a little difficulty in getting his patient look
properly adjusted; but when he finally turned to me his face was
transfigured, almost saintly.
I dug my nails into my palms as he smiled at me with kindly eyes.
"Really, James," he said, "I can't understand why you keep things to
yourself. Heaven knows how long your car has been in this condition, yet
never a word from you." He raised a forefinger and his patient look was
replaced by one of sorrowing gravity. "Don't you realise we might have
been killed back there? You really ought to have told me."
for the side of the Chapter Nineteen.
There didn't seem much point in a millionaire filling up football pools
coupons but it was one of the motive forces in old Harold Denham's life.
It made a tremendous bond between us because, despite his devotion to
the pools, Harold knew nothing about football' had never seen a match
and was unable to name a single player in league football; and when he
found that I could discourse knowledgeably not only about Everton and
Preston North End but even about Arbroath and Cowdenbeath the respect
with which he had always treated me deepened into a wide-eyed deference.
Of course we had first met over his animals. He had an assortment of
dogs, cats, rabbits, budgies and goldfish which made me a frequent
visitor to the dusty mansion whose Victorian turrets peeping above their
sheltering woods could be seen for miles around Darrowby. When I first
knew him, the circumstances of my visits were entirely normal - his fox
terrier had cut its pad or the old grey tabby was having trouble with
its sinusitis, but later on I began to wonder. He called me out so often
on a Wednesday and the excuse was at times so trivial that I began
seriously to suspect that there was nothing wrong with the animal but
that Harold was in difficulties with his Nine Results or the Easy Six.
I could never be quite sure, but it was funny how he always received me
with the same words. "Ah, Mr. Herriot, how are your pools?" He used to
say the word in a long-drawn, loving way - poools. This enquiry had been
unvarying ever since I had won sixteen shillings one week on the Three
Draws. I can never forget the awe with which he fingered the little slip
from Littlewoods, looking unbelievingly from it to the postal order.
That was the only time I was a winner but it made no difference - I was
still the oracle, unc
hallenged, supreme. Harold never won anything,
ever.
The Denhams were a family of note in North Yorkshire. The immensely
wealthy industrialists of the last century had become leaders in the
world of agriculture. They were 'gentlemen farmers' who used their money
to build up pedigree herds of dairy cows or pigs; they ploughed out the
high, stony moorland and fertilised it and made it grow crops, they
drained sour bogs and made them yield potatoes and turnips; they were
the chairmen of committees, masters of fox hounds, leaders of the county
society.
But Harold had opted out of all that at an early age. He had refuted the
age old dictum that you can't be happy doing absolutely nothing; all day
and every day he pottered around his house and his few untidy acres,
uninterested in the world outside, not entirely aware of what was going
on in his immediate vinicity, but utterly content. I don't think he ever
gave a thought to other people's opinions which was just as well because
they were often unkind; his brother, the eminent Basil Denham, referred
to him invariably as 'that bloody fool' and with the country people it
was often 'nobbut ninepence in t'shillin'."
Personally I always found something appealing in him. He was kind,
friendly, with a sense of fun and I enjoyed going to his house. He and
his wife ate all their meals in the kitchen and in fact seemed to spend
most of their time there, so I usually went round the back of the house.
On this particular day it was to see his Great Dane bitch which had just
had pups and seemed unwell; since it wasn't Wednesday I felt that there
really might be something amiss with her and hurried round. Harold gave
me his usual greeting, he had the most attractive voice - round, fruity,
mellow, like a bishop's, and for the hundredth time I thought how odd it
was to hear those organ-like vocal cords intoning such incongruities as
Mansfield Town or Bradford City.
"I wonder if you could advise me, Mr. Herriot," he said as we left the
kitchen and entered a long, ill-lit passage. "I'm searching for an away
winner and I wondered about Sunderland at Aston Villa."
I stopped and fell into an attitude of deep thought while Harold
regarded me anxiously. "Well, I'm not sure, Mr. Denham," I replied.
"Sunderland are a good side but I happen to know that Raich Carter's
auntie isn't too well at present and it could easily affect his game
this Saturday."
Harold looked crestfallen and he nodded his head gravely a few times;
then he looked closely at me for a few seconds and broke into a shout of
laughter. "Ah, Mr. Herriot, you're pulling my leg again." He seized my
arm, gave it a squeeze and shuffled off along the passage, chuckling
deeply.
We traversed a labyrinth of gloomy, cobwebbed passages before he led the
way into a little gun room. My patient was Lying on a raised wooden dog
bed and I recognised her as the enormous Dane I had seen leaping around
at previous visits. I had never treated her, but my first sight of her
had dealt a blow at one of my new-found theories - that you didn't find
big dogs in big houses. Times without number I had critically observed
Bull Mastiffs, Alsatians and Old English Sheep Dogs catapulting out of
the tiny, back street dwellings of Darrowby, pulling their helpless
owners on the end of a lead, while in the spacious rooms and wide acres
of the stately homes I saw nothing but Border Terriers and Jack
Russells. But Harold would have to be different.
He patted the bitch's head. "She had the puppies yesterday and she's got
a nasty dark discharge. She's eating well, but I'd like you to look her
over."
Great Danes, like most of the big breeds, are usually placid animals and
the bitch didn't move as I took her temperature. She lay on her side,
listening contentedly to the squeals of her family as the little blind
creatures climbed over each other to get at the engorged teats.
"Yes, she's got a slight fever and you're right about the discharge." I
gently palpated the long hollow of the flank. "I don't think there's
another pup there but I'd better have a feel inside her to make sure.
Could you bring me some warm water, soap and towel please."
As the door closed behind Harold I looked idly around the gun room. It
wasn't much bigger than a cupboard and, since another of Harold's
idiosyncrasies was that he never killed anything, was devoid of guns.
The glass cases contained only musty bound volumes of Blackwood's
Magazine and Country Life. I stood there for maybe ten minutes,
wondering why the old chap was taking so long, then I turned to look at
an old print on the wall; it was the usual hunting scene and I was
peering through the grimy glass and wondering why they always drew those
horses flying over the stream with such impossible long legs when I
heard a sound behind me.
It was a faint growl, a deep rumble, soft but menacing. I turned and saw
the bitch rising very slowly from her bed. She wasn't getting to her
feet in the normal way of dogs it was as though she were being lifted up
by strings somewhere in the ceiling, the legs straightening almost
imperceptibly, the body rigid, every hair bristling. All the time she
glared at me unblinkingly and for the first time in my life I realised
the meaning of blazing eyes. I had only once seen anything like this
before and it was on the cover of an old copy of The Hound of the
Baskervilles. At the time I had thought the artist ridiculously l
fanciful but here were two eyes filled with the same yellow fire and
fixed unwaveringly on mine.
She thought I was after her pups, of course. After all, her master had
gone and there was only this stranger standing motionless and silent in
the corner of the room, obviously up to no good. One thing was sure she
was going to come at me any second, and I blessed the luck that had made
me stand right by the door. Carefully I inched my left hand towards the
handle as the bitch still rose with terrifying slowness, still rumbling
deep in her chest. I had almost reached the handle when I made the
mistake of making a quick grab for it. Just as I touched the metal the
bitch came out of the bed like a rocket and sank her teeth into my
wrist.
I thumped her over the head with my right fist and she let go and seized
me high up on the inside of the left thigh. This really made me yell out
and I don't know just what my immediate future would have been if I
hadn't bumped up against the only chair in the room; it was old and
flimsy but it saved me. As the bitch, apparently tiring of gnawing my
leg, made a sudden leap at my face I snatched the chair up and fended
her off.
The rest of my spell in the gun room was a sort of parody of a
lion-taming act and would have been richly funny to an impartial
observer. In fact, in later years I have often wished I could have a
cine film of the episode; but at the time, with that great animal
stalking me round those few cramped yards of space, the blood trickling
down my leg and
only a rickety chair to protect me I didn't feel a bit
like laughing. There was a dreadful dedication in the way she followed
me and those maddened eyes never left my face for an instant.
The pups, furious at the unceremonious removal of their delightful
source of warmth and nourishment, were crawling blindly across the bed
and bawling all nine of them, at the top of their voices. The din acted
as a spur to the bitch and the louder it became the more she pressed
home her attack. Every few seconds she would launch herself at me and I
would prance about, stabbing at her with my chair in best circus
fashion. Once she bore me back against the wall, chair and all; on her
hind legs she was about as tall as me and I had a disturbing close-up of
the snarling gaping jaws.
My biggest worry was that my chair was beginning to show signs of wear;
the bitch had already crunched two of the spars effortlessly away and I
tried not to think of what would happen if the whole thing finally
disintegrated. But I was working my way back to the door and when I felt
the handle at my back I knew I had to do something about it. I gave a
final, intimidating shout, threw the remains of the chair at the bitch
and dived out into the corridor. As I slammed the door behind me and
leaned against it I could feel the panels quivering as the big animal
threw herself against the wood.
I was sitting on the floor with my back against the passage wall, pants
round my ankles, examining my wounds when I saw Harold pass across the
far end, pottering vaguely along with a basin of steaming water held in
front of him and a towel over his shoulder. I could understand now why
he had been so long he had been wandering around like that all the time;
being Harold it was just possible he had been lost in his own house. Or
maybe he was just worrying about his Four Aways.
Back at Skeldale House I had to endure some unkind remarks about my
straddling gait, but later, in my bedroom, the smile left Siegfried's
face as he examined my leg.
"Right up there, by God." He gave a low, awed whistle. "You know, James,
we've often made jokes about what a savage dog might do to us one day.
Well I tell you boy, it damn nearly happened to you."
Chapter Twenty.
!
This was my second winter in Darrowby so I didn't feel the same sense of
shock when it started to be really rough in November. When they were
getting a drizzle of rain down there on the plain the high country was
covered in a few hours by a white blanket which filled in the roads,
smoothed out familiar landmarks, transformed our world into something
strange and new. This was what they meant on the radio when they talked
about 'snow on high ground'.
When the snow started in earnest it had a strangling effect on the whole
district. Traffic crawled laboriously between the mounds thrown up by
the snow ploughs. Herne Fell hung over Darrowby like a great gleaming
whale and in the town the people dug deep paths to their garden gates
and cleared the drifts from their front doors. They did it without fuss,
with the calm of long use and in the knowledge that they would probably
have to do it again tomorrow.
Every new fall struck a fresh blow at the vets. We managed to get to
most of our cases but we lost a lot of sweat in the process. Sometimes
we were lucky and were able to bump along in the wake of a council
plough but more often we drove as far as we could and walked the rest of
the way.
On the morning when Mr. Clayton of Pike House rang up we had had a night
of continuous snow.
"Young beast with a touch o' cold," he said. "Will you come."
To get to his place you had to.cross over Pike Edge and then drop down
into a little valley. It was a lovely drive in the summer, but I