wondered.
"What's the road like?" I asked.
"Road? road?" Mr. Clayton's reaction was typically airy. Farmers in the
less accessible places always brushed aside such queries. "Road's right
enough. Just tek a bit o' care and you'll get here without any trouble."
Siegfried wasn't so sure. "You'll certainly have to walk over the top
and it's doubtful whether the ploughs will have cleared the lower road.
It's up to you."
"Oh, I'll have a go. There's not much doing this morning and I feel like
a bit of exercise."
In the yard I found that old Boardman had done a tremendous job in his
quiet way; he had dug open the big double doors and cleared a way for
the cars to get out. I put what I thought I would need into a small
rucksack - some expectorant mixture, a tub of electuary, a syringe and a
few ampoules of pneumonia serum. Then I threw the most important item of
my winter equipment, a broad-bladed shovel, into the back and left.
The bigger roads had already been cleared by the council ploughs which
had been clanking past Skeldale House since before dawn, but the surface
was rough and I had a slow, bumpy ride. It was more than ten miles to
the Clayton farm and it was one of those iron days when the frost piled
thickly on the windscreen blotting out everything within minutes. But
this morning I was triumphant. I had just bought a wonderful new
invention - a couple of strands of wire mounted on a strip of bakelite
and fastened to the windscreen with rubber suckers. It worked from the
car batteries and cleared a small space of vision.
No more did I have to climb out wearily and scrub and scratch at the
frozen glass every half mile or so. I sat peering delightedly through a
flawlessly clear semicircle about eight inches wide at the countryside
unwinding before me like a film show; the grey stone villages, silent
and withdrawn under their smothering white cloak; the low, burdened
branches of the roadside trees.
I was enjoying it so much that I hardly noticed the ache in my toes.
Freezing feet were the rule in those days before car heaters, especially
when you could see the road flashing past through the holes in the floor
boards. On long journeys I really began to suffer towards the end. It
was like that today when I got out of the car at the foot of the Pike
Edge road; my fingers too, throbbed painfully as I stamped around and
swung my arms.
The ploughs hadn't even attempted to clear the little side road which
wound its way upwards and into the valley beyond. Its solid, creamy,
wall-to-wall filling said "No, you can't come up here', with that
detached finality I had come to know so well. But as always, even in my
disappointment, I looked with wonder at the shapes the wind had sculpted
in the night; flowing folds of the most perfect smoothness tapering to
the finest of points, deep hollows with knife-edge rims, soaring cliffs
with overhanging margins almost transparent in their delicacy.
Hitching the rucksack on my shoulder I felt a kind of subdued elation.
With a leather golf jacket buttoned up to my neck and an extra pair of
thick socks under my wellingtons I felt ready for anything. No doubt I
considered there was something just a bit dashing and gallant in the
picture of the dedicated young vet with his magic potions on his back
battling against the odds to succour a helpless animal.
I stood for a moment gazing at the fell, curving clean and cold into the
sullen sky. An expectant hush lay on the fields, the frozen river and
the still trees as I started off.
I kept up a good pace. First over a bridge with the river white and
silent beneath then up and up, picking my way over the drifts till the
road twisted, almost invisible, under some low cliffs. Despite the cold,
the sweat was beginning to prick on my back when I got to the top.
I looked around me. I had been up here several times in June and July
and I could remember the sunshine, the smell of the warm grass, and the
scent of flowers and pines that came up the hill from the valley below.
But it was hard to relate the smiling landscape of last summer with this
desolation.
The flat moorland on the fell top was a white immensity rolling away to
the horizon with the sky pressing down like a dark blanket. I could see
the farm down there in its hollow and it, too, looked different; small,
remote, like a charcoal drawing against the hills bulking smooth and
white beyond. A pine wood made a dark smudge on the slopes but the scene
had been wiped clean of most of its familiar features.
I could see the road only in places - the walls were covered over most
of their length, but the farm was visible all the way. I had gone about
half a mile towards it when a sudden gust of wind blew up the surface
snow into a cloud of fine particles. Just for a few seconds I found
myself completely alone. The farm, the surrounding moor, everything
disappeared and I had an eerie sense of isolation till the veil cleared.
It was hard going in the deep snow and in the drifts I sank over the
tops of my wellingtons I kept at it, head down, to within a few hundred
yards of the stone buildings. I was just thinking that it had all been
pretty easy, really, when I looked up and saw a waving curtain of a
million black dots bearing down on me. I quickened my steps and just
before the blizzard hit me I marked the position of the farm. But after
ten minutes' stumbling and slithering I realised 1
I had missed the place. I was heading for a shape that didn't exist; it
was etched only in my mind.
I stood for a few moments feeling again the chilling sense of isolation.
I was convinced I had gone too far to the left and after a few gasping
breaths, struck off to the right. It wasn't long before I knew I had
gone in the wrong direction again. I began to fall into deep holes, up
to the arm-pits in the snow reminding me that the ground was not really
flat on these high moors but pitted by countless peat haggs.
As I struggled on I told myself that the whole thing was ridiculous. I
couldn't be far from the warm fireside at Pike House - this wasn't the
North Pole. But my mind went back to the great empty stretch of moor
beyond the farm and I had to stifle a feeling of panic.
The numbing cold seemed to erase all sense of time. Soon I had no idea
of how long I had been falling into the holes and crawling out. I did
know that each time it was getting harder work dragging myself out. And
it was becoming more and more tempting to sit down and rest, even sleep;
there was something hypnotic in the way the big, soft flakes brushed
noiselessly across my skin and mounted thickly on my closed eyes.
I was trying to shut out the conviction that if I fell down many more
times I wouldn't get up when a dark shape hovered suddenly ahead. Then
my outflung arms touched something hard and rough. Unbelievingly I felt
my way over the square stone blocks till I came to a corner. Beyond that
was a square of light - it was the kitchen window of the farm.
Thumping on the door, I leaned agai
nst the smooth timbers, mouth gaping,
chest heaving agonisingly. My immense relief must have bordered on
hysteria because it seemed to me that when the door was opened the right
thing would be to fall headlong into the room. My mind played with the
picture of the family crowding round the prostrate figure, plying him
with brandy.
When the door did open, however, something kept me on my feet. Mr.
Clayton stood there for a few seconds, apparently unmoved by the sight
of the distraught snowman in front of him.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Herriot. You couldn't have come better- I've just
finished me dinner. Hang on a minute till I get me 'at. Beast's just
across yard."
He reached behind the door, stuck a battered trilby on his head, put his
hands in his pockets and sauntered over the cobbles, whistling. He
knocked up the latch of the calf house and with a profound sense of
release I stepped inside; away from the relentless cold, the sucking
swirling snow into an animal warmth and the scent of hay.
As I rid myself of my rucksack, four long-haired little bullocks
regarded me calmly from over a hurdle, their jaws moving rhythmically.
They appeared as unconcerned at my appearance as their owner. They
showed a mild interest, nothing more. Behind the shaggy heads I could
see a fifth small beast with a sack tied round it and a purulent
discharge coming from its nose.
It reminded me of the reason for my visit. As my numb fingers fumbled in
a pocket for my thermometer a great gust of wind buffeted the door,
setting the latch clicking softly and sending a faint powdering of snow
into the dark interior.
Mr. Clayton turned and rubbed the pane of the single small window with
his sleeve. Picking his teeth with his thumb-nail he peered out at the
howling blizzard.
"Aye," he said, and belched pleasurably. "It's a plain sort o' day."
Chapter Twenty-one.
As I waited for Siegfried to give me my morning list I l pulled my scarf
higher till it almost covered my ears, turned up the collar of my
overcoat and buttoned it tightly under my chin. Then I drew on a pair of
holed woollen gloves.
A biting north wind was driving the snow savagely past the window almost
parallel with the ground, obliterating the street and everything else
with big, swirling flakes.
Siegfried bent over the day book. "Now let's see what we've got.
Barnett, Gill Sunter, Dent, Cartwright ..." He began to scribble on a
pad. "Oh, and I'd better see Scruton's calf - you've been attending it,
I know, but I'm going right past the door. Can you tell me about it."
"Yes, it's been breathing a bit fast and running a temperature around
103 I don't think there's any pneumonia there. In fact I rather suspect
it may be developing diphtheria - it has a bit of a swelling on the jaw
and the throat glands are up."
All the time I was speaking, Siegfried continued to write on the pad and
only stopped once to whisper to Miss Harbottle. Then he looked up
brightly. "Pneumonia, eh? How have you been treating it."
"No, I said I didn't think it was pneumonia. I've been injecting
Prontosil and I left some liniment to rub into the throat region."
But Siegfried was writing hard again. He said nothing till he had made
out two lists. He tore one from the pad and gave it to me. "Right,
you've been applying liniment to the chest. Suppose it might do a bit of
good. Which liniment exactly ."
"Lin. methyl. salt, but they're rubbing it on the calf's throat, not the
chest." But Siegfried had turned away to tell Miss Harbottle the order
of his visits and I found myself talking to the back of his head.
Finally he straightened up and came away from the desk. "Well, that's
fine. You have your list - let's get on." But half way across the floor
he hesitated in his stride and turned back. "Why the devil are you
rubbing that liniment on the calf's throat."
"Well, I thought it might relieve the inflammation a bit."
"But James, why should there be any inflammation there? Don't you think
the liniment would do more good on the chest wall?" Siegfried was
wearing his patient look again.
"No, I don't. Not in a case of calf diphtheria."
Siegfried put his head on one side and a smile of saintly sweetness
crept over his face. He laid his hand on my shoulder. "My dear old
James, perhaps it would be a good idea if you started right at the
beginning. Take all the time you want - there's no hurry. Speak slowly
and calmly and then you won't become confused. You told me you were
treating a calf with pneumonia - now take it from there."
I thrust my hands deep into my coat pockets and began to churn among the
thermometers and scissors and little bottles which always dwelt there.
"Look, I 1
,i ~l told you right at the start that I didn't think there was any
pneumonia but that I suspected early diphtheria. There was also a bit of
fever 103."
Siegfried was looking past me at the window. "God, just look at that
snow. We're going to have some fun getting round today." He dragged his
eyes back to my face. "Don't you think that with a temperature of 103
you should be injecting some Prontosil?" He raised his arms sideways and
let them fall. "Just a suggestion, James - I wouldn't interfere for the
world but I honestly think that the situation calls for a little
Prontosil."
"But hell, I am using it!" I shouted. "I told you that way back but you
weren't listening. I've been doing my damnedest to get this across to
you but what chance have I got ..."
"Come come, dear boy, come come. No need to upset yourself." Siegfried's
face was transfigured by an internal radiance. Sweetness and charity,
forgiveness, tolerance and affection flowed from him in an enveloping
wave. I battled with an impulse to kick him swiftly on the shin.
"James, James." The voice was caressing. "I've not the slightest doubt
you tried in your own way to tell me about this case, but we haven't all
got the gift of communication. You're the most excellent fellow but must
apply yourself to this. It is simply a matter of marshalling your facts
and presenting them in an orderly manner. Then you wouldn't get confused
and mixed up as you've done this morning; it's only a question of
practice, I'm sure." He gave an encouraging wave of the hand and was
gone.
I strode quickly through to the stock room and, seeing a big, empty
cardboard box on the floor, dealt it a vicious kick. I put so much venom
into it that my foot went clear through the cardboard and I was trying
to free myself when Tristan came in. He had been stoking the fire and
had witnessed the conversation.
He watched silently as I plunged about the room swearing and trying to
shake the box loose. "What's up, Jim? Has my big brother been getting
under your skin."
I got rid of the box at last and sank down on one of the lower shelves.
"I don't know. Why should he be getting under my skin now? I've known
him quite a long time and he's always been the same. He's nev
er been any
different but it hasn't bothered me before - not like this, anyway. Any
other time I'd laugh that sort of thing off. What the hell's wrong with
me."
Tristan put down his coal bucket and looked at me thoughtfully. "There's
nothing much wrong with you, Jim, but I can tell you one thing - you've
been just a bit edgy since you went out with the Alderson woman."
"Oh God," I groaned and closed my eyes. "Don't remind me. Anyway, I've
not seen her or heard from her since, so that's the end of that and I
can't blame her."
Tristan pulled out his Woodbines and squatted down by the coal bucket.
"Yes, that's all very well, but look at you. You're suffering and
there's no need for it. All right, you had a disastrous night and she's
given you the old heave ho. Well, so what? Do you know how many times
I've been spurned."
"Spurned? I never even got started."
"Very well then, but you're still going around like a bullock with
bellyache. Forget it, lad, and get out into the big world. The rich
tapestry of life is waiting for you out there. I've been watching you
working all hours and when you're not working you're reading up your
cases in the text books - and I tell you this dedicated vet thing is all
right up to a point. But you've got to live a little. Think of all the
lovely little lasses in Darrowby - you can hardly move for them. And
every.one just waiting for a big handsome chap like you to gallop up on
his white horse. Don't disappoint them." He leaned over and slapped my
knee. "Tell you what. Why don't you let me fix something up? A nice
little foursome - just what you need.
"Ach I don't know. I'm not keen, really."
"Nonsense!, Tristan said. "I don't know why I haven't thought of it
before. This monkish existence is bad for you. Leave all the details to
me."
I decided to have an early night and was awakened around eleven o'clock
by a heavy weight crashing down on the bed. The room was dark but I
seemed to be enveloped in beer-scented smoke. I coughed and sat up. "Is
that you, Triss."
"It is indeed," said the shadowy figure on the end of the bed. "And I
bring you glad tidings. You remember Brenda."
"That little nurse I've seen you around with."
"The very same. Well, she's got a pal, Connie, who's even more
beautiful. The four of us are going dancing at the Poulton Institute on
Tuesday night." The voice was thick with beery triumph.
"You mean me, too."
"By God I do, and you're going to have the best time you've ever had.
I'll see to that." He blew a last choking blast of smoke into my face
and left, chuckling.
Chapter Twenty-two.
"We're having a 'ot dinner and entertainers."
My reaction to the words surprised me. They stirred up a mixture of
emotions, all of them pleasant; fulfilment, happy acceptance, almost
triumph.
I know by now that there is not the slightest chance of anybody asking
me to be President of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, but if
they had I wonder if I'd have been more pleased than when I heard about
the 'ot dinner.
The reason, I suppose, was that the words reflected the attitude of a
typical Dales farmer towards myself. And this was important because,
though after just over a year I was becoming accepted as a vet, I was
always conscious of the gulf which was bound to exist between these hill
folk and a city product like me. Much as I admired them I was aware
always that we were different; it was inevitable, I knew, but it still
rankled so that a sincere expression of friendship from one of them
struck a deep answering chord in me.
Especially when it came from somebody like Dick Rudd. I had first met
Dick last winter on the doorstep of Skeldale House at six o'clock on the