mass, then I popped it into my mouth, gave a couple of quick chews and
swallowed. It was a start and I hadn't tasted a thing except the
piccalilli.
"Nice bit ,of bacon,' Mr Homer murmured.
"Delicious!' I replied, munching desperately at the second forkful.
"Absolutely delicious!'
"And you like ma piccalilli too!' The old lady beamed at me. "Ah can
tell by the way you're slappin' it on!' She gave a peal of delighted
laughter.
"Yes, indeed.' I looked at her with streaming eyes. "Some of the best
I've ever tasted.'
Looking back, I realise it was one of the bravest things I have ever
done. I stuck to my task unwaveringly, dipping again and again into the
jar, keeping my mind a blank, refusing grimly to think of the horrible
thing that was happening to me. There was only one bad moment, when the
piccalilli, which packed a tremendous punch and was never meant to be
consumed in large mouthfuls, completely took my breath away and I went
into a long coughing spasm. But at last I came to the end. A final
heroic crunch and swallow, a long gulp at my tea and the plate was
empty. The thing was accomplished.
And there was no doubt it had been worth it. I had been a tremendous
success with the old folks. Mr Homer slapped my shoulder.
"By yaw, it's good to see a young feller enjoyin' his food! When I were
a lad I used to put it away sharpish, like that, but ah can't do it
now.' Chuckling to himself, he continued with his breakfast.
His wife showed me the door. "Aye, it was a real compliment to me.' She
looked at the table and giggled. "You've nearly finished the jar!'
"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs Homer,' I said, smiling through my tears and trying
to ignore the churning in my stomach. "But I just couldn't resist it.'
Contrary to my expectations I didn't drop down dead soon afterwards but
for a week I was oppressed by a feeling of nausea which I am prepared to
believe was purely psychosomatic.
At any rate, since that little episode I have never knowingly eaten fat
again. My hatred was transformed into something like an obsession from
then on.
And I haven't been all that crazy about piccalilli either.
Chapter Twenty-four.
I wondered how long this feeling of novelty at being a married man would
last. Maybe it went on for years and years. At any rate I did feel an
entirely different person from the old Herriot as I paced with my wife
among the stalls at the garden fete.
It was an annual affair in aid of the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children and it was held on the big lawn behind the Darrowby
vicarage with the weathered brick of the old house showinv meiinw r-A
h^~^rerl t1~ tr~c Tl~ hot June sunshine bathed the typically English
scene; the women in their flowered dresses, the men perspiring in their
best suits, laughing children running from the tombola to the coconut
shy or the ice-cream kiosk. In a little tent at one end, Mrs Newbould,
the butcher's wife, thinly disguised as Madame Claire the fortune
teller, was doing a brisk trade. It all seemed a long way from Glasgow.
And the solid citizen feeling was heightened by the pressure of Helen's
hand on my arm and the friendly nods of the passers-by. One of these was
the curate. Mr Blenkinsopp. He came up to us, exuding, as always, a
charm that was completely unworldly.
"Ah, James,' he murmured. "And Helen!' He beamed on us with the
benevolence he felt for the entire human race. "How nice to see you
here!'
He walked along with us as the scent from the flower beds and the
trodden grass rose in the warm air.
"You know, James, I was just thinking about you the other day. I was in
Rainby - you know I take the service there every second week - and they
were telling me they were having great difficulty in finding young men
for the cricket team. I wondered if you would care to turn out for
them.'
"Me? Play cricket?'
"Yes, of course.'
I laughed. "I'm afraid I'm no cricketer. I'm interested in the game and
I like to watch it, but where I come from they don't play it very much.'
"Oh, but surely you must have played at some time or other.'
"A bit at school, but they go more for tennis in Scotland. And anyway it
was a long time ago.'
"Oh well, there you are.' Mr Blenkinsopp spread his hands. "It will come
back to you easily.'
"I don't know about that,' I said. "But another thing, I don't live in
Rainby, doesn't that matter?'
"Not really,' the curate replied. "It is such a problem finding eleven
players in these tiny villages that they often call on outsiders. Nobody
minds.'
I stopped my stroll over the grass and turned to Helen. She was giving
me an encouraging smile and I began to think, well ... why not? It
looked as though I had settled in Yorkshire. I had married a Yorkshire
girl. I might as well start doing the Yorkshire things, like playing
cricket - there wasn't anything more Yorkshire than that.
"All right then, Mr Blenkinsopp,"I said. "You're not getting any bargain
but I don't mind having a go.'
"Splendid! The next match is on Tuesday evening - against Hedwick. I am
playing so I'll pick you up at six o'clock. His face radiated happiness
as though I had done him the greatest favour.
"Well, thanks,' I replied. "I'll have to fix it with my partner to be
off that night, but I'm sure it will be O.K.'
The weather was still fine on Tuesday and, going round my visits, I
found it difficult to assimilate the fact that for the first time in my
life I was going to perform in a real genuine cricket match.
It was funny the way I felt about cricket. All my experience of the game
was based on the long-range impressions I had gained during my Glasgow
boyhood. Gleaned from newspapers, from boys' magazines, from occasional
glimpses of Hobbs and Sutcliffe and Woolley on the cinema newsreels,
they had built up a strangely glamorous picture in my mind. The whole
thing, it seemed to me, was so deeply and completely English; the gentle
clunk of bat on ball, the white-clad figures on the wide sweep of smooth
turf; there was a softness a graciousness about cricket which you found
nowhere else; nobody ever got excited or upset at this leisurely
pursuit. There was no doubt at all that I looked on cricket with a
romanticism and nostalgia which would have been incomprehensible to
people who had played the game all their lives.
Promptly at six Mr Blenkinsopp tooted the horn of his little car outside
the surgery. Helen had advised me to dress ready for action and she had
clearly been right because the curate, too, was resplendent in white
flannels and blazer. The three young farmers crammed in the back were,
however, wearing opennecked shirts with their ordinary clothes.
"Hello, James!' said Mr Blenkinsopp.
"Now then, Jim,' said two of the young men in the back. But "Good
afternoon, Mr Herriot,' said the one in the middle.
He was Tom Willis, the captain of the Rainby team and in my opinion, one
of natur
e's gentlemen. He was about my own age and he and his father ran
the kind of impoverished small-holding which just about kept them alive.
But there was a sensitivity and refinement about him and a courtesy
which never varied. I never cared how people addressed me and a lot of
the farmers used my first name, but to Tom and his father I was always
Mr Herriot. They considered it was the correct way to address the vet
and that was that.
Tom leaned from the back seat now, his lean face set in its usual
serious expression.
"It's good of you to give up your time, Mr Herriot. I know you're a busy
man but we're allus short o' players at Rainby.'
"I'm looking forward to it, Tom, but I'm no cricketer, I'll tell you
now.'
He gazed at me with gentle disbelief and I had an uncomfortable feeling
that everybody had the impression that because I had been to college I
was bound to have a blue.
Hedwick was at the top end of Allerdale, a smaller offshoot of the main
Dale, and as we drove up the deep ever-narrowing cleft in the moorland I
wound down the window. It was the sort of country I saw every day but I
wasn't used to being a passenger and there was no doubt you could see
more this way. From the overlapping fringe of heather far above, the
walls ran in spidery lines down the bare green flanks to the softness of
the valley floor where grey farmhouses crouched; and the heavy scent of
the new cut hay lying in golden swathes in the meadows drifted
deliciously into the car. There were trees, too, down here, not the
stunted dwarfs of the high country above us, but giants in the exultant
foliage of high summer.
We stopped at Hedwick because we could go no further. This was the head
of the Dale, a cluster of cottages, a farm and a pub. Where the road
curved a few cars were drawn up by the side of a solid-looking wall on
which leaned a long row of cloth-capped men, a few women and chattering
groups of children.
"Ah,' said Mr Blenkinsopp. "A good turn-out of spectators. Hedwick
always support their team well. They must have come from all over the
Dale.'
I looked around in surprise. "Spectators?'
"Yes, of course. They've come to see the match.'
Again I gazed about me. "But I can't see the pitch.'
"It's there,' Tom said. "Just over "'wall.'
I leaned across the rough stones and stared in some bewilderment at a
wildly undulating field almost knee deep in rough grass among which a
cow, some sheep and a few hens wandered contentedly. "Is this it?'
"Aye, that's it. If you stand on t'wall you can see the square.'
I did as he said and could just discern a five foot wide strip of bright
green cut from the crowding herbage. The stumps stood expectantly at
either end. A massive oak tree sprouted from somewhere around mid-on.
The strip stood on the only level part of the field, and that was a
small part.
Within twenty yards it swept up steeply to a thick wood which climbed
over the lower slopes of the fell. On the other side it fell away to a
sort of ravine where the rank grass ended only in a rocky stream. The
wall bordering the near side ran up to a group of farm buildings.
There was no clubhouse but the visiting team were seated on a form on
the grass while nearby, a little metal score board about four feet high
stood near its pile of hooked number plates.
The rest of our team had arrived, too, and with a pang of alarm I
noticed that there was not a single pair of white flannels among them.
Only the curate and I were properly attired and the immediate and
obvious snag was that he could play and I couldn't.
Tom and the home captain tossed a coin. Hedwick won and elected to bat.
The umpires, two tousle-haired, sunburnt young fellows in grubby white
coats strolled to the wicket, our team followed and the Hedwick batsmen
appeared. Under their pads they both wore navy blue serge trousers (a
popular colour among both teams) and one of them sported a bright yellow
sweater.
Tom Willis with the air of authority and responsibility which was
natural to him began to dispose the field. No doubt convinced that I was
a lynx-eyed catcher he stationed me quite close to the bat on the off
side then after a grave consultation with Mr Blenkinsopp he gave him the
ball and the game was on.
And Mr Blenkinsopp was a revelation. In his university sweater, gleaming
flannels and brightly coloured cap he really looked good. And indeed it
was soon very clear that he was good. He handed his cap to the umpire,
retreated about twenty yards into the undergrowth, then turned and,
ploughing his way back at ever increasing speed delivered the ball with
remarkable velocity bang on the wicket. The chap in yellow met it
respectfully with a dead bat and did the same with the next but then he
uncoiled himself and belted the third one high over the fielders on to
the slope beneath the wood. As one of our men galloped after it the row
of heads above the wall broke into a babel of noise.
They cheered every hit, not with the decorous ripple of applause I had
always imagined, but with raucous yells. And they had plenty to shout
about. The Hedwick lads, obviously accustomed to the peculiarities of
their pitch wasted no time on classical strokes; they just gave a great
hoick at the ball and when they connected it travelled immense
distances. Occasionally they missed and Mr Blenkinsopp or one of our
other bowlers shattered their stumps but the next man started cheerfully
where they left off. '
It was exhilarating stuff but I was unable to enjoy it. Everything I
did, in fact my every movement proclaimed my ignorance to the
knowledgeable people around me. I threw the ball in to the wrong end, I
left the ball when I should have chased it and sped after it when I
should have stayed in my place. I couldn't understand half the jargon
which was being bandied around. No, there was not a shadow of a doubt
about it; here in this cricket mad corner of a cricket mad county I was
a foreigner.
Five wickets had gone down when a very fat lad came out to bat. His
appearance of almost perfect rotundity was accentuated by the Fair Isle
sweater stretched tightly over his bulging abdomen and judging by the
barrage of witticisms which came from the heads along the wall it seemed
he was a loca I character. He made a violent cross-batted swish at the
first delivery, missed, and the ball sank with a thud into his midriff.
Howls of laughter arose from players, spectators and umpires alike as he
collapsed slowly at the crease and massaged himself ruefully. He slashed
at the next one and it flew off the edge of his bat like a bullet,
struck my shinbone a fearful crack and dropped into the grass. Resisting
the impulse to scream and hop around in my agony I gritted my teeth,
grabbed the ball and threw it in.
LL ~ C. LI L I I U/ ILC33
.
JIJ J "Oh well stopped, Mr Herriot,' Tom Willis called from his position
at mid on. He clapped his hands a few times in encouragement.
>
Despite his girth the fat lad smote lustily and was finally caught in
the outfield for fifteen.
The next batsman seemed to be taking a long time to reach the wicket. He
was shuffling, bent-kneed, through the clover like a very old man,
trailing his bat wearily behind him, and when he finally arrived at the
crease I saw that he was indeed fairly advanced in years. He wore only
one pad, strapped over baggy grey trousers which came almost up to his
armpits and were suspended by braces. A cloth cap surmounted a face
shrunken like a sour apple. From one corner of the downturned mouth a
cigarette dangled.
He took guard and looked at the umpire.
"Middle and leg,' he grunted.
"Aye, that's about it, Len,' the umpire replied.
Len pursed his little mouth.
"About it .. . about it .. .? Well is it or bloody isn't it?' he
enquired peevishly.
The young man in white grinned indulgently. "Aye it is, Len, that's it.'
The old man removed his cigarette, flicked it on to the grass and took
up his guard again. His appearance suggested that he might be out first
ball or in fact that he had no right to be there at all, but as the
delivery came down he stepped forward and with a scything sweep thumped
the ball past the bowler and just a few inches above the rear end of the
cow which had wandered into the line of fire. The animal looked round in
some surprise as the ball whizzed along its backbone and the old man's
crabbed features relaxed into the semblance of a smile.
"By yaw, vitnery,' he said, looking over at me, 'ah damn near made a bit
of work for the there.' He eyed me impassively for a moment. "Ah reckon
the's never took a cricket ball out of a cow's arse afore, eh?'
Len returned to the job in hand and proved a difficult man to dislodge.
But it was the batsman at the other end who was worrying Tom Willis. He
had come in first wicket down, a ruddy faced lad of about nineteen
wearing a blue shirt and he was still there piling on the runs.
At the end of the over, Tom came up to me. "Fancy turning your arm over,
Mr Herriot?' he enquired gravely.
"Huh?'
"Would you like a bowl? A fresh man might just unsettle this feller.'
"Well .. . er .. .' I didn't know what to say. The idea of me bowling in
a real match was unthinkable. Tom made up my mind by throwing me the
ball.
Clasping it in a clammy hand I trotted up to the wicket while the lad in
the blue shirt crouched intently over his bat. All the other bowlers had
hurled their missiles down at top speed but as I ambled forward it burst
on me that if I tried that I would be miles off my target. Accuracy, I
decided, must be my watchword and I sent a gentle lob in the direction
of the wicket. The batsman, obviously convinced that such a slow ball
must be laden with hidden malice followed its course with deep suspicion
and smothered it as soon as it arrived. He did the same with the second
but that was enough for him to divine that I wasn't bowling off breaks,
leg breaks or googlies but simply little dollies and he struck the third
ball smartly into the ravine.
There was a universal cry of "Maurice!' from our team because Maurice
Briggs' the Rainby blacksmith was fielding down there and since he
couldn't see the wicket he had to be warned. In due course the ball
soared back from the depths, propelled no doubt by Maurice's strong
right arm, and I recommenced my attack. The lad in blue thumped my
remaining three deliveries effortlessly for six. The first flew strai~ht
over the wall and the row of cars into the adioinin~
au' vel zn marness field, the next landed in the farmyard and the third
climbed in a tremendous arc away above the ravine and I heard it splash