go.
Chapter Two.
I had only to sit up in bed to look right across Darrowby to the hills
beyond.
I got up and walked to the window. It was going to be a fine morning and
the early sun glanced over the weathered reds and greys of the jumbled
roofs, some of them sagging under their burden of ancient tiles, and
brightened the tufts of green where trees pushed upwards from the
gardens among the bristle) of chimney pots. And behind everything the
calm bulk of the fells.
It was my good fortune that this was the first shine I saw every
morning; after Helen, of course, w. which was better still.
Following our unorthodox tuberculin testing honeymoon we had set up ow
first home on the top of Skeldale House. Siegfried, my boss up to my
wedding and now my partner, had offered us free use of these empty rooms
on the thin storey and we had gratefully accepted; and though it was a
makeshift arrangement there was an airy charm, an exhilaration in our
high perch that many would have envied.
It was makeshift because everything at that time had a temporary
complexion and we had no idea how long we would be there. Siegfried and
I had bot volunteered for the RAF and were on deferred service but that
is all I am going to say about the war. This book is not about such
things which in any case were so very far from Darrowby; it is the story
of the months I had with Helen between our marriage and my call-up and
is about the ordinary things which have always made up our lives, my
work, the animals, the Dales.
This front room was our bed-sitter and though it was not luxuriously
furnished it did have an excellent bed, a carpet, a handsome side table
which had belonged. to Helen's mother and two armchairs. It had an
ancient wardrobe, too, but th~ lock didn't work and the only way we kept
the door closed was by jamming One of my socks in it. The toe always
dangled outside but it never seemed of an~t importance.
I went out and across a few feet of landing to our kitchen-dining room
at t back. This apartment was definitely spartan. I clumped over bare
boards to bench we had rigged against the wall by the window. This held
a gas ring a our crockery and cutlery. I seized a tall jug and began my
long descent to t main kitchen downstairs because one minor snag was
that there was no water at the top of the house. Down two flights to the
three rooms on the first storey then down two more and a final gallop
along the passage to the big stone-flagb kitchen at the end.
I filled the jug and returned to our eyrie two steps at a time. I
wouldn't like to do this now whenever I needed water but at that time I
didn't find it the least ~.
inconvenience.
Helen soon had the kettle boiling and we drank our first cup of tea by
window looking down on the long garden. From up here we had an aerial
vi' of the unkempt lawns, the fruit trees, the wisteria climbing the
weathered brick towards our window, and the high walls with their old
stone copings stretch) away to the cobbled yard under the elms. Every
day I went up and down t path to the garage in the yard but it looked so
different from above.
~wait a minute, Helen,' I said. "Let me sit on that chair.'
She had laid the breakfast on the bench where we ate and this was where
the difficulty arose. Because it was a tall bench and our recently
acquired high stool fitted it but our chair didn't.
"No, I'm all right, Jim, really I am.' She smiled at me reassuringly
from her absurd position, almost at eye level with her plate.
"You can't be all right,' I retorted. "Your chin's nearly in among your
cornflakes Please let me sit there.'
She patted the seat of the stool. "Come on, stop arguing. Sit down and
have your breakfast.'
This, I felt, just wouldn't do. I tried a different tack.
"Helen!' I said severely. "Get off that chair!'
"No!' she replied without looking at me, her lips pushed forward in a
characteristic pout which I always found enchanting but which also meant
she wasn't kidding.
I was at a loss. I toyed with the idea of pulling her off the chair, but
she was a big girl. We had had a previous physical try-out when a minor
disagreement had escalated into a wrestling match and though I
thoroughly enjoyed the contest and actually won in the end I had been
surprised by her sheer strength. At this time in the morning I didn't
feel up to it. I sat on the stool.
After breakfast Helen began to boil water for the washing-up, the next
stage in our routine. Meanwhile I went downstairs, collected my gear,
including suture material for a foal which had cut its leg and went out
the side door into the garden. Just about opposite the rockery I turned
and looked up at our window. It was open at the bottom and an arm
emerged holding a dishcloth. I waved and the dishcloth waved back
furiously. It was the start to every day.
And, driving from the yard, it seemed a good start. In fact everything
was good. The raucous cawing of the rooks in the elms above as I closed
the double doors, the clean fragrance of the air which greeted me every
morning, and the challenge and interest of my job.
The injured foal was at Robert Corner's farm and I hadn't been there
long before I spotted Jock, his sheepdog. And I began to watch the dog
because behind a vet's daily chore of treating his patients there is
always the fascinating kaleidoscope of animal personality and Jock was
an interesting case.
A lot of farm dogs are partial to a little light relief from their work.
They like to play and one of their favourite games is chasing cars off
the premises. Often I drove off with a hairy form galloping alongside
and the dog would usually give a final defiant bark after a few hundred
yards to speed me on my way. But Jock was different.
He was really dedicated. Car chasing to him was a deadly serious art
which he practised daily without a trace of levity. Corner's farm was at
the end of a long track, twisting for nearly a mile between its stone
walls down through the gently sloping fields to the road below and Jock
didn't consider he had done his Job properly until he had escorted his
chosen vehicle right to the very foot. So his hobby was an exacting one.
I watched him now as I finished stitching the foal's leg and began to
tie on a bandage. He was slinking about the buildings, a skinny little
creature who Without his mass of black and white hair would have been an
almost invisible mite, and he was playing out a transparent charade of
pretending he was taking no noticed of me - wasn't the least bit
interested in my presence, in fact. But his furtive glances in the
direction of the stable, his repeated cries-crossing of my line of
vision gave him away. He was waiting for his big moment.
When I was putting on my shoes and throwing my Wellingtons into the boot
I saw him again. Or rather part of him; just a long nose and one eye
protruding from beneath a broken door. It wasn't till I had started the
engine and began to move off
that he finally declared himself, stealing
out from his hiding place, body low, tail trailing, eyes fixed intently
on the car's front wheels, and as I gathered speed and headed down the
track he broke into an effortless lope I had been through this before
and was always afraid he might run in front of me so I put my foot down
and began to hurtle downhill. This was where Jock came into his own. I
often wondered how he'd fare against a racing greyhound because by golly
he could run. That sparse frame housed a perfect physical machine and
the slender limbs reached and flew again and again, devouring the stony
ground beneath, keeping up with the speeding car with joyful ease.
There was a sharp bend about half way down and here Jock would
invariably sail over the wall and streaked across the turf, a little
dark blur against the are and having craftily cut off the corner he
reappeared like a missile zooming off the grey stones lower down. This
put him into a nice position for the run to the road and when he finally
saw me on to the tarmac my last view of him was a happy panting face
looking after me. Clearly he considered it was a job well done and he
would wander contentedly back up to the farm to await the next session,
perhaps with the postman or the baker's van.
And there was another side to Jock. He was an outstanding performer at
sheepdog trials and Mr Corner had won many trophies with him. In fact
the farmer could have sold the little animal for a lot of money but
couldn't be persuaded to part with him. Instead he purchased a bitch, a
scrawny little female counterpart of Jock and a trial winner in her own
right. With this combination Mr Corner thought he could breed some
world-beating types for sale. On Visits to the farm the bitch joined in
the car-chasing but it seemed as though she was doing it more or less to
humour her new mate and she always gave up at the first bend leaving
Jock in command. You could see her heart wasn't in it.
When the pups arrived, seven fluffy black balls tumbling about the yard
and getting under everybody's feet. Jock watched indulgently as they
tried to follow him in his pursuit of my vehicle and you could almost
see him laughing as they fell over their feet and were left trailing far
behind.
It happened that I didn't have to go there for about ten months but I
saw ~ Robert Corner in the market occasionally and he told me he was
training the pups and they were shaping well. Not that they needed much
training; it's in their blood and he said they had tried to round up the
cattle and sheep as soon as they could walk. When I finally saw them
they were like seven Jocks - meagre, darting little creatures flitting
noiselessly about the buildings - and it didn't take me long to find out
that they had learned more than sheep herding from their father. There
was something very evocative about the way they began to prowl around in
the background as I prepared to get into my car, peeping furtively from
behind straw bales, slinking with elaborate nonchalance to favourable
positions for a quick getaway. And as I settled in my seat I could sense
they were all crouched in readiness for the take off.
I revved my engine, let in the clutch with a bump and shot across the y.
and in a second the immediate vicinity erupted in a mass of hairy forms.
I roared on to the track and put my foot down and on either side of me
the little animals pelted along shoulder to shoulder, their faces all
wearing the inti fanatical expression I knew so well. When Jock cleared
the wall the seven pups went with him and when they reappeared and
entered the home straight I noticed something different. On past
occasions Jock had always had one eye on the car - this was what he
considered his opponent, but now on that last quail mile as he hurtled
along at the head of a shaggy phalanx he was glancing at the pups on
either side as though they were the main opposition. ~
And there was no doubt he was in trouble. Superbly fit though he was.
The Stringy bundles of bone and sinew which he had fathered had all his
speed plus the newly minted energy of youth and it was taking every
shred of his power to keep up with them. Indeed there was one terrible
moment when he stumbled and was engulfed by the bounding creatures
around him; it seemed that all was lost but there was a core of steel in
Jock. Eyes popping, nostrils dilated, he fought his way through the pack
until by the time we reached the road he was once more in the lead.
But it had taken its toll. I slowed down before driving away and looked
down at the little animal standing with lolling tongue and heaving
flanks on the grass verge. It must have been like this with all the
other vehicles and it wasn't a merry game any more. I suppose it sounds
silly to say you could read a dog's thoughts but everything in his
posture betrayed the mounting apprehension that his days of supremacy
were numbered. Just round the corner lay the unthinkable ignominy of
being left trailing in the rear of that litter of young up-starts and as
I drew away Jock looked after me and his expression was eloquent.
"How long can I keep this up?'
I felt for the little dog and on my next visit to the farm about two
months later I wasn't looking forward to witnessing the final
degradation which I felt was inevitable. But when I drove into the yard
I found the place strangely unpopulated.
Robert Corner was forking hay into the cow's racks in the byre. He
turned as I came in.
"Where are all your dogs?' I asked.
He put down his fork. "All gone. By yaw, there's a market for good
workin' sheepdogs. I've done right well out of t'job.'
"But you've still got Jock?'
"Oh aye, ah couldn't part with t'awd lad. He's over there.'
And so he was, creeping around as of old, pretending he wasn't watching
me. And when the happy time finally arrived and I drove away it was like
it used to be with the lean little animal haring along by the side of
the car, but relaxed, enjoying the game, winging effortlessly over the
wall and beating the car down to the tarmac with no trouble at all.
I think I was as relieved as he was that he was left alone with his
supremacy unchallenged; that he was still top dog.
Chapter Three.
you could hardly expect to find a more unlikely character in Darrowby
than Roland Partridge. The thought came to me for the hundredth time as
I saw him peering through the window which looked on to Trengate just a
little way up the other side of the street from our surgery He was
tapping the glass and beckoning to me and the eyes behind the thick
Spectacles were wide with concern. I waited and when he opened the door
I Stepped straight from the street into his living room because these
were tiny dwellings with only a kitchen in the rear and a single small
bedroom overlooking the street above. But when I went in I had the
familiar feeling of surprise.
Because most of the other occupants of the row were farmworkers and
their furnishings were orthodox; but this place
was a studio.
An easel stood in the light from the window and the walls were covered
from floor to ceiling with paintings. Unframed canvases were stacked
everywhere and the few ornate chairs and the table with its load of
painted china and other bric-a-brac added to the artistic atmosphere. ~
The simple explanation was, of course, that Mr Partridge was in fact an
. artist. But the unlikely aspect came into it when you learned that
this middle aged velvet jacketed aesthete was the son of a small farmer,
a man whose forebears had been steeped in the soil for generations.
"I happened to see you passing there, Mr Herriot,' he said. "Are you
terribly busy?'
"Not too busy, Mr Partridge. Can I help you?'
He nodded gravely. "I wonder whether you could spare a moment to look at
Percy. I'd be most grateful.'
"Of course,' I replied. "Where is he?'
He was ushering me towards the kitchen when there was a bang on the
outer door and Bert Hardisty the postman burst in. Bert was a rough-hewn
character and he dumped a parcel unceremoniously on the table.
"There y'are, Rolie!' he shouted and turned to go.
Mr Partridge gazed with unruffled dignity at the retreating back. "Thank
you very much indeed, Bertram, good day to you.'
Here was another thing. The postman and the artist were both Darrowby
born and bred, had the same social background, had gone to the same
school, yet their voices were quite different. Roland Partridge, in
fact, spoke with the precise, well-modulated syllables of a
barrister-at-law.
We went into the kitchen. This was where he cooked for himself in his
bachelor state. When his father died many years ago he had sold the farm
immediately. Apparently his whole nature was appalled by the earthy
farming scene and he could not get out quickly enough. At any rate he
had got sufficient money from the sale to indulge his interests and he
had taken up painting and lived ever since in this humble cottage,
resolutely doing his own thing. This had all happened long before I came
to Darrowby and the dangling lank hair was silver now. I always had the
feeling that he was happy in his way because I couldn't imagine that
small, rather exquisite figure plodding round a muddy farmyard.
It was probably in keeping with his nature that he had never married.
There was a touch of asceticism in the thin cheeks and pale blue eyes
and it was possible that his self-contained imperturbable personality
might denote a lack of warmth. But that didn't hold good with regard to
his dog, Percy.
He loved Percy with a fierce protective passion and as the little animal
trotted towards him he bent over him, his face alight with tenderness.
"He looks pretty bright to me,' I said. "He's not sick, is he?'
"No .. . no .. .' Mr Partridge seemed strangely ill at ease. "He's
perfectly well in himself, but I want you to look at him and see if you
notice anything.'
I looked. And I saw only what I had always seen, the snow-white, shaggy
haired little object regarded by local dog breeders and other
cognoscenti as negligible mongrel but nevertheless one of my- favourite
patients. Mr Partridge; looking through the window of a pet shop in
Brawton about five years ago had succumbed immediately to the charms of
two soulful eyes gazing up at him from a six-week-old tangle of white
hair and had put down his five bob and rushed the little creature home.
Percy had been described in the shop somewhat vaguely~ as a 'terrier'
and Mr Partridge had flirted fearfully with the idea of having his tail
docked; but such was his infatuation that he couldn't bring himself to
cause such a mutilation and the tail had grown in a great fringed curve