All Things Bright and Beautiful

by James Herriot

  My next encounter with Mr. Pickersgill was on the telephone.

  “I’m speaking from the cossack,” he said in a subdued shout.

  “From the what?”

  “The cossack, the telephone cossack in t’village.”

  “Yes indeed,” I said, “And what can I do for you?”

  “I want you to come out as soon as possible, to treat a calf for semolina.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I ’ave a calf with semolina.”

  “Semolina?”

  “Aye, that’s right. A feller was on about it on t’wireless the other morning.”

  “Oh! Ah yes, I see.” I too had heard a bit of the farming talk on Salmonella infection in calves. “What makes you think you’ve got this trouble?”

  “Well it’s just like that feller said. Me calf’s bleeding from the rectrum.”

  “From the…? Yes, yes, of course. Well I’d better have a look at him—I won’t be long.”

  The calf was pretty ill when I saw him and he did have rectal bleeding, but it wasn’t like Salmonella.

  “There’s no diarrhoea, you see, Mr. Pickersgill,” I said. “In fact, he seems to be constipated. This is almost pure blood coming away from him. And he hasn’t got a very high temperature.”

  The farmer seemed a little disappointed. “Dang, I thowt it was just same as that feller was talking about. He said you could send samples off to the labrador.”

  “Eh? To the what?”

  “The investigation labrador—you know.”

  “Oh yes, quite, but I don’t think the lab would be of any help in this case.”

  “Aye well, what’s wrong with him, then? Is something the matter with his rectrum?”

  “No, no,” I said. “But there seems to be some obstruction high up his bowel which is causing this haemorrhage.” I looked at the little animal standing motionless with his back up. He was totally preoccupied with some internal discomfort and now and then he strained and grunted softly.

  And of course I should have known straight away—it was so obvious. But I suppose we all have blind spells when we can’t see what is pushed in front of our eyes, and for a few days I played around with that calf in a haze of ignorance, giving it this and that medicine which I’d rather not talk about.

  But I was lucky. He recovered in spite of my treatment. It wasn’t until Mr. Pickersgill showed me the little roll of necrotic tissue which the calf had passed that the thing dawned on me.

  I turned, shame-faced, to the farmer. “This is a bit of dead bowel all telescoped together—an intussusception. It’s usually a fatal condition but fortunately in this case the obstruction has sloughed away and your calf should be all right now.”

  “What was it you called it?”

  “An intussusception.”

  Mr. Pickersgill’s lips moved tentatively and for a moment I thought he was going to have a shot at it. But he apparently decided against it “Oh,” he said. “That’s what it was, was it?”

  “Yes, and it’s difficult to say just what caused it.”

  The farmer sniffed. “I’ll bet I know what was behind it. I always said this one ’ud be a weakly calf. When he was born he bled a lot from his biblical cord.”

  Mr. Pickersgill hadn’t finished with me yet. It was only a week later that I heard him on the phone again.

  “Get out here, quick. There’s one of me pigs going bezique.”

  “Bezique?” With an effort I put away from me a mental picture of two porkers facing each other over a green baize table. “I’m afraid I don’t quite…”

  “Aye, ah gave him a dose of worm medicine and he started jumpin’ about and rollin’ on his back. I tell you he’s going proper bezique.”

  “Ah! Yes, yes I see, right. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  The pig had quieted down a bit when I arrived but was still in considerable pain, getting up, lying down, trotting in spurts round the pen. I gave him half a grain of morphine hydrochloride as a sedative and within a few minutes he began to relax and finally curled up in the straw.

  “Looks as though he’s going to be all right,” I said. “But what’s this worm medicine you gave him?”

  Mr. Pickersgill produced the bottle sheepishly.

  “Bloke was coming round sellin’ them. Said it would shift any worms you cared to name.”

  “It nearly shifted your pig, didn’t it?” I sniffed at the mixture. “And no wonder. It smells almost like pure turpentine.”

  “Turpentine! Well by gaw is that all it is? And bloke said it was summat new. Charged me an absorbent price for it too.”

  I gave him back the bottle. “Well never mind, I don’t think there’s any harm done, but I think the dustbin’s the best place for that.”

  As I was getting into my car I looked up at the farmer. “You must be about sick of the sight of me. First the mastitis, then the calf and now your pig. You’ve had a bad run.”

  Mr. Pickersgill squared his shoulders and gazed at me with massive composure. Again I was conscious of the sheer presence of the man.

  “Young feller,” he said. “That don’t bother me. When there’s stock there’s trouble and ah know from experience that trouble allus comes in cyclones.”

  6

  I KNEW I SHOULDN’T do it, but the old Drovers’ Road beckoned to me irresistibly. I ought to be hurrying back to the surgery after my morning call but the broad green path wound beguilingly over the moor top between its crumbling walls and almost before I knew, I was out of the car and treading the wiry grass.

  The wall skirted the hill’s edge and as I looked across and away to where Darrowby huddled far below between its folding green fells the wind thundered in my ears; but when I squatted in the shelter of the grey stones the wind was only a whisper and the spring sunshine hot on my face. The best kind of sunshine—not heavy or cloying but clear and bright and clean as you find it down behind a wall in Yorkshire with the wind singing over the top.

  I slid lower till I was stretched on the turf, gazing with half closed eyes into the bright sky, luxuriating in the sensation of being detached from the world and its problems.

  This form of self-indulgence had become part of my life and still is; a reluctance to come down from the high country; a penchant for stepping out of the stream of life and loitering on the brink for a few minutes as an uninvolved spectator.

  And it was easy to escape, lying up here quite alone with no sound but the wind sighing and gusting over the empty miles and, far up in the wide blue, the endless brave trilling of the larks.

  Not that there was anything unpleasant about going back down the hill to Darrowby even before I was married. I had worked there for two years before Helen arrived, and Skeldale House had become home and the two bright minds in it my friends. It didn’t bother me that both the brothers were cleverer than I was. Siegfried—unpredictable, explosive, generous; I had been lucky to have him as a partner. As a city bred youth trying to tell expert stock farmers how to treat their animals I had needed all his skill and guidance behind me. And Tristan; a rum lad as they said, but very sound. His humour and zest for life had lightened my days.

  And all the time I was adding practical experience to my theory. The mass of facts I had learned at college were all coming to life, and there was the growing realisation, deep and warm, that this was for me. There was nothing else I’d rather do.

  It must have been fifteen minutes later when I finally rose, stretched pleasurably, took a last deep gulp of the crisp air and pottered slowly back to the car for the six mile journey back down the hill to Darrowby.

  When I drew up by the railings with Siegfried’s brass plate hanging lopsidedly atop mine by the fine Georgian doorway I looked up at the tall old house with the ivy swarming untidily over the weathered brick. The white paint on windows and doors was flaking and that ivy needed trimming but the whole place had style, a serene unchangeable grace.

  But I had other things on my mind at the moment. I went ins
ide, stepping quietly over the coloured tiles which covered the floor of the long passage till I reached the long offshoot at the back of the house. And I felt as I always did the subdued excitement as I breathed the smell of our trade which always hung there; ether, carbolic and pulv aromat. The latter was the spicy powder which we mixed with the cattle medicines to make them more palatable and it had a distinctive bouquet which even now can take me back thirty years with a single sniff.

  And today the thrill was stronger than usual because my visit was of a surreptitious nature. I almost tiptoed along the last stretch of passage, dodged quickly round the corner and into the dispensary. Gingerly I opened the cupboard door at one end and pulled out a little drawer. I was pretty sure Siegfried had a spare hoof knife hidden away within and I had to suppress a cackle of triumph when I saw it lying there; almost brand new with a nicely turned gleaming blade and a polished wooden handle.

  My hand was outstretched to remove it when a cry of anger exploded in my right ear.

  “Caught in the act! Bloody red-handed, by God!” Siegfried, who had apparently shot up through the floorboards, was breathing fire into my face.

  The shock was so tremendous that the instrument dropped from my trembling fingers and I cowered back against a row of bottles of formalin bloat mixture.

  “Oh hello, Siegfried,” I said with a ghastly attempt at nonchalance. “Just on my way to that horse of Thompson’s. You know—the one with the pus in the foot. I seem to have mislaid my knife so I thought I’d borrow this one.”

  “Thought you’d nick it, you mean! My spare hoof knife! By heaven, is nothing sacred, James?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Oh you’re wrong. I’d have given it back to you straight away.”

  “A likely story!” Siegfried said with a bitter smile. “I’d never have seen it again and you know damn well I wouldn’t. Anyway, where’s your own knife? You’ve left it on some farm, haven’t you?”

  “Well as a matter of fact I laid it down at Willie Denholm’s place after I’d finished trimming his cow’s overgrown foot and I must have forgotten to pick it up.” I gave a light laugh.

  “But God help us, James, you’re always forgetting to pick things up. And you’re always making up the deficiency by purloining my equipment.” He stuck his chin out. “Have you any idea how much all this is costing me?”

  “Oh but I’m sure Mr. Denholm will drop the knife in at the surgery the first time he’s in town.”

  Siegfried nodded gravely. “He may, I’ll admit that, he may. But on the other hand he might think it is the ideal tool for cutting up his plug tobacco. Remember when you left your calving overall at old Fred Dobson’s place? The next time I saw it was six months later and Fred was wearing it. He said it was the best thing he’d ever found for stooking corn in wet weather.”

  “Yes, I remember. I’m really sorry about it all.” I fell silent, breathing in the pungency of the pulv aromat. Somebody had let a bagful burst on the floor and the smell was stronger than ever.

  My partner kept his fiery gaze fixed on me for a few moments more then he shrugged his shoulders. “Ah well, there’s none of us perfect, James. And I’m sorry I shouted at you. But you know I’m deeply attached to that knife and this business of leaving things around is getting under my skin.” He took down a Winchester of his favourite colic draught and polished it with his handkerchief before replacing it carefully on its shelf. “I tell you what, let’s go and sit down for a few minutes and talk about this problem.”

  We went back along the passage and as I followed him into the big sitting room Tristan got up from his favourite chair and yawned deeply. His face looked as boyish and innocent as ever but the lines of exhaustion round his eyes and mouth told an eloquent story. Last night he had travelled with the darts team from the Lord Nelson and had taken part in a gruelling match against the Dog and Gun at Drayton. The contest had been followed by a pie and peas supper and the consumption of something like twelve pints of bitter a man. Tristan had crawled into bed at 3 a.m. and was clearly in a delicate condition.

  “Ah, Tristan,” Siegfried said. “I’m glad you’re here because what I have to say concerns you just as much as James. It’s about leaving instruments on farms and you’re as guilty as he is.” (It must be remembered that before the Veterinary Surgeons’ act of 1948 it was quite legal for students to treat cases and they regularly did so. Tristan in fact had done much sterling work when called on and was very popular with the farmers.)

  “Now I mean this very seriously,” my partner said, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece and looking from one of us to the other. “You two are bringing me to the brink of ruin by losing expensive equipment. Some of it is returned but a lot of it is never seen again. What’s the use of sending you to visits when you come back without your artery forceps or scissors or something else? The profit’s gone, you see?”

  We nodded silently.

  “After all, there’s nothing difficult about bringing your instruments away, is there? You may wonder why I never leave anything behind—well I can tell you it’s just a matter of concentration. When I lay a thing down I always impress on my mind that I’ve got to lift it up again. That’s all there is to it.”

  The lecture over, he became very brisk. “Right, let’s get on. There’s nothing much doing James, so I’d like you to come with me to Kendall’s of Brookside. He’s got a few jobs including a cow with a tumour to remove. I don’t know the details but we may have to cast her. You can go on to Thompson’s later.” He turned to his brother. “And you’d better come too, Tristan. I don’t know if we’ll need you but an extra man might come in handy.”

  We made quite a procession as we trooped into the farm yard and Mr. Kendall met us with his customary ebullience.

  “Hello, ’ello, we’ve got plenty of man power today, I see. We’ll be able to tackle owt with this regiment.”

  Mr. Kendall had the reputation in the district of being a “bit clever” and the phrase has a different meaning in Yorkshire from elsewhere. It meant he was something of a know-all; and the fact that he considered himself a wag and legpuller of the first degree didn’t endear him to his fellow farmers either.

  I always felt he was a good-hearted man, but his conviction that he knew everything and had seen it all before made him a difficult man to impress.

  “Well what d’you want to see first, Mr. Farnon?” he asked. He was a thick-set little man with a round, smooth-skinned face and mischievous eyes.

  “I believe you have a cow with a bad eye,” Siegfried said. “Better begin with that.”

  “Right squire,” the farmer cried, then he put his hand in his pocket. “But before we start, here’s something for you.” He pulled forth a stethoscope. “You left it last time you were ’ere.”

  There was a silence, then Siegfried grunted a word of thanks and grabbed it hastily from his hand.

  Mr. Kendall continued. “And the time afore that you left your bloodless castrators. We did a swop over, didn’t we? I gave you back the nippers and you left me the earphones.” He burst into a peal of laughter.

  “Yes, yes, quite,” Siegfried snapped, glancing uneasily round at us, “but we must be getting on. where is…?”

  “You know lads,” chuckled the farmer, turning to us. “Ah don’t think I’ve ever known ’im come here without leaving summat.”

  “Really?” said Tristan interestedly.

  “Aye, if I’d wanted to keep ’em all I’d have had a drawerful by now.”

  “Is that so?” I said.

  “Aye it is, young man. And it’s the same with all me neighbours. One feller said to me t’other day, ‘He’s a kind man is Mr. Farnon—never calls without leavin’ a souvenir.’” He threw back his head and laughed again.

  We were enjoying the conversation but my partner was stalking up the byre. “Where’s this damn cow, Mr. Kendall? We haven’t got all day.”

  The patient wasn’t hard to find; a nice light roan cow which looked round at us carefully, o
ne eye almost closed. From between the lashes a trickle of tears made a dark stain down the hair of the face, and there was an eloquent story of pain in the cautious movements of the quivering lids.

  “There’s something in there,” murmured Siegfried.

  “Aye, ah know!” Mr. Kendall always knew. “She’s got a flippin’ great lump of chaff stuck on her eyeball but I can’t get to it. Look here.” He grabbed the cow’s nose with one hand and tried to prise the eyelids apart with the fingers of the other, but the third eyelid came across and the whole orbit rolled effortlessly out of sight leaving only a blank expanse of white sclera.

  “There!” he cried. “Nowt to see. You can’t make her keep her eye still.”

  “I can, though.” Siegfried turned to his brother. “Tristan, get the chloroform muzzle from the car. Look sharp!”

  The young man was back in seconds and Siegfried quickly drew the canvas bag over the cow’s face and buckled it behind the ears. From a bottle of spirit he produced a small pair of forceps of an unusual type with tiny jaws operated by a spring. He poised them just over the closed eye.

  “James,” he said, “Give her about an ounce.”

  I dribbled the chloroform on to the sponge in the front of the muzzle. Nothing happened for a few moments while the animal took a few breaths then her eyes opened wide in surprise as the strange numbing vapour rolled into her lungs.

  The whole area of the affected eye was displayed, with a broad golden piece of chaff splayed out across the dark cornea. I only had a glimpse of it before Siegfried’s little forceps had seized it and whisked it away.

  “Squeeze in some of that ointment, Tristan,” said my partner. “And get the muzzle off, James, before she starts to rock.”

  With the bag away from her face and the tormenting little object gone from her eye the cow looked around her, vastly relieved. The whole thing had taken only a minute or two and was as slick a little exhibition as you’d wish to see, but Mr. Kendall didn’t seem to think a great deal of it.