All Things Bright and Beautiful

by James Herriot

  By shifting round in my seat and craning my neck I was able to get a view of the other side of the kitchen where there was an old-fashioned roll top desk surmounted by a wartime picture of Mr. Anderson looking very stern in the uniform of the Yorkshire Yeomanry, and I was proceeding along the wall from there when Helen opened the door and came quickly into the room.

  “Dad,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Stan’s here. He says one of the cows is down with staggers.”

  Her father jumped up in obvious relief. I think he was delighted he had a sick cow and I, too, felt like a released prisoner as I hurried out with him.

  Stan, one of the cowmen, was waiting in the yard.

  “She’s at t’op of t’field, boss,” he said. “I just spotted ’er when I went to get them in for milkin’.”

  Mr. Alderson looked at me questioningly and I nodded at him as I opened the car door.

  “I’ve got the stuff with me,” I said. “We’d better drive straight up.”

  The three of us piled in and I set course to where I could see the stretched-out form of a cow near the wall in the top corner. My bottles and instruments rattled and clattered as we bumped over the rig and furrow.

  This was something every vet gets used to in early summer; the urgent call to milk cows which have collapsed suddenly a week or two after being turned out to grass. The farmers called it grass staggers and as its scientific name of hypomagesaemia implied it was associated with lowered magnesium level in the blood. An alarming and highly fatal condition but fortunately curable by injection of magnesium in most cases.

  Despite the seriousness of the occasion I couldn’t repress a twinge of satisfaction. It had got me out of the house and it gave me a chance to prove myself by doing something useful. Helen’s father and I hadn’t established anything like a rapport as yet, but maybe when I gave his unconscious cow my magic injection and it leaped to its feet and walked away he might look at me in a different light. And it often happened that way; some of the cures were really dramatic

  “She’s still alive, any road,” Stan said as we roared over the grass. “I saw her legs move then.”

  He was right, but as I pulled up and jumped from the car I felt a tingle of apprehension. Those legs were moving too much.

  This was the kind that often died; the convulsive type. The animal, prone on her side, was pedalling frantically at the air with all four feet, her head stretched backwards, eyes staring, foam bubbling from her mouth. As I hurriedly unscrewed the cap from the bottle of magnesium lactate she stopped and went into a long, shuddering spasm, legs stiffly extended, eyes screwed tightly shut; then she relaxed and lay inert for a frightening few seconds before recommencing the wild thrashing with her legs.

  My mouth had gone dry. This was a bad one. The strain on the heart during these spasms was enormous and each one could be her last.

  I crouched by her side, my needle poised over the milk vein. My usual practice was to inject straight into the blood stream to achieve the quickest possible effect, but in this case I hesitated. Any interference with the heart’s action could kill this cow; best to play safe—I reached over and pushed the needle under the skin of the neck.

  As the fluid ran in, bulging the subcutaneous tissues and starting a widening swelling under the roan-coloured hide, the cow went into another spasm. For an agonising few seconds she lay there, the quivering limbs reaching desperately out at nothing, the eyes disappearing deep down under tight-twisted lids. Helplessly I watched her, my heart thudding, and this time as she came out of the rigor and started to move again it wasn’t with the purposeful peddling of before; it was an aimless laboured pawing and as even this grew weaker her eyes slowly opened and gazed outwards with a vacant stare.

  I bent and touched the cornea with my finger, there was no response.

  The farmer and cowman looked at me in silence as the animal gave a final jerk then lay still.

  “I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr. Alderson,” I said.

  The farmer nodded and his eyes moved slowly over the still form, over the graceful limbs, the fine dark roan flanks, the big, turgid udder that would give no more milk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid her heart must have given out before the magnesium had a chance to work.”

  “It’s a bloody shame,” grunted Stan. “She was a right good cow, that ’un.”

  Mr. Alderson turned quietly back to the car. “Aye well, these things happen,” he muttered.

  We drove down the field to the house.

  Inside, the work was over and the family was collected in the parlour. I sat with them for a while but my overriding emotion was an urgent desire to be elsewhere. Helen’s father had been silent before but now he sat hunched miserably in an armchair taking no part in the conversation. I wondered whether he thought I had actually killed his cow. It certainly hadn’t looked very good, the vet walking up to the sick animal, the quick injection and hey presto, dead. No, I had been blameless but it hadn’t looked good.

  On an impulse I jumped to my feet.

  “Thank you very much for the lovely tea,” I said, “but I really must be off. I’m on duty this evening.”

  Helen came with me to the door. “Well it’s been nice seeing you again, Jim.” She paused and looked at me doubtfully. “I wish you’d stop worrying about that cow. It’s a pity but you couldn’t help it. There was nothing you could do.”

  “Thanks, Helen, I know. But it’s a nasty smack for your father isn’t it?”

  She shrugged and smiled her kind smile. Helen was always kind.

  Driving back through the pastures up to the farm gate I could see the motionless body of my patient with her companions sniffing around her curiously in the gentle evening sunshine. Any time now the knacker man would be along to winch the carcase on to his wagon. It was the grim epilogue to every vet’s failure.

  I closed the gate behind me and looked back at Heston Grange. I had thought everything would be all right this time but it hadn’t worked out that way.

  The jinx was still on.

  8

  “MONDAY MORNING DISEASE” they used to call it. The almost unbelievably gross thickening of the hind limb in cart horses which had stood in the stable over the weekend. It seemed that the sudden suspension of their normal work and exercise produced the massive lymphangitis and swelling which gave many a farmer a nasty jolt right at the beginning of the week.

  But it was Wednesday evening now and Mr. Crump’s big Shire gelding was greatly improved.

  “That leg’s less than half the size it was,” I said, running my hand over the inside of the hock, feeling the remains of the oedema pitting under my fingers. “I can see you’ve put in some hard work here.”

  “Aye, ah did as you said.” Mr. Crump’s reply was typically laconic, but I knew he must have spent hours fomenting and massaging the limb and forcibly exercising the horse as I had told him when I gave the arecoline injection on Monday.

  I began to fill the syringe for a repeat injection. “He’s having no corn, is he?”

  “Nay, nowt but bran.”

  “That’s fine. I think he’ll be back to normal in a day or two if you keep up the treatment.”

  The farmer grunted and no sign of approval showed in the big, purple-red face with its perpetually surprised expression. But I knew he was pleased all right; he was fond of the horse and had been unable to hide his concern at the animal’s pain and distress on my first visit.

  I went into the house to wash my hands and Mr. Crump led the way into the kitchen, his big frame lumbering clumsily ahead of me. He proffered soap and towel in his slow-moving way and stood back in silence as I leaned over the long shallow sink of brown earthenware.

  As I dried my hands he cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly. “Would you like a drink of ma wine?”

  Before I could answer, Mrs. Crump came bustling through from an inner room. She was pulling on her hat and behind her her teen-age son and daughter followed, dressed ready to go out.


  “Oh Albert, stop it!” she snapped, looking up at her husband. “Mr. Herriot doesn’t want your wine. I wish you wouldn’t pester people so with it!”

  The boy grinned. “Dad and his wine, he’s always looking for a victim.” His sister joined in the general laughter and I had an uncomfortable feeling that Mr. Crump was the odd man out in his own home.

  “We’re going down t’village institute to see a school play, Mr. Herriot,” the wife said briskly. “We’re late now so we must be off.” She hurried away with her children, leaving the big man looking after her sheepishly.

  There was a silence while I finished drying my hands, then I turned to the farmer. “Well, how about that drink, Mr. Crump?”

  He hesitated for a moment and the surprised look deepened. “Would you…you’d really like to try some?”

  “I’d love to. I haven’t had my evening meal yet—I could just do with an aperitif.”

  “Right, I’ll be back in a minute.” He disappeared into the large pantry at the end of the kitchen and came back with a bottle of amber liquid and glasses.

  “This is ma rhubarb,” he said, tipping out two good measures.

  I took a sip and then a good swallow, and gasped as the liquid blazed a fiery trail down to my stomach.

  “It’s strong stuff,” I said a little breathlessly, “but the taste is very pleasant Very pleasant indeed.”

  Mr. Crump watched approvingly as I took another drink. “Aye, it’s just right. Nearly two years old.”

  I drained the glass and this time the wine didn’t burn so much on its way down but seemed to wash around the walls of my empty stomach and send glowing tendrils creeping along my limbs.

  “Delicious,” I said. “Absolutely delicious.”

  The farmer expanded visibly. He refilled the glasses and watched with rapt attention as I drank. When we had finished the second glass he jumped to his feet.

  “Now for a change I want you to try summat different.” He almost trotted to the pantry and produced another bottle, this time of colourless fluid. “Elderflower,” he said, panting slightly.

  When I tasted it I was amazed at the delicate flavour, the bubbles sparkling and dancing on my tongue.

  “Gosh, this is terrific! It’s just like champagne. You know, you really have a gift—I never thought home made wines could taste like this.”

  Mr. Crump stared at me for a moment then one corner of his mouth began to twitch and incredibly a shy smile spread slowly over his face. “You’re about fust I’ve heard say that. You’d think I was trying to poison folks when I offer them ma wine—they always shy off but they can sup plenty of beer and whisky.”

  “Well they don’t know what they’re missing, Mr. Crump.” I watched while the farmer replenished my glass. “I wouldn’t have believed you could make stuff as good as this at home.” I sipped appreciatively at the elderflower. It still tasted like champagne.

  I hadn’t got more than half way down the glass before Mr. Crump was clattering and clinking inside the pantry again. He emerged with a bottle with contents of a deep blood red. “Try that,” he gasped.

  I was beginning to feel like a professional taster and rolled the first mouthful around my mouth with eyes half closed. “Mm, mm, yes. Just like an excellent port, but there’s something else here—a fruitiness in the background—something familiar about it—it’s…it’s…”

  “Blackberry!” shouted Mr. Crump triumphantly. “One of t’best I’ve done. Made it two back-ends since—it were a right good year for it.”

  Leaning back in the chair I took another drink of the rich, dark wine; it was round-flavoured, warming, and behind it there was always the elusive hint of the brambles. I could almost see the heavy-hanging clusters of berries glistening black and succulent in the autumn sunshine. The mellowness of the image matched my mood which was becoming more expansive by the minute and I looked round with leisurely appreciation at the rough comfort of the farmhouse kitchen; at the hams and sides of bacon hanging from their hooks in the ceiling, and at my host sitting across the table, watching me eagerly. He was, I noticed for the first time, still wearing his cap.

  “You know,” I said, holding the glass high and studying its ruby depths against the light, “I can’t make up my mind which of your wines I like best. They’re all excellent and yet so different.”

  Mr. Crump, too, had relaxed. He threw back his head and laughed delightedly before hurriedly refilling both of our tumblers. “But you haven’t started yet. Ah’ve got dozens of bottles in there—all different. You must try a few more.” He shambled again over to the pantry and this time when he reappeared he was weighed down by an armful of bottles of differing shapes and colours.

  What a charming man he was, I thought. How wrong I had been in my previous assessment of him; it had been so easy to put him down as lumpish and unemotional but as I looked at him now his face was alight with friendship, hospitality, understanding. He had cast off his inhibitions and as he sat down surrounded by the latest batch he began to talk rapidly and fluently about wines and wine making.

  Wide-eyed and impassioned he ranged at length over the niceties of fermentation and sedimentation, of flavour and bouquet. He dealt learnedly with the relative merits of Chambertin and Nuits St George, Montrachet and Chablis. Enthusiasts are appealing but a fanatic is irresistible and I sat spellbound while Mr. Crump pushed endless samples of his craft in front of me, mixing and adjusting expertly.

  “How did you find that ’un?”

  “Very nice…”

  “Bit sweet maybe?”

  “Well, perhaps…”

  “Right try some of this with it.” The meticulous addition of a few drops of nameless liquid from the packed rows of bottles. “How’s that?”

  “Marvellous!”

  “Now this ’un. Perhaps a bit sharpish, eh?”

  “Possibly…yes…”

  Again the tender trickling of a few mysterious droplets into my drink and again the anxious enquiry.

  “Is that better?”

  “Just right.”

  The big man drank with me, glass by glass. We tried parsnip and dandelion, cowslip and parsley, clover, gooseberry, beetroot and crab apple. Incredibly we had some stuff made from turnips which was so exquisite that I insisted on a refill.

  Everything gradually slowed down as we sat there. Time slowed down till it was finally meaningless. Mr. Crump and I slowed down and our speech and actions became more and more deliberate. The farmer’s visits to the pantry developed into laboured, unsteady affairs; sometimes he took a roundabout route to reach the door and on one occasion there was a tremendous crash from within and I feared he had fallen among his bottles. But I couldn’t be bothered to get up to see and in due course he reappeared, apparently unharmed.

  It was around nine o’clock that I heard the soft knocking on the outer door. I ignored it as I didn’t want to interrupt Mr. Crump who was in the middle of a deep exposition.

  “Thish,” he was saying, leaning close to me and tapping a bulbous flagon with his forefinger. “Thish is, in my ’pinion, comp’rable to a fine Moselle. Made it lash year and would ’preciate it if you’d tell me what you think.” He bent low over the glass, blinking, heavy-eyed as he poured.

  “Now then, wha’ d’you say? Ish it or ishn’t it?”

  I took a gulp and paused for a moment. It all tasted the same now and I had never drunk Moselle anyway, but I nodded and hiccuped solemnly in reply.

  The farmer rested a friendly hand on my shoulder and was about to make a further speech when he, too, heard the knocking. He made his way across the floor with some difficulty and opened the door. A young lad was standing there and I heard a few muttered words.

  “We ’ave a cow on calving and we ’phoned surgery and they said vitnery might still be here.”

  Mr. Crump turned to face me. “It’s the Bamfords of Holly Bush. They wan’ you to go there—jush a mile along t’road.”

  “Right,” I heaved myself to my fee
t then gripped the table tightly as the familiar objects of the room began to whirl rapidly around me. When they came to rest Mr. Crump appeared to be standing at the head of a fairly steep slope. The kitchen floor had seemed perfectly level when I had come in but now it was all I could do to fight my way up the gradient.

  When I reached the door Mr. Crump was staring owlishly into the darkness.

  “’Sraining,” he said. “’sraining like ’ell.”

  I peered out at the steady beat of the dark water on the cobbles of the yard, but my car was just a few yards away and I was about to set out when the farmer caught my arm.

  “Jus’ minute, can’t go out like that.” He held up a finger then went over and groped about in a drawer. At length he produced a tweed cap which he offered me with great dignity.

  I never wore anything on my head whatever the weather but I was deeply touched and wrung my companion’s hand in silence. It was understandable that a man like Mr. Crump who wore his cap at all times, indoors and out, would recoil in horror from the idea of anybody venturing uncovered into the rain.

  The tweed cap which I now put on was the biggest I had ever seen; a great round flat pancake of a thing which even at that moment I felt would keep not only my head but my shoulders and entire body dry in the heaviest downpour.

  I took my leave of Mr. Crump with reluctance and as I settled in the seat of the car trying to remember where first gear was situated I could see his bulky form silhouetted against the light from the kitchen; he was waving his hand with gentle benevolence and it struck me as I at length drove away what a deep and wonderful friendship had been forged that night.

  Driving at walking pace along the dark narrow road, my nose almost touching the windscreen, I was conscious of some unusual sensations. My mouth and lips felt abnormally sticky as though I had been drinking liquid glue instead of wine, my breath seemed to be whistling in my nostrils like a strong wind blowing under a door, and I was having difficulty focusing my eyes. Fortunately I met only one car and as it approached and flashed past in the other direction I was muzzily surprised by the fact that it had two complete sets of headlights which kept merging into each other and drawing apart again.