Every Living Thing

by James Herriot

  “By gaw, you’re right, Mr. Herriot, and I can’t thank ye enough. I really thought I had a dead ’un on me hands this time.” When I bent over the bucket he gave me a friendly thump on the back.

  As I dried my arms I looked round the byre with its row of well-kept cows. Over some months Ted had gutted the place completely, hacking out the ancient wooden partitions and replacing them with tubular metal, plastering the walls, digging up the cobbled floor and laying down concrete. He had done all the work himself.

  He followed my gaze. “What d’you think of me little place now?”

  “It’s great, you’ve done wonders, Ted. And you’ve built a nice little dairy, too.”

  “Aye, ah’ve got to get that T.T. licence somehow.” He rubbed his chin. “But there’s a few things that don’t come up to standard. Like not enough space between the channel and the back wall. There’s nowt I can do about that and one or two other points. But if the Ministry’ll grant me a licence I’ll get another fourpence on every gallon of milk and it’ll make all the difference in the world to me.”

  He laughed, as though reading my thoughts. “Maybe you don’t think fourpence is much, but you know, we don’t need a lot o’ money. We never go out at night—we’re quite happy playin’ cards and Ludo and dominoes with the kids, and with these cows to milk and feed and muck out twice a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, I’m tied to the spot.” He laughed again. “Ah can’t remember when I even went into Darrowby. No, we don’t want much money, but right now I’m just hanging on—only keepin’ my head above water. Any road, I’ll know after next Thursday. They’re having a meeting to decide.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell him that I was the one who had to make a confidential report to the Milk Committee on that day about him and his farm and it all rested on whether I could convince them. Ted’s fourpence a gallon was in my hands and it frightened me a bit, because if the T.T. licence didn’t go through I dared not think how much longer he could carry on his struggle to make a go of this wind-blown farm with its sparse pastures.

  I packed up my gear and we went outside. Breathing in the cold, clean air I looked at the cloud shadows chasing across the tumbled miles of green hills, and at the few acres that were Ted’s world. They made a little wall-girt island lapped around by the tufted grass of the moorland, which was always trying to flow over and swamp it. Those fields had to be fed and fertilised to keep them from returning to their wild state, and the walls, twisted and bent by the centuries, kept shedding their stones—another job to be done by that one man. I recalled a time when Ted told me that one of his luxuries was to wake up in the middle of the night so that he could turn over and go to sleep again.

  As I started the engine he waved, raising a huge, work-callused hand. Bumping down the hillside I looked back at the thin, slightly stooping figure standing by the house with its fringe of stunted trees, and an awareness of his situation welled in me as it had done so often before. Compared to his, my life was a picnic.

  Chapter 6

  THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY I awoke with the words of my appeal for Ted spinning around in my head and I kept mouthing a few phrases in the car as I did a couple of early calls. I was due in the Ministry Office at 11:00 A.M. and by ten o’clock I was back home ready to change.

  I was about to go upstairs when Helen came in.

  “You’ll never believe this,” she said breathlessly. “But Mr. Bendelow saw me as I passed his window and gave me the suit.”

  “Mr. Pumphrey’s suit?”

  “Yes, it’s all altered and ready for you to wear.” She stared at me, wide-eyed.

  I looked at the parcel in amazement. “Well, that’s never happened before. We asked for a miracle and got one.”

  “That’s right,” Helen said. “And another thing, I feel sure it’s a happy omen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can wear it when you speak to the Milk Committee. You’ll really impress them in a suit like that.”

  Her words struck home. As an orator I was no Winston Churchill and I needed any help that was going. In the bedroom I tore off my clothes and climbed into the refurbished trousers. They were now exactly the right length but there was something else, something I hadn’t noticed when I had tried them on before. The waistband came right up over my chest until it was almost tucked under my arms. Those were the days of high waistbands that rested comfortably well above the hips, but Mr. Pumphrey’s stature had vastly accentuated this. I was beaten again. I turned and faced Helen and her mouth began to twitch. Then she lowered her head and her body shook with repressed giggles.

  “Don’t start that again!” I cried. “They’re nearly as funny as last time. You don’t have to tell me. Anyway, I can’t wear these damned things, that’s all there is to it. I’m just a walking pair of trousers with a head and shoulders poking out at the top.” I was about to pull off the maddening garments when Helen held up a hand.

  “Wait…wait…” she said. “Put on the jacket.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “The lapels are very high, just put it on.”

  With a feeling of hopelessness I shrugged myself into the jacket and turned towards her.

  Helen was looking at me with something like awe. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered. “Incredible.”

  “What is?”

  “Look at yourself.”

  I looked into the mirror and Lord Herriot of Darrowby looked out at me. The waistband was quite hidden and the suit was there in all its glory of rich material and superb tailoring, draped on me elegantly as if it had been made for me.

  “My God,” I breathed. “I never knew clothes could make all that difference. I’m like another person.”

  “Yes, you are,” agreed Helen eagerly. “You’re like an important, prestigious person. You must wear it for the committee—you’ll knock them cold!”

  While I washed and combed my hair I had the warm sense of everything slotting into place when all had seemed lost, and as I left after a final admiring glance at myself in the mirror I was filled with an airy confidence.

  Outside, a bitter wind swept over the fields but I couldn’t feel it. Nothing could penetrate my apparel; in fact I felt sure that, dressed like this, I could walk in comfort to the North Pole without changing.

  In the car my body heat rose rapidly and I had to open the windows. I was glad when I reached my destination and was able to take a few breaths of the cold air. My relief, however, was short-lived because as soon as the swing doors of the Ministry Office closed behind me a stifling heat hit me. On all my previous visits I had wondered how people could work in this atmosphere with the central heating going full blast, and as I walked along the corridor looking through the glass at the typists and technicians and Ministry officials apparently going about their business, quite happily I marvelled anew. Only this time it was worse. Much, much worse. This time I was cocooned almost up to my chin in two layers of carpet-like material.

  It was the waistband, of course, that was the trouble, clamped round my entire rib-cage like a great constricting hand; and I had the silly feeling that the suit itself was carrying me along to the double doors of the conference room at the end of the corridor. In the big room it was hotter than ever and I had a moment of panic when I thought I wouldn’t be able to breathe, but I settled down as the committee members welcomed me in their usual friendly way and the chairman ushered me to my seat at the long table.

  There were about twenty people in the Milk Committee: big farmers, technical officers of the Ministry, two of the great landowners of the district in Lord Darbrough and Sir Henry Brookly, a physician and one practising veterinary surgeon, me. I had felt honoured when I was invited to join and had tried to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability, but this morning was something special.

  Sir Henry was chairman and as he started the proceedings I prayed that it would be a short session. I knew I couldn’t stand it for long, tightly muffled in this
heat, but as the minutes ticked away with agonising slowness I realised that there was a tremendous amount of business to get through. Long discussions about sterilisation, farm buildings and husbandry, cattle diseases, points of law—it went on and on as I sat there getting hotter and hotter. Quite often I was asked for my opinion and I answered in a breathless way that I hoped went unnoticed, but it seemed that my most important contribution was being kept until the end.

  My condition deteriorated steadily until after an hour I was sure I was suffocating and it was only a matter of time before I fainted away and was carried from the room. I was breathing only with difficulty, I could feel the sweat running down my neck onto my collar and had to fight the impulse to tear open my jacket and let out some of the pent-up heat, but the thought of this decorous group of men dissolving into laughter at the sight of my chin-high trousers stayed my hand.

  It was after almost two hours that Sir Henry looked around the table and introduced my subject. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “to conclude our business this morning we have to decide on the borderline case of hill-farmer Edward Newcombe’s application for a Tuberculin Tested licence and I understand that our young friend, Mr. Herriot, has been looking into the matter for us. Mr. Herriot…?” He smiled across the table at me.

  Somebody began to talk about Ted Newcombe and for a few moments I didn’t realise it was myself. The words were familiar but they seemed to be coming from somewhere outside me, panting and hoarse. Through the blur of sweat trickling into my eyes I could see them all looking at me kindly. They had always been kind, these men, maybe because I was the youngest member, but as my utterances tumbled out—“outstanding stocksman”…“cattle in immaculate condition”…“hard worker”…“meticulous attention to hygiene”…“man of the highest integrity”— they kept smiling and nodding encouragingly and as the last phrase emerged, “Edward Newcombe’s buildings may not be perfect but he really is a trier and if he is granted his licence he will never let anybody down,” I seemed to be surrounded by cheerful, friendly faces.

  Sir Henry beamed at me. “Ah, thank you so much, Mr. Herriot, that is most helpful and we are grateful to you. I think we can take it, gentlemen, that there will be no difficulty in granting the licence?” Hands went up in agreement all round the table.

  I have very little recollection of how I left the room, only of rushing downstairs into the men’s lavatory, locking myself into one of the cubicles, throwing off my jacket and collapsing, open-mouthed, onto the toilet seat. As I opened the front of the vast trousers, unbuttoned my shirt and lay back, gasping, waves of heat mingled with relief and triumph rolled from me. I had got it over. Ted had his licence and I was still alive.

  As I slowly recovered I heard two men come in. From my semi-prone position I could see their feet under the door and I recognised the voices of Sir Henry and Lord Darbrough. The feet disappeared as the men retreated to the opposite wall.

  There was a silence, then, “Tell you what, Henry,” boomed his Lordship. “It did me good to see that young fella fighting his corner for the hill-farmer.”

  “Couldn’t agree more, George. Damn good show, I thought.”

  “Threw everything into it, by gaw. Didn’t spare himself. Never seen anything like it—sweat was rolling down his face.”

  “Mm, I saw. Dedication, I’d call it.”

  “That’s it, dedication. Good to see in somebody his age.” There was another pause, then, “Y’know, Henry, there was something else about that young fella.”

  “What was that, George?”

  “Knows his clothes. Splendid suit. Rather envy him his tailor.”

  Chapter 7

  “LOOK AT THAT LITTLE lad!”

  Farmer Dugdale was amused as he watched Jimmy directing his torch beam as I calved the cow. My son, ten years old, was taking his duty very seriously. It was quite dark in the loose box and he solemnly followed my every movement with his beam, shining on the cow’s rear end as I worked, then on the bucket of hot water each time I resoaped my arms or dipped the ropes in the disinfectant.

  “Yes,” I said, “he loves night work.”

  Jimmy, in fact, loved all veterinary work, but if I was called out in the evening before his bedtime it was his particular delight to come with me, sitting by me, quite absorbed, as the headlights picked out the twists and turns of the country lanes.

  And tonight when we arrived he had been into the boot before me, picking out the different coloured ropes to go on the calf’s head and feet, busily tipping the right amount of disinfectant into the bucket.

  “You’ve got the red rope on the head, Dad?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well behind the ears?”

  “That’s right.”

  He nodded. Partly he was seeking information but he was also keeping me right, making sure I didn’t make any silly mistakes.

  It was a source of wonder to me that both my children were fascinated by my job. I often thought that the sight of their father rushing around all hours of the day and night, missing meals, working on Saturdays and Sundays while my non-veterinary friends played golf, would be enough to turn them away from my profession for life, but instead of that their greatest pleasure was to come with me on my rounds, taking in every detail of my diagnostic efforts and treatments.

  I suppose the simple explanation was that, like me, like Helen, they were besotted with animals. To be able to work with these appealing creatures made everything worthwhile, and there was no doubt in the minds of both my children; they wanted to be vets.

  It struck me now that Jimmy at the age of ten was halfway there already. As the calf slipped out onto the loose-box floor he quickly wiped away the mucus from the little animal’s nostrils and mouth, seized a handful of hay and began to administer a brisk rub-down.

  “It’s a heifer, Dad,” he said, after an expert glance between the hind legs. “That’s good, Mr. Dugdale, isn’t it?”

  The farmer laughed. “Aye, it is. We want plenty of heifers. That ’un you’re rubbing will maybe be a good milk cow one day.”

  The following day was a Saturday with no school, and after breakfast both children were lined up, ready for action. In fact they had already started. They had the lid of the car boot up and were throwing out the empty bottles and cartons, checking up to see that I had everything I might need.

  “You’re getting a bit short of calcium, Dad,” Rosie said. She was six now and had been doing the rounds since she was two, so she was very familiar with the contents of the big slotted box that a friend had made for me to hold my drugs and instruments.

  “Right, my pet,” I replied. “You’d better go and get some. Calcium is one thing we can’t do without.”

  Flushed with importance, she ran inside to the stock room, and I wondered, as often before, why it was that, at home and on the farms, she always ran to get things for me, while Jimmy invariably walked.

  Often, in the middle of a case, I’d say, “Fetch me another syringe, Jimmy,” and my son would stroll out to the car, often whistling, perfectly relaxed. No matter how interested he was in what was happening he never hurried. And I have often noticed that today, when he is a highly experienced veterinary surgeon, he still doesn’t hurry. This is probably a good thing, because ours can be a stressful occupation and going about things calmly must be the best way.

  When all was ready we drove out into the hills. It was a bright morning with the bleak outlines of fell and moorland softened by the sunshine. There had been rain in the night and all the scents of the countryside drifted through the open windows.

  The first farm was approached by a lane with several gates, and Rosie was delighted because this was her job.

  As we drew up at the first one she was out of the car in a flash. Red-faced and serious, she opened the gate and I drove through.

  “Lucky I was with you this morning, Dad,” she said. “There’s two more up ahead. I can see them.”

  I nodded. “It is indeed, sweetheart. If th
ere’s one thing I hate, it’s gates.”

  My little daughter sat back, well pleased. In the days before she started school she used to be really worried.

  “What are you going to do without me?” she would say. “I’ve got to go to school soon, and Jimmy’s there already. You’ll be all alone.”

  Jimmy always seemed to be reasonably confident that I’d manage to struggle round on my own, but Rosie had grave doubts. Weekends for her were not just a time to play, but a blessed opportunity to look after her father. And for me it was a wonderful time and I marvelled at my luck. So many men with high-pressure jobs see very little of their families but I had it both ways with my little son and daughter so often at my side as I worked.

  And there was no doubt about it, it was an absolute boon to have the gates opened for me. Rosie stood stiffly to attention as I drove through the last one. Her hand was on the latch and her face registered the satisfaction of a job well done.

  A few minutes later I was in the cow byre, scratching my head in puzzlement. My patient had a temperature of 106° F but my first confident diagnosis of mastitis was eliminated when I found that the milk was white and clear.

  “This is a funny one,” I said to the farmer. “Her lungs are okay, stomach working well, yet she’s got this high fever, and you say she’s not eating?”

  “Aye, that’s right. She hasn’t touched her hay or cake this morning. And look how she’s shakin’.”

  I pulled the cow’s head round and was looking for possible symptoms when my son’s voice piped up from behind me.

  “I think it is mastitis, Dad.”

  He was squatting by the udder pulling streams of milk onto the palm of his hand. “The milk’s really hot in this quarter.”

  I went round the teats again and sure enough, Jimmy was right. The milk in one quarter looked perfect, but it was decidedly warmer than the others and when I pulled a few more jets onto my hand I could feel flakes, still invisible, striking my palm.