Chapter 12
“THIS HOUSE IS A woman-killer, Mr. Herriot.”
I was seeing a farmer out and he was looking down at Helen scrubbing the front doorsteps. His words went through me like a knife. He was stating baldly something that had been eating away at my mind for a long time.
“Aye,” he said again. “It’s a grand old house, but it’s a woman-killer.”
That was the moment when I decided that somehow, some way, I had to get Helen out of Skeldale House. We loved the old place but it had vast disadvantages for a young couple of moderate means. It was charming, graceful and undoubtedly a happy house in its atmosphere, but it was far too big and a veritable icebox in cold weather.
I looked up over the ivy-covered frontage at the big bedroom windows, then further to the next storey where there was a suite of rooms where in the early days, we had had our bed-sitter. Then there was another storey if you counted the tiny rooms under the tiles; here there was a big bell on the end of a spring, which used to summon a little housemaid down to the ground floor in the early days of the century.
The old doctor who lived in it before we took over had had six servants including a full-time housekeeper, but Helen looked after the whole place with the aid of a series of transient maids, most of whom soon grew tired of the hard work and the impossible inconvenience of the house.
Before going back inside I looked down again at my wife scrubbing away. This was crazy, and the words “Please stop it!” bubbled up in my mind. But I didn’t speak them. It was no good, I had tried to stop her again and again but it was a waste of time. That was the way she was made. She was domestically minded and she just couldn’t sit back and admit defeat. She was absolutely determined to keep inside and outside clean and tidy.
This was something that worried and exasperated me. I was married to a beautiful, intelligent, warm-hearted woman, but I wished with all my heart that she would be kinder to herself and take more time to rest, and when we were first married I tried by pleading and at times by making angry scenes, which I wasn’t much good at, to make her alter her ways, but it was like talking to a wall—she slogged on regardless. Cooking, too. I had never met anybody who could work such magic with food, and as a dedicated eater I realised my good luck, but I wished fervently that she would spend less time over the oven. But when all my entreaties were in vain and she went her own way I consoled myself that I could hear her singing as she went round the house with her Hoover and duster. At this moment she was actually humming softly to herself as she scrubbed that accursed step.
Even now, fifty years later and when we are coming up to the supreme accolade of getting our Golden Wedding pictures in the Darrowby and Houlton Times she still sings as she potters busily around in another, mercifully much smaller house. It dawned on me long ago that she’s happy that way.
From the front door, I went along the tiled passages, which would have been full of sunlight and character in the summer, but, on this cold spring day, were just as cold and shivery as the street outside, on and on past dining room and sitting room then turned left down to the dispensary then right and left again and to another stretch past consulting room, breakfast room and finally to the kitchen and scullery at the end of the long offshoot at the back of the house. I seemed to have travelled about fifty yards, and who could blame Tristan in the old days for riding his bicycle to get to the front door?
On the way I passed little Rosie, clattering over the tiles in her strong shoes, her legs muffled in thick pantaloons as Jimmy’s used to be. I sometimes wondered how we had brought the children up in this relentless cold and I was grateful that they didn’t seem to suffer from more coughs and sneezes than other children. The main casualty was Helen, who was plagued with terrible chilblains round her ankles.
Next morning as soon as I awoke my decision welled strongly in my mind. We had to get out. Skeldale would be fine as the practice quarters but we had to find something smaller to be our home.
It was the beginning of a kind of obsession, and I could think of nothing else as I jumped out of bed, tried in vain to see out of the frosted windows and dressed quickly in the icy atmosphere. I threw open the bedroom door and, at full gallop, began my morning routine. Down the stairs two at a time, full tilt along the freezing passage—the secret was to keep running—to the kitchen, where I put the kettle on. Back along at top speed to the dining room, where the bloody-minded anthracite stove was out again. It was the only source of warmth in the whole house but I hadn’t time to relight it now.
Back over the long stretch to the kitchen, where I made the tea and took up a cup to Helen. Then, blowing on my hands and jumping around to stop the blood freezing, I started a fire in the kitchen. I was never much of a boy scout at fire-lighting—unlike Helen who could have a fine blaze going in no time—and by the time the family came downstairs I had my usual fitful flame peeping out among the coals.
Breakfast was a cheerless affair with a little one-bar electric fire fighting an unequal battle and all of us trying to stop our teeth from chattering. I was silent over the meal, my mind wholly occupied with my fierce resolve, and I kept thinking back over previous festive seasons, remembering how we huddled round the fire in the big sitting room while our backs froze and the Christmas decorations swayed in the assorted draughts.
It was still uppermost in my mind when I called at Mrs. Dryden’s little semi-detached house on the outskirts of Darrowby. I had been treating her cat for a very bad attack of otodectic mange in the ears.
“Come on, Sooty,” I said as I lifted him onto the table. “You look a lot better today.”
His mistress smiled. “Oh, he is. He’s stopped shaking his head and scratching. He was goin’ nearly mad before you cleaned his ears out.”
I did some more swabbing, then trickled some lotion into the ears as the black cat purred happily. “Yes. He won’t need any more attention from me. Just keep putting the drops in the ear night and morning for another few days and I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
I went over to the kitchen sink to wash my hands and looked out of the window at the neat garden. “This is a nice little house, Mrs. Dryden.”
“Aye, it is, Mr. Herriot, but I’m leaving it soon.”
“Really, why is that?”
“Well, I need the money. That’s the top and bottom of it. When Robert died he didn’t leave much.”
I could believe her. She was a retired farmer’s widow, and I knew what a struggle they had had to scrape a living on their smallholding. Bob Dryden and I had shared some hard experiences up there on the hills. Tough calvings and lambings, and I could remember a disastrous spring when many of their calves died of scour. He was a fine man and I remembered him as a friend.
“But where will you live?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m going to live with me sister in Houlton. I’ll be all right there, but I’ll be sorry to part with this nice little house. Robert and I were that pleased to be able to buy it when he retired. Still, I’m hopin’ to get two thousand pounds for it and that’ll be a godsend to me in my old age.”
I had one of my blinding flashes then. This was just the place for us. It was perfect, and I felt sure I’d be able to get a mortgage to buy it.
“Would you sell it to me?” I asked eagerly.
She smiled. “I would if I could, Mr. Herriot, but the arrangements are all made. It goes up for auction at the Drovers’ Arms on Wednesday.”
My heart started to thump. “Well, I’ll be there bidding, Mrs. Dryden.”
I was positive I would get the house, and as I looked round the kitchen all my worries seemed to dissolve. What a piece of luck! I could just see Helen at that window, looking out on the little garden, which gave on to green fields with the church tower rising from the trees on the other side of the river. And everything was so compact. There was a hatch into the living room—no hiking for fifty yards with the food. A little hall out there with the stairs leading to three bedrooms, almost an arm’s length away. You could
reach out and touch everything, and I loved the thought. In my frame of mind at that time, small was beautiful. Nothing else mattered.
I saw the man at the Building Society and there was no trouble. They would grant me a mortgage. It was a house that would probably fetch around £50,000 to £60,000 at the present day, but in the early fifties, £2,000 was about right.
I was walking on air until the Wednesday when I rolled up with Helen to the Drovers’ for the auction. The room was full and as Helen and I took our seats a farmer client nudged me. “There’s old Seth Bootland,” he murmured. “He wants this house for his son who’s just got married. Reckon he’ll get it, too. He’s rollin’ in brass, but he’s a hard businessman.”
I looked over at the rich grain merchant. He was impressive with his high-coloured, beaky face and camel’s-hair coat, and his face wore an expression of grim confidence. I felt a qualm, then came a return of my steely resolve. I was going to buy that house.
The bidding started at £1,500 and went rapidly—more rapidly than I had expected—up to my top figure of £2,000. Bootland made it £2,100. He clearly was used to this sort of thing and just twitched a bored forefinger. I stabbed the air eagerly to put on another hundred—I was quite sure my mortgage could be stretched another little bit—but Bootland flicked the finger again and it was up to me.
Soon there were just the two of us. All other bidders had fallen out and I felt cruelly exposed. The bids were down to fifty now and as the price crept up and up towards £3,000 my heart began to pound and I could feel my palms sweating.
Helen was clutching my knee and with each new bid she whispered desperately, “No, Jim, no! We haven’t any money!” But I was seized by a kind of madness. The money meant nothing. All I could see was Helen in that trim little house looking out on her garden from that pretty kitchen. That vision wouldn’t go away and I ploughed on doggedly.
When the price got above £3,000 the audience in the packed room had begun to emit an excited “Ahh!” at each new bid. It had got down to raises of twenty-five pounds.
“Mr. Bootland bids three thousand two hundred and twenty-five.” My mouth was dry as the auctioneer gazed at me enquiringly.
Helen’s grip on my knee was like a vise. She was shaking it with her entreaties. “No, Jim, no!”
I raised my hand.
“And fifty. Thank you.” And then the glance at Boot-land. “And seventy-five.” The auctioneer’s and everybody’s eyes were on me. As in a dream I raised my hand.
“We have three thousand three hundred pounds.”
Bootland waggled his finger.
“And twenty-five.”
Once again, in the vibrating silence, all the eyes were on me. I felt utterly drained, parched, exhausted. I was trembling and only slightly aware of Helen punching my leg and almost sobbing. “Stop it! Please stop it!” I thought she was going to cry. I shook my head at the auctioneer and the thing was over.
There was an excited hum of conversation in the room, but I stayed slumped in my seat, only dimly aware of Bootland going up and talking to the auctioneer and of Helen sitting very still beside me. Finally, I rose and looked at her.
“Good heavens, Jim, you’re as white as a sheet!” she gasped.
I nodded wordlessly. I did feel extremely white. On the way out I received a savage glance from Mr. Bootland. Thanks to me, he had had to pay £1,325—around £30,000 at present-day prices—more than the house was probably worth and I wasn’t his favourite man.
But I didn’t care. All I felt was the sense of abject failure. My happy vision of Helen looking out of that window was shattered and I was right back where I started. I had accomplished nothing.
Outside in the market-place I stood for a moment, drawing in the cool air. I took Helen’s arm and was about to move on when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked down at the sweet face of Mrs. Dryden. She was smiling at me.
“Eee, Mr. Herriot, I’m right sorry you didn’t get the house, but you’ve done a lot for me—you’ll never know how much. I’ve got all that extra money to put by me, thanks to you. Believe me, it’ll make all the difference in the world. I can’t thank you enough.”
As she walked away, I looked at her thin, bent figure and her white hair. There was the wife of good old Bob Dryden and he would have been pleased. I had done something after all.
Chapter 13
I UNWOUND THE SPIRAL Hudson’s instrument from the cow’s teat and drew forth a strong jet of milk.
“Eee, that’s wonderful, marvellous,” breathed Mr. Dowson reverently. “I don’t know ’ow you do it—you’ve saved me again. You’re a great man, Mr. Herriot.”
We were still doing a lot of these teat operations, because milking-machines had not come into general use and the farmers’ horny-handed pulling at the cows’ teats often resulted in damage to the lining and blockage. It wasn’t a particularly popular procedure with the vets, because there was an excellent chance of having your head kicked off as you crouched down there by the udder, but it was undeniably satisfying to bring a useless teat back to life. A lot of a cow’s value was lost when she became a “three-titted ’un.”
However, valuable though the operation was to a farmer, it was most unusual to receive profuse gratitude like Mr. Dowson’s. But it was always like that with him. He poured praise on me and though, over the years, I was sure that all my cases on his farm hadn’t been triumphs, that was how he pictured it. If anything had gone wrong in the past he would never admit it.
This was in direct contrast to most of our farmer clients. No matter how brilliant a feat of healing we pulled off we very rarely heard anything about it. Siegfried’s theory was that they didn’t like to mention our cures in case we put a bit extra on the bill, and he may have had a point because they never failed to inform us about our failures—“Hey, that beast you treated never did any good,” often embarrassingly shouted across a crowded market-place.
Be that as it may, Mr. Dowson’s attitude was always balm to my soul. He was gazing at me now as I put the instrument back in its bottle of spirit, his little brown face crinkled in a benevolent smile. He pulled off his cap and smoothed back the straggling white hair from his brow.
“Ah don’t know. There’s no end to your cleverness. I was just thinking of that cow of mine with magnesium deficiency. She was laid there like a dead thing—ah was sure she’d stopped breathin’—but you put a bottle into ’er vein, then you looked at your watch. ‘Mr. Dowson,’ you said, ‘this beast will get up on her legs in exactly twelve and a half minutes.’ ?
“I did?”
“Ah’m not jokin’ nor jestin’, that’s what you said, and you can believe me or believe me not, just the very second the hands on your watch got round to twelve and a half minutes that cow jumped up and walked away.”
“Good heavens! Did she really?”
“She did that, and I’ll tell you summat else, she’s never looked back since.”
“Well, that’s great.” I had the same feeling of bewilderment as I always felt at Mr. Dowson’s panegyrics. I could never remember the magical things I had done, but it was very pleasant all the same. Was I really that brilliant or did he make it all up? His habitual phrase of “believe me or believe me not” suggested that he may have had doubts about it himself, but that didn’t alter the fact that his eulogies were always delivered with the greatest certainty and emphasis.
Even the surroundings of his farm were idyllic, and as I walked to my car with a gentle breeze, full of the scents of summer, eddying around me, I looked back at the little farmhouse tucked into the green hillside that dipped down over rig and furrow to the river, sparkling in the sunshine.
As always, I drove away in a rosy glow with Mr. Dowson waving till I was out of sight.
I was back there again within a week to deal with a calving heifer. Mr. Dowson was worried because she was overdue, but the delivery was uneventful and I soon had a large bull calf snuffling and snorting among the straw in the byre.
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�Well, that’s fine,” I said. “Sometimes these big calves are a bit late. It was a tight squeeze, but all’s well.”
“Aye, aye,” said the farmer. “There was no need to worry. I should’ve known. You told me more than a month ago that that heifer would be exackly five days late, and you were right as usual.”
“Did I really say that? I don’t see how I would know….”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Mr. Herriot, them was your words. I ought to remember them.”
As we left the byre, Mr. Dowson stopped to pat a little Dales pony that was happily cropping the grass by the side of the house. “Remember this little feller? Remember that bad stoppage he had?”
“Ah, yes, of course I do. He looks fine now.”
“He does that, and by gaw ’e was ill! Thought ah was going to lose ’im. Right bunged up and groanin’ in pain he was. I’d given him all sorts o’ medicines to try to move ’is bowels but they did no good!—nothing came through ’im for two whole days. Then I got you in and I’ll never forget what you did.”
“What did I do?”
“Ah tell ye, it were like a miracle. You came in the morning and you gave him two injections and you said to me, ‘Mr. Dowson, his bowels will move at two o’clock this afternoon.’ ?
“I said that?”
“You did an’ all, and then you said, ‘At first he’ll pass exackly a handful, just like this.’ ? He cupped his hands to illustrate. “And right on two o’clock that’s what ’e did. No more, no less.”
“Gosh!”
“Aye, and then you said, ‘At half past two he’ll pass just enough to fill that small shovel.’ ? Mr. Dowson hurried busily over to the house and picked up a little shovel that stood by the coal-bunker. He held it out to me. “There’s the very thing. And right on the dot by my watch he passed just the amount you said. I measured it.”
“Never! Are you sure?”
“You can believe me or believe me not. Then you said, ‘At three o’clock he’ll have a good clear-out,’ and that’s just what happened. I was lookin’ at my watch when he cocked his tail and got rid of everything that was troubling ’im. And he’s been right as ninepence ever since.”
Every Living Thing Page 10
