James Herriot

by All Things Wise;Wonderful

The Gillards left on their journey back to the south and a couple of hours later Stewie and his family returned. The children were very brown; even the baby, still bawling resolutely, had a fine tan. The skin had peeled off Meg’s nose but she looked wonderfully relaxed. Stewie, in open necked shirt and with a face like a boiled lobster, seemed to have put on weight.

  “That holiday saved our lives, Jim,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough, and please tell Siegfried how grateful we are.” He looked fondly at his turbulent brood flooding through the house, then as an afterthought he turned to me.

  “Is everything all right in the practice?”

  “Yes, Stewie, it is. I had my ups and downs of course.”

  He laughed. “Don’t we all.”

  “We certainly do, but everything’s fine now.”

  And everything did seem fine as I drove away from the smoke. I watched the houses thin and fall away behind me till the whole world opened out clean and free and I saw the green line of the fells rising over Darrowby.

  I suppose we all tend to remember the good things but as it turned out I had no option. The following Christmas I had a letter from the Gillards with a packet of snapshots showing a big golden dog clearing a gate, leaping high for a ball, strutting proudly with a stick in his mouth. There was hardly any stiffness in the leg, they said; he was perfectly sound.

  So even now when I think of Hensfield the thing I remember best is Kim.

  CHAPTER 23

  THERE WAS A LOT of shouting in the RAF. The NCOs always seemed to be shouting at me or at somebody else and a lot of them had impressively powerful voices. But for sheer volume I don’t think any of them could beat Len Hampson.

  I was on the way to Len’s farm and on an impulse I pulled up the car and leaned for a moment on the wheel. It was a hot, still day in late summer and this was one of the softer corners of the Dales, sheltered by the enclosing fells from the harsh winds which shrivelled all but the heather and the tough moorland grass.

  Here, great trees, oak, elm and sycamore in full rich leaf, stood in gentle majesty in the green dips and hollows, their branches quite still in the windless air.

  In all the grassy miles around me I could see no movement, nor could I hear anything except the fleeting hum of a bee and the distant bleating of a sheep.

  Through the open window drifted the scents of summer; warm grass, clover and the sweetness of hidden flowers. But in the car they had to compete with the all-pervading smell of cow. I had spent the last hour injecting fifty wild cattle and I sat there in soiled breeches and sweat-soaked shirt looking out sleepily at the tranquil landscape.

  I opened the door and Sam jumped out and trotted into a nearby wood. I followed him into the cool shade, into the damp secret fragrance of pine needles and fallen leaves which came from the dark heart of the crowding boles. From somewhere in the branches high above I could hear that most soothing of sounds, the cooing of a woodpigeon.

  Then, although the farm was two fields away, I heard Len Hampson’s voice. He wasn’t calling the cattle home or anything like that. He was just conversing with his family as he always did in a long tireless shout.

  I drove on to the farm and he opened the gate to let me into the yard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hampson,” I said.

  “NOW THEN, MR. HERRIOT,” he bawled, “IT’S A GRAND MORNIN’.”

  The blast of sound drove me back a step but his three sons smiled contentedly. No doubt they were used to it

  I stayed at a safe distance. “You want me to see a pig.”

  “AYE, A GOOD BACON PIG. GONE RIGHT OFF. IT HASN’T ATE NOWT FOR TWO DAYS.”

  We went into the pig pen and it was easy to pick out my patient. Most of the big white occupants careered around at the sight of a stranger, but one of them stood quietly in a corner.

  It isn’t often a pig will stand unresisting as you take its temperature but this one never stirred as I slipped the thermometer into its rectum. There was only a slight fever but the animal had the look of doom about it; back slightly arched, unwilling to move, eyes withdrawn and anxious.

  I looked up at Len Hampson’s red-faced bulk leaning over the wall of the pen.

  “Did this start suddenly or gradually?” I asked.

  “RIGHT SUDDEN!” In the confined space the full throated yell was deafening, “HE WERE AS RIGHT AS NINEPENCE ON MONDAY NIGHT AND LIKE THIS ON TUESDAY MORNIN’.”

  I felt my way over the pig’s abdomen. The musculature was tense and boardlike and the abdominal contents were difficult to palpate because of this, but the whole area was tender to the touch.

  “I’ve seen them like this before,” I said. “This pig has a ruptured bowel. They do it when they are fighting or jostling each other, especially when they are full after a meal.”

  “WHAT’S GOIN’ TO ’APPEN THEN?”

  “Well, the food material has leaked into the abdomen, causing peritonitis. I’ve opened up pigs like this and they are a mass of adhesions—the abdominal organs are growing together. I’m afraid the chances of recovery are very small.”

  He took off his cap, scratched his bald head and replaced the tattered headgear. “THAT’S A BUGGER, GOOD PIG AN’ ALL. IS IT ’OPELESS?” He still gave tongue at the top of his voice despite his disappointment.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s pretty hopeless. They usually eat very little and just waste away. It would really be best to slaughter him.”

  “NAY, AH DON’T LIKE THAT MUCH! AH ALLUS LKE TO ’AVE A GO. ISN’T THERE SUMMAT WE CAN DO? WHERE THERE’S LIFE THERE’S ’OPE, THA KNAWS.”

  I smiled. “I suppose there’s always some hope, Mr. Hampson.”

  “WELL THEN, LET’S GET ON. LET’S TRY!”

  “All right.” I shrugged. “He’s not really in acute pain—more discomfort—so I suppose there’s no harm in treating him. I’ll leave you a course of powders.”

  As I pushed my way from the pen I couldn’t help noticing the superb sleek condition of the other pigs.

  “My word,” I said. “These pigs are in grand fettle. I’ve never seen a better lot. You must feed them well.”

  It was a mistake. Enthusiasm added many decibels to his volume.

  “Aye!” he bellowed. “YOU’VE GOT TO GIVE STOCK A BIT O’ GOOD STUFF TO MEK ‘EM DO RIGHT!”

  My head was still ringing when I reached the car and opened the boot. I handed over a packet of my faithful sulphonamide powders. They had done great things for me but I didn’t expect much here.

  It was strange that I should go straight from the chief shouter of the practice to the chief whisperer. Elijah Wentworth made all his communications sotto voce.

  I found Mr. Wentworth hosing down his cow byre and he turned and looked at me with his habitual serious expression. He was a tall, thin man, very precise in his speech and ways, and though he was a hard-working farmer he didn’t look like one. This impression was heightened by his clothes which were more suited to office work than his rough trade.

  A fairly new trilby hat sat straight on his head as he came over to me. I was able to examine it thoroughly because he came so close that we were almost touching noses.

  He took a quick look around him. “Mr. Herriot,” he whispered, “I’ve got a real bad case.” He spoke always as though every pronouncement was of the utmost gravity and secrecy.

  “Oh I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the trouble?”

  “Fine big bullock, Mr. Herriot. Goin’ down fast.” He moved in closer till he could murmur directly into my ear. “I suspect TB.” He backed away, face drawn.

  “That doesn’t sound so good,” I said. “Where is he?”

  The farmer crooked a finger and I followed him into a loose box. The bullock was a Hereford Cross and should have weighed about ten hundredweight, but was gaunt and emaciated. I could understand Mr. Wentworth’s fears, but I was beginning to develop a clinical sense and it didn’t look like TB to me.

  “Is he coughing?” I asked.

  “No, never coughs, but he’s a bit
skittered.”

  I went over the animal carefully and there were a few things—the submaxillary oedema, the pot-bellied appearance, the pallor of the mucous membranes—which made diagnosis straightforward.

  “I think he’s got liver fluke, Mr. Wentworth. I’ll take a dung sample and have it examined for fluke eggs but I want to treat him right away.”

  “Liver fluke? Where would he pick that up?”

  “Usually from a wet pasture. Where has he been running lately?”

  The farmer pointed through the door. “Over yonder. I’ll show you.”

  I walked with him a few hundred yards and through a couple of gates into a wide flat field lying at the base of the fell. The squelchy feel of the turf and the scattered tufts of bog grass told the whole story.

  “This is just the place for it,” I said. “As you know, it’s a parasite which infests the liver, but during its life cycle it has to pass through a snail and that snail can only live where there is water.”

  He nodded slowly and solemnly several times then began to look around him and I knew he was going to say something. Again he came very close then scanned the horizon anxiously. In all directions the grassland stretched empty and bare for miles but he still seemed worried he might be overheard.

  We were almost cheek to cheek as he breathed the words into my ear. “Ah know who’s to blame for this.”

  “Really? Who is that?”

  He made another swift check to ensure that nobody had sprung up through the ground then I felt his hot breath again. “It’s me landlord.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Won’t do anything for me.” He brought his face round and looked at me wide-eyed before taking up his old position by my ear. “Been goin’ to drain this field for years but done nowt.”

  I moved back. “Ah well, I can’t help that, Mr. Wentworth. In any case there’s other things you can do. You can kill the snails with copper sulphate—I’ll tell you about that later—but in the meantime I want to dose your bullock.”

  I had some hexachlorethane with me in the car and I mixed it in a bottle of water and administered it to the animal. Despite his bulk he offered no resistance as I held his lower jaw and poured the medicine down his throat.

  “He’s very weak, isn’t he?” I said.

  The farmer gave me a haggard look. “He is that. I doubt he’s a goner.”

  “Oh don’t give up hope, Mr. Wentworth. I know he looks terrible but if it is fluke then the treatment will do a lot for him. Let me know how he goes on.”

  It was about a month later, on a market day, and I was strolling among the stalls which packed the cobbles. In front of the entrance to the Drovers’ Arms the usual press of farmers stood chatting among themselves, talking business with cattle dealers and corn merchants, while the shouts of the stallholders sounded over everything.

  I was particularly fascinated by the man in charge of the sweet stall. He held up a paper bag and stuffed into it handfuls of assorted sweetmeats while he kept up a non-stop brazen-voiced commentary.

  “Lovely peppermint drops! Delicious liquorice allsorts! How about some sugar candies! A couple o’ bars o’ chocolate! Let’s ’ave some butterscotch an’ all! Chuck in a beautiful slab o’ Turkish Delight!” Then holding the bulging bag aloft in triumph “ ’ere! ’ere! Who’ll give me a tanner for the lot?”

  Amazing, I thought as I moved on. How did he do it? I was passing the door of the Drovers’ when a familiar voice hailed me.

  “HEY! MR. HERRIOT!” There was no mistaking Len Hampson. He hove in front of me, red-faced and cheerful. “REMEMBER THAT PIG YE DOCTORED FOR ME?” He had clearly consumed a few market-day beers and his voice was louder than ever.

  The packed mass of farmers pricked up their ears. There is nothing so intriguing as the ailments of another farmer’s livestock.

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Hampson,” I replied.

  “WELL ’E NEVER DID NO GOOD!” bawled Len.

  I could see the farmers’ faces lighting up. It is more interesting still when things go wrong.

  “Really? Well I’m sorry.”

  “NAW ’E DIDN’T. AH’VE NEVER SEEN A PIG GO DOWN AS FAST!”

  “Is that so?”

  “AYE, FLESH JUST MELTED OFF ’IM!”

  “Oh, what a pity. But if you recall I rather expected …”

  “WENT DOWN TO SKIN AND BONE ‘E DID!” The great bellow rolled over the market place, drowning the puny cries of the stallholders. In fact the man with the sweets had suspended operations and was listening with as much interest as the others.

  I looked around me uneasily. “Well, Mr. Hampson, I did warn you at the time …”

  “LIKE A WALKIN’ SKELETON ’E WERE! NEVER SEEN SUCH A OBJECK!”

  I realised Len wasn’t in the least complaining. He was just telling me, but for all that I wished he would stop.

  “Well, thank you for letting me know,” I said. “Now I really must be off …”

  “AH DON’T KNOW WHAT THEM POWDERS WERE YOU GAVE ’IM.”

  I cleared my throat. “Actually they were …”

  “THEY DID ’IM NO BLOODY GOOD ANY ROAD!”

  “I see. Well as I say, I have to run …”

  “AH GOT MALLOCK TO KNOCK ’IM ON T’HEAD LAST WEEK.”

  “Oh dear …”

  “FINISHED UP AS DOG MEAT, POOR BUGGER!”

  “Quite … quite …”

  “WELL, GOOD DAY TO YE, MR. HERRIOT.” He turned and walked away, leaving a quivering silence behind him.

  With an uncomfortable feeling that I was the centre of attention. I was about to retreat hastily when I felt a gentle hand on my arm. I turned and saw Elijah Wentworth.

  “Mr. Herriot,” he whispered. “About that bullock.”

  I stared at him, struck by the coincidence. The farmers stared, too, but expectantly.

  “Yes, Mr. Wentworth?”

  “Well now, I’ll tell you.” He came very near and breathed into my ear. “It was like a miracle. He began to pick up straight away after you treated him.”

  I stepped back. “Oh marvellous! But speak up, will you, I can’t quite hear you.” I looked around hopefully.

  He came after me again and put his chin on my shoulder. “Yes, I don’t know what you gave ’im but it was wonderful stuff. I could hardly believe it. Every day I looked at ’im he had put on a bit more.”

  “Great! But do speak a little louder,” I said eagerly.

  “He’s as fat as butter now.” The almost inaudible murmur wafted on my cheek. “Ah’m sure he’ll get top grade at the auction mart.”

  I backed away again. “Yes … yes … what was that you said?”

  “I was sure he was dyin’, Mr. Herriot, but you saved him by your skill,” he said, but every word was pianissimo, sighed against my face.

  The farmers had heard nothing and, their interest evaporating, they began to talk among themselves. Then as the man with the sweets started to fill his bags and shout again Mr. Wentworth moved in and confided softly and secretly into my private ear.

  “That was the most brilliant and marvellous cure I ’ave ever seen.”

  CHAPTER 24

  IT MUST BE UNUSUAL to feel senile in one’s twenties, but it was happening to me. There were a few men of my own age among my RAF friends but for the most part I was surrounded by eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds.

  It seemed that the selection boards thought this the optimum age for training pilots, navigators and air gunners and I often wondered how we elderly gentlemen had managed to creep in.

  These boys used to pull my leg. The fact that I was not merely married but a father put me in the dotage class, and the saddest part was that I really did feel old in their company. They were all having the most marvellous time; chasing the local girls, drinking, going to dances and parties, carried along on the frothy insouciance which a war engenders. And I often thought that if it had all happened a few years earlier I would have been doing the same.

  But it was no goo
d now. Most of me was still back in Darrowby. During the day there was enough pressure to keep my mind occupied; in the evenings when I was off the leash all I wanted to do were the simple things I had done with Helen; the long games of bezique by the fireside in our bed-sitter, tense battles on the push-ha’penny board; we even used to throw rings at hooks on a board on the wall. Kids’ games after a hard slog round the practice, but even now as I look down the years I know I have never found a better way of living.

  It was when we were lying in bed one night that Helen brought up the subject of Granville Bennett.

  “Jim,” she murmured sleepily. “Mr. Bennett ’phoned again today. And his wife rang last week. They keep asking us to have a meal with them.”

  “Yes … yes …” I didn’t want to talk about anything at that moment. This was always a good time. The dying flames sent lights and shadows dancing across the ceiling. Oscar Rabin’s band was playing Deep Purple on the bedside radio Ewan Ross gave us for a wedding present and I had just pulled oft an unexpected victory at push-ha’penny. Helen was a dab hand at that game, urging the coins expertly up the board with the ball of her thumb, her lips pushed forward in a pout of concentration. Of course she had a lifetime of experience behind her while I was just learning, and it was inevitable that I seldom won. But I had done it tonight and I felt good.

  My wife nudged me with her knee. “Jim, I can’t understand you. You never seem to do anything about it. And yet you say you like him.”

  “Oh, I do, he’s a grand chap, one of the best.” Everybody liked Granville, but at the same time there were many strong men who dived down alleys at the sight of him. I didn’t like to tell Helen that every time I came into contact with him I got my wings singed. I fully realised that he meant well, that the whole thing was a natural extension of his extreme generosity. But it didn’t help.

  “And you said his wife was very nice, too.”

  “Zoe? Oh yes, she’s lovely.” And she was, too, but thanks to her husband she had never seen me in any other role than a drunken hulk. My toes curled under the blankets. Zoe was beautiful, kind and intelligent—just the kind of woman you wanted to observe you staggering and hiccuping all over the place. In the darkness I could feel the hot blush of shame on my cheeks.