If Only They Could Talk

by James Herriot

  Oh hell, that one couldn't be true. I cursed my fevered imagination and tried to shut out the crackling of the inferno, the terrified bellowing of the cattle as they were led to safety. No, it couldn't be as bad as that; I rubbed my sweating palms on my knees and tried to concentrate on the man I was going to meet.

  Siegfried Farnon. Strange name for a vet in the Yorkshire Dales. Probably a German who had done his training in this country and decided to set up in practice. And it wouldn't have been Farnon in the beginning; probably Farrenen. Yes, Siegfried Farrenen. He was beginning to take shape; short, fat, roly poly type with merry eyes and a bubbling laugh. But at the same time I had trouble with the obtruding image of a hulking, cold-eyed, bristle-skulled Teuton more in keeping with the popular idea of the practice boss.

  I realised the bus was clattering along a narrow street which opened on to a square where we stopped. Above the window of an unpretentious grocer shop I read 'Darrowby Co-operative Society'. We had arrived.

  I got out and stood beside my battered suitcase, looking about me. There was something unusual and I couldn't put my finger on it at first. Then I realised what it was - the silence. The other passengers had dispersed, the driver had switched off his engine and there was not a sound or a movement anywhere. The only visible sign of life was a group of old men sitting round the clock tower in the centre of the square but they might have been carved from stone.

  Darrowby didn't get much space in the guide books but when it was mentioned it was described as a grey little town on the river Darrow with a cobbled market place and little of interest except its two ancient bridges. But when you looked at it, its setting was beautiful on the pebbly river where the houses clustered thickly and straggled unevenly along the lower slopes of Herne Fell. Everywhere in Darrowby, in the streets, through the windows of the houses you could see the Fell rearing its calm, green bulk more than two thousand feet above the huddled roofs.

  There was a clarity in the air, a sense of space and airiness that made me feel I had shed something on the plain, twenty miles behind. The confinement of the city, the grime, the smoke - already they seemed to be falling away from me.

  Trengate was a quiet street leading off the square and I had my first sight of Skeldale House. I knew it was the right place before I was near enough to read 'S. Farnon MRCVS' on the old fashioned brass plate hanging slightly askew on the iron railings. I knew by the ivy which climbed untidily over the mellow brick to the topmost windows. It was what the letter had said - the only house with ivy; and this could be where I would work for the first time as a veterinary surgeon.

  Now that I was here, right on the doorstep, I felt breathless, as though I had been running. If I got the job, this was where I would find out about myself. There were many things to prove.

  But I liked the look of the old house. It was Georgian with a fine, white painted doorway. The windows, too, were white - wide and graceful on the ground floor and first storey but small and square where they peeped out from under the overhanging tiles far above. The paint was Raking and the mortar looked crumbly between the bricks, but there was a changeless elegance about the place. There was no front garden and only the railings separated the house from the street a few feet away.

  I rang the doorbell and instantly the afternoon peace was shattered by a distant baying like a wolf pack in full cry. The upper half of the door was of glass and, as I peered through, a river of dogs poured round the corner of a long passage and dashed itself with frenzied yells against the door. If I hadn't been used to animals I would have turned and run for my life. As it was I stepped back warily and watched the dogs as they appeared, sometimes two at a time, at the top of their leap, eyes glaring, jaws slavering. After a minute or two of this I was able to sort them out and I realised that my first rough count of about fourteen was exaggerated. There were, in fact, five; a huge fawn greyhound who appeared most often as he hadn't so far to jump as the others, a cocker spaniel, a Scottie, a whippet and a tiny, short-legged hunt terrier. This terrier was seldom seen since the glass was rather high for him, but when he did make it he managed to get an even more frantic note into his bark before he disappeared.

  I was thinking of ringing the bell again when I saw a large woman in the passage. She rapped out a single word and the noise stopped as if by magic. When she opened the door the ravening pack was slinking round her feet ingratiatingly, showing the whites of their eyes and wagging their tucked-in tails. I had never seen such a servile crew.

  'Good afternoon,' I said with my best smile. 'My name is Herriot.'

  The woman looked bigger than ever with the door open. She was about sixty but her hair, tightly pulled back from her forehead, was jet black and hardly streaked with grey. She nodded and looked at me with grim benevolence, but she seemed to be waiting for further information. Evidently, the name struck no answering spark.

  'Mr. Farnon is expecting me. He wrote asking me to come today.'

  'Mr. Herriot?' she said thoughtfully. 'Surgery is from six to seven o'clock. If you wanted to bring a dog in, that would be your best time.'

  'No, no.' I said, hanging on to my smile. 'I'm applying for the position of assistant. Mr. Farnon said to come in time for tea.'

  'Assistant? Well, now, that's nice.' The lines in her face softened a little. 'I'm Mrs. Hall. I keep house for Mr. Farnon. He's a bachelor, you know. He never said anything to me about you, but never mind, come in and have a cup of tea. He shouldn't be long before he's back.'

  I followed her between whitewashed walls, my feet clattering on the tiles. We turned right at the end into another passage and I was beginning to wonder just how far back the house extended when I was shown into a sunlit room.

  It had been built in the grand manner, high-ceilinged and airy with a massive fireplace flanked by arched alcoves. One end was taken up by a french window which gave on a long, high-walled garden. I could see unkempt lawns, a rockery and many fruit trees. A great bank of paeonies blazed in the hot sunshine and at the far end, rooks cawed in the branches of a group of tall elms. Above and beyond were the green hills with their climbing walls.

  Ordinary looking furniture stood around on a very worn carpet. Hunting prints hung on the walls and books were scattered everywhere, some on shelves in the alcoves but others piled on the floor in the corners. A pewter pint pot occupied a prominent place at one end of the mantelpiece. It was an interesting pot. Cheques and bank notes had been stuffed into it till they bulged out of the top and overflowed on to the hearth beneath. I was studying this with astonishment when Mrs. Hall came in with a tea tray.

  'I suppose Mr. Farnon is out on a case.' I said.

  'No, he's gone through to Brawton to visit his mother. I can't really say when he'll be back.' She left me with my tea.

  The dogs arranged themselves peacefully around the room and, except for a brief dispute between the Scottie and the cocker spaniel about the occupancy of a deep chair, there was no sign of their previous violent behaviour. They lay regarding me with friendly boredom and, at the same time, fighting a losing battle against sleep. Soon the last nodding head had fallen back and a chorus of heavy breathing filled the room.

  But I was unable to relax with them. A feeling of let-down gripped me; I had screwed myself up for an interview and I was left dangling. This was all very odd. Why should anyone write for an assistant, arrange a time to meet him and then go to visit his mother? Another thing - if I was engaged, I would be living in this house, yet the housekeeper had no instructions to prepare a room for me. In fact, she had never even heard of me.

  My musings were interrupted by the door bell ringing and the dogs, as if touched by a live wire, leaped screaming into the air and launched themselves in a solid mass through the door. I wished they didn't take their duties so seriously. There was no sign of Mrs. Hall so I went out to the front door where the dogs were putting everything into their fierce act.

  'Shut up!' I shouted and the din switched itself off. The five dogs cringed abjectly round
my ankles, almost walking on their knees. The big greyhound got the best effect by drawing his lips back from his teeth in an apologetic grin.

  I opened the door and looked into a round, eager face. Its owner, a plump man in wellington boots leaned confidently against the railings.

  'Hello, 'ello, Mr. Farnon in?'

  'Not at the moment. Can I help you?'

  'Aye, give 'im a message when he comes in. Tell 'im Bert Sharpe of Barrow Hills has a cow wot wants borin' out?'

  'Boring out?'

  'That's right, she's nobbut going on three cylinders.'

  'Three cylinders?'

  'Aye and if we don't do summat she'll go wrang in 'er ewer, won't she?'

  'Very probably.'

  'Don't want felon, do we?'

  'Certainly not.'

  'O.K., you'll tell 'im, then. Ta-ta.'

  I returned thoughtfully to the sitting-room. It was disconcerting but I had listened to my first case history without understanding a word of it.

  I had hardly sat down when the bell rang again. This time I unleashed a frightening yell which froze the dogs when they were still in mid air; they took the point and returned, abashed, to their chairs.

  This time it was a solemn gentleman with a straightly adjusted cloth cap resting on his ears, a muffler knotted precisely over his adam's apple and a clay pipe growing from the exact centre of his mouth. He removed the pipe and spoke with a rich, unexpected accent.

  'Me name's Mulligan and I want Misther Farnon to make up some midicine for me dog.'

  'Oh, what's the trouble with your dog, Mr. Mulligan?'

  He raised a questioning eyebrow and put a hand to his ear. I tried again with a full blooded shout.

  'What's the trouble?'

  He looked at me doubtfully for a moment. 'He's womitin, sorr. Womitin' bad.'

  I immediately felt on secure ground now and my brain began to seethe with diagnostic procedures. 'How long after eating does he vomit?'

  The hand went to the ear again. 'Phwhat's that?'

  I leaned close to the side of his head, inflated my lungs and bawled: 'When does he womit - I mean vomit?'

  Comprehension spread slowly across Mr. Mulligan's face. He gave a gentle smile. 'Oh aye, he's womitin'. Womitin' bad, sorr.'

  I didn't feel up to another effort so I told him I would see to it and asked him to call later. He must have been able to lipread me because he seemed satisfied and walked away.

  Back in the sitting-room, I sank into a chair and poured a cup of tea. I had taken one sip when the bell rang again. This time, a wild glare from me was enough to make the dogs cower back in their chairs; I was relieved they had caught on so quickly.

  Outside the front door a lovely, red-haired girl was standing. She smiled, showing a lot of very white teeth.

  'Good afternoon,' she said in a loud, well-bred voice. 'I am Diana Brompton. Mr. Farnon is expecting me for tea.' I gulped and clung to the door handle. 'He's asked YOU to tea?'

  The smile became fixed. 'Yes, that is correct,' she said, spelling the words out carefully, 'He asked me to tea.'

  'I'm afraid Mr. Farnon isn't at home. I can't say when he'll be back.' The smile was plucked away. 'Oh,' she said, and she got a lot into the word. 'At any rate, perhaps I could come in.'

  'Oh, certainly, do come in. I'm sorry.' I babbled, suddenly conscious that I had been staring, open mouthed at her.

  I held open the door and she brushed past me without a word. She knew her way about because, when I got to the first corner, she had disappeared into the room. I tiptoed past the door'and broke into a gallop which took me along another thirty yards or so of twisting passage to a huge, stone-flagged kitchen. Mrs. Hall was pottering about there and I rushed at her.

  'There's a young lady here, a Miss. Brompton. She's come to tea, too.' I had to fight an impulse to pluck at her sleeve.

  Mrs. Hall's face was expressionless. I thought she might have started to wave her arms about, but she didn't even seem surprised.

  'You go through and talk to her and I'll bring a few more cakes,' she said.

  'But what the heck am I going to talk to her about? How long is Mr. Farnon going to be?'

  'Oh, just chat to her for a bit. I shouldn't think he'll be very long,' she said calmly.

  Slowly, I made my way back to the sitting-room and when I opened the door the girl turned quickly with the makings of another big smile. She made no attempt to hide her disgust when she saw it was only me.

  'Mrs. Hall thinks he should be back fairly soon. Perhaps you would join me in a cup of tea while you're waiting.'

  She gave me a quick glance which raked me from my rumpled hair to my scuffed old shoes. I realised suddenly how grimy and sweaty I was after the long JOURNEY Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned away. The dogs regarded her apathetically. A heavy silence blanketed the room.

  I poured a cup of tea and held it out to her. She ignored me and lit a cigarette. This was going to be tough, but I could only try.

  I cleared my throat and spoke lightly. 'I've only just arrived myself. I hope to be the new assistant.'

  This time she didn't trouble to look round. She just said 'Oh' and again the monosyllable carried a tremendous punch.

  'Lovely part of the world, this.' I said, returning to the attack.

  'Yes.'

  'I've never been in Yorkshire before but I like what I've seen.'

  'Oh.' '

  'Have you known Mr. Farnon very long?'

  'Yes.'

  'I believe he's quite young - about thirty?'

  'Yes.'

  'Wonderful weather.'

  'Yes.'

  I kept at it with courage and tenacity for about five minutes, hunting for something original or witty, but finally, Miss. Brompton, instead of answering, took the cigarette from her mouth, turned towards me and gave me a long, blank stare. I knew that was the end and shrank into silence.

  After that, she sat staring out of the french window, pulling deeply at her cigarette, narrowing her eyes as the smoke trickled from her lips. As far as she was concerned, I just wasn't there.

  I was able to observe her at will and she was interesting. I had never met a living piece of a society magazine before. Cool, linen dress, expensive-looking cardigan, elegant legs and the glorious red hair falling on her shoulders.

  And yet here was a fascinating thought. She was sitting there positively hungering for a little fat German vet. This Farnon must have something.

  The tableau was finally broken up when Miss. Brompton jumped to her feet. She hurled her cigarette savagely into the fireplace and marched from the room.

  Wearily, I got out of my chair. My head began to ache as I shuffled through the french window into the garden. I flopped down among the knee deep grass on the lawn and rested my back against a towering acacia tree. Where the devil was Farnon? Was he really expecting me or had somebody played a horrible: practical joke on me? I felt suddenly cold. I had spent my last few pounds getting here and if there was some mistake I was in trouble.

  But, looking around me, I began to feel better. The sunshine beat back from the high old walls, bees droned among the bright masses of flowers. A gentle breeze stirred the withered blooms of a magnificent wisteria which almost covered the back of the house. There was peace here.

  I leaned my head against the bark and closed my eyes. I could see Herr Farrenen, looking just as I had imagined him, standing over me. He wore a shocked expression.

  'Wass is dis you haff done?' he spluttered, his fat jowls quivering with rage. 'You kom to my house under false pretences, you insult Fraulein Brompton, you trink my tea, you eat my food. Vat else you do, hein? Maybe you steal my spoons. You talk about assistant but I vant no assistant. Is best I telephone the police.'

  Herr Farrenen seized the phone in a pudgy hand. Even in my dream, I wondered how the man could use such a completely corny accent. I heard the thick voice saying 'Hello, hello.'

  And I opened my eyes. Somebody was saying 'Hello', but it wa
sn't Herr Farrenen. A tall, thin man was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. Something seemed to be amusing him. As I struggled to my feet, he heaved himself away from the wall and held out his hand. 'Sorry you've had to wait. I'm Siegfried Farnon.'

  He was just about the most English looking man I had ever seen. Long, humorous, strongjawed face. Small, clipped mustache, untidy, sandy hair. He was wearing an old tweed jacket and shapeless flannel trousers. The collar of his check shirt was frayed and the tie carelessly knotted. He looked as though he didn't spend much time in front of a mirror.

  Studying him, I began to feel better despite the ache in my neck where it had rested against the tree. I shook my head to get my eyes fully open and tufts of grass fell from my hair. 'There was a Miss. Brompton here' I blurted out. 'She came to tea. I explained you had been called away.'

  Farnon looked thoughtful, but not put out. He rubbed his chin slowly. 'Mm, yes - well, never mind. But I do apologise for being out when you arrived. I have a shocking memory and I just forgot.'

  It was the most English voice, too.

  Farnon gave me a long, searching look, then he grinned. 'Let's go inside. I want to show you round the place.'