James Herriot (16 page)

It seemed to take a long time to reach the end of the wall and I was about to turn right towards the door of the farm kitchen when from my left I heard the sudden rattle of a chain then a roaring creature launched itself at me, bayed once, mightily, into my face and was gone.

This time I thought my heart would stop. With my defences at their lowest I was in no state to withstand Shep. I had quite forgotten that Mrs. Bailes occasionally tethered him in the kennel at the entrance to discourage unwelcome visitors, and as I half lay against the wall, the blood thundering in my ears, I looked dully at the long coil of chain on the cobbles.

I have no time for people who lose their temper with animals but something snapped in my mind then. All my frustration burst from me in a torrent of incoherent shouts and I grabbed the chain and began to pull on it frenziedly. That dog which had tortured me was there in that kennel. For once I knew where to get at him and this time I was going to have the matter out with him. The kennel would be about ten feet away and at first I saw nothing. There was only the dead weight on the end of the chain. Then as I hauled inexorably a nose appeared, then a head, then all of the big animal hanging limply by his collar. He showed no desire to get up and greet me but I was merciless and dragged him inch by inch over the cobbles till he was lying at my feet.

Beside myself with rage, I crouched, shook my fist under his nose and yelled at him from a few inches’ range.

“You big bugger! If you do that to me again I’ll knock your bloody head oft! Do you hear me, I’ll knock your bloody head clean off!”

Shep rolled frightened eyes at me and his tail flickered apologetically between his legs. When I continued to scream at him he bared his upper teeth in an ingratiating grin and finally rolled on his back where he lay inert with half-closed eyes.

So now I knew. He was a softie. All his ferocious attacks were just a game. I began to calm down but for all that I wanted him to get the message.

“Right, mate,” I said in a menacing whisper. “Remember what I’ve said!” I let go the chain and gave a final shout “Now get back in there!”

Shep, almost on his knees, tail tucked well in, shot back into his kennel and I turned toward the farmhouse to wash my hands.

The memory of my discomfiture fermented in the back of my mind for some time. I had no doubt then that I had been unfairly judged, but I am older and wiser now and in retrospect I think I was wrong.

The symptoms displayed by Mr. Bailes’ cow were typical of displacement of the abomasum (when the fourth stomach slips round from the right to the left side) and it was a condition that was just not recognised in those early days.

At the present time we correct the condition by surgery—pushing the displaced organ back to the right side and tacking it there with sutures. But sometimes a similar result can be obtained by casting the cow and rolling her over, so why not by making her run …? I freely admit that I have many times adopted Jim Oakley’s precept of a “bloody good gallop,” often with spectacular results. To this day I frequently learn things from farmers, but that was one time when I learned from a postman.

I was surprised when, about a month later, I received another call to one of Mr. Bailes’ cows. I felt that after my performance with Rose he would have called on the services of Jim Oakley for any further trouble. But no, his voice on the ’phone was as polite and friendly as ever, with not a hint that he had lost faith. It was strange …

Leaving my car outside the farm I looked warily into the front garden before venturing between the walls. A faint tinkle of metal told me that Shep was lurking there in his kennel and I slowed my steps; I wasn’t going to be caught again. At the end of the alley I paused, waiting, but all I saw was the end of a nose which quietly withdrew as I stood there. So my outburst had got through to the big dog—he knew I wasn’t going to stand any more nonsense from him.

And yet, as I drove away after the visit I didn’t feel good about it. A victory over an animal is a hollow one and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had deprived him of his chief pleasure. After all, every creature is entitled to some form of recreation and though Shep’s hobby could result in the occasional heart failure it was, after all, his thing and part of him. The thought that I had crushed something out of his life was a disquieting one. I wasn’t proud.

So that when, later that summer, I was driving through Highburn I paused in anticipation outside the Bailes farm. The village street, white and dusty, slumbered under the afternoon sun. In the blanketing silence nothing moved—except for one small man strolling towards the opening between the walls. He was fat and very dark—one of the tinkers from a camp outside the village—and he carried an armful of pots and pans.

From my vantage point I could see through the railings into the front garden where Shep was slinking noiselessly into position beneath the stones. Fascinated, I watched as the man turned unhurriedly into the opening and the dog followed the course of the disembodied head along the top of the wall.

As I expected it all happened half way along. The perfectly timed leap, the momentary pause at the summit then the tremendous “WOOF!” into the unsuspecting ear.

It had its usual effect. I had a brief view of flailing arms and flying pans followed by a prolonged metallic clatter, then the little man reappeared like a projectile, turned right and sped away from me up the street. Considering his almost round physique he showed an astonishing turn of speed, his little legs pistoning, and he did not pause till he disappeared into the shop at the far end of the village.

I don’t know why he went in there because he wouldn’t find any stronger restorative than ginger pop.

Shep, apparently well satisfied, wandered back over the grass and collapsed in a cool patch where an apple tree threw its shade over the grass; head on paws he waited in comfort for his next victim.

I smiled to myself as I let in the clutch and moved off. I would stop at the shop and tell the little man that he could collect his pans without the slightest fear of being torn limb from limb, but my overriding emotion was one of relief that I had not cut the sparkle out of the big dog’s life.

All this passed through my mind as I stood on the frozen ground outside the Grand Hotel at two o’clock in the morning. I looked up at that venerable edifice, my eyes glittering fiendishly, half from the cold and half from the deranged spark of my recovered humour. I felt my rigid lips creak apart, and my head tilt back to aim at what I took to be Flt Lieut. Barnes’s window. “Woof!” I roared into the night “Woof! Woof!”

I
SUPPOSE ONCE YOU
embark on a life of crime it gets easier all the time. Making a start is the only hard bit.

At any rate, that is how it seemed to me as I sat in the bus, playing hookey again. There had been absolutely no trouble about dodging out of the Grand, the streets of Scarborough had been empty of SPs and nobody had given me a second look as I strolled casually into the bus station.

It was Saturday, 13 February. Helen was expecting our baby this weekend. It could happen any time and I just didn’t see how I could sit here these few miles away and do nothing. I had no classes today or tomorrow so I would miss nothing and nobody would miss me. It was, I told myself, a mere technical offence, and anyway I had no option. Like the first time, I just had to see Helen.

And it wouldn’t be long now, I thought, as I hurried up to the familiar doorway of her home. I went inside and gazed disappointedly at the empty kitchen—somehow I had been sure she would be standing there waiting for me with her arms wide. I shouted her name but nothing stirred in the house. I was still there, listening, when her father came through from an inner room.

“You’ve got a son,” he said.

I put my hand on the back of a chair. “What …?”

“You’ve got a son.” He was so calm.

“When …?”

“Few minutes ago. Nurse Brown’s just been on the ’phone. Funny you should walk in.”

As I leaned on the chair he gave me a keen look. “Would you like a drop of whisky?”

“Whisky? No—why?”

“Well you’ve gone a bit white, lad, that’s all. Anyway, you’d better have something to eat.”

“No, no, no thanks, I’ve got to get out there.”

He smiled. “There’s no hurry, lad. Anyway, they won’t want anybody there too soon. Better eat something.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t. Would you—would you mind if I borrowed your car?”

I was still trembling a little as I drove away. If only Mr. Alderson had led up to it gradually—he might have said, “I’ve got some news for you,” or something like that, but his direct approach had shattered me. When I pulled up outside Nurse Brown’s it still hadn’t got through to me that I was a father.

Greenside Nursing Home sounded impressive, but it was in fact Nurse Brown’s dwelling house. She was State Registered and usually had two or three of the local women in at a time to have their babies.

She opened the door herself and threw up her hands. “Mr. Herriot! It hasn’t taken you long! Where did you spring from?” She was a cheerfully dynamic little woman with mischievous eyes.

I smiled sheepishly. “Well, I just happened to drop in on Mr. Alderson and got the news.”

“You might have given us time to get the little fellow properly washed,” she said. “But never mind, come up and see him. He’s a fine baby—nine pounds.”

Still in a dreamlike state I followed her up the stairs of the little house into a small bedroom. Helen was there, in the bed, looking flushed.

“Hello,” she said.

I went over and kissed her.

“What was it like?” I enquired nervously.

“Awful,” Helen replied without enthusiasm. Then she nodded towards the cot beside her.

I took my first look at my son. Little Jimmy was brick red in colour and his face had a bloated, dissipated look. As I hung over him he twisted his tiny fists under his chin and appeared to be undergoing some mighty internal struggle. His face swelled and darkened as he contorted his features then from deep among the puffy flesh his eyes fixed me with a baleful glare and he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

“My God!” I exclaimed.

The nurse looked at me, startled. “What’s the matter?”

“Well, he’s a funny-looking little thing isn’t he?”

“What!” She stared at me furiously. “Mr. Herriot, how can you say such a thing? He’s a beautiful baby!”

I peered into the cot again. Jimmy greeted me with a lopsided leer, turned purple and blew a few bubbles.

“Are you sure he’s all right?” I said.

There was a tired giggle from the bed but Nurse Brown was not amused.

“All right! What exactly do you mean?” She drew herself up stiffly.

I shuffled my feet. “Well, er—is there anything wrong with him?”

I thought she was going to strike me. “Anything … how dare you! Whatever are you talking about? I’ve never heard such nonsense!” She turned appealing towards the bed, but Helen, a weary smile on her face, had closed her eyes.

I drew the enraged little woman to one side. “Look, Nurse, have you by chance got any others on the premises?”

“Any other what?” she asked icily.

“Babies—new babies. I want to compare Jimmy with another one.”

Her eyes widened. “Compare him! Mr. Herriot, I’m not going to listen to you any longer—I’ve lost patience with you!”

“I’m asking you, Nurse,” I repeated. “Have you any more around?”

There was a long pause as she looked at me as though I was something new and incredible. “Well—there’s Mrs. Dewburn in the next room. Little Sidney was born about the same time as Jimmy.”

“Can I have a look at him?” I gazed at her appealingly.

She hesitated then a pitying smile crept over her face. “Oh you … you … just a minute, then.”

She went into the other room and I heard a mumble of voices. She reappeared and beckoned to me.

Mrs. Dewburn was the butcher’s wife and I knew her well. The face on the pillow was hot and tired like Helen’s.

“Eee, Mr. Herriot, I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were in the army.”

“RAF, actually, Mrs. Dewburn. I’m on—er—leave at the moment.”

I looked in the cot. Sidney was dark red and bloated, too, and he, also, seemed to be wrestling with himself. The inner battle showed in a series of grotesque facial contortions culminating in a toothless snarl.

I stepped back involuntarily. “What a beautiful child,” I said.

“Yes, isn’t he lovely,” said his mother fondly.

“He is indeed gorgeous.” I took another disbelieving glance into the cot. “Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Dewburn. It was kind of you to let me see him.”

“Not at all, Mr. Herriot, it’s nice of you to take an interest.”

Outside the door I took a long breath and wiped my brow. The relief was tremendous. Sidney was even funnier than Jimmy.

When I returned to Helen’s room Nurse Brown was sitting on me bed and the two women were clearly laughing at me. And of course, looking back, I must have appeared silly. Sidney Dewburn and my son are now two big, strong, remarkably good-looking young men, so my fears were groundless.

The little nurse looked at me quizzically. I think she had forgiven me.

“I suppose you think all your calves and foals are beautiful right from the moment they are born?”

“Well yes,” I replied. “I have to admit it—I think they are.”

As I have said before, ideas do not come readily to me, but on the bus journey back to Scarborough a devilish scheme began to hatch in my brain.

I was due for compassionate leave, but why should I take it now? Helen would be in the Nursing Home for a fortnight and there didn’t seem any sense in my mooning round Darrowby on my own. The thing to do would be to send myself a telegram a fortnight from now announcing the birth, and we would be able to spend my leave together.

It was interesting how my moral scruples dissolved in the face of this attraction, but anyway, I told myself, where was the harm? I wasn’t scrounging anything extra, I was just altering the time. The RAF or the war effort in general would suffer no mortal blow. Long before the darkened vehicle had rolled into the town I had made up my mind and on the following day I wrote to a friend in Darrowby and arranged about the telegram.