James Herriot (57 page)

I drove there in a thin drizzle and the light was fading at about four o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived at Scar Farm.

When I examined the cow I was convinced she had just got herself into an awkward position in the stall with her legs jammed under the broken timbers of the partition.

“I think she’s sulking, Mr. Daggett,” I said. “She’s had a few goes at rising and now she’s decided not to try any more. Some cows are like that.”

“Maybe you’re right,” the farmer replied. “She’s allus been a stupid bitch.”

“And she’s a big one, too. She’ll take a bit of moving.” I lifted a rope from the byre wall and tied it round the hocks. “I’ll push the feet from the other side while you and Ned pull the legs round.”

“Pull?” Mr. Daggett gave the little man a sour look. “He couldn’t pull the skin off a rice puddin’.”

Ned said nothing, just gazed dully to his front, arms hanging limp. He looked as though he didn’t care, wasn’t even there with us. His mind was certainly elsewhere if his thoughts were mirrored in his eyes—vacant, unheeding, but as always, expectant.

I went behind the partition and thrust steadily at the feet while the men pulled. At least Mr. Daggett pulled, mouth open, gasping with effort, while Ned leaned languidly on the rope.

Inch by inch the big animal came round till she was lying almost in the middle of the stall, but as I was about to call a halt the rope broke and Mr. Daggett flew backwards on to the hard cobbles. Ned of course did not fall down because he hadn’t been trying, and his employer, stretched flat, glared up at him with frustrated rage.

“Ye little bugger, ye let me do that all by meself! Ah don’t know why ah bother with you, you’re bloody useless.”

At that moment the cow, as I had expected, rose to her feet, and the farmer gesticulated at the little man. “Well, go on, dang ye, get some straw and rub her legs! They’ll be numb.”

Meekly Ned twisted some straw into a wisp and began to do a bit of massage. Mr. Daggett got up stiffly, felt gingerly along his back then walked up beside the cow to make sure the chain hadn’t tightened round her neck. He was on his way back when the big animal swung round suddenly and brought her cloven hoof down solidly on the farmer’s toe.

If he had been wearing heavy boots it wouldn’t have been so bad, but his feet were encased in ancient cracked Wellingtons which offered no protection.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” yelled Mr. Daggett, beating on the hairy back with his fists. “Gerroff, ye awd bitch!” He heaved, pushed and writhed but the ten hundredweight of beef ground down inexorably.

The farmer was only released when the cow slid off his foot, and I know from experience that that sliding is the worst part.

Mr. Daggett hopped around on one leg, nursing the bruised extremity in his hands. “Bloody ’ell,” he moaned. “Oh, bloody ’ell.”

Just then I happened to glance towards Ned and was amazed to see the apathetic little face crinkle suddenly into a wide grin of unholy glee. I couldn’t recall him even smiling before, and my astonishment must have shown in my face because his boss whipped round suddenly and stared at him. As if by magic the sad mask slipped back into place and he went on with his rubbing.

Mr. Daggett hobbled out to the car with me and as I was about to leave he nudged me.

“Look at ’im,” he whispered.

Ned, milk pail in hand, was bustling along the byre with unwonted energy.

His employer gave a bitter smile. “It’s t’only time ’e ever hurries. Can’t wait to get out to t’pub.”

“Oh well, you say he doesn’t get drunk. There can’t be any harm in it.”

The deep sunk eyes held me. “Don’t you believe it. He’ll come tiv a bad end gaddin’ about the way ’e does.”

“But surely the odd glass of beer …”

“Ah but there’s more than that to it” He glanced around him. “There’s women!”

I laughed incredulously. “Oh come now, Mr. Daggett, what women?”

“Over at t’pub,” he muttered. “Them Bradley lasses.”

“The landlord’s daughters? Oh really, I can’t believe …”

“All right, ye can say what ye like. He’s got ’is eye on ’em. Ah knaw—ah’ve only been in that pub once but ah’ve seen for meself.”

I didn’t know what to say, but in any case I had no opportunity because he turned and strode into the house.

Alone in the cold darkness I looked at the gaunt silhouette of the old farmhouse above me. In the dying light of the November day the rain streamed down the rough stones and the wind caught at the thin tendril of smoke from the chimney, hurling it in ragged streamers across the slate blue pallor of the western sky. The fell hung over everything, a black featureless bulk, oppressive and menacing.

Through the kitchen window I could see the old lamp casting its dim light over the bare table, the cheerless hearth with its tiny flicker of fire. In the shadows at the far end the steps rose into Ned’s loft and I could imagine the little figure clambering up to get changed and escape to Briston.

Across the valley the single street of the village was a broken grey thread in the gloom but in the cottage windows the lamps winked faintly. These were Ned Finch’s bright lights and I could understand how he felt. After Scar Farm, Briston would be like Monte Carlo.

The image stayed in my mind so vividly that after two more calls that evening I decided to go a few miles out of my way as I returned homeward. I cut across the Dale and it was about half past eight when I drove into Briston. It was difficult to find the Hulton Arms because there was no lighted entrance, no attempt to advertise its presence, but I persevered because I had to find out what was behind Mr. Daggett’s tale of debauchery.

I located it at last. Just like the door of an ordinary house with a faded wooden sign hanging above it. Inside, the usual domino game was in progress, a few farmers sat chatting quietly. The Misses Bradley, plain but pleasant-faced women in their forties, sat on either side of the fire, and sure enough there was Ned with a half pint glass in front of him.

I sat down by his side. “Hello, Ned.”

“Now then, Mr. Herriot,” he murmured absently, glancing at me with his strange expectant eyes.

One of the Bradley ladies put down her knitting and came over.

“Pint of bitter, please,” I said. “What will you have, Ned?”

“Nay, thank ye, Mr. Herriot. This’ll do for me. It’s me second and ah’m not a big drinker, tha knows.”

Miss Bradley laughed. “Yes, he nobbut has ’is two glasses a night, but he enjoys them, don’t you, Ned?”

“That’s right, ah do.” He looked up at her and she smiled kindly down at him before going for my beer.

He took a sip at his glass. “Ah really come for company, Mr. Herriot.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I knew what he meant. He probably sat on his own most of the time, but around him was warmth and comfort and friendliness. A great log sent flames crackling up to the wide chimney, there was electric light and shining mirrors with whisky slogans painted on their surface. It wasn’t anything like Scar Farm.

The little man said very little. He spun out his drink for another hour, looking around him as the dominoes clicked and I lowered another contemplative pint. The Misses Bradley knitted and brewed tea in a big black kettle over the fire and when they had to get up to serve their customers they occasionally patted Ned playfully on the cheek as they passed.

By the time he tipped down the last drop and rose to go it was a quarter to ten and he still had to cycle across to the other side of the Dale. Another late night for Ned.

It was a Tuesday lunchtime in early spring. Helen always cooked steak and kidney pie on Tuesdays and I used to think about it all morning on my rounds. My thoughts that morning had been particularly evocative because lambing had started and I had spent most of the time in my shirt sleeves in the biting wind as my hunger grew and grew.

Helen cut into her blissful creation and began to scoop the fragrant contents on to my plate.

“I met Miss Tremayne in the market place this morning, Jim.’“

“Oh yes?” I was almost drooling as my wife stopped shovelling out the pie, sliced open some jacket potatoes and dropped pats of farm butter on to the steaming surfaces.

“Yes, she wants you to go out there this afternoon and put some canker drops in Wilberforce’s ears if you have time.”

“Oh I have time for that,” I said. Wilberforce was Miss Tremayne’s ancient tabby cat and it was just the kind of job I wanted after my arm-aching morning.

I was raising a luscious forkful when Helen spoke again. “Oh, and she had an interesting item of news.”

“Really?” But I had begun to chew and my thoughts were distant.

“It’s about the little woman who works for her—Elsie. You know her?”

I nodded and took another mouthful. “Of course, of course.”

“Well it’s quite unexpected, I suppose, but Elsie’s getting married.”

I choked on my pie. “What!”

“It’s true. And maybe you know the bridegroom.”

“Tell me.”

“He works on one of the neighbouring farms. His name is Ned Finch.”

This time my breath was cut off completely and Helen had to beat me on the back as I spluttered and retched. It wasn’t until an occluding morsel of potato skin had shot down my nose that I was able to utter a weak croak. “Ned Finch?”

“That’s what she said.”

I finished my lunch in a dream, but by the end of it I had accepted the extraordinary fact Helen and Miss Tremayne were two sensible people—there couldn’t be any mistake. And yet … even as I drew up outside the old Manor House a feeling of unreality persisted.

Elsie opened the door as usual. I looked at her for a moment.

“What’s this I hear, Elsie?”

She started a giggle which rapidly spread over her spherical frame.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Is it true?”

The giggle developed into a mighty gale of laughter, and if she hadn’t been holding the handle I am sure she would have fallen over.

“Aye, it’s right enough,” she gasped. “Ah’ve found a man at last and ah’m goin’ to get wed!” She leaned helplessly on the door.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear it, Elsie. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

She hadn’t the strength to speak but merely nodded as she lay against the door. Then she led me to the drawing room.

“In ye go,” she chuckled. “Ah’ll bring ye some tea.”

Miss Tremayne rose to greet me with parted lips and shining eyes. “Oh, Mr. Herriot, have you heard?”

“Yes, but how …?”

“It all started when I asked Mr. Daggett for some fresh eggs. He sent Ned on his bicycle with the eggs and it was like fate.”

“Well, how wonderful.”

“Yes, and I actually saw it happen. Ned walked in that door with his basket, Elsie was clearing the table here, and, Mr. Herriot.” She clasped her hands under her chin, smiled ecstatically and her eyes rolled upwards. “Oh, Mr. Herriot, it was love at first sight!”

“Yes … yes, indeed. Marvellous!”

“And ever since that day Ned has been calling round and now he comes every evening and sits with Elsie in the kitchen. Isn’t it romantic!”

“It certainly is. And when did they decide to get married?”

“Oh, he popped the question within a month, and I’m so happy for Elsie because Ned is such a dear little man, don’t you think so?”

“Yes he is,” I said. “He’s a very nice chap.”

Elsie simpered and tittered her way in with the tea then put her hand over her face and fled in confusion, and as Miss Tremayne began to pour I sank into one of the armchairs and lifted Wilberforce on to my lap.

The big cat purred as I instilled a few drops of lotion into his ear. He had a chronic canker condition—not very bad but now and then it became painful and needed treatment. It was because Miss Tremayne didn’t like putting the lotion in that I was pressed into service.

As I turned the ear over and gently massaged the oily liquid into the depths, Wilberforce groaned softly with pleasure and rubbed his cheek against my hand. He loved this anointing of the tender area beyond his reach and when I had finished he curled up on my knee.

I leaned back and sipped my tea. At that moment, with my back and shoulders weary and my hands red and chapped with countless washings on the open hillsides this seemed to be veterinary practice at its best.

Miss Tremayne continued. “We shall have a little reception after the wedding and then the happy couple will take up residence here.”

“You mean, in this house?”

“Yes, of course. There’s heaps of room in this big old place, and I have furnished two rooms for them on the east side. I’m sure they’ll be very comfortable. Oh, I’m so excited about it all!”

She refilled my cup. “Before you go you must let Elsie show you where they are going to live.”

On my way out the little woman took me through to the far end of the house.

‘This, hee-hee-hee,” she said, “is where we’ll sit of a night, and this, ha-ha-ho-ho, oh dear me, is our bedroom.” She staggered around for a bit, wiped her eyes and turned to me for my opinion.

“It’s really lovely, Elsie,” I said.

There were bright carpets, chairs with flowered covers and a fine mahogany-ended bed. It was nothing like the loft.

And as I looked at Elsie I realised the things Ned would see in his bride. Laughter, warmth, vivacity, and—I had no doubt at all—beauty and glamour.

I seemed to get round to most farms that lambing time and in due course I landed at Mr. Daggett’s. I delivered a fine pair of twins for him but it didn’t seem to cheer him at all. Lifting the towel from the grass he handed it to me.

“Well, what did ah tell ye about Ned, eh? Got mixed up wi’ a woman just like ah said.” He sniffed disapprovingly. “All that rakin’ and chasin’ about—ah knew he’d get into mischief at t’finish.”

I walked back over the sunlit fields to the farm and as I passed the byre door Ned came out pushing a wheelbarrow.

“Good morning, Ned,” I said.

He glanced up at me in his vague way. “How do, Mr. Herriot.”

There was something different about him and it took me a few moments to discern what it was; his eyes had lost the expectant look which had been there for so long, and, after all, that was perfectly natural. Because it had happened at last for Ned.