EVERY LIVING THING
by
James Herriot


Copyright 1992 by James Herriot.  All rights reserved.

By James Herriot

All Creatures Great and Small

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All Things Wise and Wonderful

The Lord God Made Them All

Every Living Thing

The Best of James Herriot

James Herriot's Yorkshire

James Herriot's Dog Stories

For Children

Moses the Kitten

Only One Woof

The Christmas Day Kitten

Bonny's Big Day

Blossom Comes Home

The Market Square

Dog Oscar,

Cat-About-Town

Smudge, the Little Lost Lamb

JAMES HER RIOT four previous international bestsellers are All
Creatures Great and Small, All Things Bright and Beautiful, All Things
Wise and Wonderful, and The Lord God Made Them All.  He is also the
author of James Herriot's Dog Stories, James Herriot's Yorkshire, and a
series of illustrated books for children, including The Christmas Day
Kitten.  He still lives in Yorkshire, England, with his wife and
family, where his son has now taken over the Herriot veterinary
practice.

St.  Martin's Press 175 Fifth Avenue New York, N.y. 10010

To my revered and elderly friends,

Polly and Bodie

Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth and subdue it: and
have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air,
and over every living thing that move th upon the earth.

EVERY LIVING THING

Chapter 1

I am never at my best in the early morning, especially a cold morning
in the Yorkshire spring with a piercing March wind sweeping down from
the fells, finding its way inside my clothing, nipping at my nose and
ears.  It was a cheerless time, and a particularly bad time to be
standing in this cobbled farmyard watching a beautiful horse dying
because of my incompetence.

It had started at eight o'clock.  Mr.  Kettlewell telephoned as I was
finishing my breakfast.

"I 'ave a fine big cart-'oss here and he's come out in spots."

"Oh, really, what kind of spots?"

"Well, round and flat, and they're all over 'im."

"And it started quite suddenly?"

"Aye, he were right as rain last night."

"All right, I'll have a look at him right away."  I nearly rubbed my
hands.  Urticaria.  It usually cleared up spontaneously, but an
injection hastened the process and I had a new antihistamine drug to
try out--it was said to be specific for this sort of thing.  Anyway, it
was the kind of situation where it was easy for the vet to look good. A
nice start to the day.

In the fifties, the tractor had taken over most of the work on the
farms, but there was still a fair number of draught horses around, and
when I arrived at Mr.  Kettlewell's place I realised that this one was
something special.

The farmer was leading him from a loose box into the yard.  A
magnificent Shire, all of eighteen hands, with a noble head that he
tossed proudly as he paced towards me.  I appraised him with something
like awe, taking in the swelling curve of the neck, the deep-chested
body, the powerful limbs abundantly feathered above the massive feet.

"What a wonderful horse!"  I gasped.  "He's enormous!"

Mr.  Kettlewell smiled with quiet pride.  "Aye, he's a right smasher. I
only bought 'im last month.  I do like to have a good 'oss about." He
was a tiny man, elderly but sprightly, and one of my favourite farmers.
He had to reach high to pat the huge neck and was nuzzled in return. 
"He's kind, too.  Right quiet."

"Ah, well, it's worth a lot when a horse is good-natured as well as
good-looking."  I ran my hand over the typical plaques in the skin.

"Yes, this is urticaria, all right."

"What's that?"

"Sometimes it's called nettle rash.  It's an allergic condition.  He
may have eaten something unusual, but it's often difficult to pinpoint
the cause."

"Is it serious?"

"Oh, no.  I have an injection that'll soon put him right.  He's well
enough in himself, isn't he?"

"Aye, right as a bobbin."

"Good.  Sometimes it upsets an animal, but this fellow's the picture of
health."

As I filled my syringe with the antihistamine I felt that I had never
spoken truer words.  The big horse radiated health and well-being.

He did not move as I gave the injection, and I was about to put my
syringe away when I had another thought.  I had always used a
proprietary preparation for urticaria and it had invariably worked.
Maybe it would be a good idea to supplement the antihistamine, just to
make sure.  I wanted a good, quick cure for this splendid horse.

I trotted back to my car to fetch the old standby and injected the
usual dose.  Again the big animal paid no attention and the farmer
laughed.

"By gaw, he doesn't mind, does 'e?"

I pocketed the syringe.  "No, I wish all our patients were like him.
He's a grand sort."

This, I thought, was vetting at its best.  An easy, trouble-free case,
a nice farmer and a docile patient who was a picture of equine beauty,
a picture I could have looked at all day.  I didn't want to go away,
though other calls were waiting.  I just stood there, half listening to
Mr.  Kettlewell's chatter about the imminent lambing season.

"Ah, well," I said at length, "I must be on my way."  I was turning to
go when I noticed that the farmer had fallen silent.

The silence lasted for a few moments, then, "He's dotherin' a bit," he
said.

I looked at the horse.  There was the faintest tremor in the muscles of
the limbs.  It was hardly visible, but as I watched, it began to spread
upwards, minute by minute, until the skin over the neck, body and rump
began to quiver.  It was very slight, but there was no doubt it was
gradually increasing in intensity.

"What is it?"  said Mr.  Kettlewell.

"Oh, just a little reaction.  It'll soon pass off."  I was trying to
sound airy, but I wasn't so sure.

With agonising slowness the trembling developed into a generali sed
shaking of the entire frame, and this steadily increased in violence as
the farmer and I stood there in silence.  I seemed to have been there a
long time, trying to look calm and unworried, but I couldn't believe
what I was seeing.  This sudden, inexplicable transition--there was no
reason for it.  My heart began to thump and my mouth turned dry as the
shaking was replaced by great shuddering spasms that racked the horse's
frame, and his eyes, so serene a short while ago, started from his head
in terror, while foam began to drop from his lips.  My mind raced.
Maybe I shouldn't have mixed those injections, but it couldn't have
this fearful effect.  It was impossible.

As the seconds passed, I felt I couldn't stand much more of this.  The
blood hammered in my ears.  Surely he would start to recover soon--he
couldn't get worse.

I was wrong.  Almost imperceptibly the huge animal began to sway.  Only
a little at first, then more and more till he was tilting from side to
side like a mighty oak in a gale.  Oh, dear God, he was going to go
down and that would be the end.  And that end had to come soon.  The
cobbles shook under my feet as the great horse crashed to the ground.
For a few moments he lay there, stretched on his side, his feet
pedalling convulsively, then he was still.

Well, that was it.  I had killed this magnificent horse.  It was
impossible, unbelievable, but a few minutes ago that animal had been
standing there in all his strength and beauty and I had come along with
my clever new medicines and now there he was, dead.

What was I going to say?  I'm terribly sorry, Mr.  Kettlewell, I just
can't understand how this happened.  My mouth opened, but nothing came
out, not even a croak.  And, as though looking at a picture from the
outside, I became aware of the square of farm buildings with the dark,
snow-streaked fells rising behind under a lowering sky, of the biting
wind, the farmer and myself, and the motionless body of the horse.

I felt chilled to the bone and miserable, but I had to say my piece.  I
took a long, quavering breath and was about to speak when the horse
raised his head slightly.  I said nothing, nor did Mr.  Kettlewell, as
the big animal eased himself onto his chest, looked around for a few
seconds and got to his feet.  He shook his head, then walked across to
his master.  The recovery was just as quick, just as incredible, as the
devastating collapse, and he showed no ill effects from his crashing
fall onto the cobbled yard.

The farmer reached up and patted the horse's neck.

"You know, Mr.  Herriot, them spots have nearly gone!"

I went over and had a look.  "That's right.  You can hardly see them
now."

Mr.  Kettlewell shook his head wonderingly.  "Aye, well, it's a
wonderful new treatment.  But I'll tell that sum mat  I hope you don't
mind me sayin' this, but"--he put his hand on my arm and looked up into
my face-"ah think it's just a bit drastic."

I drove away from the farm and pulled up my car in the lee of a
dry-stone wall.  A great weariness had descended upon me.  This sort of
thing wasn't good for me.  I was getting on in years now--well into my
thirties--and I couldn't stand these shocks like I used to.  I tipped
the driving mirror down and had a look at myself.  I was a bit pale,
but not as ghastly white as I felt.  Still, the feeling of guilt and
bewilderment persisted, and with it the recurring thought that there
must be easier ways of earning a living than as a country veterinary
surgeon.  Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, rough, dirty and
peppered with traumatic incidents like that near catastrophe back
there.  I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.

When I opened them a few minutes later, the sun had broken through the
clouds, bringing the green hillsides and the sparkling ridges of snow
to vivid life, painting the rocky outcrops with gold.  I wound the
window down and breathed in the cold, clean air, drifting down, fresh
and tangy, from the moorland high above.  A curlew cried, breaking the
enveloping silence, and on the grassy bank by the roadside I saw the
first primroses of spring.

Peace began to steal through me.  Maybe I hadn't done anything wrong
with Mr.  Kettlewell's horse.  Maybe antihistamines did sometimes cause
these reactions.  Anyway, as I started the engine and drove away, the
old feeling began to well up in me and within minutes it was running
strong; it was good to be able to work with animals in this thrilling
countryside; I was lucky to be a vet in the Yorkshire Dales.

Chapter 2

There is no doubt that a shock to the system heightens the perception,
because as I drove away from Mr.  Kettlewell's with my heart still
fluttering to begin the rest of my morning round it was as though I was
seeing everything for the first time.  In my daily work I was always
aware of the beauty around me and had never lost the sense of wonder
that had filled me when I had my first sight of Yorkshire, but this
morning the magic of the Dales was stronger than ever.

My eyes strayed again and again over the towering flanks of the fells,
taking in the pattern of walled green fields won from the yellow
moorland grass, and I gazed up at the high tops with the thrill of
excitement that always came down to me from that untrodden land.

After visiting one isolated farm I couldn't resist pulling my car off
the unfenced road and climbing with my beagle, Dinah, to the high
country that beckoned me.  The snow had disappeared almost overnight,
leaving only runnels of white lying behind the walls, and it was as
though all the scents of the earth and growing things had been
imprisoned and were released now by the spring sunshine in waves of a
piercing sweetness.  When I reached the summit I was breathless and
gulped the crystal air greedily as though I could never get enough of
it.

Here there was no evidence of the hand of man, and I walked with my dog
among miles of heather, peat hags and bog pools with the black waters
rippling and the tufts of rushes bending and swaying in the eternal
wind.

As the cloud shadows, racing on the wind, flew over me, trailing
ribbons of shade and brightness over the endless browns and greens, I
felt a rising exhilaration at just being up there on the roof of
Yorkshire.  It was an empty landscape where no creature stirred and all
was silent except for the cry of a distant bird, and yet I felt a
further surge of excitement in the solitude, a tingling sense of the
nearness of all creation.

As always, the siren song of the lonely uplands tempted me to stay, but
the morning was wearing on and I had several more farms to visit.

It was with a lingering feeling of fulfilment that I finished my last
call and headed for my town of Darrowby.  Its square church tower
pushed above the tumbled roofs of the little town as I came down the
dale and soon I was driving through the cobbled market-place with the
square of fretted roofs above the shops and pubs that served its three
thousand inhabitants.

In the far corner I turned down Trengate, the street of our surgery,
and drew up at the three storeys of mellow brick and climbing ivy of
Skeldale House, my work place and happy home where my wife, Helen, and
I had brought up our children.

The memories came back of the unforgettable times when my partner,
Siegfried, and his inimitable brother, Tristan, had lived and laughed
there with me in our bachelor days, but now they were both married and
with their families in their own homes.  Tristan had joined the
Ministry of Agriculture, but Siegfried was still my partner, and for
the thousandth time I thanked heaven that both the brothers were still
my close friends.

My son, Jimmy, was ten now and daughter, Rosie, six, and they were at
school, but Siegfried was coming down the steps, stuffing bottles into
his pockets.

"Ah, James," he cried.  "I've just taken a message for you.  One of
your most esteemed clients--Mrs.  Bartram.  Puppy is in need of your
services."  He was grinning as he spoke.

I smiled ruefully in reply.  "Oh, fine.  You didn't fancy going there
yourself, did you?"

"No, no, my boy.  Wouldn't dream of depriving you of the pleasure."  He
waved cheerfully and climbed into his car.

I looked at my watch.  I still had half an hour before lunch and Puppy
was only walking distance away.  I got my bag and set off.

The heavenly aroma of fish and chips drifted out on the summer air and
I felt a quick stab of hunger as I looked through the shop window at
the white-coated figures with their wire scoops, lifting out the
crisply battered haddocks and laying them out to drain by the golden
mounds of chips, those enticing morsels lovingly known in America as
"French-fried potatoes."

The lunch-time trade was brisk and the queue moved steadily round the
shop, gathering up the newspaper-wrapped parcels, some customers
hurrying home with them, others shaking on salt and vinegar before an
alfresco meal in the street.

I always had my gastric juices titillated when I visited Mrs. Bartram's
dog in the flat above the fish and chip shop, and I took another
rewarding breath as I went down the alley and climbed the stairs.

Mrs.  Bartram was in her usual chair in the kitchen; fat, massive,
deadpan, the invariable cigarette dangling from her lips.  She was
throwing chips from a bag in her lap to her dog, Puppy, sitting
opposite.  He caught them expertly one after the other.

Puppy belied his name.  He was an enormous, shaggy creature of doubtful
ancestry andwitha short temper.  I always treated him with respect.

"He's still rather fat, Mrs.  Bartram," I said.  "Haven't you tried to
change his diet as I advised?  Remember I said he shouldn't really be
fed solely on fish and chips."

She shrugged and a light shower of ash fell on her blouse.  "Oh, aye,
ah did for a bit.  I cut out the chips and just gave 'im fish every
day, but he didn't like it.  Loves his chips, 'e does."

"I see."  I couldn't say too much about the diet because I had the
feeling that Mrs.  Bartram herself ate very little else and it would
have been tactless to point out that big chunks of battered fried fish
didn't constitute a slimming regime, because her figure, like her
dog's, bore witness to the fact.

In fact, as I looked at the two, they had a great similarity sitting
there, bolt upright, facing each other.  Both huge, immobile, but
giving an impression of latent power.

Often fat dogs were lazy and good-natured, but a long succession of
postmen, newsboys and door-to-door salesmen had had to take desperate
evasive action as Puppy turned suddenly into a monster baying at their
heels, and I had one vivid memory of a brush vendor cycling unhurriedly
down the alley with his wares dangling from the handlebars, slowing
down outside the flat, then, when Puppy catapulted into the street,
taking off like the winner of the Tour de France.

"Well, what's the trouble, Mrs.  Bartram?"  I asked, changing the
subject.

"It's 'is eye.  Keeps runnin'."

"Ah, yes, I see."  The big dog's left eye was almost completely closed,
and a trickle of discharge made a dark track down the hair of his face.
It made his appearance even more sinister.  "There's some irritation
there, probably an infection."

It would have been nice to find the cause.  There could be a foreign
body in there or just a spot of conjunctivitis.  I reached out my hand
to pull the eyelid down but Puppy, without moving, fixed me with his
good eye and drew his lips back from a row of formidable teeth.

I withdrew my hand.  "Yes ... yes ... I'll have to give you some
antibiotic ointment and you must squeeze a little into his eye three
times a day.  You'll be able to do that, won't you?"

"Course I will.  He's as gentle as an awd sheep."  Expressionlessly she
lit another cigarette from the old one and drew the smoke down deeply.
"Ah can do anything with 'im."

"Good, good."  As I rummaged in my bag for the ointment I had the old
feeling of defeat, but there was nothing else for it.  It was always
long-range treatment with Puppy.  I had never tried anything silly like
taking his temperature, in fact I'd never laid a finger on him in my
life.

I heard from Mrs.  Bartram again two weeks later.  Puppy's eye was no
better, in fact it was worse.

I hurried round to the flat, inhaling the delicious vapours from the
shop as I went down the alley.  Puppy was in the same position as
before, upright, facing his mistress, and there was no doubt there was
an increased discharge from the eye.  But this time I fancied I could
see something else and I leaned forward, peering closely into the dog's
face as a faint but menacing growl warned me not to take any more
liberties.  And it was there, all right, the cause of the trouble.  A
tiny papilloma growing from the margin of the eyelid and rubbing on the
cornea.

I turned to Mrs.  Bartram.  "He's got a little growth in there.  It's
irritating his eye and causing the discharge."

"Growth?"  The lady's face seldom registered any emotion, but one
eyebrow twitched upwards and the cigarette trembled briefly in her
mouth.  "Ah don't like the sound o' that."

"Oh, it's quite benign," I said.  "Nothing to worry about.  I'll be
able to remove it easily and he'll be perfectly all right
afterwards."

I spoke lightly because indeed these things were quite common and a
little injection of local anaesthetic and a quick snip with a pair of
curved scissors did the trick effortlessly, but as I looked at the big
dog regarding me coldly with his one eye I felt a twinge of anxiety.
Things might not be so easy with Puppy.

My misgivings proved to be well founded when Mrs.  Bartram brought him
round to the surgery next morning and left him in the small consulting
room.  He would obviously have to be sedated before we could do
anything, and among the rush of new drugs were excellent tranquillisers
such as acetyl promazine  There was, however, the small matter of one
of us grasping that leonine head while the other lifted a fold of skin
and inserted the needle.  Puppy made it very clear that such things
were not on the agenda.  Being on strange ground and feeling threatened
he came roaring, open-mouthed, at Siegfried and me as soon as we tried
to enter the room.  We retreated hastily and locked the door.

"Dog catcher?"  suggested Siegfried without conviction.

I shook my head.  The dog catcher was a snare of soft flex on the end
of a long pole and was a handy instrument to slip over a difficult
dog's head and steady it while the injection was made, but with Puppy
it would be like trying to lasso a grizzly bear.  If we ever managed to
get the loop over his head it would be the prelude to a fearsome
wrestling match.

However, we'd had tough dogs before and we had a little trick in
reserve.

"Looks like one for the Nembutal," Siegfried murmured and I nodded
agreement.  For unapproachable cases we kept a supply of succulent
minced beef in the fridge.  It was a delicacy no dog could resist and
it was a simple matter to break a few capsules of Nembutal among the
meat and wait while the animal drifted into a state of blissful
somnolence.  It always worked.

But it was time-consuming.  Removing the tiny growth should have been a
few minutes' job and we'd have to wait for twenty minutes or so until
the stuff took effect.  I tried not to think of the urgent cases all
over the countryside needing our attention as I prepared the medicated
mince.

The consulting room opened onto the garden through a sash window, which
was open a few inches at the bottom.  I threw the meat through this
aperture and the two of us went into the office to prepare for our
rounds.

When we came back we expected to find Puppy slumbering peacefully, but
when we peered in he threw himself at the window, snarling like a
starving wolf.  On the floor the meat lay untouched.

"Look at that!"  I cried.  "I don't believe it.  No dog's ever refused
that lovely stuff before!"

Siegfried slapped his forehead.  "What a damn nuisance!  Do you think
he can smell the Nembutal?  Better try him with a bigger proportion of
mince."

I made up another supply and threw it again through the opening.  We
retreated to allay the dog's suspicions, but when we crept up ten
minutes later the picture hadn't changed.  Puppy had not eaten a single
mouthful.

"What the hell are we going to do?"  Siegfried burst out.  "It's going
to be lunch time before we get out!"

It was indeed getting on towards lunch time because a gentle breeze was
carrying the first fragrance from the fish and chip shop down the
street.  "Just hang on for a minute," I said.  "I think I know the
answer."

I galloped along Trengate and returned with a bag of chips.  It was the
work of a moment to insert a capsule in a chip and flick it through the
aperture.  Puppy was on it like flash and swallowed it without
hesitation.  Another chip, another capsule, and so on until he had
received the requisite dose.

Even as we watched, the big dog's ferocity was gradually replaced by an
amiable goofiness and when he took a few uncertain steps, then flopped
onto his side, we knew we had won.  When we finally unlocked the door
and entered the room Puppy was in a happy trance, and we performed the
operation in a couple of minutes.

He was still dopey and unusually peaceful when his mistress called to
collect him later that day.  When she brought him into the office, his
huge head was level with my desk and he almost smiled at me as I sat
down.

"We've removed that little thing, Mrs.  Bartram," I said.  "His eye
will be fine now, but I'm prescribing a course of Lincocin tablets to
stop any further infection."

As I reached for a pen to write the instructions I glanced at the other
labels I had written.  In those days, before injections became the
general procedure, many of our medicines were given by mouth.  The
instructions on the other labels were varied: "Mixture for bullock.  To
be given in a pint of treacle water."  "Drench for calf.  To be given
in half a pint of flour gruel."

I poised my pen for a moment, then, for the first time in my life, I
wrote, "Tablets for dog.  One to be given three times daily, inserted
in chips."

Chapter 3

My throat was killing me.  Three successive nocturnal lambings on the
windswept hillsides in my shirtsleeves had left me with the beginnings
of a cold and I felt in urgent need of a packet of Geoff Hatfield's
cough drops.  An unscientific treatment, perhaps, but I had a childish
faith in those powerful little candies that exploded in the mouth,
sending a blast of medicated vapour surging through the bronchial
tubes.

The shop was down a side alley, almost hidden away, and it was so
tiny--not much more than a cubby hole--that there was hardly room for
the sign, GEOFFREY HAT FIELD CONFECTIONER, above the window.  But it
was full.  It was always full, and, this being market day, it was
packed out.

The little bell went "ching" as I opened the door and squeezed into the
crush of local ladies and farmers' wives.  I'd have to wait for a while
but I didn't mind, because watching Mr.  Hatfield in action was one of
the rewarding things in my life.

I had come at a good time, too, because the proprietor was in the
middle of one of his selection struggles.  He had his back to me, the
silver-haired, leonine head nodding slightly on the broad shoulders as
he surveyed the rows of tall glass sweet jars against the wall.  His
hands, clasped behind him, tensed and relaxed repeatedly as he fought
his inner battle, then he took a few strides along the row, gazing
intently at each jar in turn.  It struck me that Lord Nelson pacing the
quarter deck of the Victory and wondering how best to engage the enemy
could not have displayed a more portentous concentration.

The tension in the little shop rose palpably as he reached up a hand,
then withdrew it with a shake of the head, but a sigh went up from the
assembled ladies as, with a final grave nod and a squaring of the
shoulders, he extended both arms, seized a jar and swung round to face
the company.  His large Roman senator face was crinkled into a benign
smile.

"Now, Mrs.  Moffat," he boomed at a stout matron, holding out the glass
vessel with both hands, inclining it slightly with all the grace and
deference of a Cartier jeweller displaying a diamond necklace, "I
wonder if I can interest you in this."

Mrs.  Moffat, clutching her shopping basket, peered closely at the
paper-wrapped confections in the jar.  "Well, ah don't know...."

"If I remember rightly, madam, you indicated that you were seeking
something in the nature of a Russian caramel, and I can thoroughly
recommend these little sweetmeats.  Not quite a Russian, but
nevertheless a very nice, smooth-eating toffee."  His expression became
serious, expectant.

The fruity tones rolling round his description made me want to grab the
sweets and devour them on the spot, and they seemed to have the same
effect on the lady.  "Right, Mr.  Hatfield," she said eagerly.  "I'll
'ave half a pound."

The shopkeeper gave a slight bow.  "Thank you so much, madam, I'm sure
you will not regret your choice."  His features relaxed into a gracious
smile and as he lovingly trickled the toffees onto his scales before
bagging them with a professional twirl, I felt a renewed desire to get
at the things.

Mr.  Hatfield, leaning forward with both hands on the counter, kept his
gaze on his customer until he had bowed her out of the shop with a
courteous "Good day to you, madam."  Then he turned to face the
congregation.  "Ah, Mrs.  Dawson, how very nice to see you.  And what
is your pleasure this morning?"

The lady, obviously delighted, beamed at him.  "I'd like some of them
fudge chocolates I 'ad last week, Mr.  Hatfield.  They were lovely.
Have you still got some?"

"Indeed I have, madam, and I am delighted that you approve of my
recommendation.  Such a deliciously creamy flavour.  Also, it so
happens that I have just received a consignment in a special
presentation box for Easter."  He lifted one from the shelf and
balanced it on the palm of his hand.  "Really pretty and attractive,
don't you think?"

Mrs.  Dawson nodded rapidly.  "Oh, aye, that's real bonny.  I'll take a
box and there's sum mat else I want.  A right big bag of nice boiled
sweets for the family to suck at.  Mixed colours, you know.  What 'ave
you got?"

Mr.  Hatfield steepled his fingers, gazed at her fixedly and took a
long, contemplative breath.  He held this pose for several seconds,
then he swung round, clasped his hands behind him, and recommenced his
inspection of the jars.

That was my favourite bit and, as always, I was enjoying it.  It was a
familiar scene.  The tiny, crowded shop, the proprietor wrestling with
his assignment and Alfred sitting at the far end of the counter.

Alfred was Geoff's cat and he was always there, seated upright and
majestic on the polished boards near the curtained doorway that led to
the Hatfield sitting room.  As usual, he seemed to be taking a keen
interest in the proceedings, his gaze moving from his master's face to
the customer's, and though it may have been my imagination I felt that
his expression registered a grave involvement in the negotiations and a
deep satisfaction at the outcome.  He never left his place or
encroached on the rest of the counter, but occasionally one or other of
the ladies would stroke his cheek and he would respond with a booming
purr and a gracious movement of the head towards them.

It was typical that he never yielded to any unseemly display of
emotion.  That would have been undignified and dignity was an
unchanging part of him.  Even as a kitten he had never indulged in
immoderate playfulness.  I had neutered him three years ago--for which
he appeared to bear me no ill will--and he had grown into a massive,
benevolent tabby.  I looked at him now, sitting in his place.  Vast,
imperturbable, at peace with his world.  There was no doubt he was a
cat of enormous presence.

And it had always struck me forcibly that he was exactly like his
master in that respect.  They were two of a kind and it was no surprise
that they were such devoted friends.

When it came to my turn I was able to reach Alfred and I tickled him
under his chin.  He liked that and raised his head high while the
purring rumbled up from the furry rib-cage till it resounded throughout
the shop.

Even collecting my cough drops had its touch of ceremony.  The big man
behind the counter sniffed gravely at the packet, then clapped his hand
a few times against his chest.  "You can smell the goodness, Mr.
Herriot, the beneficial vapours.  These will have you right in no
time."  He bowed and smiled and I could swear that Alfred smiled with
him.

I squeezed my way out through the ladies and as I walked down the alley
I marvelled for the umpteenth time at the phenomenon of Geoffrey
Hatfield.  There were several other sweet shops in Darrowby, big
double-fronted places with their wares attractively displayed in the
windows, but none of them did anything like the trade of the poky
establishment I had just left.  There was no doubt that it was all due
to Geoff's unique selling technique and it was certainly not an act on
his part; it was born of a completely sincere devotion to his calling,
a delight in what he was doing.

His manner and "posh" diction gave rise to a certain amount of ribald
comment from men who had left the local school with him at the age of
fourteen, and in the pubs he was often referred to as "the bishop," but
it was good-natured stuff because he was a well-liked man.  And, of
course, the ladies adored him and flocked to bask in his attentions.

About a month later I was in the shop again to get some of Rosie's
favourite liquorice all-sorts and the picture was the same-Geoffrey
smiling and booming, Alfred in his place, following every move, the
pair of them radiating dignity and well-being.  As I collected my
sweets, the proprietor whispered in my ear.

"I'll be closing for lunch at twelve noon, Mr.  Herriot.  Would you be
so kind as to call in and examine Alfred?"

"Yes, of course."  I looked along the counter at the big cat.  "Is he
ill?"

"Oh, no, no ... but I just feel there's something not right."

Later I knocked at the closed door and Geoffrey let me into the shop,
empty for once, then through the curtained doorway into his sitting
room.  Mrs.  Hatfield was at a table, drinking tea.  She was a much
earthier character than her husband.  "Now then, Mr.  Herriot, you've
come to see t'little cat."

"He isn't so little," I said, laughing.  And indeed, Alfred looked more
massive than ever seated by the fire, looking calmly into the flames.
When he saw me he got up, stalked unhurriedly over the carpet and
arched his back against my legs.  I felt strangely honoured.

"He's really beautiful, isn't he?"  I murmured.  I hadn't had a close
look at him for some time and the friendly face with the dark stripes
running down to the intelligent eyes appealed to me as never before.
"Yes," I said, stroking the fur, which shone luxuriantly in the
flickering firelight, "you're a big beautiful fellow."

I turned to Mr.  Hatfield.  "He looks fine to me.  What is it that's
worrying you?"

"Oh, maybe it's nothing at all.  His appearance certainly has not
altered in the slightest, but for over a week now I've noticed that he
is not quite so keen on his food, not quite so lively.  He's not really
ill ... he's just different."

"I see.  Well, let's have a look at him."  I went over the cat
carefully.  Temperature was normal, mucous membranes a healthy pink.  I
got out my stethoscope and auscultated heart and lungs--nothing
abnormal to hear.  Palpation of the abdomen produced no clue.

"Well, Mr.  Hatfield," I said, "there doesn't seem to be anything
obviously wrong with him.  He's maybe a bit run down, but he doesn't
look it.  Anyway, I'll give him a vitamin injection.  That should buck
him up.  Let me know in a few days if he's no better."

"Thank you indeed, sir.  I am most grateful.  You have set my mind at
rest."  The big man reached out a hand to his pet.  The confident
resonance of his voice was belied by the expression of concern on his
face.  Seeing them together made me sense anew the similarity of man
and cat--human and animal, yes, but alike in their impressiveness.

I heard nothing about Alfred for a week and assumed that he had
returned to normal, but then his master telephoned.  "He's just the
same, Mr.  Herriot.  In fact, if anything, he had deteriorated
slightly.  I would be obliged if you would look at him again."

It was just as before.  Nothing definite to see even on close
examination.  I put him onto a course of mixed minerals and vitamin
tablets.  There was no point in launching into treatment with our new
antibiotics--there was no elevation of temperature, no indication of
any infectious agent.

I passed the alley every day--it was only about a hundred yards from
Skeldale House--and I fell into the habit of stopping and looking in
through the little window of the shop.  Each day, the familiar scene
presented itself; Geoff bowing and smiling to his customers and Alfred
sitting in his place at the end of the counter.  Everything seemed
right, and yet ... there was something different about the cat.

I called in one evening and examined him again.  "He's losing weight,"
I said.

Geoffrey nodded.  "Yes, I do think so.  He is still eating fairly well,
but not as much as before."

"Give him another few days on the tablets," I said, "and if he's no
better I'll have to get him round to the surgery and go into this thing
a bit more deeply."

I had a nasty feeling there would be no improvement and there wasn't,
so one evening I took a cat cage round to the shop.  Alfred was so huge
that there was a problem fitting him into the container, but he did not
resist as I bundled him gently inside.

At the surgery I took a blood sample from him and X-rayed him.  The
plate was perfectly clear and when the report came back from the
laboratory it showed no abnormality.

In a way, it was reassuring, but that did not help because the steady
decline continued.  The next few weeks were something like a nightmare.
My anxious peering through the shop window became a daily ordeal.  The
big cat was still in his place, but he was getting thinner and thinner
until he was almost unrecognisable.  I tried every drug and treatment I
could think of, but nothing did any good.  I had Siegfried examine him,
but he thought as I did.  The progressive emaciation was the sort of
thing you would expect from an internal tumour, but further X-rays
still showed nothing.  Alfred must have been thoroughly fed up of all
the pushing around, the tests, the kneading of his abdomen, but at no
time did he show any annoyance.  He accepted the whole thing placidly
as was his wont.

There was another factor that made the situation much worse.  Geoff
himself was wilting under the strain.  His comfortable coating of flesh
was dropping steadily away from him, the normally florid cheeks were
pale and sunken and, worse still, his dramatic selling style appeared
to be deserting him.  One day I left my viewpoint at the window and
pushed my way into the press of ladies in the shop.  It was a harrowing
scene.  Geoff, bowed and shrunken, was taking the orders without even a
smile, pouring the sweets listlessly into their bags and mumbling a
word or two.  Gone was the booming voice and the happy chatter of the
customers and a strange silence hung over the company.  It was just
like any other sweet shop.

Saddest sight of all was Alfred, still sitting bravely upright in his
place.  He was unbelievably gaunt, his fur had lost its bloom and he
stared straight ahead, dead-eyed, as though nothing interested him any
more.  He was like a feline scarecrow.

I couldn't stand it any longer.  That evening I went round to see Geoff
Hatfield.

"I saw your cat today," I said, "and he's going rapidly downhill.  Are
there any new symptoms?"

The big man nodded dully.  "Yes, as a matter of fact.  I was going to
ring you.  He's been vomiting a bit."

I dug my nails into my palms.  "There it is again.  Everything points
to something abnormal inside him and yet I can't find a thing."  I bent
down and stroked Alfred.  "I hate to see him like this.  Look at his
fur.  It used to be so glossy."

"That's right," replied Geoff.  "He's neglecting himself.  He never
washes himself now.  It's as though he can't be bothered.  And before,
he was always at it.  Lick, lick, lick for hours on end."

I stared at him.  His words had sparked something in my mind.  "Lick,
lick, lick."  I paused in thought.  "Yes ... when I think about it, no
cat I ever knew washed himself as much as Alfred...."  The spark
suddenly became a flame and I jerked upright in my chair.

"Mr.  Hatfield," I said, "I want to do an exploratory laparotomy!"

"What do you mean?"

"I think he's got a hair-ball inside him and I want to operate to see
if I'm right."

"Open him up, you mean?"

"That's right."

He put a hand over his eyes and his chin sank onto his chest.  He
stayed like that for a long time, then he looked at me with haunted
eyes.  "Oh, I don't know.  I've never thought of anything like that."

"We've got to do something or this cat is going to die."

He bent and stroked Alfred's head again and again, then without looking
up he spoke in a husky voice.  "All right, when?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Next day, in the operating room, as Siegfried and I bent over the
sleeping cat, my mind was racing.  We had been doing much more
small-animal surgery lately, but I had always known what to expect.
This time I felt as though I was venturing into the unknown.

I incised through skin, abdominal muscles and peritoneum and when I
reached forward towards the diaphragm I could feel a doughy mass inside
the stomach.  I cut through the stomach wall and my heart leaped. There
it was, a large, matted hair-ball.  The cause of all the trouble.
Something that wouldn't show up on an X-ray plate.

Siegfried grinned.  "Well, now we know!"

"Yes," I said as the great waves of relief swept over me.  "Now we
know."

And there was more.  After I had evacuated and stitched the stomach, I
found other, smaller hair-balls, bulging the intestine along its
length.  These had all to be removed and the bowel wall stitched in
several places.  I didn't like this.  It meant a bigger trauma and
shock to my patient, but finally all was done and only a neat row of
skin sutures was visible.

When I returned Alfred to his home his master could hardly bear to look
at him.  At length he took a timid glance at the cat, still sleeping
under the anaesthetic.  "Will he live?"  he whispered.

"He has a good chance," I replied.  "He has had some major surgery and
it might take him some time to get over it, but he's young and strong.
He should be all right."

I could see Geoff wasn't convinced, and that was how it was over the
next few days.  I kept visiting the little room behind the shop to give
the cat penicillin injections, and it was obvious that he had made up
his mind that Alfred was going to die.

Mrs.  Hatfield was more optimistic, but she was worried about her
husband.

"Eee, he's given up hope," she said.  "And it's all because Alfred just
lies in his bed all day.  I've tried to tell 'im that it'll be a bit o'
time before the cat starts runnin' around, but he won't listen."

She looked at me with anxious eyes.  "And, you know, it's getting' him
down, Mr.  Herriot.  He's a different man.  Sometimes I wonder if he'll
ever be the same again."

I went over and peeped past the curtain into the shop.  Geoff was
there, doing his job like an automaton.  Haggard, unsmiling, silently
handing out the sweets.  When he did speak it was in a listless
monotone and I realised with a sense of shock that his voice had lost
all its old timbre.  Mrs.  Hatfield was right.  He was a different man.
And, I thought, if he stayed different what would happen to his
clientele?  So far they had remained faithful, but I had a feeling they
would soon start to drift away.

It was a week before the picture began to change for the better.  I
entered the sitting room, but Alfred wasn't there.

Mrs.  Hatfield jumped up from her chair.  "He's a lot better, Mr.
Herriot," she said eagerly.  "Eating well and seemed to want to go into
t'shop.  He's in there with Geoff now."

Again I took a surreptitious look past the curtain.  Alfred was back in
his place, skinny but sitting upright.  But his master didn't look any
better.

I turned back into the room.  "Well, I won't need to come any more,
Mrs.  Hatfield.  Your cat is well on the way to recovery.  He should
soon be as good as new."  I was quite confident about this, but I
wasn't so sure about Geoff.

Soon afterwards, the rush of spring lambing and post-lambing troubles
overwhelmed me as it did every year, and I had little time to think
about my other cases.  It must have been three weeks before I visited
the sweet shop to buy some chocolates for Helen.  The place was packed
and as I pushed my way inside all my fears were rushing back and I
looked anxiously at man and cat.

Alfred, massive and dignified again, sat like a king at the far end of
the counter.  Geoff was leaning on the counter with both hands, gazing
closely into a lady's face.  "As I understand you, Mrs.  Hird, you are
looking for something in the nature of a softer sweetmeat."  The rich
voice reverberated round the little shop.  "Could you perhaps mean a
Turkish delight?"

"Nay, Mr.  Hatfield, it wasn't that ..."

His head fell on his chest and he studied the polished boards of the
counter with fierce concentration.  Then he looked up and pushed his
face nearer to the lady's.  "A pastille, possibly ...?"

"Nay ... nay."

"A truffle?  A soft caramel?  A peppermint cream?"

"No, nowt like that."

He straightened up.  This was a tough one.  He folded his arms across
his chest and as he stared into space and took the long inhalation I
remembered so well, I could see that he was a big man again, his
shoulders spreading wide, his face ruddy and well-fleshed.

Nothing having evolved from his cogitations, his jaw jutted and he
turned his face upwards, seeking further inspiration from the ceiling.
Alfred, I noticed, looked upwards, too.

There was a tense silence as Geoff held his pose, then a smile crept
slowly over his noble features.  He raised a finger.  "Madam," he said,
"I do fancy I have it.  Whitish, you said ... sometimes pink ... rather
squashy ... May I suggest to you ... marshmallow?"

Mrs.  Hird thumped the counter.  "Aye, that's it, Mr.  Hatfield.  I
just couldn't think of t'name."

"Ha-ha, I thought so," boomed the proprietor, his organ tones rolling
to the roof.  He laughed, the ladies laughed, and I was positive that
Alfred laughed, too.

All was well again.  Everybody in the shop was happy--Geoff, Alfred,
the ladies and, not least, James Herriot.

Chapter 4

"You call yourself a vet, but you're nowt but a robber!"

Mrs.  Sidlow, her fierce little dark eyes crackling with fury, spat out
the words and as I looked at her, taking in the lank black hair framing
the haggard face with its pointed chin, I thought, not for the first
time, how very much she resembled a witch.  It was easy to imagine her
throwing a leg over a broomstick and zooming off for a quick flip
across the moon.

"All t'country's talkin' about you and your big bills," she continued.
"I don't know how you get away with it, it's daylight robbery--robbin'
the poor farmers and then you come out here bold as brass in your flash
car."

That was what had started it.  Since my old vehicle was dropping to
bits I had lashed out on a second-hand Austin 10.  It had done twenty
thousand miles but had been well maintained and looked like new with
its black body work shining in the sun, and the very sight of it had
sparked off Mrs.  Sidlow.

The purchase of a new car was invariably greeted with a bit of
leg-pulling by most of the farmers.  "Job must be payin' well," they
would say with a grin.  But it was all friendly, with never a hint of
the venom that seemed to be part of the Sidlow menage.

The Sidlows hated vets.  Not just me, but all of them, and that was
quite a few because they had tried every practice for miles around and
found them all wanting.  The trouble was that Mr.  Sidlow himself was
quite simply the only man in the district who knew anything about
doctoring sick animals--his wife and all his grown-up family knew this
as an article of faith and whenever illness struck any of his cattle,
it was natural that Father took over.  It was only when he had
exhausted his supply of secret remedies that the vet was called in.  I
personally had seen only dying animals on that farm and had been unable
to bring them back to life, so the Sidlows were invariably confirmed in
their opinion of me and all my profession.

Today I had been viewing with the old feeling of hopelessness an
emaciated little beast huddled in a dark corner of the fold yard taking
its last few breaths after a week of pneumonia while the family stood
around breathing hostility, shooting the usual side glances at me from
their glowering faces.  I had been trailing wearily back to my car on
the way out when Mrs.  Sidlow had spotted me from the kitchen window
and catapulted into the yard.

"Aye, it's aw right for you," she went on.  "We 'ave to work hard to
make a livin' on this spot and then such as you come and take our money
away from us without doin' anythin' for it.  Ah know what it is, your
idea is to get rich quick!"

Only my long training that the customer is always right stopped me from
barking back.  Instead I forced a smile.

"Mrs.  Sidlow," I said, "I assure you that I'm anything but rich.  In
fact, if you could see my bank balance you would see what I mean."

"You're tellin' me you haven't much money?"

"That's right."

She waved towards the Austin and gave me another searing glare.  "So
this fancy car's just a lot o' show on nowt!"

I had no answer.  She had me both ways-either I was a fat cat or a
stuck-up poseur.

As I drove away up the rising road I looked back at the farm with its
substantial house and wide sprawl of buildings.  There were five
hundred lush acres down there, lying in the low country at the foot of
the dale.  The Sidlows were big, prosperous farmers with none of the
worries of the hill men who struggled to exist on the bleak small
holdings higher up, and it was difficult to understand why my imagined
affluence should be such an affront to them.

It occurred to me, too, that this latest attack had come at a time when
my finances were at their lowest ebb.  As I changed gear I caught a
glimpse of pink flesh through the knee of my old corduroys.  Oh, hell,
these trousers had just about had it as indeed had a lot of my clothes,
but the needs of two growing children came a long way before my own.
Not that there was any point in going round my work looking like a male
fashion plate--I had one of the roughest, dirtiest jobs in the world
and could only aim at reasonable respectability--and I always had the
comforting knowledge that I did have one "good suit," which had lasted
for many years simply because it was hardly ever worn.

But it was indeed strange that I should be perpetually hard up.
Siegfried and I had built up a good, successful practice.  I worked
nearly all the time, seven days a week, in the evenings and often
during the night, and it was hard work, too--rolling about on cobbled
floors fighting with tough calvings to the point of exhaustion, getting
kicked, crushed, trodden on and sprayed with muck.  Often, I spent days
with every muscle in my body aching.  But I still had only a niggling
and immovable overdraft of l1,000 to show for it all.

Of course, most of my time was spent driving a car.  You didn't get
paid for that, and maybe it was the reason for my situation.  Yet the
driving, the work and the whole rich life was spent out in the open in
this glorious countryside.  I really loved it all and it was only when
I was accused of being a kind of agricultural con man that the
contradiction came home to me.

As the road climbed higher I began to see the church tower and roofs of
Darrowby and, at last, on the edge of the town, the gates of Mrs.
Pumphrey's beautiful home lay beckoning.  I looked at my watch--twelve
noon.  Long practice had enabled me to time my visits here just before
lunch when I could escape the rig ours of country practice and wallow
for a little while in the hospitality of the elderly widow who had
brightened my life for so long.

As my tyres crunched on the gravel of the drive I smiled as Tricki Woo
appeared at the window to greet me.  He was old now, but he could still
get up there to his vantage point and his Pekingese face was split as
always by a panting grin of welcome.

Mounting the steps in the twin pillars of the doorway, I could see that
he had left the window and I heard his joyous barking in the hall.
Ruth, the long-serving maid, answered my ring, beaming with pleasure as
Tricki flung himself at my knees.

"Eee, he's glad to see you, Mr.  'erriot," she said, and, laying a hand
on my arm, "We all are!"

She ushered me into the gracious drawing room, where Mrs.  Pumphrey was
sitting in an armchair by the fire.  She raised her white head from her
book and cried out in delight, "Ah, Mr.  Herriot.  How very, very nice!
And Tricki, isn't it wonderful to have Uncle Herriot visiting again!"

She waved me to the armchair opposite.  "I have been expecting you for
Tricki's check-up, but before you examine him you must sit down and
warm yourself.  It is so terribly cold.  Ruth, my dear, will you bring
Mr.  Herriot a glass of sherry.  You will say yes, won't you, Mr.
Herriot?"

I murmured my thanks.  I always said yes to the very special sherry,
which came in enormous glasses and was deeply heartening at all times
but on cold days in particular.  I sank into the cushions and stretched
my legs towards the flames that leaped in the fireplace, and as I took
my first sip and Ruth deposited a plate of tiny biscuits by my side
while the little dog climbed onto my knee, the last of the hostile
Sidlow vibes slipped gently away from me.

"Tricki has been awfully well since your last visit, Mr.  Herriot,"
Mrs.  Pumphrey said.  "I know he is always going to be a little stiff
with his arthritis but he does get around so well, and his little heart
cough is no worse.  And best of all," she clasped her hands together
and her eyes widened, "he hasn't gone flop-bott at all.  Not once!  So
perhaps you won't have to squeeze the poor darling."

"Oh, no, I won't.  Certainly not.  I only do that if he really needs
it."  I had been squeezing Tricki Woo's bottom for many years because
of his anal gland trouble so graphically named by his mistress and the
little animal had never resented it.  I stroked his head as Mrs.
Pumphrey went on.

"There is something very interesting I must tell you.  As you know,
Tricki has always been deeply knowledgeable about horse racing a
wonderful judge of form, and wins nearly all his bets.  Well, now," she
raised a finger and spoke in a confidential murmur, "just recently he
has become very interested in greyhound-racing!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes, indeed, he has begun to discuss the meetings at the Middlesbrough
greyhound track and instructed me to place bets for him and, you know,
he has won quite a lot of money already!"

"Gosh!"

"Yes, only this morning Crowther, my chauffeur, collected twelve pounds
from the bookmaker after last evening's races."

"Well, well, how wonderful."  My heart bled for Honest Joe Prendergast,
the local turf accountant, who must be suffering after losing money on
horse-racing to a dog for years and then having to pay out on the
greyhounds, too.  "Quite remarkable."

"Isn't it, isn't it!"  Mrs.  Pumphrey gave me a radiant smile, then she
became serious.  "But I do wonder, Mr.  Herriot, just what is
responsible for this new interest.  What is your opinion?"

I shook my head gravely.  "Difficult to say.  Very difficult."

"However, I have a theory," she said.  "Do you think perhaps that as he
grows older he is more drawn to animals of his own species and prefers
to bet on doggy runners like greyhounds?"

"Could be ... could be ..."

"And, after all, you would think with this affinity it would give him
more insight and a better chance of winning."

"Well, yes, that's right.  That's another point."

Tricki, well aware that we were talking about him, waved his fine tail
and looked up at me with his wide grin and lolling tongue.

I settled deeper in the cushions as the sherry began to send warm
tendrils through my system.  This was a happily familiar situation,
listening to Mrs.  Pumphrey's recitals of Tricki Woo's activities.  She
was a kind, highly intelligent and cultivated lady, admired by all and
a benefactress to innumerable charities.  She sat on committees and her
opinion was sought on many important matters, but where her dog was
concerned her conversation never touched on weighty topics, but was
filled with strange and wondrous things.

She leaned forward in her chair.  "There is something else I would like
to talk to you about, Mr.  Herriot.  You know that a Chinese restaurant
has set up in Darrowby?"

"Yes, very nice, too."

She laughed.  "But who would have thought it?  A Chinese restaurant in
a little place like Darrowby--it's amazing!"

"Very unexpected, I agree.  But this last year or two they have been
popping up all over Britain."

"Yes, but what I want to discuss with you is that this has affected
Tricki."

"What!"

"Yes, he has been most upset over the whole business."

"How on earth ...?"

"Well, Mr.  Herriot ..."  She frowned and gazed at me, solemn-faced. "I
told you many years ago and you have always known that Tricki is
descended from a long line of Chinese emperors."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Well, I think I can explain the whole problem if I start at the
beginning."

I took a long swallow at my sherry with the pleasant sensation that I
was floating away in a dream world.  "Please do."

"When the restaurant first opened," she went on, "there was a
surprising amount of resentment among some of the local people.  They
criticised the food and the very nice little Chinese man and his wife
and put it about that there was no place for such a restaurant in
Darrowby and that it should not be patronised.  Now it happened that
when Tricki and I were out on our little walks he overheard these
remarks in the street, and he was furious."

"Really?"

"Yes, quite affronted.  I can tell when he feels like this.  He stalks
about with an insulted expression and it is so difficult to placate
him."

"Dear me, I'm sorry."

"And after all, one can finally understand how he felt when he heard
his own people being denigrated."

"Quite, quite, absolutely--only natural."

"However ... however, Mr.  Herriot."  She raised a finger again and
gave me a knowing smile.  "The clever darling suggested the cure
himself."

"He did?"

"Yes, he told me that we ourselves should start to frequent the
restaurant and sample their food."

"Ah."

"And that is what we did.  I had Crowther drive us there for lunch and
we did enjoy it so much.  Also, we found we could take the food home
all nice and hot in little boxes--what fun!  Now that we have started,
Crowther often pops out in the evening and brings us our supper and you
know, the restaurant seems quite busy now.  I feel we have really
helped."

"I'm sure you have," I said, and I meant it.  The Lotus Garden, tucked
in a corner of the market-place, wasn't much more than a shop front
with four small tables inside, and the sight of the gleaming black
length of the limousine and liveried chauffeur parked frequently at its
door must have given it a tremendous lift.  I was struggling
unsuccessfully to picture the locals peering through the shop window at
Mrs.  Pumphrey and Tricki eating at one of those tiny tables when she
went on.

"I'm so glad you think so.  And we have enjoyed it all so much.  Tricki
adores the char sui and my favourite is the chow mein.  The little
Chinese man is teaching us how to use the chopsticks, too."

I put down my empty glass and dusted the tasty crumbs from my jacket. I
hated to interrupt these sessions and return to reality, but I looked
at my watch.  "I'm so glad things turned out so nicely, Mrs.  Pumphrey,
but I think I'd better give the little chap his check-up."

I lifted Tricki onto a settee and palpated his abdomen thoroughly.
Nothing wrong there.  Then I fished out my stethoscope and listened to
his heart and lungs.  There was the heart murmur I knew about and some
faint bronchitic sounds, which I expected.  In fact I was totally
familiar with all my old friend's internal workings after treating him
over the years.  Teeth now--maybe could do with another scale next
time.  Eyes with the beginnings of the lens opacity of the old dog, but
not too bad at all.

I turned to Mrs.  Pumphrey.  Tricki was on prednoleucotropin for his
arthritis and oxytetracycline for the bronchitis but I never elaborated
on his ailments to her--too many medical terms upset her.  "He's really
wonderful for his age, Mrs.  Pumphrey.  You have his tablets to use
when necessary and you know where I am if ever you need me.  Just one
thing.  You have been very good with his diet lately so don't give him
too many tit bits--not even extra char sui!"

She giggled and gave me a roguish look.  "Oh, please don't scold me,
Mr.  Herriot.  I promise I'll be good."  She paused for a moment.  "I
must mention one more thing with regard to Tricki's arthritis.  You
know that Hodgkin has been throwing rings for him for years?"

"Yes, I do."  Her words raised an image of the dour old gardener under
duress casting the rubber rings on the lawn while the little dog,
barking in delight, brought them back to him again.  Hodgkin, who
clearly didn't like dogs, invariably looked utterly fed up and his lips
always seemed to be moving as he muttered either to himself or
Tricki.

"Well, I thought in view of Tricki's condition that Hodgkin was
throwing the rings too far and I told him to throw them for just a few
feet.  The little darling would have just as much fun with much less
exertion."

"I see."

"Unfortunately," here her expression became disapproving, "Hodgkin has
been rather mean about it."

"In what way?"

"I wouldn't have known anything about it," she said, lowering her
voice, "but Tricki confided in me."

"Did he really?"

"Yes, he told me that Hodgkin had complained bitterly that it meant he
had to bend down a lot more often to pick up the rings and that he had
arthritis, too.  I wouldn't have minded," her voice sank to a whisper,
"but Tricki was deeply shocked; he said Hodgkin used the word "bloody"
several times."

"Oh, dear, dear, yes, I see the difficulty."

"It has made the whole thing so embarrassing for Tricki.  What do you
think I should do?"

I nodded sagely and after some cogitation gave my opinion.  "I do
think, Mrs.  Pumphrey, that it would be a good idea to have the
throwing sessions less often and for a shorter time.  After all, both
Tricki and Hodgkin are no longer young."

She gazed at me for a few moments, then smiled fondly.  "Oh, thank you,
Mr.  Herriot, I'm sure you are right, as always.  I shall follow your
advice."

I was about to make my farewells when Mrs.  Pumphrey put a hand on my
arm.  "Before you go, Mr.  Herriot, I would like you to see
something."

She led the way to a room off the hall and opened the doors of a
massive wardrobe.  I looked at a long row of opulent suits--I had never
seen so many outside a shop.

"These," she said, running her hand slowly along jackets of all kinds,
dark and dressy, light and tweed, "belonged to my late husband."  For a
few moments she was silent as she fingered one sleeve after another,
then she became suddenly brisk and turned to me with a bright smile.
"He did love good clothes and went to London for all his suits.  Now
this one."  She reached up and lifted down a jacket and trousers of
Lovat tweed.  "This one was made by one of the best tailors in Savile
Row.  Ooh, it's so heavy, will you hold it, please?"  She gasped as she
laid it on my outstretched arm and I, too, was amazed at its weight.

"Yes," she went on, "it is the most beautiful country suit and, do you
know, he never wore it."  She shook her head and her eyes softened as
she stroked the lapels.  "No, he never did.  He died a few days after
it was made and he was so looking forward to it.  He was such an
outdoor man, but he did like to be smartly dressed."

Then she said somewhat abruptly, looking up at me with a resolute
expression, "Now, Mr.  Herriot, would you like to have this suit?"

"Eh?"

"I wish you would have it.  I'm sure it would be of great use to you
and it is being wasted just hanging here in this wardrobe."

I didn't know what to say, but my mind went back to various pauses in
our conversation by the fire when I had noticed her eyes lingering
briefly on the fringe of material on my frayed cuff as I raised my
glass, and at my threadbare knees.

As I stood silent she looked suddenly worried.  "Perhaps I am
embarrassing you?"

"Oh, no, no, no, not at all.  It's very kind of you.  I'm sure I'd love
to have it."

"Oh, I am glad."  She clapped her hands.  "It will be just right for
you, quite the correct thing for a country vet.  I'd so much like to
think of you wearing it."

"Right ... right ..."  I said, still a little bemused.  "Thank you very
much."  I laughed.  "Such a nice surprise."

"Good, good," she said, laughing too.  Then she called across the hall.
"Ruth, Ruth, will you bring one of those big sheets of brown paper to
put round this suit, there's a dear."

As the maid hurried off, Mrs.  Pumphrey put her head on one side.
"There's just one thing, Mr.  Herriot.  My husband was rather a large
man.  Some alterations will be necessary."

"Oh, that's all right," I said.  "I can see to that."

As I walked over the gravel to my car weighed down with my parcel, I
mused on the upturn in my day.  A couple of hours ago I had slunk away
like a pariah from a farm after a visit steeped in censure and dislike
andwitha final tongue-lashing thrown in, and look at me now.  Mrs.
Pumphrey and Ruth were smiling and waving from the doorway.  Tricki was
back at his window, laughing his head off as he barked his farewell,
the curtains moving with the wagging of his tail, my stomach glowed
with sherry and savoury biscuits and I had a handsome free suit in my
arms.

Not for the first time I thanked providence for the infinite variety of
veterinary practice.

Chapter 5

"Look at this, Helen!"  I cried as I pulled off the brown paper back in
Skeldale House.  "Mrs.  Pumphrey's given me a suit!"

My wife gasped as my new acquisition was unveiled.  "It's beautiful,
Jim.  So expensive-looking!"

"Isn't it just.  I could never afford one like this."

We looked down at the sumptuous tweed with its faint, scarcely
discernible pattern of brownish threads among the Lovat green and Helen
held up the jacket to examine it more closely.

"Gosh, it's so thick and heavy, I can hardly lift it!  I've never seen
such cloth--you'll never feel cold wearing this.  Aren't you going to
try it on?  There's time before lunch--I'll just pop through to the
kitchen and see that nothing's boiling over."

I hurried to our bedroom and, bubbling with anticipation, removed my
trousers and pulled on the new ones, then I donned the jacket and
looked in the mirror.  I really didn't have to look--I realised from
the start that my hopes were dashed.  The trousers rested in
concertina-like folds round my ankles while the jacket sleeves hung
several inches below my hands.  The late Mr.  Pumphrey hadn't just been
large, he must have been a giant.

I was observing myself sadly when I heard muffled sounds from the
doorway.  Helen was leaning against the wall laughing helplessly as she
pointed a shaking finger in my direction.  "Oh, dear," she gasped. "I'm
sorry, but oh, ha-ha-ha!"

"Okay," I said.  "I know, I know, it's a washout."  Then I caught sight
of myself again in the mirror and couldn't fight back a wry smile.
"You're right, I do look funny, but what a disappointment.  It's such a
marvelous suit--I thought I was going to be Darrowby's best-dressed
man.  What the heck are we going to do with the thing?"

Helen dried her eyes and came over to me.  "Oh, it's such a shame, but
wait a minute."  She tucked the sleeves up till my hands were revealed,
then knelt and rolled up a few folds of trousers.  She stood back to
view the result.  "Do you know, I really think it could be altered to
fit you."

"Oh, come on, it's unthinkable.  I'm drowned in it."  I glowered again
at my reflection.

My wife shook her head vigorously.  "I'm not so sure.  Looking at you
now, I can just imagine how splendid it could be.  Anyway, I'm going to
take it round to Mr.  Bendelow and see if I can sweetheart him into
doing it quickly."

I grinned at the thought of our local tailor stirring himself.  "That
would be a miracle."

"You never know," Helen said.  "I'm going to try, anyway."

Later that day she came to me with the news that Mr.  Bendelow had been
so dazzled by the quality of the material and the cut that he had
promised a rush job.

The excitement over the suit was forgotten as I had an urgent call
immediately after lunch.

Ted Newcombe's voice on the phone was strained and shaking.  "It's
Clover--she's on calvin' and there's just a head and nowt else.  I've
had a go, but I can't reach the legs--it's a whopper of a calf.  And
it's the one I badly want--you remember?"

"Yes, I do remember, of course."

"Can you get 'ere quick, Mr.  Herriot?"

"I'm leaving now."

Clover was his best heifer and had been served by a premium bull.  To a
hill-farmer like Ted it would be a disaster if he lost the calf.  I
shouted to Helen and ran out to the car.

Ted's small holding was a grey smudge high on a hillside near the top
of the dale.  There was no road to it and my car bumped its way up the
grassy slope with my drugs and instruments rattling and clinking behind
me.  The flagged yard and thick-walled buildings were hundreds of years
old; in fact, coupled with its inaccessibility it was the sort of place
where only hard-up people like Ted would dream of trying to make a
living.  The rent was low and it was all he could afford.  He was
coming out of the byre as I drew up.  Ted was tall and thin, about my
own age, the father of a boy and girl who walked down that hill every
day and then the two miles to the village school.  He looked worried,
but managed a grin.

"Nice car, Mr.  Herriot."  He gave the gleaming bonnet a mock polish
with his sleeve, but, as was typical of him, that was as far as the
mickey-taking went.

I followed him into the little byre and I realised why he didn't feel
much like joking.  The smile was wiped off my own face immediately as I
looked at the beautiful heifer groaning and heaving, with an enormous
muzzle just peeping from her vulva as she strained.

No vet likes to see that.  It wasn't just a case of sorting out a
malpresentation, it meant that a huge calf was finding it impossible to
find a way out.

"I've 'ad a go," Ted said as I stripped off and began to wash my arms
in the steaming bucket.  "But there's no legs--feet are miles away.  I
remember you tellin' me once to push back the head to reach the feet
but I've tried and she's ower strong for me."

I nodded.  He hadn't much flesh on his bones, but he had a stringy
power in his arms and I knew what he meant.  "Nobody's as strong as a
big beast like that, Ted."

"And all the time I'm wonderin' if t'calf's still alive.  He's been
squeezed in there for a hell of a long time."

That was my worry, too.  I soaped my arm and pushed a hand into the
vulva alongside the massive head, but as I reached for the shoulder
Clover gave another heave and my arm was trapped agonisingly for a few
seconds.

"That's no good," I gasped.  "There's not an inch of room in there.
I'll try my luck with the head."

I put my hand against the muzzle and pushed steadily, leaning hard as
the head went back a few inches.  That was as far as I got.  Another
mighty expulsive effort from the heifer sent me back where I started.

I began to wash my hands and arms again.  "It's impossible, Ted.  That
calf won't come out till we bring the feet round and there's simply no
way of reaching those feet.  She's a big, powerful heifer and we can't
win pushing against her."

"Oh, 'ell!"  He looked at me wide-eyed.  "What do we do, then?
Caesarean?  That's a big job!"

"Maybe not," I said.  "I've got another trick up my sleeve."

I was out to the car and back again in a few moments with a syringe and
local anaesthetic.  "Grab the tail, Ted," I said, "and move it up and
down like a pump handle.  That's the way."  I felt for the epidural
space between the vertebrae and injected 10 c.c."s, then I stood back
and watched.

I hadn't long to wait.  In less than a minute Clover began to relax as
though her troubles were over.  Ted pointed at her.  "Look at that,
she's stopped stra*'!"

"She can't strain, now," I said.  "She's had a spinal anaesthetic and
she can't feel a thing back there.  In fact she really doesn't know
what's going on."

"So if she can't push against us we can maybe get the head back
inside?"

"That's the idea."  Another soaping of my arm and I pressed my palm
against the broad muzzle, and oh, it was lovely to feel the head and
neck and the whole calf moving away from me with no sign of resistance.
There was room then to pass a noose inside and snare a foot and then
another till I had two cloven hooves showing at the vulva.  I grasped
one in each hand and as I leaned back, the calf's muzzle reappeared and
to my great relief I saw a twitching of the nostrils.

I laughed.  "This calf's alive, Ted."

"Oh, thank God for that," Ted said, blowing out his cheeks.  "We can
get on withe job now, can't we?"

"Yes, but there's just one snag.  Because she's unable to strain she
can't help us.  We'll have to do everything ourselves."

It was still a very tight squeeze and we had half an hour of careful
pulling on the legs and head and frequent application of lubricating
jelly.  We soon began to sweat but Clover was totally unconcerned and
paid no attention as she picked away happily at the hay in the rack. My
big fear was that the calf might stick at the hips but with a final
heave from us the little creature slid out into the world and I caught
the slippery body as it fell.

Ted lifted a hind leg.  "It's a bull.  Reckon it had to be when it was
as big as that."  He smiled happily.  "Most times I want heifers, but
this 'un will sell well for breedin'.  He's got a fine pedigree on both
sides."

He began to rub ribs and head with straw and the calf responded by
raising his head and snuffling.  Clover looked round quickly at the
sound and gave a soft moo of delight and, it seemed to me, surprise,
because she had known nothing of the operation and clearly was a little
mystified as to how this enchanting newcomer had arrived.  We pulled
him up to her head and she commenced an enthusiastic end-to-end licking
of the little body.

I smiled.  I never got tired of this--the most rewarding thing in my
veterinary life.  "Nice to see, isn't it, Ted.  I wish all calvings
finished up like this."

"By gaw, you're right, Mr.  Herriot, and I can't thank ye enough.  I
really thought I had a dead 'un on me hands this time."  When I bent
over the bucket he gave me a friendly thump on the back.

As I dried my arms I looked round the byre with its row of well-kept
cows.  Over some months Ted had gutted the place completely, hacking
out the ancient wooden partitions and replacing them with tubular
metal, plastering the walls, digging up the cobbled floor and laying
down concrete.  He had done all the work himself.

He followed my gaze.  "What d'you think of me little place now?"

"It's great, you've done wonders, Ted.  And you've built a nice little
dairy, too."

"Aye, ah've got to get that T.t. licence somehow."  He rubbed his chin.
"But there's a few things that don't come up to standard.  Like not
enough space between the channel and the back wall.  There's nowt I can
do about that and one or two other points.  But if the Ministry'll
grant me a licence I'll get another fourpence on every gallon of milk
and it'll make all the difference in the world to me."

He laughed, as though reading my thoughts.  "Maybe you don't think
fourpence is much, but you know, we don't need a lot o' money.  We
never go out at night--we're quite happy playin' cards and Ludo and
dominoes with the kids, and with these cows to milk and feed and muck
out twice a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, I'm tied to
the spot."  He laughed again.  "Ah can't remember when I even went into
Darrowby.  No, we don't want much money, but right now I'm just hanging
on--only keepin' my head above water.  Any road, I'll know after next
Thursday.  They're having a meeting to decide."

I didn't say anything.  I couldn't tell him that I was the one who had
to make a confidential report to the Milk Committee on that day about
him and his farm and it all rested on whether I could convince them.
Ted's fourpence a gallon was in my hands and it frightened me a bit,
because if the T.t. licence didn't go through I dared not think how
much longer he could carry on his struggle to make a go of this
wind-blown farm with its sparse pastures.

I packed up my gear and we went outside.  Breathing in the cold, clean
air I looked at the cloud shadows chasing across the tumbled miles of
green hills, and at the few acres that were Ted's world.  They made a
little wall-girl island lapped around by the tufted grass of the
moorland, which was always trying to flow over and swamp it.  Those
fields had to be fed and fertilised to keep them from returning to
their wild state, and the walls, twisted and bent by the centuries,
kept shedding their stones--another job to be done by that one man.  I
recalled a time when Ted told me that one of his luxuries was to wake
up in the middle of the night so that he could turn over and go to
sleep again.

As I started the engine he waved, raising a huge, work-calloused hand.
Bumping down the hillside I looked back at the thin, slightly stooping
figure standing by the house with its fringe of stunted trees, and an
awareness of his situation welled in me as it had done so often before.
Compared to his, my life was a picnic.

Chapter 6

The following Thursday I awoke with the words of my appeal for Ted
spinning around in my head and I kept mouthing a few phrases in the car
as I did a couple of early calls.  I was due in the Ministry Office at
11:00 A.m. and by ten o'clock I was back home ready to change.

I was about to go upstairs when Helen came in.

"You'll never believe this," she said breathlessly.  "But Mr.  Bendelow
saw me as I passed his window and gave me the suit."

"Mr.  Pumphrey's suit?"

"Yes, it's all altered and ready for you to wear."  She stared at me,
wide-eyed.

I looked at the parcel in amazement.  "Well, that's never happened
before.  We asked for a miracle and got one."

"That's right," Helen said.  "And another thing, I feel sure it's a
happy omen."

"What do you mean?"

"You can wear it when you speak to the Milk Committee.  You'll really
impress them in a suit like that."

Her words struck home.  As an orator I was no Winston Churchill and I
needed any help that was going.  In the bedroom I tore off my clothes
and climbed into the refurbished trousers.  They were now exactly the
right length but there was something else, something I hadn't noticed
when I had tried them on before.  The waistband came right up over my
chest until it was almost tucked under my arms.  Those were the days of
high waistbands that rested comfortably well above the hips, but Mr.
Pumphrey's stature had vastly accentuated this.  I was beaten again.  I
turned and faced Helen and her mouth began to twitch.  Then she lowered
her head and her body shook with repressed giggles.

"Don't start that again!"  I cried.  "They're nearly as funny as last
time.  You don't have to tell me.  Anyway, I can't wear these damned
things, that's all there is to it.  I'm just a walking pair of trousers
with a head and shoulders poking out at the top."  I was about to pull
off the maddening garments when Helen held up a hand.

"Wait ... wait ..."  she said.  "Put on the jacket."

"What good will that do?"

"The lapels are very high, just put it on."

With a feeling of hopelessness I shrugged myself into the jacket and
turned towards her.

Helen was looking at me with something like awe.  "It's wonderful," she
whispered.  "Incredible."

"What is?"

"Look at yourself."

I looked into the mirror and Lord Herriot of Darrowby looked out at me.
The waistband was quite hidden and the suit was there in all its glory
of rich material and superb tailoring, draped on me elegantly as if it
had been made for me.

"My God," I breathed.  "I never knew clothes could make all that
difference.  I'm like another person."

"Yes, you are," agreed Helen eagerly.  "You're like an important,
prestigious person.  You must wear it for the committee--you'll knock
them cold!"

While I washed and combed my hair I had the warm sense of everything
slotting into place when all had seemed lost, and as I left after a
final admiring glance at myself in the mirror I was filled with an airy
confidence.

Outside, a bitter wind swept over the fields but I couldn't feel it.
Nothing could penetrate my apparel; in fact I felt sure that, dressed
like this, I could walk in comfort to the North Pole without
changing.

In the car my body heat rose rapidly and I had to open the windows.  I
was glad when I reached my destination and was able to take a few
breaths of the cold air.  My relief, however, was short-lived because
as soon as the swing doors of the Ministry Office closed behind me a
stifling heat hit me.  On all my previous visits I had wondered how
people could work in this atmosphere with the central heating going
full blast, and as I walked along the corridor looking through the
glass at the typists and technicians and Ministry officials apparently
going about their business, quite happily I marvelled anew.  Only this
time it was worse.  Much, much worse.  This time I was cocooned almost
up to my chin in two layers of carpet-like material.

It was the waistband, of course, that was the trouble, clamped round my
entire rib-cage like a great constricting hand; and I had the silly
feeling that the suit itself was carrying me along to the double doors
of the conference room at the end of the corridor.  In the big room it
was hotter than ever and I had a moment of panic when I thought I
wouldn't be able to breathe, but I settled down as the committee
members welcomed me in their usual friendly way and the chairman
ushered me to my seat at the long table.

There were about twenty people in the Milk Committee: big farmers,
technical officers of the Ministry, two of the great landowners of the
district in Lord Darbrough and Sir Henry Brookly, a physician and one
practising veterinary surgeon, me.  I had felt honoured when I was
invited to join and had tried to fulfill my duties to the best of my
ability, but this morning was something special.

Sir Henry was chairman and as he started the proceedings I prayed that
it would be a short session.  I knew I couldn't stand it for long,
tightly muffled in this heat, but as the minutes ticked away with
agonising slowness I realised that there was a tremendous amount of
business to get through.  Long discussions about sterilisation, farm
buildings and husbandry, cattle diseases, points of law-it went on and
on as I sat there getting hotter and hotter.  Quite often I was asked
for my opinion and I answered in a breathless way that I hoped went
unnoticed, but it seemed that my most important contribution was being
kept until the end.

My condition deteriorated steadily until after an hour I was sure I was
suffocating and it was only a matter of time before I fainted away and
was carried from the room.  I was breathing only with difficulty, I
could feel the sweat running down my neck onto my collar and had to
fight the impulse to tear open my jacket and let out some of the
pent-up heat, but the thought of this decorous group of men dissolving
into laughter at the sight of my chin-high trousers stayed my hand.

It was after almost two hours that Sir Henry looked around the table
and introduced my subject.  "Well, gentlemen," he said, "to conclude
our business this morning we have to decide on the borderline case of
hill-farmer Edward Newcombe's application for a Tuberculin Tested
licence and I understand that our young friend, Mr.  Herriot, has been
looking into the matter for us.  Mr.  Herriot ...?"  He smiled across
the table at me.

Somebody began to talk about Ted Newcombe and for a few moments I
didn't realise it was myself.  The words were familiar but they seemed
to be coming from somewhere outside me, panting and hoarse.  Through
the blur of sweat trickling into my eyes I could see them all looking
at me kindly.  They had always been kind, these men, maybe because I
was the youngest member, but as my utterances tumbled out--"outstanding
stocks man ... "cattle in immaculate condition" ... "hard worker" ...
"meticulous attention to hygiene" ... "man of the highest
integrity"--they kept smiling and nodding encouragingly and as the last
phrase emerged, "Edward Newcombe's buildings may not be perfect but he
really is a trier and if he is granted his licence he will never let
anybody down," I seemed to be surrounded by cheerful, friendly faces.

Sir Henry beamed at me.  "Ah, thank you so much, Mr.  Herriot, that is
most helpful and we are grateful to you.  I think we can take it,
gentlemen, that there will be no difficulty in granting the licence?"
Hands went up in agreement all round the table.

I have very little recollection of how I left the room, only of rushing
downstairs into the men's lavatory, locking myself into one of the
cubicles, throwing off my jacket and collapsing, open-mouthed, onto the
toilet seat.  As I opened the front of the vast trousers, unbuttoned my
shirt and lay back, gasping, waves of heat mingled with relief and
triumph rolled from me.  I had got it over.  Ted had his licence and I
was still alive.

As I slowly recovered I heard two men come in.  From my semi-prone
position I could see their feet under the door and I recognised the
voices of Sir Henry and Lord Darbrough.  The feet disappeared as the
men retreated to the opposite wall.

There was a silence, then, "Tell you what, Henry," boomed his Lordship.
"It did me good to see that young fella fighting his corner for the
hill-farmer."

"Couldn't agree more, George.  Damn good show, I thought."

"Threw everything into it, by gaw.  Didn't spare himself.  Never seen
anything like it--sweat was rolling down his face."

"Mm, I saw.  Dedication, I'd call it."

"That's it, dedication.  Good to see in somebody his age."  There was
another pause, then, "Y'know, Henry, there was something else about
that young fella."

"What was that, George?"

"Knows his clothes.  Splendid suit.  Rather envy him his tailor."

Chapter 7

"Look at that little lad!"

Farmer Dugdale was amused as he watched Jimmy directing his torch beam
as I calved the cow.  My son, ten years old, was taking his duty very
seriously.  It was quite dark in the loose box and he solemnly followed
my every movement with his beam, shining on the cow's rear end as I
worked, then on the bucket of hot water each time I resoaped my arms or
dipped the ropes in the disinfectant.

"Yes," I said, "he loves night work."

Jimmy, in fact, loved all veterinary work, but if I was called out in
the evening before his bedtime it was his particular delight to come
with me, sitting by me, quite absorbed, as the headlights picked out
the twists and turns of the country lanes.

And tonight when we arrived he had been into the boot before me,
picking out the different coloured ropes to go on the calf's head and
feet, busily tipping the right amount of disinfectant into the
bucket.

"You've got the red rope on the head, Dad?"  he asked.

"Yes."

"Well behind the ears?"

"That's right."

He nodded.  Partly he was seeking information but he was also keeping
me right, making sure I didn't make any silly mistakes.

It was a source of wonder to me that both my children were fascinated
by my job.  I often thought that the sight of their father rushing
around all hours of the day and night, missing meals, working on
Saturdays and Sundays while my non-veterinary friends played golf,
would be enough to turn them away from my profession for life, but
instead of that their greatest pleasure was to come with me on my
rounds, taking in every detail of my diagnostic efforts and
treatments.

I suppose the simple explanation was that, like me, like Helen, they
were besotted with animals.  To be able to work with these appealing
creatures made everything worthwhile, and there was no doubt in the
minds of both my children; they wanted to be vets.

It struck me now that Jimmy at the age of ten was half-way there
already.  As the calf slipped out onto the loose-box floor he quickly
wiped away the mucus from the little animal's nostrils and mouth,
seized a handful of hay and began to administer a brisk rub-down.

"It's a heifer, Dad," he said, after an expert glance between the hind
legs.  "That's good, Mr.  Dugdale, isn't it?"

The farmer laughed.  "Aye, it is.  We want plenty of heifers.  That 'un
you're rubbing will maybe be a good milk cow one day."

The following day was a Saturday with no school, and after breakfast
both children were lined up, ready for action.  In fact they had
already started.  They had the lid of the car boot up and were throwing
out the empty bottles and cartons, checking up to see that I had
everything I might need.

"You're getting a bit short of calcium, Dad," Rosie said.  She was six
now and had been doing the rounds since she was two, so she was very
familiar with the contents of the big slotted box that a friend had
made for me to hold my drugs and instruments.

"Right, my pet," I replied.  "You'd better go and get some.  Calcium is
one thing we can't do without."

Flushed with importance, she ran inside to the stock room, and I
wondered, as often before, why it was that, at home and on the farms,
she always ran to get things for me, while Jimmy invariably walked.

Often, in the middle of a case, I'd say, "Fetch me another syringe,
Jimmy," and my son would stroll out to the car, often whistling,
perfectly relaxed.  No matter how interested he was in what was
happening he never hurried.  And I have often noticed that today, when
he is a highly experienced veterinary surgeon, he still doesn't hurry.
This is probably a good thing, because ours can be a stressful
occupation and going about things calmly must be the best way.

When all was ready we drove out into the hills.  It was a bright
morning with the bleak outlines of fell and moorland softened by the
sunshine.  There had been rain in the night and all the scents of the
countryside drifted through the open windows.

The first farm was approached by a lane with several gates, and Rosie
was delighted because this was her job.

As we drew up at the first one she was out of the car in a flash.
Red-faced and serious, she opened the gate and I drove through.

"Lucky I was with you this morning, Dad," she said.  "There's two more
up ahead.  I can see them."

I nodded.  "It is indeed, sweetheart.  If there's one thing I hate,
it's gates."

My little daughter sat back, well pleased.  In the days before she
started school she used to be really worried.

"What are you going to do without me?"  she would say.  "I've got to go
to school soon, and Jimmy's there already.  You'll be all alone."

Jimmy always seemed to be reasonably confident that I'd manage to
struggle round on my own, but Rosie had grave doubts.  Weekends for her
were not just a time to play, but a blessed opportunity to look after
her father.  And for me it was a wonderful time and I marvelled at my
luck.  So many men with high-pressure jobs see very little of their
families but I had it both ways with my little son and daughter so
often at my side as I worked.

And there was no doubt about it, it was an absolute boon to have the
gates opened for me.  Rosie stood stiffly to attention as I drove
through the last one.  Her hand was on the latch and her face
registered the satisfaction of a job well done.

A few minutes later I was in the cow byre, scratching my head in
puzzlement.  My patient had a temperature of 106dg F but my first
confident diagnosis of mastitis was eliminated when I found that the
milk was white and clear.

"This is a funny one," I said to the farmer.  "Her lungs are okay,
stomach working well, yet she's got this high fever, and you say she's
not eating?"

"Aye, that's right.  She hasn't touched her hay or cake this morning.
And look how she's shakin'."

I pulled the cow's head round and was looking for possible symptoms
when my son's voice piped up from behind me.

"I think it is mastitis, Dad."

He was squatting by the udder pulling streams of milk onto the palm of
his hand.  "The milk's really hot in this quarter."

I went round the teats again and sure enough, Jimmy was right.  The
milk in one quarter looked perfect, but it was decidedly warmer than
the others and when I pulled a few more jets onto my hand I could feel
flakes, still invisible, striking my palm.

I looked up ruefully at the farmer and he burst into a roar of
laughter.  "It looks like t'apprentice knows more than the boss.  Who
taught you that, son?"

"Dad did.  He said you could often be caught out that way."

"And he was, wasn't he!"  The farmer slapped his thigh.

"Okay, okay," I said, and as I went out to the car for the penicillin
tubes I wondered how many other little wrinkles my son had absorbed in
his journeys with me.

Later, as we drove back along the gated roads, I congratulated him.

"Well done, old lad.  You know a lot more than I think!"

Jimmy grinned.  "Yes, and remember when I couldn't even milk a cow?"

I nodded.  Milking-machines were universal among the bigger farms, but
many of the small holders still milked by hand and it seemed to
fascinate my son to watch them.  I could remember him standing by the
side of old Tim Suggett as he milked one of his six cows.  Crouched on
the stool, head against the cow's flank, the farmer effortlessly sent
the white jets hissing and frothing into the bucket held between his
knees.

He looked up and caught the boy's eager gaze.

"Does that want to 'ave a go, young man?"  he asked.

"Oh, yes, please!"

"Awright, here's a fresh bucket.  See if ye can fill it."

Jimmy squatted, grasped a teat in each hand and began to pull away
lustily.  Nothing happened.  He tried two other teats with the same
result.

"There's nothing coming," he cried plaintively.  "Not a drop."

Tim Suggett laughed.  "Aye, it's not as easy as it looks, is it?  I
reckon it 'ud take you a long time to milk ma six cows."

My son looked crestfallen, and the old man put a hand on his head.
"Come round sometime and I'll teach ye.  I'll soon make a milker out of
ye."

A few weeks later, I returned from my round one afternoon to find Helen
standing worriedly on the doorstep of Skeldale House.

"Jimmy hasn't come back from school," she said.  "Did he tell you he
was going to any of his friends?"

I thought for a moment.  "No, not that I can remember.  But maybe he's
just playing somewhere."

Helen looked out at the gathering dusk.  "It's strange, though.  He
usually comes home to tell us first."

We telephoned round among his school friends without result, then I
began a tour of Darrowby, exploring the little winding "yards," calling
in at people we knew and getting the same reply, "No, I'm sorry, we
haven't seen him."  My attempt at a cheerful rejoinder, "Oh, thanks
very much, sorry to trouble you," became increasingly difficult as a
cold hand began to grip at my heart.

When I got back to Skeldale House, Helen was on the verge of tears. "He
hasn't come back, Jim.  Where on earth can he have got to?  It's pitch
black out there.  He can't be playing."

"Oh, he'll turn up.  There'll be some simple explanation, don't worry."
I hoped I sounded airy but I didn't tell Helen that I had been dredging
the water trough at the bottom of the garden.

I was beginning to feel the unmistakeable symptoms of panic when I had
a thought.  "Wait a minute, didn't he say he'd go round to Tim
Suggett's one day after school to learn to milk?"

The small holding was actually in Darrowby itself and I was there in
minutes.  A soft light shone above the half-door of the little cow
house and as I looked inside there was my son, crouched on a stool,
bucket between his knees, head against a patient cow.

"Hello, Dad," he said cheerfully.  "Look here!"  He displayed his
bucket, which contained a few pints of milk.  "I can do it now!  Mr.
Suggett's been showing me.  You don't pull the teats at all.  You just
make your fingers go like this."

Glorious relief flooded through me.  I wanted to grab Jimmy and kiss
him, kiss Mr.  Suggett, kiss the cow, but I took a couple of deep
breaths and restrained myself.

"It's very good of you to have him, Tim.  I hope he hasn't been any
bother."

The old man chuckled.  "Nay, lad, nay.  We've had a bit o' fun, and
t'young man's cottoned on right sharp.  I've been tellin' him if he's
goin' to be a vitnery he'll have to know how to get the milk out of a
cow."

It is one of my vivid memories, that night when Jimmy learned how to
get the milk out of a cow, so that he could diagnose mastitis and put
one over on his old man.

To this day I often wonder if I did the right thing in talking Rosie
out of her ambition.  Maybe I was wrong, but back in the forties and
fifties life in veterinary practice was so different from now.  Our
practice was 90 per cent large animal and though I loved the work I was
always being kicked, knocked about and splashed with various kinds of
filth.  With all its charms and rewards it was a dirty, dangerous job.
Several times I was called to help out in neighbouring practices when
the vet had sustained a broken limb, and I had myself been lame for
weeks after a huge cart-horse whacked my thigh with his iron-shod
hoof.

Quite often I didn't smell so good because no amount of bathing in
antiseptics could wholly banish the redolence of delivering decomposing
calves and the removal of afterbirths.  I was used to people wrinkling
their noses when I came too near.

Sometimes after prolonged calvings and foalings, often lasting for
hours, every muscle in my body ached for days as though I had been
beaten by a heavy stick.

It is all so different now.  We have long plastic gloves to protect us
when we are doing the smelly jobs, there are the metal crushes to hold
the big beasts instead of having to plunge among them as they were
driven into a passage on the farm, and the Caesarean operation has
eliminated the rough side of obstetrics.  Also, the gentler
small-animal work has expanded beyond all expectations till it now
makes up more than half our work.

When I entered the veterinary college there was only one girl in our
class--a tremendous novelty--but now young women make up at least 50
per cent of the students at the veterinary schools, and in fact
excellent woman veterinary surgeons have worked in our practice.

I didn't know all this forty years ago and though I could imagine tough
little Jimmy living my life I couldn't bear the thought of Rosie doing
it.  Unfairly at times, I used every wile I could to put her off
veterinary work and to persuade her to become a doctor of humans
instead of animals.

She is a happy doctor, too, but as I say, I still wonder.... Chapter
8

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Herriot, I think you are
dishonest."

"What!"  I had been called a few things in my time, but never that and
it hit me hard, especially coming from a tall, patrician veterinary
surgeon, looking down his nose at me.  "What the devil do you mean? How
can you possibly say that?"

Hugo Mottram's imperious blue eyes regarded me with distaste.  "I say
it only because I am forced to no other conclusion.  I consider
unethical behaviour to be a type of dishonesty and you have certainly
been guilty of that.  Also, your attempts to justify your actions seem
to me to be sheer prevarication."

This was really nice, I thought, particularly here in Brawton where I
was trying to enjoy my precious half-day.  I had been browsing happily
in Smith's bookshop, and spotted Mottram walking along by the shelves,
and in fact had been regarding him with some envy, wishing that I
looked a bit like him.  He was the perfect picture of my idea of a
country vet; check cap, immaculate hacking jacket, knee breeches,
stockings and brogues together with a commanding presence and
hawk-like, handsome features.  He was in his fifties, but as he paced
among the books, head high, chin jutting, he had the look of a fit
young man.

I took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly.  "Mr.  Mottram, what
you have just said is insulting, and I think you should apologise.
Surely you realise that neither my partner nor I have any designs on
your clients-it was just an unfortunate combination of events.  There
was nothing else we could have done in the circumstances and if only
you would just think about it ..."

The tall man stuck out his chin even more.  "I have thought about it
and I mean what I say.  I have no desire to waste any more time in
discussing this matter, and my hope is that I shall have no further
contact with you in the future."

He turned quickly and strode from the shop, leaving me fuming.  I stood
there, staring at my boots.  Helen would be joining me any minute
now--she had been having her hair done--and then our happy programme
would start: shopping, tea, then the cinema and a late meal with a lot
of good conversation, all with my pal, Gordon Rae, the vet from
Boroughbridge, and his wife, Jean.  It was a simple sequence, but a
blessed escape from the hard work and we looked forward to it all week.
And now it was in ruins, shattered.

This thing with Mottram had started a few weeks previously.  I was
examining a spaniel with a skin eruption in our surgery when the lady
owner suddenly said, "Mr.  Mottram of Scanton has been treating this
dog for some time.  Says it's eczema, but it's not improving and I
think it must be something else.  I want a second opinion."

I looked at the lady.  "I wish you'd mentioned that at the beginning.
Really, I should have asked Mr.  Mottram's permission before I looked
at your dog."

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Well, yes, that's how it is, and I'm afraid I'll have to speak to him
before I do any more."

I excused myself and went through to the telephone in the office.

"Mottram here."  The voice was as I remembered.  Deep, assured, cool.
As a neighbouring veterinary surgeon I had met him a few times and
found I couldn't get very near him.  His aristocratic haughtiness was,
to me, decidedly off-putting.  But I had to try to be friendly.

"Oh, hello, this is Herriot, Darrowby.  How are you?"

"I am quite well, Herriot.  I trust you are the same."  Damn, he still
sounded patronising.

"Well now, I have one of your clients, a Mrs.  Hickson, here with her
dog--I see it has a skin condition.  She's asking for a second
opinion."

The voice became suddenly glacial.  "You've seen the animal?  I think
you might have consulted me first."

"I'm sorry.  I didn't get the chance.  Mrs.  Hickson didn't tell me
till I had the dog on the table.  I do apologise, and I wonder if I
might have your permission to carry on."

There was a long pause, then again the icy tones.  "Well, I suppose if
you must, you must."  The phone went down with a bonk.

My face was hot with embarrassment.  What was the matter with the chap?
This sort of thing happened all the time in veterinary practice.  I'd
had to approach other neighbouring practitioners and sometimes they'd
had to approach me.  The response on both sides had always been, "Oh,
yes, of course, carry on by all means.  I'd be glad to know what you
think."  And followed by a description of the treatment to date.

None of that with Mottram, and I wasn't going to phone him again.  I'd
have to find out the past treatment from the owner if I could.

I told Siegfried later.

"Snooty bugger," he grunted.  "Remember when I asked him to dinner a
long time ago?  He said that he felt that vets should have an
honourable association with their neighbours in opposition, but he
didn't believe in their social ising with each other."

"Yes, I do remember."

"Okay, I respect his views, but there's no need for this stupid
touchiness."

A couple of weeks later I had a feeling of impending doom when I was
feeling my way over the hind leg of a lame dog and the owner, a nice
old man, chirped up, "Oh, by the way, I should have told you.  Mr.
Mottram over at Scanton has been treating him, but I can see no
improvement at all and I'd like your opinion."

My toes began to curl, but there was nothing else for it.  I rang up
our neighbour again.

"Mottram here."  That same discouraging voice.

I told him what had happened, and asked his permission.

Again that long pause, then a disdainful, "So you're at it again?"

"At it ...?  What do you mean?  I'm not at anything, I'm merely asking
your permission to do as your client has requested."

"Oh, do what you damn well like."  And I heard the familiar thud of the
phone at the other end.

I began to sense the eerie workings of fate when Siegfried came in a
few days later, looking thoughtful.

"You won't believe this, James.  I was called to one of Mottram's
clients this morning.  Bollands by name, and he was in a state.  He had
a horse with a broken leg and couldn't get hold of Mottram.  Phoned me
in desperation.  I rang the Scanton practice but he was on his rounds
and I had to dash out to Bollands's place.  It was a ghastly thing--a
horrible compound fracture with the poor creature in agony.  No
possibility of treatment.  There was simply nothing for it but to shoot
the poor thing immediately.  I couldn't let him suffer.  But it would
be Mottram--I've tried to contact him again now, but he's still not
around."

I had to help Siegfried to clean out a dog's cankered ears and we were
clearing up when, to our complete astonishment, Mottram appeared in the
doorway of the operating room.  He was immaculate as usual, clearly in
a rage, but in cold control of himself.

"Ah, you're both here."  That superior voice again.  "It's just as
well, because what I have to say applies to both of you.  This latest
escapade at Bollands's is really too much, Farnon.  I can only conclude
that you are conducting a campaign to steal my clients."

Siegfried flushed.  "Now look here, Mottram, that is ridiculous.  We
have absolutely no desire to poach your clients.  As to Bollands's
horse, I tried in vain to get in touch with you, but--"

Mottram held up a hand.  "I don't want to hear any more.  You can say
what you like, but I believe in honourable relations.  Now that this
has happened I am glad I stuck to my principles about that "out to
dinner together" nonsense."  He nodded down to each of us from his
great height and left.

Siegfried turned to me ruefully.  "Well, that's finally torn it.  I
want to be friends with all my neighbours but we're finished there."

As I stood in the bookshop in Brawton, recalling the sequence of
events, I felt that I hadn't needed this final onslaught from Mottram.
Standing there among the wreckage of my half-day, looking at his
retreating back, I knew that he had washed his hands of me.

Like my partner, I was unhappy about it, but I put it out of my mind
until my bedside phone rang at 1:00 A.m. about a month later.  I
reached out a sleepy arm.

The voice at the other end was agitated.  "This is Lumsden, Scanton.
Mr.  Mottram's assistant.  I'm treating his horse with a bad colic, but
I'm beat with it.  I need help."

Suddenly I was wide awake.  "Where's Mottram?"

"He's on holiday in the north of Scotland."  The young man's voice
began to quaver.  "Oh, this would happen when he's away.  He adores
this horse--it's his favourite, he rides it every day.  But I've tried
everything and it looks like it's dying.  I don't know how I'm going to
face him when he gets back."  There was a pause.  "Actually, I was
hoping to speak to Mr.  Farnon.  He's good with horses, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," I said.  In the darkness, I rested the receiver on my
chest and looked at the ceiling as Helen stirred uneasily at my side.
Then I spoke again.  "Look, Lumsden, I'll have a word with my partner.
It's his night off, but I'll see what he says.  Anyway, I promise you
one of us at least will be out to give you a hand."

I cut short his thanks and dialled Siegfried's number.  I told him the
story and could sense him snapping awake at the other end.  "Oh, my
God!  Mottram!"

"Yes.  What d'you think?"

I listened to a long sigh, then, "I've got to go, James."

"I'll come with you."

"Really?  Are you sure?"

"Of course.  It's my night on, anyway, and I might be able to help."

On the way to Scanton we didn't say much, but Siegfried voiced our
thoughts.  "You know, this is uncanny.  It sounds as though we're on a
hiding to nothing here and Mottram is going to love us even more when
he finds we've been in at the death of his beloved horse.  Colics are
nasty things at any time, always dangerous, even the straightforward
ones, and I'd like to bet that this one will have some
complications."

The house was just outside Scanton and our headlights picked out an
avenue of chestnut trees leading to an impressive bulk with a fine
pillared doorway.  We drove round the back and found Lumsden waving us
with his torch into a cobbled courtyard.  As we drew up he turned and
ran quickly into a lighted loose box in the corner of the yard.  When
we followed him we could see the reason for his haste.  And it was a
frightening sight.  My stomach lurched and I heard a soft "Oh, dear
God!"  from Siegfried.  A big chestnut horse, head hanging,
staring-eyed and lathered in sweat, was stumbling round the box,
buckling at the knees, doing his best to throw himself down and roll,
which, as any vet knows, can cause torsion of the bowel and inevitable
death.  The young man was hanging on desperately to the halter shank
and urging the animal to keep walking round the box.

Lumsden looked about sixteen, but as a qualified veterinarian he had to
be nearly ten years older than that.  He was slightly built and his
naturally boyish face was pale and exhausted.

"Very good of you to come," he gasped.  "I hate to get you out of bed,
but I've been fighting on with this job all day yesterday and all day
today, and I'm getting nowhere.  The horse is worse if anything and I'm
about knackered."

"That's quite all right, old chap," Siegfried said soothingly.  "James
will hold the horse for a minute while you tell me what you've done."

"Well, I've been giving Istin as a laxative, chloral hydrate, to
relieve the pain.  Largactil, and a few small shots of arecoline, but
I'm frightened to give any more arecoline because there's a hell of an
impaction in there and I don't want to rupture the bowel.  If only he'd
pass a bit of muck, but there's been nothing through him for over
forty-eight hours."

"Never mind, my boy, you've done nothing wrong, so don't worry about
that."  Siegfried slipped a hand behind the animal's elbow and felt the
pulse.  Then as the horse staggered around he reflected the eyelid and
examined the conjunctiva.  He looked at it thoughtfully before taking
the temperature.

"Yes ... yes ..."  he murmured without changing expression, then he
turned to the young man.  "Would you slip into the house now and get us
a bucket of hot water, soap and a towel.  I want to do a rectal."

As Lumsden hurried out, Siegfried swung round.  "By God, I don't like
this, James.  Lousy, weak pulse--can hardly detect it--brick-red
conjunctiva and temperature one hundred three.  I don't want to put the
wind up this young chap, but I think we're on a loser here."  His eyes
widened.  "And Mottram again!  Is there such a thing as a jinx?"

I didn't say anything as I hung on to the struggling animal.  A weak
pulse is a particularly ominous finding in a horse and the other things
pointed to a complicating bowel inflammation.

When the young man came back, Siegfried rolled up a sleeve and pushed
his arm deep into the rectum.  "Yes ... yes ... bad impaction, as you
say."  He whistled softly for a few moments.  "Well, first, we've got
to relieve his pain."

He injected the sedative into the jugular vein, speaking gently to the
horse all the time, "That'll make you feel better, old lad.  Poor old
chap," and followed this with a long saline infusion intravenously to
combat the shock, and antibiotic for the enteritis.  "Now we'll get a
gallon of liquid paraffin into him to try to lubricate that lot in
there."  Quickly he pushed a stomach tube up the nostril and into the
stomach and held it there as I pumped in the oil.

"Next, a muscular relaxant."  Again he gave an intravenous injection.

By the time he had cleaned and rolled up the stomach tube the horse
looked a lot happier.  Colic is a frightful agony and I always felt
that horses seemed to suffer pain more deeply than any other animal, a
suffering at times almost unbearable to watch.  It was a relief to see
the big animal calming down, stopping his repeated attempts to
collapse, clearly finding a blessed release.

"Well," said Siegfried quietly.  "Now we wait."

Lumsden looked at him questioningly.  "Are you sure?  I feel very
guilty about you losing your sleep.  It's after two o'clock--maybe I
could manage now."

My partner gave him a wan smile.  "With respect, laddie, it's going to
need a combined operation.  That horse is only doped for now, and I
don't have to tell you that he is in very serious condition.  If we
can't get his bowels moving I'm afraid he'll die.  He's going to need
more of everything, including the stomach tube.  We'll all see it
through, one way or another."

The young man sat down on a pile of hay and gazed dully at his boots.
"Oh, God, I hope it's not the other.  Mr.  Mottram's last words to me
were, "Now you'll look after Match.""

"Match?"

"Match Box.  That's the horse's name.  My boss is devoted to him."

"I'm sorry," Siegfried said.  "You're in an awkward position.  I
shouldn't think Mottram would be the easiest man to explain things
to."

Lumsden ran his hands through his hair.  "No ... no ..."  He looked up
at us.  "Mind you, he's not a bad bloke.  He's always treated me right.
It's just his personality.... When he gives me one of his looks I feel
about six inches high."

"I know the feeling," I said.

Siegfried gazed at the young man for a moment.  "What's your name? What
does your mother call you?"

"Harry."

"Well, Harry.  You're probably right.  And I like your loyalty.  Maybe
it's just his way, but James and I both seem to have caught him at the
wrong time.  Anyway, can you fetch us a pot of coffee?  It could be a
long night."

It was indeed a long night.  We took turns at walking the horse when he
showed signs of going down.  Siegfried repeated his injections, varying
the treatment between sedatives and muscular relaxants with another
cautious shot of arecoline, and at five o'clock he used the stomach
tube again to give magnesium sulphate.  And all the time as we dosed
and yawned, slumped on the hay, we looked for a genuine easing of the
pain, a raising of the animal's depression and most of all for a
movement of the bowels.

For my part as I watched Match Box's lolling head and trailing steps my
dominating worry was the knowledge that horses die so easily.  Cattle
and most other species could survive things so much better, and the old
saying among the farmers that ""Osses don't stand much" was so true. As
the night wore on and my metabolism slowed down, my spirits drooped
with it.  At any moment I expected the horse to halt in his painful
circling of the box, pitch forward onto his side and groan his last few
breaths away.  Then we would drive miserably back to Darrowby.

Over the half-door of the box I could see the gradual disappearance of
the stars and a lightening of the eastern sky.  At around six o'clock,
as the birds began to sing in the chestnut trees and the grey light of
dawn crept into the box, Siegfried stood up and stretched.

"The big world has started to turn again out there, chaps, so what are
we going to do?  We've got to see to both our practices so who's going
to stay with Match Box?  We can't leave him."

We were looking at each other, bleary-eyed, when the horse suddenly
cocked his tail and deposited a small heap of steaming faeces on the
floor.

"Oh, what a lovely sight!"  cried Siegfried as our weary faces broke
into smiles of relief.  "That makes me feel a lot better, but we
mustn't get too cocky yet.  He's still got a touch of enteritis, so
I'll give him another shot of antibiotic before we go.  Harry, I think
it's safe to leave him now, so we'll be on our way, but don't hesitate
to ring us if he doesn't go on right."

Out in the yard we shook hands.  The young man was blinking with
tiredness but he looked happy.  "I don't know what to say," he mumbled.
"I'm so grateful to both of you.  You've got me out of a terrible fix
and I can't thank you enough."

"Not at all, my boy," Siegfried sang out.  "Only too glad to be able to
help.  Get in touch with us any time--but not about colicky horses for
the next day or two, if you don't mind."

We all laughed and waved as Siegfried started the engine and drove out
of the yard.

There was no word from Lumsden until the following day when I answered
the phone.  "Match Box is absolutely fine.  Bowels normal, nibbling
hay, just great," he said.  "Thanks-thanks again!"

Three weeks passed and in the rush of work the Scanton episode began to
recede into all the other memories, but one morning Siegfried looked up
from his perusal of the day-book.

"You know, James, I do think Mottram might have made some
acknowledgement of our bit of assistance with his horse.  I'm not
looking for fulsome thanks, but I think he might have said
something."

With an irritable gesture, he scribbled something in the book.  "I
expect the toffee-nosed bugger can't unbend even as far as that."

"Oh, I don't know, Siegfried.  Maybe he's still on holiday.  We don't
know that."

"Hmm."  My partner looked at me doubtfully.  "Possibly.  Could be I'm
doing him an injustice, but anyway, we've got the satisfaction of
helping to pull that grand horse round."  His face softened.  "Lovely
sort."

Next day I came in from my morning round and found my partner bending
over an open crate, from whose depths a row of gold-topped bottles
protruded.

"What's that?"  I asked.

"Champagne.  A dozen."  He pulled out a bottle and looked at the label.
"Bollinger, no less!"

"Gosh, where's that come from?"

"No idea.  Delivered this morning while we were out, and there's no
message inside.  But don't worry, it's for us, all right.  Look.
Messrs.  Farnon and Herriot, Skeldale House."

"Wonderful.  I wonder ..."

As I spoke, there was a knock on the office door and Mottram walked
in.

We didn't say anything--just stared at him.

He glanced at the crate.  "Ah, I see you got the champagne."

We both spoke in unison.  "You sent it?"

"Yes ... yes ... a small gesture of thanks.  I returned from holiday
only last night and ... er ... Lumsden told me what you did for
Match."

"Oh, really, there's no need ... only too pleased ..."  Siegfried for
once was almost stammering.

Mottram, too, was finding things difficult.  Tall and dignified as
always, he was nevertheless acutely uncomfortable, unsmiling, searching
desperately for words.  "There is indeed a need ... a need to express
my gratitude, which ... which is deeper than I can ... can truly say.
And there is a need, also ... to apologise to you gentlemen for my
stupid and unforgiveable remarks when last we met."

"My dear chap, not another word," Siegfried burst out.  "We never
really--"

Mottram raised a hand.  "Please let me say ... I am profoundly sorry
and ashamed.  Why I said such things I do not know.... I've done it
before.... I just seem to be much too ... prickly.  I'm afraid I can't
help it."

As he spoke, he still had his chin out, looking down his nose at us.
Maybe he couldn't help that either.  But it was obvious that his
confession was costing the man dear, and I could feel the tension in
the room rising.

Siegfried, it was clear, felt the situation needed defusing.  He threw
his arms wide in an all-embracing bonhomie.

"Mottram, Mottram, my dear fellow.  What is all this?  Just a simple
misunderstanding immediately forgotten.  Say no more, I beg of you.  I
assure you that the only concern of James and myself is that your
beautiful horse has fully recovered."

The big man's face softened.  "He is beautiful, isn't he?"

"I tell you this," Siegfried said softly, "I wish I had one like him. I
do envy you."

I could see the flash of rapport as the two horse lovers faced each
other.

Mottram nodded.  "Ah well, so glad, so glad," he murmured.

"And by the way, I have something for you from Lumsden.  He, too, is
immensely grateful."  He handed Siegfried a small parcel.

My partner unwrapped it quickly and gave a shout of pleasure.  "A
bottle of malt whisky!  Good old Harry!  This is our lucky day.  And I
think we ought to celebrate Match Box's recovery, among other things.
We have all the ingredients right here."  He lifted a bottle of
champagne from the crate.  "What do you say, Mottram, old chap?  We
have a little time to spare before lunch."

"You're very kind, Farnon.  I'd like that."

"Splendid, splendid, do sit down and make yourself comfortable.  Get
the glasses, James!"

Within minutes the champagne had popped and we were seated round the
table.  Siegfried raised his glass and looked appreciatively at the
sparkling contents.  "Here's to Match Box, may he never have bellyache
again!"

He drank, and Mottram cleared his throat.  "There is just one more
thing I want to say.  I wish we had come to know each other socially
long ago.  I wonder if both of you would come to dinner next Friday?"

Chapter 9

I was always apprehensive and ill at ease when I had Mrs.
Featherstone's problem dog on the table, but this time I felt relaxed
and full of confidence.  But then I was always like that when I was
delirious.

Delirium was only one of the countless peculiar manifestations of
brucellosis.  This disease, which causes contagious abortion in cattle,
ruined thousands of good farmers of my generation and was also a
constant menace to the veterinary surgeons who had to deliver the
premature calves and remove the afterbirths.

Thank heaven, the brucellosis scheme has now just about eradicated the
disease but in the fifties such a thing hadn't been dreamed of, and I
and my contemporaries wallowed almost daily in the horrible
infection.

I remember standing stripped to the waist in cow byres--parturition
gowns were still uncommon and the long plastic protective gloves
unknown in those days--working away inside infected cows for hours and
looking with wry recognition at the leathery placenta and the
light-coloured, necrotic cotyledons that told me that I was in contact
with millions of the bacteria.  And as I swilled myself with
disinfectant afterwards the place was filled with the distinctive acrid
odour of abortion.

The effects on many of my fellow vets were wide and varied.  One big
fat chap faded away to a skeleton with undulant fever and was ill for
years, others developed crippling arthritis and some went down with
psychiatric conditions.  One man wrote in The Veterinary Record that as
part of his own syndrome he came home one night and decided it would be
a good idea to murder his wife.  He never got round actually to doing
it, but recorded the impulse as an interesting example of what Brucella
abortus could do to a man.

I used to pat myself on the back and thank God that I was immune.  I
had been bathing in the infection for years and had never experienced
the slightest reaction, and as I looked around at some of my suffering
friends I was so thankful that I had been spared their ordeal.  And
after all this time I just knew that such a thing would never happen to
me.

That was before I started my funny turns.

This was my family's term for a series of mysterious attacks that came
unheralded and then passed off just as quickly.  At first I diagnosed
them as repeated chills--I was always stripping off in open fields,
often in the middle of the night-then I thought I must have a type of
'flu of short duration.  The symptoms were always the same--a feeling
of depression, then an ice-cold shiveriness that drove me to my bed,
where within an hour I shot up to a temperature of 105dg or 106dg F.
Once I had developed this massive fever I felt great--warm and happy,
laughing heartily, chattering to myself and finally breaking into song.
I couldn't help the singing--I felt so good.

This was a source of great amusement to my children.  When I was at the
singing stage I could always hear them giggling outside the bedroom
door, but I didn't mind--I didn't mind anything.

However, I finally had to find out what was happening to me and a blood
test by Dr.  Allinson dispelled all doubts by showing a nice positive
titre to Brucella abortus.  Reluctantly I had to admit that I had
joined the club.

This particular attack when Mrs.  Featherstone's dog arrived was on a
Saturday.  I was driving back from a football match in Sunderland with
some of my pals.  Our team had won and we were all in high spirits,
laughing and joking, and I hardly noticed just when I stopped being the
life of the party and went quiet.  I did know that when I got to
Skeldale House and huddled miserably over the fire, shaking like a man
with malaria, that another funny turn was on the way.

Helen took one look, chased me upstairs and began to fill the hot water
bottles.  Feeling like death, I crawled between the sheets and lay,
cuddling one bottle, feet on another, while the bed vibrated with my
terrific rigor.  Helen piled another eiderdown on top of me, turned out
the light and left me to it.  We both knew what was going to happen.

It wasn't long before the familiar pattern started to set in.  Quite
soon I began to feel a bit better--warmer, more cheerful--then the
warmth mounted and increased and spread through every corner of my
being till I was floating along in a delicious languor, utterly at
peace, all my troubles dissolved and gone.  This, I felt, was heaven. I
could stay like this forever, but the warmth developed to a fiery heat
when I felt even better; no longer languorous, but powerful, dominant,
foolishly and riotously happy.

This was the time when I usually extended a burning arm to pick up my
bedside thermometer and stick it under my arm.  Ah, yes, there it was,
106 as I thought.  I chuckled with satisfaction.  Everything was just
fine.

Lying there I was so full of the joy of life that I began to talk
aloud, discussing interesting matters with myself, and then my bursting
high spirits had to find some further outlet and singing was the
natural thing.  "Maxwelltown braes are bonny, where early fa's the dew,
and 'twas there that Annie Laurie gie'd me her promise true."  I let
rip at full volume; never had my voice sounded as rich and rounded.

A few hee-hee's sounded from behind the door followed by Jimmy's
whisper, "There he goes," and a muffled laugh from Rosie.  The little
beggars were there again, but what the hell?  "Gie'd me her promise
true, that ne'er forget shall be!"  I hit the high notes without a
trace of self-consciousness, ignoring the further outburst from beyond
the door.

I had a further chat with myself, agreeing whole-heartedly with
everything I said, then I thought I'd try my John McCormack impression
of "The Rose of Tralee."  I took a long breath.  "The pale moon was
shining above the green mountain."

"Ha-ha-ha-haaa."  My children were having a great time out there.  Then
I heard the ringing of the front doorbell, feet on the stairs, then a
knock on the bedroom door.

Jimmy's head poked into the room.  "Hello, Dad."  His face worked in
his effort to stifle his laughter.  "Mrs.  Featherstone's downstairs
with her dog.  She says it's urgent and Mum's had to go out for a few
minutes."

"Right-oh, old lad."  I swung my legs from the bed.  "I'll be down
immediately."

My son's eyes widened.  "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely.  I'll be down in two ticks.  Put her in the consulting
room."

With a final startled glance, Jimmy closed the door and left.

As I pulled on shirt and trousers, the blood thundered in my ears and
my face was afire.  Normally the very mention of Mrs.  Featherstone
made me shrink.  Rich, middle-aged, imperious, she had plagued me for
years with the imaginary ailments of her little poodle, Rollo.

Rollo was an outstandingly healthy little dog.  In fact, like many
poodles, he was a tough little animal with the characteristic of
leaping six feet in the air from a standing position as though he were
operated by springs, but where he was concerned Mrs.  Featherstone was
a raving hypochondriac.  From a commercial point of view it may seem
ideal to have a rich client willing to pay for regular visits with her
perfectly healthy dog, but I found it increasingly wearing.  Endless
sessions of "Really, Mrs.  Featherstone, the thing you are pointing out
is quite normal," or "I assure you, Mrs.  Featherstone, you are
worrying needlessly," resulting in the lady drawing herself up and
sticking out her chin.  "Are you suggesting, Mr.  Herriot, that I am
dreaming these things?  That I cannot believe the evidence of my own
eyes?  My poor Rollo is suffering and I expect you to do something
about it."

Weak-mindedly I invariably submitted and fobbed her off with some form
of placebo that would do the little animal no harm, but the sense of
shame was deep.  I had to admit that I was overawed by the woman, a
jellyfish and a wimp in her presence, allowing her to dismiss my waff
lings with a wave of her hand.  Why couldn't I assert myself?

However, at this moment, knotting my tie, humming a happy tune as the
glittering eyes in the vermilion face glared back at me from the
mirror, my past diffidence seemed totally incomprehensible.  I was
really looking forward to seeing the lady again.

I ran downstairs, snatched a white coat from its hook, trotted along
the passage and found Mrs.  Featherstone standing by the consulting
room table.

Damn, she wasn't a bad-looking woman!  Very, very nice, in fact.  Funny
I had never noticed that before.  Anyway, there was not the slightest
doubt in my mind as to what I had to do.  I would grab her, give her a
big, smacking kiss and a good long squeeze and all our past
misunderstandings would melt away like the morning mist in the sun.

I was advancing on her when I noticed something strange.  She had
vanished.  I was quite sure she had been standing there a second ago. I
was blinking around me in bewilderment when I saw that she had ducked
behind the table.  How wonderful that she, too, was feeling skittish
and ready for a game of peekaboo.

In a moment her head bobbed up and I greeted it with a merry cry.
"Yoo-hoo, I see you!"  I trilled, but it seemed she had merely been
stopping to lift her dog, which she deposited on the table.

She gave me an odd look.  "Have you been on holiday, Mr.  Herriot?  You
have such a high colour."

"No, no, no, no.  I feel extraordinarily well.  In fact, I ..."

The lady pursed her lips and brushed off the rest of my sentence
impatiently.  "I really am most frightfully worried about poor
Rollo."

At the sound of his name, the poodle, aggressively fit, began to caper
around on the table and jump up at my face.

"You are?  Oh, what a shame.  Tell me all about it."  I suppressed a
chuckle.

"Well, we had just started on our evening walk when he coughed quite
suddenly."

"Just one cough?"

"No, two, like this.  Hock-hock."

"Hock-hock, eh?"  I was having terrible trouble keeping a serious face.
"And then what happened?"

"Nothing else happened!  Isn't that enough?  A nasty cough?"

"Well, tell me, do you mean two hocks or one hock-hock?"  I could not
suppress a giggle, captivated as I was by my wit.

"I mean, Mr.  Herriot, one very unpleasant and alarming cough."  A
dangerous light glinted in the lady's eye.

"Ah, yes."  I took out stethoscope and thermometer and began a thorough
examination of the patient.  Everything, of course, was normal, and I
could swear I detected an apologetic glance from Rollo.

And all the time the giggle was struggling steadily to the surface and
finally it burst out into a loud "Ha-ha!"

Mrs.  Featherstone's eyebrows shot up and she stared at me.  "Why are
you laughing?"  she enquired in glacial tones.  She made the word seem
more portentous by drawing it out into a long "laawfing."

"Well, really, you see, it's so funny."  I leaned on the table and
laughed some more.

"Funny!"  Mrs.  Featherstone's expression was a mixture of horror and
disbelief.  Her mouth opened soundlessly a few times.  "I fail to see
anything funny in an animal's suffering."

Wrapped in my cloak of heat and euphoria, I wagged a finger at her.
"But he's not suffering, that's what's so funny.  He never is suffering
when you bring him in to me."

"I beg your pardon!"

"It's true, Mrs.  Featherstone.  All Rollo's ailments are imagined by
you."  The table shook as another paroxysm seized me.

"How dare you say such a thing!"  The lady glared at me down her nose.
"You are being insulting and I really cannot--"

"Hey, just wait a minute.  Let me explain."  I wiped a few tears away
and took a few gasping breaths.  "Do you remember being worried to
death by that habit of Rollo's where he lifts up a hind leg for a few
steps, then puts it down again?  I told you it was nothing, just a
mannerism, but you insisted on my treating him for arthritis?"

"Well, yes, but I was worried."

"I know, but you wouldn't believe me and he's still doing it.  There's
nothing wrong with him.  Lots of little dogs do it."

"Well, possibly, but ..."

"And another thing," I said between my chuckles.  "There was the time
you made me give him sleeping pills because of his terrible
nightmares."

"Yes, and rightly so.  He made the most pathetic whimpering sound while
he was sleeping and his paws kept working as though he was running away
from something terrible."

"He was dreaming, Mrs.  Featherstone!  Probably a nice dream about
chasing his ball.  All dogs have these dreams."

I took hold of Rollo's head.  "And look here, ha-ha!  You must recall
your insistence that there were things growing over his eyes.  You
would never believe me that they were his normal third eyelids,
ha-ha-ha!  And see, they're still there, aren't they?  You can see them
now and he's quite happy with them, ha-ha-ha-ha!"  I abandoned myself
completely and bent over to dig her in the ribs, but she drew back and
evaded my finger.

She put her hand over her mouth and continued to stare at me.  Her
eyebrows had taken up permanent residence high on her forehead.  "You
... you cannot really mean all this!"

"Oh, but I do, I do.  I could go on and on."

"Well, I don't know what to say.  And about his cough tonight?"

"You can take him away," I said, "and if there are any more hock-hocks
bring him back tomorrow, but there won't be."  I wiped my streaming
face and lifted Rollo from the table.

The lady seemed in a daze as I steered her along the passage to the
front door.  She kept putting a hand over her mouth and giving me an
incredulous sidelong glance, but she remained silent as though
stunned.

After I had shown her out I retired to bed and drifted to sleep with
the satisfied feeling of having cleared up a problem happily and
effortlessly.  I had handled the whole thing beautifully.

I didn't feel like that next morning.  My latest funny turn was
following its usual course.  After the elation of the night before, a
devastating deflation, lethargy, gloom, despondency and, in this case,
the horrid spectre of remorse.  As I lay in bed, pulling the sheets
round my chin, my recollection of the previous evening was a
frightening jumble.  I couldn't get it all sorted out in my mind.

I had been awake only a few moments before the memory hit me.  Mrs.
Featherstone!  Oh, my God!  What had I said to her?  What had I done?
Desperately I tried to bring back the details without success, but the
main indisputable fact was that I had laughed, even jeered at her,
possibly even pawed at her person.  Had I really attempted to embrace
her?  Had I given her a little cuddle as I walked her down the passage?
My mouth opened in a series of soft moans.

Of one thing I could be sure--I had been guilty of the most ghastly
impropriety and I had a searing conviction that I would have to pay
dearly for it.  Certainly she would never set foot in my surgery again.
The whole shameful story would get around.  She might even report me to
the Royal College.  I could see the headlines in the Darrowby and
Houlton Times.  VETERINARY SURGEON ON SERIOUS CHARGE, HER RIOT TO
APPEAR

BEFORE DISCIPLINARY BODY.

Groaning, I huddled deeper, gazing sightlessly at the cup of tea Helen
had placed by my bedside.  After my funny turns I always had a day's
rest and after that I had always made a remarkably quick recovery.  But
this time the mental scars would take a long time to heal.  And how
about the dire consequences?

I couldn't stand the self-torture any longer.  I swallowed my tea,
pulled on my clothes and trailed downstairs.

"Feeling better, Jim?"  my wife asked brightly as she washed the
dishes.  "You'll soon be okay again, you always are.  What a strange
business it is, but anyway, the kids enjoyed it.  I understand you were
in excellent voice last night."  She giggled as she reached for the
towel.

I thought a gentle stroll in the fresh air would make me feel better,
so I set off to walk around the town.  I could hardly believe it when I
saw Mrs.  Featherstone approaching a mere hundred yards away.
Panic-stricken, I scuttled over to the other side of the street, but
the lady had spotted me and she crossed over, too.  And as the
expensively tweeded figure bore down on me with purposeful strides I
knew there was no escape.

Ah, well, I told myself, here it comes: Mr.  Herriot, I thought you
might be interested to know that I have placed the matter of Saturday
night in the hands of my solicitors.  Your behaviour was quite
outrageous and I feel it my duty to ensure that defenceless women are
protected from you in future.  I can scarcely believe that a
professional man would act as you did--taking advantage of your
situation, betraying the trust placed in you.  And as for your
incredible callousness in the face of my poor dog's suffering--I cannot
bear to think of it.

But it wasn't like that at all.  When Mrs.  Featherstone came up to me
she put a hand on my arm.  "Really, Mr.  Herriot, you did me a service
last night."

"Eh?"

"Yes, you were so understanding.  I realise now that I have been
foolish about Rollo.  I must have been such a nuisance to you."

"Oh, no, no, no ..."

"You are kind, but I know I have been unreasonable, troubling you over
nothing at inconvenient times and here again I was at your door on a
Saturday night."

"I assure you ..."

"But instead of being upset, you laughed, and it was so wonderful how
you made me see the funny side of my silliness.  I feel so ashamed that
I refused to listen to you when you so rightly tried to explain that I
was worrying needlessly, and I do hope you can forgive me.  From now
on, I intend to be a sensible dog owner.  And Rollo really is quite
healthy, isn't he?"

Waves of relief rolled over me as I looked at the little dog,
bright-eyed, laughing-faced, leaping almost head high at the sound of
his name.  "Well, I'm not quite sure.  He doesn't look very lively to
me."

"Oh, now you are trying to make me laugh again."  She put her hand over
her mouth with the same embarrassed gesture I remembered, then gave me
a quizzical look.  "I feel I'm going to laugh a lot more in future."

I haven't had a funny turn for thirty years.  They just gradually
disappeared from my life.  But when I think of that Saturday night with
Mrs.  Featherstone I still get an attack of the shivers.

Chapter 10

I couldn't believe I was going to launch this boy on his own into the
jungle of veterinary practice.  Young John Crooks, so familiar a face
after the months he had spent seeing practice with us during his
university vacations, watching us work, picking up the practical hints
and knowledge, doing the odd job himself, but always under our wings,
was standing there by my desk, cheerful and smiling as always, but oh,
so youthful.  He looked about seventeen.  It didn't seem fair to send
him out there unprotected.

However, there was no doubt that it was J. L. Crooks Esq, MRCVS
standing there, suitcase by his side, bright-eyed and eager to go, and
I had to adjust to the fact.

I cleared my throat.  "Well, John," I said, smiling up at him,
"congratulations on qualifying.  You're a fully fledged veterinary
surgeon now, all your examinations behind you, and it's good to see you
here.  And, you know, this is quite an occasion.  You are the very
first assistant to be employed in the practice of Farnon and
Herriot."

He laughed.  "Really?  That makes me sound very important.  But when I
was here as a student you had people working for you?"

"Yes, that's right.  Tristan, of course, but he's one of the family and
we never thought of him as an assistant.  And there were one or two
temporary people, but you are the first official man."

"Well, that's nice.  And now I'm here I'd better start earning my
keep."

"Okay, we'll get your car kit ted out and then you'd better report to
your digs.  You're lodging with Mrs.  Barrie, aren't you?"

As the young man filled the car boot with the drugs and instruments he
was going to need I could see that he was keen to pitch into the
unpredictable world of practice, but I wondered just how nervous he was
at the prospect of confronting the tough Yorkshire farmers on his own.
Would he make the grade?  Some new graduates just couldn't do it, and
as he drove away in his Ford 8 with his bag of tricks rattling behind
him I found myself crossing my fingers.

I have a big streak of old hen in me, as my family will testify, and
throughout the day I was almost wringing my hands.  How was the poor
lad getting on?  We were so busy that I didn't see him to talk to, and
I kept hoping he hadn't come up against any awkward situations.  Our
farmers were nearly all no-nonsense but kindly men, but there was the
odd very difficult client.

I recalled my session with Major Sykes a few days ago.  The fierce
little man barked at me as I treated his horse.  "Herriot, good God,
man!  Can't you do better than this?  You don't seem to have much idea
how to treat this blasted animal!"  Then he shouted at his groom, "No,
don't put the bucket down there, you bloody fool!"  He was impossible
to please and verbally steamrollered people into the ground, treating
everybody, especially, it seemed, vets, like the more dim-witted
private soldiers of his army days.  In fact, despite myself I often
found my thumbs edging into line with the seams of my trousers, taking
me back to the RAF.

It was late afternoon when I came into the surgery and looked at the
day-book, and the words seemed to jump out at me.  "Major Sykes,
Hunting horse, laminitis."  John had ticked it--he'd be there now.

My eyes popped.  One of those adored and valuable hunters--and
laminitis, a condition with so many nasty possibilities.  No job for a
newly qualified young chap.  The Major would eat him alive.  I had to
check up and I hurried out to Roova Grange.

As I got out of the car I could hear the Major's aggressive tones
coming from a loose box and I feared John was already going through
it.

I peeped over the half-door of the box.  A fine bay mare was standing
there in the painful, crouching position of laminitis, her hind feet
drawn under her body.  A foal, obviously only a few days old, was close
by her side.  The Major, hands on hips, was almost shouting up into
John's face.

"Now look here, er ... er ... what dye say your name is?  Crooks, yes,
now look here, dammit, Crooks, you say this mare has a bad laminitis.
Bloody great temperature, all crippled up, and you're trying to tell me
that she'll be all right.  Well, I bought her in foal and I bought her
in good faith, is she always going to be subject to this, eh, eh?  I've
heard about horses that are always getting it.  Have I been sold a pup,
dye think?  D'you know enough about the job to tell me that, eh, eh?"

The young man, however, did not seem at all put out.  He spoke
soothingly.  "Now, Major Sykes, I've told you the cause of the trouble.
Your mare retained her afterbirth when she foaled and she developed
metritis.  Laminitis is a common complication of this, and what you
have here is an isolated case.  I've given her a shot of antibiotic and
I'll repeat it over the next day or two.  That will clear the
metritis."

Still bristling, the little man stuck out his chin.  "And how about the
bloody laminitis, what're you going to do about that, eh, eh?"

"Well, as you saw, she's had an injection for that, too."  John gave
him a serene smile.  "And if you'll keep her on bran for a few days and
stand her in your pond to cool the feet as I directed, I'm sure she'll
soon be back to normal."

"And d'you think she's had it before?"

"No, no, no."

"How the hell dye know that?"

"Well, now, she's got no lines round her hooves, and look here."  He
lifted one of the mare's forefeet.  "A lovely concave sole.  She's
never had laminitis before."

"And it won't come back, eh?"

"No likelihood of a recurrence."

"Just hope you're right," the Major grunted.

"I'm sure I am.  You'll see.  You worry too much, you know."  I
shuddered and closed my eyes as John reached out and gave the little
man a comforting pat on the shoulder.  For a moment I thought the Major
would erupt, then, to my amazement, his face broke into something like
a shy smile.  "You think so, eh?"

"I do indeed.  You really oughtn't to let things upset you so much."

This was something new in the little man's experience and for a few
seconds he looked up into John's face, then he took off his cap and
scratched his head.  "Well, maybe you're right.  Maybe you're right,
young man.  Heh-heh-heh!"

I couldn't believe it.  He was laughing.  John threw back his head and
laughed, too.  It was like a reunion between two old college chums. And
suddenly I realised that that wasn't little John Crooks, our student,
in there, it was a tall, good-looking, self-assured veterinary surgeon
with a fine big voice that lent authority to everything he said.  I
slunk away to my car and drove off with a resolution already formed in
my mind.  I wasn't going to worry about John any more.

He had been with us for a few weeks when I answered the phone one
morning.  "Hello, is that Mr.  Herriot?"  a cheerful voice enquired.  I
recognised one of our farmer clients.

"Yes, Mr.  Gates," I replied.  "What can I do for you?"

"Nay, it's aw right  Ah want to speak to t'yoong man."

A pang, unexpectedly deep and piercing, shot through me.  What was
this?  I was the "yoong man," always had been.  That was how the
clients had invariably referred to me even though I was only six years
younger than Siegfried.  There was some mistake here.

"Whom did you say you wanted?"  I asked.

"T'yoong man--Mr.  Crooks."

Ah, well, there it was.  I hadn't realised that I had become attached
to my title and, walking along the passage to fetch John, I felt
strangely wi/l as I faced the fact that, although I was still in my
early thirties, I wasn't the young man any more.

From then on, I had to live with an ever-increasing flood of requests
for the services of a young man who wasn't me.  However, it was only
depressing for a short time, because the compensations were enormous.
As John settled in to the practice I found a miraculous easing of my
life.  It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good
one like him.  I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a
calving heifer at three o'clock in the morning and was able to pass it
on to him and turn over and go to sleep, I could feel the liking
deepening into a warm affection.

He had his own ideas about treatment and wasn't afraid to express them.
One day Siegfried found the two of us in the operating room.

"I've been reading about this Inductotherm.  Revolutionary new
treatment for strained tendons in horses.  You just wrap this electric
cable round the leg for a certain time every day and the heat clears up
the strain."

I gave a non-committal grunt.  I seldom had any ideas and, in fact, was
constitutionally opposed to any change, any innovation.  This trait, I
knew, irritated my partner intensely, so I remained silent.

John, however, spoke up.  "I've read about it, too, but I don't fancy
it."

"Why not?"  Siegfried's eyebrows went up.

"Smacks of witchcraft to me," John said.

"Oh, rubbish."  Siegfried frowned at him.  "I think it sounds perfectly
rational.  Anyway, I've ordered one of the things and I'd like to bet
it'll be a big help to us."

Siegfried was the horse specialist, so I didn't argue, but I was very
interested to see how the thing worked, and we soon had the opportunity
to find out.  The Lord of the Manor of Darrowby, usually called the
Squire, kept his horses in some stables at the foot of our street, a
mere hundred yards away, and it seemed like fate when he reported a
case of strained tendons.

Siegfried rubbed his hands.  "Just what we wanted.  I've got to go over
to Whitby to inspect a stallion, so I'll leave it to you to handle this
case, John.  I've got a feeling you'll think the treatment is a great
advance."

I know my partner was looking forward to saying "I told you so" to the
young man, but after a week of the treatment, John still wasn't
impressed.

"I've been winding this thing round the horse's leg every day and
hanging about, but I can't see any difference.  I'm having another
session this afternoon, but if it still isn't any better I'm going to
suggest a return to the old treatment."

Around five o'clock that afternoon, with heavy rain sweeping along on
the wind, I was drawing up outside the surgery when I froze in my seat.
I was looking out at something terrible.  Several of the Squire's men
were carrying a body down the street.  It was John.  As I got out of
the car they bore him into the house and deposited him at the foot of
the stairs.  He seemed to be unconscious.

"What on earth's happened?"  I gasped, looking down in horror at the
prone form of my colleague draped over the lower steps.

"T'yoong man's electrocuted is self one of the men said.

"What!"

"Aye, it's right.  He were soaked wi' rain and when 'e went to connect
up the machine to the plug 'e must have got his fingers on the live
metal.  He started to yell, but 'e couldn't let go.  He went on
yellin', but I were hangin' on to the horse's head and I couldn't help
'im.  He sort of staggered about, like, and at t'finish he fell over
the horse's hind leg and that broke 'is grip on the thing or I think
he'd have been a goner!"

"My God!  What can we do?"  I turned to Helen, who had appeared from
the kitchen.  "Could you phone the doctor," I cried.  "But wait a
minute.  I think he's coming round."

John, stretched out on the stairs, had begun to stir, and as he peered
up at us through half-closed eyes an amazing flow of colourful language
began to pour from him.  He went on and on and on.

Helen stared at me, open-mouthed.  "Just listen to that!  And he's such
a nice young man, too!"

I could understand her astonishment, because John was an upright, very
correct lad who, unlike most vets, did not swear.  However, he had a
wonderful store within him, because some of the words were new even to
me, which was surprising, considering that I grew up in Glasgow.

After a while the torrent slowed down to an unintelligible mumble, and
Siegfried, who had just come in from his rounds, began to ply him with
neat gin, which, I believe, is contraindicated in these cases.

There is no doubt that John could have lost his life, but, mercifully,
as the minutes passed he recovered steadily till he was able to sit up
on the stairs.  At last, we adjured him to take it easy and stay where
he was, he shook himself, got up, drew himself up to his considerable
height and faced Siegfried.

"Mr.  Farnon," he said with great dignity.  "If you ask me to operate
that bloody apparatus again I shall tender my resignation."

That was the end of the short career of the Inductotherm.

It was a few days later and as always I felt a little wary when I saw
the formidable figure of Sep Craggs bearing down on me in the passage
at Skeldale House.

"Hey, Herriot," he barked, "I want a word wi' you!"

He was a rude man and I was used to his mode of address, but I put up
with it, because he was a valuable client with a large farm that he ran
with four grown sons whom he bullied and terrorised.

"Well, Mr.  Craggs, what's the trouble?"  I asked peaceably.

He glared down at me from his six-foot-four bulk and pushed his face
close to mine.  "Ah'll tell ye what the trouble is!  You've been
wastin' ma time!"

"Oh, really?  In what way?"

"Remember them mastitis powders you were goin' to put out for me?"

Oh, God, those sulphanilamide powders.  I'd forgotten about them.  "I'm
terribly sorry, I--"

"You forgot 'em, didn't you!  "Come down this afternoon," you said.
"They'll be in the box at the door for you."  Well, I came down at
three o'clock, but there was nowt in the box and nobody knew a thing
about it.  Ahim bloody cross, I tell ye!"

"Well, as I say, Mr.  Craggs, I'm very sorry ..."

"Aye, it's aw right bein' sorry, but that doesn't help me.  It's a
bloody long way to Darrowby from ma place and I had to leave me hay
making  And all for nowt.  I'm a busy feller, that knows, and I can't
afford to have ma time wasted like this!"

Oh, hell, he was rubbing it in, but he had me cold.  I picked up the
powders from the dispensary and handed them to him.

He was still grumbling.  "I don't want any more of this in the future,
so think on.  If ye ask me to come here for anything just think on and
'ave it ready for me."

I nodded dumbly, but he wasn't finished yet.

"It's you that needs powders," he grunted.  "Thinkin' on powders!"  He
gave me a final glare and left.

I took a few deep breaths and hoped fervently that I would never
transgress again in that quarter.

The incident was still fresh in my mind the following week when I again
found Sep Craggs waiting for me at the surgery as I returned from a
round.

His face was inscrutable but I felt a twinge of apprehension as he
towered over me.

"Ah came this mornin' to pick up a bottle of liniment, but it wasn't in
the box," he muttered.

Oh no!  Please not again!  Was I losing my mind?  I dug my nails into
my palms.  "I'm so sorry ... I ... I really can't remember arranging
this."

But there was no outburst this time.  The man was strangely subdued.
"It wasn't you, it was t'yoong man."

So it was poor John's turn to fall under the lash.  How could I divert
the wrath from him?  I gave a light laugh.  "Oh ... I see .... Well,
Mr.  Crooks is a splendid chap but he hasn't the best of memories."

"Nay, nay--don't criticise t'yoong man!  He's got enough on 'is mind
without botherin' about a little thing like a bottle of liniment."

"Eh?"

"Aye, don't start blamin' him!  I'm not havin' that!"  He gave me a
disapproving scowl.  "With all he's got to think about, you can't
expect 'im to remember everything."

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

I had never seen Mr.  Craggs smile, but his granite features relaxed a
little and an almost dreamy look came into his eyes.  "By gaw, he does
know a lot, does that lad--ah've never met anybody with such learnin'.
Ah'll tell that sum mat 'erriot.  He came to a bullock wi' foul in the
foot and 'e didn't mess about witar and salt for a week like you do.
Never touched the flippin' foot.  All 'e did was inject into the
shoulder, and t'beast was better in two days.  What dye make of that,
eh?"  He tapped me on the chest.

I knew he wouldn't believe me if I told him that I, too, was using the
new sulphadimidine injection now, so I didn't say anything.

"And ah'll tell that sum mat else," he went on.  "It was the right leg
that was lame, but 'e injected into the left shoulder."  His eyes
widened.  "It was like magic!"

"Good ... good ..."  I croaked.  "Well, I'll get you that liniment."

I brought the bottle from the dispensary and handed it to him.  "Well,
here it is, Mr.  Craggs.  I'm sorry you've had an extra journey."

The big man shook his head.  "Nay, that makes no matter.  It only takes
a few minutes to get 'ere."

As if in a dream, I saw him out of the door, and as I watched him walk
down the street, one thought was uppermost.  If John could touch the
heart of Sep Craggs his future was assured.

In fact, I think it was then that I realised that John was destined for
something big.  I had from the start begun to detect the seeds of
greatness in him because of his uncanny ability to get through to
people of all stations in life.  It wasn't just his appearance, his
confident approach, his rich voice, there was something else, and I
couldn't quite identify it, but whatever it was, everything about him
stamped him as the "young man most likely to succeed."

Chapter 11

John's hometown was Beverley, with its glorious Minster, fifty miles
from Darrowby, and on his half-days he usually went home for a few
hours.  Over the next year as he talked to me about these visits a
girl's name began to crop up more and more frequently.  She was called
Heather, and whenever he mentioned her his eyes were inclined to take
on a faraway look and his features to fall into an ethereal smile.
These symptoms became more and more marked over the months until one
day he confided to me that he was engaged and that Heather and he hoped
to marry soon.

One wintry day I was kicking the snow off my boots in the porch at
Skeldale House when John appeared in the doorway.

"Heather's inside," he said a little breathlessly.  "She's in the
office--I'd like you to meet her."

I wanted to meet her, too.  In fact I was agog after all I had heard
about her.  I straightened my tie, flattened down my hair, and strode
with seignorial briskness into the room.  Unfortunately I had a ball of
snow stuck on my heel and as I came through the door I took off on the
smooth linoleum, soared through the air and landed with a sickening
crash on my back on the other side of the room.  When I opened my eyes
I found I was looking up at a very attractive dark girl who was making
valiant efforts to keep her face straight.

That was how I met Heather--looking up at her-and I have looked up to
her and admired her ever since.  There are all sorts of words to
describe her in her future marriage to John--cherished partner through
life, staunch helpmeet, happy companion--she was all those things and
the mother of three splendid children to boot.

After that first meeting, John's wooing proceeded apace and I could see
that his impending marriage was more and more on his mind.  The
previous symptoms became more and more acute and he confessed to short
bouts of amnesia when he had to stop his car in the middle of the
country on his rounds and try to remember where he was going and what
he had to do.  Occasionally I caught him smiling to himself and it was
clear that his thoughts were on something rather wonderful ahead.

Just how much his future was preoccupying him became clear one wet
afternoon.  One of our farmers phoned me.

"I've had a message passed on to say that Mr.  Crooks's fiancee has
been taken ill.  He'd just left my place and I thought I'd missed 'im,
but I saw that his car had got stuck in the ford just beyond our
gate."

"Oh, dear, I'd better come and get him."

"Nay, there's no need.  I slipped down in my car and gave him the
message and he jumped out and asked me to run 'im to Darrowby station.
He caught a train and he was off."

"Gosh, that was quick."

"Aye, by gaw, he didn't mess about!"

"And where's the car now?"

"Still stuck in t'water."

"Right.  Thanks for letting me know.  I'll come out with my partner and
we'll fetch it back...."

The scene that met Siegfried and me when we got to the ford is one of
the vivid memories of John's time with us.  There was a dip in the
narrow, hill-girl road where the beck flowed over the tarmac and John's
little Ford 8 was standing there, axle-deep in the water.  There were
signs of a hasty exit--the driver's door was hanging open and the
windscreen wipers were still in motion, flip-flopping lazily across the
glass.  John hadn't delayed his departure for a second.

Happily, Heather's illness was not serious, and our busy practice life
went on with John going through all the routines of calving, foaling,
lambing, castration of colts and proving himself daily as the right man
in the right job.

The young couple were married on a fine day in May and they settled in
part of Siegfried's house.  Heather was a teacher and she taught
Siegfried's two children throughout her stay in our practice.

It was a jolt when the inevitable day came when John had to branch out
on his own.  He left to set up a practice in Beverley and I felt the
loss not only of a great assistant but a friend.  I was only about ten
years older than John-close enough to have interests and pursuits in
common.  I suppose as the years passed and other young men came and
went in our practice I progressed through the status of ageing
colleague, elder statesman, and finally to quaint old fossil, but with
the first few I was still in their world and John and I had a lot of
fun together.

Skeldale House had always been a place of laughter and, thank heaven,
John brought a vivid brand of humour of his own to the practice.  He
had his failures and disasters like all of us and used a wonderful gift
of mimicry to describe them.  He was sensitive and totally lacking in
vanity despite his forceful personality.

Above all I still think of him as a typical Englishman of an almost
old-fashioned sort with a passion for cricket, an unshakeable belief in
the old values and a reverence for the beautiful county in which we
worked.

After he had left to set up his own practice in Beverley, we were
absorbed in our own busy lives and saw less and less of each other.
There were special occasions, of course.  Helen and I were honoured to
become godparents to Annette, the first-born of the Crooks family, then
we had happy notice of the arrival of James and then Elizabeth.  We
managed to meet Heather and John the odd time at Scarborough and I saw
John at veterinary meetings, but the old chapter was closed.

However, with my conviction that he would rise high in the profession,
I followed his progress over the years, noting the rapid growth of his
practice until he was employing several assistants and that he was
being increasingly recognised for his drive and organising ability and
involved in the growth and administration of the profession.  I was
right in my prognostication; the only thing that at last stopped John's
rising was that he couldn't go any higher.  In 1983, thirty years after
he left Darrowby, he was elected President of the British Veterinary
Association.

It touched me then that after all that time he reached back to his
first boss and asked me to make the induction speech at his
inauguration.

"Those years in Darrowby were the happiest time of our lives for
Heather and me," he said.  "I want you to do it."

So there it was.  The great day came with me sitting in the conference
hall of Lancaster University among hundreds of vets from all over the
world.  All the notables were there--distinguished names
everywhere--but as I looked up at the august company on the platform
after I had said my piece it gave me a tremendous kick to realise that
right in the middle and the most important of them all was t'yoong man
from Darrowby.

My speech over, the ceremony proceeded, and John stood tall as he was
arrayed in the regalia of President.  The Association Secretary helped
him into the handsome black gown with green watered silk facings, then
the President of the previous year placed the chain of office around
his neck.  As this happened and I saw this chain being fastened from
behind, the whole thing suddenly reminded me of dressing up in an
obstetric gown before a calving with the farmer tying the tapes from
the rear.  It seemed that John felt exactly the same because at that
very solemn moment he said, "Could I have a bucket of hot water, soap
and a towel please."  A roar of laughter went up from the audience--so
many of us had uttered those words a thousand times.

Finally, in full raiment, he turned and faced the assembly.  He was
bulkier than in his Darrowby days and his hair was a silver thatch, but
he was profoundly imposing.  I looked towards the front row of the
auditorium where Heather and all the family sat gazing up proudly.
Among them I saw baby Emily, first of the grandchildren, perched on
James's knee, and the years rolled away.  Ah, well, John wasn't t'yoong
man any more, but he was a famous and happy one.

In my speech I had tried to bring out John's unique ability to
influence people, and I searched hard for an explanation or for the
right words.  It was such an intangible thing that I paraphrased a beer
advertisement by saying he could reach the parts other veterinary
surgeons couldn't reach.

As I sat there watching the ceremony on the platform the memory of that
lonely road among the hills and the stranded car in the water with the
door hanging open and the windscreen wipers going flip-flop, flip-flop
swam up into my mind.  It occurred to me that there could be a clue
there.  Maybe the scene epitomised two of the aspects of John's
character that had taken him to the top of the profession--devotion to
his wife and the power of instant decision.

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 small holding  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 thousands 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 l50,000 to l60,000 at the present day, but in the early fifties,
l2,000 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 l1,500 and went rapidly--more rapidly than I had
expected-up to my top figure of l2,000.  Bootland made it l2,100.  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 l3,000 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 l3,000 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 Bootland.  "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 l1,325--around l30,000 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, marvelous," 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-tit ted '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?"

"Ahim 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 sum mat 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.

"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 nine pence
ever since."

"Well, that's wonderful, Mr.  Dowson.  I'm so pleased to hear it."  I
shook my head to dispel the mists of fantasy that had begun to billow
around me.  I am a run-of-the-mill veterinary surgeon, hard-working and
conscientious, but that's all, and it knocks me out of my stride to be
hailed as a genius, but as always, listening to Mr.  Dowson was like
soothing oil being poured on my oft-bruised ego.  I had to admit I
enjoyed it, and I didn't demur when he went on.

"And while you're 'ere, just have a look at this pig."  He took my arm
and led me into an outbuilding.  "There she is," he said, leaning over
a pen and pointing to a fine big sow stretched on the straw with a
litter of piglets sucking busily at her teats.  "That's the one that
had that nasty great swelling on her foot.  Dead lame she was, and I
was right worried about 'er.  You gave her a jab and left me some salve
to rub on the lump and next morning it was gone!"

"You mean ... it vanished overnight?  All of it?"

"Aye, that's right, ahim not jokin' nor jestin'.  It was gone!"

"Well ... that's quite amazing."

"Not to me, it isn't, Mr.  Herriot.  Everything you do for me turns out
right.  Ah don't know what I'd do without you."

Even through my confusion I found his faith touching.  I hoped it would
never be shattered.

I thought that moment had arrived when Mr.  Dowson called me to his
farm a few weeks later.

"What's the trouble this time?"  I asked.

The old man rubbed his chin.  "Well, it's a funny one, I tell you. It's
this calf."  He pointed to a sturdy young animal about a month old. 
"He won't drink 'is milk properly.  Look.  I'll show ye."  He tipped
some milk into a big bucket and set it down in front of the little
creature, but the calf, instead of drinking, put his head down andwitha
fierce butt, sent the bucket flying, spilling the milk in all
directions.

"Does he do this every time?"

"Aye, knocks it over every time.  It's a dang nuisance.  Wastes me good
milk, too."

I examined the calf, then turned to the farmer.  "He seems perfectly
healthy to me."

"Oh, aye, he is.  Fit as a flea and full o' life.  It's just this one
thing withe bucket.  I thought you'd maybe be able to give 'im one of
your magic injections to stop him doin' it."

"Well, really, Mr.  Dowson," I said, laughing.  "This isn't a medical
problem, it's psychological.  He just doesn't like buckets.  I'm afraid
I can't do anything for you this time.  Can't you hold the bucket while
he drinks?"

"Yes, that's what I have to do, but even then 'e keeps bashin' at it
with his head."  He dug his hands into his pockets and gave me a
crestfallen look.  "Ahim sure you could do something.  You say it's not
a medical problem, but it's an animal problem and everythin' you've
done for me wianimals has been successful.  I wish you'd have a try. Go
on, give 'im an injection."

I looked at the old man's doleful face.  I had a feeling that if I
walked off the farm without doing something, he would be truly upset.
How could I please him without being an absolute charlatan?  If I
didn't inject something it was going to break his heart, but what ...
what ...?  Mentally I searched the contents of my car boot and was
beginning to despair when in my mind's eye I saw the bottle of
thiamine-vitamin B injection.  We used it for a brain disease called
cerebro cortical necrosis and, of course, the calf wasn't suffering
from that or anything like it, but at least it had to do with the head.
Anyway, I stilled my conscience with the thought that I wouldn't charge
the old man anything.

I hurried to the car.  "I'll give him a shot of this," I said and was
rewarded by a radiant smile lighting up Mr.  Dowson's face.  I injected
a few c.c."s with the knowledge that I wasn't doing any harm.  The
injection would be useless, but it was serving its purpose.  The old
man was happy, and, really, when I thought about it, it would be no bad
thing if, for once, my treatment was ineffective.  My mantle of
infallibility would be stripped from me and I wouldn't be expected to
do the impossible any more.

It was more than a month before I saw Mr.  Dowson again.  He was
leaning over a rail at the cattle market and he waved and came over to
me.  I was intrigued at the prospect that for the first time ever he
would have to report a failure.  What words would he employ?  He had
never had to do it before.  And I was pretty sure that he would hate
telling me.

He looked up at me with wide eyes.  "Well, you've done it again, Mr.
Herriot!"

"Done it again ...?"  I looked at him blankly.

"Aye, that calf.  Your injection worked."

"What!"

"It did an' all."  The familiar happy smile flooded over his face.
"He's never butted a bucket since that day!"

Chapter 14

Sometimes, when our dog and cat patients died the owners brought them
in for us to dispose of them.  It was always a sad occasion and I had a
sense of foreboding when I saw old Dick Fawcett's face.

He put the improvised cat box on the surgery table and looked at me
with unhappy eyes.

"It's Frisk," he said.  His lips trembled as though he was unable to
say more.

I didn't ask any questions, but began to undo the strings on the
cardboard container.  Dick couldn't afford a proper cat box, but he had
used this one before, a home-made affair with holes punched in the
sides.

I untied the last knot and looked inside at the motionless body. Frisk.
The glossy black, playful little creature I knew so well, always
purring and affectionate and Dick's companion and friend.

"When did he die, Dick?"  I asked.

He passed a hand over his haggard face and through the straggling grey
hairs.  "Well, I just found 'im stretched out by my bed this morning.
But ... I don't rightly know if he's dead yet, Mr.  Herriot."

I looked again inside the box.  There was no sign of breathing.  I
lifted the limp form onto the table and touched the cornea of the
unseeing eye.  No reflex.  I reached for my stethoscope and placed it
over the chest.

"The heart's still going, Dick, but it's a very faint beat."

"Might stop any time, you mean?"

I hesitated.  "Well, that's the way it sounds, I'm afraid."

As I spoke, the little cat's rib-cage lifted slightly, then subsided.

"He's still breathing," I said.  "But only just."  I examined the cat
thoroughly and found nothing unusual.  The conjunctiva of the eye was a
good colour.  In fact there was no abnormality.

I passed a hand over the sleek little body.  "This is a puzzler, Dick.
He's always been so lively--lived up to his name, in fact, yet here he
is, flat out, and I can't find any reason for it."

"Could he have 'ad a stroke or sum mat

"I suppose it's just possible, but I wouldn't expect him to be totally
unconscious.  I'm wondering if he might have had a blow on the head."

"I don't think so.  He was as right as rain when I went to bed, and he
was never out during t'night."  The old man shrugged his shoulders.
"Any road, it's a poor look-out for 'im?"

"Afraid so, Dick.  He's only just alive.  But I'll give him a stimulant
injection and then you must take him home and keep him warm.  If he's
still around tomorrow morning bring him in and I'll see how he's going
on."

I was trying to strike an optimistic note, but I was pretty sure that I
would never see Frisk again and I knew the old man felt the same.

His hands shook as he tied up the box and he didn't speak until we
reached the front door.  He turned briefly to me and nodded.  "Thank
ye, Mr.  Herriot."

I watched him as he walked with shuffling steps down the street.  He
was going back to an empty little house with his dying pet.  He had
lost his wife many years ago--I had never known a Mrs.  Fawcett--and he
lived alone on his old-age pension.  It wasn't much of a life.  He was
a quiet, kindly man who didn't go out much and seemed to have few
friends, but he had Frisk.  The little cat had walked in on him six
years ago and had transformed his life, bringing a boisterous, happy
presence into the silent house, making the old man laugh with his
tricks and playfulness, following him around, rubbing against his legs.
Dick wasn't lonely any more, and I had watched a warm bond of
friendship growing stronger over the years.  In fact, it was something
more--the old man seemed to depend on Frisk.  And now this.

Well, I thought as I walked back down the passage, it was the sort of
thing that happened in veterinary practice.  Pets didn't live long
enough.  But I felt worse this time because I had no idea what ailed my
patient.  I was in a total fog.

On the following morning I was surprised to see Dick Fawcett sitting in
the waiting room, the cardboard box on his knee.

I stared at him.  "What's happened?"

He didn't answer and his face was inscrutable as we went through to the
consulting room and he undid the knots.  When he opened the box I
prepared for the worst, but to my astonishment the little cat leaped
out onto the table and rubbed his face against my hand, purring like a
motorcycle.

The old man laughed, his thin face transfigured.  "Well, what dye think
of that?"

"I don't know what to think, Dick!"  I examined the little animal
carefully.  He was completely normal.  "All I know is that I'm
delighted.  It's like a miracle."

"No, it isn't," he said.  "It was that injection you gave 'im.  It's
worked wonders.  I'm right grateful."

Well, it was kind of him, but it wasn't as simple as that.  There was
something here I didn't understand, but never mind.  Thank heaven it
had ended happily.

The incident had receded into a comfortable memory when, three days
later, Dick Fawcett reappeared at the surgery with his box.  Inside was
Frisk, motionless, unconscious, just as before.

Totally bewildered, I repeated the injection and on the following day
the cat was normal.  From then on, I was in the situation that every
veterinary surgeon knows so well--being involved in a baffling case and
waiting with a feeling of impending doom for something tragic to
happen.

Nothing did happen for nearly a week, then Mrs.  Duggan, Dick's
neighbour, telephoned.

"I'm ringin' on behalf of Mr.  Fawcett.  His cat's ill."

"In what way?"

"Oh, just lyin' stretched out, unconscious, like."

I suppressed a scream.  "When did this happen?"

"Just found 'im this morning.  And Mr.  Fawcett can't bring him to
you--he's poorly himself.  He's in bed."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  I'll come round straight away."

And it was just the same as before.  An almost lifeless little creature
lying prone on Dick's bed.  Dick himself looked terrible--ghastly white
and thinner than ever--but he still managed a smile.

"Looks like 'e needs another of your magic injections, Mr.  Herriot."

As I filled my syringe, my mind seethed with the thought that there was
indeed some kind of magic at work here, but it wasn't my injection.

"I'll drop in tomorrow, Dick," I said.  "And I hope you'll be feeling
better yourself."

"Oh, I'll be aw right as long as t'little feller's better."  The old
man stretched out a hand and stroked the cat's shining fur.  The arm
was emaciated and the eyes in the skull-like face were desperately
worried.

I looked around the comfortless little room and hoped for another
miracle.

I wasn't really surprised when I came back next morning and saw Frisk
darting about on the bed, pawing at a piece of string the old man was
holding up for him.  The relief was great but I felt enveloped more
suffocatingly than ever in my fog of ignorance.  What the hell was it?
The whole thing just didn't make sense.  There was no known disease
with symptoms like these.  I had a strong conviction that reading a
whole library of veterinary books wouldn't help me.

Anyway, the sight of the little cat arching and purring round my hand
was reward enough, and for Dick it was everything.  He was relaxed and
smiling.

"You keep getting' him right, Mr.  Herriot.  I can't thank you enough."
Then the worry flickered again in his eyes.  "But is he goin' to keep
doing it?  I'm frightened he won't come round one of these times."

Well, that was the question.  I was frightened, too, but I had to try
to be cheerful.  "Maybe it's just a passing phase, Dick.  I hope we'll
have no more trouble now."  But I couldn't promise anything and the
frail man in the bed knew it.

Mrs.  Duggan was showing me out when I saw the district nurse getting
out of her car at the front door.

"Hello, Nurse," I said.  "You've come to have a look at Mr.  Fawcett?
I'm sorry he's ill."

She nodded.  "Yes, poor old chap.  It's a great shame."

"What do you mean?  Is it something serious?"

"Afraid so."  Her mouth tightened and she looked away from me.  "He's
dying.  It's cancer.  Getting rapidly worse."

"My God!  Poor Dick.  And a few days ago he was bringing his cat to my
surgery.  He never said a word.  Does he know?"

"Oh, yes, he knows, but that's him all over, Mr.  Herriot.  He's as
game as a pebble.  He shouldn't have been out, really."

"Is he ... is he ... suffering?"

She shrugged.  "Getting a bit of pain now, but we're keeping him as
comfortable as we can with medication.  I give him a shot when
necessary and he has some stuff he can take himself if I'm not around.
He's very shaky and can't pour from the bottle into the spoon.  Mrs.
Duggan would gladly do it for him, but he's so independent."  She
smiled for a moment.  "He pours the mixture into a saucer and spoons it
up that way."

"A saucer ...?"  Somewhere in the fog a little light glimmered. "What's
in the mixture?"

"Oh, heroin and pethidine.  It's the usual thing Dr.  Allinson
prescribes."

I seized her arm.  "I'm coming back in with you, Nurse."

The old man was surprised when I reappeared.  "What's matter, Mr.
Herriot?  Have you left sum mat

"No, Dick, I want to ask you something.  Is your medicine
pleasant-tasting?"

"Aye, it's nice and sweet.  It isn't bad to take at all."

"And you put it in a saucer?"

"That's right.  Me hand's a bit dothery."

"And when you take it last thing at night there's sometimes a bit left
in the saucer?"

"Aye, there is.  Why?"

"Because you leave that saucer by your bedside, don't you, and Frisk
sleeps on your bed ..."

The old man lay very still as he stared at me.  "You mean the little
beggar licks it out?"

"I'll bet my boots he does."

Dick threw back his head and laughed.  A long, joyous laugh.  "And that
sends 'im to sleep!  No wonder!  It makes me right dozy, too!"

I laughed with him.  "Anyway, we know now, Dick.  You'll put that
saucer in the cupboard when you've taken your dose, won't you?"

"I will that, Mr.  Herriot.  And Frisk will never pass out like that
again?"

"No, never again."

"Eee, that's grand!"  He sat up in bed, lifted the little cat and held
him against his face.  He gave a sigh of utter content and smiled at
me.

"Mr.  Herriot," he said.  "I've got nowt to worry about now."

Out in the street, as I bade Mrs.  Duggan goodbye for the second time,
I looked back at the little house.  ""Nowt to worry about," eh?  That's
rather wonderful, coming from him."

"Oh aye, and he means it, too.  He's not bothered about himself."

I didn't see Dick again for two weeks.  I was visiting a friend in
Darrowby's little cottage hospital when I saw the old man in a bed in a
corner of the ward.

I went over and sat down by his side.  His face was desperately thin,
but serene.

"Hello, Dick," I said.

He looked at me sleepily and spoke in a whisper.  "Now then, Mr.
Herriot."  He closed his eyes for a few moments, then he looked up
again with the ghost of a smile.  "I'm glad we found out what was wrong
with t'little cat."

"So am I, Dick."

Again a pause.  "Mrs.  Duggan's got 'im."

"Yes.  I know.  He has a good home there."

"Aye ... aye ..."  The voice was fainter.  "But of tens I wish I had
'im here."  The bony hand stroked the counterpane and his lips moved
again. I bent closer to hear.

"Frisk ..."  he was saying, "Frisk ..."  Then his eyes closed and I saw
that he was sleeping.

I heard next day that Dick Fawcett had died, and it was possible that I
was the last person to hear him speak.  And it was strange, yet
fitting, that those last words were about his cat.

"Frisk ... Frisk ..."

Chapter 15

I have to go back now to those early days when John Crooks departed
from the practice and it was difficult to adjust my mind to the fact
that he had gone for good.  I couldn't believe that I would never hear
that booming voice on the other end of the phone saying okay, I could
stay in my bed, and he'd go out into the cold darkness to calve that
heifer.  And it wasn't just that.  As I have said, I was young enough
then to be a friend to an assistant and I was losing a friend now--two,
in fact, when John and Heather set off to build their own life in
Beverley--and it left me with an empty feeling.

However, it was no use brooding.  We had to have another assistant, and
since our advertisement in The Veterinary Record had been successful,
there was one on his way to us at this moment.  I looked at my watch.
It was nearly two thirty.  Calum Buchanan's train would be pulling in
to Darrowby in a few minutes.  I ran out to the car and drove to the
station.

When the train drew in, only one passenger alighted.  He was a tall
young man with a huge lurcher dog trotting by his side, and as he came
along the platform towards me I took in the battered suitcase, flowing
black moustache and very dark eyes, but the most striking feature was a
large hairy animal draped over his left shoulder.

He put out his hand and grinned.  "Mr.  Herriot?"

"Yes ... yes ..."  I shook his hand.  "You'll be Calum Buchanan."

"That's right."

"Good, good ... but what's that on your shoulder?"

"That's Marilyn."

"Marilyn?"

"Yes, my badger."

"Badger!"

He laughed, a carefree laugh.  "Sorry, maybe I should have warned you
in my letter.  She's my pet.  Goes everywhere with me."

"Everywhere?"

"Absolutely."

All kinds of apprehensions boiled up in my mind.  How did a veterinary
assistant carry out his duties with a wild animal hanging from his
shoulder at all times?  And what sort of man would roll up to a new job
not only with a badger but with a giant dog?

Anyway, I'd soon find out.  I pushed my misgivings to one side and led
him out to the car, running a gauntlet of pop-eyed stares from a
booking-clerk, two ladies sitting on the platform seat and from a
porter who nearly wheeled a load of packing cases into a wall.

"I see you've got a dog, too," I said.

"Yes, that's Storm.  Lovely, good-natured animal."

The lurcher waved his tail and gazed up at me with kind eyes.  I patted
the shaggy head.  "He looks it."

"Incidentally," I said.  "With a name like yours I was expecting a
Scottish accent and you haven't got one."

He smiled.  "No, I grew up in Yorkshire, but my ancestry is Scottish."
His eyes gleamed and his chin went up.

"You're proud of that, eh?"

He nodded gravely.  "I am indeed.  Very proud."

At Skeldale House I showed him his car and helped to kit him out with
the essential equipment we all carried--the drugs, instruments,
obstetric gown and protective clothing--then I took him up to the flat,
where his main interest seemed to be directed not at the interior but
at the birds and flowers he could see through the window overlooking
the long garden.

"By the way," I said.  "I should have asked you earlier.  Have you had
lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"Yes, have you had something to eat?"

"Eat ... eat ...?"  The black button eyes took on a thoughtful
expression.  "Yes ... I'm sure I had something yesterday."

"Yesterday!  My God, it's nearly four o'clock in the afternoon.  You
must be starved!"

"Oh, no, not at all, not in the least."

"You mean you're not hungry?"

He seemed to find the question unusual, even irrelevant, and replied
with a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

"Anyway," I said, "I'll slip downstairs and see what I can find for
you."

In the office cupboard was a large uncut fruit-cake Helen had just
baked to go with the cups of coffee we snatched between visits.  I put
it on a plate with a knife and took it up to the flat.

"Here you are," I said, placing the cake on the table.  "Help yourself
and then you can get a proper meal later."

As I spoke I heard footsteps on the stair and Siegfried burst into the
room.

"Calum Buchanan, Siegfried Farnon," I said.

They shook hands, then Siegfried pointed a trembling finger at the
young man's shoulder.  "What the devil is that?"

Calum smiled his engaging smile.  "Marilyn, my badger."

"And you're going to keep that animal here?"

"That's right."

Siegfried took a long breath and let it out slowly through his nose,
but he didn't say anything.  Instead, he continued to look fixedly at
our new assistant.

The young man was talking easily about his experience in practice, his
pleasure at coming to a charming town like Darrowby, and about the
things he could see in the garden.

He had started on the cake, but didn't bother to use the knife.
Instead, he crumbled pieces off absently as he spoke.  "What a
beautiful wist aria  Finest I've ever seen.  There's a pretty little
bullfinch, and surely that's a tree-creeper on your apple tree--not
many of them about.  And my word!"--popping a large chunk of
sultana-laden comestible into his mouth--"I can see an albino blackbird
over there.  What a beauty!"

Siegfried was a keen naturalist and ornithologist and normally this
conversation would have been right up his street, but he remained
silent, his eyes straying unbelievingly from the badger to the dog and
to the steadily disappearing cake.

Finally, Calum swept up the last few crumbs with his fingers--I had the
impression that he had no interest in what he had eaten--and turned
away from the window.

"Well, thank you very much.  I'll get unpacked now if I may."

I swallowed.  "Right, see you later."

We went downstairs and Siegfried led me rapidly into the empty office.
"What the hell have we got here, James?  An assistant with a blasted
badger round his neck!  And a dog as big as a donkey!"

"Well, yes ... but he seems to be a nice bloke."

"Maybe so, but very strange.  Did you see-he ate that whole bloody
cake!"

"Yes, I saw.  But he was very hungry; he hadn't eaten since
yesterday."

Siegfried stared at me.  "Not since yesterday!  Are you sure?"

"Sure as I can be.  He didn't seem to know himself."

My partner groaned and slapped a hand against his forehead.  "Oh, God,
we should have had an interview before we took this chap on.  But he
had such glowing references from the university.  They said he was
outstanding--I thought we couldn't go wrong."

"You never know.  He may be good at the job-that's what really
counts."

"Well, we'll have to hope so, but he's a bloody oddball and I sense
trouble."

I didn't say anything, but I had my own misgivings.  John Crooks with
all his great qualities was, at bottom, just an ordinary nice guy, but
there was nothing ordinary about that dark-eyed young man upstairs.

The telephone interrupted my musings.  I took the call and turned to
Siegfried.  "That's Miles Horsley.  He's got a heifer calving."

My partner nodded, then pursed his lips thoughtfully.  After a few
moments he raised a decisive finger.  "Right, we'll send the new man.
We've been wondering if he can do the job.  This is our chance to find
out."

"Wait a minute, Siegfried," I said.  "The young chap's newly qualified
and this is Miles Horsley.  He's an expert--you never get an easy
calving there, and it's a heifer, too.  It could be very tough.  Maybe
I'd better go."

Siegfried shook his head vigorously.  "No, I want to find out what this
fellow's made of and the sooner the better.  Shout him down, will
you?"

Calum received the instructions calmly, whistling softly as we pointed
out the farm on the map.  As he turned to go, Siegfried fired a parting
shot.  "This could be a difficult job, but don't come back till you
have calved that heifer.  Do you understand?"

My blood froze but Calum didn't seem in the least put out.  He nodded,
gave us a casual wave of the hand and went out to his car.

After he had left, Siegfried turned to me with a grim smile.  "You may
think I'm hard, James, but I don't want him coming back here in half an
hour with the story that it's an unusual presentation and would we take
over.  No, in at the deep end, I say.  It's the best way."

I shrugged.  I just hoped the new young man could swim.

That was around five thirty and by half past seven I was suffering from
almost unbearable tension.  Pictures of the hapless rookie rolling
around on a byre floor, covered in blood and muck, swam through my mind
and I found myself looking at my watch every five minutes.  I had
almost reached the stage of pacing the floor when Siegfried came in,
carrying a little dog that had torn its flank and needed stitching.
"How did Buchanan get on?"  he asked.

"I don't know.  He's not back yet."

"Not back!"  My partner gave me a level stare.  "Something's wrong,
then.  Let's get this dog stitched, then one of us had better get out
there and see what's going on."

We were both silent as I anaesthetised the little animal and Siegfried
began to clean out the wound.  I knew we were thinking the same thing:
it had been a mistake to send the new man out there.

As Siegfried inserted the sutures I noticed that he, too, kept glancing
at his watch and it was just after eight o'clock when the operating
room door opened and Calum Buchanan walked in.

My partner, needle poised, looked at him.  "Well ...?"

"I'm afraid it was an impossible presentation," Calum replied.  "Small
heifer, huge calf with lateral deviation of the head.  Right away back,
out of reach.  No way I could possibly calve her."

Siegfried flushed and a dangerous light glinted in his eyes.  "So
...?"

"So I did a Caesarean."

"You did what?"

Calum smiled calmly.  "A Caesarean.  It was the only thing to do.  The
calf was alive, so embryotomy was out of the question."

Siegfried looked at him open-mouthed.  "And tell me ... what ... what
happened?"

"Oh, pretty straightforward, really.  The heifer was up and looking
fine when I left, and we got a lovely live calf."

"Well ... well ..."  My partner seemed lost for words--the Caesarean
operation on cows was a rare undertaking in the fifties--but finally
his natural sense of justice reasserted itself.  "Well, my boy, you've
done a splendid job and I do congratulate you.  It was your very first
call as a qualified man, too.  Well done indeed."

The young man flashed his dark-eyed smile.  "Thank you very much."  He
looked down at his hands.  "I could do with a bath now if you don't
mind."

"My dear chap, by all means.  And get something to eat, too."

As the door closed behind our new assistant my partner gave me a
wide-eyed look.  "Well, what do you make of that?"

"Absolutely great!"  I said.  "Anybody who can tackle a job like that
when he's only just arrived must be good.  My God, he's hardly had time
to get his instruments sorted out in his car!"

"Yes ... yes ..."  Siegfried's expression was preoccupied as he
finished his stitching and he didn't say anything as he put down his
needle and went over to the basin against the wall to wash his hands.
Then he turned to me suddenly.  "You know, I still can't quite believe
it, James!  Do you think he's having us on?"

I laughed.  "Oh, no, of course not.  He wouldn't dare."

"I don't know," grunted Siegfried.  "There's something very odd about
that chap.  I don't know where I am with him somehow."  He finished
drying his hands and then his face broke into a slow smile.  "Tell you
what.  When we've cleared up here we'll slip out to Miles Horsley's
place.  It's only a ten minutes' drive and we can have a beer in the
village pub.  It's nearly opposite the farm.  I won't be satisfied till
I've had a look for myself."

Miles Horsley was a rangy, six-foot Dalesman--a decent man but not one
to cross.  An advanced dairy farmer, a perfectionist.  His granite
features relaxed as he answered the door.

"Now then, gentlemen, we're seeing a lot o' vets this evening."

"Ah yes, Miles," Siegfried said airily.  "James and I were having a
drink over at the Blacksmith's Arms and we thought we'd just check on
your heifer."

The farmer nodded.  "Aye, right.  Come and see."  He led the way over
the dark yard, opened a loose box at the far end and switched on the
light.

A fine roan heifer was nibbling casually at a rackful of hay while a
strapping calf sucked at her udder.  On the heifer's left flank an
almost perfect oblong of hair had been shaved away, and running down
the middle was as neat a row of stitches as I had ever seen.

"That's a good young feller you've got," said the farmer.  "But, mind
you, I wondered who was comin' when I saw that badger on his
shoulder!"

Siegfried was still staring bemusedly at the operation site.  "Yes ...
yes, indeed."

"Aye, very confident was t'lad," continued the farmer.  "And I liked
the way he went about the job.  Careful and very clean.  Brought all
'is instruments into the house and boiled them up thoroughly before he
started.  There'll be no infection after this job, I'll warrant.  And
I've got a smashin' calf into the bargain."

Siegfried ran his hand over the heifer's back and rubbed the calf's
head.  "I'm so pleased things have turned out well.  Many thanks,
Miles, for letting us have a look."

In the Blacksmith's Arms my partner took a thoughtful pull at his
glass.  "Beautifully tidy work, James, but it's a funny thing--I can't
help feeling there's a catch somewhere."

"Why, whatever do you mean?  We've got a first-class vet in the
practice--that's obvious."

"Oh, yes, so it seems.  But he's very peculiar.  I keep thinking about
that damn badger.  And that funny big walrus moustache.  And that cake!
I've never seen anybody demolish an enormous bloody fruit-cake at one
go--and he didn't seem to notice what he was doing."

I laughed.  "Oh yes, I know.  There's no doubt he's a very unusual
young man.  But he looks to me like a nice fellow--there's something
very likeable about him--and he's good at the job.  That's the main
thing."

"I agree, I agree."  Siegfried ran his hand through his hair and
churned it about a bit.  "I'm probably worrying needlessly, but ...
time will tell...."

Chapter 16

"Nice dog," I said, as I evacuated the anal glands of the big animal on
the table.  He was making a grumbling sound up front, but it was good
to see the waving, friendly tail even though he couldn't have been
enjoying my squeezing at his bottom.  "I'm glad his tail is wagging."

"Aye, but ..."  old Mrs.  Coates began, but she was too late.  As I
moved forward to take a look at his eyes, the dog, to my astonishment,
turned on me, all teeth and snarling lips, and made a ferocious grab at
my face.  My evasive technique has become polished over the years, but
I only just avoided a nasty wound.

"Stop it, Wolfie!  You naughty bad dog!"  screamed the old lady.  "Just
behave, or I'll give you such a smackin', that I will!"

The big animal subsided under his mistress's scolding and I took a step
back out of harm's way.  "You know, this is remarkable," I said,
looking at him, wide-eyed.  "His tail is still wagging like mad and yet
he's growling and showing his teeth as if he'd like to tear me to
bits."

"Aye, that's t'trouble, Mr.  Herriot.  He's all us givin' people the
wrong impression.  They think he's that good-natured when they see 'im
waggin', then they get a shock."

"Well, he certainly had me fooled, Mrs.  Coates.  He's the only dog
I've ever seen that wags and growls at the same time.  Depends which
end you look at, doesn't it?"

Mrs.  Coates lived in a row of council bungalows for old people.  Some
time after my visit I called on an elderly couple, Mr.  and Mrs.  Hart,
farther along the same row.

Their cat, quite old like themselves, was losing its hair and going
bald in places.  As I parted the hair and examined the skin I could see
the obvious signs of miliary eczema.

"This is a condition that often affects neutered toms like your Peter.
I'll be able to clear it up with a hormone injection and a course of
tablets."  Peter didn't stop purring as I inserted the needle under his
skin--he was a cat who appreciated any kind of attention--but I noticed
that his owners looked a little uneasy.  They seemed even more unhappy
when I tipped some tablets into a box and began to write the
instructions.

"We're a bit worried, Mr.  Herriot," the old man said suddenly.  "This
treatment will cost a bit and we can't pay you.  Not today, any
road."

"That's right," his wife broke in.  "We all us like to pay on the dot,
but we 'aven't any money right now.  We've been robbed."

"Robbed?"

"Aye, unfortunately.  My husband hasn't been well lately and the
garden's got a bit untidy.  Two men came in and said they'd do the
garden up for us, but when we were talkin' to one of them here in the
parlour the other 'un was in the kitchen stealin' our pension money and
a bit o' ready cash we kept on the mantelpiece."

"Well, what a dirty trick!"  I said.  "But please don't worry about
paying me.  Any time will do.  I'm really very sorry--this must have
upset you terribly."  As I left the house it was difficult to believe
that there were such people who would come into the homes of decent old
folks and rob them of their precious few pounds.  But sadly I had heard
this story before.  These two men had been going around Darrowby
lately, getting into houses on any pretext and carrying out their
despicable actions.  They speciali sed in robbing elderly people.  They
weren't very brave.

A few days later I was passing Mrs.  Coates's bungalow when I thought I
had better check on Wolfie.  The old lady let me in and I looked at the
big dog lashing his tail vigorously and snarling at the same time.

"He's champion," Mrs.  Coates said.  "Never shuffles round on 'is
bottom now."

"Oh, that's good," I said.  "It's an unpleasant thing for a dog."

She caught my arm.  "Ah've got sum mat else to tell you.  Ah've had the
thieves in!"

"Oh no, those two men?  Not you, too!  I'm so sorry."

"Aye, but listen!"  she said excitedly.  "One of them fellers was
talkin' to me and tother was in the kitchen with Wolfie.  I heard 'im
saying, "Nice doggie, nice doggie," then there was a terrible yell and
a scuffle and the feller went past the parlour door screamin', with
Wolfie hangin' on to 'is backside.  The other 'un ran out, too, but
Wolfie caught 'im just as he was going through the door and he didn't
half holler out!  Last thing I saw was the two of them runnin' for
their lives down t'street with Wolfie after them."

She reached into the corner of the fireplace and handed me a jagged
piece of blood-stained cloth, obviously from the seat of a man's
trousers.  "Wolfie brought that back with 'im."

I laughed so much that I had to lean against the mantelpiece.  "Oh,
what a lovely story.  I bet we'll never see those two around here
again."

"Nay, nay, that we won't."  The old lady put her head in her hands and
giggled.  "Eee, I can't help laughin' when I think of that feller
saying, "Nice doggie, nice doggie.""

"Yes, it's very funny," I said.  "He must have been looking at the
wrong end."

Chapter 17

Ninety per cent of horses' lamenesses are in the feet.  So the old
saying goes and I could see it was true here.

The big Clydesdale was lifting his near hind leg, holding the quivering
foot a few inches from the ground, then putting it down carefully.  I
had seen this sort of thing a hundred times before and it was
diagnostic.

"He's got gravel," I said to the farmer.  This was the local term for
an infection of the foot.  It happened when the horse bruised or
cracked its sole, allowing the entrance of bacteria.  An abscess formed
and the only cure was to pare down the horn and evacuate the pus.

This involved lifting the hoof and either resting it on your knee in
the case of a hind foot or between your legs in a fore and cutting
through the sole with a hoof knife.  Sometimes the horn could be as
hard as marble and the exact spot difficult to find and I had spent
many back-breaking sessions hacking away with the horse resting his
full weight on me as the sweat ran down my nose and dripped onto the
hoof.

"Right," I said, "let's have a look at it."  I ran my hand down the leg
and was reaching for the foot when the horse whickered with anger,
turned quickly and lashed out at me, catching me a glancing blow on the
thigh.

"He can still kick with that bad foot, anyway," I murmured.

The farmer took a firmer grip on the halter and braced his feet.  "Aye,
he's a cheeky sod.  Watch yourself.  He's given me a clout or two."

I tried again with the same result and at the third attempt, after the
flailing foot had narrowly missed me, the horse swung round and sent me
crashing against the side of the box.  As I got up and, grimly
determined, had another go at reaching the foot, he reared round at me,
brought a fore foot crashing on my shoulder, then tried to bite me.

The farmer was an elderly man, slightly built, and he didn't look happy
as he was dragged around by the plunging animal.

"Look," I said, panting and rubbing my shoulder.  "We've got a bit of a
problem.  I have to bring Denny Boynton out to another gravel led horse
near here this afternoon.  We'll call in about two o'clock and treat
this chap.  He's got a shoe on, anyway, and it's a lot easier to do the
job with a blacksmith."

Farmer Hickson looked relieved.  "Aye, that'll be best.  I could see we
were goin' to have a bit of a rodeo!"

As I drove away, I mused on my relationship with Denny.  He and I were
old friends.  He was a bit younger than I and accompanied me regularly
on horse visits.  In the fifties, the tractor had more or less taken
over on the farms, but some farmers still liked to keep a cart-horse
and took a pride in them.  Most of them were big, docile animals and I
had always had a strong empathy with them as they plodded patiently
through their daily tasks, but that one back there was an exception.

Normally I would have taken the shoe off without much trouble before
exploring the foot.  All vets had courses in shoeing early in their
education and I carried the tools with me, but I would have had some
fun trying to do that with Hickson's animal.  It was a job for Denny.

The Boynton smithy stood right at the end of Rolford village, and as I
drove up to the squat building with its clustering trees and backdrop
of green hillside I felt as I often did that I was looking at one of
the last relics of the past.  When I first came to Yorkshire every
village had its blacksmith's shop and Darrowby itself had several.  But
with the disappearance of the draught horse they had just melted away.
The men who had spent their lives in them for generations had gone and
their work places, which had echoed to the clatter of horses' feet and
the clang of iron, were deserted and silent.

Denny's shop was one of the few that had survived, mainly because he
was an expert farrier, skilled in the often speciali sed shoeing that
riding horses required.  As I walked in he was bent over the foot of a
strapping hunter, laughing and joking with the attractive young owner
who stood nearby.

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot," he cried as he saw me.  "Be with you in a few
minutes."  He was holding the hot shoe against the foot and the smell
of the smoke rising from the seared horn, the glow of the forge and the
ringing bang-bang as his still sprightly father hammered the glowing
metal on the anvil evoked a hundred memories of a richer past.

Denny wasn't very big but he was lean and hard, the muscles on his
forearms bulging and tensing as he worked.  He had the broad, strong
back essential to his trade, but apart from that he projected the same
image of stringy durability as the Dales farm workers who worked
alongside me every day.

Now he was tapping the nails into the shoe, and after a couple of
minutes he straightened up and slapped the horse's rump.  "Right,
Angela, you can take this awd screw away, now," he said, flashing the
girl a white-toothed grin.

She giggled and it struck me that it was a typical scene.  Denny with
his impish eyes and the hint of recklessness in his craggy features was
undoubtedly attractive to the many young county ladies who brought
their horses to him, and I had never seen him working without a running
badinage.  A visit to the Boynton smith was in some ways a social
event.

As horse and rider left he reached for his bag of tools.  "Right, Mr.
Herriot.  At your service!"

"Will you have time to do another gravel job on the way, Denny?"  I
asked.

He laughed.  "We'll mek time.  Anything to oblige a gentleman!"

As we drove away I felt I ought to put him in the picture about
Hickson's horse.  I knew he had been dealing with skittish, often
dangerous horses since childhood, and I had seen him again and again
pushing big, explosive animals around effortlessly as though they were
kittens, but it was only right to warn him.

"Denny," I said, "this horse at Hickson's could be difficult.  He's a
wild beggar and I could hardly get near him."

"Oh, aye?"  The young man, tool-bag on knee, cigarette dangling from
his lips, was lazily observing the passing countryside.  He didn't seem
to be listening.

I tried again.  "He had a few goes at me with his hind foot, then
started to wave his forefeet about...."

He dragged his eyes unwillingly from the window.  "It'll be right, Mr.
Herriot, it'll be right," he murmured absently, stifling a yawn.

"He's a biter, too.  Damn nearly got me on the shoulder just as I was
trying to get away from--"

"Hey, wait a minute!"  Denny shouted as we passed a roadside farmhouse.
"That's George Harrison in the yard.  Just slow down a second, will
you, Mr.  Herriot?"  He wound the window down quickly.  "Nah then,
George, how ista?"  he yelled at the young farmer, who was shouldering
a straw bale.  "Have ye sobered up yet?  Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

The two men exchanged a few shouted pleasantries before we took off.
Denny turned to me.  "By gaw, George had a skinful last night at the
Licenced Victuallers' Ball.  Still looks a bit green--heh-heh!"

I decided to give up my attempts at warning him.  He clearly wasn't
interested.

He kept filling me in with some uproarious details of the previous
evening, but as we drew up in Hickson's yard he fell silent.  His face
was suddenly drawn and serious as he peered this way and that through
the car windows.  I knew what was coming next.

"Any savage dogs here, Mr.  Herriot?"

I suppressed a smile.  Through all the years I had known him he had
always said this.

"No, none at all, Denny," I replied.

He stared suspiciously at an elderly sheep-dog enjoying a drink of milk
at the kitchen door.  "How about that 'un?"

"That's old Zak.  He's twelve!  Quiet as a sheep."

"Aye, mebbe, but that doesn't mean you can trust 'im.  Get 'im inside,
any road."

I walked across the yard, waited until the old dog had licked out his
bowl, then ushered him, white muzzle upturned and tail waving at the
attention, into the house.  I had done this so many times, but still
Denny wasn't keen to leave the car.  After a final inspection in all
directions he got out and stood warily on the cobbles for a few
moments, then he hurried to the loose box where the horse was
waiting.

The farmer, gripping the halter tightly, smiled uncertainly at Denny as
he came in.  "Watch 'im, lad.  He's a funny sod."

"Funny, is he?"  The young man, hammer dangling from his hand, grinned
and stepped close to the horse, and the animal, as though determined to
prove the words, laid back his ears and lashed out.

Denny avoided the flying foot with practised ease and gave a demon
king's laugh, throwing back his head.  "Aha!  You're like that, are ye?
Right, ya bugger, we'll see!"  Then he moved in again.  I don't know
how he kept clear of the horse's repeated attempts to injure him, but
within a minute he caught the claw of his hammer in the iron shoe in
full flight and pulled it towards him.  "Okay, ya big bugger, I've got
ye now, haven't I, eh?"

The horse, on three legs, made a few half-hearted attempts to pull his
foot away as Denny hung on and chattered at him, but it was clear that
he realised that this new man was an entirely different proposition.
Denny, with the foot on his knee, reached for his tools, muttering
threats all the time, and as I watched unbelievingly he knocked up the
clenches, drew out the nails with his pincers and removed the shoe. The
horse, motionless except for a quivering of the flanks, was totally
subjugated.

Denny displayed the sole for my inspection.  "Now, where d'you want me,
Mr.  Herriot?"  he asked.

I tapped along the sole until I found a place that seemed tender.  To
make sure, I squeezed at the place with the pincers and the animal
flinched.

"That's the spot, Denny," I said.  "There's a crack there."

The young farrier began to cut away the horn with expert sweeps of his
sharp knife.  This was a job I had done so often by myself, but it was
a joy to see an expert doing it.  In no time at all he had followed the
crack down and there was a hiss, then a trickle of pus as he reached
the site of the infection.  It was one of the most satisfactory things
in veterinary practice, because if the abscess is not evacuated it
causes the most acute agony for the animal.  Sometimes the pus can work
up under the wall of the hoof till it bursts out at the coronet after a
long period of pain, and in other cases I have seen horses having to be
put down when all attempts to relieve the infection have failed and the
poor animal was laid groaning with a hugely swollen foot.  Such
memories from the old cart-horse days always haunted me.

Nothing of that sort was going to happen this time and my relief was as
strong as always.  "Thanks, Denny, that's great."  I administered
antibiotic and anti tetanus injections and said to the farmer, "He'll
soon be sound now, Mr.  Hickson."

Then Denny and I set off for our next appointment.  As we drew out of
the yard I looked at Denny.  "Well, you certainly dealt with that wild
horse.  It was amazing how you quietened him."

He leaned back in his seat, lit another cigarette and spoke lazily.
"Nobbut a bit daft, 'e was.  It was nowt.  There's lots like 'im--silly
big bugger."

He resumed his account of the previous evening, chuckling softly at
times, and as I glanced round at him, totally relaxed, cap on the back
of his head, smiling his carefree smile, he looked as though nothing
could ever upset him.  However, as I stopped the car at the farm where
we had to see the other horse his insouciant air fell away from him as
though snatched by an unseen hand.  Clutching his tool-bag, he
anxiously scanned every corner of the farmyard.  I waited confidently
for his next words.

"Any savage dogs here, Mr.  Herriot?"

Chapter 18

"What is it?"  "What the devil is that?"  "A badger?  Never!"

Pandemonium broke out in the Drovers' Arms.  Calum and I had been
returning from a communal visit and when I suggested a beer he got out
of the car, slung Marilyn over his shoulder and strode into the bar.

The eyes of the regulars popped, they spluttered into their beer and in
a few seconds we were the centre of an excited crowd.  I detached
myself and sat quietly with my beer as the young man held court,
answering the volleys of questions calmly andwitha quiet satisfaction.
It was clear that he loved to display his adored pet to anybody who was
interested, and with most people it wasn't just a case of interest; he
created a sensation wherever he went.

It was the same when I introduced him to my family in the sitting room
at Skeldale House.  My children were making music, Rosie at the piano
and Jimmy with his harmonica, when the tall, walrus-moustached figure
came in with his wild animal.  I had become a connoisseur of soaring
eyebrows and open mouths, and Helen was typical, but the reaction of
Jimmy and Rose was wide-eyed delight.

"Oh, how lovely!"  "Can I stroke her?"  "Where did you get her?"  Their
questions were endless and Calum, laughing and teasing, was just about
as big a hit with the children as his hairy companion.

Everything was going with a bang when Dinah, our second beagle and
successor to Sam, ran in from the garden.

"This is Dinah," I said.

"Oh-ho.  Oh-ho, little fat Dinah," said Calum in a rumbling bass.  It
was not a complimentary remark, because my little dog was undoubtedly
too fat, and an embarrassment to a vet who was constantly adjuring
people to keep their dogs slim, but Dinah didn't seem to mind.  She
wagged her whole back end till I thought she would tie herself in a
knot.  Her response was remarkable and she clearly found this new voice
immensely attractive.

Calum bent down and she rolled on her back in ecstasy as he rubbed her
tummy.

Helen laughed.  "Gosh, she really likes you!"

We didn't know it then, but her words were setting a scene that would
be a familiar and intriguing one in the future.  I was to find that all
animals were attracted to Calum and that he had a rapport with them
that was unique.  They loved the very sound, sight and scent of him--a
heaven-sent asset for a veterinary surgeon.

When the civilities were over with Marilyn scuttling merrily round the
floor, happily accepting the petting of the children, Calum sat down on
the piano stool and began to play.  He was no Rubinstein, but he could
knock out a rollicking tune with no trouble at all and the children
clapped their hands in delight.

Jimmy held out his harmonica.  "Can you play this, too?"

Calum took the instrument and held it to his mouth with his hands in a
Larry Adler-like attitude, and after the first few notes you could see
that he was in a different league from my son, whose concert piece was
"God Save the Queen."  After a couple of minutes of Mozart my new
assistant handed back the harmonica and roared with laughter.

The young people were enchanted.  "I'm going for the concertina," cried
Jimmy.

He ran from the room and came back with one of the relics from my
visits to house sales when Helen and I were first married.  In those
days I was often despatched to house sales to bring back essentials
like tables and chairs and usually returned with ornamental ink stands
ships in bottles and, on one memorable occasion, The Geography of the
World in twenty-four volumes.  In this case it was the concertina.  It
was an ancient little instrument, six-sided, with carved wooden ends
and leather straps worn and frayed with age.  It raised images of a
mariner playing sea-shanties on the deck of an old-time sailing ship
and I had found it irresistible, but unfortunately nobody had been able
to extract a tune from it and it had rested for years in the attic with
many of my other purchases.

Calum lifted it from its wooden box and turned it over tenderly.  "Oh
nice, very nice."  He slipped his hands through the straps, his fingers
felt their way over the little ivory buttons and in a moment the room
was filled with melody of a piercing sweetness.  It was "Shenandoah,"
and as we listened, suddenly hushed, to the totally unexpected richness
that came from the instrument I was back on the deck of the sailing
ship I had dreamed of long ago.

I have many memories of Calum, but the one that lingers most hauntingly
in my mind is of him sitting among my family, his dark eyes,
unfathomable as they often were, fixed on somewhere high on the wall,
while his fingers coaxed that plaintive music from our little
squeeze-box.

When he finished there was a spontaneous burst of applause and the
children jumped about, clapping their hands.  Calum was fixed in their
minds for ever as a wonder man.  He had a badger, he could play
anything, he could do anything.

Just then, we began to wonder about Marilyn.  She had been wandering
quietly around the room but now there was no sign of her.  We peered
under the sofa and tipped up the armchairs without success and were
looking at each other bewilderedly when there was a rattling from the
fireplace and the badger, abundantly clothed in soot, shot out from the
chimney.  She didn't want to be caught and raced a few times round the
room before Calum grabbed her and carried her outside.

Jimmy and Rosie were almost hysterical.  They hadn't had such fun for a
long time, but Helen and I, looking at the devastation to our carpet
and furniture, were not so amused.

It was a sudden come-down from inspirational heights to chaos, and in
an intuitive moment a thought came to me.  Was this the way it was
always going to be with Calum ...?

Chapter 19

I have heard it said that all tailors used to sit cross-legged on a
table to ply their trade, but the only one I ever saw in this position
was Mr.  Bendelow.

The cottage door opened straight from the street into the kitchen and
the scene was so familiar.  The cluttered little room with a thousand
cloth clippings littering the floor, the sewing machine in the corner.
Blanco, his enormous white dog, giving me a welcoming wag as he lay by
the fire, and Mr.  Bendelow, cross-legged on the table, talking to a
customer, his needle poised above a tweed jacket.

It struck me, not for the first time, that Mr.  Bendelow's needle
always seemed to be poised.  I don't think I had ever seen it actually
dig into any fabric, because he was always too busy talking.  He was at
it now, chattering into the slightly bemused face of a farmer's wife.
"You'd hardly believe what I've been tellin' you, would you, Mrs.
Haw."

"No, right enough, I wouldn't, Mr.  Bendelow, but I wonder if you've
managed to do that waistcoat for me husband.  You said ..."

"But it all really happened all them years ago, sure as I'm sittin'
here.  You wouldn't credit the things ..."

"I'd like to tek it with me if you've finished it.  He wants it for a
..."

Mr.  Bendelow cackled.  "Ahim not an old man, nob but fifty, but the
things that went on in them days ... I remember ..."

"You've had that waistcoat for three months, you know, you promised it
for ..."

"Oh aye, ah knaw, ah knaw.  I've that much on.  Don't know where to
turn.  But come back in a fortnight, love, you shall 'ave it then."

"But 'e wants it for--"

"Best ah can do, love.  Tara

Mrs.  Haw, empty-handed and doleful, passed me on the way out and I put
on my best smile as I took her place.

"Now then, young man."  Mr.  Bendelow's thin, gypsy-like face did not
change expression, but his eyes shot a sidelong glance of sheer hatred
at the trousers I carried on my arm.

"Now what's this you've got for me?"  he grunted.

"Well, it's these trouser bottoms, Mr.  Bendelow.  They've got a bit
frayed and I thought ..."

"Aye, ye thought I'd just mek 'em like new for you.  No trouble at all.
You'll kill me, you know, you'll kill me.  I'm goin' like 'ell with
Christmas comin' on.  At it night and day--never a minute."

"Well, it's just the bottoms, Mr.  Bendelow...."

"And then there's me bad leg.  How long have I had it?  Oh, years.  I
went to Dr.  Allinson.  He said, "Have you had this before?"  I said,
"Yes."  He said, "Well you've got it again."  He gave me sixty tablets
and when I'd had 'alf I was a lot better and when I'd 'ad the lot I was
nearly cured.  But the doctor 'ad planned that.  "Mr.  Bendelow," he
said, "when you've had half of these tablets you'll be much better and
when you've had the other half you'll think you're cured.  But you
won't be, you know, you won't be.  I know what you are and you won't
want to come back to me.  But when you've had your sixty tablets I want
to see you.  On that very day."

"So I goes back to 'im on the very day he said and he says, "Now then,
Mr.  Bendelow, you're here then."  And I said, "Yes, Doctor, right on
the day you said."  "And you've finished your sixty tablets?"  he says.
And I says, "Yes, I've 'ad the lot."  And 'e gives me another un dred

"Well, that's fine, Mr.  Bendelow.  My wife says if you would just take
a look at these frayed bottoms ..."

"And he says, "You've got to stop runnin' up and down them stairs." And
I says, "I can't, Doctor.  I can't stop.  I'm always workin'.  I never
cease."  But listen to this, Mr.  Herriot.  I'm goin' to tell you
something now.  I've never made a penny.  And I'll tell you something
else.  If you've never made a fortune before you're forty you'll never
make one."

"These bottoms are just a little bit frayed, as you can see ..."

"Ah, yes, you can talk about makin' a fortune on the football pools if
you like, Mr.  Herriot.  I can tell you about Littlewoods.  Just listen
to this, now."

As he leaned forward from the table, his face intent, the street door
opened and a big man came in.  I recognised Jeremy Boothby, son of one
of the big landowners and a person of considerable presence.

"You'll excuse me," he boomed as he brushed past me.  "I've called for
my suit, Bendelow.  I was in last week."

The tailor didn't even look at him.  "Do you know that I used to win
regular on Littlewoods?  But all us on the four aways and the most I
won was six bob.  So I says to myself if you go for the big money then
you'll win the big money."

"Do you hear me, Bendelow?"  The great voice filled the room.  "I've
been in every week since October and--"

"So I fills up a perm on the treble chance and I had twenty-four points
straight away.  I was waitin' for the big cheque for seventy-five
thousand comin', but it never came.  Oh, no, I got a letter from one of
the head men at Littlewoods."

"Now look here, Bendelow!"  Mr.  Boothby's shout made the windows
rattle.  "You've had that suit for a year now and ..."

He hesitated in mid-flow.  Blanco had strolled round from the fireside
and was standing by the table looking up at him.  He didn't have all
that far to look, because he must have been just about the biggest dog
I had ever seen.  Mr.  Bendelow had described him to me as a Swedish
mountain dog and I could remember his smug smile of superiority when I
told him I had never heard of that breed.  I was pretty sure Blanco was
a cross but whatever he was he was magnificent--snow-white and vast.
And now as he stood close to Mr.  Boothby, quite motionless, the lion
head poised, there was a menacing fixity in his gaze and a faint growl
rolled from deep in his rib-cage.

As man and dog eyed each other the growl became louder and for a second
Blanco's lips fluttered upwards, giving a glimpse of a row of
crocodilian teeth.

Boothby stepped back, then spoke in a softer tone.  "Will you let me
have my suit ...?  I ..."

Mr.  Bendelow, clearly irritated by the interruption, gestured with his
needle.  "Not ready yet--call next week."

With a final glance at Blanco, the big man turned and left.

"A lovely letter of apology, it was," continued the tailor.  "He told
me I had got the twenty-four points all right but he couldn't give me
the seventy-five thousand because of one little detail.  Yes, I'm
tellin' you, one little detail.  I'd put down sixteen matches instead
of eight.  It was a lovely letter and 'e sounded real sorry, but there
was nothing he could do about it."

"Well, well.  What a shame.  Could you possibly do these trousers for
some time next week.  I would be very ..."

"But all that money would be no good to me.  I could tell you something
about moneyed people ..."

I dropped the garments on the table, gave him a hurried farewell wave
and fled.

As I walked slowly down the street, my head spinning with the barmy
torrent of words, which thanks to contemporary note-taking I have
reproduced here verbatim, I ruminated on the phenomenon of Mr.
Bendelow.  In time he did disgorge the work brought to him, so he must
have done most of his sewing and cutting at night.  He was, in fact, a
fine tailor and I had seen suits of such perfect fit and neat
hand-stitching that I realised why people like Boothby continued to
patronise him.  It was all a question of luck-occasionally he had
surprised me by coming up with a repair or an alteration in reasonable
time.

He had supreme confidence in his own ability and intellectual gifts. In
fact, convinced as he was that he knew everything about everything,
particularly in the realm of domestic finance, he considered it his
bounden duty to impart his knowledge to anybody who crossed his path,
and since he had never married, he had no other outlet than his
customers.  I had only once seen him at a loss.  It had been some years
ago, when he had measured Helen for a skirt and hadn't given her a
fitting until several months later.

When that day finally came, the skirt waist didn't meet by a couple of
inches.  He stared in disbelief and tugged and pulled at the cloth a
few times but it made no difference.  Quickly he passed a tape measure
round her middle, then consulted his notebook and measured again.  From
his kneeling position he looked up at us, totally baffled.

Helen smiled and relieved his agony.  "I should have told you," she
said.  "I'm pregnant."

He looked at her narrowly, but since he was responsible for the long
delay he was in no position to complain.  However, the unheard-of loss
of face might have put a strain on our relations but for my
long-standing rapport with Blanco, to whom he was devoted.

Blanco was around five years old and though he had been mainly healthy
he had required my attention a few times, usually to extract pins
embedded in his pads.  He was the only tailor's dog I knew and I had
often thought that it was an occupational hazard, lying daily as he did
among the debris of his master's trade, but there was no doubt that
those pins often got right in and had to be extracted by digging deep
with forceps.  Blanco was always delighted and grateful, in fact he was
one of those dogs who actually enjoyed coming to my surgery.  Some dogs
crossed to the other side of the road when they entered Trengate and
slunk past the surgery with their tails down, but Blanco nearly tugged
Mr.  Bendelow off his feet as he fought to drag him through our door.

He had been in for his annual distemper booster a week ago and he had
come prancing along the passage, wagging furiously and poking his head
sociably round the office door on his way to the consulting room.  So
different from a big yellow Labrador bitch who followed him and had to
be sledged along on her bottom the entire length of the passage tiles,
her face a mask of misery even though she was only going to have her
paw bandaged.

Blanco was the soul of good nature and the only time he showed a gleam
of anger was if he thought Mr.  Bendelow was being threatened.  This
protectiveness was invaluable to the tailor because the set-up in that
house was conducive to exasperation and I had heard a few blustering
men and screeching women driven to distraction by the interminable
delays.  But the great white head and cold eyes appearing round the
corner of the table had a wonderfully calming effect.  Sometimes a
little growl or a pointed sniffing round the customer's ankles was
required but I had never seen a failure.

In my musings I had often thought that Blanco was a vindication of my
long-held theory that big dogs came from little houses and little dogs
from big ones.  In fact it seemed to me to be the ultimate
corroboration because in the greatest of battlemented, multi-ac red
mansions you got down to Border terriers and Jack Russells while in
tiny, one-up, one-down dwellings you found something like Blanco.  A
week later, ever optimistic, I returned to Mr.  Bendelow's
establishment.  He was in his usual place, cross-legged like a little
gnome on his table.

Another customer, a disgruntled-looking farmer, was just about to
leave, but he was giving the tailor a few parting words.

"Ahim about fed up comin' here every week after you've promised."  His
voice took on an angry tone.  "You don't seem bothered, but it's not
good enough, you know."

Mr.  Bendelow gave the familiar gesture with his needle.  "Next week
... next week."

"Aye, that's what you always say," barked the farmer, and I looked over
the table at Blanco, stretched by the fire.  This was the sort of thing
that always brought him to his feet, but he showed no interest and
didn't move as the farmer, with a final snort, turned and left, banging
the door behind him.

"Good morning, Mr.  Bendelow," I said briskly.  "I've just dropped in
for--"

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot!"  The little man stabbed his needle at me.  "I
was just goin' to tell you sum mat about moneyed people when you left.
Old Crowther, down Applegate.  Left eighty thousand and when I patched
his trousers for 'im he had to stay in bed.  I'm not jokin' nor
jestin', he had to stay in bed."

"Talking about trousers, Mr.  Bendelow ..."

"He 'ad a housekeeper--Maud something was her name--she did everything
for 'im.  Got 'im in and out of bed, cooked for 'im, slaved for 'im for
thirty years.  But, do you know, he never left her a penny.  She
contested the will, you know, but she only got five hundred pounds.
Money all went to some distant relatives."

"Are my trousers ready?  I do need them for--"

"And I could tell you a worse case than that, Mr.  Herriot.  When I was
a lad, I worked for a farmer.  That man was worth thousands, but he
never went into a pub, never went to the pictures, never went anywhere.
Saved every penny.  Don't know what 'e did with it all.  Maybe kept it
about the house.  Oh, that reminds me of a story."

I was about to utter another plea when a stout lady behind me burst
out.  "Now look 'ere, I don't want to butt in, but I'm in a hurry.  I
want my dress now--you promised it for today."

The tailor waved his needle.  "Not ready.  Been too busy.  Come next
week."

"Too busy!  Too busy chatterin' is more like it."  She had a high,
piercing delivery and she gave the tailor the full blast.  I looked at
Blanco, still motionless by the fire.  His lack of interest was
unusual.

Mr.  Bendelow, too, seemed to miss his dog's support because he was
untypically abashed by the lady's attack.

"Aye, well," he mumbled.  "You shall 'ave it next week definite."  He
gave me a sidelong glance.  "You, too, Mr.  Herriot."

When I called the following week, I stopped in the doorway, transfixed
by the amazing sight.  Mr.  Bendelow was actually stitching.  Up on his
table, his head bent low over a jacket, his hand flashing over a lapel
with wonderful deftness.  And he wasn't talking.

The talking was being done by a man and his wife who were submitting
him to an aggressive barrage of complaints.  The tailor, silent and
unhappy, made no reply.  And Blanco was still asleep by the fire.

In the quest for my trousers I called in a few times during my rounds
but there was always a queue and I didn't have time to wait.  I did
notice, however, that on each occasion Mr.  Bendelow was working,
silent and subdued, on his table, and his dog was motionless by the
fire.  The picture saddened me.  Talking was the little man's life, his
hobby and solace in his bachelor existence.  Something was far wrong.

I called round one evening and found Mr.  Bendelow alone, still
stitching.

I didn't mention my trousers.  "What's wrong with Blanco?"  I said.

He looked at me in surprise.  "Nowt, as far as I know."

"Is he eating all right?"

"Aye, he is."

"Getting plenty of exercise?"

"Yes, a good walk night and mornin'.  You know I look after me dog, Mr.
Herriot."

"Yes, of course you do.  But ... he's not up round your table like he
used to be.  Noter ... interested in the customers."

He nodded miserably.  "Aye, that's t'only thing.  But he isn't ill."

"Let's have a look at him," I said.  I went over to the fire and bent
over the dog.  "Come on, Blanco, old lad, let's see you on your
feet."

I tapped him on the rump and he got up slowly.  I looked at the tailor.
"He seems a bit stiff."

"Aye, maybe, but 'e soon works it off when I take him out."

"Not really lame, though?  No pins?"

"Nay, nay, ah can all us tell when he's picked one up."

"Hmm.  Still, I'd better check on his paws."

Whenever I lifted one of Blanco's feet I had the same feeling as when I
examined a horse's hoof and, indeed, had to stop myself from saying,
"Whoa, there, boy," and tucking the paw between my knees.

I carefully inspected each foot, squeezing the pads, which were the
usual sites for the dangerous pins, but all seemed normal.  I took his
temperature, auscultated his chest and palpated his abdomen without
finding any clues.  But as I looked down at the big animal I could not
rid myself of the nagging certainty that there was something amiss.

Blanco, tiring of my attention, sat down, and he did so gingerly,
lowering himself carefully onto the fireside rug.

That wasn't right at all.  "Get up, lad," I said quickly.

There had to be some trouble at his rear end.  Impacted anal glands,
perhaps?  No, they were all right.  I passed my hands down the massive
thighs and on the left side, as I felt my way down the musculature, the
dog winced suddenly.  There was a painful swelling there and as I
clipped away the hair, all became clear.  Deeply embedded in the flesh
was one of his old enemies, a pin.

It was a moment's work to extract it with my forceps and I turned to
Mr.  Bendelow.  "Well, there it is.  He must have sat on this when it
got onto the rug.  It's a wonder he hasn't been lame, but there's a
little abscess which has been upsetting him.  An abscess is a
depressing thing."

"Aye ... aye ... but what can you do?"  He looked at me with worried
eyes.

"I'll have to get him round to the surgery and drain the pus away. Then
he'll be fine."

Blanco's visit to Skeldale House passed off smoothly.  I evacuated the
abscess and filled up the cavity by squeezing a few of the ever-useful
penicillin intra mammary tubes into it.

I didn't visit Mr.  Bendelow for another week.  I clung to the hope
that he might have repaired my working trousers.  My wardrobe was very
limited and I sorely needed them.

The scene was as always, the tailor on his table and Blanco stretched
by the fire.  And strangely, Mrs.  Haw, the farmer's wife I had seen at
my first visit, was there.

She was having a kind of tug-of-war with her husband's waistcoat, which
Mr.  Bendelow had apparently mended at last but was reluctant to
release.  His lips were moving rapidly with his quick-fire delivery.
"And that's what the feller said to me.  You wouldn't believe it, would
you, and that's not all ..."

With a quick tug the lady managed to win possession of the waistcoat.
"Thank ye very much, Mr.  Bendelow.  I'll 'ave to go now ..."  She
nodded, waved and scurried past me, looking exhausted but triumphant.

The tailor turned to me.  "Ah, it's you, Mr.  Herriot."

"Yes, Mr.  Bendelow, I was wondering ..."

"You'll remember I was just goin' to tell you that story about the rich
man."

"About my trousers ..."

"He was an old farmer, he kept his brass in the house in buckets.  His
missus brought up a bucket and she said, "There's fifteen hundred
pounds in this bucket" and the old chap said, "There's sum mat wrong
somewhere.  There should be two thousand in that 'un."  And do you
know, that man and his wife used to pay separately for their own food.
It's true what I'm tellin' you--she went out and bought hers and 'e did
the same.  And I'll tell you sum mat else, Mr.  Herriot ..."

"Have you, by any chance, managed to ..."

"Just listen to this--"

"Hey, Bendy!"  A big man had just come in and he was roaring over my
shoulder.  "I can 'ear you and ahim not listenin'!  I want my bloody
jacket!"

It was Gobber Newhouse, hugely fat, notorious drunk and bully.  Stale
beer fumes billowed around him as he bellowed again.  "Don't give me
any of your bloody excuses, Bendy, ah know you!"

Like a surfacing white whale, Blanco rose from the fireside and surged
to the table.  He seemed to know the kind of man he was dealing wit
hand didn't waste any frills on him.  Reaching his mighty head high he
opened his mouth wide and bayed with tremendous force into the red
sweating face.  "Whaaa!  Whaaa!"

Gobber backed away.  "Bloody dog ... si.own ... gerrim away, Bendy."

"Whaaa!  Whaaa!  Whaaa!"  went Blanco.

The big man was half out of the door when Mr.  Bendelow signalled with
his needle.  "Come next week."

"As I was sayin', Mr.  Herriot ..."  he continued.

"I really do need ..."

"Next week, definite, but let me tell you ..."

"Must go, I'm afraid."  I escaped into the street.

Out there my feelings were mixed, but on the whole, happy.  I still
hadn't got my trousers, but Blanco was right back on the job.

Chapter 20

Five o'clock in the morning and the telephone jangling in my ear.  Ewe
lambing at Walton's, a lonely farm on the high moorland, and as I
crawled from the haven of bed into the icy air of the bedroom and began
to pull on my clothes I tried not to think of the comfortless hour or
two ahead.

Pushing my arms through my shirtsleeves, I gritted my teeth as the
cloth chafed the flesh.  In the pale dawn light I could see the little
red fissures that covered my hands and ran up to my elbows.  In lambing
time I hardly ever seemed to have my jacket on and the constant washing
in the open pens or in windy fields had turned my skin to raw meat.  I
could detect the faint scent of Helen's glycerine and rose water which
she applied to my arms every night and made them bearable.

Helen stirred under the blankets and I went over and kissed her cheek.
"Off to Walton's," I whispered.

Eyes closed, she nodded against the pillow, and I could just hear her
sleepy murmur.  "Yes ... I heard."

Going out of the door I looked back at my wife's huddled form.  When
this happened she, too, was jerked into the world of work and duty.
That phone could blast off again at any time and she would have to get
in touch with me.  And on top of this, she would have to get the fires
lit, the tea made and the children started with their breakfast--the
little tasks I tried to help her wit hand which weren't easy in our
big, beautiful icebox of a house.

I drove through the tight-shut, sleeping little town, then onto the
narrow road winding between its walls till the trees dwindled and
disappeared, leaving the wide, windswept fells, bare and unwelcoming.

I wondered if there were any chance of the ewe being inside.  In the
early fifties, it didn't seem to occur to many of the farmers to bring
their lambing ewes into the buildings and I attended to the great
majority out in the open fields.  There were happy occasions when I
almost chuckled in relief at the sight of a row of hurdles in a warm
fold yard, or sometimes the farmers would build pens from stacked-up
straw bales, but my spirits plummeted when I drew up at the farm and
met Mr.  Walton, who came out carrying a bucket of water and headed for
the gate.

"Outside, is she?"  I asked, trying to sound airy.

"Aye, just ower there."  He pointed over the long, bracken-splashed
pasture to a prone woolly form in the distance, which looked a hell of
a long way ower there.  As I trailed across the frosty grass, my
medical bag and obstetric overall dangling, a merciless wind tore at
me, picking up an extra Siberian cold from the long drifts of snow that
still lay behind the walls in this late Yorkshire spring.

As I stripped off and knelt behind the ewe I looked around.  We were
right on top of the world and the panorama of hills and valleys with
grey farmhouses and pebbled rivers in their depths was beautiful, but
would have been more inviting if it had been a warm summer afternoon
and I was preparing for a picnic with my family.

I held out my hand and the farmer deposited a tiny sliver of soap on my
palm.  I always felt that farmers kept special pieces of soap for the
vet--minute portions of scrubbing soap that were too small and hard to
be of any use.  I rubbed this piece frantically with my hands, dipping
frequently into the water, but I could work up only the most meagre
film of lather.  Not enough to protect my tender arm as I inserted it
into the ewe, and the farmer looked at me enquiringly as I softly ooh'd
and aah'd my way towards the cervix.

I found just what I didn't want to find.  A big single lamb jammed
tight.  Two lambs are the norm and three quite common, but a big single
lamb often spells trouble.  It was one of my joys in practice to sort
out the tangles of twins and triplets, but with the singles it was a
case of not enough room and the big lamb had to be eased and pulled out
as gently as possible--a long and tedious business.  Also, often the
single lamb was dead through pressure and had to be removed by
embryotomy or a Caesarean operation.

Resigning myself to the fact that I was going to spend a long time
crouched on that windy hilltop, I reached as far as possible and poked
a finger into the lamb's mouth, feeling a surge of relief as the little
tongue stirred against my hand.  He was alive, anyway, andwitha lifting
of my spirits I began the familiar ritual of introducing lubricating
jelly, locating the tiny legs and fastening them with snares and
finally, as I sat back on my heels for a breather, I knew that all I
had to do now was to bring the head through the pelvis.  That was the
tricky bit.  If it came through I was home and dry, if it didn't I was
in trouble.  Mr.  Walton, holding back the wool from the vulva, watched
me in silence.  Despite his lifetime experience with sheep he was
helpless in a case like this because, like most farmers, he had huge,
work-roughened hands with fingers like bananas and could not possibly
have got inside a ewe.  My small "lady's hand," as they called it, was
a blessing.

I hooked my forefinger into the eye socket--my favourite trick, there
was nothing else to get hold of except the lower jaw, which was
dangerously fragile--and began to pull with infinite care.  The ewe
strained, crushing my hand against the pelvic bones--not as bad as in a
cow but painful, and my mouth opened wide as I eased and twisted and
pulled until, with a blessed surge, the head slipped through the bony
pelvic opening.

It wasn't long, then, until feet, legs and nose appeared at the vulva
and I brought the little creature out onto the grass.  He lay still for
a moment, snuffling at the cold world he had entered, then he shook his
head vigorously.  I smiled.  That was the best sign of all.

I had another wrestle with the morsel of soap, then the farmer
wordlessly handed me a piece of sacking to dry my arms.  This was quite
common in those days.  Towels were scarce commodities on the farms and
I couldn't blame the farmers' wives for hesitating to send out a clean
towel to a man who had just had his arms up the back end of an animal.
An old soiled one was the usual and if not, the hessian sack was always
at hand.  I couldn't rub my painful arms with the coarse material and
contented myself with a careful patting, before pushing them, still
damp, into the sleeves of my jacket.

The ewe, hearing a high-pitched call from her lamb, began to talk back
with the soft deep baa I knew so well, and as she got up and began an
intensive licking of the little creature I stood there, forgetful of
the cold, listening to their conversation, enthralled as ever by the
miracle of birth.  When the lamb, apparently feeling he was wasting
time, struggled to his feet and tottered unsteadily round to the milk
bar I grinned in satisfaction and turned on the way back to the car.

After breakfast my next call was to a "cleansing," the removal of the
afterbirth from a cow, and again, after a struggle with a rock-hard
marble of soap, I was offered a sack to dry myself, only this time it
had recently contained potatoes and I found I was powdering my chapped
arms with soil.  Later in the morning, after a rectal examination for
pregnancy diagnosis, I had the choice of a truly filthy "cow house
towel" which must have had an astronomical bacterial count and declined
it in favour of yet another piece of hessian.

My arms were red-hot inside my sleeves when I drove into the Birrell
farmyard, but I knew better things awaited me here.  Wonderful things,
in fact.

I never knew what George Birrell's attitude to towels might be or that
of his wife, but his mother, old Grandma Birrell, had very clear views
on the matter.  When I had finished stitching a tear on the cow's udder
I stood on the cobbles, blood-spattered and expectant, waiting for the
old lady.  Right on cue, she came into the byre hand in hand with
four-year-old Lucy, the youngest of her grandchildren.  She set down a
milking stool and laid out in a perfectly folded oblong a newly
laundered towel of a snowy whiteness and on top of this she placed a
tablet of expensive lavender toilet soap in its wrappings, virgin and
unopened.  A brightly scoured aluminium bucket of steaming water
completed the picture, as pretty a one as ever I had seen.

Reverently I peeled the paper from the soap--it was always a new
tablet--and as I dipped into the water and spread the rich lather on my
burning arms, inhaling the fragrance of the lavender, I almost crooned
with ecstasy.  The farmer stood by impassively with perhaps the
faintest twitch of amusement round his mouth, but Grandma Birrell and
Lucy watched my ablutions with rapt enjoyment.

It was always like this at the Birrells' and I loved it but I could
never quite understand why it happened.  Maybe Siegfried had a point
when he said that old ladies liked me, and he was always pulling my leg
about my "harem" of over-seventies who insisted on my services for
their dogs.  Anyway, whatever the cause, I revelled in the patronage of
Grandma Birrell.  In her eyes, everything had to be right for me.
Nothing was too good for Mr.  Herriot.

It was a Saturday morning in the office when Siegfried pushed the
Darrowby and Houlton Times across the desk to me.

"Bit of sad news for you, I'm afraid, James," he murmured, pointing to
an entry.

It was in the deaths column.  "Mrs.  Marjorie Birrell, aged 78, dearly
beloved wife of the late Herbert Birrell ..."  I read it through with a
growing sense of loss, a rising wi/mess at the feeling of something
good coming to an end.

Siegfried gave me a lop-sided smile.  "Your old clean towel friend,
eh?"

"That's right."  Her clean towels were her expression of friendship and
it was as a friend I would always remember her.  In my mind's eye I
could see her plainly in her flowered apron standing by the milking
stool with Lucy.  She was of the farming generation that had come
through the tough times before the war, and her gaunt, slightly bowed
frame and lined face bore testimony to the hard years.  It was the kind
of face I had seen on so many of the old Yorkshire folk--grim, but
kindly.  I knew I was going to miss her.

Just how much I would miss her came to me forcibly on my next visit to
the Birrell farm.  As I finished my job I looked at my soiled hands
with the renewed pang of realisation that the old lady wouldn't be
coming through that door.  I knew George Birrell wouldn't offer me a
sack, but what was going to happen?

As I pondered, the half-door was pushed open and little Lucy came into
the byre, staggering slightly as she carried the familiar shining
bucket of hot water.  Then from under her arm she produced a towel and
soap and laid them on a milking stool.  And it was the same spotless,
geometrically folded towel and the same pristine toilet soap as
before.

Slightly flushed, the little girl looked up at me.  "Gran said I had to
look after you," she said breathlessly.  "She told me what to do."

I swallowed a big lump.  "Well, Lucy ... that's wonderful.  And you've
done everything just right."

She nodded, well pleased, and I stole a look at her father, standing
there, leaning on a cow.  But George's face was inscrutable.

I peeled the wrapper from the soap and began to wash and as the scent
of the lavender rose around me I was carried back to all the other
days.

I lathered my hands in silence, then the little girl spoke again.  "Mr.
Herriot, the only thing is, I'm five now and I'll soon be goin' to
school, I don't know how you're goin' to manage."

An overwhelming flood of deja vu washed over me.  My own daughter,
Rosie, at that same age had been consumed with worry at how I was going
to carry on my life without her and had consoled me with the
reassurance that she'd still be available at weekends.

I didn't know what to say, but her father broke in.

"Don't worry, luv," he said, "I'll do me best if you'll teach me how,
and anyway, from now on I'm goin' to try to call Mr.  Herriot out only
on Saturdays."

Chapter 21

I felt a little breathless as I lifted the phone.

"I'm sorry, Lord Hulton," I said.  "I'm afraid I'll be a little late in
visiting your horse this morning.  My house blew down last night."

There was a silence at the other end and I could sense the amiable peer
having some difficulty in absorbing my announcement.  I felt I should
explain further.

"As you know, there was a gale during the night-ninety miles per hour,
I understand--and the house I am having built had just got to roof
height.  I've been along to have a look as I usually do each morning,
and as I say, it's blown down.  Piles of bricks everywhere and masses
of twisted scaffolding.  I have a few arrangements I must make."

There was another silence, quite a long one, then just two words.

"Oh, crumbs."

It was a traumatic moment in my life and I have never forgotten that
brief riposte from the eccentric but endearing Marquis of Hulton. Those
two words in his habitual exquisitely modulated tones conveyed all the
shock and compassion the little man so clearly felt.

This event marked one more step in my efforts to move my family to a
more suitable dwelling, and they had started quite soon after my
abortive attempt to buy Mrs.  Dryden's house.

It took me quite a while to recover from that bidding battle in the
Drovers' Arms.  I had built my hopes so high and the sense of faiure
hung heavily on me as I had to watch my wife still slogging away in the
wide reaches of Skeldale House.  Helen herself, undoubtedly a better
adjusted character than I, just laughed the whole thing off.

"Something else will turn up," she said as she scrubbed and polished
happily.  That was the maddening thing about it--she didn't mind.  But
I did and my obsession remained.  Somehow I would get her out of
Skeldale.

There was a sudden gleam of light when I spotted the notice in the
Darrowby and Houlton Times.

"Look at this, Helen!"  I said eagerly, pointing to a picture among the
estate agents' advertisements on the front page.  "I know that house.
It's a very nice place."

She peered over my shoulder.  "Oh, yes, along the Dennaby road.  I've
seen it--very attractive."  Then she gave me a questioning glance. "But
it's a detached house, not too big, I know, but not like Mrs. Dryden's
little semi.  It will make a lot of money."

"Oh, old Bootland and I between us pushed up the price of Mrs.
Dryden's.  That little place was only worth about two thousand pounds.
This one will go for its right price--around three thousand.  I think
the building society would lend me that much."

I came in for lunch that day, flushed with success.  The man at the
society had been very accommodating--the mortgage would be okay.

"Things are looking up, Helen," I said.  "Really it's a good job we
didn't get the other house.  This one is just right.  A bit bigger, but
compact and a nice-sized garden with an orchard and a lovely view down
the dale.  The auction is next Friday so we haven't long to wait.  This
is it, Helen--I know it is!"

My wife gazed at me thoughtfully.  "Jim, I'll only agree to this if you
promise to keep calm at the sale."

"Calm?  What do you mean?"

"Well, you know very well that you got all worked up and bid way past
the price we could afford.  All I'm asking is for you to keep calm and
not get yourself into a state like last time."

"Calm ... state ...?  I don't understand you," I said haughtily.

Her smile was patient.  "Oh, you must remember.  You were white, like a
ghost, and shaking all over at the end of it.  I wondered if you'd ever
be able to get up and walk out."

"You're exaggerating," I replied with dignity.  "I was under a certain
amount of pressure, that's all."

Helen's smile suddenly turned to a grin.  "Oh, I know, but I'm not
going with you unless you promise to go as far as that three thousand
and not a penny more.  I mean it, Jim."

"Right ... right ... I promise, of course.  I wouldn't do anything so
silly, anyway."

This little contretemps vanished quickly from my mind and I was soon
back in my old fantasy-imagining Helen floating around effortlessly in
the new house, the children climbing the trees and picking the fruit in
the garden.  On my rounds I kept changing my route so that I could go
along the Dennaby road and feast my eyes on the place.  Helen and I had
had a look round and it was perfect.  And soon, very soon, it would be
mine.

I didn't come off my cloud till the Friday afternoon when we walked
across the market-place to the Drovers'.  When we went into the crowded
room where the auction was to be held I felt a sudden lurch at my
stomach.  It was all horribly reminiscent of last time.  Same room,
same rows of heads, same auctioneer on the platform drumming his
fingers on the table in front of him and looking over the throng with a
pleased smile.  By the time we had squeezed into a place and sat down,
my heart was thumping.

Soon the auctioneer started his preamble, telling us all the nice
things I already knew about the house.  As he went on, Helen, squashed
tightly against me and possibly sensing some slight quivering in my
limbs, gripped my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine.

"Just relax, Jim," she whispered.

I sniffed.  "I'm perfectly relaxed, I assure you," I mumbled, trying to
ignore the thudding in my ears as the bidding started.  I did feel,
however, that a few deep breaths would help in a situation like this.

It was at about the third deep breath that I heard the words "And now I
have two thousand nine hundred" from the auctioneer.  He seemed to have
arrived at the figure unexpectedly quickly and I shot up my hand. Other
hands rose all around me and I heard "I have three thousand."

At that moment Helen's grip on my hand tightened fiercely.  She was a
big strong woman and it came to me with certainty that if I pursued
this matter further she would reduce my fingers to a pulp.

It would have made no difference anyway because the whole business was
raging away out of my control.  "Three thousand one hundred, two
hundred, three hundred, three thousand four hundred ..."  Then in no
time at all, as I sat mute, he was over four thousand with forests of
bids going in.  There was a slight slowing down in the late four
thousands, but before I had finished my deep breathing exercise I heard
the hammer going down on the table--sold to Mr.  Somebody-or-other for
five thousand pounds.  It was all over and I hadn't even had a look
in.

As we rose and began to shuffle out with the crowd I saw a grey-haired
man shaking hands with the auctioneer and laughing in what I thought
was an insufferably smug manner, then we were outside, walking over the
cobbles of the market-place.

The deflated feeling was the same as before.  Helen was still holding
my hand and I managed to work up a smile.

"Well, it's happened again," I murmured.  "But maybe I'm not as white
this time?"

My wife studied my face for a moment.  "No ... a bit pale perhaps, but
nothing like last time."  Then she laughed.  "Poor old lad, you never
had the chance to get really white.  It was over in a flash.  Anyway,
never mind--I often think that so many things happen for the best."

"Still, it's another disappointment," I said.  "Last time we had Mrs.
Dryden to console us a bit, but there's nobody today."

As I spoke, I felt a tug at my sleeve.  I turned and saw Bert Rawlings,
whose small holding fields bordered the house that had just been
sold.

"Hullo, Bert," I said.  "Been to the sale?"

"Aye, I 'ave, Mr.  Herriot, and I'm right glad you didn't get that
'ouse."

"Eh?"

"I say it was a lucky thing you didn't get it, because I've been in
that place many a time and I can tell ye it's not all it appears."

"Really?"

"Aye, it's a good-lookin' house, but the roof leaks like 'ell."

"Never!"

"I'm not jokin', I've been up in the attic and seen rows of buckets and
pots and pans set out to try to catch the water.  They've been tryin'
to mend that roof for years but they've never managed it."

"Heavens!"

"And the timbers up there are rotten with all the damp."

"My God!"

He patted my arm and laughed.  "So you see you 'ad a lucky escape. Just
thought I'd tell ye."

"Well, thanks, Bert.  That does make us feel better."  I waved to him
as he hurried away across the market-place, then I turned to Helen.

"Well, isn't that strange.  We have had somebody to cheer us up after
all.  Maybe next time will be third time lucky."

Despite our latest defeat our determination was as strong as ever, or
rather mine was, because, as I say, Helen didn't seem all that worried.
But my mind was set in a groove.  I scanned the advertisements in the
local newspapers, stopped eagerly at every For Sale board in the
gardens of the district, but nothing really got moving until we were
introduced at a party to Bob and Elizabeth Mollison.  They were young
architects about our own age who had opened an office in a nearby
market town.

"You know," said Elizabeth, "you're going through the mill trying to
find a suitable house, but we could build you a really nice house for
three thousand pounds--planned by yourselves with all the features you
want--it would be a far better prospect for you, and in fact, probably
cheaper in the long run."

Helen and I looked at each other.  We had never thought of that.

"If you can find a plot of land, Bob and I could have a place built for
you in a few months," Elizabeth went on.  "Think it over, anyway."

I really didn't need to think it over.  The whole horizon seemed filled
with blinding light.  "This is the right idea," I said eagerly, and
Helen nodded, too.  "Why didn't we think of this before?  We'll do
it!"

The Mollisons regarded us uncertainly.  "Are you quite sure?  You'd
maybe better have a think for a few days."

I shook my head decisively.  "No, no, we'll go right ahead.  You draw
up some plans and I'll find a plot somewhere as I go round the
country."

Bob smiled.  "Fine, but hold on--we'd have to have a proper conference
to know just what you want.  We'd need a lot of details."

"We want a hatch," I said.

"A hatch?  That's all ...?  How about you, Helen?"

"A hatch," replied my wife firmly.  In both our minds there floated the
heavenly image of our meals being handed through that little hole in
the wall from kitchen to dining room.  After the years of tramping the
long passage at Skeldale House, that had to be the number-one thing.

The Mollisons had a good long laugh at this, but then they hadn't seen
the Skeldale passages.

"Right," Elizabeth said between giggles.  "So we design this house
round the hatch, eh?"

"Absolutely."  More laughter, but for Helen and me there was a very
serious core to our jollity.

Later we did have our conference and worked out the less important
aspects like bedrooms and bathrooms, and it wasn't long before the
young couple produced a most attractive plan.

"It's a lovely house," Helen murmured as she studied it.  "Such a nice
little hall and staircase and all those useful cupboards and wardrobes
built in.  You've thought of everything."

"Especially the hatch!"  said the Mollisons together, and the laughter
started again.

Meanwhile I was scouring the countryside for a plot and finding it very
difficult.  Something called Town and Country Planning had come
inffbeing and it was no good asking one of my farmer friends to sell me
a bit of land in one of their fields where there was a nice view.

Nice chaps as they were, they wanted to help, but couldn't.

"I'd be delighted, Jim," one of them said, "but it's not allowed.  I
can't even build a house in my fields for me own son!"

That was the story everywhere and I realised that I had to find a bit
of ground somewhere inside the tight building line that had been drawn
around Darrowby.  My search became more and more desperate till I ended
up with a plot between two houses on the edge of the town.  It was a
pleasant situation but very narrow.

"There's only one thing for it," Bob Mollison said.  "If you buy this
plot we'll have to put the house in long ways on."

This worried us.  "But what a shame," Helen said.  "It's such a pretty
house--I just love that frontage."

Bob shrugged.  "I'm afraid it's that or nothing.  Lots of people are
trying to find land to build.  You might have to wait ages for anything
else to turn up.  And we can make modifications.  We can make it look
very attractive the other way round."

Elizabeth came to us with a modified design and indeed it was an
acceptable compromise.  We bought the land and prepared for action.

We immediately came up against other unexpected snags.  In the early
fifties Britain was still recovering from the austerities of the war.
Many things were still in short supply--including builders.  We tried
everywhere but couldn't find anybody to take on the contract.  Finally
we decided that the only way to get started was to employ the various
tradesmen--joiners, bricklayers, plumbers, et cetera--ourselves.  This
was done and before long we had the foundations laid.

It was exciting from then on, but frustrating, too, because time after
time I would call at the site to find the bricklayers sitting smoking
and drinking tea.  The explanation was always the same: "We can't get
on.  The joiners haven't turned up."  Or it was the joiners drinking
tea because the bricklayers hadn't arrived.  "We can't get on" was a
phrase I grew to dread.

Because of this, progress was slow.  After several weeks the walls were
only knee high.  We went off on our summer holiday for a fortnight, and
as we drove past the site on our return, expecting to see a big
advance, our hopes were dashed when we found that the house had not
grown at all.

However, the troubles began to sort themselves out and there was a rush
of activity over several weeks when the place began to rise at magical
speed.  The big day arrived when the bricklayers, honest lads and keen
to please me, had the gable end nearly up to roof height.

"We'll have t'roof on tomorrow, Mr.  Herriot," one of them said
cheerfully.  "Only thing is the joiners should've been here to put the
ridge and last spars in, but we'll build up the gable to full height
and the joiners'll be here this afternoon to support it.  Then we'll
all be happy-we'll put up the flag.  You'll be glad to see that!"

He spoke the truth.  I would be more than glad, in fact ecstatic and
fulfilled to see the roof on our new house with the traditional flag
flying.  I couldn't wait to get along first thing next morning to see
it.

It had been a windy night with a ninety-mile-an-hour gale according to
the radio, but I didn't think anything about it until I drew up my car
and looked out at the devastation.  The joiners had not arrived when
expected and the unsupported gable, which fronted the road, lay in a
tumbled heap of bricks in the front garden.  Twisted scaffolding hung
around everywhere.  I cannot quite describe my emotions.

Yes, on that one fateful night the gale came and blew the whole thing
down.  It was just bad luck, nobody's fault, and that was how I came to
be apologising to Lord Hulton for my delayed visit to his horse.

Like most of the little disasters of life this was overcome.  The gable
was rebuilt and the house triumphantly completed within weeks.  And a
fine house it was; a brilliant success and a lasting testimony to the
skills of Bob and Elizabeth with its many innovative features and
modern ideas.

The whole concept of building for ourselves was vindicated and in the
end we had what we wanted-- a happy home for our family for many years.
But at times my mind goes back to that morning when I drove along the
Brawton road and looked from my car as the wind still howled over the
heap of bricks and mangled scaffolding.

That was a really bad moment.  Oh, crumbs, it was.

Chapter 22

There was one time during Calum's reign when I was sure I was
hallucinating.  I came in through the front door of Skeldale House and
there, in the passage, I saw a badger waddling unhurriedly towards me.
Marilyn had the run of the house now and I had grown fond of the
amiable little animal.

"Hello, old girl," I said, patting the attractive striped head. "You're
really friendly, aren't you.  I'm beginning to understand your master's
thing about your breed."

I turned into the office and stood in shock for a moment.  Calum was
sitting at the desk with Marilyn on his shoulder.

"What ... what ..."  I stammered.

Calum looked up and was about to reply when Siegfried strode into the
room.  For a few seconds he stared unbelievingly at the young man.
"What the hell's this?  I nearly tripped over your bloody badger out
there and now she's in here."

Calum smiled.  "Ah, yes," he said airily.  "That's not Marilyn in the
passage, it's Kelly."

"Kelly?"

"Yes, my other badger."

Siegfried flushed.  "Other badger ... I didn't know you had another
one."

"Oh well, I just had to get him.  I could see Marilyn was lonely--I
know the signs.  You see," he said earnestly, "I know she has me for
company, but really, when an animal's lonely, there's no substitute for
another of the same species."

"Yes, that's all very fine," said Siegfried, his voice rising.  "But I
wasn't keen on having one of those things around and now there's two.
What d'you think this place is--a lonely-heart home for badgers?"

"Oh, no, no.  But you must admit that they're nice, friendly little
things--they're no trouble at all."

"That's not the point--I ..."  My partner was stopped in mid-flow by
the phone ringing.  He lifted the receiver and as he listened, Kelly
shuffled into the room.  After a few moments Siegfried put down the
phone and jumped to his feet.  "Damn!  That good horse at Lord Hulton's
isn't any better, in fact, it's worse.  I've got to go."  With a final
incredulous glance at the two badgers, playing now on the floor, he
hurried from the room.

"He isn't upset, is he?"  Calum enquired.

"Well, just a bit, but he'll forget about it.  I'd leave Kelly in your
flat for a few days if I were you."

He nodded, then pointed out the window.  "There's Rod Milburn's van
outside.  He's brought a ewe.  Thinks it's ring womb

We were in the thick of lambing, and this was the year when the
Caesarean operation on sheep, previously uncommon, soared into
popularity.  The reasons were several.  Farmers and vets were unanimous
that in many protracted lambing cases it was better to operate on the
ewe and "tek 'em out of that' side as the saying went.  It was
absolutely fatal to be the slightest bit rough with a ewe-forcing open
a cervix to pull out an oversize lamb could easily tear the
tissues--and for some reason the condition of ring womb had become very
common.

This was when the cervix didn't present its usual corrugated feel but
was solely a smooth band of tissue that simply would not yield even
after the usual injections for an undilated cervix.  In these cases it
was best to operate without delay to avoid suffering for the ewe and to
obtain live lambs.

Vets were also doing the Caesarean for bad cases of pregnancy toxaemia
because once delivered of her lambs the ewe had a better chance of
recovery.  The upshot was that we were doing the operation so
frequently that often the farmers would bring their ewes into the
surgery to save us a journey.

We ushered Rod Milburn round to the yard, where Calum scrubbed up an
arm and explored inside the ewe.

"Typical ring womb Rod," he said, "so we'd better not mess about. We'll
boil up while you do your clipping."

The farmer produced his clippers from the van, tipped up the ewe and
expertly cut away the thick fleece from the flank.  I shaved,
disinfected and infiltrated the site with local anaesthetic before
Calum reappeared with the sterilised instruments on a tray.  I have
never known a vet more meticulous about asepsis--wherever he went on
his rounds he carried a metal container with freshly boiled knives,
forceps and needles and he hadn't been with us very long before his
high rate of success became apparent.  When Calum operated, his
patients lived.

I was letting him have a go now, and it was impressive to see his big,
strong-fingered hands at work, quickly incising skin, muscles and
peritoneum before opening the uterus and drawing out two wriggling
black-faced lambs.  In no time at all he was stitching up, grinning at
the two tiny creatures determinedly tottering towards the udder.

Rod was delighted.  "That's great!  A good job I came down right away.
We've got live twins and a healthy mother."  He lifted the lambs into
the straw in the back of his van and the ewe hopped in after them as
though nothing had happened to her.

I had done a lot of these operations, but I never ceased to be amazed
at how little the ewe seemed to be affected.  On one occasion I had
just finished stitching after a Caesarean in a loose box on the farm
when the ewe jerked her head from the farmer's grasp, jumped from the
straw-bale operating table where she had been lying andwitha mighty
leap, cleared the half-door and galloped off across the field.

When I saw the farmer a few days later and enquired about her, he said,
"Aye, she came back for 'er lambs, otherwise God knows when I'd 'ave
seen her again!"

After Rod Milburn had driven away with the new family we started on our
work in the surgery.  I did a laparotomy on a Labrador that had
swallowed his favourite ball and Calum removed a mammary tumour from a
springer spaniel with his customary aplomb.

We were cleaning up when he pointed to three cat cages standing by the
door.  "What's happening to those cats?"

"Oh, they're spays.  I'm taking them through to Granville Bennett."

"Don't you ever do those jobs yourself?"

"No.  All cat and bitch spays go to Granville."

Calum stared at me.  "Why on earth do you do that?"

"Oh, he's a top man--brilliant.  Makes a great job and they all come
back in good shape."

"I'll bet they do.  I know all about Granville Bennett, but Jim, you're
perfectly capable of doing these yourself."

"Oh, I know, but we've always done it this way.  We're a large-animal
practice.  This is only a sideline."

He laughed.  "Since I came here I've seen you do laparotomies,
enterotomies, pyometras.  What's the difference?"

"Well, I really don't know, Calum.  These other things are emergencies.
Maybe it's because when you're doing a spay you're starting on a
healthy animal.  Silly, I suppose."

"I know what you mean.  You can't bear the thought of a client bringing
in his fit little animal and then the operation goes wrong."

"Something like that.  Maybe it all stems from a lack of confidence.  I
can't help thinking of myself as a farm-animal doctor who shouldn't be
doing such things."

Calum raised a finger.  "Well, with respect, Jim, you've got to change
your ideas.  Small-animal work is the thing of the future and the day
has gone when country vets can turn their backs on routine things like
spays just because they think they haven't the time."

"Maybe you're right.  I suppose we ought to start some time."

"Why not now?"

"Eh?"

"Let's have a crack at these three.  Spays are easy--I've done quite a
few at the college clinic."

I was beginning to raise objections, but Calum hoisted a cage onto the
table and lifted out a pretty twelve-week-old kitten.  "Here we go," he
cried.  "Spay number one--the beginning of a new era in Skeldale
House."

I was carried along by his enthusiasm and we soon had the little
creature anaesthetised and the site prepared.  Calum poised his knife
and made a tiny incision in the flank.  "Keyhole surgery is the order
here.  It's so easy that you don't need a lot of room to work.  You
just fish out the uterus like this."  He probed through the incision
with forceps.  "It's no trouble at all."

He fished out a slender strand of tissue on the end of the forceps.
"There it is, you see, child's play."  Then he paused.  "No, that's not
it."  He pushed the thing back and searched further within.  But when
he withdrew the forceps it still wasn't the uterus he had hold of but
the same mysterious pink-white thread.

"Damn!  I've never had this trouble," he grunted, and began another
exploration in the small abdomen.  He had just pulled the wrong thing
out again when the phone rang.

"Milk fever, flat out.  Urgent.  Afraid I've got to go, Calum, can you
manage?"

"Of course, I'm okay.  But where the hell is this uterus?"

I left him staring down at the little cat in exasperation.

When we met later in the day, he gave me a rueful grin.  "I'm sorry I
made a hash of my demonstration, Jim.  You'd hardly got through the
door before I found the uterus and finished the job in a few minutes. I
did the other two cats after that on my own--no problem."

I believed him.  If ever there was a naturally gifted surgeon it was
Calum.  But that wasn't the end of the story.  A few days later, we
admitted four more spays and since Calum was the only man around he
anaesthetised them with Nembutal instead of using our oxygen and ether
apparatus and did them himself.  When I walked along to the operating
room he was starting on the last one.

"I'm glad to see you, Jim," he said.  "I've just done those three,"
pointing at the sleeping cats, "did 'em in double-quick time.  Piece of
cake.  Anyway, I can show you what I mean now you're here."

He inserted his forceps in the incision and pulled out not the uterus
but the same string-like filament as before.  He stared at it for a
moment and then he tried again and then a third time but with the same
result.

"I don't believe it!"  he exploded.  "It's like black magic!"

I laughed and patted him on the shoulder.  "I'm sorry I can't wait,
Calum.  I just dashed along between jobs to see how you were getting
on."

"I was getting on fine till you came in," he shouted as I went out.

When I look back, I realise it was one of the strange and unaccountable
little episodes in my life, because on the third occasion, around a
week later, when I walked into the operating room I found my colleague
bent over a sleeping cat.

He looked up and gave me an eager smile.  "Ah, here you are again, Jim.
I've done a couple of spays like hot cakes and I'm just starting on
this one.  Now watch, and I'll show you how to do it."

Quickly and confidently he reached inside with his forceps and instead
of the expected uterus there appeared the same fine cord of baffling
origin.  He pushed it back and tried again, and again and again without
success.

"Bugger it!"  he yelled.  "What's going on?  When it happened before I
thought it was because I was too cocky, but now I know.  It's you!"  He
stared at me, wild-eyed.  "You're a hoodoo!  You put the evil eye on me
every time!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Calum," I said, fighting the giggles.  "It's just
unfortunate--but anyway, what is that thing you keep pulling out?  Has
it got a name?"

"It has now," my colleague growled.  "It's called Herriot's duct."

It passed into the language of the practice and, long after spaying had
lost its novelty in the practice and become a regular, trouble-free
routine, whenever that errant piece of tissue showed itself the cry
went up.

"Hello, there goes Herriot's duct again!"

Chapter 23

When I awoke on the first morning after our move to Rowan Garth, I
found myself in the usual mental state of acute readiness, like a
sprinter on his blocks, ready to hurl on my clothes and take off on my
daily gallop round the icy acres of Skeldale House.  I was so much in
the groove that when my alarm went my legs started twitching, ready for
the off.  It took me a minute or two to realise that such things as the
sessions of fire-lighting, wrestling with the anthracite stove and
running to keep warm were all in the past.

Everything was to hand.  Almost effortlessly, I donned a dressing gown
and meandered down the few stairs to the little hall and then into the
kitchen, where a blissful warmth from the Aga cooker enveloped me.
Dinah the beagle came wagging from her basket and as I patted her and
exchanged the usual morning pleasantries I could discern an "isn't this
wonderful" expression in her eyes.

It was heaven.  As in a trance, I slid the kettle onto the hot plate
and dropped the tea into the teapot, and I hardly noticed the ascent as
I sailed up with Helen's morning cup.

Back in the kitchen I poured tea for myself and stood for a few
moments, imbibing the fragrant fluid, nestling up to the Aga as I
looked out at the green fields and the hills and feeling like a sultan.
Life, I thought, didn't have much more to offer.

It was all so clear now.  My failures to buy those other houses had
seemed at the time a black demolition of all my hopes, but in fact they
had been blessed strokes of luck.  I had a far better house now than
either of them-modern, reasonably small, convenient ... and warm.  I
gazed for a moment at the long-desired hatch: oh yes, it was the
realisation of a dream.

Lulled by these thoughts, I sank gratefully into my chair, but rocketed
up again instantly as a rasping sound exploded beneath me.  My peace
shattered, I lifted the cushion and found a whoopie device underneath.
Shrill laughter came down from the top of the stairs as I threw open
the door and saw Jimmy and Rosie hanging gleefully over the
bannisters.

"You young blighters!"  I yelled as I stormed upwards.  "The very first
morning!  I'm coming to get you!"  But they had locked themselves in
their bedrooms by the time I arrived and I hadn't time to go further
into the matter.

Sitting down for the second time, I ruminated on the fact that I'd have
to take extra care from now on.  Playing jokes on Dad was a hobby of my
children--imitation ink blots, buns that squeaked when bitten,
envelopes that emitted a terrifying buzz when opened--particularly in
the mornings when my de fences were down.  Every time we visited my
parents in Glasgow they made a bee-line for Tam Shepherd's joke shop in
Queen Street to lay in further supplies, and in this small house I was
infinitely more accessible.

However it took only a few soothing draughts of tea before I slid back
into my previous euphoria.  I couldn't believe the warmth and comfort
and the feeling that you could reach out and touch everything.  Life
was going to be so much easier for Helen.

The peace didn't last long.  Within minutes of the children coming
downstairs the kitchen was reverberating with deafening noise.  Jimmy
had rigged up an extension speaker on a shelf to play records from our
beloved Murphy radiogram, which was now stationed in the dining room
next door, and within minutes Elvis Presley was blasting his message
into my ears.

I escaped for a few moments by taking up Helen's second cup.  For a
long time at Skeldale House it had been her only concession to my pleas
to take things easier in the mornings and I was determined that this
routine would continue in our new home.  When I came downstairs I
lifted the morning paper from the door, picked up my teacup and settled
down again at the table.

Rosie, sitting next to me, was rocking back and forth in time with the
music and she got so carried away that, on one of the ways down, she
swivelled and the bottom of the chair leg crunched onto my slippered
toe.  She was a fat little girl at that time and very heavy, and I
yelped in pain and my tea flew into the air and descended in a warm
shower on my newspaper.  As I leaped to my feet and hopped around in
agony my son and daughter shrieked with laughter and Dinah set up a
joyous barking to join in the fun.

Through my anguish I reflected that this was the second time within a
few minutes that those two had had a good laugh at Dad's expense.  A
memorable day for them.

The music was to be a regular preschool routine every morning and at
first it was torture because as a lifelong devotee of classical music I
found the pop scene bewildering.  To me it was just a loud, unpleasant
noise.  But as the months passed at Rowan Garth and each day I was
subjected to "Blue Suede Shoes," "Don't Be Cruel," "Jailhouse Rock" and
others I developed something approaching affection for old Elvis, and
now, more than thirty years later, any of his songs coming over the
radio can transport me back to those mornings in the kitchen at Rowan
Garth with the children at their cornflakes, my dog at my side and the
whole world young and carefree.

And yet ... there was at that time another pull on my emotions. Leaving
Skeldale the day before had been a far greater wrench than I had ever
imagined.  After the van had taken the last of our things away I roamed
through the empty rooms that had echoed to my children's laughter.  The
big sitting room where I had read the bedtime stories and where, before
all that, Siegfried, Tristan and I had sprawled in bachelor
contentment, seemed to reproach me with its ageless charm and grace. 
The handsome fireplace with its glass cupboard above, and the old
pewter tankard that used to hold our cash still resting there, the
French window opening onto the long, high-walled garden with its lawns,
fruit trees, asparagus and strawberry beds--these things were part of a
great surging ocean of memories.

I walked upstairs to the large al coved room where Helen and I had
slept, and to which we had brought our children as babies to sleep in
the cot that had once stood in that corner.  I clumped over the bare
boards to the dressing room.  Jimmy and Rosie had shared this chamber,
and I could almost hear their giggles and teasings that were the
beginning of each new day.

I climbed another flight to the little rooms under the eaves where
Helen and I had started our married life.  Here, a bench against the
wall and a gas ring once served as our only cooking arrangements.  I
walked to the window and looked over the tumbled roofs of the little
town to the green fells and swallowed a huge lump in my throat.  Dear
old Skeldale.  I was so glad it was going to be kept on as the practice
house and I would walk through its doors every day, but my family was
leaving and I wondered if we could ever be as happy again as we had
been here.

Chapter 24

"Can I speak to the vet wit' badger

As I handed the phone to our new assistant it struck me that this
request was becoming common and it did me good to hear it.  It meant
that Calum was being accepted by the farmers.  I didn't mind at all if
some of them wanted him instead of me.  What I dreaded was hearing
"Don't send that bugger!"  which I had learned from the experiences of
some of my neighbouring vets when they employed new assistants.

I had been so lucky with John Crooks, who had been an outstanding asset
to our practice, and it seemed to be asking too much of fate for a
second top-class man to come along.  All the new graduates were better
educated than I had been, but there were reasons why a few didn't make
the grade.  Some of them just couldn't face the long rough and tumble
of general practice with its antisocial hours, others lacked the
ability to get on with the clients, and one or two were academically
bright but unpractical.

Calum, to my vast relief, seemed to be slotting into the job
effortlessly, but, just as John and Tristan had been different from
each other, so was he from them.  Very different.  His ever-present
badger fascinated people, his tall, walrus-moustached appearance, eager
friendliness and unusual outlook on life made him interesting to both
farm and small-animal clients, but, most important of all, he knew his
stuff.  He was a fine vet.

Phin Calvert, one of the characters in our practice who always
addressed me as "Happy Harry" on my visits to his farm, had given me
his opinion of Calum in his usual forthright way.  "That feller," he
said, "is a vitnery!"

My colleague Calum put down the phone and turned to me.  "That was
Eddie Coates.  Said he had a beast "a bit dowly."  I'm getting to be an
expert with dowly beasts."

I laughed.  "Good, Calum.  You'd better get along, then."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then, "Something I wanted to ask
you, Jim.  Could I change my hours a bit?"

"In what way?  Different half-day?"

"No, I'd like to start at six o'clock every morning and finish at two
in the afternoon."

I stared at him in amazement.  "What's the idea of that?"

"It would give me more opportunities to get around the
countryside--find out more about the wildlife and flora about here."

"Well, I'm sorry, Calum.  I know you're dead keen on that sort of
thing, but those hours are just not practical.  We can't do that--it
wouldn't work."

He shrugged philosophically, said "Okay," and turned to go.

"Just a minute, Calum," I said.  "While we're talking, I'd like to
mention something else to you.  You're a bit elusive."

"Eh?"

"Yes.  Difficult to find when I want you.  As you know, quite a few of
the small farms aren't on the phone and sometimes the only time I have
been able to get hold of an assistant was to catch him at mealtimes.
But your eating habits are irregular and often you're in and out again
without my knowing, and there might be something urgent waiting.  So
please give me a ring whenever you do come in."

Calum gave me a mock salute.  "Very good, sir, I will unfailingly
report."

We went out together to the dispensary and in the passage I was
assailed by a dreadful stench.  Sickly, horrible, it seemed to be
coming from upstairs and I could see wisps of steam issuing from
Calum's flat.

"Hell, Calum, that bloody awful stink!  What's going on up there?"

He looked at me in mild surprise.  "Oh, I'm just boiling up some tripe
for my animals."

"Tripe!  What sort of tripe?"

"Just ordinary cows' stomachs.  Left-overs at the butcher's.  He says
he'll let me have any tripe that's gone off a bit whenever I want
it."

I put my handkerchief over my face and shouted through the folds.
"Off-colour tripe!  You're not kidding!  For God's sake get up there
and take that pan off.  And cancel your order at the butcher's!"

I reeled into the back garden and took a few deep breaths, and as I
leaned against the wall, a little thought swam in my mind.  I was sure
I was going to have a happy relationship with Calum, but nothing in the
world was ever quite perfect.

Later that day, when I came in to lunch it was confirmed that he had
heeded my words of the morning.  The phone rang and it was Calum's
voice at the other end.  "Permission to eat, sir!"

"Granted, young man," I replied, falling in gladly with his sally.  I
didn't know it then, but throughout the time he stayed with the
practice I would hear those words every day.  He never ever came in at
mealtimes without checking, and now when I look back over the years and
think of him I seem to hear those words.

"Permission to eat, sir!"

Chapter 25

When we started in Rowan Garth, I felt again the stirrings of the urge
that had sent me off to those house sales during our first days in
Skeldale.  As the provider, it was my job to see to the absolute
essentials--like the concertina.

At Rowan Garth I had a different kind of blinding insight.  I had to
make a grass tennis-court in the back garden.  It was for the children
but also for Helen and me since we were keen players-when we could find
the time.

After mapping out the court I realised that the big problem was to stop
the balls from being knocked out of the garden and far away.  Obviously
a lot of high netting was required, and I thought my problem was solved
when a fisherman came to the door selling off fishing nets.  He had
just gone out of business, he said, and he was selling off these superb
nets at a giveaway price.  I bought an enormous bundle of the things,
tightly tied up with tarry rope, for l12 and proudly showed my purchase
to Helen.

She was not impressed.  "Are you sure you haven't done something silly
again, Jim?  You know you are very easily taken in."

I was indignant.  "Taken in?  Impossible!  You could see that this
fisherman was as honest as the day.  He was from Fraserburgh and was
wearing a navy blue jersey.  Cheerful, red, open face, I could smell
the tar and salt off him.  He said these were the last of the nets and
he was selling them off extra cheap to get rid of them so that he can
get back home."

"Hmm.  I don't like the sound of that, either," Helen murmured.  "Did
you look in his van to see if he had any more?"

"Well, no ... that was quite unnecessary.  I assure you I've made a
good buy this time.  Come on, I'll prove it to you."

We went out to the lawn and I began to untie the vast bundles of nets.
As I opened them up my spirits began to sink.  They were a mass of
enormous holes, some of them several feet in diameter.  Helen began to
giggle, and as I unrolled one holey net after another she staggered
around laughing helplessly.

"Oh dear," she said, wiping away the tears.  "It's a good thing there's
one practical person in this family.  Thank heaven I never do silly
things like this."

Badly discomfited, I looked glumly at the useless things.  "I could
maybe patch up those holes with string," I said.

"Oh, stop it," Helen said, beginning to fall about again.  "Don't start
me off again.  I feel weak."

Those nets were a sore point and I kept away from the subject over the
next few weeks, but I did, on several occasions, surreptitiously retire
to the lawn when nobody was watching and have a go, unsuccessfully, at
doing a bit of patching.

After this disaster I tried to win back a little credibility by
thinking of some new ideas for the improvement of the garden.  I
noticed an advert in one of the Sunday papers for cloches to protect
tender plants and it struck me that they would be an excellent thing in
the harsh Yorkshire climate.  The pictures showed the cloches standing
in long trim rows, neat and functional, and they seemed extraordinarily
cheap, too.

Without mentioning it to Helen I sent away for a substantial supply.  I
expected them to arrive in some enormous crate and was very surprised
when the postman delivered a modest flat parcel.  How could they
possibly be the things I had seen in the picture?

The mystery was quickly solved because it turned out that what I had
thought was rigid plastic was in fact ordinary floppy polythene
sheeting.  Not only that, but the rest of the outfit consisted of a
mass of flimsy wires with ominous instructions to slide rod A into
notch B and engage with flange C. I have never been any good with such
things and spent maddening hours wrestling with the wires as Helen
watched me curiously.

I was forced to confess my scheme to her and was irritated by the
immediately sceptical reaction.  She looked doubtfully at my tangled
purchases and the corner of her mouth twitched as though she was
fighting back a big grin.  I fought on doggedly and at last had a row
of the wires assembled and began to drape the polythene sheets over
them.

The result was pathetic.  Helen came out to have another look just as I
was surveying what looked like a long, low-slung line of washing with
the polythene half attached to the wires and flapping disconsolately in
the wind.

It was too much for my wife.  She collapsed against the wall of the
house and after a minute or two of unrestrained laughter had to go
inside and sit down.  I was left in the garden trying to muster a bit
of dignity, but I couldn't bear to look at the cloches any more.  I
bundled them quickly into their original parcel and hid them away in
the garage.  It was another catastrophe and my stock plummeted even
lower.

A week later I came in from my round and found Helen in an unusual
mood.  She was wide-eyed and excited, slightly breathless.

"Come in and look at this, Jim," she said, leading me into the sitting
room.  The furniture had been pushed back to accommodate an
extraordinary carpet, a huge, garish thing, thick and knobbly.

"What the devil's this?"  I asked.

"Well," she was more breathless than ever, "a man came to the door this
afternoon with this lovely carpet.  It's a genuine Kasbah."

"A what?"

"A Kasbah.  It's a very rare oriental type of carpet."

"Oriental?"

"Yes, this man's just come from India.  He got it from a tribesman on
the frontier."

"A tribesman?  The frontier?"  My head was beginning to swim.  "What
are you talking about?"

Helen drew herself up.  "It's surely quite simple.  We have the
opportunity to buy this beautiful carpet.  It's something we need, and
it's a bargain."

"How much?"

"Twenty pounds."

"What!"

"It's very cheap," said Helen, colouring.  "It's a genuine Kasbah.  The
man said it would cost hundreds of pounds, only he was lucky enough to
meet this tribesman on the ..."

"Don't start that again," I said.  "I can't believe what I'm hearing.
Where is this man?"

"He's coming back any minute now.  I told him you'd want to see him."

"I certainly do."  I bent down and felt the Kasbah.  It seemed to be
made of some spiky material and prickly strands came away and pierced
my fingers painfully as I examined it.  The violent colourations built
up every few inches into mounds high enough for anybody to trip over. I
had never seen anything remotely like it.  Hot words were on my lips
but I held my peace.  I had a long record of this kind of boob and I
wasn't on firm ground.  I mustn't say it was a horrible carpet.  Care
must be my watchword.

"Helen," I said gently, "are you really sure we want this?  Look, it's
so lumpy you can't close the door over it."  I demonstrated.  "And
don't you think the colours are a bit bright?"

My wife began to look doubtful.  "Well ... maybe I have been rather
hasty ... but I hear the man at the door now."

She led in the carpet specialist, a pleasant-faced chap in his forties
radiating a powerful selling technique.  Smiling warmly, he wrung my
hand and presented a card to prove he was a seafaring man.  Then, words
pouring from him, teeth flashing, he extolled the Kasbah.  His eyes
never left mine and the effect was hypnotic.  But when he started on
about the tribesman on the frontier I managed to marshal my wits and
stopped him.

"Many thanks, but we really don't want the carpet."

He was astounded and indeed incredulous that we should throw away this
heaven-sent opportunity, but I stuck grimly to my gentle refusals.  He
was fluent and persuasive, but as he lowered the price again and again,
familiar ominous phrases began to creep in.  "Now, I'll tell you what
I'll do with you," "To be perfectly honest," and "I'll be very frank,"
and finally I managed to stop the torrent.

"I'll help you carry it out," I said.

Clearly deeply disappointed in me, he inclined his head gravely.  The
thing was unbelievably heavy and we staggered out in a glum silence,
shedding thousands of multicoloured spicules on the way.

After he had gone I didn't say much about the incident and, in fact, I
have kept pretty quiet about it ever since.  With my record I cannot
afford to be uppity.  Helen is undoubtedly the sensible and practical
member of our partnership and that has been her only aberration, but
over the years whenever I landed in deeper than usual trouble it has
been nice to have something up my sleeve.  I have always been able as a
last resort to bring up the subject of the genuine Kasbah.

Chapter 26

Bouncer was the only all-round canine games player I had ever met.

"Come on, lad," cried his master, Arnold Braithwaite, "let's see Lew
Hoad's big serve."

Eagerly, the dog, a handsome Border collie, stood up on his hind legs,
waved his right fore-paw above his head and brought it down in an
authentic sweep.

I laughed in delight.  "That's wonderful, Arnie, I didn't know he was a
tennis player, too."

"Oh, aye."  The big man gazed at his pet with intense gratification,
then bent over and fondled the shaggy head.  "There's nowt 'e can't do
in that line.  He's like his master--an expert at all sports.  And I've
been able to teach 'im that serve knowin' Lew Hoad like I do."

"You've met him, have you?"

"Met 'im?  He's an old friend.  Me and 'im's big pals.  Thinks a lot
about me, does Lew."

I looked at Arnie, feeling the wonderment welling in me as it always
did when I was with him.  He was a retired builder, or that was how he
described himself, but nobody could remember him doing much building. A
bulky, fit-looking bachelor in his late sixties with a fanatical
devotion to all forms of sport.  His knowledge was encyclopaedic and he
appeared to know everybody.  How he managed this was not clear, because
he rarely left Darrowby, but there seemed to be few among the world's
top sportsmen who were not his friends.

"Now then, lad," he said, addressing his dog, "let's have a bit o'
cricket."  We went out to the little lawn behind the house.  "You're
fieldin' in the slips, right?"  He lifted a bat and a soft ball and as
Bouncer crouched in anticipation he struck the ball swiftly to one side
of him.  The dog leaped, caught the ball in his mouth and brought it
back before taking up his position again.  Arnie repeated the action,
first to one side, then the other, and every time the dog brought off a
clean catch.

"Never drops a catch," chuckled Arnie with deep satisfaction.  He held
up the bat.  "That's the bat ah was tellin' you about.  Len Hutton
borrowed it a time or two for some of 'is big innings.  I remember 'is
very words.  "A fine bit o' wood, Arnie," 'e said."

I'd heard that one before.  The legendary Len Hutton, later Sir
Leonard, was at that time captain of England, holder of the record test
match score, a household name throughout the world, and quite simply a
God in cricket-mad Yorkshire.

"And these boots."  He held up a pair of well-blanco'd cricket boots.
"Them's the ones Len borrows, too.  Borrows 'em a lot.  Says they bring
'im luck."

"Yes, I remember you saying so, Arnie."

"Aye, ah've had some times in cricket."  His eyes took on a dreamy look
and I knew he was going into one of his sporting reminiscences from the
First World War.  I had only dropped in in passing to clip Bouncer's
nails, but I knew that would have to wait.

"Aye, it was when our battalion was playing the gunners out in France.
Our bowlin' was getting knocked all over t'place and the score was
mountin' fast.  The colonel threw me the ball.  "I'll have to call on
you, Braithwaite," he said.  "Things are looking bad."  Well, I did the
hat trick straight away."

"You did?"

"Aye, three wickets, just like that.  Then the colonel came over to me.
"I'd better take you off, Braithwaite," he said.  "That's kept the
score down, but we don't want to push it too far the other way."  Well,
the same thing happened.  Their batsmen started to clout our bowlers
for sixes and fours, so the colonel came over to me again.  "I'm sorry,
Braithwaite," he said, "I'm going to have to call on you once more.""

Arnie paused and looked at me seriously.  "Well, I did it again."

"You mean ... another hat trick?"

"That's right."

"Extraordinary.  Quite amazing."  I held up the nail-clippers and
clicked them a few times, but Arnie didn't seem to notice.

"Let's do your Tom Finney," he cried, producing a football and rolling
it along the grass.  This was one of Bouncer's party tricks and I'd
seen it before, but I still shared the big man's enjoyment as the dog
dribbled the ball round the lawn, controlling it between his paws,
weaving this way and that.  "Now score a goal!"  shouted Arnie, and
Bouncer made straight for two miniature posts at the edge of the lawn
and knocked the ball between them with his nose.

We both laughed and clapped our hands and the big dog leaped up at us,
wagging his tail furiously.  It did me good to see Bouncer so sprightly
because he was quite elderly, over nine years old.

"He loves that, doesn't he, Arnie," I said.

"He does, there's nothin' he likes better than a bit of sport.  He's
never happier than when he's playin' one of his games."  He blew out
his cheeks thoughtfully.  "It's a bit since I've seen Tom."

Tom Finney was then at the peak of his glorious career.  English
international in three different positions and arguably the greatest
English foot baller of all time.

"You know him?"  I said.

"Oh, I do, I do, we're great pals.  Must get together with him soon.
Hey, Bouncer."  He waved at his dog again.  "How about a bit o' golf.
Let's see your Tony Locke."

I held up a hand.  "Some other time, Arnie.  I must get this job
done."

"Okay, Jim, I don't want to keep you."  He smiled ruminatively.  "Just
thinkin' about golf reminds me of the good times I've had with Tony."

"Another friend, eh?"

"Not half!"

As I snipped at Bouncer's nails I wondered if there were any of the
world's famous sportsmen Arnie didn't know.  At that time Locke was a
giant in world golf, but just another chum for all that.

Like most dogs Bouncer wasn't keen on having his nails done and as I
grasped each paw he panted apprehensively, mouth wide, tongue lolling,
but he was a good-natured animal and he resigned himself to his fate
without any growling or snarling.

"These black claws are tricky," I said.  "You can't see how far the
quick comes down like on white claws and I'm having to go very
carefully.  You'd never forgive me if I got into the painful bit, would
you, Bouncer?"

Despite his fear, the big dog lashed his tail briefly at the sound of
his name, and as I patted his head at the end of the little operation,
he leaped away and cantered around the lawn in relief.

"Come in and have a cup o' tea before ye go, Jim," Arnie said.

I hesitated.  I didn't have time for all this, but I knew he loved to
talk and I always found he had interesting things to say.  "Well,
thanks, Arnie," I said, "but it'll have to be a quickie."

It was a bachelor's kitchen, functional but comfortless, and when I saw
Bouncer following his master around as he put on the kettle and fetched
the cups I realised what a blessing his companionship must be.  That
kitchen would have been even more cold and bare without his shaggy
presence, and Arnie chatted away to him as he pottered about.  But
there was no sign of poverty, because Arnie always seemed to have
enough money.  He sipped appreciatively at the steaming cup.  "There's
nowt like a good cup o' tea, is there, Jim?"

"It's very refreshing, Arnie.  But you've always loved your tea more
than most, haven't you?  You must have suffered during the war when you
couldn't get it."

He shook his head vigorously.  "Nay, not me.  I 'ad no trouble.  One or
two Indian rajahs kept sendin' me supplies all the way through."

"Rajahs, eh?"

"That's right.  Durin' the first war ah was stationed in India for a
bit and I got well in with a lot o' them rajahs.  Nice fellers they
were, too.  And, by gum, they remembered me when that' second war broke
out.  I all us had plenty of tea."

"Well, that's wonderful."  Arnie's army service had taken him to an
amazing variety of countries.  I'd heard about France, Belgium, Italy,
Mesopotamia, Africa, Egypt and now India.

I finished my tea and left to continue my rounds.  As I left, Arnie was
starting a game of golf with his dog.

Apart from my professional duties I saw quite a bit of Arnie, as he was
to be found every night in the same chair at the end of the bar at the
Drovers'.  I was returning one evening from a calving, during which I
had lost a bit of sweat, and dropped in for a thirst quencher.  The big
man was there in his usual place, Bouncer, as always, under his chair,
and I sat down next to him.

"I've had a lovely day at Headingley," he said.  "Saw some good
cricket, too."

"Lucky you.  I wish I'd been there."  I had been listening to the test
match on my car radio as I drove round the farms and nourishing the
thought that I might be able to get through to Leeds with Helen on
Saturday.

"Aye, it were right excitin', and you know, I was sitting there on the
front row when Denis Compton walked up to me.  "Well, Arnie, how nice
to find you," he said.  "I was hoping I'd see you.  One of the lads
said you would be here today and I've come to take you to lunch.  I've
been looking everywhere for you.""

"Oh, great," I said.  "So you had lunch with the teams?"

"Oh, aye, it was smashin'.  There was Bill Edrich and Cyril Washbrook,
and all them great Australians.  Keith Miller, Neil Harvey, Ray
Lindwall and all the rest.  They were right glad to see me again--I'd
met them all before, of course."

"Of course."

Just then, Kenny Ditchburn, a beefy, red-faced young man, plumped
himself down on the other side of my friend.

"Now then, Arnie," he said, grinning, "talkin' cricket, eh?  Have you
been lendin' Len Hutton your boots lately?"

Arnie turned an unsmiling face towards him and his eyes narrowed.  "Now
then, Kenny," he replied gruffly, then turned back to me.

His reminiscences had given him a reputation in the town and the
younger element were at all times trying to take the mickey out of him,
but he had become hyper-sensitive to the blunt approach and clammed up
immediately he recognised it.  Throughout my many meetings with him I
had never ever initiated a conversation about his sporting experiences,
never showed any particular interest in them, and it was then, when he
was relaxed, with his guard down, that the fascinating tales came
pouring out.

The poor man was a victim not only of teasing, but of a whole series of
apocryphal anecdotes that were falsely attributed to him and bandied
around among the locals.  According to some, Arnie had described how,
when serving in France in the First World War, he had gained such a
reputation as a football goal-keeper that finally a lot of famous
dead-shot players were lined up to take penalty kicks against him.  For
ages they booted that ball at him but they couldn't score.  Arnie was
impregnable.  At last, in desperation, they loaded a football into a
cannon and fired it at him.  Apparently, Arnie's laconic ending to the
tale was "Well, I saved it all right, but I broke a couple of ribs."

It was also put about that he had told a story that, while on winter
manoeuvres in Russia, the soldiers had organised a kicking contest.
Arnie had won, and in fact he had sent the ball so high that it had
snow on it when it descended.  These and many other far-out yarns were
put in Arnie's mouth by the local lads, but I personally had never
heard them from him and discounted them, as I did Arnie's reputed
description of how, during a crisis in the Egyptian campaign, he had
carried General Allenby across the Nile.

However, they all passed into local folklore, and I think they will
always be talked about.  I remember one occasion at a charity concert
in the Darrowby town hall when a comic violinist got up on the stage
and declaimed, to loud laughter, "I shall now play the second movement
from a fantasy by Arnie Braithwaite."

Never mind, I liked the old boy.  I, too, was a sports buff and Arnie,
when he wasn't reminiscing, talked with great knowledge of all aspects
of the sporting scene.  I always enjoyed his conversation.  Also, he
was an animal lover and devoted to his dog and that made another
bond.

One sunny afternoon, a few weeks after the nail-clipping, I was walking
my little beagle in the riverside fields when I saw Arnie with Bouncer.
As usual, he was playing one of his games and the big dog was leaping
around, chasing a ball under the great willows that overhung the
water.

"He's lost a bit of weight, Arnie," I said, looking at the hollows in
Bouncer's flanks and his prominent ribs.  "Is he all right?"

"Oh, aye, full of beans and eatin' like a horse.  He's fit, that's all.
In full training for the football season.  Come on, lad, do your
Stanley Matthews."

Bouncer capered around with the ball, pushing it this way and that in a
mazy dribble that did indeed make me think of the great man.

"Haven't seen Stan for a bit," Arnie said ruminatively.  "He must be
wondering where I'm hidin' myself."

A month passed before I heard from the old man again.  His voice on the
telephone was strained.  "Wish you'd come and see my dog, Jim, he's
right poorly."

"What's he doing, Arnie?"

"Nowt, really.  Got no life in 'im."

The inseparable pair were in the garden when I called.  I was shocked
at Bouncer's appearance.  He was emaciated, sitting motionless on the
lawn, and he made no attempt to give me his usual greeting.

"My God, Arnie," I said, "why have you let him get to this state?  He
looks awful!"

"Well, I could see he was getting' thinner, but he was eating so well,
eatin' like a horse.  I thought maybe he was just runnin' around too
much.  He's got suddenly worse over the last few days.  I'm not one to
neglect me dog, am I?"

"No, no, of course you're not.  And he's still eating well, you say?"

"Aye, never better, that's what puzzles me."

"And is he drinking a lot?"

"He is--all us at it."

I began to examine Bouncer, but even before I started there wasn't much
doubt in my mind.  Loss of weight, voracious appetite, abnormal thirst,
extreme lethargy.  It could mean only one thing.

"Arnie," I said, "I think he has diabetes."

"Oh, 'ell, is that bad?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is when it has got as far as this.  It can be
fatal."

The big man stared at me, totally shocked.  "Oh, don't tell me that! Is
he goin' to die?"

"I hope not.  There's a lot we can do."

"Can you start right away, Jim?"  He ruffled his hair distractedly.  "I
mustn't lose 'im."

"I will, Arnie, but first I've got to make sure.  I must eliminate one
or two other things like kidney trouble.  First thing tomorrow morning
I want you to get a urine sample from him.  Stick a nice clean
soup-plate under him when he cocks his leg and put it in this bottle,
and bring it straight round with Bouncer to the surgery."

He nodded.  "Right ... I will ... but maybe he's not as bad as all
that."  He lifted a football and rolled it up to the dog.  "Now, lad,"
he cried eagerly, "let's see you do your Tom Finney."

Bouncer did not move.  He touched the ball listlessly with his nose,
then looked up at us with lack-lustre eyes.  His master went over to
him and stroked his head.  "Oh, Bouncer, Bouncer," he whispered.

Next morning I tested the sample.  Positive for glucose.

"Now we know for sure, Arnie.  It is diabetes, so this is what we do.
I'm now giving him this injection of a small amount of insulin and you
must come in every morning bringing Bouncer with a fresh sample which I
will test.  If still positive I will slightly increase the dose of
insulin until he is stabilised, that is, when the urine is negative for
glucose."

"Aye, ah'll come in every day, for as long as it takes ... that is, if
he ... if he stays alive."  The old man's face was a doleful mask.

I nodded.  "If he stays alive, Arnie."

Sometimes in diabetes the first shot of insulin brings a spectacular
improvement, but it wasn't so with Bouncer.  He was too far gone for
that.  For several mornings Arnie brought him round and I looked in
vain for even a hint of better things.  The big dog was a woebegone,
lifeless creature so different from the all-round athlete of former
days.  Arnie, grim and resolute, was there on the dot of nine o'clock,
and after ten days I commiserated with him.

"Arnie, it's tough on you having to do this day after day."

He stuck out his chin.  "I'll come round here on me hands and knees
till kingdom come if it'll save me dog."

It was just around then that I sensed a difference in Bouncer.  He was
still as skinny as ever, still as apathetic, but there was the
suggestion of a gleam in his eyes--they were losing something of their
dead look.  From then on my hopes grew, as the big dog slowly began to
show signs of his old vitality, and after three weeks of the treatment
the daily sample was negative and I had a happy, tail-wagging animal
looking at me as though he was quite ready for a game.

"Arnie," I said, "he's stabilised at last.  He's going to be all right.
But it's over to you, now.  You'll have to give your dog a shot of
insulin every morning for the rest of his life."

"Eh?  Me inject 'im?"  He didn't look very happy about it.

"Yes, you can do that, can't you?  After his morning meal.  It'll soon
be part of your daily programme."

He gave me a doubtful look, but didn't say anything and I supplied him
with all he would require.

Once Bouncer had turned the corner his recovery proceeded at a
galloping pace, and Arnie after a few days brushed aside my doubts
about his ability to carry out the injections.  In fact it transpired
that for some time he had been a sort of personal assistant to an army
surgeon during the Balkans campaign and was very familiar with
hypodermics.

My final happy memory of the diabetes episode was when I looked over
the hedge into Arnie's garden and saw him wrestling with Bouncer on the
grass.

"What are you up to, Arnie?"  I cried.

"Doing a low tackle on Bouncer--teachin' 'im rugby," came the reply.

As autumn stretched into winter, there was considerable excitement in
Darrowby when it was announced that the important men's hockey match
between the rural counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire was to be played
on the local ground.  They were two of the top teams and contained
several international players.  Everybody was looking forward to seeing
these famous men in action and on the Saturday afternoon I got to the
ground in what I hoped would be good time.  However, people were
already standing several deep round the touch-lines--I'd never seen
such a crowd there--and I was wondering where I could find a vantage
spot when I heard a voice calling.

"Hey, Jim, there's a spare seat over here."

It was Arnie, comfortably settled in one of the seats in front of the
clubhouse.

"Are you sure, Arnie?"

"Aye, ah've been keeping it for you.  Sit down."

Well, this was very nice.  The game was just about to start and I had a
perfect view.  I felt something stirring against my trouser leg and saw
that it was Bouncer's nose pushing at me.  He was in his usual place
under his master's seat and he seemed to be telling me that he was in
top form again.

I tickled his ears while I watched the match.  The standard of play was
very high with the four internationals shining above the rest.

Arnie kept up a running commentary.

"There's Pip Chapman, Yorkshire captain and England centre forward--old
pal of mine.  And Greg Holroyd, captain of Lancashire and England
winger--another good old mate, and those two other internationals, Tim
Mowbray and Johnnie Hart--I know 'em all well, known 'em for years."

At half-time as the players gathered in the middle of the pitch, Arnie
was in expansive mood.  "It's nice to see the winter games startin'
again, but I keep thinkin' about that last cricket match of the season
at Scarborough cricket festival.  I was just sittin' there enjoying the
sunshine when Fred Trueman spotted me.  "Arnie," he said, "I've been
looking for you everywhere.""

This last remark attributed to another of cricket's immortals seemed to
amuse a group of young men sitting behind us.  After a few half-stifled
giggles one of them spoke up.

"Fred Trueman, Arnie?  The real Fred Trueman?  Looking for you
everywhere?"  Arnie, grim-faced, nodded slightly with the dignity born
of long practice, and this evoked another outburst of sniggers with
sotto voce repetitions of "looking for you everywhere," a phrase that
seemed to tickle them.

My friend ignored them, rigid in his seat, eyes gazing fixedly ahead,
till another of the youths returned to the attack.  "I hear you've got
some old pals out there on the field, too, Arnie?  Those four top
men--known 'em for years, eh?"  Again Arnie nodded briefly and I felt a
sharp twinge of apprehension.  We were heading into deep water this
time with the tangible evidence of his claims running around in front
of us.  Arnie was sitting on the end seat, right next to the aisle up
which the teams would have to pass to get to the clubhouse; those men
would be within touching distance of him.  They couldn't fail to see
him.

When the final whistle blew and the players began to make their way
towards us, my throat tightened.  Something awful was surely going to
happen and I wished with all my heart that I was somewhere else.

Holroyd, the big, black-moustached Lancastrian, was the first to come
clumping up the steps, face sweating, knees mud-spattered.  He glanced
at Arnie and brushed past him, then, as my stomach began to lurch, he
stopped and took a step back.  There was a pause as he looked down,
then, "It's Arnie Braithwaite!"  he burst out.  "Hello!  How are you,
old chap?"  He began to pump my friend's hand and called out to his
team-mates.  "Hey, Pip, Johnnie, Tim, look who's here.  It's our old
chum!"  There was a jam of players in the aisle as the four men
gathered round Arnie, thumping his back, laughing and shouting. Bouncer
jumped from under the seat, and as dogs like to do, began to add a
joyful barking to the general merriment.

Pip Chapman gazed down at Arnie with warm affection.  "Do you know,
Arnie, we thought you might be here and we've been scanning the
touch-line all through the match.  We've been looking for you
everywhere."

Chapter 27

My clients' opinions of me varied widely, and although there was the
odd one or two who thought I was brilliant, a large majority looked on
me as a steady, reliable vet, while a few regarded me as of strictly
limited ability.  But I really think that only one family nourished the
private conviction that I was not quite right in the head.

They were the Hardwicks, and it was a pity, because they were some of
my favourite people.

This situation was due to a few unfortunate little accidents, and on
this sharp and sunny January morning I had no inkling that I was going
to sow the seeds of my image disintegration that very day.  There had
been just enough snow overnight to turn the world white and I could see
the road to the Hardwick farm threading its way through a glittering
frostiness under a sky of cloudless blue.

It was a long, long road, too, not much more than a rough track,
trailing ever upwards for nearly a mile, disappearing from time to time
behind bluffs or rocky outcrops until it reached the farm, whose faded
red roofs were just visible as I drove up to the first gate.

These farms of many gates were places of dread on busy days, eating up
the precious minutes with nothing to show for all the effort.  But this
morning as I got out of the car, the sun struck warm on my face and the
crisp air tingled in my nostrils, and, pushing back gate one, I looked
around at the wide landscape, silent and peaceful under its white
mantle, and blessed my good fortune.  There were six of these gates,
and I hopped out happily at each one, the snow crackling under my
feet.

Seb and Josh Hardwick were attacking a mountain of turnips in the yard,
forking them up onto a cart that stood in the farmyard.  Despite the
cold, their faces gleamed with sweat as they turned smilingly to me.

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot, grand mornin'."  They were typical Dales
farmers--quiet, polite, even-natured--and I had always got on well with
them.

"How are the calves today?"  I asked.

"Lot better," Seb said.  "And thank 'eavens.  We were a bit worried."

I was relieved, too.  Salmonella is a nasty thing--highly fatal to
young animals and dangerous to humans--and when I had seen the calves a
couple of days ago the whole picture had looked ominous.

I went into the fold yard with the brothers and over to the big pen at
one end where my patients, twenty in all, were standing, and I felt a
glow of satisfaction.  Everything was different.  Two days ago, there
was an air of doom over that pen, with the little creatures, listless
and dejected, hanging their heads as the diarrhoea trickled down their
tails, but now they were brighter and livelier, looking at me with
interest as I leaned over the rails.

Actually I was mentally patting myself on the back, because I felt I
had done rather well.  I could easily have treated this as an ordinary
case of scour, but the high temperatures and a tell-tale soft cough had
alerted me.  The rectal swabs I had taken had confirmed my diagnosis. I
had given them the usual combination of chloramphenicol injections and
furazolidone by the mouth and it was clearly doing the job.

"Well, that's fine," I said, climbing into the pen.  "So far, so good.
I'll repeat the injections and you must carry on with the powders for
another five days and I think all is going to be well.  And don't
forget to wash your hands well every time."

Josh took off his cap and wiped his streaming face.  "That's what we
like to hear, Mr.  Herriot.  It's a good job we got you in right away
or we'd have 'ad some dead 'uns lyin' about."

After the injections Seb waved me towards the house.  "We'll all want a
wash, and it's time for our ten ocs, any road

Later, in the kitchen, as I sipped my tea and bit into a home-made
scone, the two attractive young wives, one dark, the other a blazing
redhead, chatted to me, and, as I sat in the warmth of the fire with a
baby crawling round my feet and two toddlers wrestling happily on the
stone flags, I felt that life was pretty good.  I could have stayed
there all day, but my other work was pressing.  The brothers, too, who
had joined me for the tea, had begun to fidget, no doubt thinking of
all those turnips outside.  It was no good-- I had to go.

In the yard, we made our farewells, the two men lifted their forks and
I put my hand on the car door, but nothing happened.  I tried to turn
the handle, but it wouldn't move.  I went round, trying the other
doors, but the result was the same.  I was locked out.

My little beagle, Dinah, was the culprit.  While I was treating the
calves I had heard her barking at the farm dogs, which was one of her
hobbies, and in the process, as she threw herself at each window, her
paws had pushed down the knobs that locked the doors.

I called to the brothers.  "Look, I'm very sorry, but I can't get into
my car."

"Oh, aye, what's happened?"  They came over and looked inside and
Dinah, tongue lolling, tail lashing delightedly, looked out at them.
Behind her, my keys hung in the ignition switch, just an arm's length
away but maddeningly inaccessible.

I explained the situation and Josh looked at me in surprise.  "You all
us carry that little dog with you, don't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"But you don't take your keys out when ye leave the car?"

"No ... no ... I'm afraid not."

"Funny thing it's never 'appened before, then."

"Well, yes, it is, when you think about it.  And it's a great pity it's
happened way out here."

"How's that?"

"Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to give me a lift home
to get my spare key."

Seb's mouth fell open.  "Back to Darrowby?"

"Afraid so.  Nothing else I can do."  I tried not to think of the ten
miles.

The Hardwicks looked at each other in alarm, then at the vast heap of
turnips and back at me.  I knew what they were thinking.  It wasn't
only the turnips; there were always a thousand jobs to be done on a
farm and I was about to wreck their chances of getting some of them
done this morning.

But, nice fellows that they were, they didn't tell me what a daft
bugger I was.  Seb blew his cheeks out.  "Aye, well, we'd better get
started then."  He turned to his brother.  "I'll 'ave to leave it to
ye, Josh.  When you've shifted them turnips you'd better get on with
the muckin' out.  We can move that lot o' sheep down to t'low garth
this afternoon."

Josh nodded and wordlessly seized his fork again while his brother got
the family car out.  Like a lot of the hill-farmers' vehicles it was
very large and very old.  We rattled down the track and as I opened
each gate I was enveloped in a cloud of acrid fumes from the exhaust.

The road to Darrowby seemed very long and longer still on the way back.
I tried to pass the time with comments on sport, the weather and
farming conditions but for the last half-hour the conversation
languished.  At the farm Seb opened the car door, gave me a hasty wave
and trotted away to find his brother.

Dinah was in transports at my return, jumping all over me, licking at
my face, but, driving away, I had the strong feeling that I wasn't as
popular with the humans I had left behind.

However, when I made my final check on the calves a week later, all
seemed to be forgiven.  I had no doubt been a damn nuisance, but the
Hardwick brothers greeted me smilingly, although there was a bad moment
when I got out of the car and both men shouted, "Hey, get your keys
out!  Don't forget that!"  as I was about to close the door.

Sheepishly, I complied, feeling foolish because ever since the previous
incident I had made a point of doing just that.

I felt a lot better when I saw that the calves were completely
recovered and after washing my hands and drinking the ritual cup of tea
in the kitchen I felt that I could consign the whole silly episode to
the past.

A few days afterwards, Helen met me with a strange message on my return
home.  "I've had a funny phone call from a Mrs.  Hardwick."

"How do you mean, funny?"

"She says you've pinched her husband's spectacles."

"What!"

"That's what she said."

"How ... how?  I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, they've searched high and low for those spectacles and they're
definitely not in the house and the only visitor they've had was you.
She's convinced you've got them."

"I've never heard anything so daft in my life.  What the devil would I
want with them?"

Helen spread her hands.  "I've no idea, but Mr.  Hardwick wants them
badly.  They're his reading glasses and he can't read The Farmer and
Stockbreeder.  He's quite upset.  You'd better have a search."

"This is crazy," I said.  But I went over to my working coat and began
to go through the pockets.  And there, among the little bottles and
scissors and other veterinary odds and ends, was the spectacle case,
lying next to the wallet in which I kept my thermometer and which it
closely resembled.

I looked at it in disbelief.  "My God, it's here, right enough.  I must
have picked it up by mistake after I'd rinsed my thermometer in the
kitchen."

I rang the farm and apologised to Seb.  "Another silly thing I've
done," I said laughingly.  He didn't disagree, but was still polite and
declined my offer to bring the spectacles to him.

"No, it's aw right I'll come down for 'em now."  Clearly, The Farmer
and Stockbreeder was waiting.

I was embarrassed at the thought of his long and needless journey on my
account, and the feeling hadn't left me three days later when I looked
in the appointment book and saw that I had another call to the
Hardwicks' farm.

When I arrived I found the brothers in the cow byre, forking hay into
the racks.  They didn't give me the usual greeting.  In fact, they
seemed surprised to see me.

"I've come to see your lame cow," I announced cheerfully.

They looked at each other expressionlessly, then back at me.

"We haven't no lame cow," Josh said.

"But ... there was a call from you this morning."

Again the blank look between them.

"Well ... there must be some mistake."  I tried a light laugh, which
wasn't reciprocated, and I couldn't help looking along the line of
cows.

Seb raised a hand.  "Honest, Mr.  Herriot.  There's none of 'em lame.
You can examine them if you like."

"No, no, no, of course not.  I ... somebody in the practice has got a
message wrong.  Do you mind if I use your phone?"

Seb led me into the kitchen and as I dialled the surgery it didn't make
me feel any better when I saw him lift his spectacle case from the
table and slip it unobtrusively into his pocket.  When I got through, I
found that I should have gone to the Borthwicks' farm, only half a mile
away.  But what was happening?  Why did I have to keep making a fool of
myself here?

I lifted the ball-point by the side of the phone and wrote the name
down so that I could not make any more mistakes, and turned to the two
young wives.  "I'm terribly sorry, I'm always being such a nuisance to
you."  I was about to leave when one of them held out her hand.  "Could
we have our pen back, Mr.  Herriot?"

Hot-faced, I took it from my pocket and fled.

My embarrassment was acute when I was called back to the farm within a
few days.

When I arrived, Seb was pointing gloomily at a young heifer lying on
the cow-house floor.  "She just can't get up," he said, "and that hind
leg's stuck out, funny-like."

I bent over the animal and flicked her ear.  "Come on, lass, let's see
you try."

She replied by struggling briefly, then subsided onto the cobbles, and
there was no doubt that her right hind leg was the cause of the
trouble.  It seemed to be useless.

I ran my hand up the shaggy limb and when I reached the pelvic region
diagnosis was easy.

"She's got a dislocated hip, Seb," I said.  "There's nothing broken,
but the head of the femur is right out of its socket."

"Are ye sure?"  The farmer looked at me doubtfully.

"Absolutely positive.  Here, feel this prominence.  In fact, you can
just about see it sticking up there."

Seb didn't bother to take his hands out of his pockets.  "Well, ah
don't know.  I thought she'd maybe just strained 'erself.  Maybe you
could give me sum mat to rub on 'er--that might put her right."

"No, I assure you.  There's no doubt in my mind."

"Awright, then, what do we do?"

"Well, we'll have to try to pull the joint back into place.  It's not
easy, but since it has only just happened I'd say there was a good
chance of success."

The farmer sniffed.  "Very well, then.  On ye go."

"I'm sorry," I said, smiling, "but it's quite a big job and I can't do
it by myself.  In fact, you and I can't do it.  We'll need some
help."

"Help?  I haven't got no 'elp.  Josh is right over on the far field."

"Well, I'm really sorry about that, but you'll have to get him back.
And I hate to say it, but we'll also need one of your neighbours to
lend a hand.  And he'd better be a big strong chap, too."

"Bloody 'ell!"  Seb stared at me.  "What's all this for?"

"I know it seems a big fuss to you, but although she's only a young
beast, she's big and strong and in order to get the joint back in place
we have to overcome the muscular resistance.  It needs a right good
pull, I can tell you.  I've done a lot of these jobs and I know."

He nodded.  "Ah, well, I'll go and see if Charlie Lawson can come over.
You'll wait 'ere, then?"

"No, I'll have to go back to the surgery for the chloroform muzzle."

"Chloroform!  What the 'ell next?"

"I told you about the muscular resistance.  We need to put her to sleep
to overcome that."

"Now, look 'ere, Mr.  Herriot."  The farmer lifted a portentous
forefinger.  "Are ye sure we have to go through all this carry-on?
Don't ye think we could just rub sum mat on?  A bit of embrocation,
maybe?"

"I'm sorry, Seb, it's all necessary."

He turned and strode out of the cow house, muttering, while I hurried
across to my car.

On the journey to Darrowby and back, two thoughts were uppermost in my
mind.  This was one of the tricky jobs in veterinary practice but, when
successful, it was spectacular.  A hopelessly lame animal would rise
and walk away, good as new.  And I did feel I badly needed something to
resuscitate my reputation on this farm.

When I returned with the muzzle, Josh and Charlie Lawson were waiting
in the yard with Seb.  "Now, Mr.  Herriot," "Now then, Mr.  Herriot,"
they said, but they looked at me sceptic ally and I could tell that the
other brother had been voicing his doubts.

"It's good of you gentlemen to rally round," I said cheerfully.  "I
hope you're all feeling strong.  It's a tough job, this."

Charlie Lawson grinned and rubbed his hands.  "Aye, we'll do our
best."

"Okay, now."  I looked down at the heifer.  "We'd better move her
nearer the door.  You'll get a stronger pull that way.  Then we'll get
the chloroform muzzle on and rope the leg.  You'll haul away while I
put pressure on the joint.  But first let's roll her over."

As the farmers pushed against the animal's side, I tried to tuck the
lame leg underneath her.  As she rolled over, there was a loud click,
and after a rapid look around her she rose to her feet and walked out
through the door.

The four of us watched her as she ambled across the yard and through a
gate into the field.  She was perfectly sound.  Not the slightest trace
of lameness.

"Well, I've never seen that happen before," I gasped.  "The rolling
movement and the pressure on the joint must have clicked it back. Would
you believe it!"

The three farmers gave me a level stare.  It was clear that they didn't
believe it.

Retreating to my car, I heard Seb confiding to the other two.  "Might
as well have rubbed sum mat on it."  And as I drove away past the
heifer grazing contentedly on the green hillside, Siegfried's words at
the beginning of our partnership came back to me.  "Our profession
offers unparalleled opportunities for making a chump of yourself."

How true that was.  How true it would always be.  But why, why, why did
it have to happen this time at the Hardwicks'?

I couldn't believe it when I saw the Hardwick name on the book for
another visit less than a week afterwards.

"Siegfried," I said, "I wish you'd go there.  There's a jinx on me at
that place."

He looked at me in surprise.  "But it's one of your favourite spots.
And they always ask for you personally."

"Oh, I know, but I've got a feeling of doom at the moment."  I told him
about my recent experiences.

"Nonsense, James!"  He made a dismissive gesture.  "You're imagining
things.  These are tiny happenings."  He sat back in his chair and
laughed.  "Amusing, I grant you, but of no importance.  The Hardwicks
are a grand family--they won't have given a thought to such details."

"I'm not so sure.  I know they're good people, but I'm convinced they
think I've got a screw loose.  A touch of kleptomania for a start."

He laughed again.  "Oh, what rubbish!  Off you go.  It's only a sick
pig.  Nothing can go wrong this time."

It was possibly my imagination, but I thought the brothers looked a
little apprehensive as I got out of the car at the farm.  The pig in
question was a sow with a family of a dozen piglets squealing around
her.  She was lying in a dark corner of the fold yard, and the gloom
was such that I could hardly see the animal, but I was used to this and
had always done a lot of my work by touch and feel.

I climbed into the pen where the sow could only be seen as a dim bulk.
I got out my thermometer and groped my way towards her rear end.

"Hasn't eaten today, you say?"

"Nay, not a thing," replied Josh.  "And she hasn't moved from that
spot.  The little pigs look hungry, too--they don't seem to be getting'
much milk."

"Yes ... yes ... yes ... I see ..."  I was fumbling desperately to find
the anus to insert my thermometer, but I just couldn't locate it.  It
was as black as pitch down there, but I had found many a pig's anus in
the dark.  I couldn't make it out.  I could feel the tail and if I slid
my hand down there the thermometer would pop into the anus, but it
didn't and when I found something lower down it was the vagina.  The
solution burst on me like a great light.

"This pig's got no backside!"  I cried.  For a moment it seemed like a
triumphant scientific discovery to be shared with the world, and I
beamed up at the brothers.

They were looking down at me in tight-lipped silence.  Seb spoke with a
touch of weariness in his voice.  "No what?"  I realised suddenly that
I was in the wrong place for such discoveries.  Stop smiling.  Speak
soberly.  From my crouched position I said, "No backside, no anus.  A
very rare condition.  Quite fascinating.  Common enough in little pigs,
but I've never seen it in an adult animal."

"Oh, aye," said Josh.  "And if she 'asn't got no backside, where does
all that muck come from?  I 'ave to shovel a hell of a lot out of 'ere
every morning."

My eagerness flared again.  "The faeces are coming through the vagina!
That's what happens in this condition."

"And she's been doin' that for all them years?"

"Yes, really she has.  Look, bring me a torch and I'll show you."

The brothers exchanged another look.  "It's aw right we believe you."
It was very obvious that they didn't.

I launched into further explanation, but I realised I was beginning to
gabble and I desisted.  In any case, on resting my hand on the sow's
belly I could feel her udder, inflamed and lumpy.

"Anyway, I don't need to take her temperature, she's got mastitis.  Her
udder's very hot and swollen.  I'll give her a shot of antibiotic and
I'm sure she'll be okay."  I was trying to be brisk and business-like,
but I wasn't impressing anybody.

Josh spoke again.  "So you don't 'ave to take the temperature?"

"That's right, there's no need."

"Of course, there's no need," he said, and they both nodded.  "Don't
you worry, Mr.  Herriot.  It doesn't matter."

I felt my toes curling.  They were trying to humour me.  That was the
worst part.

Mechanically, I gave the sow her antibiotic injection, hurried through
my hand-washing and declined a cup of tea.

As I drove away, Seb and Josh, side by side on the cobbles of the yard,
raised their hands gravely in farewell and I saw the young women
watching from the kitchen window.  I could read their thoughts.

Poor old Herriot.  Not a bad chap, really.  It was so sad to see him
losing his mind like this.

Chapter 28

As I passed my stethoscope over the old dog's ribs I wondered how much
longer he could last.

"Don's heart isn't any better," I said to old Mr.  Chandler, who sat
hunched in the armchair by the kitchen fire.

I was doing my best to avoid being gloomy.  The heart was definitely
worse, in fact I couldn't remember when I had listened to such a heart.
It wasn't just the ordinary murmur of valvular incompetence, it was a
swishing, squirting cacophony, filling me with amazement that the
life-giving blood could possibly be driven round the organs of the old
dog's body.

Don was fourteen, a shaggy collie cross, and with the heart weakness
there was the inevitable chronic bronchitis adding its own bubblings
and gurglings to the symphony within the chest.

"Aye, maybe so."  Mr.  Chandler leaned forward in his chair.  "But he's
not so bad in other ways.  Eats right well, 'e does."

I nodded.  "Oh yes, he's happy enough, there's no doubt about that."  I
patted the old dog's head as he lay on the fireside rug and the tail
thumped vigorously as though to prove my words.  "He's not in any pain
and still enjoying life."

"If only it wasn't for that danged cough."  His master grunted.  "He's
all us got it and it was worse than ever today.  That's why I called ye
out."

"Ah, well, he'll never get rid of that now, but I can help him when it
gets really bad.  I'll give him a shot now and leave some tablets for
him."

After the injection I counted out a supply of the faithful oxytets.

"Thank ye, Mr.  Herriot."  The old man took the packet and placed it on
the mantelpiece.  "And really, what do you think his chances are?"

"It's very difficult to say, Mr.  Chandler."  I hesitated.  "I've seen
dogs with bad hearts go on for years, but then--you never know.
Anything could happen any time."

"Aye ... aye ... I understand.  I'll hope for the best.  But it's a bit
depressin' when you're an awd widower like me."  He scratched his head
and smiled ruefully.  "I've 'ad a rotten night.  The television's good
company but even that's not workin'."  He pointed to the blank screen
in the corner of the room.  "It started goin' funny at tea-time.  I've
twiddled all the flippin' knobs, but it's no good.  Do you know
anythin' about these things?"

"Afraid not, Mr.  Chandler, I've only just bought a set myself."
Television was a new wonder in the early fifties and an impenetrable
miracle to a non-mechanical mind like mine.  However, I went over and
switched on the set.  I began to play with the various dials and knobs,
pushing in wires, flicking switches off and on.

I heard a sudden cry from the old man.  "Hey, it's back!  The picture's
back again!"

I stared unbelievingly at the screen.  Sure enough, there was a posse
thundering over the Texan plain.  Somehow, I had done the trick.

"Eee, that's champion, Mr.  Herriot!"  The old man's face was
transfigured.  "That's really cheered me up."

I felt an unaccustomed flush of triumph.  "Well, I'm glad I was able to
help."  But I didn't feel so cheerful as I looked at the dog stretched
out on the rug.

"You'll let me know if he gets any worse," I said, and as I left the
cottage I had a nasty feeling that I'd soon be hearing bad news from
Mr.  Chandler.  It would be the end of something, because I had become
attached to old Don, one of my good-natured patients, a friendly
tail-wagger I had treated for years.

I didn't have long to wait.  It was seven o'clock in the evening, three
days later, when the phone rang.

"It's Chandler 'ere, Mr.  Herriot."

The voice was strained and anxious, and I steeled myself for what was
coming next.

"I don't want to bother ye, Mr.  Herriot, but I wonder if ye'd slip out
to my place?"

"Yes, of course, Mr.  Chandler, I'll come straight away.  I can hear
how distressed you are."

"Aye, it's a terrible thing but I know you can fix it."

I remembered the sounds that had come through my stethoscope, and felt
I had to be honest.  "Mr.  Chandler, fourteen years is a long time. The
old valves do wear out, you know."

"Fourteen?  Dang thing's nob but two!"

"Two?"  Was the old man going soft?  "Don?  Two?"

"Don?  Ah didn't say Don.  Tjawd dog's fine since the tablets.  It's
that flippin' TV, gone off again.  Do ye think ye could come and put it
right for me?"

Chapter 29

Farmer Whitehead rubbed his chin doubtfully.

"I don't really know what to make of this feller," he said.  "He
doesn't seem like a farm man, in fact he says he used to be a
schoolteacher, but you can tell he knows something about stock keeping
Anyway, I'm givin' him a trial.  It's a heck of a business finding men
who'll work up here in this isolated spot, and I can't be too choosy.
Let me know what you think about him."

I nodded.  "Right, I will.  Married man, is he?"

"Not half!"  The farmer laughed.  "Seven kids, too."

"Seven!  That's quite a family."

"Aye, it is.  And I suppose it's one reason why I took him on.  He
seemed desperate for a place to live and we've got a good big cottage
here.  I felt a bit sorry for the chap."  He paused and looked
thoughtfully across the yard.  "As I said, he's out of the ordinary."

I was walking away when he called after me.  "By the way, his name's
Basil Courtenay.  That's a bit different, too, isn't it?"

In the cow house, I studied Basil with interest.  Somewhere in the
mid-thirties, I thought.  Very slim, dark, almost Spanish looking.  He
greeted me with a wide grin.  "Now then, vitnery, it's nob but cold
today.  It 'ud freeze your lugs off out in them fields."

"You're right," I replied.  "It's really nippy."  I scrutinised him
afresh.  He didn't sound like a schoolteacher.  But there was a jaunty
cheerfulness about him, a friendliness in the dark eyes.  I liked
him.

The cow was lame in the off hind foot, and as I bent down and put a
finger between the cleats, she aimed a warning kick at me.

"Just hold her head, will you please," I said.

Basil inclined his head graciously, gave a slight bow and moved into
the stall.  But he didn't grab a horn and put his fingers in the nose
as was usual.  He wound his arms round the neck and hugged the head
tightly to his chest.  I had never seen it done that way, but it seemed
to have the desired effect and the cow stood quietly as I lifted the
foot.

By tapping the sole with the handle of my hoof knife I found a tender
area.

"There's a little abscess in there," I said.  "I'll have to pare it
out.  It would be best to pull her leg up over that beam to do it.  Can
you fetch me a piece of rope, please?"

Again the little inclination of the head, the bow, and he went down the
byre with long, graceful steps.  When he returned he proffered the rope
graciously, bending from the hips rather like a high-class tailor
displaying his wares.

I tied it round the foot, threw the other end over the beam, and with
Basil pulling cheerfully I began to pare the sole.

"I hear you've done a bit of teaching," I said, as I scraped away at
the hard tissue.

"Oh, aye, I 'ave.  Ah've done a good bit o' that in me time, ah can
tell ye."

"Really.  What subjects did you teach?"

"Well now, a bit o' this and a bit o' that.  There's nowt ah couldn't
turn me 'and to, that knows."

"I see.  And where did you teach?  Which schools?"

"Oh, 'ere and there, 'ere and there.  Ah got around a bit, like." Basil
shook his head and smiled as though the words raised happy memories.

As I worked on the foot he chattered away, and without being at all
specific, he suggested that he had also taught in universities.

"You actually lectured?"

"Oh, aye, ah did, ah did."

A feeling of unreality was beginning to envelop me, but I had to ask.

"Which universities?"

"Well ... 'ere and there, 'ere and there."

The conversation was brought to a close by a trickle of pus appearing
under my knife, a happy outcome to my paring.

"There it goes," I said.  "She'll be fine now.  I'll give her a shot
and she ought to be sound in a day or two.  But I'll want some hot
water to wash my hands."

Basil made an expansive gesture.  "Ye can come into t'house and 'ave a
proper wash."

I followed him to the cottage next to the farm buildings and he threw
open the door before ushering me ceremoniously inside.

A table ran down one side of the big kitchen and the entire family were
at their Saturday dinner.  Mrs.  Courtenay, very fat, blonde and
smiling, presided over an array of healthy-looking children who were
attacking the heaped plates with relish.  In the centre of the floor a
sturdy infant was seated on a chamber-pot from whose interior a series
of explosive poppings and splutterings accompanied the child's
expulsive efforts.

Basil waved a hand over the domestic scene.  "This is ma wife and
family, Mr.  'erriot, and we're all right glad to meet ye."

He did not exaggerate.  There was an outburst of eager smiles and nods
from the children as their father looked on proudly.  A happy family
indeed.

Basil led me to the kitchen sink, which was filled to overflowing with
the unwashed debris of several meals.  In fact it was difficult to get
my hands under the tap until Basil cleared a small space for me,
pushing greasy pans and dishes to one side, daintily picking pieces of
congealed bacon and sausage from around the soap-dish.

As I washed, the toddler on the floor decided to vacate his seat on the
chamber-pot.  Basil went over, lifted the vessel and surveyed the
interior with satisfaction.  Then he strode to the coke-burning cooker
against the wall, lifted the lid and hurled the contents of the pot
into the depths.  And even this movement was performed with a graceful
sweep of the arm.

Mrs.  Courtenay half rose from her seat.  "You'll 'ave a cup o' tea,
Mr.  'erriot?"

"No ... erno, thank you.  I have a couple of visits waiting and I must
get on.  But thank you again, and it's been nice meeting you."

I had to visit the farm several times over the next few months and
Basil seemed to be coping reasonably well with his job.  But I always
had the feeling that he was doing things differently from other
stock-men I had known; his way of handling the animals was unusual, in
fact his whole approach had something strange about it.  On one
occasion, in order to get a halter on a loose heifer he hung upside
down from a beam--it was as though he had a smattering of the whole
business but not a lot of experience.

During my visits, Basil was always full of chat and his conversation
was interspersed with shadowy references to his amazingly varied past.
Little snippets emerged of his involvement in the acting world, in
architecture and many other things.  It seemed, too, that at one time
he had taught ballroom dancing.  But all attempts to pin him down never
got beyond the usual response of "'ere and there."

I also saw Basil a few times in Darrowby.  He wasn't a big drinker but
he liked to visit one of the local pubs on a Saturday evening, and when
I first saw him there I was struck again by his distinctive behaviour.
He was at a big table with a bunch of grinning farm men sitting behind
tall pint glasses, but Basil wasn't drinking beer.  He was lying back
in his chair, legs outstretched, and he was holding a glass of wine,
cupped in his palm, the stem protruding beneath his fingers.  I had
seen people in films--foreign noblemen and the like--holding
wineglasses in this way, but never anybody in a Yorkshire pub.

As always, he presented a picture of elegance and grace.  Almost
reclining in his seat, he was holding forth to his audience, waving a
debonair hand to emphasize his points, sipping occasionally at his
wine.  And it was clear that the farm men were lapping it all up.  The
outbursts of laughter, the delighted nods, the expressions of amazement
all testified to their enthralment in Basil's recital.

He soon became a celebrity among these men and I gathered that,
although he was an object of mystery to them, the facet that had most
intrigued them was his vague allusions to his university experiences.
They christened him "Professor Baz" and as such he was known throughout
the agricultural community.  The usual "'ere and there" was all anybody
could elicit, but, though various theories about him were bandied
around, one thing was universal--everybody seemed to like him.

During the month of March I began to see quite a lot of Basil.  It is
the time of year when the health of livestock is at its lowest ebb. The
animals have been confined to the buildings through the long winter and
their resistance to disease has worn very thin.  Calves especially are
vulnerable at this time and the ones under Basil's care had been struck
down by the dreaded scour--the highly fatal diarrhoea that has been one
of the curses of calf rearing for generations, always lurking, always
ready to strike.  Any faults in feeding or environment bring trouble.

Fortunately, modern advances have put vastly improved weapons in the
hands of the vets, and at that time I was having good results with a
granular mixture of antibiotics and sulphon amides but I wasn't doing
very well with these calves.

There were sixteen of them in a long row of pens and I looked at them
with growing apprehension.  They were miserable and depressed, many
with whitish liquid faeces trickling down their tails, some prostrate
in the straw.

"Basil," I said, "are you sure you're getting the right dose into
them?"

"Oh, aye, Mr.  'erriot.  Just exackly wot you said."

"And you're giving it to them last thing at night and first thing in
the morning?  That's important."

"Definitely.  You don't 'ave to worry about that."

I dug my hands deeper into my pockets.  "Well, I don't understand it.
They're not responding.  And the next thing's going to be pneumonia.  I
don't like the look of them at all."

I administered vitamin injections to back up the medication and left,
but I had a nasty feeling that something very unpleasant was just round
the corner.

It had been bitterly cold all day and the wind had that piercing
quality that usually precedes snow.  I wasn't surprised when, around
eight o'clock, the big white flakes began to drift down and within an
hour the countryside was blanketed in white.  The snow stopped then and
I was grateful, because a heavy fall made it almost impossible to reach
some of the high farms.  A shovel was essential equipment.

I was relieved that there had been no more snow next morning when I had
a call at 7:00 A.m. to a calving at a remote small holding at the top
of the dale.  I had finished the job by nine o'clock and as I drove
home, warm with the satisfaction that the delivery of a live calf has
always given me, I marvelled at the new world around me.  It was always
beautiful up there, but the snow had made a magical change, adding a
white stillness and peace.

I was looking at the delicate roadside drifts the wind had shaped so
exquisitely in the night when I saw the gate to Mr.  Whitehead's farm.
It was a good chance to check on those calves and I turned my car along
the lane.

All was quiet when I reached the buildings and the first thing I
noticed was that between Basil's cottage and the calf house stretched a
long expanse of unbroken snow.

I knocked at the door and Basil answered, as cheerful and full of
bounce as ever.

"Come in, Mr.  'erriot!  How ista this mornin'?  Missus is upstairs
makin' the beds.  Ah'll shouter down and she'll get ye a cup o' tea."

"No thanks," I replied.  "I just dropped in to see those calves.  How
are they this morning?"

"Oh, about that' same ah reckon."

"And you've given them the granules?"

"Oh, aye, I 'ave.  Gave 'em before breakfast."

I beckoned him to the kitchen window.  "Come over here, Basil."

Together we looked out and he stood very still as he gazed at the
carpet of virgin snow.

"You've never been out there at all, have you?"  I said.  "And you
weren't out last night, either.  That snow stopped at nine o'clock and
you were to dose them just before bedtime."

He didn't say anything, but his head turned slowly towards me, and it
was as though a mask had been stripped from his face.  The jaunty smile
had gone, leaving a terrible defenceless ness  He looked at me with
haunted eyes.

The transformation was so dramatic that my first anger dissolved.  We
stared at each other in silence for a few moments, then I spoke
slowly.

"Now look, Basil, I'm not going to tell your boss about this, but
you've let me down badly.  Will you promise me you'll do your job
properly in the future?"

He nodded dumbly.

"Right," I said.  "Let's get over to the calves now."

He sat down and began to pull on his welling tons then he looked up at
me with a haggard expression.

"Ah tell ye, Mr.  'erriot, ah don't mean no harm.  Ah don't want to
neglect them calves, but it's like me heart's not in the job.  Ahim not
a proper farm man--never will be."

I didn't say anything and he went on.

"Ah've spoken to t'boss about it and ah'll be leavin' soon."

"Have you got another job to go to?"

"Aye ... aye ... ah've got sum mat in mind.  But till ah go, you don't
'ave to worry.  Ah'll look after them calves."

He did, too.  From that day the little creatures began to improve and
on my final visit there was the warming sight of all sixteen of them,
frisky and upright in their pens, poking their heads out into the
passage as they looked for their food.

Shortly after this, Basil left the district, but the reputation of
"Professor Baz" lingered on, and his departure was bemoaned among the
farming community.  One cowman expressed the general sentiment to me.

"By gaw, he was a rum feller," he said, "but we 'ad some fun with 'im.
You couldn't help liking 'im."

I nodded.  "Yes, that's how I feel.  I wonder where he's gone."

The man laughed.  "Nobody knows, but I expect it'll be "'ere and
there.""

I thought I had seen the last of Basil, but I was wrong.  One night,
Helen and I drove through to Brawton to celebrate her birthday.  We had
booked for dinner at one of the fine hotels in the town and the festive
feeling was strong in us as we sat in the pillared splendour of the
dining room, lapped around by the Victorian opulence that is one of
Brawton's lasting charms.

It was a special treat for us and we enjoyed every bite of the meal,
but as we sat over our coffee I noticed Helen staring intently across
the vast room.

"That waiter, Jim, working right at the far end.  You've had your back
to him, but ..."

I turned and looked.  "My God!"  I said.  "It's Basil!"

I shifted my seat so that I could observe properly and there was no
doubt.  Basil it was.  He was unbelievably elegant in white tie and
tails and as he bent to serve an elderly couple it struck me forcibly
that with his dark good looks, his courtly manner and his natural grace
he was everything that a waiter should be.

I watched, spellbound.  He was turning to the lady now, proffering
vegetables with that inclination of the head I knew so well, smiling
and bowing as she made her choice.  He was talking, too, and I could
imagine the effortless flow that had entertained me so often in the cow
house.  The old couple were nodding and laughing, clearly captivated by
him.  I wondered what he was telling them.  Was it about his colourful
past?  It looked very like it.

The coffee in my cup turned cold as I sat there.  The more I watched
him the more convinced I was that Basil had found his niche at last.
The graceful way in which he glided among the tables, balancing plates
along his arm as though he had been doing it all his life, his happy
relaxation, his obvious delight in dealing with his guests, this was
really him.  I found myself hoping, quite fervently, that there would
be no further convolutions in the career of Professor Baz.

"Are you going to speak to him?"  Helen asked.

I hesitated.  "No ... no ... better not."

As we left we passed within a few feet of the table where he was again
attending the white-haired couple.  They were all laughing, and the old
gentleman raised a hand.

"By the way," he asked, "where was it that you were doing this?"

"Oh, 'ere and there," Basil replied, "'ere and there."

Chapter 30

Calum gave me a friendly dig in the ribs.  "I wish you'd come with me
to watch the deer one morning, Jim.  I keep asking you, but I can never
pin you down."

We were sitting over a couple of pints in a cosy corner of the
Drovers', and it was comparatively peaceful now that the regulars had
become accustomed to the badger.  At first, going for a beer with Calum
almost caused a riot, because he always insisted on slinging Marilyn
over his shoulder first and the entire population of the bar would
converge on us, but the situation had settled down to amused glances
and cheerful greetings.  The "vet wit' badger as the farmers called
him, was part of the local scenery now.

I took a pull at my glass.  "Oh, I will, Calum, I will.  I promise
you."

"That's what you always say.  Why not tomorrow?"  He trained his
dark-eyed stare on me and I felt trapped.

"Oh, I don't know.  There's a lot doing tomorrow."

"No, there isn't really.  Doug Heseltine cancelled his tuberculin test,
and it's left a big gap in the morning.  It's an ideal chance."

I didn't know what to say.  Part of me wanted a glimpse of Calum's
world of nature-he spent all his spare time roaming the countryside,
studying the plants and flowers, observing the habits of the wild
creatures--but I felt woefully ignorant by comparison.  I had grown up
in the big city of Glasgow and though I had fallen in love with the
Yorkshire countryside I knew that a deep knowledge of flora and fauna
was something best acquired in childhood.  Siegfried had it, both my
children had it and were always trying to educate me, but I knew I'd
never be an expert.  Certainly not like Calum.  He was steeped in the
things of the wild.  It was his consuming passion.

"Tomorrow, eh?"  As the level of my glass went down, my doubts began to
evaporate.  "Well, maybe I could make it."

"Great, great."  My colleague ordered two more pints.  "We'll go up to
Steadforth woods.  I've built a hide there."

"Steadforth woods?  Surely there aren't any deer in there."

Calum gave me a secret smile.  "Oh yes, there are--lots of them."

"Well, it's a funny thing.  I've passed them a thousand times.  I've
walked my dogs through them, but I've never seen a trace of a deer."

"You'll see some tomorrow.  Just you wait."

"Okay.  When do we start?"

He rubbed his hands.  "I'll pick you up at three o'clock."

"Three o'clock!  As early as that?"

"Oh yes, we've got to be up there before daybreak."

As I finished my second pint the whole thing seemed pleasantly
attractive.  Up and away before the dawn to plumb the secrets of the
woods.  I couldn't understand my previous misgivings.

I felt different next morning when the alarm blasted in my ear at 2:45
A.m. Years of being jerked from slumber in the small hours had bred in
me a fierce love of my bed, and here I was deliberately quitting the
warm nest to drive out into the cold darkness and sit in a wood just
for fun.  I must be mad.

When I met Calum it was clear he didn't share my feelings.  He was
bubbling with enthusiasm and he laughed as he thumped me on the
shoulder.  "You're going to love this, Jim.  I've really been looking
forward to doing this with you."

I shivered as I got into his car.  It was bitterly cold and the front
street was like a pitch-black well.  I huddled in the seat and Calum
drove away, whistling.

He kept up a bright chatter on the way and it was easy to see that this
was him in his natural element, roaming the countryside while the world
was asleep, but after we had covered a few miles I knew something was
wrong.

"Hey," I said.  "This isn't the way to Steadforth woods; we should have
taken a left turn back there."

He turned to me with a smile.  "We're going another way.  My hide is at
the far end of the woods, a long way from the main road.  We get to it
from Fred Welburn's farm."

"Fred Welburn's!  My God, we'll have to walk about two miles!"

"Don't worry.  I've arranged transport."

"Transport ...?  What are you talking about?"

Calum giggled.  "You'll see."

We left the car near the farm, which was perched on high ground from
which the field stretched away down a steep slope to a stream before
rising again towards the edge of the distant woods.  It was still dark
and I knew this only from memory.  Bewildered, I wondered about the
transport.

Calum reached into the back of the car and produced a bucket of corn.

I stared at him.  "What's that for?"

"It's for the horses."

"Horses?"

"Yes.  I'm going to tempt those two horses over to us so that we can
ride them down into the woods."

"What!  You never said anything about that!"  I burst out.

He smiled reassuringly.  "Oh, it's all right.  It'll make everything
much easier."  He rattled his bucket and my mouth fell open as two
enormous Shires came trotting out of the gloom, their great hooves
thudding on the grass.

"This is crazy!"  I stared in disbelief at the animals.  I was no
equestrian, especially when it came to barebacked cart-horses.  "We
can't ride those bloody things!  And what about Fred Welburn?  What's
he going to say?"

"All taken care of.  I've got permission from Fred to use them whenever
I want them.  Come on, now, I'll give you a leg up."

I was still protesting when he hoisted me onto the nearest animal and
scrambled onto the other.  He dug in his heels, gave a joyous whoop,
and before I knew what was happening we were thundering down the grassy
slope.

"Hang on," cried Calum.  "There's a beck at the foot of the hill."

He didn't have to tell me.  I was hanging on as never before, gripping
the mane tightly, eyes popping, absolutely certain that, within
seconds, I would be cast from the great smooth back into the outer
darkness.  But somehow I kept my seat as our mounts leaped the stream
like steeple chasers then we were off again, galloping up the hill on
the other side.

We were going at a terrifying pace, but it didn't seem to be fast
enough for Calum, who kept yelling encouragement at his steed.  Dimly
ahead, I saw him hurtling through a narrow gateway and I suffered a
moment's panic at the certain thought that my fat animal would never
get through that opening.  I was partly right because the gate post
caught my knee such a fearful whack that I thought my leg had been torn
off.

We made a hectic traverse of another long field, then my colleague
pulled up and dismounted.

"My, that was great!"  he breathed as I slithered, groaning, onto the
grass.  "But you're lame--what's wrong?"

"Cracked my knee on the gate back there," I grunted as I hobbled
around, rubbing the painful joint.

"Oh, sorry about that, but it saved us a long walk.  We're right up to
the woods now."

We climbed a fence and he led me among the dark trunks to his hide,
which he had built near a clearing.  In the first pale light I could
see that it was a well-hidden place, carefully constructed of branches
of larch and spruce and tufts of grass.

"Sit here," whispered my colleague.  He was clearly in a state of high
excitement, his eyes wide, a half smile on his face.

We hadn't long to wait.  As the dawn light filtered through the
branches, there was a rustling and a sound of movement among the trees,
then, one by one, the deer began to appear in the clearing.  Through
all the years, I had never seen a deer in these woods but they were
there in profusion; gentle does and majestic, antlered stags pacing
around, cropping the grass.  It was a scene of indescribable peace and
beauty, and with the feeling that I was a privileged observer I sat
there enthralled, all my discomforts forgotten.  There was a badger
sett nearby and Calum pointed in delight as his favourite animals came
out to play with their young.

Afterwards we walked through the scented silence of the woods, the pine
needles soft under our feet, and he talked, not only about the deer,
but about the other wild creatures of the forest and about the plants
and flowers that flourished in those secret places.  He seemed to know
it all and I began to understand the depths of the interest that
coloured his entire life.  He held the key to a magic world.

As we reached the field the sun came out and, looking back, I could see
long drifts of bluebells among the dark boles of the trees, and in the
glades, where the first rays struck through the branches, primroses and
anemones shone like scattered jewels.

By the time we had ridden back up the hill-slowly and gently at my
request--and had limped to the car, my knee had stiffened up and I
groaned as I dragged my leg inside.

"Oh, bad luck about your knee."  Calum gave me a sympathetic smile,
then his expression changed.  "But never mind, I've got a surprise for
you."

I could feel my eyes narrowing to slits as I looked at him.  "What kind
of surprise?"

He grinned widely.  "I want you to come to dinner with me."

"Dinner?  Where?"

"In my flat.  You know Helen's going to a meeting tonight and she was
to leave you something to eat.  Well, I've arranged it with her.  I'm
going to give you a meal.  We're having roast duck."

"Duck!  Who's cooking it?"

"I am.  It will be plucked and roasted by my own fair hand."

My head began to swim a little.  I knew he kept ducks at the bottom of
the garden--an activity Siegfried regarded with a jaundiced eye as
being part of a "menagerie"--but all this, coming from a man who had no
interest in food and, in fact, seemed to eat only on rare occasions,
was difficult to take in.  But I was sure he was trying to be kind.

"Well, Calum ... it's very good of you ... what time do you want me?"

"Eight o'clock on the dot."

At the appointed time I climbed the stair to the flat and received an
effusive welcome.  Calum sat me down with a drink and as he went
through to the kitchen I looked round the little sitting room.  It was
exactly as when he walked in that first day.  Other occupants had added
or altered things according to their taste but Calum had not the
slightest interest in carpets, curtains or furniture.  The table was
bare except for two sets of knives and forks and salt and pepper.

He was soon back again, banging down a plate for each of us, then a
delicious aroma drifted in from the kitchen as he opened the oven
door.

"Here we are, Jim!"  he cried triumphantly as he carried in a roasting
tin containing two ducks.  He speared one bird with a fork and clumped
it on my plate, then took the other for himself.

I was waiting for the vegetables and other trimmings, but Calum dropped
into his chair and waved a fork at me.  "Wade in, Jim, I do hope you'll
enjoy it."

I looked down at my plate.  Well, this was dinner with Calum.  A duck
apiece with no adornment.  He was eating busily and I started on my
bird, but I was slowed down by the fact that my colleague had left
quite a lot of feathers on and I had to pick my way gingerly among the
quills and crisped-up plumage.

Nothing seemed to deter Calum, however, and he ate rapidly, then sat
back with a sigh of deep contentment.  I was surprised at his speed,
then it occurred to me that he probably hadn't bothered to take any
nourishment for the last twenty-four hours or so.

We didn't have dessert or coffee or anything of the sort and it wasn't
long before he was ushering me out.

Around ten o'clock Helen came back from her meeting.  "Well, how was
your day with Calum?"  she asked as she took off her coat.

I rubbed my knee.  Somehow it wasn't an easy question to answer.  "I
enjoyed it.  It was fun ... exciting ... quite fascinating ..."  I was
casting around for the word.... "It was different!"

She laughed.  "You've just about described Calum."

"That's it," I said, laughing too.  "It was a Calum day."

Chapter 31

"That was old William Hawley," Siegfried said as he put down the phone.
"Sounded a bit agitated.  One of his calves is laid out unconscious,
thinks it may be dying, and he hasn't many of them, poor old lad. We'll
have to get there quick."

I looked up from the day-book.  "But we've got to take those tumours
off Colonel Foulter's horse at ten o'clock this morning."

"Yes, I know, but we can drop in at Hawley's place on the way.  It's in
the same direction."

It was a familiar situation as we drove off together.  Siegfried
eagerly anticipating one of his equine operations, myself, his
anaesthetist, by his side and our enamel tray with all the freshly
sterilised instruments rattling behind us in the back.  It was a fine
morning, which was good, because the open fields were our operating
table.

After three miles we struck off down a narrow side road and soon we
could see the Hawley farmhouse, not much bigger than the grey stone
barns that dotted the wide green miles of the fell above.  To me, those
barns, squat and sturdy, and the pattern the endless stone walls traced
on the high pastures were at the very heart of the Dales scene.  As I
looked from the car, I thought as I always did that there was nowhere
else in the world quite like this.

The farmer, white hair straggling from under a tattered cap, watched
anxiously as Siegfried bent over the prostrate calf in a pen in the
corner of the cow house.

"What do ye make of it, Mr.  Farnon?"  he asked.  "I've never seen owl
like it."

The appeal in his eyes was mingled with a deep faith.  Siegfried was
his hero, a wonder worker, the man who had brought off miracle cures
for years, before I had even come to Darrowby.  William Hawley was one
of a breed of simple, unsophisticated farmers who still survived in the
fifties but who have long since melted away under the glare of science
and education.

Siegfried spoke gravely.  "Very strange indeed.  No scour, no
pneumonia, yet the little thing's flat out like this."

Carefully and methodically he went over the little body with his
stethoscope, auscultating heart, lungs and abdomen.  He took the
temperature, opened the mouth and peered at the tongue and throat,
examined the eyes and ran his hand over the roan hairs of the coat.
Then slowly he straightened up.  His face was expressionless as he
looked down at the motionless form.

Suddenly he turned to the old man.

"William," he said.  "Would you be so kind as to fetch me a piece of
string?"

"Eh?"

"A piece of string, please."

"String?"

"Yes, about this length."  Siegfried spread his arms wide.  "And
quickly, please."

"Right, right ... I'll get ye some.  Now where can I lay me hands on a
bit that length?"  Flustered, he turned to me.  "Can ye come and give
me a hand, Mr.  Herriot?"

"Certainly."  I followed him as he hurried from the cow house.  Outside
he clutched at my arm.  It was clear he had only asked me to come with
him to enlighten him.

"What does 'e want a piece of string for?"  he asked in baffled
anticipation.

I shrugged.  "I really have no idea, Mr.  Hawley."

He nodded gleefully as though that was only what he expected.  An
ordinary vet couldn't possibly know what was in the mind of Mr. Farnon,
a man of legendary skill who was known to employ many strange things in
the practice of his art--puffs of purple smoke to cure lame horses,
making holes in jugular veins and drawing off buckets of blood to cure
laminitis.  Old William had heard all the stories and he was in no
doubt that if anybody could restore his animal to health by means of a
piece of string, it would be Mr.  Farnon.

But the maddening thing was that as we trotted round the buildings he
couldn't find such a thing.

"Dang it," he said.  "There's all us a coil of binder twine hangin'
there, but it isn't there now!  And I'm all us trippin' ower bits o'
string all ower t'place, but not today.  What'll he think of a farmer
wino string?"

In a growing panic he rushed around and he was almost in tears when he
saw a piece lying across a heap of sacks.  "How about this, Mr.
Herriot?  Is it t'right length?"

"Just about right, I'd say."

He grabbed it and ran as fast as his elderly limbs would carry him back
to Siegfried.

"Here yare, Mr.  Farnon," he panted.  "Ahim not too late, am I?  He's
still alive?"

"Oh, yes, yes."  Siegfried took the string and held it dangling for a
moment as he measured the length with his eye.  Then, as we watched,
wide-eyed, he quickly tied it round his waist.

"Thank you so much, William," he murmured.  "That's much better.  I
couldn't work with that damned coat flapping open as I bent over.  I
lost a couple of buttons yesterday.  Cow got her horn underneath them
and tore them off--it's always happening to me."

"But ... but ..."  The old man's face was a picture of woe.  "The
string ... ah thought ye'd ... Ye can't do anything for my calf,
then?"

"Of course I can.  Whatever makes you think that?"

"Well ... do ye know what ails him?"

"Yes, I do.  He's got C.c.n."

"What's that?"

"Cerebrocortical necrosis.  It's a brain disease."

"It's a terrible big name.  And his brain?  It'll be a hopeless
case?"

"Not a bit.  I'm going to inject vitamin B into his vein.  It usually
works like a charm.  Just hold his head for a moment.  You see how it's
bent over his back?  That's called opisthotonos --typical of this
condition."

Siegfried quickly carried out the injection and got to his feet.  "One
of us will be passing your door tomorrow, so we'll look in.  I'd like
to bet he'll be a lot better."

It was I who called next day and indeed the calf was up and eating.
William Hawley was pleased.

"Must have been wonderful stuff Mr.  Farnon gave 'im," he said.

To him it was another miracle, but in his manner I sensed something of
the deflation I had seen the day before when Siegfried fixed up his
coat.  His favourite vet had done the trick again, but I knew that in
his heart there was still the wi/l regret that he hadn't done it with
that piece of string.

Chapter 32

Siegfried, lounging by the fireside, was at his most expansive.  "Nice
of you to drop in, James.  Good to see you at any time--we don't get
much chance to talk during the day, eh?"

I had called in at his home after an evening call nearby.  He had
pressed a drink on me and flopped down in the armchair, exuding
bonhomie.  "Any problems?"

"No, no.  I've just been to a milk fever at John Lancaster's.  The cow
was up when I left."

"Ah, splendid, splendid.  He's a nice chap, is John."

"Yes, a good bloke.  He was really pleased when I poked that beast in
the rump and she staggered to her feet."

"Excellent.  The little triumphs of veterinary practice.  I've had that
sort of day, too-everything going well, and my word, isn't it grand to
settle down by the fire on a cold night and relax with a quiet mind.
What time is it?"  He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Half
past seven.  Nice feeling to be off duty and looking forward to a few
hours of peace."

"That's right, Siegfried.  I'm on.  You're in the clear till tomorrow."
I sipped my drink and regarded him with affection.

He reached a long leg towards the fire and poked a log into place with
a slippered toe.  "And there's another thing--it adds to the pleasure
to have that television to look at."  He pointed to the new TV set
flickering across at the other side of the hearth with the sound turned
down.  "There's a lot of inverted snobbery going around--people talking
about the goggle box and the idiot's lantern but I enjoy a lot of the
programmes.  I know it's a newfangled thing in the Dales, but I tell
you I've just been sitting here watching an interesting programme and I
find it very soothing."

He sank lower in his chair and stretched his legs to the blaze.  "I was
at Derek Mattock's place this afternoon.  They'd had a pig killing and
they gave me a great pile of cuttings-spare-rib, liver, fillet--they
are the most generous people."

"Yes, you could say that about the Dales farmers in general.  I'm
always getting presents.  Butter, eggs, vegetables from their
gardens."

Siegfried nodded.  "How true.  I had a long talk with Derek and he
mentioned something I'd better tell you about.  You promised to do some
dehornings for him about a fortnight ago and he hasn't heard from you."
He gave me a quizzical look.

"Oh, damn, yes!  I'll get on to him tomorrow.  The beasts aren't taking
any harm, anyway."

He smiled again from down among the cushions.  "Yes, my boy.  But you
forgot, didn't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I did.  But I'll put it right."

"I'm sure you will, James."  He nodded gravely and was silent for a few
moments.  "Strangely enough, there was something else in the same vein.
Bob Hardy told me his tuberculin test was overdue.  You said you'd do
it last month."

I shrugged.  "Oh, hell, that's right.  But it's only a week or two
overdue.  Not serious.  I'll see to it."

Siegfried gave me the smile again and wagged a finger.  "But you
forgot, didn't you?"

"Okay, okay, but as I say ..."

"If you'll excuse me, James, for just a moment."  He held up a hand.
"You are inclined to forget things quite frequently.  It is a tiny flaw
in an otherwise excellent character.  There is no more conscientious
and capable veterinary surgeon than yourself and yet being forgetful
can project quite a different image.  People can think you're not
concerned about their animals, that you don't care."

"Wait a minute ..."

"Let me finish, James.  This is for your own good."  He put his
fingertips together.  "Forgetfulness is a trait that can be easily
cured if you know how to go about it.  These unfortunate incidents can
be prevented if you simply impress on your mind right at the beginning
what it is you want to remember."

"My God, this is really rich ... what about ...?"

"One moment more, my dear chap.  As I say, whenever you make an
appointment, make a definite conscious effort to imprint that promise
strongly on your mind.  It's perfectly easy-- I use this method
regularly myself.  You'll always remember that way."

I was about to raise my strong objections to being lectured on
forgetfulness by the most forgetful man in Yorkshire when the phone
rang.

Siegfried extended a languid arm and picked up the receiver.  "Ah, how
are you, Wilf, my old friend?"  His eyes were half closed as he
burrowed deeper in the cushions.

"I'm aw right Mr.  Farnon," came the full-throated reply.  It was Wilf
Bramley, president of the local farmers' discussion group.  He was one
of the old school who considered it helped the voice to carry across
the miles if they shouted, and I could hear him clearly from where I
sat.  "But I just 'ope you're aw right too."

"I'm absolutely grand, Wilf," Siegfried murmured, holding the receiver
well away from his ear.

"Ah well, that's good.  We just thowt something had happened to you."

"Happened ...?  Why is that?"

"Well, the hall's full--packed to t'doors, and we were expectin' you
half an hour ago.  We worried you might have had an accident on your
rounds."

Siegfried snapped suddenly upright and his mouth fell open.  "Hall
...?"

"Aye, there must be two hundred of us 'ere.  You gave us such a grand
talk last year I knew there'd be a lot wantin' to hear you again and
they're all waitin' patiently.  We can't start without that' speaker
that knows!  Heh-heh-heh!"

Siegfried's expression was haggard.  He seemed to have aged several
years in those few moments.  "I really am frightfully sorry, Wilf, I
..."

"Nay, nay, Mr.  Farnon, there's no need for you to apologise.  A busy
feller like you.  You'll never know what's goin' to happen from one
minute to the next.  Rushed off your feet all the time.  You can't help
bein' a bit late now and again."  Wilf's voice swelled even more in
volume.  "After all, we know you're not just sitting watchin'
television!  Heh, heh, heh, heh!"

Siegfried's eyes bulged.  "Yes, Wilf, yes, that's right ... of course.
Ha-ha-ha.  What an idea.  Ha-ha-ha."  The strangled laughter emerged
with difficulty from the distraught face.  "I'm nearly ready-- I'll be
with you in a few minutes."

My partner crashed the receiver down and catapulted from his chair.
"Got to go, James.  See you in the morning."

As he galloped towards the door an unworthy impulse welled in me.

"Siegfried!"  I called.

He stopped at the door and glared at me, wild-eyed.

I wagged a finger at him, feeling my features creasing into a leer.
"You forgot, didn't you?"

Chapter 33

Siegfried caught my arm as I passed him coming out of the dispensary.
He looked harassed.

"James," he burst out.  "Calum wants another dog now!  Has he mentioned
it to you?"

"He did say something.  Said he was going to speak to you about it.
Apparently it's a dog he's had for some time.  It's with his mother and
he just wants to bring it to Darrowby.  It's okay for him to do that,
isn't it?"

My colleague stuck out his chin.  "I don't think it is.  He started
with a badger and a dog, now he's got two badgers and a dog, and on top
of that he wants two badgers and two dogs up in that little flat.
Anyway, I've told him it's not on."

"Oh, I think you're being a bit hard, Siegfried.  He's probably lonely,
living on his own.  He just wants his animals for company."

Siegfried took a sharp breath.  "That's what he says, of course, but to
me, it's only the thin edge of the wedge.  I feel it in my bones--if we
give in now he's going to have a bloody menagerie up there!"

"Oh, come on," I said, laughing.  "You're exaggerating.  There's
absolutely no fear of that.  He's a good lad, as you know, and an asset
to the practice.  I think we should help him to feel settled and happy
and it's only natural that he should want to be reunited with his
dog."

My partner did some more rapid breathing as he stared at me.  "I
thought you'd say that.  You're too easily swayed.  But I know I'm
right-- I'm not going to have it, and that's final."  He stuffed a
couple of bottles of calcium into his pockets and strode away.

Over the next few days, Calum made several appeals to me and his
request seemed perfectly reasonable, but Siegfried had dug his toes in.
He refused to be moved.

When I raised the question yet again over a beer at the Drovers' he
flushed, but he heard me out.

"I wish you'd change your mind," I said.  "I can't see what possible
harm there is in his having his dog.  And as I said, he's doing well
and I think he should be encouraged.  I'm sure you've just got a thing
about him--your worries are absolutely groundless."

"Groundless, eh?"  He choked a little in mid-swallow, then put down his
glass.  "I don't think so.  I've got this feeling and it won't go
away."  He paused and looked round the bar for a few moments.  "But
you're beginning to wear me down and I'm tired tonight.  I see you're
going to go on and on about this, so you can tell him to go ahead and
do as he likes."

I clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.  "Oh, thanks, Siegfried.  I
know it's the right thing.  You'll never regret it."

He gave me a weary smile.  "You may laugh, but I tell you, we'll be
making a big mistake."  He waved a finger in my face.  "I'll regret it,
all right.  Mark my words!"

Next morning, Calum was delighted when I gave him the news and I felt a
glow of satisfaction when, a few days later, I heard the sound of fresh
barking from the flat.

Siegfried was opening some letters in the office and I turned to him
with a smile.  "Nice to hear that," I said.  "Calum will be happy
now."

He gave me a cold look in return and just then our assistant walked
into the office.  By his side were two enormous Dobermann pinschers.

"What the hell's this?"  Siegfried enquired, rising to his feet.

"Oh, just my other dogs," Calum replied with a light laugh.  "Meet
Maggie and Anna."

"Dogs!"  Siegfried exploded.  "You said dog before!"

"Oh, I know.  That was my intention.  I was just going to bring Maggie,
but poor Anna looked so pathetic, I hadn't the heart to leave her.
They're such friends, and really, they're as gentle as old sheep."

"They don't look so bloody gentle to me!"  My partner's voice rose to a
shout.  "You get round me to bring an extra dog here, then you walk in
with these two killers!"

There was something in what he said.  An air of quiet menace emanated
from the Dobermanns, something unnerving in the way they stood
motionless, tall and lean, looking thoughtfully from one strange man to
the other.  They gave me the impression that they could go into
unpleasant action at any moment.

"This just isn't good enough!"  Siegfried was working up into full cry,
waving a hand in Calum's face, when the dogs, resenting the display of
aggression, began to growl, softly but chillingly, their eyes fixed on
my partner's face, their lips quivering, showing a lot of white
teeth.

"Quiet!"  rapped Calum.  "Sit!"  Both dogs dropped immediately onto
their haunches and looked up at him adoringly.  Clearly, they, like all
animals, were in his thrall.

"Well, there's a cow down at Jack Skinner's."  The young man consulted
his list.  "I'd better get on."  He turned and left with the two big
creatures trotting at his heels.

Siegfried looked at me wearily.  "Remember what I said?  It's
started."

The following week I was coming down the garden path from the yard to
the back of the house when I heard the sounds--a loud barking and
snarling accompanied by a man's voice crying for help.  There was a
smaller yard immediately outside the operating room and they seemed to
be coming from there.  We didn't use this little yard very much--it
held the dustbins, an outhouse and an ancient outside toilet that had
been there since the early days of the house.

There was a side door that led to the garden and I peered through.  It
was Siegfried's voice raised in frantic appeal, coming from the old
toilet whose door hung crazily on one hinge.  To my horror I saw the
two Dobermanns hurling themselves repeatedly at this flimsy bastion and
baying for blood.  My blood froze.  My partner was in there and if that
old door gave way something terrible was going to happen.  There was
nothing I could do.  I am not afraid of dogs but I had a sure
conviction that if I exposed myself to those two I wouldn't last very
long.

I rushed to the bottom of the garden and into the house.  "Calum!
Calum!"  I yelled.

He came running down the stairs and when he heard the uproar he
galloped through with me to the back of the house.  "Maggie!  Anna! You
bad dogs!  Come here at once!"

The noise was switched off immediately and the Dobermanns came slinking
round Calum's feet, looking up at him furtively, their faces fixed in
ingratiating grins.  "Get upstairs!"  he shouted, and the dogs shot off
into the house.

Wisely, Calum decided to follow them, leaving Siegfried to me.  I
dragged the broken door open to release one very cross veterinary
surgeon.  "By God, James," he said, wild-eyed, "that was a near go!  I
was picking plums last night and I ate a few too many.  Got caught
short and had to make a dash for the nearest loo.  I was just lowering
myself onto the seat when those two man-eaters came roaring into the
yard and I only just managed to jam the door with one foot against it.
I'm bloody sure if I had moved that foot an inch they'd have had me!
I've been stuck in there for ages!"

"Gosh.  I'm sorry, Siegfried," I said.  I wasn't just sorry.  I was
riddled with guilt.  This was my fault.  I was the one who had
persuaded my partner against his better judgement and he had been so
right.  The menagerie was on its way.

Chapter 34

Eight o'clock on a Saturday evening and as I prepared to visit a sick
calf the phone rang.

"This is Mr.  Birse, Number Ten, Ivy Street.  I 'ave a dog bad, will
you come?"

"What's the trouble, Mr.  Birse?"

"Don't know.  Won't eat.  Will you come?"  The voice was surly and
impatient.  It sounded as though the man had other, more pressing
affairs to attend to.

"All right.  I'll be along very soon."

Bonk went the phone at the other end and I pondered not for the first
time on the fact that vets often weren't regarded as people.  They had
no interest in staying at home with their families on a Saturday night
like others.

Number 10 was one of a long row of mean, brick-built dwellings and I
rang the bell and waited.  Nothing happened and I tried again.  Still
no result, yet I could tell by the light in the window that there was
somebody at home.  I must have rung and hammered on the door for five
minutes before a fiftyish man in shirt and braces opened the door.  He
seemed in a big hurry and after beckoning hastily he turned and almost
trotted along the passage and into the front room.  He stabbed a finger
at a dog basket in the corner before dropping into a chair to join the
family, who were grouped around a blaring television set.

Not one of the intent faces, staring at the screen, showed the
slightest interest in me and it was clear that I wasn't going to get a
case history from any of them, so I went over to the basket to inspect
my patient.  He was a big black Labrador dog, chin resting on the rim
of the basket, looking at me with the kind eyes of his breed.  As I
knelt down, his tail thrashed against the bedding and he licked at my
hand, but he turned away immediately and began a frantic scratching and
worrying at his coat.  I could see now that there were bald patches and
sores all over his body.  I lifted up his foreleg and then his hind and
saw that the skin inflammation was most intense under elbow and thigh.
Typical sarcoptic mange, but in this case neglected till the sheer
misery of the irritation had put the poor animal off his food.

I was pretty sure of my diagnosis but decided to take the routine skin
scraping.  Nobody took any notice as I went out to the car for scalpel
and slide, leaving the door ajar.  Back inside I scraped a little of
the inflamed tissue onto the glass slide and slipped it into an
envelope as the dog gazed at me patiently and the television boomed.

When I had finished I went into the kitchen and washed my hands at a
sink filled with dirty dishes to which congealed vegetables and
Yorkshire pudding adhered.  Back in the living room I looked round the
unheeding group.  Father, mother, and a son and daughter in their
twenties all puffing cigarettes, all gaping wide-eyed at the bawling
screen.  I had to communicate somehow and I chose Father.

"Your dog has mange," I shouted into his ear.  For an instant his eyes
flickered towards me, then, as the screen belched out a screech of
brakes and a volley of shots, they resumed their hypnotic stare.

I held out two packets of my activated sulphur mange wash.  More modern
treatments for external parasites were coming onto the market, but I
had always had great results with my beloved Number Three Wash, as we
called it, and I remained faithful to it.

"Follow the directions on the packet," I bellowed.  "Give him a really
thorough bath and be sure to get into every nook and cranny of his
body.  Repeat with the other pack in a week and then I'll have another
look at him."

Father nodded, glassy-eyed.  It didn't seem as though I could do
anything more, so I put the packets on the sideboard and let myself
out.

In the dark street I leaned on my car for a moment.  Strange things
happened in veterinary practice, but this was really very strange.  All
that time in there without a word spoken and why, after they had let
that nice dog get into such a state, which must have taken several
weeks, had they decided to call assistance on a Saturday night?  Ah
well, part of the rich tapestry.  I got into the car and drove away.

The sick calf was at Mr.  Farrow's farm, two miles outside Darrowby.  I
walked into the fold yard, where the farmer was forking straw to bed up
a group of young heifers.  When he saw me he put down his fork and
opened his arms wide in delight.  "Well, Mr.  Herriot, well, well,
well."

He spoke the words slowly, almost reverently, and a delighted smile
transfigured his face.  "I'm sorry to bother ye on a Saturday night,
but it is lovely to see you again.  It's been a long time!"  His tall
son went by with a sack of meal on his shoulder and he, too, grinned
and waved.

I was about to turn into the calf house when Mr.  Farrow held up a
hand.  "Nay, nay, you'll 'ave to come and see t'missus first."  He
hurried with me to the farm kitchen.

"Edith, Edith!"  he called out eagerly.  "Here's Mr.  Herriot come to
see us again!"

Mrs.  Farrow was a shy lady, but she got up from her chair and gave me
a gentle smile as though she had been looking for me for a long time.
"Well, Mr.  Herriot, it's a bit since you were here.  You're a sight
for sore eyes.  I'll put t'kettle on and you'll come in for a cup o'
tea when you're done, won't you?"

"Yes, thank you very much, I will."  I went out into the yard, feeling
the cold air on my face but warmed inside by the welcome.  The Farrows
were always like that, but it was particularly sweet after my visit to
the Birse household.

The difference in their concern for their animal, too, was marked.  The
calf was suffering from a congestion of the lungs that could easily
have progressed into pneumonia, and after I had injected it the farmer
and his son, without my telling them, began to thread binder twine
through the corners of a thick sack and by the time I was ready to
leave, the little creature's chest was warmly wrapped.  "That's good to
see," I said.  "With all these new sulpha drugs and antibiotics it's
easy to forget the nursing of animals, but it's still so important."

Back in the surgery I put my skin scraping under the microscope and the
nasty little Sarcoptes scabei looked up at me.  The unpleasant,
bristly-legged mite was burrowing pitilessly into the skin of that nice
dog and making his life a torment.  However, it was better than the
other horror, the cigar-shaped Demodex, which sounded the death knell
of so many dogs.

Demodectic mange was so often incurable, but my trusty Number Three
Wash would clear up this present case, bad as it was.  And yet, over
the weekend the thought kept recurring: would those Birses have done
the job properly?  Would they have done it at all?  Somehow, the
solicitude of the Farrows with their calf seemed to make the situation
almost unbearable.

By Monday morning I couldn't stand it any longer and I rang the
doorbell at No.  10, Ivy Street.  "Good morning, Mrs.  Birse," I said
breezily.  "I was just passing and thought I'd have another look at
your dog."

"Aye, well ..."  The lady seemed a little nonplussed, but as she
hesitated I slipped past her and into the front room.

The big dog was still in his basket and my two white packets were on
the sideboard where I had put them.

"We've been a bit busy," she muttered.  "We'll get 'im done tonight."

I looked at the dog.  I have always thought that there is a special
beauty in the lustrous coat of a black Labrador but this was a
desecration.  The ravaged skin looked even worse in the daylight and
the hind legs moved convulsively in response to the constant itching.

"What's his name?"  I asked.

"Jet."

I bent down and stroked the dog's head.  "Poor old Jet," I said.  "You
are in a state."  And as the tail thumped and the tongue reached for my
hand, I made up my mind.

"Give me a bucket of warm water, will you please, Mrs.  Birse.  I'll
give him his first treatment.  It'll only take a minute or two."

"Come on, lad," I said, and Jet trotted obediently after me into the
back garden, where a few tired-looking Brussels sprouts stood among a
jungle of weeds.  I tipped the packet into the water and stirred the
mixture rapidly, feeling an irrational compulsion to get at those mange
mites.  I felt a bit silly, too, because I had never done this on a
client's premises before, but I didn't care and slapped the thick
liquid onto Jet's coat with a kind of savage joy.

As I rubbed the stuff into the dog's skin, working it deeply into the
clefts of thigh and elbow, he looked up at me happily, his tail waving.
Dogs in my experience hated being bathed, but it seemed as though the
big animal was only too pleased to have any sort of attention.  He was
enjoying the whole thing.

As I worked I became aware of a head watching me over the garden hedge.
I looked up and an elderly man nodded cheerfully.

"Mornin'.  You'll be t'vitnery."

"That's right."

He blew out his cheeks.  "By gaw, you must be a busy feller goin' round
washin' all them dogs all the time."

I smiled at his idea of a veterinary surgeon's life.  "Oh, yes, it's
quite a job."

I was aware of his intent gaze as I completed my shampoo and began a
brisk to welling happy in the knowledge that I had delivered the first
blow against those malignant little beasties in the skin.

"Grand dog, that," said the old man.

"He is indeed."

The man lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  "Them folks
don't bother with 'im, that knows.  He's in a 'ell of a state."

I didn't say anything, but the sight of Jet standing bedraggled and
half bald like a canine scarecrow bore out his words.

"Can ye cure 'im?"

"I think so, but it's going to take time and regular bathing with this
stuff of mine.  Every week until he's right."

"Next week for a start, eh?"

"That's right.  I'm going to ask Mrs.  Birse to do it next Monday."

"You'll be lucky," the old man grunted and his head moved away from the
hedge.

In the kitchen I passed on my instructions to Mrs.  Birse and she
sniffed.

"Ah see you've been talkin' to awd Howell.  He's a nosey awd bugger.
Allus watchin' ower that hedge."

Nosey or not, I thought, he was a lot more concerned about her dog than
she was.  And as I took my leave with a last look back at Jet wagging
cheerfully despite his plight, I knew that I'd be back at No.  10 next
Monday.

And, feeling daft but determined, I was duly there on the day, ringing
that bell.  Mrs.  Birse displayed her usual lack of enthusiasm and
beckoned me unsmilingly into the house.  She led me into the back
garden and jerked her head in the direction of the hedge.

"Them next door's doin' 'im."  She turned and went back into the
house.

I looked over the hedge.  In the middle of a tidy little garden Jet was
standing by a steaming bucket while Mr.  Howell and his wife busily
rubbed the mange wash into his coat.

The old man looked up at me and grinned.  "Now then, vitnery, we're
doin' your job.  Them Birses would never bathe 'im every week like you
said so I asked if we could have a go.  We like this dog."

"Well ... that's fine.  You're doing a good job, too."

Jet looked up at me and though his face was thickly smeared with my
concoction his eyes danced with pleasure and his tail lashed.  This, he
was telling me, is great.  As the two old people worked they were
talking to him all the time.  "Now then, a bit more on 'ere, Jet, lad."
"Let's have hold of that other leg, old feller."  The friendly
murmurings went on, and the big dog was lapping up the unaccustomed
affection.

I watched until they were finished and as they towelled my patient I
spoke again.  "That's absolutely terrific.  You've done him properly,
you haven't missed an inch."

The old lady smiled.  "Aye, well, we heard what you said at t'start. We
want to get 'im better."

"Good ... good ... you're going the right way about it."  I looked at
Jet, still as bare and scruffy as ever.  "You understand that it's
going to be a long time before his coat gets back to normal, if it ever
does, but the main question is--is he scratching less?"

"Oh, aye," replied Mr.  Howell.  "He still does a bit, but nothing like
before.  He's much less itchy now, and he's eatin' well again."

"Fine, fine.  So far, so good, but there's a lot of work still to do.
Are you prepared to do this for several weeks?  After all, he isn't
your dog."

"Oh, we'll do 'im all right," said the old lady eagerly.  "We'll stick
to 'im--you needn't worry about that."

I looked at the two Howells in wonder.  "You're real dog lovers, aren't
you?  And yet you haven't got a dog of your own?"

There was a silence.  "Oh, we did 'ave," said the old man.  "Had 'im
for twelve years, but you never saw him, Mr.  Herriot, because he never
ailed a thing."  He paused and swallowed.  "But he was knocked down and
killed just a month ago."

I gazed for a few moments at the stricken faces.  "I'm so sorry, I know
what it's like.  It's awful.  But ... you didn't think of getting
another dog?  It's the only thing to do, you know."

Mrs.  Howell shrugged.  "We understand that and we thought about it,
but we're both in our seventies and if we got a pup now and anythin'
happened to us he'd be left and we'd never know if he was properly
looked after."

I nodded and looked at the old couple with renewed respect.  It was the
attitude of caring people.

"Anyway," I said, "you've got a good friend in Jet for the time being.
I can see that he appreciates all you're doing for him.  I'll leave you
a few more packets of the wash and I know he'll be in good hands."

My confidence was such that I didn't call at the house again and it was
three weeks before I saw Jet again.  The Howells were shopping in the
market-place and Jet was by their side.  He was cheerful, but his skin
was still wrinkled and hairless with many half-healed sores.

"You've got him out, then," I said.

"Aye, we have."  The old lady clutched my arm.  "He's ours now."

"Yours?"

"Yes.  Mrs.  Birse said 'e was still bare and scabby and she didn't
think he'd ever get better and she didn't want a big vet bill with all
them visits and packets of stuff.  She said her husband and her wanted
Jet put down."

"Oh ... what then?"

"Well, I said we'd tek 'im and we'd pay the bill."

"You did?"

"Aye.  She wasn't sure at first but I said it would be a whackin' big
bill and you'd charge double for comin' out that Saturday night."

I looked at her for a moment and detected the suggestion of a twinkle
in her eye.

"We don't do that.  Maybe we should, but we don't.  But ... maybe you
wanted to persuade her, eh?"

"Well ..."  It was indisputably a twinkle.

I smiled.  "Anyway, Jet has moved next door and I'm sure it's a good
thing for everybody.  Even the Birses--they didn't seem to have any
interest in him."

"Aye, that's right, and he's lovely.  They never took 'im out for a
walk--just let him wander about by himself.  I don't know why some
people have dogs at all."

"And how about what you were saying to me before?  About your fears
about being too old?"

She squared her shoulders.  "Oh, well, we talked that over, and we
thought that after all, Jet isn't a pup--he's six now, so ... the three
of us will just potter on together."

"That's great.  "Grow old along with me!  The best is yet to be.""

They both laughed, and Mr.  Howell held up a finger.  "Yes, that's just
it.  That poem's got it right.  It's so grand havin' Jet--it was awful
being without a dog after we lost ours.  We've always had one and now
we're happy."

They did indeed look happy, as did Jet, laughing up at me and lashing
his tail.

It was many weeks before I saw them again.  I was walking along one of
the many bridle tracks that wound among the fields around Darrowby. The
sun was blazing from a cloudless sky and even from a distance it was
easy to see the rich black gloss of Jet's coat.  When I came abreast of
them I bent and stroked the big dog's head.  "Well, what a handsome dog
you are!"  I said, running my hand over the flawless sheen of the neck
and ribs.  I turned to the old couple.  "There's not a bare patch
anywhere--I can nearly see my face in his coat.  You've done
wonderfully well with him."

The Howells smiled modestly and Jet, perfectly aware that we were
talking about him, wagged his entire rear end and capered around in
panting delight.

"Oh, it's been worth it," said the old lady.  "We're having a great
time with 'im--we can't believe our luck having such a dog."

I watched them as they went their way along the green path and under
the overhanging branches of an oak tree.  Jet was chasing a stick and I
could hear the cheerful voices of the Howells as they shouted their
encouragement to him.

I thought again of Browning's lines, and as I watched the trio until a
patch of woodland hid them from view I felt a strong conviction that
the best was yet to be for those three.

Chapter 35

"Right, Mr.  Busby," I said, feeling a rising tension in response to
the urgency of the voice at the other side of the phone.  "I'll be out
very soon."

"Well, see that you are!  Ah don't like the look of this cow at all.
She's sunken-eyed and gruntin' and she won't look at 'er hay.  She
could die.  Don't be long!"

As I listened to the aggressive harangue I could almost see the
red-haired man shouting, bulging-eyed, into the receiver.  He had told
me all the symptoms several times over to make sure they penetrated my
thick skull.  Mr.  Busby wasn't a bad chap, but he had a temper to go
with his hair and always seemed to operate on the edge of panic.  I'd
better hurry.

I looked at my list, then at my watch.  It was 9:00 A.m. and there
weren't any really urgent calls.  I could do Mr.  Busby first and keep
him happy.

I grabbed my bag and trotted to the front door.  Young Mrs.  Gardiner
was standing on the step with her terrier under her arm.  She looked
upset.

"Oh, Mr.  Herriot, I was just going to ring your bell.  Something has
happened to William.  He went out this morning and jumped over the
garden gate and now he can't use one of his front legs."

I managed a strained smile.  "All right, bring him in."

We went through to the consulting room and I lifted the little dog onto
the table.  It took only a quick feel to tell me that there was a
fracture of radius and ulna.

"He's broken his leg, I'm afraid."

"Oh, dear," the lady wailed.  "How awful!"

I tried to be cheerful.  "Oh, don't worry.  It's a clean break and it's
a lot easier on a foreleg.  We'll soon put him right."

William, trembling and anxious with his leg dangling, looked up at me
with a mute appeal.  He was hoping somebody would do something for him,
and soon.

"Has he had any breakfast?"  I asked as I fished the plaster of Paris
bandages out of the cupboard.

"No, nothing today."

"Good.  I can go ahead with the anaesthetic."  As I filled the syringe
the old feeling came back that this was the sort of thing that gave
vets ulcers.  Mr.  Busby would have to wait and I could picture him
stamping round his farmyard and cursing me.

A few c.c."s of Nembutal sent William into a peaceful sleep and I began
to soak the bandages in tepid water.  Mrs.  Gardiner held the shaggy
leg straight while I carefully applied the bandages.  Normally, this
was a job I enjoyed; seeing the plaster hardening till it formed a firm
supporting sheath and knowing that the little animal would wake up to
find his pain gone and his leg usable, but at this moment I was
conscious mainly of the passage of time.

I tapped the plaster.  It had set like a rock.

"Right," I said, lifting the sleeping dog from the table.  "He'll have
to keep that on for at least a month, then you must bring him back.  If
you're worried before that, give me a ring, but I'm sure he'll be
fine."

I deposited William on the back seat of the lady's car and looked at my
watch--9:45 A.m. I picked up my gear again and set off for the second
time.

It took me half an hour's hard driving along the narrow,
dry-stone-walled roads to reach the Busby farm, and as I approached I
could see the farmer standing, hands on hips, legs splayed on the
cobbled yard, a menacing picture against the squat buildings and the
bracken-clad fells behind.  When I got out of the car the farmer looked
exactly as I had imagined him.  His eyes were glaring and the ginger
fringe thrusting from under his cap seemed to bristle with rage.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?"  he yelled.  "You said you were
coming straight out."

"Yes, I know, but I had to attend to a dog just as I was leaving."

I thought Mr.  Busby would explode.  "A dog!  A bloody dog!  Ma good
cow's a lot more important than any bloody dog!"

"Well, yes, but I had to treat him.  He had a broken leg."

"I don't give a bugger what he had.  This cow's my livelihood.  If she
dies it's a serious loss for me.  The other thing's just a flippin'
pet, a lap-dog."

"Not a lap-dog, Mr.  Busby, a tough little terrier and he was in pain.
The lady owner is very fond of him."

"Fond, fond!  What does that matter?  It's not touching her pocket, is
it?  It isn't costing her anything?"

I was going to say something about her heart being touched and about
the importance of pets in the lives of people, but Mr.  Busby's feet
had begun to twitch and then to move up and down on the cobbles.  I had
never seen a man actually dancing with rage and I didn't want to start
now.  I made for the cow house.

I was vastly relieved to find that the cow had only a mild stasis of
the rumen and it turned out that she had been in the fold yard earlier
in the morning and had stolen a few extra turnips.  But as I examined
and injected her the farmer kept up a grumbling monologue as he held
the tail.

"Ah've got to live on a little spot like this and you don't think one
cow is important.  Where do you think I'm getting' the money to buy
another?  Ah'll tell ye, it's a job makin' ends meet on a little hill
farm, but you don't scm to 'ave any idea.  Dogs ... bloody dogs ...
flippin' pets ... this is my livin' ... you don't care ..."

I was fundamentally a cow doctor and I made the greatest part of my own
personal living from hill-farmers, whom I regarded as the salt of the
earth, but I held my peace.

When I revisited the following day I found the cow completely
recovered, but Mr.  Busby was still sulky.  He hadn't forgiven me.

It was a few weeks later that Helen stopped me as I was leaving to
start the morning round.

"Oh, Jim.  I've just taken a call.  There's a dog coming in.  It's
crying out in pain.  I didn't get the name--the man put the phone down
quickly."

I rubbed my chin.  In those days we were a 90 per cent large-animal
practice and had no set surgery hours, certainly not in the morning.

"Whoever it is will have to wait," I said.  "Rod Thwaite has a bullock
bleeding badly-knocked a horn off.  I'll have to go there first."

Trying to be in two places at once was a constant problem in our job. I
did my best not to think about the dog and sped into the hills at top
speed.

It was a typical broken horn with a pretty ornamental fountain of blood
climbing several feet into the air and onto anything near.  Mr. Thwaite
and I were soon liberally spattered as we tried to hold the beast still
and I packed the stump with sulphon amide applied a thick pad of cotton
wool and bandaged it in a figure eight to the other horn. It all took
quite a time as did the cleaning process afterwards, and more than an
hour had gone by before I declined Mrs.  Thwaite's offer of a cup of
tea and headed back towards Darrowby.

At Skeldale House I hurried down the passage and pushed open the
waiting room door.  I halted there in surprise.  It was Mr.  Busby.  He
was sitting in the far corner with a little corgi on his knee and his
face bore exactly the same expression as when I had paid the first
visit to his cow.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?"  he barked.  The words were the
same too.  "I've been sittin' here for a bloody hour!  And I made an
appointment!"

"I'm very sorry, Mr.  Busby.  I had a bleeding bullock.  I just had to
go."

"A flippin' bullock!  And how about ma poor dog, waitin' here in agony!
That doesn't matter, does it?"

"Of course it does, but you know as well as I do that beast could have
bled to death.  It would have been a big loss to the farmer."

"A big loss?  Aye, a big loss o' money, you mean.  But what if me good
dog dies?  He's worth more than any money.  You couldn't put a price on
him!"

"Oh, I do understand, Mr.  Busby.  He looks a grand little chap to me."
I hesitated.  "I didn't know you had a pet beside your farm dogs."

"Of course, I 'ave.  This is Dandy.  Missus and me think the world of
'im.  If anything happens to 'im it 'ud break our hearts!  And you
neglect 'im for a flippin' bullock!"

"Oh, come on, now, it's not a case of neglecting him.  You must
appreciate that I couldn't leave that beast to go on bleeding--it's the
farmer's livelihood."

"There ye go again!  Money!  It's all you can think about!"

I bent down to lift the little dog and almost as soon as I touched him
he screamed out.

Mr.  Busby's eyes popped further.  "Listen to that!  I told you he was
in a desperate state, didn't I?"

I carried the corgi along the passage, feeling his muscles tense and
rigid as a board.  Already I was sure I knew what was wrong with him.
On the table I gently squeezed his neck and the dog yelped again, with
Mr.  Busby moaning in response.

The temperature was normal, in fact everything was normal except the
rigidity and the pain.

"Is he goin' to die?"  The farmer stared into my face.

"No, no, he's got rheumatism.  It's a terribly painful thing in a dog,
but it does respond well to treatment.  I'm sure he'll soon be well
again."

"I hope you're right," the farmer grunted.  "I just wish you'd seen 'im
sooner instead of leaving 'im to suffer while you run off to a bullock.
It's all right you harpin' on about money, but love and companionship
mean a lot more than that, you know."

I filled my syringe.  "I quite agree, Mr.  Busby.  Just hold his head,
will you."

"There's more things in life than money, young man.  You'll find that
out as you grow older."

"I'm sure you're right.  Now give him one of these tablets night and
morning and if he's not a lot better by tomorrow bring him back."

"I will and I 'ope you'll be here if I do."  Mr.  Busby's rage had
subsided and was replaced by a lofty sanctimoniousness.  "I would ha'
thought that a chap like you would know what it means to have a pet.
Material things ain't everything."

He tucked the corgi under his arm and made for the door.  With his hand
on the knob he turned.  "And I'll tell that sum mat else."

I sighed.  The lecture wasn't over yet.

He waved a finger.  ""Man shall not live by bread alone.""

As he walked along the passage, Dandy turned his head and looked back
at me.  He seemed better already.  Mercifully, rheumatism, though
terrifying in its onset, is just as dramatically curable.

Yes, Dandy would soon be himself again, but I knew his master would
remember only my mercenary outlook and my heartlessness.

Chapter 36

It was the Darrowby police sergeant's voice on the telephone.  "I think
we have a criminal character here, Mr.  Herriot.  Found him skulking
down Docker's alley in the dark, wearing a face mask.  Asked him what
he was doing there at ten o'clock at night and he said he was on the
way to the fish and chip shop.  That sounded a bit thin to me-we've had
a lot of petty break-ins and thieving lately--so we've brought him in
to the station."

"I see.  But where do I come in?"

"Well, he insists he's innocent and says you can vouch for him.  Says
his name's Bernard Wain and he has a little farm out on the moors near
Hollerton."

All became suddenly clear and I laughed.  "And the face mask is a
red-and-white spotted handkerchief?"

"Aye!  How the heck did you know?"

"Because that's the Cisco Kid you have there."

"What!"

It would have taken a long time to explain to the sergeant but it all
fitted in.

Bernard was in his forties and he shared a small holding with his
redoubtable elder sister.  It would be wrong to say that he ran the
place, because he simply did as he was told, Miss Wain's opinion of him
being summed up in her favourite word, "useless."

For some years now I had become accustomed to her constant refrain on
my visits.  "Aye, well, you'll 'ave to manage as best you can, Mr.
Herriot.  Bernard won't be much good to you.  He's useless."

I recounted to the sergeant the events surrounding my visit to the
Wains' earlier that evening.  It had been a ewe lambing.  Miss Wain
rang from the village kiosk.  "She's been on all afternoon.  Bernard's
had 'is hand in and he says there's sum mat far wrong but I don't
suppose you'll 'ave much trouble.  It doesn't take much to flummox
Bernard.  He's useless."

There were three gates on the rough track to the farm and, as I drove
into the yard, Bernard was standing there in the headlights' beam.
Small, dark, perpetually smiling as I had always known him.

He rubbed his hands and, ever anxious to please, bowed slightly as I
got out of the car.  "Now then, Mr.  Herriot."  But he didn't make any
sort of move till his sister came strutting from the house, her bandy
legs carrying her dumpy little frame rapidly over the cobbles.

She was at least ten years older than her brother, and her jaw jutted
as she looked at him.  "Come on, don't just stand there.  Take this
bucket and show Mr.  Herriot where t'ewe is.  Eee, I don't know."  She
turned to me.  "We've got erin the stable, but I think he's
forgotten!"

As I stripped off in the makeshift pen and soaped my arms, I looked at
the ewe.  She stood knee-deep in straw, straining occasionally, but she
didn't look unduly distressed.  In fact, when Bernard made a clumsy
grab at the wool of her neck she skipped away from him.

"Oh, can't you even hold the thing for Mr.  Herriot?"  his sister
wailed.  "Go on, get your arms round her neck properly and haud her in
the corner.  Eee, you're that slow!  Aye, that's it, you've got erat
last.  Marvellous!  And where's that towel I gave you to bring?  You've
forgotten that, too!"

As I slipped my hand into the ewe's vagina, Miss Wain folded her arms
and blew out her cheeks.  "Ah don't reckon you'll have any problems,
Mr.  Herriot.  Bernard can't manage, but 'e's got no idea about lambin'
a ewe, in fact 'e's got no idea about anything.  He's useless."

Bernard, standing at the animal's head, nodded and his smile widened as
though he had received a compliment.  He wasn't really feeble-minded,
he was just a supremely ineffectual, vague man, a gentle soul, totally
unfitted for the rough farming life.

Kneeling on the straw, I reached forward into the ewe and Miss Wain
spoke again.  "Ah bet everything's all right in there."

She was right.  Everything was fine.  Sometimes this first exploration
revealed a single, oversized lamb, maybe dead, with no room for the
hand to move and everything dry and clinging; little wonder that the
farmer was unsuccessful, however long he had tried doing the job
himself.  But on this occasion, there was all the room in the world,
with at least two tiny lambs lying clean and clear and moist in the
large uterus, beautifully lubricated by the placental fluid.  The only
thing that was stopping them from popping out was that two little heads
and a bunch of legs were trying to enter the cervix at the same time.
It was simply a case of repelling a head and relating the legs to the
relevant lamb and I'd have them out, wriggling in the straw, in one
minute flat.  In fact I had corrected the legs with one finger while I
was thinking about it, then I realised that if I did a lightning job
Bernard was going to be in big trouble.

He could, of course, have done the whole thing easily, but anything so
earthy as guddling round inside a ewe was anathema to him.  I could
just imagine his single, shuddering exploration before he
capitulated.

I looked up and detected a trace of anxiety in the smiling face.  There
was no doubt about it; I was going to have to hold these lambs in for a
little while.

I gasped and grunted as I rotated my arm and the first lamb moved his
tongue against my hand.

"My word, Miss Wain, this is a right mix-up.  Could be triplets in here
and all tangled up together.  It's a tricky business, I can tell you.
Now let's see ... which lamb does that leg belong to ... no ... no ...
gosh, it isn't easy."  I gritted my teeth and groaned again as I fought
my imaginary battle.  "This is a real vet's job, I can tell you."

As I spoke, Miss Wain's eyes narrowed.  Maybe I was overdoing it.
Anyway, Bernard was in the clear now.  I hooked a finger round the tiny
legs that were first in the queue and drew out lamb number one.  I
deposited him in the straw and he raised his head and shook it
vigorously; always a good sign, but possibly he was puzzled at the
delay.

"Now then, what else have we got?"  I said worriedly as I reached back
into the ewe.  The job was as good as over now, but I was still making
a meal of it for Bernard's sake and I did a bit more panting and
grunting before producing a second and then a third lamb.  They made a
pretty sight as they lay wriggling and snuffling in the straw.  The
first one was already making efforts to rise on wobbly legs.  It would
soon be on its way to the milk bar.

I smiled up at Miss Wain.  "There you are, then.  Three grand lambs.
I'll put in a couple of pessaries and that's that.  It was a
complicated business, though, with the legs all jumbled up together.
It's a good job you called me or you might have lost these three."

Arms still folded, her head sunk on her chest, she regarded me
unsmilingly.  I had the impression that part of her was sorry she had
been deprived of another opportunity of castigating her brother.
However, she had another line of attack.

"Tell ye what," she said suddenly.  "There's a cow been hanging her
cleansin' for five days.  You might as well take it away while you're
here."

This was the kind of routine job that you didn't usually do at nine
o'clock at night, but I didn't demur.  It would save another visit.

"Okay," I said.  "Will you bring me some fresh water, please?"

It was then that I noticed the alarm flickering in Bernard's eyes.  I
remembered that he couldn't stand smells, and in the odoriferous trade
of country vetting, removal of the bovine afterbirth is the smelliest.
And he would have to hold the tail while I did it.

When he came back with the steaming bucket he set it down and whipped
out a large red-and-white spotted handkerchief from his pocket.
Carefully he tied it round his face, knotting it tightly at the back of
his neck, then he took up his place by the side of the cow.

As I put my arm into the animal and looked at Bernard's big eyes
swimming above the mask I thought again how fitting was our nickname
for him.  It was Tristan who had first christened him the Cisco Kid
because of his uncanny resemblance to the famous bandit.  In all the
unpleasant procedures that assailed Bernard's nostrils-stinking
calvings, autopsies, releasing the gas from tympani tic cows--the
handkerchief came out, and, in fact, in every image I had of him he was
wearing that mask.

It seemed to give him a feeling of security, because he was able to
make cheerful, if muffled, replies to my attempts at conversation,
although occasionally he closed his eyes in a pained manner as though
some alien whiff had got through to him.

Fortunately it was an easy cleansing and it wasn't long before Bernard
was waving me goodbye as I drove away.  In the darkness of the yard he
still had the handkerchief round his face--the Cisco Kid to the life.

I felt I had managed to put the police sergeant in the picture.
However, he still wasn't quite convinced.

"But he still wouldn't be wearing that mask when he came into
Darrowby."

"Bernard would."

"You mean he just forgot to take it off?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, he's a rum sort of feller."

I could understand his wonderment, but to me Bernard's actions were
quite in character.  He'd had a traumatic evening with the lambing and
the cleansing and it was totally understandable that he would jump on
his bike and pedal into the town to seek solace in a parcel of fish and
chips.  I knew for a fact that they were his greatest pleasure.  A
little matter like removing the handkerchief would easily slip his
mind.

"Aye well," the sergeant said.  "I suppose I can take your word about
him."

"Sergeant," I said, "that man you have there is the most harmless
character in north Yorkshire."

There was a pause.  "Okay, then, we'd better get the handcuffs off
him."

"What!  You haven't ..."

"No, no, heh-heh-heh!  Just having a bit o' fun with you, Mr.  Herriot.
You did it to me with your flippin' Cisco Kid, so I'm giving it back to
you."

"All right, fair enough."  I laughed in return.  "Is Bernard very
upset?"

"Upset?  Not him.  Not a care in the world.  His only worry is that the
fish and chip shop might be closed."

"Oh, dear.  And is it?"

"No, I'll be able to reassure him about that.  They're stayin' open
till eleven o'clock tonight."

"Good, good, so it's a happy ending for Bernard."

"Guess so."  The sergeant laughed again as he put down the receiver.

But it could have been so different.  If the little farm had been on
the phone, Miss Wain would have received that call.  My mind reeled at
the thought of her reaction when she learned that Bernard couldn't even
go out for fish and chips without landing in the hands of the police.

I could imagine her exasperated cry.  "Useless!  Useless!"

Chapter 37

There are few sights more depressing than a litter of dying piglets.

"Looks pretty hopeless, Mr.  Bush," I said as I leaned over the wall of
the pen.  "And what a pity, it's a grand litter.  Twelve of them,
aren't there?"

The farmer grunted.  "Aye, it all us happens like that."  He wasn't a
barrel of laughs at any time but now his long, hollow-cheeked face was
set in gloom.

I looked down at the little pink creatures huddled in a heap, liquid
yellow faeces trickling down their tails.  Neonatal scour.  The acute
diarrhoea that afflicts new-born piglets and is nearly always fatal
unless treated quickly.

"When did they start with this?"  I asked.

"Pretty near just after they were born.  That were three days ago."

"Well, I wish I'd seen them a bit sooner.  I might have been able to do
something for them."

Mr.  Bush shrugged.  "I thought it was nowt-maybe t'milk was too rich
for 'em."

I opened the door and went into the pen.  As I examined the little pigs
their mother grunted as if in invitation.  She was stretched on her
side, exposing the long double row of teats, but her family weren't
interested.  As I lifted and laid the limp little bodies I felt sure
they would never suckle again.

However, I just couldn't do nothing.  "We'll give it a go," I said.
"You never know, we might manage to save one or two."

The farmer didn't say anything as I went out to the car.  I couldn't
remember ever having seen him smile and his hunched shoulders and
sombre features added to the general atmosphere of doom.

For my part I was disappointed I hadn't been called earlier because I
had a new product with me that might have helped.  It was a Neomycin
mixture contained in a plastic bottle, which enabled the antibiotic to
be squirted into the mouth.  I'd had some good results with it in
calves but hadn't had the chance to try it on pigs, but as I handled
the unresisting little creatures, giving each one a shot onto its
tongue and laying it, apparently lifeless, back on the floor, I felt I
was wasting my time.

I supplemented the treatment with a small injection of a sulpha drug,
and having satisfied my conscience with the feeling that I had done
everything, I prepared to leave.

I handed the Neomycin bottle to the farmer.  "Here, if there's any
alive tomorrow, give them a squirt.  Let me know if you manage to save
any--it isn't worth my paying another visit."

Mr.  Bush nodded wordlessly and walked away.

After three days I had heard nothing and presumed that my unhappy
prognostications had been correct, but it was on my mind that I ought
to have given the farmer some advice for the future.  There were some
preventive E. coli vaccines that could be given to the sow before
farrowing, and he had a couple of other sows that ought to be
protected.

Since I happened to be passing right by Bush's farm on my way home from
another visit, I turned in at the gate.  As I got out of the car the
farmer was sweeping up in the corner of the yard.  He didn't look up
and my spirits sank.  At the same time I felt a little annoyed.  It
wasn't my fault he had lost his litter.  He didn't have to ignore me--I
had done my best.

Since he still didn't pay any attention I walked into the piggery and
looked into the pen.

At first I thought I was looking in the wrong place, but no, I
recognised the sow--she had a little nick out of one ear.  What my mind
could hardly grasp was the sight of a pink jumble of little creatures
fighting to get hold of the best teat.  It was difficult to count them
in the scramble, but finally they settled down to a rapt sucking, each
contented with his lot.  And there were twelve.

I looked out of the doorway.  "Hey, Mr.  Bush, they're all alive! Every
one of them!"

The farmer, trailing his brush, walked slowly across the yard, and
together we looked down into the pen.

I still couldn't believe it.  "Well, that's marvelous.  A miracle.  I
thought they'd all die--and there they are!"

There was no joy in Mr.  Bush's face.  "Aye," he muttered, "but they've
lost a bit o' ground."

With Mr.  Bush's unimpressed line still groaning in my ear, I drove out
to Lord Gresham's farm.

It was only when I was in the RAF with the SP'S bawling, "Hey, you,
c'mere!"  that I realised that the quiet respect I usually received as
a veterinary surgeon on the Yorkshire farms was something I had taken
for granted.  Yet it was very special in my life.  It was nothing to do
with success or failure in my work--things sometimes went wrong and
occasionally I was ticked off by my clients--but behind it all there
was the feeling that I was a professional man doing my best for the
animals, and I was esteemed accordingly.

But I never got any more respect from Lord Gresham's men than I did
from Mr.  Bush.  Danny, Bert, Hughie and Joe regarded me with a total
detachment I always found disquieting.  It wasn't that they disliked me
or were rude in any way, it was the fact that no matter what I did they
were totally unimpressed, not, seemingly, even interested.

This was strange because, as every vet knows, there are some places
where everything goes right and others where everything goes wrong and
Lord Gresham's place was one of the former.  I always felt that my good
fairy was watching over me there, because every single case had gone
like a breeze and in fact I had pulled off a long succession of cures
that warmed my heart.

Today, after climbing out of my car and walking into the fold yard, I
believed I would do it again.  I looked at the cow standing alone and
disconsolate in the deep straw.  She was a pathetic sight with, it
seemed, half her insides hanging out of her.  Prolapsed uterus.  It was
a scene to wipe the smile from any veterinary surgeon's face--a promise
of hard labour with the animal's life at stake.  But with the passage
of years this condition had lost a lot of its dread and, although I was
naturally apprehensive, I had the feeling that with my new knowledge
and equipment I could restore this poor cow to normal.  But at the same
time I knew I would get no credit for it, no respect.  Not on this farm
anyway.

By bringing up a tractor and using the recently invented Bagshaw hoist
clamped on the cow's pelvis I raised the cow's back end, so that I was
working downhill, administered a spinal anaesthetic and replaced the
uterus with none of the labour of past years.

The cow walked away, good as new, and while I felt delighted at the
magical return to normal, the men were completely unmoved and strolled
off without a word.  It was always like this here.

Shortly after this I attended some sheep going round in circles with
listeriosis.  An injection of penicillin and they were right within a
couple of days-quite a spectacular cure.  Same reaction from the men.
No interest.  Not a scrap of respect.

A week later, I was called to a cow with a twisted uterus.  She was
unable to calve and was lying straining, distressed, on the point of
exhaustion.  Without my help she would have had to be slaughtered, but
by rolling her over several times I righted the twist and produced a
beautiful live calf.  As I looked wonderingly and with deep
satisfaction at the result of my work, the men offered no comment but
went phlegmatically about the business of clearing up after the
operation.  For the umpteenth time I wondered what I had to do to get
through to them.  I was putting on my jacket when an envelope fell out
of my pocket.  It was from Liverpool, from the football pools firm, and
just for the sake of breaking the silence I said, "Ah, my winnings for
this week."

The effect was electric and the previous apathy was replaced by acute
interest.  They studied the enclosed postal order, which was only for
two pounds, with total absorption.  "By gaw, look at that!"  "We can't
do any good with them things!"  "Fust time I've ever seen a winner!"
The remarks flew thick and fast.  Then Danny, the foreman, said, "De ye
often win?"

Carried away by the excitement and the unprecedented interest, I
replied casually, "Oh, yes, regularly," which was an exaggeration
because I very rarely won, but the remark was received with
open-mouthed fascination.  For the first time ever I was the centre of
concentrated attention.

After a few moments, Danny cleared his throat.  "Mr.  Herriot, the lads
and me do the three draws every week--we each put on a shillin'--and
we've never 'ad a touch yet.  Will you fill up our coupon for us?"

With a wi/l feeling that my sudden popularity would be soon exploded I
took the coupon and, using the cow's back as a desk, I did as they
asked.

It was a winner and, during the week, Danny appeared at my surgery.
"We've got thirty bob apiece, Mr.  Herriot.  It's never happened before
and t'lads are over the moon.  Will ye do that' same again?"

"Certainly," I replied airily and put my crosses in the little squares.
It won again, and this time all four of the men turned up at the
surgery, smiling and triumphant.  "Another thirty bob each, Mr.
Herriot!  It's champion!  We're goin' to put a bit more on this
week."

I felt that things were getting out of hand.  "Look, chaps, I'd really
rather not do this again.  I don't want to lose you a lot of money and
you will if you start putting on bigger stakes.  Anyway, I'm no expert
at this--I was only kidding when I gave you the idea that I won every
week."

A hush fell upon the room and four pairs of eyes narrowed to slits.
They didn't believe a word.

Helplessly I looked from one to the other, but they stood there as
though carved from stone, waiting for me to make my move.

"I tell you what," I said at length.  "I'll do your coupon this week,
but it will be for the last time.  All right?"

There were nods all round.  "Aye, that'll do us fine," Danny said.

"Just this week and never n'more."

Once more I entered the crosses in the squares and as I handed over the
coupon I made my final appeal.  "And you'll never ask me to do this
again?"

Danny raised a hand.  "Nay, never n'more, Mr.  Herriot.  That's a
promise."

For the third successive week, their coupon was a winner.  Even as I
write, I feel I can hardly ask anybody to believe it, but it is a true
story.  And a growing sensation of the eerie workings of fate was
strengthened when I myself had my biggest-ever win--seventy-seven
pounds, four shillings and eleven pence--on the treble chance.  The sum
is engraved on my memory till the end of time.

That evening I showed the postal order tremblingly to my partner. "Look
at this, Siegfried.  All this money!  And if I had had just one more
draw I'd have won the first prize-sixteen thousand pounds!"

Siegfried whistled as he studied the postal order.  "James, this calls
for a celebration.  Let's get over to the Drovers'."

In the bar, Siegfried bustled to the counter.  "Two large whiskies,
Betty," he cried.  "Mr.  Herriot's just won sixteen thousand pounds on
the pools!"

"No, no ..."  I protested, trying to restrain my ebullient colleague.
"It wasn't as much as that ..."

But it was too late.  The barmaid's eyes popped, the other occupants
nearly choked on their beer and the damage was done.  The news swept
through Darrowby like a prairie fire.  Sixteen thousand pounds was a
vast fortune in those days and wherever I went over the next few weeks
I was greeted with secret smiles and knowing winks.  It happened nearly
forty years ago, but to this day there are many people in our little
town who are convinced that Herriot became rich on the pools.

The next time I had to visit Lord Gresham's farm was to carry out the
tuberculin test on the cattle.  I didn't have to do anything clever to
the beasts--just clip a couple of inches of hair from the necks and
inject into the skin, but there was a different atmosphere altogether
from the previous occasions when I was pulling off miracle cures,
saving animals' lives with my veterinary skill.  The four men seemed to
hang on my every word, treating my requests with the greatest
deference.  "Yes, Mr.  Herriot."  "Right you are, Mr.  Herriot."  And,
whereas before they had always acted as though I wasn't there, today
they watched my smallest move with the greatest concentration.  It
became clear to me that I was forever enshrined in their minds as the
one man to whom the mysteries of the football pools were an open book,
to be manipulated as the fancy took me, and as I looked round the four
men I could read something in their eyes I had never seen before.

It was respect--deep, abiding respect.

Chapter 38

I was in a familiar position.  Lying flat on my face on a hard cobbled
floor with my arm up to the shoulder inside a straining heifer.  I had
been doing this for over an hour and was beginning to despair.  There
was a huge live calf in there and the only thing stopping the delivery
was that there was a leg back--normally a simple malpresentation and
easily corrected.  That was the cause of my frustration--I couldn't
believe that such a thing could beat me, but the trouble was that this
was a very small heifer and there was no room to work.  Time and again
I had managed to reach the calf's foot but I could only get a couple of
fingers round it and as soon as I tried to pull, it slipped away from
me.  And on top of this the heifer was giving me hell with her
expulsive efforts, trapping my hand painfully between the calf's head
and the pelvic bones.

With all my soul I wished that my arm had been a few inches longer.  If
only I could get my fingers beyond the smooth wall of the hoof and
grasp the hairy leg, the job would be over in minutes, but this was
what I had been trying to do for that long hour and my arm was becoming
paralysed and useless.

In these situations I would often get a big farm lad to strip off and
try to reach inaccessible places for me, but Mr.  Kilding and his son
were stocky, short-armed chaps--they wouldn't get as far as I had.

Suddenly I remembered something.  Calum was doing a tuberculin test on
a farm less than a mile away.  If I could get hold of him, my troubles
would be over because among his many attributes Calum had very long
arms.

"Mr.  Kilding," I said, "would you phone the Ellertons and ask Mr.
Buchanan to come round and give me a hand?  I'm afraid I need a bit of
help."

"Buchanan?  Vet wit' badger

I smiled.  Calum was known as such not only in our own practice but for
many miles beyond.  "Yes, that's the man."

The farmer hurried off and returned quickly.  "Aye, he's just finished
the test.  Says 'e'll be round in a minute or two."  He was a nice man,
and wasn't complaining at my long, unproductive rolling about on his
byre floor, but he couldn't hide his anxiety.  "I 'ope you'll be able
to do sum mat Mr.  Herriot, I've been really lookin' forward to getting
this calf."

As he spoke, Calum strode into the byre.  He looked down at the
prostrate animal and grinned.  "Having a little trouble, Jim?"  His
manner, as always, was breezy.

I explained the situation and he quickly whipped off his shirt.  We lay
down together on those cobbles, which had been getting steadily harder.
I inserted my left arm until I could feel the calf's muzzle against the
palm of my hand and Calum pushed in his right arm alongside mine.

"Right," I said, "I'll push the head back while you try to get hold of
that foot."

"Okay," he replied.  "Fire away."

I pushed and just as the head moved away, making the vital room we
needed, the heifer gave a mighty strain and pushed it back at me. Calum
yelped as his fingers were trapped.  "Ouch, that hurt!  You'll have to
do a bit better than that."

I gritted my teeth and tried again, bracing my arm desperately against
the heifer's expulsive efforts.

"I'm nearly there," grunted Calum.  "Nearly ... nearly ... push, you're
not pushing!"

"I am pushing, dammit!"  I gasped.  "But she's stronger than I am, and
I've been doing this for an hour, you know.  My arm's like
spaghetti."

We tried again, several times, groaning and panting, then Calum let his
head slump onto his shoulder.  "I know.  Let's have a rest for a few
seconds."

I was all for that and I relaxed, feeling the calf's rough tongue
licking at my palm.  He was still alive, anyway.

As we lay there, practically cheek to cheek, arms still inside the
heifer, my colleague put on a bright smile.  "Well, now, what shall we
talk about while we're resting?"

I didn't feel like light conversation, but I tried to fall in with his
sally.  "Oh, I don't know.  Have you any interesting news?"

"Well, yes.  As a matter of fact, I have.  I'm going to get married."

"What!"

"I said I'm going to get married."

"Oh, you're joking!"

"No, I assure you.  I am."

"When?"

"Next week."

"Well ... well ... Anybody I know?"

"No, no.  Girl who works in the surgery department at the London
College.  I met her there while I was taking the course."

I lay there, thunderstruck.  I found it difficult to take in.  I had
never imagined that a chap like Calum would ever entertain dreams of
domestic bliss.  I was still trying to sort out my thoughts when he
brought me back to reality.  "Come on, let's have another go."

And it seemed as though the shock to my system had brought a surge of
adrenaline with it, because this time I gave a great, pop-eyed heave
and was able to hold the head back till I heard Calum's triumphant cry,
"I've got it!"

And having got it he wasn't going to let go.  Eyes closed, teeth bared,
he pulled until the elusive foot appeared at the vulva.  His sweating
face broke into a delighted grin.  "That's a lovely sight!"

It was indeed.  We had two legs and a head now, although nearly
everything was still inside.  I slapped the heifer's rump.  "Come on,
old girl.  This is when we need you.  You can push as much as you like
now."

As if in reply, the heifer gave us enthusiastic help as we pulled on
the legs and soon the muzzle appeared, nostrils twitching, the big,
wide brow and the eyes--which, I imagined, held a glimmer of
disapproval at the delay-then the rest of the head and body till we had
a fine calf wriggling on the straw.

I felt good--I always did, but on this occasion something else was
crowding in my mind--Calum's bombshell about his impending nuptials.

I could hardly wait to see what kind of girl Calum would bring back. He
was such an unusual chap, with ideas far different from the ordinary
man, that the new woman could be anything-plain, eccentric, fat,
skinny--my mind played restlessly with the possibilities.

I was put out of my pain quite soon.  I opened the sitting room door
one afternoon and my young colleague was there with a girl at his side.
"This is Dierdre," he said.

She was quite tall, and the first words that came to me were "kind" and
"motherly."  But I would like to banish any thought that being kind and
motherly meant that she wasn't attractive.  Dierdre was very attractive
indeed and now, nearly forty years later, when I think of her wonderful
family of six young Buchanans I feel I deserve full marks for
intuition.

As we shook hands, her smile was wide and warm, her voice gentle, and
it struck me that Calum had done it again--with all his funny ways he
seemed to get the fundamental things right, and now, when it came to
choosing a wife, he had found the kind of girl any young man would be
glad to see first thing every morning.

Any notion we may have harboured of celebrating an exciting wedding was
soon quashed, and in a way that I realised was typical of them.  They
slipped away quietly to Keeler church and the ceremony was carried out
there without fuss.

I have never in my travels through Britain seen anything quite like
Keeler.  It is an ancient church of great beauty built by the Normans
around 1100, standing quite alone among surrounding fields.  There is a
farm nearby but the nearest village is two miles away.  It is on the
borders of our practice area, but it can be clearly seen from the main
road, and whenever I drive past I always slow down to look yet again at
that lovely building, solitary among the fields with the hills rising
behind.  To me, it is a romantic, thrilling sight.

Throughout the centuries, services have been conducted regularly there
with a small congregation drawn from the surrounding farms and nearby
villages, so that the church has been preserved in all its glory.  Its
beauty is a stark beauty of massive stone with nothing like the
traceried battlements and buttresses of Darrowby's splendid church,
which is famed to such an extent that it is often referred to as a
little cathedral.  Helen and I were married there and have never ceased
to be enthralled by its sheer magnificence.

However, Calum and Dierdre went to Keeler in its wild and lonely
setting and I could understand that its appeal would reach out to them.
There was a brief honeymoon and that was all.

Whenever I pass the old church standing in its solitary dignity,
looking over the empty fields and the long line of hills as it has done
for nine centuries, I think again how fitting it was that those young
Buchanans should pledge their future life within its walls.

I had the good feeling that Dierdre would add the woman's touch to
Calum's flat--introduce a little more comfort in the way of her own
individual furniture and decorations--but it was not to be.  Dierdre
didn't care any more about that side of life than Calum--her interests
were all outside.  Like his, in the creatures, the plants and flowers
of north Yorkshire.

The flat stayed spartan--no chintz covers on the furniture or anything
like that--but she seemed perfectly happy as she padded around up
there, very often in slacks and bare feet, her mind completely in tune
with her new husband's.

When they had time off together they spent it in rambling and
observation in the woods and hills, and if Calum's work prevented him
from doing something important in his world of exploration Dierdre
would happily stand in for him.  I saw an example of this one balmy
summer evening around dusk when I had to send the young man to a
call.

"Calum," I said, "there's a colic at Steve Holdsworth's--will you get
there as soon as you can?"

"Certainly," he replied.  "Just give me a few minutes to put Dierdre up
a tree and then I'll be on my way."

Chapter 39

It was around the time when Calum's third badger arrived that an
uncanny sense of the inevitable began to settle on me.

The new badger was called Bill and Calum didn't say much about his
unheralded advent.  He did mention it in an off-hand way to me, but
prudently failed to take Siegfried into his confidence.  I think he
realised that there wasn't much point in upsetting my partner
further--it seemed only reasonable to assume that Siegfried was getting
a little punch-drunk with the assorted creatures milling around and
wouldn't even notice.

I was discussing the day's work with my colleagues in the doorway of
the dispensary when Siegfried ducked his head.  "What the hell was
that?"  he exclaimed as a large feathery body whizzed past, just
missing our heads.

"Oh, it's Calum's owl," I said.

Siegfried stared at me.  "That owl?  I thought it was supposed to be
ill."  He turned to our assistant.  "Calum, what's that owl doing here?
You brought it in days ago and it looks fit enough now, so get it back
where it came from.  I like birds, as you know, but not rocketing round
in our surgery like bloody eagles--could frighten the life out of the
clients."

The young man nodded.  "Yes ... yes ... she's almost recovered.  I
expect to take her back to the wood very soon."  He pocketed his list
of visits and left.

I didn't say anything, but it seemed certain to me that once Calum had
got his hands on an owl of his very own he wasn't going to part with it
in a hurry.  I foresaw some uncomfortable incidents.

"And listen to those fox cubs!"  Siegfried went on.  "What a racket
they're making!"  The yapping, snarling and barking echoed along the
passage from the back of the house.  There was no doubt they were noisy
little things.  "What does Calum want them in here for?"

"I'm not sure ... he did say something, but I can't quite recall ..."

"Well," Siegfried grunted, "I just hope he'll remove them as soon as
the problem is over.  It's like living in a bloody zoo."

Later in the day, Siegfried and I were setting a dog's fractured radius
when Calum walked into the operating room.  Marilyn, as usual, was on
his shoulder, but today she had company; seated comfortably in the
crook of the young man's arm was a little monkey.

Siegfried looked up from his work.  He stopped winding the plaster of
Paris bandage and his mouth fell open.  "Oh, my God, no!  This is too
much!  Not a bloody monkey now!"

"Yes," replied Calum with a pleased smile.  "His name is Mortimer."

"Never mind his name!  What the hell is he doing here?"

"Oh, don't worry, this isn't a pet--in a way, he's a patient."

Siegfried's eyes narrowed.  "What do you mean--in a way?  Is he ill?"

"Well, not exactly ... Diana Thurston has asked me to look after him
while she's away on holiday."

"And you said yes, of course!  No hesitation!  That's just what we need
here--bloody monkeys roaming the place on top of everything else!"

Calum looked at him gravely.  "Well, you know, I was in a difficult
position.  Colonel Thurston is a very nice man and one of our biggest
clients--large farm, hunting horses and umpteen dogs.  I couldn't very
well refuse."

My partner recommenced his winding.  The plaster was setting and I
could see he wanted time to think.  "Well, I see your point," he said
after a few moments.  "It wouldn't have looked so good."  He glanced up
at Calum.  "But it's definitely just while Diana's on holiday?"

"Oh, absolutely, I promise you."  The young man nodded vigorously.
"She's devoted to the little chap and she'll pick him up as soon as she
returns."

"Oh, well, I suppose it'll be all right."  Siegfried shot a hunted look
at the monkey, which, open-mouthed, teeth bared and chattering, was
apparently laughing at him.

We lifted the sleeping dog from the table and carried him to one of the
recovery kennels.  My partner seemed indisposed to speak and I didn't
break the silence.  I had no desire to discuss Calum's latest
acquisition because I happened to know that Diana Thurston wasn't just
going to Scarborough for a fortnight--she was off to Australia for six
months.

I had a call that evening and went to the surgery for extra drugs.  As
I walked along the passage, I could hear a babel of animal sounds from
the end of the house, and on opening the door to the back room I found
Calum among his friends.  The three badgers were nosing around the food
bowls, the owl flapped lazily onto a high shelf.  Storm, vast and
amiable, waved his tail in welcome, while the Dobermanns regarded me
contemplatively.  Mortimer the monkey, clearly already under Calum's
spell, leaped from a table into the young man's arms and grinned at me.
In a corner the fox cubs kept up their strange yapping and growling and
I noticed two cages containing a couple of rabbits and a
hare-apparently new arrivals.

Looking round the room, I realised that Siegfried had been right from
the very beginning.  The menagerie was now firmly installed.  And as I
opened the door to leave, I wondered just how big it was going to
grow.

I had stepped into the passage when Calum turned from the table, where
he was stirring some nameless comestible in a large bowl.

"Before you go, Jim, I've got some good news!"  he cried.

"Oh, what's that?"

He pointed to one of the Dobermanns.  "Anna's having pups next
month!"

Chapter 40

As I got out of my car to open the gate to the farm, I looked with
interest at the odd-looking structure on the grass verge standing in
the shelter of the dry-stone wall and overlooking the valley.  It
seemed as though sheets of tarpaulin had been stretched over metal
hoops to make some kind of shelter.  It was like a big black igloo, but
for what?

As I wondered, the sacking at the front parted and a tall,
white-bearded man emerged.  He straightened up, looked around him,
dusted down his ancient frock coat and donned the kind of high-crowned
bowler hat that was popular in Victorian times.  He seemed oblivious of
my presence as he stood, breathing deeply, gazing at the heathery
fell-side that dropped away from the roadside to the beck far below,
then after a few moments he turned to me and raised his hat gravely.

"Good morning to you," he murmured in the kind of voice that could have
belonged to an archbishop.

"Morning," I replied, fighting with my surprise.  "Lovely day."

His fine features relaxed in a smile.  "Yes, yes, it is indeed."  Then
he bent and pulled the sacking apart.  "Come, Emily."

As I stared, a little cat tripped out with dainty steps, and as she
stretched luxuriantly the man attached a leash to the collar round her
neck.  He turned to me and raised his hat again.  "Good day to you."
Then man and cat set off at a leisurely pace towards the village whose
church tower was just visible a couple of miles down the road.

I took my time over opening the gate as I watched the dwindling
figures.  I felt almost as though I were seeing an apparition.  I was
out of my usual territory, because a faithful client, Eddy Carless, had
taken this farm almost twenty miles away from Darrowby and had paid us
the compliment of asking our practice if we would still do his work. We
had said yes even though it would be inconvenient to travel so far,
especially in the middle of the night.

The farm lay two fields back from the road and as I drew up in the yard
I saw Eddy coming down the granary steps.

"Eddy," I said.  "I've just seen something very strange."

He laughed.  "You don't have to tell me.  You've seen Eugene."

"Eugene?"

"That's right.  Eugene Ireson.  He lives there."

"What!"

"It's true--that's 'is house.  He built it himself two years ago and
took up residence.  This used to be me dad's farm, as you know, and he
used to tell me about 'im.  He came from nowhere and settled in that
funny place with 'is cat and he's never moved since."

"I wouldn't have thought he would be allowed to set up house on the
grass verge."

"No, neither would I, but nobody seems to have bothered 'im.  And I'll
tell you another funny thing.  He's an educated man and the brother of
Cornelius Ireson."

"Cornelius Ireson, the industrialist?"

"The very same.  The multimillionaire.  Lives in that estate you pass
about five miles along the Brawton road.  You'll have seen the big
lodge at the gates."

"Yes ... I know it ... but how ...?"

"Nobody knows the whole story, but it seems Cornelius inherited
everything and his brother got nowt.  They say that Eugene has
travelled the world, living rough in wild countries and havin' all
kinds of adventures, but wherever he's been he's come back to north
Yorkshire."

"But why does he live in that strange erection?"

"It's a mystery.  I do know he has nowt to do with 'is brother and vice
versa and anyway 'e seems happy and content down there.  Me dad was
very fond of 'im and the old chap used to come up to the farm for the
odd meal and a bath.  Still does, but he's very independent.  Doesn't
sponge on anybody.  Goes down to the village regularly for his food and
'is pension."

"And always with his cat?"

"Aye."  Eddy laughed again.  "Allus with his cat."

We went into the buildings to start the tuberculin test, but as I
clipped and measured and injected over and over again I couldn't rid my
mind of the memory of that odd twosome.

When I drew up at the farm gate three days later to read the tuberculin
test, Mr.  Ireson was sitting on a wicker chair in the sunshine,
reading, with his cat on his lap.

When I got out of the car, he raised his hat as before.  "Good
afternoon.  A very pleasant day."

"Yes, it certainly is."  As I spoke, Emily hopped down and stalked over
the grass to greet me, and as I tickled her under the chin she arched
and purred round my legs.

"What a lovely little thing!"  I said.

The old man's manner moved from courtesy to something more.  "You like
cats?"

"Yes, I do.  I've always liked them."  As I continued my stroking, then
gave her tail a playful tug, the pretty tabby face looked up at me and
the purring rose to a crescendo.

"Well, Emily seems to have taken to you remarkably.  I've never seen
her so demonstrative."

I laughed.  "She knows how I feel.  Cats always know--they are very
wise animals."

Mr.  Ireson beamed his agreement.  "I saw you the other day, didn't I?
You have some business with Mr.  Carless?"

"Yes, I'm his vet."

"Aah ... I see.  So you are a veterinary surgeon and you approve of my
Emily."

"I couldn't do anything else.  She's beautiful."

The old man seemed to swell with gratification.  "How very kind of
you."  He hesitated.  "I wonder, Mr.... er ..."

"Herriot."

"Ah, yes, I wonder, Mr.  Herriot, if, when you have concluded your
business with Mr.  Carless, you would care to join me in a cup of
tea."

"I'd love to.  I'll be finished in less than an hour."

"Splendid, splendid.  I look forward to seeing you then."

Eddy had a clear test.  No reactors, not even a doubtful.  I entered
the particulars in my testing book and hurried back down the farm
road.

Mr.  Ireson was waiting by the gate.  "It is a little chilly now," he
said.  "I think we'd better go inside."  He led me over to the igloo,
drew back the sacks and ushered me through with old-world grace.

"Do sit down," he murmured, waving me to what looked like a one-time
automobile seat in tattered leather while he sank down on the wicker
chair I had seen outside.

As he arranged two mugs, then reached for the kettle from a Primus
stove and began to pour, I took in the contents of the interior.  There
was a camp-bed, a bulging rucksack, a row of books, a tilly lamp, a low
cupboard and a basket in which Emily was ensconced.

"Milk and sugar, Mr.  Herriot?"  The old man inclined his head
gracefully.  "Ah, no sugar.  I have some buns here, do have one.  There
is an excellent little bakery down in the village and I am a regular
customer."

I bit into the bun, sipped the tea and stole a look at the row of
books.  Every one was poetry.  Blake, Swinburne, Longfellow, Whitman,
all worn and frayed with reading.

"You like poetry?"  I said.

He smiled.  "Ah, yes.  I do read other things--the van comes up here
from the public library every week--but I always come back to my old
friends, particularly this one."  He held up the dog-eared volume he
had been reading earlier.  The Poems of Robert W. Service.

"You like that one, eh?"

"Yes.  I think Service is my favourite.  Not classical stuff perhaps,
but his verses strike something very deep in me."  He gazed at the
book, then his eyes looked beyond me into somewhere only he knew.  I
wondered then if Alaska and the wild Yukon territory might have been
the scene of his wanderings, and for a moment I hoped he might be going
to tell me something about his past, but it seemed he didn't want to
talk about that.  He wanted to talk about his cat.

"It is the most extraordinary thing, Mr.  Herriot.  I have lived on my
own all my life but I have never felt lonely, but I know now that I
would be desperately lonely without Emily.  Does that sound foolish to
you?"

"Not at all.  Possibly it's because you haven't had a pet before.  Have
you?"

"No, I haven't.  Never seemed to have stayed still long enough.  I am
fond of animals and there have been times when I felt I would like to
own a dog, but never a cat.  I have heard so often that cats do not
dispense affection, that they are self-sufficient and never become
really fond of anybody.  Do you agree with that?"

"Of course not.  It's absolute nonsense.  Cats have a character of
their own, but I've treated hundreds of friendly, affectionate cats who
are faithful friends to their owners."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, because I flatter myself that this
little creature is really attached to me."  He looked down at Emily,
who had jumped onto his lap, and gently patted her head.

"That's easy to see," I said, and the old man smiled his pleasure.

"You know, Mr.  Herriot," he went on, "when I first settled here"--he
waved a hand round his dwelling as if it were a drawing room in a
multi-ac red mansion--"I had no reason to think that I wouldn't
continue to live the solitary life that I was accustomed to, but one
day this little animal walked in from nowhere as though she had been
invited and my whole existence changed."

I laughed.  "She adopted you.  Cats do that.  And it was a lucky day
for you."

"Yes ... yes ... how very true.  You seem to understand these things so
well, Mr.  Herriot.  Now do let me top up your cup."

It was the first of many visits to Mr.  Ireson in his strange dwelling.
I never went to the Carless farm without looking in through the sacks,
and if Eugene was in residence we had a cup of tea and a chat.  We
talked about many things--books, the political situation, natural
history of which he had a deep knowledge, but the conversation always
got round to cats.  He wanted to know everything about their care and
feeding, habits and diseases.  While I was agog to hear about his world
travels, which he referred to only in the vaguest terms, he would
listen with the wide-eyed interest of a child to my veterinary
experiences.

It was during one of these sessions that I raised the question of Emily
in particular.

"I notice she is either in here or on the lead with you, but does she
ever go wandering outside by herself?"

"Well, yes ... now that you mention it.  Just lately she has done so.
She only goes up to the farm--I make sure she does not stray along the
road where she may be knocked down."

"I didn't mean that, Mr.  Ireson.  What I was thinking about was that
there are several male cats up there at the farm.  She could easily
become pregnant."

He sat up suddenly in his chair.  "Good heavens, yes!  I never thought
of that--how foolish of me.  I'd better try to keep her inside."

"Very difficult," I said.  "It would be much better to have her
spayed."

"Eh?"

"To let me do a hysterectomy.  Remove the uterus and ovaries.  Then
she'd be safe--you couldn't do with a lot of kittens in here, could
you?"

"No ... no ... of course not.  But an operation ..."  He stared at me
with frightened eyes.  "There would be an element of danger ..."

"No, no," I said as briskly as I could.  "It's quite a simple
procedure.  We do lots of them."

His normal urbanity had fallen away from him.  From the beginning he
had struck me as a man who had seen so many things in life that nothing
would disturb his serenity, but he seemed to shrink within himself.  He
slowly stroked the little cat, seated, as usual, on his lap, then he
reached down to a black leather volume with faded gold lettering, the
Works of Shakespeare, that he had been reading when I arrived.  He
placed a marker in the book and closed it before putting it carefully
on the shelf.

"I really don't know what to say, Mr.  Herriot."

I gave him an encouraging smile.  "There's nothing to worry about.  I
strongly advise it.  If I could just describe the operation, I'm sure
it would put your mind at rest.  It's really keyhole surgery--we make
only a tiny incision and bring the ovaries and uterus through and
ligate the stump ..."

I dried up hurriedly because the old man closed his eyes and swayed so
far to one side that I thought he would fall off the wicker chair.  It
wasn't the first time that one of my explanatory surgical vignettes had
had an undesirable effect and I altered my tactics.

I laughed loudly and patted him on the knee.  "So, you see, it's
nothing--nothing at all."

He opened his eyes and drew a long, quavering breath.  "Yes ... yes ...
I'm sure you're right.  But you must give me a little time to think.
This has come on me so suddenly."

"All right, Eddy Carless will give me a ring for you.  But don't be too
long."

I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear from the old man.  The whole idea
obviously terrified him and it was over a month before I saw him
again.

I pushed my head through the sacks.  He was sitting in his usual chair,
peeling potatoes, and he looked at me with serious eyes.

"Ah, Mr.  Herriot.  Come and sit down.  I've been going to get in touch
with you--I'm so glad you've called."  He threw back his head with an
air of resolution.  "I have decided to take your advice about Emily.
You may carry out the operation when you think fit."  But his voice
trembled as he spoke.

"Oh, that's splendid!"  I said cheerfully.  "I've got a cat basket in
the car, so I can take her straight away."

I tried not to look at his stricken face as the cat jumped onto my
knee.  "Well, Emily.  You're coming with me."  Then as I looked at the
little animal I hesitated.  Was it my imagination or was there a
significant bulge in her abdomen?

"Just a moment," I murmured as I palpated the little body, then I
looked up at the old man.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Ireson, but it's a bit late.  She's pregnant."

His mouth opened, but no words came, then he swallowed and spoke in a
hoarse whisper.  "But ... but what are we going to do?"

"Nothing, nothing, don't worry.  She'll have the kittens, that's all,
and I'll find homes for them.  Everything will be fine."  I was putting
on my breeziest act, but it didn't seem to help.

"But Mr.  Herriot, I don't know anything about these things.  I do feel
terribly worried.  She could die giving birth--she's so tiny!"

"No, no, not at all.  Cats very rarely have any trouble that way.  I
tell you what--when she starts having the kittens, probably around a
month from now, get Eddy to give me a ring.  I'll slip out here and see
that all is well.  How's that?"

"Oh, you are kind, I feel so silly about this.  The trouble is ... she
means so much to me."

"I know, and stop worrying.  Everything will be absolutely okay."

We had a cup of tea together and by the time I left he had calmed
down.

The next time I saw him was under unimagined circumstances.

It was about two weeks later and I was attending the annual dinner of
the local Agricultural Society.  It was a formal affair and the company
consisted of an assortment of farmers, big landowners, and Ministry of
Agriculture officials.  I wouldn't have been there, but for my
elevation to the Milk Sub-Committee.

I was having a pre prandial drink with one of my clients when I almost
choked in mid-swallow.  "Good heavens!  Mr.  Ireson!"  I exclaimed,
pointing to the tall, white-bearded figure, immaculate in white tie and
tails, standing among a group at the far end of the room.  The usually
untidy bush of silver hair was sleeked back and shining over his ears
and, glass in hand and commanding, he was rapping out his words to the
group, who were nodding deferentially.

"I can't believe it!"  I burst out again.

"Oh, it's him, all right," my friend grunted.  "Miserable bugger!"

"What!"

"Aye, he's a right old sod!  He'd skin 'is own grandmother."

"Well, that's funny.  I haven't known him long, but I like him.  I like
him very much."

The farmer raised his eyebrows.  "I reckon you're about the only one as
does," he muttered sourly.  "He's the hardest bugger I've ever
known."

I shook my head in bewilderment.  "I can't understand this.  And those
clothes--where the heck did he get them?  I've only seen him in his
roadside hut and he seems to have no more than the bare essentials."

"Hey, wait a minute!"  The farmer laughed and punched me in the chest.
"Now I get it.  You're talkin' about his brother, old Eugene.  That's
Cornelius over there!"

"My God, how amazing!  The likeness is incredible.  Are they twins?"

"Nay, there's two years between them, but as you say, you can hardly
tell 'em apart."

As though he knew we were discussing him, the tall man turned towards
us.  The face was almost Eugene's, but where there had been gentleness
there was aggression, where there had been softness and serenity there
was a fierce arrogance.  I had only a chilling glimpse before he turned
away and began to harangue his companions again.  It was an uncanny
experience and I continued to stare at the group until my friend broke
in on my thoughts.

"Aye, a lot of people have made that mistake, but they're only alike in
appearance.  You couldn't find two people more different in character.
Eugene's a grand old lad, but as for that bugger--I've never seen 'im
smile."

"Do you know Eugene?"

"As well as most people, I reckon.  I'm nearly as old as him and my
farm's on the Ireson estate.  Cornelius was left everything when the
father died, but I don't think Eugene would've been interested in
running the textile empire and the estate.  He was a dreamer and a
wanderer-kind and friendly, but somehow unworldly.  Money or social
position meant nothing to him.  Went to Oxford, you know, but soon
after that he took off and nobody knew if he was alive or dead for
years."

"And now he's back in that little place by the roadside."

"Aye, it's a rum 'un, isn't it?"

It was a rum 'un indeed--one of the strangest stories I'd ever heard,
and it was never far from my mind over the following weeks.  I kept
wondering how the old man and his cat were getting on in that igloo,
and if the kittens had arrived yet.  But they couldn't have--I was sure
he would have let me know.

I did hear from him at last one stormy evening.

"Mr.  Herriot, I am telephoning from the farm.  Emily has not yet
produced those kittens, but she is ... very large and has lain
trembling all day and won't eat anything.  I had to trouble you on this
horrible night but I know nothing about these things and she does look
... most unhappy."

I didn't like the sound of that, but I tried to sound casual.  "I think
I'll just pop out and have a look at her, Mr.  Ireson."

"Really--are you sure?"

"Absolutely.  No bother.  I'll see you soon."

It was a strange, almost unreal scene as I stumbled through the
darkness and parted the sacks forty minutes later.  The wind and rain
buffeted the tarpaulin walls and by the flickering light of the tilly
lamp I saw Eugene in his chair, stroking Emily, who lay in the basket
by his side.

The little cat had swollen enormously, so much as to be almost
unrecognisable, and as I kneeled and passed my hand over the distended
abdomen I could feel the skin stretched tight.  She was absolutely
bursting full of kittens, but seemed lifeless and exhausted.  She was
straining, too, and licking at her vulva.

I looked up at the old man.  "Have you some hot water, Mr.  Ireson?"

"Yes, yes, the kettle has just boiled."

I soaped my little finger.  It would only just go into the tiny vagina.
Inside I found the cervix wide open and a mass beyond, only just
palpable.  Heaven only knew how many kittens were jammed in there, but
one thing was certain.  There was no way they could ever come out.
There was no room for manoeuvre.  There was nothing I could do.  Emily
turned her face to me and gave a faint miaow of distress, and it came
to me piercingly that this cat could die.

"Mr.  Ireson," I said.  "I'll have to take her away immediately."

"Take her away?"  he said in a bewildered whisper.

"Yes.  She needs a Caesarean operation.  The kittens can't come out in
the normal way."

Upright in his chair, he nodded, shocked and only half comprehending. I
grabbed the basket, Emily and all, and rushed out into the darkness.
Then, as I thought of the old man looking blankly after me, I realised
that my bedside manner had slipped badly.  I pushed my head back
through the sacks.

"Don't worry, Mr.  Ireson," I said.  "Everything's going to be fine."

Don't worry!  Brave words.  As I parked Emily on the back seat and
drove away I knew I was damn worried, and I cursed the mocking fate
that had decreed that after all my airy remarks about cats effortlessly
giving birth I might be headed for a tragedy.  How long had Emily been
lying like that?  Ruptured uterus?  Septicaemia?  The grim
possibilities raced through my mind.  And why did it have to happen to
that solitary old man, of all people?

I stopped at the village kiosk and rang Siegfried.

"I've just left old Eugene Ireson.  Will you come in and give me a
hand?  Cat Caesar and it's urgent.  Sorry to bother you on your night
off."

"Perfectly all right, James, I'm not doing a thing.  See you in about
half an hour, eh?"

When I got to the surgery Siegfried had the steriliser bubbling and
everything laid out.  "This is your party, James," he murmured.  "I'll
do the anaesthetic."  I had shaved the site of the operation and had
poised my scalpel over the grossly swollen abdomen when he whistled
softly.  "My God," he said.  "It's like opening an abscess!"

That was exactly what it was like.  I felt that if I made an incision
the mass of kittens would explode out in my face and indeed, as I
proceeded with the lightest touch through skin and muscle, the laden
uterus bulged out alarmingly.

"Hell!"  I breathed.  "How many are in here?"

"A fairish number!"  said my partner.  "And she's such a tiny cat."

Gingerly, I opened the peritoneum, which to my relief looked clean and
healthy, then, as I went on, I waited for the jumble of little heads
and feet to appear.  But with increasing wonderment I watched my
incision travel along a massive, coal-black back and when I finally
hooked my finger round the neck, drew forth a kitten and laid it on the
table, I found that the uterus was empty.

"There's only one!"  I gasped.  "Would you believe it?"

Siegfried laughed.  "Yes, but what a whopper!  And alive, too."  He
lifted the kitten and took a closer look.  "A whacking great tom--he's
nearly as big as his mother!"

As I stitched up and gave the sleeping Emily a shot of penicillin I
felt the tension flow away from me in happy waves.  The little cat was
in good shape.  My fears had been groundless.  It would be best to
leave the kitten with her for a few weeks, then I'd be able to find a
home for him.

"Thanks a lot for coming in, Siegfried," I said.  "It looked like a
very dodgy situation at first."

I could hardly wait to get back to the old man who, I knew, would still
be in a state of shock at my taking away his beloved cat.  In fact,
when I passed through the sacking doorway, it looked as though he
hadn't moved since I last saw him.  He wasn't reading, wasn't doing
anything except staring ahead from his chair.

When I put the basket down by his side he turned slowly and looked down
wonderingly at Emily, who was coming round from the anaesthetic and
beginning to raise her head, and at the black newcomer who was already
finding his private array of teats interesting.

"She's going to be fine, Mr.  Ireson," I said, and he nodded slowly.

"How wonderful.  How simply wonderful," he murmured.

When I went to take out the stitches ten days later, I found a carnival
atmosphere in the igloo.  Old Eugene was beside himself with delight,
while Emily, stretched in the back with her enormous offspring sucking
busily, looked up at me with an expression of pride that bordered on
the smug.

"I think we ought to have a celebratory cup of tea and one of my
favourite buns," the old man said.

As the kettle boiled he drew a finger along the kitten's body.  "He's a
handsome fellow, isn't he?"

"He certainly is.  He'll grow up into a beautiful cat."

Eugene smiled.  "Yes.  I'm sure he will, and it will be so nice to have
him with Emily."

I paused as he handed me a bun.  "But just a minute, Mr.  Ireson.  You
really can't do with two cats here."

"Really?  Why not?"

"Well, you take Emily into the village on a lead most days.  You'd have
difficulty on the road with two cats, and anyway you don't have room in
here, do you?"

He didn't say anything, so I pressed on.  "Anyway, a lady was asking me
the other day if I could find her a black kitten.  So many people ask
us to find a specific pet for them, often to replace an older animal
that has just died, and we always seem to have trouble obliging them,
but this time I was able to say I knew the very one."

He nodded slowly, and then after a moment's cogitation, said, "I'm sure
you're right, Mr.  Herriot.  I hadn't really thought about it
enough."

"Anyway," I said, "she's a very nice lady and a real cat lover.  He'll
have a very good home.  He'll live like a little sultan with her."

He laughed.  "Good ... good ... and maybe I'll hear about him now and
then?"

"Absolutely.  I'll keep you posted regularly."  I could see I had got
over the hurdle nicely and I thought I'd change the subject.  "By the
way, I saw your brother for the first time."

"Cornelius?"  He looked at me expressionlessly.  We had never mentioned
the subject before.  "And what did you think of him?"

"Well ... he didn't look very happy."

"He wouldn't.  He is not a happy man."

"That's the impression I got.  And yet he's got so much."

The old man smiled gently.  "Yes, but there are so many things he
hasn't got."

I took a sip at my tea.  "That's right.  For instance, he hasn't got
Emily!"

"Very true!  In fact, I was about to say that but I thought you might
think me silly."  He threw back his head and laughed.  A merry, boyish
laugh.  "Yes, I have Emily, the all-important thing!  I'm so glad we
agree about that.  Come now, do have another bun."

Chapter 41

"Ooh!  Aaah!  Oooh!  Ya bugger, 'erriot!  What the hell 'ave ye done?"
Nat Briggs staggered round the calf pen clutching his left buttock, and
glaring at me in fury.

"Sorry, Nat," I said, holding up the syringe loaded with Strain 19
abortion vaccine.  "I'm afraid you fell right onto my needle."

"Fell on?  You stuck the bloody thing right up me arse, that's what you
mean!"  He was a big man with a habitually glowering expression, but at
the moment he looked positively murderous.  He had been holding the
calf's head as I was about to make the injection and the animal had
swung round at the wrong moment.

I tried a placatory smile.  "No, really, Nat.  It was just a little
prick."

"Don't give me that!"  The big man arched his back, kneaded his buttock
and groaned.  "Ah felt it go right in!"

His rage was not allayed by the peals of merriment from his comrades,
Ray and Phil.  The three were long-time workers on Sir Eustace
Lamburn's farm and we knew each other well, but Nat was the odd man
out.  The other two were always cheerful and ready for a joke but Nat
was surly and seemed to carry a permanent chip on his shoulder.

A lot of my work consisted of preventive injections, and in the many
wrestling matches with beasts packed in pens or down passages, my
needles did occasionally score a bull's-eye in human rather than animal
flesh.  The most common victim was myself because my patients rarely
stood still, and with one hand pinching the skin and the other poising
the syringe an inch away, it was the easiest thing in the world to
pierce my hand.  The vet coming to grief either in this way or by
getting his toes stood on was invariably good for a laugh and there was
always an outburst of hilarity as I yelped and hopped around, but
having it happen to the dour Nat was nearly as good, especially as I
had found my target in his backside.

"Aye, ye can laugh," snarled the big man, "but what's goin' to happen
now?  Ah've had a bloody dose of that abortion stuff, and what's that
goin' to do to me?"

"You're not in calf, are ye, Nat, lad?"  giggled Phil.  "They say that
vaccine's only dangerous to pregnant cows, but ah can't see you
slippin' your calf."  There was another eruption of mirth from the
two.

Briggs stuck out his jaw.  "It's aw right you talkin' but that's mucky
stuff.  It could do sum mat inside me."

"Look, Nat," I said.  "You haven't had a dose of anything."  I held up
the syringe showing the full 5-3.c. dose within.  "You've just had a
prick from the needle.  You might be a bit sore and I do apologise, but
it can't do you any harm."

"That's what you say, 'erriot, but we'll see.  Any road, I'm keepin'
clear of you.  Somebody else can hold the rest of the buggers."

Ray clapped him on the shoulder.  "Never mind, Nat.  You've just got
married, so you'll be well looked after.  Your new missus'll get you a
cushion whenever you want to sit down."

There was no doubt that the little accident made the day for Phil and
Ray, but for a long time afterwards I had to suffer complaints from
their cantankerous colleague every time I visited the Lamburn farm.  It
transpired that the buttock had swelled up and remained painful for a
long time, causing immense inconvenience, but I was sure the rigmarole
was exaggerated and I paid little attention until one day a vastly more
serious charge was laid at my door.

Nat Briggs pushed his irascible face close to mine.  "Ahim goin' to
tell that sum mat 'erriot.  You've stopped me ever havin' a family."

"What!"

"Aye, ahim not jokin'.  Missus and me have been trying for a long time
but there's no sign of anything happening'.  The doctor doesn't know
why, but ah do!  It's your bloody injection!"

"Oh, come on, Nat, that's ridiculous.  How could that little accident
possibly have such an effect?"

"How could it?  Ah'll tell you!  That bloody stuff you injected into me
was to do with abortion and breedin' and all that sort o' thing.  It
stands to reason that you've stopped me ever havin' kids!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I pleaded and expostulated, but
the man was in deadly earnest.  I had ruined his life and he'd never
forgive me.

His mates didn't help.

"Don't listen to 'im, Mr.  Herriot," cried Ray.  "He can't do it
properly--he's only makin' excuses."  Followed by more laughter.

Despite the jocularity I found the thing upsetting, because it wasn't
only on the farm that I had trouble.  I never knew when I was going to
run into the man.  I received dirty looks from Briggs in Darrowby
market-place, and in the evenings when I was sipping a soothing beer in
some country inn it shattered my peace when I found that disapproving
gaze trained on me.

Over many months my visits to the Lamburn farm were uncomfortable.  The
leg-pulling had stopped, but I sensed at all times the hostility from
Briggs.  He rarely mentioned the matter, but the thing was accepted
between us.  I was responsible for his permanent sterility and that was
that.

A long time after the abortion incident I was back on the farm treating
a batch of beasts with pneumonia.  It was the usual rodeo with about
twenty strong young cattle packed in a penned-off corner of the fold
yard.  I was poising my syringe charged with antibiotic as the men
squeezed their way among the crush.  Briggs was hanging on to a
particularly wild stirk, his back towards me, and I'll never know if he
was thrown back or one of the other men nudged my arm because next
moment he let out an anguished yell.

"Ya rotten bugger, 'erriot, you've done it again!"  He staggered about,
clutching his behind and staring wide-eyed at me.

I couldn't believe it.  Surely history couldn't repeat itself so
exactly.  But there was no doubt about it, the scene was the same.
Briggs bellowing and gripping his buttock, the other two men falling
around laughing, myself transfixed in horror.

Still holding himself, Briggs turned on me, his fifteen stones hanging
over me menacingly.  "What's this stuff goin' to do to me, eh?"  he
barked.  "You've done me enough damage, ya bugger, with that first lot,
but what am I goin' to suffer now?"

"Nat, I'm truly sorry, but I can only tell you again that it can't
possibly do you any harm.  There's only antibiotic in the syringe-like
penicillin, only stronger."

"Ah don't care a bugger what it is--it's meant to go into the bloody
beast, not me.  Ahim bloody fed up with you, 'erriot, doin' the same
thing to me again."

"It's not the same, Nat," cried Phil.  "You got it in the right cheek
this time.  Mr.  Herriot's just levellin' you up--I've all us said he
was a tidy worker and it's only natural 'e would want to square the job
up."  He and Ray abandoned themselves to helpless mirth.

After that incident I was grateful that Sir Eustace's livestock had a
long spell of good health and I was able to pass the few visits that
came up on to Siegfried.  It was nearly a year later that the three men
and I were together again.  As we carried on with our work, I was
relieved to find that Briggs was not particularly unfrly.  Last time I
had thought he was going to hit me, but he caught and held the
struggling animals without comment.

During a moment's respite, as I refilled my syringe, Ray piped up.
"We've got a bit o' news for you, Mr.  Herriot."

"Oh yes?"

"Aye, red-'of news.  Nat's become a dad!"

"Really?  That's great!  Congratulations, Nat!  What is it--boy or a
girl?"

Fatherhood seemed to have mellowed the big man because a sheepish smile
spread over his face.  "Twins," he said proudly.  "Boy and a girl!"

"Well--terrific.  You can't do better than that!"

Phil broke in.  "We've been tellin' him, Mr.  Herriot.  He blamed you
for stoppin' the job with that first injection you gave 'im.  Well, the
second jab must have been the antidote!"

Chapter 42

"Something for you to think about, James," Siegfried said as he closed
the day-book and rose from the desk.

He was unusually serious and I looked at him in surprise.  "What's
that?"

"Well, I know you've had a happy year at Rowan Garth, but you've always
had an ambition to live right out in the country in a village."

"That's right--some time in the future, anyway."

"Well, there's a grand little place--High Field House--coming up for
sale in Hannerly and I think it's something special.  I'm sure it will
soon be snapped up.  Maybe you'd care to have a look."

It gave me a jolt.  I had certainly nourished this idea for a long
time, but as one who hated change of any kind I had never got further
than regarding it as a distant dream.  Now I was suddenly brought right
up against it.

I rubbed my chin.  "I don't know--I wasn't thinking about it yet for a
while.  Maybe some day ..."

"James, it takes a lot to stir you into action."  My partner wagged a
finger at me.  "But I tell you this, that day will come some time and
when it does you will start to thrash around and you'll never find
anything better than this place I'm talking about.  There isn't a
prettier village than Hannerly and the house is ideal for you."

I felt trapped at the suggestion.  Siegfried knew me so well.  But as
the hours passed and my mind went through its usual gradual adjustment,
I finally came round sufficiently to mention the proposition to
Helen.

My wife was much less diffident than me.  "Let's have a look," she
said.

We did have a look, right away, spurred by Helen's better-developed
sense of urgency.  I knew Hannerly well, sitting as it did right in the
heart of our practice.  It was tiny; a peaceful backwater of a dozen
houses, several of them farms, tucked into the sheltering fell-side and
strung along a quiet little road that led nowhere in particular--to a
neighbouring village some miles away or branching up the hillside to
the high country hundreds of feet above.  It was beautiful, but not
with the chocolate-box prettiness of the tourist villages.  No shop, no
pub, no streetlights.  To me it was a secret corner of Yorkshire, a
little tableau in stone of that stern and lovely county.

The doctor who was leaving showed us round.  The house was modest but
charming, resting on the face of its own field, a steeply sloping
pasture where sheep grazed.  An extensive lawn stretched down to a
swiftly running beck that widened into a pond where a score of mallard
ducks floated serenely and great willows bent their branches towards
the water.

Afterwards, in the May sunshine, Helen and I climbed with our dog
behind the house, up the grassy bank past trees heavy with blossom,
then over a stile to a lofty green plateau that seemed to overlook the
whole world.

We flopped onto the grass and from our eyrie we looked down past the
sheep unhurriedly cropping the grass to the house lying below us,
backed by a great crescent of tree-covered hillside with the rim of the
high moorland peeping above the trees.  This majestic sweep curved away
to a headland where a tall cliff dominated the scene, a huge friendly
slab of rock gleaming in the sunshine.  Away in the other direction,
over the roofs of the hamlet, there was a heart-lifting glimpse of the
great wide plain of York and the distant hills beyond.

After the cold spring the whole countryside had softened and the air
had a gentle warmth, rich with the scents of May blossom and the medley
of wild flowers that speckled the grass.  In a little wood to our right
a scented lake of bluebells flooded the shady reaches of the trees.

As we sat there three squirrels hopped one after another from a tall
sycamore and, pursued optimistically by fat Dinah, flitted, quick and
light as air, over the green and disappeared behind a rise, leaving her
effortlessly behind.

Helen voiced my thoughts.  "Living here would be heaven."

We almost ran down the hill to the house and closed the deal with the
doctor.  There were none of the traumas of our previous house-buying
efforts; a shake of the hand and it was over.

Helen's words were prophetic.  It was a sad moment when we had to leave
the happy memories of Rowan Garth behind, but once we were installed in
High Field we realised that living in Hannerly was heaven indeed.  At
times I could hardly believe our luck.  To be able to sit at our front
door drinking tea in the sunshine and watching the mallards splashing
and diving in our pond with the hillside before us aflame with gorse
and, way above, that changeless cliff face smiling down.  And to live
always in a quiet world where the silence at night was almost
palpable.

Picking my torch-lit way on Dinah's nocturnal strolls, I could hear
nothing except the faintest whisper of the beck murmuring its eternal
way under the stone bridge.  Sometimes on these nightly walks a badger
would scuttle across my path, and under the stars I might see a fox
carrying out a stealthy exploration of our lawn.

One morning on an early call just after dawn, I surprised two roe deer
in the open and watched enthralled as they galloped at incredible speed
across the fields and, clearing the fences like steeple chasers plunged
into the woods.

Here in Hannerly, just a few miles from Darrowby, there was the
ever-present thrill for Helen and me that we were living on the edge of
the wild.

Chapter 43

"By God, ah's sweatin'!"  Albert Budd gasped as he collapsed his
sixteen stones onto a chair and wiped his face.  Then he gave me an
anguished look.  "And ah know ahim goin' to start fartin' in a
minute."

"What!"  I stared at him in alarm.  We had just finished a set of
quadrilles at Calum's newly formed Highland dancing club in Kayton
village hall, and I was puffing, too, as I sat down next to the young
farmer.  "Really?  Are you sure?"

"Aye, nothin' surer.  When Calum roped me in for this dancin' I didn't
know there'd be all this jumpin' and jogglin', and I've just had a
bloody good feed with three Yorkshire pu.in's.  This is murder!"

I didn't know what to say but I tried to be reassuring.  "Just sit
quietly for a bit--I expect you'll be all right."

Albert shook his head.  "No chance!  I can feel it comin' on.  He's a
bugger, is Calum.  He came in and grabbed me as soon as I'd finished me
dinner.  Me mother all us gives me a special do on a Wednesday night
after I get back from Houlton market--a few good slices o' beef,
sprouts and taties and, like I said, three Yorkshire pu.in's and a
smashin' spotted Dick and custard.  I'd had a few pints at the Golden
Lion, too, and I was just goin' to put me feet up for half an hour when
he walked into the house.  Said I had to come with him and I thought
the dancin' would be like Victor Sylvester on the television."

The stab of pity I felt for the poor chap's predicament was sharpened
by the fact that everybody else in the hall was having a wonderful
time.  Calum's persuasive energies had obviously been successful and
there was a good turnout of the local people forming up for an eight
some reel as the gramophone poured out Jimmy Shand's foot-twitching
beat.

Helen and I had gladly fallen in with the dancing idea and this was our
third visit.  With my Glasgow upbringing I had done it all before at
school and parties, but I was rusty and had forgotten some of the
steps.  However, to the majority of the company-farmers,
schoolteachers, doctors, and a good cross-section of the local
people--the whole business was strange and new.  But definitely fun to
learn, and at times the loud laughter almost drowned the music.

I could understand that Albert didn't find it funny at all.  He was
about twenty-five, living with a doting mother who looked after him far
too well, and he was one of the many young farmers who had formed a
friendship with the ebullient new vet and were eager to join him in his
activities, but this was definitely not his scene.

I had often noted that there weren't many fat chaps among the farmers
but Albert was a striking exception.  Six feet three, beacon-faced and
with an enormous belly that he somehow managed to carry round his
milking, hay-making and other farming chores.  His appetite was
legendary in the district and he was a constant menace to those car
very restaurants where you could put down a set amount and eat as much
as you liked.

He looked acutely uncomfortable at this moment, resting his hands on
his stomach and gazing at me with worried eyes.

I could sympathise with him.  I had seen his streaming face bouncing
aimlessly above the crowd in the quadrilles and there was no doubt he
must be suffering.

"Ah tell ye this, Jim," he went on.  "If I have to do any more jumpin'
around I've had it.  I'm goin' to start fartin', and when ah do ah
can't stop!"

"Oh dear, I'm sorry, Albert.  It's a bit awkward for you with all these
ladies around."

I hadn't meant to be cruel but he stared at me in horror.  "Oh, 'ell!"
he groaned, then, "by God, I'm startin'!  I'm getting' out--I'm off
'ome!"

He was about to rise when the curate's young wife came over.

"Really, Mr.  Budd," she said with mock disapproval, "we can't have you
sitting against the wall when we need a man for this reel."

Albert gave her a ghastly smile.  "Nay ... nay ... thank ye.  I was
just ..."

"Oh, come now, you mustn't be shy.  Most of us are still learning." She
put out her hand and Albert gave me a last despairing glance before he
was led onto the floor.

His eyes registered acute anxiety as he was stationed between the
curate's wife and a pretty young teacher from Darrowby Infants' School,
but there was no escape.  The gramophone sounded the opening chord,
they bowed, then they were off, skipping round hand in hand one way and
then the other.  I watched in morbid fascination as he halted and faced
his partner.  Oh my God, they were starting the pas de has!  That was
fatal!  For a few moments I watched the tortured face bob-bob-bobbing
up and down, the great belly quivering like a blancmange as the music
thundered, then I just couldn't look.

I tore my eyes away and searched for some distraction among the dancing
throng, and it struck me that all this was another example of something
new Calum had brought to Darrowby.  These people were just a few of the
many on whom he had laid his hand.  I looked at him now, the tall,
black-moustached figure, magnificent as any Highland chieftain in his
kilt, leaping high, kicking out his feet, toes pointed in the classical
manner while Dierdre, tartan-sashed and graceful, glided expertly among
the stumbling rookies.

The thought recurred that Calum had an irresistible attraction for a
large number of people and he had brought fresh, meaningful things into
their lives, yet there seemed always to be a faint spice of danger for
those who followed closely in his beguiling wake; for myself on that
barebacked cart-horse, Siegfried with the Dobermanns and now the
hapless Albert in agony out on that floor.

Chapter 44

"Look at that, Jim!  Surely that's a stray cat.  I've never seen it
before."  Helen was at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, and she
pointed through the window.

Our new house in Hannerly had been built into a sloping field.  There
was a low retaining wall, chest high, just outside the window and
behind, the grassy bank led from the wall top up to some bushes and an
open log shed standing high about twenty yards away.  A lean little cat
was peering warily from the bushes.  Two tiny kittens crouched by her
side.

"I think you're right," I said.  "That's a stray with her family and
she's looking for food."

Helen put out a bowl of meat scraps and some milk on the flat top of
the wall and retired to the kitchen.  The mother cat did not move for a
few minutes, then she advanced with the utmost caution, took up some of
the food in her mouth and carried it back to her kittens.

Several times she crept down the bank, but when the kittens tried to
follow her she gave them a quick "get-back" tap with her paw.

We watched, fascinated, as the scraggy, half-starved creature made sure
that her family had eaten before she herself took anything from the
bowl, then when the food was finished we quietly opened the kitchen
door.  But as soon as they saw us, cat and kittens flitted away into
the field.

"I wonder where they came from," Helen said.

I shrugged.  "Heaven knows.  There's a lot of open country round here.
They could have come from miles away.  And that mother cat doesn't look
like an ordinary stray.  There's a real wild look about her."

Helen nodded.  "Yes, she looks as though she's never been in a house,
never had anything to do with people.  I've heard of wild cats like
that who live outside.  Maybe she only came looking for food because of
her kittens."

"I think you're right," I said as we returned to the kitchen.  "Anyway,
the poor little things have had a good feed.  I don't suppose we'll see
them again."

But I was wrong.  Two days later, the trio reappeared.  In the same
place, peeping from the bushes, looking hungrily at the kitchen window.
Helen fed them again, the mother cat still fiercely forbidding her
kittens to leave the bushes, and once more they darted away when we
tried to approach them.  When they came again next morning, Helen
turned to me and smiled.

"I think we've been adopted," she said.

She was right.  The three of them took up residence in the log shed and
after a few days the mother allowed the kittens to come down to the
food bowls, shepherding them carefully all the way.  They were still
quite tiny, only a few weeks old.  One was black and white, the other
tortoiseshell.

Helen fed them for a fortnight, but they remained unapproachable
creatures, then one morning as I was about to go on my rounds, she
called me into the kitchen.

She pointed through the window.  "What do you make of that?"

I looked and saw the two kittens in their usual position under the
bushes, but there was no mother cat.

"That's strange," I said.  "She's never let them out of her sight
before."

The kittens had their feed and I tried to follow them as they ran away,
but I lost them in the long grass, and though I searched all over the
field, there was no sign of them or their mother.

We never saw the mother cat again and Helen was upset.

"What on earth can have happened to her?"  she murmured a few days
later as the kittens ate their morning meal.

"Could be anything," I replied.  "I'm afraid the mortality rate for
wandering cats is very high.  She could have been run over by a car or
had some other accident.  I'm afraid we'll never know."

Helen looked again at the little creatures crouched side by side, their
heads in the bowl.  "Do you think she's just abandoned them?"

"Well, it's possible.  She was a maternal and caring little thing and I
have a feeling she looked around till she could find a good home for
them.  She didn't leave till she saw that they could fend for
themselves and maybe she's returned to her outside life now.  She was a
real wild one."

It remained a mystery, but one thing was sure: the kittens were
installed for good.  Another thing was sure: they would never be
domesticated.  Try as we might we were never able to touch them, and
all our attempts to wheedle them into the house were unavailing.

One wet morning, Helen and I looked out of the kitchen window at the
two of them sitting on the wall, waiting for their breakfast, their fur
sodden, their eyes nearly closed against the driving rain.

"Poor little things," Helen said.  "I can't bear to see them out there,
wet and cold; we must get them inside."

"How?  We've tried often enough."

"Oh, I know, but let's have another go.  Maybe they'll be glad to come
in out of the rain."

We cut up a dish of fresh fish, an irresistible delicacy to cats.  I
let them have a sniff and they were eager and hungry, then I placed the
dish just inside the kitchen door before retreating out of sight.  But
as we watched through the window the two of them sat motionless in the
downpour, their eyes fixed on the fish, but determined not to go
through the door.  That, clearly, was unthinkable.

"All right, you win," I said and put the food on the wall where it was
immediately devoured.

I was staring at them with a feeling of defeat when Herbert Platt, one
of the local dust men came round the corner.  At the sight of him the
kittens scurried away and Herbert laughed.

"Ah see you've taken on them cats.  That's some nice stuff they're
getting' to eat."

"Yes, but they won't come inside to get it."

He laughed again.  "Aye, and they never will.  Ah've known that family
o' cats for years, and all their ancestors.  I saw that mother cat when
she first came and before that she lived at awd Mrs.  Caley's over the
hill and ah remember that 'un's mother before her, down at Billy Tate's
farm.  Ah can go back donkey's years with them cats."

"Gosh, is that so?"

"Aye, it is, and I've never seen one o' that strain that would go
inside a house.  They're wild, real wild."

"Ah well, thanks, Herbert, that explains a lot."

He smiled and hoisted a bin.  "Ah'll get off, then, and they can finish
their breakfast."

"Well, that's it, Helen," I said.  "Now we know.  They're always going
to be outside, but at least we can try to improve their
accommodation."

The thing we called the log shed, where I had laid some straw for them
to sleep, wasn't a shed at all.  It had a roof, but was open all down
one side, with widely spaced slats on the other three sides.  It
allowed a constant through wind, which made it a fine place for drying
out the logs but horribly draughty as a dwelling.

I went up the grassy slope and put up a sheet of plywood as a
wind-break.  Then I built up a mound of logs into a protective zareba
around the straw bed and stood back, puffing slightly.

"Right," I said.  "They'll be quite cosy in there now."

Helen nodded in agreement, but she had gone one better.  Behind my
wind-break, she put down an open-sided box with cushions inside. "There
now, they needn't sleep on the straw now, they'll be warm and
comfortable in this nice box."

I rubbed my hands.  "Great.  We don't have to worry about them now.
They'll really enjoy coming in here."

From that moment the kittens boycotted the shed.  They still came for
their meals every day, but we never saw them anywhere near their old
dwelling.

"They're just not used to it," Helen said.

"Hmm."  I looked again at the cushioned box tucked in the centre of the
encircling logs.  "Either that, or they don't like it."

We stuck it out for a few days, then, as we wondered where on earth the
kittens could be sleeping, our resolve began to crack.  I went up the
slope and dismantled the wall of logs.  Immediately the two little
creatures returned.  They sniffed and nosed round the box and went away
again.

"I'm afraid they're not keen on your box either," I grunted as we
watched from our vantage point.

Helen looked stricken.  "Silly little things.  It's perfect for
them."

But after another two days during which the shed lay deserted she went
out and I saw her coming sadly down the bank, box in one hand, cushions
under her arm.

The kittens were back within hours, looking round the place, vastly
relieved.  They didn't seem to object to the wind-break and settled
happily in the straw.  Our attempts to produce a feline Hilton had been
a total failure.

It dawned on me that they couldn't bear to be enclosed, to have their
escape routes cut off.  Lying there on the open bed of straw, they
could see all around them and were able to flit away between the slats
at the slightest sign of danger.

"Okay, my friends," I said.  "That's the way you want it, but I'm going
to find out something more about you."

Helen gave them some food and once they were concentrating on the food,
I crept up on them and threw a fisherman's landing net over them. After
a struggle I was able to divine that the tortoiseshell was a female and
the black and white a male.

"Good," said Helen.  "I'll call them Olly and Ginny."

"Why Olly?"

"Don't really know.  He looks like an Olly.  I like the name."

"Oh, and how about Ginny?"

"Short for Ginger."

"She's not really ginger, she's tortoiseshell."

"Well, she's a bit ginger."

I left it at that.

Over the next few months they grew rapidly and my veterinary mind
decided something else.  I had to neuter them.  And it was then that I
was confronted for the first time with a problem that was to worry me
for years--how to minister to the veterinary needs of animals I was
unable even to touch.

The first time, when they were half grown, it wasn't so bad.  Again I
slunk up on them with my net when they were feeding and managed to
bundle them into a cat cage from which they looked at me with terrified
and, I imagined, accusing eyes.

In the surgery, as Siegfried and I lifted them one by one from the cage
and administered the intravenous anaesthetic, I was struck by the fact
that though they were terror-stricken at being in an enclosed space for
the first time in their lives and by being grasped and restrained by
humans, they were singularly easy to handle.  Many of our domesticated
feline patients were fighting furies until we had lulled them to sleep,
and cats, with claws as well as teeth for weapons, can inflict a fair
amount of damage, but Olly and Ginny, though they struggled
frantically, made no attempt to bite, never unsheathed their claws.

Siegfried put it briefly.  "These little things are scared stiff, but
they're absolutely docile.  I wonder how many wild cats are like
this."

I felt a little strange as I carried out the operations, looking down
at the small sleeping forms.  These were my cats, yet it was the first
time I was able to touch them as I wished, to examine them closely and
appreciate the beauty of their fur and colourings.

When they had come out of the anaesthetic I took them home, and when I
released the two of them from the cage they scampered up to their home
in the log shed.  As was usual following such minor operations, they
showed no after-effects, but they clearly had unpleasant memories of
me.  During the next few weeks they came close to Helen as she fed them
but fled immediately at the sight of me.  All my attempts to catch
Ginny to remove the single little stitch in her spay incision were
fruitless.  That stitch remained for ever and I realised that Herriot
had been cast firmly as the villain of the piece, the character who
would grab you and bundle you into a wire cage if you gave him half a
chance.

It soon became clear that things were going to stay that way, because
as the months passed and Helen plied them with all manner of tit bits
and they grew into truly handsome, sleek cats, they would come arching
along the wall top when she appeared at the back-door, but I had only
to poke my head from the door to send them streaking away out of sight.
I was the chap to be avoided at all times and it rankled with me
because I have always been fond of cats and I had become particularly
attached to these two.  The day finally arrived when Helen was able to
stroke them gently as they ate and my chagrin deepened at the sight.

Usually they slept in the log shed but occasionally they disappeared to
somewhere unknown and stayed away for a few days, and we used to wonder
if they had abandoned us or if something had happened to them.  When
they reappeared, Helen would shout to me in great relief, "They're
back, Jim, they're back!"  They had become part of our lives.

Summer lengthened into autumn and when the bitter Yorkshire winter set
in we marvelled at their hardiness.  We used to feel terrible, watching
them from our warm kitchen as they sat out in the frost and snow, but
no matter how harsh the weather, nothing would induce either of them to
set foot inside the house.  Warmth and comfort had no appeal for
them.

When the weather was fine we had a lot of fun just watching them.  We
could see right up into the log shed from our kitchen, and it was
fascinating to observe their happy relationship.  They were such
friends.  Totally inseparable, they spent hours licking each other and
rolling about together in gentle play and they never pushed each other
out of the way when they were given their food.  At night we could see
the two furry little forms curled close together in the straw.

Then there was a time when we thought everything had changed for ever.
The cats did one of their disappearances and as day followed day we
became more anxious.  Each morning, Helen started her day with the cry
of "Olly, Ginny," which always brought the two of them trotting down
from their dwelling, but they did not appear, and when a week passed
and then two we had almost run out of hope.

When we came back from our half-day in Brawton, Helen ran to the
kitchen and looked out.  The cats knew our habits and they would always
be sitting waiting for her but the empty wall stretched away and the
log shed was deserted.  "Do you think they've gone for good, Jim?"  she
said.

I shrugged.  "It's beginning to look like it.  You remember what old
Herbert said about that family of cats.  Maybe they're nomads at
heart-gone off to pastures new."

Helen's face was doleful.  "I can't believe it.  They seemed so happy
here.  Oh, I hope nothing terrible has happened to them."  Sadly she
began to put her shopping away and she was silent all evening.  My
attempts to cheer her up were half-hearted because I was wrapped in a
blanket of misery myself.

Strangely, it was the very next morning when I heard Helen's usual cry,
but this time it wasn't a happy one.

She ran into the sitting room.  "They're back, Jim," she said
breathlessly, "but I think they're dying!"

"What?  What do you mean?"

"Oh, they look awful!  They're desperately ill--I'm sure they're
dying."

I hurried through to the kitchen with her and looked through the
window.  The cats were sitting there side by side on the wall a few
feet away.  A watery discharge ran from their eyes, which were almost
closed, more fluid poured from their nostrils and saliva drooled from
their mouths.  Their bodies shook from a continuous sneezing and
coughing.

They were thin and scraggly, unrecognisable as the sleek creatures we
knew so well, and their appearance was made more pitiful by their
situation in the teeth of a piercing east wind that tore at their fur
and made their attempts to open their eyes even more painful.

Helen opened the back-door.  "Olly, Ginny, what's happened to you?" she
cried.

A remarkable thing happened then.  At the sound of her voice, the cats
hopped carefully from the wall and walked unhesitatingly through the
door into the kitchen.  It was the first time they had been under our
roof.

"Look at that!"  Helen exclaimed.  "I can't believe it.  They must be
really ill.  But what is it, Jim?  Have they been poisoned?"

I shook my head.  "No, they've got cat 'flu."

"You can tell?"

"Oh yes, this is classical."

"And will they die?"

I rubbed my chin.  "I don't think so."  I wanted to sound reassuring,
but I wondered.  Feline virus rhino tracheitis had a fairly low
mortality rate, but bad cases can die and these cats were very bad
indeed.  "Anyway, close the door, Helen, and I'll see if they'll let me
examine them."

But at the sight of the closing door, both cats bolted back outside.

"Open up again," I cried and, after a moment's hesitation, the cats
walked back into the kitchen.

I looked at them in astonishment.  "Would you believe it?  They haven't
come in here for shelter, they've come for help!"

And there was no doubt about it.  The two of them sat there, side by
side, waiting for us to do something for them.

"The question is," I said, "will they allow their bete noire to get
near them?  We'd better leave the back-door open so they don't feel
threatened."

I approached inch by inch till I could put a hand on them, but they did
not move.  With a feeling that I was dreaming I lifted each of them,
limp and unresisting, and examined them.

Helen stroked then while I ran out to my car, which held my stock of
drugs, and brought in what I'd need.  I took their temperatures.  They
were both over 104dg F, which was typical, so I injected them with
oxytetracycline, the antibiotic I had always found best for treating
the secondary bacterial infection that followed the initial virus
attack.  I also injected vitamins, cleaned away the pus and mucus from
the eyes and nostrils with cotton wool and applied an antibiotic
ointment.  And all the time I marvelled that I was lifting and handling
these yielding little bodies that I hadn't even been able to touch
before apart from when they had been under the anaesthetic for the
neutering operations.

When I had finished I couldn't bear the thought of turning them out
into that cruel wind.  I lifted them again and tucked them one under
each arm.

"Helen," I said.  "Let's have another try.  Will you just gently close
the door."

She took hold of the knob and began to push very slowly, but
immediately both cats leaped like uncoiled springs from my arms and
shot into the garden.  We watched them as they trotted out of sight.

"Well, that's extraordinary," I said.  "Ill as they are, they won't
tolerate being locked in."

Helen was on the verge of tears.  "But how will they stand it out
there?  They should be kept warm.  I wonder if we'll ever see them
again."

"I just don't know."  I looked at the empty garden.  "But we've got to
realise they are in their natural environment.  They're tough little
things.  I think they'll be back."

I was right.  Next morning they were outside the window, eyes closed
against the wind, the fur on their faces streaked and stained with the
copious discharge.

Again Helen opened the door and again they walked calmly inside and
made no resistance as I repeated my treatment, injecting them, swabbing
out eyes and nostrils, examining their mouths for ulcers, lifting them
around like any long-standing household pets.

This happened every day for a week.  The discharges became more
purulent and their racking sneezing seemed no better, then, when I was
losing hope, they started to eat a little food and, significantly, they
weren't so keen to come into the house.

When I did get them inside, they were tense and unhappy as I handled
them and finally I couldn't touch them at all.  They were by no means
cured, so I mixed oxytet soluble powder in their food and treated them
that way.

The weather was even worse, with fine flakes of snow spinning in the
wind, but the day came when they refused to come inside and we watched
them through the window as they ate.  But I had the satisfaction of
knowing they were still getting the antibiotic with every mouthful.

As I carried on this long-range treatment, observing them daily from
the kitchen, it was rewarding to see the sneezing abating, the
discharges drying up and the cats gradually regaining their lost
flesh.

It was a brisk sunny morning in March when I watched Helen putting
their breakfast on the wall.  Olly and Ginny, sleek as seals, their
faces clean and dry, their eyes bright, came arching along the wire,
purring like outboard motors.  They were in no hurry to eat; they were
clearly happy just to see her.

As they passed to and fro, she ran her hand gently along their heads
and backs.  This was the kind of stroking they liked--not overdone,
with them continually in motion.

I felt I had to get into the action and stepped from the open door.

"Ginny," I said and held out a hand.  "Come here, Ginny."  The little
creature stopped her promenade along the wall and regarded me from a
safe distance not with hostility but with all the old wariness.  As I
tried to move nearer to her she skipped away out of reach.

"Okay," I said, "and I don't suppose it's any good trying with you
either, Olly."  The black-and-white cat backed well away from my
outstretched hand and gave me a non-committal gaze.  I could see he
agreed with me.

Mortified, I called out to the two of them.  "Hey, remember me?"  It
was clear by the look of them that they remembered me all right--but
not in the way I hoped.  I felt a stab of frustration.  Despite my
efforts I was back where I started.

Helen laughed.  "They're a funny pair, but don't they look marvelous!
They're a picture of health, as good as new.  It says a lot for fresh
air treatment."

"It does indeed," I said with a wry smile.  "But it also says something
for having a resident veterinary surgeon."

Chapter 45

"Get back home to bed, James!"  Siegfried was at his most imperious,
chin jutting, arm outstretched, pointing to the door.

"No, I'm fine," I said.  "Honestly I am."

"Well, you don't look so damn fine to me.  About ready for Mallock's
yard, if you ask me.  You've not fit to be out."

His reference to the local knacker man was not inapposite.  I had
trailed into the surgery the day after one of my brucellosis attacks in
the hope that a bit of work and exercise would make me feel better, but
I knew that the weak, shivery object I had seen in my mirror didn't
look much good for anything.

I dug my hands into my pockets and tried to stop shaking.  "I soon
recover from these things, Siegfried, my temperature's normal and lying
in bed gives me the willies.  I'll be okay, I assure you."

"James, you'll maybe be okay tomorrow but if you go out into the
country now and start stripping off you could drop down dead.  I've got
to be on my way now and I've no time to argue, but I forbid you to
work!  Understand?  I tell you what.  If you refuse to go home, you can
go with Calum on his round.  Just sit in the car with him--but don't do
anything!"  He lifted his medical bag and left the room at a
half-trot.

It didn't seem a bad idea.  Better than lying in bed listening to the
household noises going on through the closed door with the depressing
feelings of being detached from the workaday world.  I had always hated
that.  I turned to our assistant.  "Is that all right, Calum?"

"Of course, Jim.  I'll enjoy your company."

I wasn't such bright company as I sat silent, watching the dry-stone
walls and the snow-covered hills roll past the car windows.  When we
arrived at the first farm, the gateway was blocked.

"We'll have to walk over a couple of fields, Jim," Calum said.  "Or you
could stay here in the car."

"No, I'll come with you."  I dragged myself out and we set off across
the smooth unbroken blanket of white.

Even that short journey held something for my colleague.  "Look, Jim, a
fox has been along here.  See his paw marks and the long trailing
groove made by his brush.  And those little holes-there are mice down
there.  The heat from their bodies melts the snow above them."  He
identified the tracks of the various birds that had landed on the snow.
They were just marks to me but a whole thrilling book to him.

The farmer, Edgar Stott, was waiting for us in the yard.  Calum had
never been to his farm and I introduced him.  "I'm not too grand today,
so Mr.  Buchanan is going to see to your cow."

Mr.  Stott was known as a "clever bugger" among the local farmers. This
didn't mean that they regarded him as intellectually superior, but
rather as an aggressive know-all.  In his own eyes he was an
outstanding wit and he did not endear himself to his neighbours by his
propensity for taking people down a peg.

He was a big man and his bright little eyes in the fleshy face twinkled
maliciously at Calum.  "Oh, we've got the reserve man on the job today.
Vet wit' badger eh?  I've heard about you.  We'll soon see how much ye
know."

In the byre I sank down on a bale of straw, relishing the sweet bovine
warmth.  Mr.  Stott led Calum along the line of cows and pointed to a
roan animal.  "Well, there she is.  What dye make of her?"

Calum scratched the root of her tail and looked along the shaggy flank.
"Well now, what's the trouble, Mr.  Stott?"

"Ah, you're t'vitnery.  I want you to tell me."

My colleague smiled politely at the ancient joke.  "Let's put it
another way.  What are her symptoms?  Is she off her food?"

"Aye."

"Taking anything at all?"

"Just a bit."

"How long has she been calved?"

"About a month."

Calum took the temperature.  Auscultated stomach and lungs.  Pulled the
head round and smelt the breath.  Drew some milk onto his palm and
smelt that, too, but he was clearly baffled.  His enquiries about the
animal's history were answered by grunts from Mr.  Stott, and several
times when Calum stood back and gazed blankly at the animal the
farmer's mouth twisted in a sneer.

"Will you bring me a bucket of hot water, soap and a towel, please?"
the young man asked.

He took off his shirt and thrust his arm first into the vagina then
deeply up into the rectum where I knew he was palpating the abdominal
organs.  Then he turned to the farmer who was standing, hands in
pockets, observing him with sardonic interest.

"You know, this is very strange.  Everything seems normal.  Is there
anything you haven't told me, Mr.  Stott?"

The big man hunched his shoulders and chuckled.  "Aye, there is sum mat
I haven't told ye.  There's nowt wrong wit hat beast."

"Eh?"

"I said there's nowt wrong wither  She's as healthy as thee and me. I
just wanted to see if you know owl about the job."  Then he burst into
a roar of laughter and slapped his knee in glee.

As Calum, naked to the waist, his arm covered in faeces, looked back at
him expressionlessly, the farmer tapped him on the shoulder.

"Now then, ah know you can take a joke, young man, ha-ha-ha!  There's
nowt like a good laugh!  Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

For several long seconds Calum continued to stare at him, then his face
relaxed slowly into a smile, and as he soaped his arm in the bucket and
pulled on his shirt, he began to giggle gently and finally he threw
back his head and gave a great peal of mirth.  "Yes, you're right, Mr.
Stott!  Ha-ha-ha!  There's nowt like a good laugh.  You're right, so
right."

The farmer led him along the byre.  "This is the cow you 'ave to
see."

As expected, he had already diagnosed the illness.  Mr.  Stott knew
everything.  "She's just got a touch o' slow fever."  This was the
local name for acetonaemia, a metabolic disease easily cured.  "There's
that sweet smell about 'er and she's losin' flesh."

"Ah, yes, Mr.  Stott, it sounds like it.  I'll just check her over."
Still chuckling, Calum drew a few squirts from the udder, smelt the
breath, took the temperature.  All the time he kept murmuring, "How
funny, what a good joke," then he began to whistle cheerfully.  It was
when he had his stethoscope on the stomach that the whistling slowed
down and then stopped.  He began to listen intently, grave-faced,
moving from the left side of the cow to the right, then back again.

Finally he straightened up.  "Can you get me a spoon from the house,
please."

The grin faded from the farmer's face.  "A spoon?  What the 'ell for?
Is there sum mat wrong?"

"Oh, it's probably nothing.  I don't want to worry you.  Just get me
the spoon."

When the farmer returned, Calum recommenced his listening at the left
side of the cow, only this time he kept tapping the lower ribs with the
spoon.

"My God, it's there!"  he exclaimed.

"What's there?"  gasped the farmer.  "What are you talkin' about?"

"The tinkle."

"The tinkle?"

"Yes, Mr.  Stott, it's the tinkling sound you hear in displacement of
the abomasum."

"Displacement ... what the 'ell's that?"

"It is a condition where the fourth stomach or abomasum slips round
from the right side to the left.  I'm awfully sorry, but it's a very
serious ailment."

"But how about the sweet smell?"

"Well, yes, you do get that acetonaemia smell with a displacement. It's
very easy to confuse the two things."

"What's goin' to happen, then?"

Calum sighed.  "She'll have to undergo a very large operation.  It
requires two vets--one to open up the left side of the cow, the other
to open the right.  I'm afraid it's a very big job."

"And it'll cost a lot of money, too, ah reckon!"

"Afraid so."

The farmer took off his cap and began to churn his hair about.  Then he
swung round at me, slumped on my bale.  "Is all this I'm hearin' right?
About this tinkle?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you, Mr.  Stott, but it is," I replied.
"That tinkling noise is classical.  We get quite a lot of these cases
now."

He rounded on Calum again.  "Bloody 'ell!  And will she be all right
after the operation?"

The young man shrugged.  "Can't guarantee anything, I'm sorry to say.
But most of them do quite well."

"Most of 'em ... And what if she doesn't have the operation?"

"She'll waste away and die.  You can see she's losing flesh now.  I'm
really very sorry."

The farmer stared, open-mouthed and wordless, at the young man.

"I know how you feel, Mr.  Stott," Calum said.  "A lot of farmers hate
the idea of the big operation.  It's a gory, messy business.  You could
send her in for slaughter if you like."

"Send her in ...?  She's a bloody good cow!"

"All right, then, let's go ahead with the job.  Mr.  Herriot is quite
ill and unfit to do anything, but I'll telephone Mr.  Farnon to come
out with the equipment."

The farmer, totally shattered, dropped down on my bale and his head
sank on his chest.  As he sat there, staring at the ground, Calum's
face broke into a grin that almost reached his ears.

"It's okay, Mr.  Stott.  I'm only kidding."

"What?"  The farmer gaped up at him uncomprehendingly.

"Only kidding.  Just a little joke.  Ha-ha!  She's only got
acetonaemia.  I'll get some steroid from the car.  A couple of shots
and she'll be fine."

As Mr.  Stott rose slowly from the bale, Calum wagged a finger at
him.

"I know you like a joke.  Ha-ha-ha-ha!  As you say, there's nowt like a
good laugh!"

Chapter 46

As a cat lover, it irked me that my own cats couldn't stand the sight
of me.  Ginny and Olly were part of the family now.  We were devoted to
them and whenever we had a day out the first thing Helen did on our
return was to open the back-door and feed them.  The cats knew this
very well and were either sitting on the flat top of the wall, waiting
for her, or ready to trot down from the log shed that was their home.

We had been to Brawton on our half-day and they were there as usual as
Helen put out a dish of food and a bowl of milk for them on the wall.

"Olly, Ginny," she murmured as she stroked the furry coats.  The days
had long gone when they refused to let her touch them.  Now they rubbed
against her hand in delight, arching and purring, and, when they were
eating, she ran her hand repeatedly along their backs.  They were such
gentle little animals, their wildness expressed only in fear, and now,
with her, that fear had gone.  My children and some from the village
had won their confidence, too, and were allowed to give them a careful
caress, but they drew the line at Herriot.

Like now, for instance.  I quietly followed Helen out and moved towards
the wall and immediately they left the food and retreated to a safe
distance, where they stood, still arching their backs, but, as ever,
out of reach.  They regarded me without hostility but as I held out a
hand they moved farther away.

"Look at the little beggars!"  I said.  "They still won't have anything
to do with me."

It was frustrating, for throughout my years in veterinary practice,
cats had always intrigued me and I had found that this helped me in my
dealings with them.  I felt I could handle them easier than most people
because I liked them and they sensed it.  I rather prided myself on my
cat technique, a sort of feline bedside manner, and was in no doubt
that I had an empathy with the entire species and that they all liked
me.  In fact, if the truth were told, I fancied myself as a cats'
pin-up.  Not so, ironically, with these two--the ones to whom I had
become so deeply attached.

It was a bit hard, I thought, because I had doctored them and probably
saved their lives when they had cat 'flu.  Did they remember that, I
wondered, but if they did, it still didn't give me the right to lay a
finger on them.  And indeed, what they certainly did seem to remember
was that it was I who had netted them and shoved them into a cage when
I had neutered them.  I had the feeling that whenever they saw me it
was that net and cage that were uppermost in their minds.

I could only hope that time would bring an understanding between us,
but as it turned out, fate was to conspire against me for a long time
still.  Above all, there was the business of Olly's coat.  Unlike his
sister, he was a long-haired cat and as such was subject to constant
tangling and knotting of his fur.  With an ordinary domesticated feline
I would have combed him out as soon as trouble arose but when I
couldn't even get near him I was helpless.  We had had him about two
years when Helen called me to the kitchen.

"Just look at him!"  she said.  "He's a dreadful sight!"

I peered through the window.  Olly was indeed a bit of a scarecrow with
his matted fur and dangling knots in cruel contrast with his sleek and
beautiful little sister.

"I know, I know.  But what can I do?  But wait a minute, there's a
couple of horrible big lumps hanging below his neck.  Take these
scissors and have a go at them--a couple of quick snips and they'll be
off."

Helen gave me an anguished look.  "Oh, we've tried this before.  I'm
not a vet and anyway, he won't let me do that.  He'll let me pet him,
but this is something else."

"I know that, but have a go.  There's nothing to it, really."  I pushed
a pair of curved scissors into her hand and began to shout instructions
through the window.  "Right now, get your fingers behind that big
dangling mass.  Fine, fine!  Now up with your scissors and--"

But at the first gleam of steel, Olly was off and away up the hill.
Helen turned to me in despair.  "It's no good, Jim, it's hopeless-he'll
never let me cut even one lump off and he's covered with them."

I looked at the dishevelled little creature standing at a safe distance
from us.  "Yes, you're right.  I'll have to think of something."

Thinking of something entailed doping Olly so that I could get at him,
and my faithful Nembutal capsules sprang immediately to mind.  This
oral anaesthetic had been a valued ally on countless occasions where I
had to deal with unapproachable animals, but this was different.  With
the other cases, my patients had been behind closed doors, but Olly was
outside with all the wide countryside to roam in.  I couldn't have him
going to sleep somewhere out there where a fox or other predator might
get him.  I would have to watch him all the time.

It was a time for decisions, and I drew myself up.  "I'll have a go at
him this Sunday," I told Helen.  "It's usually a bit quieter and I'll
ask Siegfried to stand in for me in an emergency."

When the day arrived, Helen went out and placed two meals of chopped
fish on the wall, one of them spiked with the contents of my Nembutal
capsule.  I crouched behind the window, watching intently as she
directed Olly to the correct portion, holding my breath as he sniffed
at it suspiciously.  His hunger soon overcame his caution and he licked
the bowl clean with evident relish.

Now we started the tricky part.  If he decided to explore the fields as
he often did, I would have to be right behind him.  I stole out of the
house as he sauntered back up the slope to the open log shed.  To my
vast relief he settled down in his own particular indentation in the
straw and began to wash himself.

As I peered through the bushes, I was gratified to see that very soon
he was having difficulty with his face, licking his hind paw, then
toppling over as he brought it up to his cheek.

I chuckled to myself.  This was great.  Another few minutes and I'd
have him.

And so it turned out.  Olly seemed to conclude that he was tired of
falling over and it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a nap.  After gazing
drunkenly around him, he curled up in the straw.

I waited a short time, then, with all the stealth of an Indian brave on
the trail, I crept from my hiding place and tiptoed to the shed.  Olly
wasn't flat out--I hadn't dared give him the full anaesthetic dose in
case I had been unable to track him--but he was deeply sedated.  I
could pretty well do what I wanted with him.

As I knelt down and began to snip away with my scissors, he opened his
eyes and made a feeble attempt to struggle, but it was no good and I
worked my way quickly through the ravelled fur.  I wasn't able to make
a particularly tidy job because he was wriggling slightly all the time,
but I clipped off all the huge unsightly knots that used to get caught
in the bushes, and must have been horribly uncomfortable, and soon had
a growing heap of black hair by my side.

I noticed that Olly wasn't only moving, he was watching me.  Dazed as
he was, he knew me all right and his eyes told me all.  "It's you
again!"  he was saying, "I might have known!"

When I had finished I lifted him into a cat cage and placed it on the
straw.  "Sorry, old lad," I said.  "But I can't let you go free till
you've wakened up completely."

Olly gave me a sleepy stare, but his sense of outrage was evident.  "So
you've dumped me in here again.  You don't change much, do you?"

By tea-time he was fully recovered and I was able to release him.  He
looked so much better without the ugly tangles, but he didn't seem
impressed, and as I opened the cage he gave me a single disgusted look
and sped away.

Helen was enchanted with my handiwork and she pointed eagerly at the
two cats on the wall next morning.  "Doesn't he look smart!  Oh, I'm so
glad you managed to do him, it was really worrying me.  And he must
feel so much better."

I felt a certain smug satisfaction as I looked through the window. Olly
indeed was almost unrecognisable as the scruffy animal of yesterday and
there was no doubt I had dramatically altered his life and relieved him
of a constant discomfort, but my burgeoning bubble of self-esteem was
pricked the instant I put my head round the door.  He had just started
to enjoy his breakfast but at the sight of me he streaked away faster
than ever before and disappeared far over the hilltop.  Sadly, I turned
back into the kitchen.  Olly's opinion of me had dropped several more
notches.  Wearily I poured a cup of tea.  It was a hard life.

Chapter 47

The little dog stared straight ahead, immobile, as if glued to the
kitchen table.  He was trembling, apparently afraid even to move his
head, and his eyes registered something akin to terror.

I had first seen him when Molly Minican, one of my neighbours in
Hannerly, got him from Sister Rose's dog sanctuary a few months ago,
and I had been instantly charmed by his shaggy mongrel appeal and his
laughing-mouthed friendliness.  And now this.

"When did Robbie start with this, Molly?"  I asked.

The old lady put out a hand towards her pet, then drew back.

"Just found 'im this morning.  He was running around, last night, right
as a bobbin."  She turned a worried face to me.  "You know, he seems
frightened you're going to touch 'im."

"He really does," I said.  "His whole body is rigid.  It looks like an
acute attack of rheumatism to me.  Has he cried out in pain at all?"

The old lady shook her head.  "No, not a sound."

"That's funny."  I ran my hand over the tense musculature of the little
body and gently squeezed the neck.  There was no response.  "He would
have shown some sign of pain there with rheumatism.  Let's see what his
temperature says."

It was like inserting the thermometer into a stuffed animal, and I
whistled softly as I saw the reading--105dg F. "Well, we can forget
about the rheumatism," I said.  "The temperature is nearly always dead
normal in those cases."

I made a thorough examination of the little animal, palpating his
abdomen, auscultating his heart and lungs.  The heart was pounding, but
that was almost certainly due to fear.  In fact I couldn't find any
abnormality.

"He must have picked up some infection, Molly," I said.  "Andwitha
fever like that it could possibly be his kidneys.  Anyway, thank
goodness we have antibiotics now.  We can really do a bit of good in
these conditions."

As I gave Robbie his shot, I thought, not for the first time, that in a
way it was a relief to find the high temperature.  It gave us something
to get at with our new drugs.  A puzzling case with a normal
temperature was inclined to make me feel a bit helpless, and at the
moment I felt reasonably confident, even though I wasn't at all sure of
my diagnosis.

"I'll leave these tablets for you.  Give him one at midday, another at
bedtime and another first thing in the morning.  I'll have a look at
him some time tomorrow."  I had the reassuring conviction that I was
really blasting that temperature with the antibiotic.  Robbie would be
a lot better after twenty-four hours.

Molly seemed to think so too.  "Ah, we'll soon have 'im right."  She
bent her white head over the dog and smiled.  "Silly feller.  Worrying
us like this."

She was a spinster in her seventies, and had always struck me as the
archetypal Yorkshire woman; self-contained and unfussy, but with a
quiet humour that was never far away.  I had been called to her last
dog when he was run over by a farm tractor and had arrived just as he
was dying, and though it must have been a savage blow to a lone woman
to lose her only companion, there had been no tears, just a fixed
expression and a repeated slow stroking of the little body.  Molly was
strong.

She had taken my advice and visited Sister Rose's kennels, where she
found Robbie.

I lifted the dog from the table and put him down by his bed, but he
just stood there and made no attempt to lie down.  I felt another wave
of bafflement as I looked at him.

I went over to the sink by the window to wash my hands and had to duck
my head to see out into the garden.  There was a rabbit there, sunning
himself by a gnarled apple tree, and when he spotted me through the
glass, he hopped away and disappeared through a hole in the ancient
stone wall.

Everything about the tiny cottage was old; the low, beamed ceilings,
the weathered stonework with its climbing ivy and clematis, the
once-red roof tiles that sagged dangerously above the two bedroom
windows that could not have measured more than eighteen inches
square.

I had to bend my head again under the door lintel as I took my leave,
and I glanced back at Robbie, still standing motionless by the side of
his bed.  A little wooden dog.

Molly was in her garden when I visited next day.

"Well, now, how's Robbie?"  I asked, rather more breezily than I
felt.

My spirits dropped as the old lady hesitated and then was clearly
trying to find something encouraging to say.

"Maybe a little better ... but not much."

He wasn't a bit better, he was just the same, standing in the kitchen
in the same attitude as the previous day.  Still rigid, still
trembling, and the frightened look in his eyes was replaced by a great
lassitude.

I bent and stroked him.  "Can't he lie down at all?"

"Yes, but it's difficult for 'im.  He's been in his bed for a few hours
but when he gets out he's like this."

I took the temperature.  Still exactly 105.  I hadn't even dented it
with my antibiotic injection and tablets.  With a feeling of
bewilderment I repeated the injection, then I turned to Molly.

"I'd like to test his urine.  When you carry him out to the garden to
cock his leg try to catch a little in a clean soup-plate and put it in
this bottle."

Typically, Molly laughed.  "Aye, I'll try, but I might have a job."

"Yes," I said.  "It can be tricky, but I'm sure you'll manage.  I'll
only need very little."

On the following day, Robbie was unchanged.  Even the temperature was
resolutely stuck on 105.  The urine test was normal--no protein,
nothing to indicate kidney trouble.

I switched to another antibiotic and took a blood sample, which I sent
to the investigation laboratory.  The lab telephoned back that the
sample was normal and after five daily visits and a negative X-ray
examination the little dog had not improved.

I stood in the kitchen, looking down at my baffling patient.  He was
the picture of misery; utterly dejected, stiff and trembling.  The grim
reality was there before me.  Unless I could pull something out of the
bag, Robbie was going to die.

"I'll have to try something else, Molly," I said.  I had with me one of
the new steroid drugs, dexamethasone, and I injected 1 c.c.

"You must be sick of the sight of me, but I'll call tomorrow morning to
see if this new stuff has done any good."

Molly didn't wait till the next day.  Her cottage was only about a
hundred years from my house and she was on my doorstep the same
afternoon.

She was out of breath.  "There's a wonderful improvement, Mr. Herriot!"
she gasped.  "He's like another dog.  I wish you'd come and see
'imf"

I was only too eager and almost trotted along the road.  Robbie looked
almost like the little dog I used to know so well.  He was still stiff,
but he could walk carefully over the kitchen floor and his tail gave a
slow wag as he saw me.  The trembling was gone and he had lost his
terrified look.

My relief was tremendous.  "Has he eaten anything?"

"Yes, he had his nose in his bowl about two hours after you left."

"Well, that's wonderful."  I took the temperature and it was 102--on
the way down at last.  "I'll still come tomorrow, because I think one
more shot will put him absolutely right."

It did indeed, and a week later it was good to see the little animal
leaping around in his garden, playing with a stick.  He was full of
life, back to normal, and though it niggled me that I still had no idea
what had ailed him, I was able to file away the whole episode
comfortably in my mind as just another happy ending.

I was wrong.  A month later, Molly arrived at my door, looking
distressed.  "He's starting again, Mr.  Herriot!"

"What do you mean?"

"Same as before.  Tremblin' and can't move!"

Once again, an injection of the steroid brought a rapid recovery, but
it wasn't the end of the affair, it was only the beginning of a saga.

Over the next two years I fought a long battle with the mysterious
condition.  Robbie would be a normal, healthy-looking animal for a few
weeks, then the dreaded symptoms would suddenly reappear and Molly
would rush along to my house, and when I opened the door she would be
on the step, head on one side and an anxious half-smile on her face,
saying, "SOS, Mr.  Herriot, SOS."  Desperately worried though she was,
she always tried to brighten the situation with a wry humour.

Each time it happened, I dashed to the cottage with my steroids.
Sometimes the symptoms were very severe, being accompanied by gasping
respiration, and I felt that I was saving the dog's life every time I
treated him.  I adopted various tactics along the way, the most
successful being to supplement the injection with steroid tablets given
regularly for a few days, then tailing off gradually before finally
stopping.  Then we would wait breathlessly until the next recurrence.

Sometimes nothing happened for many weeks and we relaxed, thinking we
had won and the whole thing could be forgotten like a bad dream.  Then
Molly would be back again at my door, head on one side.  "SOS, Mr.
Herriot, SOS."

It became part of our lives.  Being a near neighbour I had always known
Molly well, but now during those frantic visits she talked about her
life as I cradled a cup of tea in the kitchen by the tiny window with
its trailing ivy and the branches of the apple tree beyond.

She had been in domestic service as a young girl and had lived in the
cottage for over thirty years.  She had been very ill some time ago and
would have died but for a life-saving operation carried out in Brawton
by the brilliant surgeon Sir Charles Armitage.

Her face became radiant when she talked about Sir Charles.  "Eee, he's
that clever and world famous, but he was so kind to me.  I'm only a
poor old body with no money, but I might 'ave been a queen.  He
couldn't do enough for me."

There was another hero in her life, the actor John Wayne.  Whenever one
of his films came to the little cinema in Darrowby Molly would be
there, and when she discovered that I too was a Wayne fan we had long
discussions about his films.  "Oh, he's such a lovely man," she would
say, giggling at her own infatuation.

It was a warm friendship, but hanging over it at all times was the
spectre of Robbie's recurring illness.  I was at her cottage scores of
times and of course I never charged her.  She had only her old-age
pension and previously I had made a nominal charge, but now even that
went out of the window.  Often she pleaded with me to accept something,
but it was obviously unthinkable.  In return she knitted little things
for Helen and the children and gave us jars of her home-made tomato
chutney.

When I look back over the years, that part of my life shines like a
vivid thread running through the busy routine of my veterinary
practice.  Robbie's unique illness, Sir Charles Armitage, John Wayne
and SOS.

At all times I wondered at the little dog's forgiving nature.  Every
time I met him I stuck a hypodermic needle into him.  He must have felt
like a pincushion, but when he had recovered he always wagged his tail
furiously when he saw me and rushed up, planting his paws on my legs
and looking up at me in delight.

There came a time, however, when the attacks became more violent and
more frequent.  The little animal's distress on those occasions was
pitiful to see and though I always managed to pull him round, I was
gradually having to face the grim fact that the battle was going to be
a losing one.

The climax came at three o'clock one morning.  I heard the bell
ringing, pulled on a dressing gown and went to the door.  Molly was on
the step again but this time she was unable to summon her half-humorous
password of SOS.

"Will you come, Mr.  Herriot?"  she gasped.  "Robbie's real bad."

I didn't bother to dress, but grabbed my bag and hurried with her to
the cottage.  The little dog was in a terrible rigor, shaking, panting,
hardly able to breathe.  It was the worst attack yet.

"Will you put him to sleep, please," Molly said quietly.

"You really want that?"

"Aye, it's the end of the road for 'im.  I just know it.  And I can't
stand any more of it, Mr.  Herriot.  I've not been too well myself, and
it's getting me down."

I knew she was right.  As I injected the barbiturate into the vein and
saw the little dog relax into his last repose, there was no doubt in my
mind that I was doing the best thing in ending his suffering for
ever.

As before, there were no tears.  Just a quiet "Oh, Robbie, Robbie," as
she patted the shaggy little body.

I slumped into the kitchen chair where I had drunk so many cups of tea.
Sitting there, in dressing gown and slippers, I could hardly believe
that the long struggle had ended this way.

"Molly," I said after a minute.  "I'd really like to get to the bottom
of this."

She looked at me.  "You mean a post-mortem?"  She shook her head.  "No,
no, nothing like that."

There didn't seem to be anything I could do or say.  I went out,
leaving the mystery behind me, and as I walked through the moonlit
garden, sick with failure and frustration, I reflected that it was a
mystery that would never be solved.

I was soon swept along in the rush of my everyday work, but I found it
difficult to put Robbie out of my mind.  Inevitably, some vets'
patients die and with dogs, heartache is always round the corner; their
lives are too short.  I knew I would not survive if I suffered every
time along with the bereaved owners, and I did my best to preserve a
professional attitude.  But it didn't always work and it didn't work
with Robbie.

The association had gone on too long and the memories of that little
dog wouldn't go away.  And it made it worse that I had to pass Molly's
cottage every day of my life, seeing her white head bobbing about in
her garden where she used to play with Robbie.  She looked very
alone.

I had withheld my usual advice to "get another dog," because the old
lady's health was obviously failing and I knew she could not bring
herself to start all over again.

Sadly, my fears were confirmed, and Molly died a few weeks after
Robbie.  That chapter was finally closed.

It was late afternoon some time later that I came into the surgery and
found Siegfried making up some medicine in the dispensary.

"Siegfried," I said, "I've had a damned awful day."

He put down the bottle he had filled.  "In what way, James?"

"Well, every damn thing seems to have gone wrong.  Every case I
revisited had got worse--none had improved--and a few people more or
less suggested that I was a bloody awful vet."

"Surely not.  You're imagining things."

"I don't think so.  It started first thing this morning when I was
examining Mrs.  Cowling's dog.  It was a rather obscure case and I
tried to spell out the various possibilities to her.  She gave me a
frosty look and said, "Well, the long and short of it is that you
simply have no idea what is wrong with the animal!""

"I shouldn't worry about that, James.  She probably didn't mean
anything."

"You didn't see her face.  But then I went out to see a ewe at George
Grindley's.  It was a pregnancy toxaemia and I was taking its
temperature when, out of the blue, George said, "You know, you've never
cured a single animal on my place.  I hope you'll do better with this
'un.""

"But that's not true, James, I know it's not."

"Maybe so, but he said it."  I ran my fingers through my hair.  "And
after that I drove out to cleanse a cow at old Hawkin's.  I'd just got
out of the car when he looked at me under his brows and grunted, "Oh,
it's you.  My wife says it's always fatal when Mr.  Herriot comes."  I
must have looked a bit shattered because he patted me on the shoulder
and said, "Mind you, she likes you as a man.""

"Oh dear.  I'm sorry, James."

"Thank you, Siegfried, I won't bore you any more, but it's been like
that all day, and then right in the middle of it I had to go through my
own village and past poor old Molly Minican's cottage.  There was an
auctioneer there, selling off her furniture and her bits and pieces.
There were all sorts of things piled up in her garden and it hit me
again that her dog had died without my having any idea what was wrong
with him, though I treated him for two years.  She knew I didn't know
and she must have thought I was a dead loss.  I think that was the peak
point of my hellish day."

Siegfried spread his hands.  "Look, how many vets and doctors have lost
patients without ever being sure of their diagnosis?  You're not the
only one.  Anyway, we all have days like today, James, when nothing
goes right.  Every vet runs up against them now and then.  You'll have
a lot of good days to make up for it."

I nodded good-bye and set off for home.  My partner was trying to be
kind, but I still felt low when I got to Hannerly, and as I sat down at
the tea-table, Helen gave me a questioning look.

"What's the matter, Jim?  You're very quiet."

"Sorry, Helen, I know I'm not a barrel of laughs tonight."  I poured
out my story.

"Oh, I thought it must be something to do with your work," she said.
"But what's really getting you down is Molly Minican, isn't it?"

I nodded.  "That's right.  She was a bit special.  Seeing all her
things lying in her garden brought everything back to me, and I don't
like the thought that Molly died convinced I was a bit of a chump."

"But she was always nice to you, Jim."

"She was nice to everybody, me included.  But I know that she must have
felt that I had let her down.  She's gone now, but I have this rotten
feeling that in her heart she had a poor opinion of me and that's
something I can never alter."

Helen gave me a quizzical smile.  "I think I have something here that
will make you feel better."  She left the room and I waited, mystified,
till she came back with what looked like a framed picture under her
arm.

"Peggy Ford in the village was at Molly's sale," she said.  "She handed
this on to me because it was hanging in the old lady's bedroom and she
thought you'd be interested in it.  Here, have a look."

It wasn't a picture.  It was a framed square of cardboard and across
the top, in Molly's spidery writing, I read: "My three favourite
men."

Underneath, gummed to the cardboard, were three photographs in a row.
There was Sir Charles Armitage, John Wayne ... and me.

Chapter 48

It was the first time I had ever seen a man coming out of a house and
then removing bicycle clips from his trouser legs.

I had been called to this cottage by a Mr.  Colwell to attend his dog,
and as I got out of the car I was surprised to see this man emerge,
then, after looking back carefully, bend down to take off the clips.
There was no sign of a bike anywhere.

"Excuse me," I said.  "I hope you don't mind my asking, but why the
clips?"

The man looked back again, grinned and spoke quietly.  "Now then, Mr.
Herriot, it's you, is it.  I've just been in to read t'gas meter and
I'm takin' precautions."

"Precautions?"

"Aye, against the fleas."

"Fleas!"

"Aye, that's right.  They're canny folks, the Colwells, but the missus
isn't ower particular and there's a lot of fleas in there."

I stared at him.  "But ... the clips ... I still don't see ..."

"Aye, well," said the man, laughing.  "They're to stop the fleas goin'
up me legs inside me trousers."  He pocketed the clips and strode off
round the corner to his next visit.

I stood by my car, chuckling to myself.  Fleas up his legs!  I'd never
heard anything so daft.  I had known that gas man for years and he'd
always seemed perfectly normal, but clearly he suffered from an
obsession.  Like some people washing their hands all the time. Probably
he put the clips on at every house.  I trotted to the corner and looked
along the row of cottages but he had disappeared.

It was incredible, the strange notions people got into their heads, but
such whimsies had always fascinated me and a flea complex was something
new.  I just hoped the poor chap wasn't unhappy with a delusion like
this, but I had heard him whistling cheerfully as he rounded the corner
so I supposed it didn't bother him too much.  I was still smiling as I
walked back to my car and it was an expansive smile, because it was
Thursday and this was my last visit before starting my half-day.

Though veterinary surgery was my life and I wouldn't have wanted to do
anything else, the snag was that it never stopped--except on Thursday
afternoons.  On that special day I invariably felt light-hearted as
soon as I awoke, knowing that by midday Helen and I would be off to
Brawton, free as birds.  A leisurely lunch at one of the town's
splendid cafes, then we would meet my pal Gordon Rae, the vet from
Boroughbridge, and his wife, Jean, fellow escapees from the telephone
and the wellington boots, and we would spend the day shopping, followed
by tea and the cinema.  It doesn't sound like much, but to us it was a
blessed relief.

The evening would be different this time since Helen had been given
tickets for a concert by the Halle Orchestra from the Miss Whitlings,
pillars of the Darrowby Music Society.  We would be returning home to
change and then be making up a four with them for the concert.  The
conductor was my old hero, Sir John Barbirolli, and the programme was
mouth-watering.  Coriolanus, Elgar's Violin Concerto and Brahms's First
Symphony.  I took a long contented breath as I knocked on the Colwells'
door-in about an hour's time we'd be off.

It was opened by the man of the house; sixtyish, collarless and
unshaven, but with a welcoming smile.

"Come in, Mr.  'erriot," he cried, waving a courtly arm.  "I'm sorry we
had to call you out, but we 'aven't no transport and our awd dog needs
attention."

"That's all right, Mr.  Colwell.  I understand he's had a bump with a
car?"

"Aye, he ran out in front of the post office van this mornin' and it
sent him flyin'."  The smile vanished from his face and his eyes
widened with anxiety.  "We hope it's nowt serious.  Poor awd Roopy--we
call 'im that because he's got a funny bark."

The front door opened directly into the living room and the atmosphere
was stuffier and more odoriferous than a cow byre.  Dust lay thickly on
the furniture and a colourful miscellany of newspapers, articles of
clothing and food scraps littered the table and floor.  Mrs.  Colwell
was indeed not ower particular.

The lady herself appeared from the kitchen and greeted me with the same
affability as her husband, but her eyes were red and swollen with
weeping.

"Eee, Mr.  Herriot," she quavered, "we're that worried about Roopy.
He's never ailed a thing all 'is life, but we're frightened we might
lose 'im now."

I looked at the dog stretched in a basket against the wall.  He seemed
to be a spaniel cross and he gazed at me with terrified eyes.

"Did he manage to walk inside after the accident?"  I asked.

"Nay," replied Mr.  Colwell.  "We had to carry 'im in."  He gulped. "We
think he might have a broken back."

"Mmm."  I knelt by the basket and the Colwells knelt on either side of
me.  I pulled down Roopy's lower eyelid and saw a pink conjunctiva.

"He's a good colour.  No sign there of internal injury."  I felt my way
over all four legs, ribs and pelvis and found no fractures.

"Let's see if you can stand, old boy," I said.

Gently I eased my hand underneath the dog's body and very carefully
started to lift.  He responded with a yowling protest, which brought
exclamations of anguish from his owners.  "Aw, poor awd Roopy!"  "Never
mind, lad!"  "Oh, he's such a good boy!"  as they patted and caressed
him.

I persevered and kept lifting until I had him standing shakily for a
moment, then I let him down.

"Well, it seems he's got away with it," I said.  "He's a bit bruised
and you can see his pads are scuffed and sore, but I'm sure he's not
seriously injured."

Cries of joy went up from the Colwells and they redoubled their
strokings and cooings while Roopy, his big spaniel eyes liquid and
pathetic, gazed around him at each of us in turn.  He was clearly
milking the situation to its full.

The three of us got to our feet and I reached for my bag.  "I'm going
to give him a couple of injections to relieve his discomfort and to
help the sores on his pads."  I administered steroid and antibiotic and
counted out some penicillin tablets.  "He's suffering from shock, too,
but I think he's making the most of it."  I laughed and patted the
shaggy head.  "You're an old soldier, Roopy."

The Colwells joined in happily.  "Aye, you're right, Mr.  Herriot.  He
all us puts it on!"  But again a tear stole down the lady's cheek.
"Eee, but it's such a relief to know we're not going to lose 'im."

Then she quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand.  "We must
celebrate with a cup o' tea.  You've got time, Mr.  Herriot?"

Brawton beckoned but I couldn't say no.  "Right, thank you very much,
but it will have to be a quicky."

The kettle was soon boiling and Mrs.  Colwell used both arms to make a
sort of clearing in the table-top jungle where she deposited the cups.
As I sipped my tea and looked at the friendly people laughing and
gazing with love at their dog, I knew that the gas man had been right
again.  They were canny folks.

My departure had a triumphant quality as they ushered me out with
repeated thanks and wavings of arms.

I shouted back as I boarded my car, "Give me a ring in a couple of days
and let me know how he's going on.  I'm sure he'll be fine."

I had only just driven round the corner when I felt a prickling round
my ankles.  Maybe those new socks were irritating me--I began to push
them down.  But the strange tingling and itching began to spread to my
calves and I pulled into the roadside and rolled up a trouser leg.  My
flesh was sprinkled with little black dots, but they were dots that
hopped and jumped and bit, and they were working their way rapidly up
my thighs.  Oh my God, that gas man hadn't been so daft!

I had to get home with all speed but I got behind a couple of farm
tractors with wide loads and was unable to overtake.  By the time I
reached home, the invasion had reached my chest and back and the
maddening itch was setting me afire, making me wriggle around in my
seat.

Helen was changing in readiness for Brawton and she turned in surprise
as I galloped into our bedroom.

"I have to get into the bath!"  I shouted.

"Oh ... had a dirty job?"

"No, I've got fleas!"

"What!"

"Fleas!  Millions of them--they're all over me!"

"But ... but ... how ...?"

"I'll tell you later.  Please come and get my clothes and dump them in
the washer.  I'll need a complete change."

In the bathroom I undressed and submerged myself, plunging my head
repeatedly under the water.  Helen came in and looked with horror at my
heap of clothes with the agile insects leaping against the white of the
shirt.

"Oooo ... yuk-yuk-yuk!"  she gasped as she grimaced and lifted each
article by one corner and disappeared to the wash.

I felt as if I could have stayed in that bath for ever.  The relief was
enormous as I lay there, freed from the torture of the itch, watching
in disbelief as the dark tormentors floated on the surface of the
water.  I wasn't going to take any chances.  I emptied the bath and
refilled it before having another long steep.  I washed and scrubbed my
hair again and again and when I finally climbed out and donned a
completely new set of clothes I thanked heaven that my troubles were
over.  It was my first experience of such a thing and I hadn't realised
how shattering it could be.  I had read often about the suffering of
people in foreign prisons lying in flea-ridden mattresses but I had
never fully comprehended it until now.

When we at last set off for Brawton it was difficult to recapture the
carefree feeling that always settled on us on a Thursday.  The bizarre
events of the morning were still too fresh in our minds.  However, as
we left the hills and began to bowl along the great plain of York with
the familiar Thursday scenes rolling past the car windows, we began
gradually to relax.  Soon we would be at lunch, out of reach of our
pressures, then, this evening, the particular joy of the Halle
Orchestra.

As a schoolboy in Glasgow I had actually met the legendary
Barbirolli--it was before he was Sir John--and in rather odd
circumstances.  I was attending a special schools concert by the
Scottish Orchestra in the St.  Andrew's Hall.  I went to the toilet in
the interval and became aware that a white-tie and tailed figure was
standing in the next stall to me.  I looked up and was amazed and
delighted to see that it was the great man himself.  It was a strange
place to meet, but he asked me how I was enjoying the music, what I had
liked best and about myself.  He was indeed the gracious, kindly man
who became such a beloved figure throughout the world.

Since my meeting I had followed his career through the years, from when
he succeeded Toscanini as conductor of the New York Philharmonic, till
now when he had been since 1942 in charge of the great Halle Orchestra.
Over the years I had gone to his concerts whenever they were in reach
and watched him shrinking in size.  He had always been small but now he
was tiny and frail--but totally inspiring on the rostrum.

I was sharing these thoughts with Helen as our half-day euphoria
mounted, and we were within a mile of Brawton when I stiffened in my
seat and fell silent.

After a minute or so my wife looked at me.  "What's wrong?  You've gone
very quiet."

I shifted position carefully.  "Oh, it's probably nothing, but I have a
daft feeling that I've still got some fleas on me."

"What!  You can't have--not after a bath and a complete change!  It's
impossible!"

"I know it's impossible, but I tell you--I've got that same feeling."

"Oh, it's just the after-effects, Jim; remember you were bitten all
over."

"I know, I know," I grunted, "but I'm pretty sure there's some fresh
activity going on."

She took my hand and smiled encouragingly.  "It's all in your mind. Try
to think of something else."

I did my best, but I was still wriggling when I mounted the stairs to
Brown's cafe.  The mingled cooking smells, the clatter of cutlery, the
cheerful bustle and the welcoming smiles of the waitresses we knew so
well had always sent my spirits soaring as though a great gong was
signalling the beginning of our happy few hours, but today was
different.

As we took our places and read through the good old-fashioned Yorkshire
menu, which had always delighted me--roast beef with Yorkshire pudding,
plaice and chips, steak and kidney pie, steamed jam sponge, spotted
Dick and custard, my mind was churning and my smile was a fixed mask as
I ordered.

Sipping my way through the delicious soup and toying with the meal, I
was like a man in a bad dream as I tried to ignore the torture under my
shirt.  Around the half-way stage a couple threaded their way between
the crowded tables and the man approached us.

"May we join you?"  he asked politely.  "There's not a seat
anywhere."

"Of course," I replied, digging up another smile.  "By all means."

As they sat down it was easy to label them.  A farmer and his wife out
for the day like ourselves.  They were in their fifties, with scrubbed,
weathered faces, and the man's bright tie and smart tweed jacket sat
uneasily upon him.  He reached a huge hand for the menu and studied it
with his wife.

"Aye, well," he said, looking up at us.  "That were a good rain last
night."

That settled it, I thought as we nodded agreement.  I didn't know them.
Brawton was rather far for most of my farmers.  They would probably be
from Wharfedale.

My conjectures were cut short by Helen pressing her knee against mine.
I turned to her and saw a look of horror on her face.

"There's one on your collar," she muttered, then, "Ooo, it's jumped!"

It had indeed jumped, right onto the middle of the white table-cloth.
As I watched helplessly another one hopped out, then another.

The farmer and his wife, who were clearly on the point of starting a
friendly conversation, stared in amazement at the leaping objects.
There was a terrible silence, then the man spoke again.

"Ah, there's a table by the window, Eva," he said, rising to his feet.
"That's where we usually sit.  You'll excuse us, won't you."

After they had gone we raced through our meal.  I don't know how many
more of the flitting creatures appeared on the table.  I was too
stunned to count, and looking back now I have only the terrifying
memory of the first few.  We abandoned all idea of our dessert and
instead of a happy discussion of the relative merits of ginger pudding
and apple pie we called for our bill and fled.

We couldn't wait to see Jean and Gordon.  The bathroom at home was our
only goal and as I drove at top speed, images of the little terrors on
that table-cloth rose again and again in my mind.  How could it
possibly have happened?  How had that second wave of fleas escaped all
my precautions?  To this day I have no answer, I only know it was so.

Back home it was the same thing again.  The total submersion in the
bath.  Helen's fingertip bearing away my contaminated clothing and a
complete change.

It was fortunate that I had reserved my "good suit" for the concert
because my limited wardrobe was running low.  When I finally stood
freshly arrayed and ready to go, I turned despairingly to my wife.
"Surely I'll be all right this time."

"Oh, you must be.  There can't possibly be any of those things left
now."

I shifted gloomily under my fresh shirt.  "That's what we thought
before."

We had to pick up the Miss Whitlings, Harriet and Felicity, and we
found them, as usual, bursting with vitality and good humour.  They
were in their late forties, large, busty ladies, and though some people
might have called them fat I had always considered them extremely
comely and had been mystified that neither of them was married.

The journey back to Brawton passed quickly aided by the non-stop
conversation and, for me, the blissful knowledge that at last nothing
was eating me alive.  In the concert hall our two friends stationed
themselves on either side of me, which I took as a compliment.  In
fact, I was tightly squeezed between them because they both overflowed
their seats to some extent.

As I drank in the familiar sounds of the concert hall, the orchestra
tuning, the expectant buzz of conversation with my two attractive
neighbours chattering on either side, it came to me that after my
traumatic day, things had taken an upturn.  Life was pretty good.

I joined in the wave of applause that greeted the slight figure of
Barbirolli as he almost tiptoed across the platform.  The people of
Yorkshire loved him as much as anybody and the clapping went on and on.
As he finally mounted the rostrum and raised his baton in the sudden
hush, I settled back in happy anticipation.

It was just as the first majestic bars of Coriolanus sounded that I
felt the prickle on my right shoulder-blade.  Oh, my God, no, it
couldn't be.  But the growing irritation was only too familiar.  I
tried to ignore it but after a minute I had to lean hard against the
back of my seat to try to relieve the itch, and then as it spread
across my back I had to execute the slightest of wriggles to transfer
my weight the other way.

I realised then, to my horror, that in my squashed-in situation even
the slightest movement was transmitted instantly to one or other of my
neighbours.  As the maddening tickle mounted, I wanted to scratch,
throw myself about, fight the thing in every way, but that was
unthinkable.  I had to accept the frightening reality that for the next
several hours I would have to sit still.

This involved a supreme effort of will on my part but I would have had
to be some sort of yogi to succeed.  I did my best to concentrate on
the music, but was forced to settle for short periods of inaction then
a careful shifting of position, sometimes to brace my back against the
seat or move my clothes against my skin by side-to-side shufflings.

I was convinced that there was only one flea at work now.  After my
experiences I had become an authority on the species and I was positive
that I could track his progress over my person.  As Beethoven thundered
around me I had the feverish idea that I might trap him in the act and
squash him, and whenever I felt a fresh bite I tried to exert a fierce
pressure against the hard wood and move slowly from side to side.

These manoeuvres inevitably involved encroachment on my partners'
territory.  I had expected during the evening to get to know the nice
sisters better, to find out more about their personalities, but in fact
I learned much more about their anatomies than anything else.  Rounded
arms, well-fleshed ribs, yielding hips--all were contacted and
repeatedly explored in my helpless squirmings, but like the well-bred
ladies that they were neither of them showed any outward reactions to
my incursions beyond an occasional clearing of the throat or sharp
intake of breath.  However, when I found my right knee deeply buried in
the softness of Harriet's thigh, there was a definite withdrawal of the
limb, and when my left elbow inadvertently but relentlessly nudged
aside a weighty bosom, I saw Felicity's eyebrows climb up her
forehead.

I would rather say no more about that unhappy evening except that the
pattern did not change.  The divine Elgar Violin Concerto that, more
than any other musical work, has the power to transport me to a perfect
world, was only a background noise to my private battle.  It was the
same with the beloved Brahms's First Symphony.  All I wanted was to get
home.

At the interval and as we bade them goodnight at the end, there were a
lot of fixed smiles and darting glances from the Miss Whitlings, and
the old saying about wanting the ground to swallow me was never so
true.

And when it was all over and Helen and I were sitting on the edge of
our bed going over the night's events I still felt terrible.

"My God, what a night!"  I groaned, and as I dredged through my
embarrassments with the sisters yet again, Helen managed to keep a
straight face, but I could see that it was costing her dearly.
Twitchings of the mouth, fierce frowns and an occasional sinking of her
face in her hands betrayed her inner struggle.

At the end of my recital of woe I threw out my hands in despair.  "And,
do you know, Helen, I am convinced that all that agony I went through
tonight was caused by a single flea.  Think of that!  Just one flea!"

My wife suddenly dropped her chin on her chest, thrust out her lips and
made a creditable attempt to sink her voice down a few octaves to
basso-prof undo pitch.

"A flea!"  she intoned in true Chaliapin fashion.  "Ha-ha-ha-haaa, a
flea!"

"Ah, yes, very funny," I replied.  "But Mussorgsky would never have put
all the laughter in that song if he had suffered like me."

Two days later Mr.  Colwell telephoned.  "Roopy's grand!"  he cried in
delight.  "Runnin' round, good as new, but 'e has a bit of broken nail
sort of hangin' from his paw, and it's catchin' on things.  I wish
you'd come and cut it off."

I didn't answer for a few seconds.  "You ... you couldn't take it off
yourself ... just a little snip with scissors?"

"Nay, nay, I'm no good at that sort of thing.  I'd be right grateful if
you'd drop in if you're out this way."

"Right ... right, Mr.  Colwell.  I'll see you later this morning."

"Helen," I cried as I left the house.  "There's another call--the
Colwells."

"What!"  She looked round the kitchen door in alarm.

"Yes ... afraid so, but I'm calling first to see young Jack Arnold
along the road."

"Farmer Arnold's son?"

"Yes, that's right.  The lad who does all that bicycle racing."

"Why?"

"I'm going to borrow his clips."

Chapter 49

Sister Rose gently lifted the trembling dog onto the table.  He was a
tiny cross-bred terrier and he looked at me with terrified eyes.

"Poor little beggar," I said.  "No wonder he's frightened.  This is the
one that was found on the road in Helvington, isn't it?"

Sister Rose nodded.  "Yes, running about aimlessly, looking for his
owners.  You've seen it all before."

I had indeed.  The desperate search for the people he had loved and
trusted who had dumped him and driven away.  The dashing up,
open-mouthed, to somebody who looked familiar, then turning away in
bewilderment.  To me it was an almost unbearable sight, evoking
feelings of rage and pity that almost choked me.

"Never mind, old lad," I said, stroking the shaggy head.  "There are
better days ahead."

There were always better days ahead for the abandoned dogs at Sister
Rose's little animal sanctuary.  It was amazing how soon her care and
affection reassured and transformed the helpless creatures, and through
the open door of the treatment room I could see the wagging tails and
hear the joyous barking of the dogs in the row of wire-fronted pens.

I was here to do the usual things.  Check up on the health and
condition of the new arrivals and give them their shots against
distemper, hepatitis and leptospirosis, remove the stitches from the
spay incisions (all bitches were spayed on arrival) and generally
attend to any illness I might find.

"I see he's holding up a hind leg," I said.

"Yes, he doesn't seem to be able to use that leg at all and I want you
to have a look at it.  I hope it's just a temporary thing."

I examined the foot and claws.  Normal.  And as I felt my way up the
leg, I soon found the cause of the trouble.

I turned to Sister Rose.  "He's had a fractured femur and it's never
been set.  The bone has formed a sort of callus but there's no real
healing."

"So this little thing had a broken leg and his owners just didn't
bother about it?"

"That's right."  I ran my hand over the little body, feeling the
jutting backbone, the almost fleshless ribs.  "He's emaciated too, just
about skin and bone.  This is a neglected dog if ever I saw one."

"And I'll bet he's never had any affection either," she said softly.
"Look how he trembles when we speak.  He seems to be afraid of people."
She gave a long sigh.  "Ah, well, we'll do what we can.  How about that
leg?"

"I'll have to X-ray it later today to see what can be done."  I gave
him his inoculations and Sister Rose carried him out and placed him in
a pen on his own.  "By the way," I said.  "What have you called this
one?"

She smiled.  "I've called him Titch.  Not a very elegant name, but he's
so little."

"Yes, I agree.  Very suitable."  As I spoke, the thought recurred that
finding names for her constant flow of rescued animals was only one of
Sister Rose's problems.  She was the radiologist at a big hospital but
still found time to care for her ever-changing doggy family, still was
able to find the money by running efforts for her "biscuit fund" and by
dipping into her own pocket.

I was bandaging another dog's infected foot when I saw a man walking up
and down the row of pens.  He had his hands behind his back as he
looked intently at the eager faces behind the wire.

"I see you've got a customer," I said.

"I hope so.  I like the look of him.  He arrived just before you and
he's making a very thorough search."

As she spoke the man half turned to have a closer look.  There was
something familiar about that stocky frame.

"That's Rupe Nellist," I exclaimed.  "I know him."

A few years ago he had run a large grocery shop in Darrowby but he had
expanded and opened another bigger business in the bustling town of
Hargrove, thirty miles away, and had moved away to live there, but he
was still a faithful client and had brought his dog to me regularly
until it died at the age of fifteen only a week ago.

I finished my bandaging and went out to him with Sister Rose.

"Hello, Rupe," I said.

He turned in surprise.  "Now then, Mr.  Herriot.  I didn't expect to
see you."  His blunt-featured face, slightly pugnacious in repose, was
attractive when he smiled.  "I've been miserable since I lost tjawd dog
and I'm takin' your advice.  I'm looking for another."

"It's the only way, Rupe, and you've come to the right place.  There
are some lovely dogs here."

"Aye, you're right."  He took off his trilby hat and smoothed back his
hair.  "But I've had a heck of a job makin' up my mind.  It sounds
daft, but if I pick one out I'm goin' to feel sorry for all the other
poor little blighters I'm leaving behind."

Sister Rose laughed.  "A lot of people feel like that, Mr.  Nellist,
but you needn't worry.  I find good homes for all my dogs.  I don't
care how long I have to keep them--none is ever put to sleep.  The only
exceptions are in cases of extreme old age or incurable disease."

"Aye, well, that's wonderful.  I'll just have another stroll along
here."  He recommenced his inspection of the pens, walking with a
pronounced limp in his right leg, a relic of childhood polio.

Sister Rose hadn't been exaggerating when she said he was thorough.  Up
and down he went, talking to the animals, pushing a finger through the
wire to tickle their noses.  Many of the dogs were handsome specimens
with a pedigree look about them--noble Labradors, majestic golden
retrievers, and a German shepherd that could have been a Crufts winner,
and as I watched them all, tails wagging, leaping up at Rupe, I
wondered as I often did how they could possibly have been abandoned.
Each time he passed Titch's pen the little dog hopped along the other
side of the wire on his three legs, keeping pace with him, looking up
into his face.

Finally he stopped and gazed for a long time at the little creature.
"You know, I fancy that 'un," he murmured.

"Really?"  Sister Rose was surprised.  "He's only just arrived.  We
haven't had a chance to do anything for him.  He's in a shocking state.
Very lame, too."

"Aye, I can see that.  But let's have a look at 'im, will you?"

Sister Rose opened the door of the pen and Rupe Nellist reached in and
lifted the little animal up till he was head high, gazing at him,
eyeball to eyeball.  "Now, little feller," he said softly.  "How would
you like to come home wi' me?"  The frightened eyes in the shaggy face
regarded him for a few moments, then the tail twitched and a pink
tongue reached for his face.

The man smiled.  "I reckon this is a right good-natured little dog.
We'll get on fine together."

"You want him, then?"  asked Sister Rose, wide-eyed.

"I do that.  Right now."

"Oh, I do wish we'd been able to get him straightened up for you
first."

"Don't worry.  I'll do all that."  He put the dog down and pushed a
note into the donation box.  "Thank ye, Sister, for letting me look
round.  What have you called this little bloke?"

"Titch, I'm afraid.  Probably you'll want to change that."

He laughed.  "Not at all.  Come on, Titch."  He limped away towards his
car with his new pet limping beside him.  After a few steps he looked
back with a grin.  "Walks like me, doesn't he?  Same leg, too."

I saw man and dog a fortnight later at my surgery when they came in for
the booster inoculation.  The difference in Titch was dramatic.  He had
filled out and, more striking still, the trembling and fear had gone.

"He's a different dog, Rupe," I said.  "He looks as though he's had
some good food at last, and he's happy, too."

"Aye, by gum he did eat for the first few days and he's settled down
grand at home, too.  My missus thinks the world of 'im."

I noticed that as he spoke the tiny animal's gaze was fixed
unwaveringly on his new master.  He was a shaggy little thing of
baffling breeding, but his face had a scruffy appeal that was
undeniably attractive and his eyes shone with devotion.  Titch had
found somebody else to love and this time I knew he wasn't going to be
let down.  Rupe Nellist was not a demonstrative man, but the way he
looked at his new pet and gently stroked his head made it very clear
that there was something in the little creature to which he responded
deeply.

I took the opportunity to X-ray the lame leg and the picture was as I
expected.

"It's too late to set the broken bone in plaster, Rupe," I said.  "The
only hope would be to plate the leg--bring the ends of the bone
together and hold them there for a few weeks with a metal plate, and
even then I couldn't guarantee he'd ever be sound.  These things are
best done at the time of the injury."

"Yes, I understand that, but, you know, I'd give a lot to see the
little feller goin' around on all four legs.  He never puts that bad
leg to the ground, and it upsets me.  Think about it, and I'll do
whatever you advise."

Plating fractures was going deeper into orthopaedic surgery than I had
ever done, but two things motivated me to have a go.  Firstly, Rupe
Nellist had a steadfast faith in my ability and secondly, Calum
Buchanan was determined to drag me into the modern world of
small-animal practice.

There was another thing, too.  I kept hearing from people who lived in
Hargrove about Rupe's extraordinary affection for his new dog.  It
seemed that he took him everywhere with him, socially and in his work,
showing him off proudly as if he was of the highest pedigree instead
of, as most people would say, just a little mongrel.  Rupe's business
had continued to prosper with the opening of another large shop and he
was active, too, on the town council and in local government.  It
caused some surprised comment that he actually took Titch into the
council meetings with him, and had he not been a formidable
personality, growing in power, he'd never have got away with it.  There
was no doubt about it, I'd have to try to fix that leg.

I found myself in a very familiar situation-having to perform an
operation that I had never done, never even seen.  I had received a
good scientific education at the veterinary college, but I had
qualified at a time when a great wave of new drugs and procedures was
sweeping over the profession and I was breathlessly trying to keep up
with it all.  All I could do was read up on the new things in our
professional journals, and this had enabled me to do a lot of bovine
surgery such as Caesarean operations and rumenotomies, which had never
been performed in our district before.  In my modest way, I was a
pioneer in that field.

However, these things had been forced upon me, an unavoidable part of
my life as a large-animal practitioner.  It had been only too easy to
side-step the small-animal surgery by sending our problem cases to the
brilliant Granville Bennett, but it was time to face up to the fact
that dog and cat work was going to occupy more and more of our lives.
This was another revolution.

Calum was an enthusiastic advocate of the new ideas.  He would tackle
any kind of surgery with courage and determination, and he was
enchanted at the opportunity to repair Titch's leg.  And, unlike me, he
had seen many of these orthopaedic operations done.  The modern
veterinary colleges had fine clinics where all the latest procedures
were carried out--something undreamed of in my time.

We had to get in some new instruments and equipment but we were ready
to start by the following Sunday morning.  We picked that day because
the practice would be quiet and we'd have more time.

I found, as with all new operations, that the actuality was ten times
more difficult and frightening than I had expected from my reading.  I
seemed to spend a year, head to head with Calum, bending over Titch's
sleeping form.  Digging our way through the muscles down to the damaged
bone, removing the partial callus and a seemingly endless mass or
fibrous tissue, tying off the spurting blood vessels, freshening the
ends of the bone, drilling, screwing in the plates that would hold the
broken ends together.  I was sweating and exhausted by the time the
last skin suture was inserted and all that could be seen was the line
of stitches.  Thinking of what lay underneath, I breathed a silent
prayer.

Over the next few weeks, Rupe Nellist kept bringing Titch in for
examination.  The wound had healed well with no reaction, but there was
no attempt by the little dog to put the leg to the ground.

After two months we removed the plate.  The bone had united
beautifully, but Titch was still a three-legged dog.

"Doesn't he ever try to touch the ground with it?"  I asked.

Rupe shook his head.  "Nay, he's as you see 'im.  Never any different.
Maybe he's been lame so long that he just holds the leg up out of
habit?"

"Could be, but it's disappointing."

"Never mind, Mr.  Herriot.  You chaps have done your best and I'm
grateful.  And the little feller's grand in every other way."

As he took his leave with his pet limping by his side, Calum turned to
me with a wry smile.  "Ah, well, some you lose."

It was several months later when Calum read out a piece in the Darrowby
and Houlton Times.

"Listen to this.  "On Saturday there will be a civic reception for
Rupert Nellist, newly elected Mayor of Hargrove, followed by an
appearance outside the Town Hall.""

"Well, good old Rupe," I said.  "He deserves it after all he's done for
the town.  I like that man."

Calum nodded.  "So do I. And I wouldn't mind seeing him in his moment
of glory.  Do you think we could sneak through to Hargrove for half an
hour?"

I looked at him thoughtfully.  "That would be nice, wouldn't it?  And
there's nothing much fixed for Saturday.  I'll speak to Siegfried--I'm
sure he'll hold the fort for us."

Saturday morning found Calum and me among the crowd standing in bright
sunshine outside Hargrove Town Hall.  At the top of the steps, several
large pots of flowers had been arranged on either side of the big doors
and the multicoloured blooms added to the festive air and the feeling
of expectancy.  A group of BBC men stood with their television cameras
at the ready.

We hadn't long to wait.  The doors swung open, and as Rupe emerged
wearing his chain of office with the Lady Mayoress by his side, a
swelling cheer arose from the crowd.  His popularity was reflected in
the smiling faces and waving arms around us, then the sound increased
suddenly in volume as Titch trotted out from behind the master.
Everybody knew about Rupe's relationship with his dog.

However, the sound was as nothing compared to the great roar of
laughter when Titch strolled to the front, cocked his leg, and relieved
himself against one of the flowerpots, a gesture which would make him
famous among TV audiences throughout the country.

Everybody was still laughing as the little procession came down the
steps and began to pass through the crowd, who opened up to make an
avenue down which the Mayor and Mayoress walked with Titch in the
rear.

It was a happy sight but Calum and I had eyes for only one thing.

Calum nudged me in the ribs.  "Do you see what I see?"

"I do," I breathed.  "I certainly do."

"He's sound.  On four legs.  Absolutely no signs of a limp."

"Yes ... great ... marvelous!"  The feeling of triumph made the sun
shine more brightly.

We couldn't wait any longer, and as we got into the car Calum turned to
me.  "There was something else.  When Titch was watering those flowers
did you notice anything?"

"Yes.  He was cocking his good leg.  All his weight was on the bad
one."

"Which means ..."  said Calum, grinning.

"That he'll never be lame again."

"That's right."  Calum settled behind the wheel and as he started the
engine, he sighed contentedly.  "Ah, well, some you win."

Chapter 50

Bob Stockdale was the sole survivor of the cataclysm that had struck
the Lord Nelson Inn.  In dirty wellington boots and flat cap he sat
there on a high stool at the end of the bar counter, seemingly
oblivious of the endless torrent of piped music and the babel of voices
from the jostling pack of smart young people.

I fought my way to the bar, collected a pint of bitter, and as I stood
surveying the scene from a space against the wall my thoughts drifted
sadly back to the old days.  A year ago the Lord Nelson had been a
typical Yorkshire country pub.  I remembered an evening when I dropped
in there with a friend from Glasgow, the city of my youth.  There was
just one big room then, rather like a large kitchen, with a log fire
burning in a black cooking range at one end and a dozen farm men
sitting on high-backed oak settles, their pints resting on tables of
pitted wood.  Those settles were a draught-proof refuge from the cold
winds that whistled along the streets of the village outside and over
the high pastures where those men spent their days.

The conversation never rose above a gentle murmur, over which the
ticking of a wall clock and the click of dominoes added to the
atmosphere of rest and quiet.

"Gosh, it's peaceful in here," my friend said.  Wonderingly he watched
the proprietor, in shirt and braces, proceed unhurriedly down to the
cellar and emerge with a long enamel jug from which he replenished the
glasses, regulating the flow expertly to achieve the required head of
froth.

"A bit different from West Nile Street," I said.

He grinned.  "It certainly is.  In fact it's unbelievable.  How does a
place like this pay?  Only a few chaps here, and they aren't drinking
much."

"I think it hardly pays at all.  Maybe a few pounds a week, but the
owner has a small holding--there are cows, calves and pigs just through
that wall--and he looks on this as a pleasant sideline."

My friend took a pull at his glass, stretched out his legs and half
closed his eyes.  "Anyway, I like it.  You can relax here.  It's
lovely."

It was indeed lovely and most of the pubs around Darrowby were still
lovely, but as I looked at the modernised Lord Nelson I wondered how
long they would stay that way.

When the new owner took over he didn't waste any time in starting his
revolution.  He wasn't a farmer, he was an experienced landlord and he
could see rich possibilities in the old inn in the pretty village of
Welsby tucked among the fells.  The kitchen range disappeared and was
replaced by a smart bar counter with a background of mirrors and
gleaming bottles; horse brasses, hunting horns and sporting prints
appeared on the walls and the antique settles and tables were swept
away.  The end wall was knocked down and people ate in an elegant
dining room where once I calved the cows and tended the pigs.

Two things happened almost at once; droves of young people swarmed out
in their cars from the big Yorkshire towns and the old clientele melted
away.  I never knew where those farm men went-probably to pubs in the
neighbouring villages-but Bob Stockdale stayed.  I couldn't understand
why, but he was a quiet man, a bit of a loner, and maybe he felt that
he had sat in that room several nights a week for years and, despite
all the changes, he didn't want to leave it.  Anyway, whenever I called
in he was there, perched on the same stool, with his old bitch, Meg,
tucked underneath.  Welsby was part of the long, long road up the dale,
which I had travelled a thousand times, and when I had a night call up
there I sometimes dropped in for a beer.  Tonight I had replaced a
prolapsed uterus in a cow, and as I sipped at my glass I had the warm
feeling of satisfaction after a successful operation.

I spotted a gap in the crush round the bar and pushed my way to Bob's
side.  "Hello, Bob," I said.  "Can I top up your glass?  It's getting a
bit low."

"Aye, thank ye, Mr.  Herriot.  It's getting' far down, right enough."
He drained the last few inches and pushed the glass across the
counter.

He spoke slowly, articulating with care.  It was nearing closing time
and he would have been there a long time, quietly lowering the pints.
He had reached a state of detachment from the world that I had seen
before.

I looked down at Meg's nose protruding from between the legs of the
stool and bent down to stroke the greying muzzle of the old bitch who
was Bob's helper and friend.  By day she brought the cows in for him,
skirting eagerly around them, nipping at their heels if they strayed,
and in the evenings they relaxed together.

I looked at the growing opacity in the friendly eyes.  "She's getting
on a bit now, Bob."

"Aye, she'll be ten come Easter, but she's still right active."

"Oh yes, I've seen her at work.  She'll go on for a long time yet."

He nodded solemnly.

We talked for a few minutes.  I had a great fellow feeling for men like
Bob, the hardy farm workers who were part of my life--catching and
holding the big beasts for me, sweating side by side with me at tough
calvings and lambings.  It was a pleasure to be able to meet them off
the job, and I could see that Bob was enjoying our reminiscing
together.  He smiled gently at the memories, even though his speech was
slurring and his eyes half closed.

I finished my drink and looked at my watch.  "Got to go now, Bob.  Take
care of yourself till I see you again."

In reply he slid off the stool.  "Ahim off 'ome, too."  He tacked his
way carefully to the door.

Outside in the summer dusk, he went over to his bicycle, which was
resting against the wall.  I paused by my car.  I had seen this ritual
before and found it fascinating.

He pulled the bike from the wall and took some time about lining it up
to his satisfaction, then he made an attempt to throw a welling toned
leg over the saddle.  He didn't make it the first time and stood for a
few seconds apparently breathing deeply, then with great care he got
the bike into position before jerking his leg up again.  Once more he
missed and I thought for a moment that he was going to finish up, bike
and all, on the ground, but he regained his balance and stood with
bowed head, communing with himself.  Then he squared his shoulders
decisively, peered along crossbar and handlebars, and this time with a
convulsive leap he landed in the saddle.

For a tense period he sat there, moving only a few inches forward, feet
working on the pedals, hands pulling the handlebars from side to side
in his struggle to stay upright.  Then at last he took off and began to
move an inch at a time, almost imperceptibly, along the road.  After a
few yards he stopped and was stationary for several seconds, keeping
the bike vertical by some mystical means.  I thought, not for the first
time, that it was a pity that Bob had never entered for the annual slow
bicycle race at Darrowby Gala.  He would have carried the prize off
every year.

Leaning on my car, I watched his progress.  Old Meg, obviously familiar
with the routine, stepped along patiently by his side, dropping on her
chest whenever he carried out one of his miraculously balanced pauses.
Bob's cottage was about a mile along the road and I wondered how long
it would take him to get there.  His er/while companions before the old
pub was modernised were always adamant that he never ever fell off and
I personally had never seen him come to grief.  When man and dog
finally disappeared in the growing darkness I got into my car and drove
home.

As I said, I seemed to spend half my life on the road through Welsby,
and I dropped into the Lord Nelson several times over the next few
months.  As always, I spotted Bob's flat cap perched incongruously
among the modish jackets and dresses, but one night as I peered through
the crush I noticed something different.

I pushed my way to the corner of the bar.  "Hello, Bob.  I see you
haven't got Meg with you."

He glanced down to the space under his stool, then took a sip at his
glass before looking at me with a doleful expression.  "Nay ... nay
..."  he murmured.  "Couldn't bringer

"Why not?"

He didn't reply for a few moments and when he spoke his voice was
husky, almost inaudible.  "She's got cancer."

"What!"

"Cancer.  Meg's got cancer."

"How do you know?"

"There's a big growth on erIt's been comin' on for a bit."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You'd 'ave put her down.  Ah don't want her put down yet."

"But ... but ... you're jumping to conclusions, Bob.  All growths
aren't cancerous."

"This 'un must be.  It's a bloody great thing as big as a cricket
ball."

"And where is it?"

"Underneath 'er belly.  Hangin' right down nearly to t'ground.  It's
awful."  He rubbed his eyes as though to blot out the memory.  His face
was a mask of misery.

I grasped his arm.  "Now, look, Bob, this sounds to me like a simple
mammary tumour."

"A what?"

"A growth on the bitch's udder.  These things are very common and
they're very often benign and quite harmless."

"Oh, not this 'un," he quavered.  "It's a bloody big ..."  He
demonstrated with his hands.

"Size doesn't matter.  Come on, Bob, we'll go along to your house and
have a look at it."

"Nay ... nay ... ah know what you'll do."  His eyes took on a hunted
expression.

"I'll not do anything, I promise you."  I looked at my watch.  "It's
nearly closing time.  Let's go."

He gave me a final despairing look, then got off his stool and made his
careful way to the door.

Outside I watched the usual ceremony with the bike, but this time, at
the third attempt at mounting, man and bike crashed to the ground.  A
bad sign.  And on the interminable journey to the cottage Bob went down
several times and as I looked at him, sprawled face-down on top of his
machine, I realised that the heart had gone out of him.

At the cottage, Bob's brother, Adam, looked up from his work on a
hooked rug.  Neither of the men had married and, though entirely
different personalities, lived together in complete harmony.  I
hastened to Meg's basket and gently rolled the old bitch onto her side.
It was indeed a huge tumour, but it was rock hard, confined to the skin
and not adherent to the mammary tissue.

"Look, Bob," I said.  "I can get my fingers right behind it.  I'm sure
I can take it off with every chance of complete recovery."

He dropped into a chair and as Meg ambled across to greet him he slowly
stroked her ears.  There was something pathetic about the waving tail,
the open, panting mouth and the monstrous growth dangling almost to the
floor.

There was no reply, and Adam broke in.  "You can see what 'e's like,
Mr.  Herriot.  I've been telling 'im for weeks to come to you but he
takes no notice.  I've lost patience with him."

"How about it, Bob?"  I said.  "Will you bring her to the surgery as
soon as possible?  The quicker it's done the better.  You can't let her
go on like this."

He went on with his stroking for some time, then nodded his head.  "All
right."

"When?"

"Ah'll let ye know."

Adam came in again.  "You see.  He won't say, because I can tell you
now that 'e never will bring her in to you.  He's made up 'is mind that
Meg's going to die."

"That's daft, Bob," I said.  "I tell you I'm pretty sure I can put her
right.  Will I take her away with me now?  How about that?"

Still looking down, he shook his head vigorously.  I decided on shock
tactics.

"Well, let me do the operation now."

He shot me a startled glance.  "What ... right here?"

"Why not?  It's not as big a job as you think.  It doesn't involve any
vital organs, and I always carry an operating kit in my car."

"Good idea!"  burst out Adam.  "It's the only way we'll get it done!"

"Just one thing," I said.  "When did she last eat?"

"She had a few biscuits this morning," Adam replied.  "But that's all.
Bob always gives her her main meal last thing at night."

"Fine, fine.  She'll be just right for the anaesthetic."

Bob seemed stupefied and he didn't say a word or make a move as Adam
and I began to bustle about with our preparations.  I had always been
interested in the relationship between these two middle-aged brothers.
They were opposites.  Adam had never had an alcoholic drink in his life
but seemed totally uncritical of Bob's beer-orientated life-style, and
when Bob was at the Lord Nelson he was usually attending night classes
at the village school, rug-making being his latest interest.  Adam
wasn't a farm worker; he was employed by the big dairy that collected
the milk from the Dales farms.  He was small and slightly built,
finicky and fussy in his manner, unlike his burly, stolid brother.

After I had boiled the instruments we got Meg on the table and a quick
injection of intravenous barbiturate sent the old bitch into deep
anaesthesia.  I made her fast on her back with bandages to the table
legs and then all three of us scrubbed up at the kitchen sink.  Bob,
still wearing his cap, displayed a growing lack of enthusiasm, and when
I handed the brothers an artery forceps apiece and poised my scalpel he
closed his eyes tightly.

My system with these tumours was to cut out an ellipse on the skin,
then proceed by blunt dissection with my fingers.  It looked a bit
crude, but greatly reduced the amount of haemorrhage.  I had made my
first incision and had started to peel back the skin, and it was just
at the moment when I had taken the forceps from the brothers and was
clamping a couple of spurting vessels that Bob opened his eyes.  He
gave a hollow groan and tottered to an old horsehair sofa, where he
slumped and buried his head in his hands.  His frail brother, however,
was made of sterner stuff, and though he lost a little colour he set
his lips firmly and gripped both the forceps on the vessels with a
steady hand as I tied them off.

Once started, I went about my job with gusto, working my way with my
fingers round the spherical growth, pushing back the adhering fascia
from the skin.  Some of these things almost shelled out, and though
this one wasn't quite as easy as that, I was doing fine.  Soon I had
the whole tumour in my hand except for a mass right at the bottom and I
knew from experience that there would be a big vessel down there.  "Get
ready with your forceps, Adam," I said, tearing carefully at the
tissue, but almost as I spoke a crimson jet fountained up into his
face.

Bob chose this moment to uncover his eyes and after one appalled glance
at his brother's blood-spattered spectacles he gave a strangled grunt,
lifted his legs and flopped onto his back on the sofa, pulling his cap
over his eyes with a limp hand.

"Well done, Adam," I said to the little man as he stood resolutely at
his post, the forceps clamped on that final vessel while I ligated it
and removed the tumour.  "We're about finished now.  Just a few
stitches to put in."  I inserted a row of nylon sutures and stood back,
well satisfied.

"The old girl looks a lot better without that horrible thing," I said
and swept my hand across the unsullied abdomen.  Unfortunately my
fingers struck the tumour, which was lying on the table, and it fell to
the floor with a bump and rolled towards the sofa.

Bob turned a startled face towards the source of the noise and his
mouth fell open as he spotted the grisly object bowling in his
direction.  "Oh, bloody 'ell," he moaned, then turned his face to the
wall.

There he stayed as I helped his brother carry Meg over to her basket,
scrub the table and generally clear up the debris.

When all signs of our operation had disappeared Adam carried the kettle
to the kitchen sink.  "I don't know about you, Mr.  Herriot, but I
could do wia cup of tea."

"I'd love one," I said and dropped onto one of the oaken chairs.

Adam turned to the prone form on the sofa.  "How about you, Bob?  Are
you goin' to have a cup?"

Bob stirred, sat up and looked warily round the room.  "Nay ... nay
..."  He got to his feet and went over to a cupboard, from which he
extracted a bottle of brown ale.  He poured a glassful and took a long
swallow, then he went over to the dog basket and peered in at the flat
abdomen and the neat row of stitches.  He crouched there for some
minutes, stroking the sleeping animal and fondling her ears, then he
turned and looked at us and a slow smile of utter contentment spread
over his face.

"Well," he said, "we did it."

"Aye, Bob, lad," said his brother, smiling back at him.  "We did it."

When I removed the stitches ten days later I was able to reassure Bob
that microscopic examination had shown the tumour to be benign and that
his worries were over.

After that I didn't see him for nearly a month until, one evening, I
spotted his cap above the crowd in the Lord Nelson.  It was nearly
closing time and as I pushed my way towards him he rose from his stool,
and Meg appeared from below and began to amble after him to the door.
She looked younger and brighter without her disfiguring appendage.  I
watched the pair through the pub window, and once outside she flopped
down with her nose on her paws, waiting for her master to go through
his routine.

Bob seized his bike and gave it a good shake as though to let it know
who was boss.  He took only two efforts to get astride, and though he
poised there immobile, working the handlebars from side to side, there
was an authoritative look about his movements and it wasn't long before
he took off on his journey home.  I watched man and dog till they were
out of sight, and though there were frequent pauses I could see that
there was no danger of a catastrophe.

Bob wasn't going to fall off tonight.  He was himself again.

Chapter 51

Calum inserted the last stitch after one of his dexterous operations
and looked down at the sleeping cat for a few seconds.

"Jim," he said, without raising his head.  "I'm afraid I'm going to
leave you."

"Oh."  My heart gave a lurch, and I couldn't think of anything to say
at that moment.  Calum had been with us for two years and, like all
young vets, there had to come a time when he wanted to branch out on
his own.  But there was only one thought in my mind--I didn't want him
to go.

Receiving no further reply, Calum went on.  "Yes, I've had the chance
of a job I think will suit me."

"Oh ..."  My restricted vocabulary was making me feel like an idiot.
"Well ... I understand, of course, Calum.  Where will you be going?" My
brain was starting to work again and one certainty loomed large--it
would be somewhere isolated, somewhere in the wilds.  Most likely the
north of Scotland ... maybe in the Western Isles.

"Nova Scotia," he replied.

"My God!"  I realised suddenly that I didn't fully know him after
all.

He laughed.  "I thought you'd say something like that.  I've been in
touch with a chap who runs a practice out there, and the prospect seems
right for me.  It covers a wide area of a rural district with some
quite primitive conditions--a lot of the countryside in its natural
uncultivated state; unmade roads, rough farms, wonderful variety of
wildlife.  Some quite desolate country nearby, I understand."  A
faraway look crept into his dark eyes as though he were glimpsing the
promised land.

I began to laugh, too.  "Oh, hell, Calum, I'm sorry to be like this. It
was a bit of a shock, in fact two shocks, but it does sound like your
cup of tea and I hope you'll be very happy out there.  What does
Dierdre think about the idea?"

"Loves it.  Can't wait to get started."

"I don't doubt it.  I think I hear Siegfried coming in.  We'd better
tell him."

We met my partner in the passage.  He looked a bit solemn as we gave
him the news, then, like me, he put on a cheerful face and thumped
Calum on the shoulder.  "I'm so glad you've found something you really
want, my boy.  I'm sure it will be the very thing for you and I wish
you and Dierdre every happiness and success.  But dammit, I'm going to
miss you."

He stopped suddenly and pointed wordlessly at an enormous feathered
creature stalking past him.  "What ...?  What ...?"  In the darkness of
the passage it looked as big as an ostrich.

The young man smiled happily.  "Just a heron.  I picked it up a few
days ago, down by the river.  Wandering around, couldn't fly. Obviously
damaged a wing, but seems to be improving."  As he spoke, the great
bird spread its wings and flapped round the corner and out of sight. 
"Ah, look.  Soon be completely recovered."

"I hope so ... I do hope so."  Siegfried stared at him, then cocked an
ear at the scrabbling of a couple of recently adopted tortoises on the
tiles farther along the passage.  Then he grinned suddenly.  "Yes, I'm
going to miss you, all right."

The few weeks before Calum's departure fled past and after he and
Dierdre had gone, I had that empty feeling again as I went into the
deserted flat.  John Crooks and now Calum --they had become my friends
and both had left a gap, but with Calum the change was even more
traumatic.  The silence in the absence of the menagerie was almost
palpable, and as I looked out of the window in the room where he had
demolished that cake on his first day, many things rose and lingered in
my mind.  "Permission to eat, sir," "I'll just put Dierdre up a tree,"
Herriot's duct and, most emotive of all, the picture of his rapt face
and dark eyes as he squeezed "Shenandoah" from my children's little
concertina.

Calum had been an acutely interesting man during his stay in Darrowby,
but it was nearly as interesting to follow his career after he had
left.  I received regular letters telling me about his growing practice
among the dirt roads and untamed countryside.  His bursting energy led
him to start the first auction mart in the district and he was trying
to develop small-animal work.  A sentence sticks in my mind: "Doing
quite a few cat spays--Herriot's duct much in evidence."  The letters
often ended in "Permission to fall out, sir," which pulled me back to
the old days.

Training Border collies was another of his passions and he gave
frequent public demonstrations of his skill, several generations of his
dogs being descended from prize-winning sheep-dogs he had bought from a
farmer friend during his stay in Darrowby.  He bought a farm, too, in
Cape Breton, as though he didn't have enough to occupy him.

I also was kept abreast of the regular arrival of his children, noting
with growing wonder as they mounted up to six.  He brought up all of
them in his own image, loving the outdoors and the wild creatures,
scorning the soft things of life as he had always done, camping and
backpacking in the forests and mountains.

Often as I read those letters from Calum the thought recurred that at
last he had found his ideal environment, but I was wrong.

Twenty years after he left Darrowby I was treating a cow for his farmer
friend, Alan Beech.  Alan was holding the animal's nose and he spoke
over his shoulders.  "Have you heard the latest about Calum?"

"No, what is it?"

"He's leaving Nova Scotia."

"Never!"

"It's right.  And where d'you think he's going?"

A jumble of thoughts spun in my mind.  At last, with the advance of
middle age, he was finding it too rough and tough out there.  Felt it
necessary to take his family to somewhere that offered a more gentle
life.  Maybe he was coming back here.

"I've no idea," I said.  "Tell me."

"Papua New Guinea."

"What!"

"Absolutely right."  Alan's face broke into a wide grin.  "Would you
believe it!"

"My God, from cold and snows to steamy heat.  It could only be Calum!
Maybe Nova Scotia was too soft and sophisticated for him?"

"That could be it.  He doesn't seem satisfied there--wants a place
where there's still a lot o' cannibals about, from what I've heard.  By
heck, he's a rum feller!"

I'd heard that description of Calum a thousand times from the farmers
around Darrowby and now it seemed to be more strikingly proven than
ever.  I looked up Papua New Guinea in the public library and read that
it wasn't till 1930 that the first white man had made contact with the
million inhabitants of the unexplored highlands where Calum had gone.
It was a whole intact civilisation that had had no contact with the
outside world.

I looked at pictures of fierce-looking, almost naked men with slivers
of bone transfixing their nostrils and brandishing bows and arrows as
they glared into the camera.  These frightening people would be his
neighbours and there was nothing surer than he would love them all and
especially those wide-eyed little black children.

The letters started to arrive from Mendi in the southern highlands.
Calum, as expected, was utterly entranced by it all.  The agriculture
was Stone Age in character with pigs the only livestock, most of the
settlements unchanged from when the first whites discovered them, and
the primitive farmers, though a bit careless about keeping appointments
when he tried to teach them animal husbandry, were charming chaps.
Dierdre and he were already firm friends with all of them.

As the months and years passed he was clearly absorbed in the
development and improvement of the country.  I learned how he
introduced cattle, sheep and poultry into the local agriculture,
educated the farmers and immersed himself with all his energy in the
life there.

In 1988 one of his daughters, Sarah, wrote to me.  She said, "Dad still
amazes me with his knowledge of the local vegetation and wildlife and
on his station farm he has 11 Border collies, 2 pig dogs (labrador
crosses), 2 water buffalo, 5 horses, many cattle, sheep, goats, an
assortment of chickens, ducks, guinea fowl and a huge flock of homing
pigeons."

As I put down her letter I thought of Calum's little menagerie at
Skeldale House.  It had been only a rehearsal for this.  The vet wit'
badger would be happy now.

Chapter 52

Months passed without any thawing of relations between me and the cats
and I noticed with growing apprehension that Olly's long coat was
reverting to its previous disreputable state.  The familiar knots and
tangles were reappearing and within a year it was as bad as ever.  It
became more obvious every day that I had to do something about it.  But
could I trick him again?  I had to try.

I made the same preparations, with Helen placing the Nembutal-laden
food on the wall, but this time Olly sniffed, licked, then walked away.
We tried at his next mealtime but he examined the food with deep
suspicion and turned away from it.  It was very clear that he sensed
there was something afoot.

Hovering in my usual position at the kitchen window, I turned to my
wife.  "Helen, I'm going to have to try to catch him."

"Catch him?  With your net, do you mean?"

"No, no.  That was all right when he was a kitten.  I'd never get near
him now."

"How, then?"

I looked out at the scruffy black creature on the wall.  "Well, maybe I
can hide behind you when you feed him and grab him and bung him into
the cage.  I could take him down to the surgery then, give him a
general anaesthetic and make a proper job of him."

"Grab him?  And then fasten him in the cage?"  Helen said
incredulously.  "It sounds impossible to me."

"Yes, I know, but I've grabbed a few cats in my time and I can move
fast.  If only I can keep hidden.  We'll try tomorrow."

My wife looked at me, wide-eyed.  I could see that she had little
faith.

Next morning she placed some delicious fresh chopped raw haddock on the
wall.  It was the cats' favourite.  They were not particularly partial
to cooked fish but this was irresistible.  The open cage lay beneath
the wall, hidden from sight.  The cats stalked along the wall, Ginny
sleek and shining, Olly a pathetic sight with his ravelled hair and
ugly appendages dangling from his neck and body.  Helen made her usual
fuss of the two of them, then, as they descended happily on the food,
she returned to the kitchen where I was lurking.

"Right, now," I said.  "I want you to walk out very slowly again and I
am going to be tucked in behind you.  When you go up to Olly he'll be
concentrating on the fish and maybe won't notice me."

Helen made no reply as I pressed myself into her back in close contact
from head to toe.

"Okay, off we go."  I nudged her left leg with mine and we shuffled off
through the door, moving as one.

"This is ridiculous," Helen wailed.  "It's like a music hall act."

Nuzzling the back of her neck, I hissed into her ear, "Quiet, just keep
going."

As we advanced on the wall, double-bodied, Helen reached out and
stroked Olly's head, but he was too busy with the haddock to look up.
He was there, chest high, within a couple of feet of me.  I'd never
have a better chance.  Shooting my hand round Helen, I seized him by
the scruff of his neck, held him, a flurry of flailing black limbs, for
a couple of seconds, then pushed him into the cage.  As I crashed the
lid down, a desperate paw appeared at one end but I thrust it back and
slotted home the steel rod.  There was no escape now.

I lifted the cage onto the wall with Olly and me at eye level and I
flinched as I met his accusing stare through the bars.  "Oh, no, not
again!  I don't believe this!"  it said.  "Is there no end to your
treachery?"

In truth, I felt pretty bad.  The poor cat, terrified as he was by my
assault, had not tried to scratch or bite.  It was like the other
times-his only thought was to get away.  I couldn't blame him for
thinking the worst of me.

However, I told myself, the end result was going to be a fine handsome
animal again.  "You won't know yourself, old chap," I said to the
petrified little creature, crouched in his cage in the car seat by my
side as we drove to the surgery.  "I'm going to fix you up properly,
this time.  You're going to look great and feel great."

Siegfried had offered to help me, and when we got him on the table, a
trembling Olly submitted to being handled and to the intravenous
anaesthetic.  As he lay sleeping peacefully I started on the awful
tangled fur with a fierce pleasure, snipping and trimming and then
going over him with the electric clippers followed by a long combing
till the last tiny knot was removed.  I had given him only a makeshift
hair-do before, but this was the full treatment.

Siegfried laughed when I held him up after I had finished.  "Looks
ready to win any cat show," he said.

I thought of his words next morning when the cats came on the wall for
their breakfast.  Ginny was always beautiful, but she hardly outshone
her brother as he strutted along, his smooth, lustrous fur gleaming in
the sunshine.

Helen was enchanted at his appearance and kept running her hand along
his back as though she couldn't believe the transformation.  I, of
course, was in my usual position, peeking furtively from the window. It
was going to be a long time before I even dared to show myself to
Olly.

It very soon became clear that my stock had fallen to new depths,
because I had only to step out of the back-door to send him scurrying
away into the fields.  The situation became so bad that I began to
brood about it.

"Helen," I said one morning.  "This thing with Olly is getting on my
nerves.  I wish there was something I could do about it."

"There is, Jim," she said.  "You'll really have to get to know him. And
he'll have to get to know you."

I gave her a glum look.  "I'm afraid if you asked him, he'd tell you
that he knows me only too well."

"Oh, I know, but when you think about it, over all the years that we've
had these cats, they've hardly seen anything of you, except in an
emergency.  I've been the one to feed them, talk to them, pet them day
in, day out.  They know me and trust me."

"That's right, but I haven't had the time."

"Of course you haven't.  Your life is one long rush.  You're no sooner
in the house than you're out again."

I nodded thoughtfully.  She was so right.  Over the years I had been
attached to those cats, enjoyed the sight of them trotting down the
slope for their food, playing in the long grass in the field, being
fondled by Helen, but I was a comparative stranger to them.  I felt a
pang at the realisation that all that time had flashed past so
quickly.

"Well, maybe it's too late.  Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes," she said.  "You have to start feeding them.  You'll just have to
make the time to do it.  Oh, I know you can't do it always, but if
there's the slightest chance, you'll have to get out there with their
food."

"So you think it's just a case of cupboard love with them?"

"Absolutely not.  I'm sure you've seen me with them often enough.  They
won't look at their food until I've made a fuss of them for quite a
long time.  It's the attention and friendship they want most."

"But I haven't a hope.  They hate the sight of me."

"You'll just have to persevere.  It took me a long time to get their
trust.  Especially with Ginny.  She's always been the more timid one.
Even now if I move my hand too quickly she's off.  Despite all that's
happened I think Olly might be your best hope--there's a big well of
friendliness in that cat."

"Right," I said.  "Give me that food and milk.  I'll start now."

That was the beginning of one of the little sagas in my life.  At every
opportunity I was the one who called them down, placed the food on the
wall-top and stood there waiting.  At first I waited in vain.  I could
see the two of them watching me from the log shed--the black-and-white
face and the yellow, gold and white one observing me from the straw
beds--but for a long time they would never venture down until I had
retreated into the house.  Because of my irregular life it was
difficult to keep the new system going and sometimes when I had an
early morning call they didn't get their breakfast on time, but it was
on one of those occasions when breakfast was over an hour late that
their hunger overcame their fear and they came down cautiously while I
stood stock-still by the wall.  They ate quickly with nervous glances
at me, then scurried away.  I smiled in satisfaction.  It was the first
breakthrough.

After that there was a long period when I just stood there as they ate
and they became used to me as part of the scenery.  Then I tried a
careful extension of a hand.  They backed away at that, but as the days
passed I could see that my hand was becoming less and less of a threat
and my hopes rose steadily.  As Helen had prophesied, Ginny was the one
who shied far away from me at the slightest movement, whereas Olly,
after retreating, began to look at me with an appraising eye as though
he might possibly be willing to forget the past and revise his opinion
of me.  With infinite patience, day by day, I managed to get my hand
nearer and nearer to him and it was a memorable occasion when he at
last stood still and allowed me to touch his cheek with a forefinger.
As I gently stroked the fur he regarded me with unmistakeably friendly
eyes before skipping away.

"Helen!"  I said, looking round at the kitchen window.  "I've made it!
We're going to be friends at last.  It's a matter of time now till I'm
stroking him as you do."  I was filled with an irrational pleasure and
fulfilment.  It did seem a foolish reaction in a man who was dealing
every day with animals of all kinds, but I was looking forward to years
of friendship with that particular cat.

I was wrong.  At that moment I could not know that Olly would be dead
within forty-eight hours.

It was the following morning when Helen called to me from the back
garden.  She sounded distraught.  "Jim, come quickly!  It's Olly!"

I rushed out to where she was standing near the top of the slope near
the log shed.  Ginny was there, but all I could see of Olly was a dark
smudge on the grass.

Helen gripped my arm as I bent over him.  "What's happened to him?"

He was motionless, his legs extended stiffly, his back arched in a
dreadful opisthotonos, his eyes staring.

"I ... I'm afraid he's gone.  It looks like strychnine poisoning."  But
as I spoke he moved slightly.

"Wait a minute!"  I said.  "He's still alive, but only just."  I saw
that the rigor had relaxed and I was able to flex his legs and lift him
without any recurrence.  "This isn't strychnine.  It's like it, but it
isn't.  It's something cerebral, maybe a stroke."

Dry-mouthed, I carried him down to the house where he lay still,
breathing almost imperceptibly.

Helen spoke through her tears.  "What can you do?"

"Get him to the surgery right away.  We'll do everything we can."  I
kissed her wet cheek and ran out to the car.

Siegfried and I sedated him, because he had begun to make paddling
movements with his limbs, then we injected him with steroids and
antibiotics and put him on an intravenous drip.  I looked at him as he
lay in the big recovery cage, his paws twitching feebly.  "Nothing more
we can do, is there?"

Siegfried shook his head and shrugged.  He agreed with me about the
diagnosis--stroke, seizure, cerebral haemorrhage, call it what you
like, but certainly the brain.  I could see that he had the same
feeling of hopelessness as I had.

We attended him all that day and, during the afternoon, I thought for a
brief period that he was improving, but by evening he was comatose
again and he died during the night.

I brought him home and as I lifted him from the car his smooth,
tangle-free fur was like a mockery now that his life was ended.  I
buried him just behind the log shed a few feet from the straw bed where
he had slept for all the years.

Vets are no different from other people when they lose a pet and Helen
and I were miserable.  We hoped that the passage of time would dull our
unhappiness, but we had another poignant factor to deal with.  What
about Ginny?

Those two cats had become a single entity in our lives and we never
thought of one without the other.  It was clear that to Ginny the world
was incomplete without Olly.  For several days she ate nothing.  We
called her repeatedly but she advanced only a few yards from the log
house, looking around her in a puzzled way before turning to her bed.
For all of those years, she had never trotted down that slope on her
own, and over the next few weeks her bewilderment as she gazed about
her continually, seeking and searching for her companion, was one of
the most distressing things we had ever had to witness.

We fed her in her bed for several days and eventually managed to coax
her onto the wall, but she could scarcely put her head down to the food
without peering this way and that, still waiting for Olly to come and
share it.

"She's so lonely," Helen said.  "We'll have to try to make a bigger
fuss of her than ever now.  I'll spend more time outside talking with
her, but if only we could get her inside with us.  That would be the
answer, but I know it can never happen."

I looked at the little creature, wondering if I'd ever get used to
seeing only one cat on that wall, but Ginny sitting by the fireside or
on Helen's knee was an impossible dream.  "Yes, you're right, but maybe
I can do something.  I'd just managed to make friends with Olly--I'm
going to start on Ginny now."

I knew I was taking on a long and maybe hopeless challenge because she
had always been the more timid of the two, but I pursued my purpose
with resolution.  At mealtimes and whenever I had the opportunity, I
presented myself outside the kitchen door, coaxing and wheedling,
beckoning with my hand, but for a long time, though she accepted the
food from me, she would not let me near her.  Then, maybe she needed
companionship so desperately that she felt she might even resort to me,
because the day came when she did not back away but allowed me to touch
her cheek with my finger as I had done with Olly.

After that, progress was slow but steady.  From touching I moved week
by week to stroking her cheek, then to gently rubbing her ears until
finally I could run my hand the length of her body and tickle the root
of her tail.  From then on, undreamed-of familiarities gradually
unfolded until she would not look at her food till she had paced up and
down the wall-top again and again, arching herself in delight against
my hand and brushing my shoulders with her body.  Among these daily
courtesies one of her favourite ploys was to press her nose against
mine and stand there for several minutes looking into my eyes.

It was one morning several months later while Ginny and I were in this
posture--she on the wall, touching noses with me, gazing into my eyes,
drinking me in as though she thought I was rather wonderful and
couldn't quite get enough of me--when I heard a sound from behind me.

"I was just watching the veterinary surgeon at work," Helen said
softly.

"Happy work, too," I said, not moving from my position, looking deeply
into the green eyes, alight with friendship, fixed on mine from a few
inches away.  "I'll have you know that this is one of my greatest
triumphs."

THE END

