All Creatures Great and Small

by James Herriot

  When they rolled into Darrowby in the small hours most of the occupants of the bus were unconscious. Tristan, an honoured guest of the party, had been tipped out in the back lane behind Skeldale House. He waved weakly as the bus moved away, but drew no response from the unseeing faces at the windows. Lurching down the garden path, he was horrified to see a light in Siegfried’s room. Escape was impossible and, when asked to explain where he had been, he made a series of attempts to articulate “Bellringers’ Outing” without success.

  Siegfried, seeing he was wasting his time, had saved his wrath till breakfast time. That was when Tristan told me the story—just before his brother came into the dining-room and started on him.

  But, as usual, it seemed to take more out of Siegfried who went off on his rounds glowering and hoarse from shouting. Ten minutes after he had gone I found Tristan closeted cheerfully in Boardman’s cubby hole, Boardman listening to some fresh material from the backs of the envelopes and sniggering appreciatively.

  The old man had cheered up greatly since Tristan came home and the two of them spent a lot of time in the gloom where the light from the tiny window picked out the rows of rusting tools, the Bairnsfather cartoons looking down from the wall. The place was usually kept locked and visitors were not encouraged; but Tristan was always welcome.

  Often, when I was passing by, I would peep in and see Tristan patiently pulling at a Woodbine while Boardman rambled on. “We was six weeks up the line. The French was on our right and the Jocks on our left …” or “Poor old Fred—one minute ’e was standing by me and next ’e was gone. Never found as much as a trouser button …”

  This morning, Tristan hailed me boisterously and I marvelled again at his resilience and his power to bend like a willow before the winds of misfortune and spring back unscathed. He held up two tickets.

  “Village dance tonight, Jim, and I can guarantee it. Some of my harem from the hospital are going, so I’ll see you’re all right. And that’s not all—look here.” He went into the saddle room, lifted out a loose board and produced a bottle of sherry. “We’ll be able to have a toothful between dances.”

  I didn’t ask where the tickets or the sherry had come from. I liked the village dances. The packed hall with the three-piece band at one end—piano, scraping fiddle and drums—and at the other end, the older ladies looking after the refreshments. Glasses of milk, mounds of sandwiches, ham, home-made brawn, trifles heaped high with cream.

  That evening, Tristan came out with me on my last visit and, in the car, the talk was all about the dance. The case was simple enough—a cow with an infected eye—but the farm was in a village high up the Dale, and when we finished, it was dusk. I felt good, and everything seemed to stand out, clear and meaningful. The single, empty, grey stone street, the last red streaks in the sky, the dark purple of the enclosing fells. There was no wind, but a soft breath came from the quiet moors, sweet and fresh and full of promise. Among the houses, the thrilling smell of wood smoke was everywhere.

  When we got back to the surgery, Siegfried was out but there was a note for Tristan propped up on the mantelpiece. It said simply: “Tristan. Go home. Siegfried.”

  This had happened before, everything in Skeldale House being in short supply, especially beds and blankets. When unexpected visitors arrived, Tristan was packed off to stay with his mother in Brawton. Normally he would board a train without comment, but tonight was different.

  “Good God,” he said. “Somebody must be coming for the night and, of course, I’m the one who’s just expected to disappear. It’s a nice bloody carry on, I must say! And isn’t that a charming letter! It doesn’t matter if I’ve made any private arrangements. Oh no! There’s no question of asking me if it’s convenient to leave. It’s just ‘Tristan, go home.’ Polite and thoughtful, isn’t it?”

  It was unusual for him to get worked up like this. I spoke soothingly. “Look, Triss. Maybe we’d better just skip this dance. There’ll be others.”

  Tristan clenched his fists. “Why should I let him push me around like this?” he fumed. “I’m a person, am I not? I have my own life to lead and I tell you I am not going to Brawton tonight. I’ve arranged to go to a dance and I am damn well going to a dance.”

  This was fighting talk but I felt a twinge of alarm. “Wait a minute. What about Siegfried? What’s he going to say when he comes in and finds you still here?”

  “To hell with Siegfried!” said Tristan. So I left it at that.

  Siegfried came home when we were upstairs, changing. I was first down and found him sitting by the fire, reading. I said nothing but sat down and waited for the explosion.

  After a few minutes, Tristan came in. He had chosen with care among his limited wardrobe and was resplendent in a dark grey suit; a scrubbed face shone under carefully combed hair; he was wearing a clean collar.

  Siegfried flushed as he looked up from his book. “What the bloody hell are you doing here? I told you to go to Brawton. Joe Ramage is coming tonight.”

  “Couldn’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “No trains.”

  “What the hell do you mean, no trains?”

  “Just that—no trains.”

  The cross-talk was bringing on the usual sense of strain in me. The interview exasperated, his brother expressionless, answering in a flat monotone, was falling into the habitual pattern; Siegfried red faced, fighting a defensive battle with the skill of long practice.

  Siegfried sank back in his chair, baffled for the moment, but he kept a slit-eyed gaze on his brother. The smart suit, the slicked hair and polished shoes all seemed to irritate him further.

  “All right,” he said suddenly. “It’s maybe just as well you are staying. I want you to do a job for me. You can open that haematoma on Charlie Dent’s pig’s ear.”

  This was a bombshell. Charlie Dent’s pig’s ear was something we didn’t talk about.

  A few weeks earlier, Siegfried himself had gone to the small-holding half way along a street on the outskirts of the town to see a pig with a swollen ear. It was an aural haematoma and the only treatment was to lance it, but, for some reason, Siegfried had not done the job but had sent me the following day.

  I had wondered about it, but not for long. When I climbed into the sty, the biggest sow I had ever seen rose from the straw, gave an explosive bark and rushed at me with its huge mouth gaping. I didn’t stop to argue. I made the wall about six inches ahead of the pig and vaulted over into the passage. I stood there, considering the position, looking thoughtfully at the mean little red eyes, the slavering mouth with its long, yellow teeth.

  Usually, I paid no attention when pigs barked and grumbled at me but this one really seemed to mean it. As I wondered what the next step would be, the pig gave an angry roar, reared up on its hind legs and tried to get over the wall at me. I made up my mind quickly.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t got the right instrument with me, Mr. Dent. I’ll pop back another day and open the ear for you. It’s nothing serious—only a small job. Goodbye.”

  There the matter had rested, with nobody caring to mention it till now.

  Tristan was aghast. “You mean you want me to go along there tonight? Saturday night? Surely some other time would do? I’m going to a dance.”

  Siegfried smiled bitterly from the depths of his chair. “It has to be done now. That’s an order. You can go to your dance afterwards.”

  Tristan started to say something, but he knew he had pushed his luck far enough. “Right,” he said, “I’ll go and do it.”

  He left the room with dignity, Siegfried resumed his book, and I stared into the fire, wondering how Tristan was going to handle this one. He was a lad of infinite resource, but he was going to be tested this time.

  Within ten minutes he was back. Siegfried looked at him suspiciously, “Have you opened that ear?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Couldn’t find the place. You must have given me the wrong address. Numb
er 98, you said.”

  “It’s number 89 and you know damn well it is. Now get back there and do your job.”

  The door closed behind Tristan and again, I waited. Fifteen minutes later it opened again and Tristan reappeared looking faintly triumphant. His brother looked up from his book.

  “Done it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The family are all out at the pictures. Saturday night, you know.”

  “I don’t care a damn where the family are. Just get into that sty and lance that ear. Now get out, and this time I want the job done.”

  Again Tristan retreated and a new vigil began. Siegfried did not say a word, but I could feel the tension building up. Twenty minutes passed and Tristan was with us again.

  “Have you opened that ear?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s pitch dark in there. How do you expect me to work? I’ve only got two hands—one for the knife and one for the torch. How can I hold the ear?”

  Siegfried had been keeping a tight hold on himself, but now his control snapped. “Don’t give me any more of your bloody excuses,” he shouted, leaping from his chair. “I don’t care how you do it, but, by God, you are going to open that pig’s ear tonight or I’ve finished with you. Now get to hell out of here and don’t come back till it’s done!”

  My heart bled for Tristan. He had been dealt a poor hand and had played his cards with rare skill, but he had nothing left now. He stood silent in the doorway for a few moments, then he turned and walked out.

  The next hour was a long one. Siegfried seemed to be enjoying his book and I even tried to read myself; but I got no meaning out of the words and it made my head ache to sit staring at them. It would have helped if I could have paced up and down the carpet but that was pretty well impossible in Siegfried’s presence. I had just decided to excuse myself and go out for a walk when I heard the outer door open, then Tristan’s footsteps in the passage.

  A moment later, the man of destiny entered but the penetrating smell of pig got into the room just ahead of him, and as he walked over to the fire, pungent waves seemed to billow round him. Pig muck was spattered freely over his nice suit, and on his clean collar, his face and hair. There was a great smear of the stuff on the seat of his trousers but despite his ravaged appearance he still maintained his poise.

  Siegfried pushed his chair back hurriedly but did not change expression.

  “Have you got that ear opened?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Siegfried returned to his book without comment. It seemed that the matter was closed and Tristan, after staring briefly at his brother’s bent head, turned and marched from the room. But even after he had gone, the odour of the pigsty hung in the room like a cloud.

  Later, in the Drovers, I watched Tristan draining his third pint. He had changed, and if he didn’t look as impressive as when he started the evening, at least he was clean and hardly smelt at all. I had said nothing yet, but the old light was returning to his eye. I went over to the bar and ordered my second half and Tristan’s fourth pint and, as I set the glasses on the table, I thought that perhaps it was time.

  “Well, what happened?”

  Tristan took a long, contented pull at his glass and lit a Woodbine. “Well now, all in all, Jim, it was rather a smooth operation, but I’ll start at the beginning. You can imagine me standing all alone outside the sty in the pitch darkness with that bloody great pig grunting and growling on the other side of the wall. I didn’t feel so good, I can tell you.

  “I shone my torch on the thing’s face and it jumped up and ran at me, making a noise like a lion and showing all those dirty yellow teeth. I nearly wrapped it up and came home there and then, but I got to thinking about the dance and all and, on the spur of the moment, I hopped over the wall.

  “Two seconds later, I was on my back. It must have charged me but couldn’t see enough to get a bite in. I just heard a bark, then a terrific weight against my legs and I was down.

  “Well, it’s a funny thing, Jim. You know I’m not a violent chap, but as I lay there, all my fears vanished and all I felt was a cold hatred of that bloody animal. I saw it as the cause of all my troubles and before I knew what I was doing I was up on my feet and booting its arse round and round the sty. And, do you know, it showed no fight at all. That pig was a coward at heart.”

  I was still puzzled. “But the ear—how did you manage to open the haematoma?”

  “No problem, Jim. That was done for me.”

  “You don’t mean to say …”

  “Yes,” Tristan said, holding his pint up to the light and studying a small foreign body floating in the depths. “Yes, it was really very fortunate. In the scuffle in the dark, the pig ran up against the wall and burst the thing itself. Made a beautiful job.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I REALISED, QUITE SUDDENLY, that spring had come. It was late March and I had been examining some sheep in a hillside fold. On my way down, in the lee of a small pine wood I leaned my back against a tree and was aware, all at once, of the sunshine, warm on my closed eyelids, the clamour of the larks, the muted sea-sound of the wind in the high branches. And though the snow still lay in long runnels behind the walls and the grass was lifeless and winter-yellowed, there was the feeling of change; almost of liberation, because, unknowing, I had surrounded myself with a carapace against the iron months, the relentless cold.

  It wasn’t a warm spring but it was dry with sharp winds which fluttered the white heads of the snowdrops and bent the clumps of daffodils on the village greens. In April the roadside banks were bright with the fresh yellow of the primroses.

  And in April, too, came the lambing. It came in a great tidal wave, the most vivid and interesting part of the veterinary surgeon’s year, the zenith of the annual cycle, and it came as it always does when we were busiest with our other work.

  In the spring the livestock were feeling the effects of the long winter. Cows had stood for months in the same few feet of byre and were in dire need of the green grass and the sun on their backs, while their calves had very little resistance to disease. And just when we were wondering how we could cope with the coughs and colds and pneumonias and acetonaemias the wave struck us.

  The odd thing is that for about ten months of the year, sheep hardly entered into the scheme of our lives. They were just woolly things on the hills. But for the other two months they almost blotted out everything else.

  First came the early troubles, the pregnancy toxaemias, the prolapses. Then the lambings in a concentrated rush followed by the calcium deficiencies, the horrible gangrenous mastitis when the udder turns black and sloughs away; and the diseases which beset the lambs themselves—swayback, pulpy kidney, dysentery. Then the flood slackened, became a trickle and by the end of May had almost dried up. Sheep became woolly things on the hills again.

  But in this first year I found a fascination in the work which has remained with me. Lambing, it seemed to me, had all the thrill and interest of calving without the hard labour. It was usually uncomfortable in that it was performed in the open; either in draughty pens improvised from straw bales and gates or more often out in the fields. It didn’t seem to occur to the farmers that the ewe might prefer to produce her family in a warm place or that the vet may not enjoy kneeling for an hour in his shirt sleeves in the rain.

  But the actual job was as easy as a song. After my experiences in correcting the malpresentations of calves it was delightful to manipulate these tiny creatures. Lambs are usually born in twos or threes and some wonderful mix-ups occur; tangles of heads and legs all trying to be first out and it is the vet’s job to sort them around and decide which leg belonged to which head. I revelled in this. It was a pleasant change to be for once stronger and bigger than my patient, but I didn’t over-stress this advantage; I have not changed the opinion I formed then that there are just two things to remember in lambing—cleanliness and gentleness.

>   And the lambs. All young animals are appealing but the lamb has been given an unfair share of charm. The moments come back; of a bitterly cold evening when I had delivered twins on a wind-scoured hillside; the lambs shaking their heads convulsively and within minutes one of them struggling upright and making its way, unsteady, knock-kneed, towards the udder while the other followed resolutely on its knees.

  The shepherd, his purpled, weather-roughened face almost hidden by the heavy coat which muffled him to his ears, gave a slow chuckle. “How the ’ell do they know?”

  He had seen it happen thousands of times and he still wondered. So do I.

  And another memory of two hundred lambs in a barn on a warm afternoon. We were inoculating them against pulpy kidney and there was no conversation because of the high-pitched protests of the lambs and the unremitting deep baa-ing from nearly a hundred ewes milling anxiously around outside. I couldn’t conceive how these ewes could ever get their own families sorted out from that mass of almost identical little creatures. It would take hours.

  It took about twenty-five seconds. When we had finished injecting we opened the barn doors and the outpouring lambs were met by a concerted rush of distraught mothers. At first the noise was deafening but it died away rapidly to an occasional bleat as the last stray was rounded up. Then, neatly paired off, the flock headed calmly for the field.

  Through May and early June my world became softer and warmer. The cold wind dropped and the air, fresh as the sea, carried a faint breath of the thousands of wild flowers which speckled the pastures. At times it seemed unfair that I should be paid for my work; for driving out in the early morning with the fields glittering under the first pale sunshine and the wisps of mist still hanging on the high tops.

  At Skeldale House the wistaria exploded into a riot of mauve blooms which thrust themselves through the open windows and each morning as I shaved I breathed in the heady fragrance from the long clusters drooping by the side of the mirror. Life was idyllic.