We started again and at the fourth visit to the barn I thought we had won because all but one of the heifers strolled casually inside. But that last one just wouldn’t have it. We cushed imploringly, waved and even got near enough to poke at its rump but it stood in the entrance regarding the interior with deep suspicion. Then the heads of its mates began to reappear in the doorway and I knew we had lost again; despite my frantic dancing and shouting they wandered out one by one before joining again in their happy downhill dash. This time I found myself galloping down after them in an agony of frustration.
We had another few tries during which the heifers introduced touches of variation by sometimes breaking away half way up the hill or occasionally trotting round the back of the barn and peeping at us coyly from behind the old stones before frisking to the bottom again.
After the eighth descent I looked appealingly at Mr. Kay who was relighting his pipe calmly and didn’t appear to be troubled in any way. My time schedule was in tatters but I don’t think he had noticed that we had been going on like this for about forty minutes.
“Look, we’re getting nowhere,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of other work waiting for me. Isn’t there anything more we can do?”
The farmer stamped down the twist with his thumb, drew deeply and pleasurably a few times then looked at me with mild surprise. “Well, let’s see. We could bring dog out but I don’t know as he’ll be much good. He’s nobbut a young ’un.”
He sauntered back to the farmhouse and opened a door. A shaggy cur catapulted out, barking in delight, and Mr. Kay brought him over to the field. “Get away by!” he cried gesturing towards the cattle who had resumed their grazing and the dog streaked behind them. I really began to hope as we went up the hill with the hairy little figure darting in, nipping at the heels, but at the barn the rot set in again. I could see the heifers beginning to sense the inexperience of the dog and one of them managed to kick him briskly under the chin as he came in. The little animal yelped and his tail went down. He stood uncertainly, looking at the beasts, advancing on him now, shaking their horns threateningly, then he seemed to come to a decision and slunk away. The young cattle went after him at increasing speed and in a moment I was looking at the extraordinary spectacle of the dog going flat out down the hill with the heifers drumming close behind him. At the foot he disappeared under a gate and we saw him no more.
Something seemed to give way in my head. “Oh God,” I yelled, “we’re never going to get these damn things tested! I’ll just have to leave them. I don’t know what the Ministry is going to say, but I’ve had enough!”
The farmer looked at me ruminatively. He seemed to recognise that I was at breaking point. “Aye, it’s no good,” he said, tapping his pipe out on his heel. “We’ll have to get Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Aye, Sam Broadbent. Works for me neighbour. He’ll get ’em in all right.”
“How’s he going to do that?”
“Oh, he can imitate a fly.”
For a moment my mind reeled. “Did you say imitate a fly?”
“That’s right. A warble fly, tha knows. He’s a bit slow is t’lad but by gaw he can imitate a fly. I’ll go and get him—he’s only two fields down the road.”
I watched the farmer’s retreating back in disbelief then threw myself down on the ground. At any other time I would have enjoyed lying there on the slope with the sun on my face and the grass cool against my sweating back; the air was still and heavy with the fragrance of clover and when I opened my eyes the gentle curve of the valley floor was a vision of peace. But my mind was a turmoil. I had a full day’s Ministry work waiting for me and I was an hour behind time already. I could picture the long succession of farmers waiting for me and cursing me heartily. The tension built in me till I could stand it no longer; I jumped to my feet and ran down to the gate at the foot. I could see along the road from there and was relieved to find that Mr. Kay was on his way back.
Just behind him a large, fat man was riding slowly on a very small bicycle, his heels on the pedals, his feet and knees sticking out at right angles. Tufts of greasy black hair stuck out at random from under a kind of skull cap which looked like an old bowler without the brim.
“Sam’s come to give us a hand,” said Mr. Kay with an air of quiet triumph.
“Good morning,” I said and the big man turned slowly and nodded. The eyes in the round, unshaven race were vacant and incurious and I decided that Sam did indeed look a bit slow. I found it difficult to imagine how he could possibly be of any help.
The heifers, standing near by, watched with languid interest as we came through the gate. They had obviously enjoyed every minute of the morning’s entertainment and it seemed they were game for a little more fun if we so desired; but it was up to us, of course—they weren’t worried either way.
Sam propped his bicycle against the wall and paced solemnly forward. He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and placed it to his lips. His cheeks worked as though he was getting everything into place then he took a deep breath. And, from nowhere it seemed came a sudden swelling of angry sound, a vicious humming and buzzing which made me look round in alarm for the enraged insect zooming in for the kill.
The effect on the heifers was electric. Their superior air vanished and was replaced by rigid anxiety; then, as the noise increased in volume, they turned and charged up the hill. But it wasn’t the carefree frolic of before—no tossing heads, waving tails and kicking heels; this time they kept shoulder to shoulder in a frightened block.
Mr. Kay and I, trotting on either side, directed them yet again up to the building where they formed a group, looking nervously around them.
We had to wait for a short while for Sam to arrive. He was clearly a one-pace man and ascended the slope unhurriedly. At the top he paused to regain his breath, fixed the animals with a blank gaze and carefully adjusted his fingers against his mouth. A moment’s tense silence then the humming broke out again, even more furious and insistent than before.
The heifers knew when they were beaten. With a chorus of startled bellows they turned and rushed into the building and I crashed the half door behind them; I stood leaning against it unable to believe my troubles were over. Sam joined me and looked into the dark interior. As if to finally establish his mastery he gave a sudden sharp blast, this time without his fingers, and his victims huddled still closer against the far wall.
A few minutes later, after Sam had left us, I was happily clipping and injecting the necks. I looked up at the farmer. “You know, I can still hardly believe what I saw there. It was like magic. That chap has a wonderful gift.”
Mr. Kay looked over the half door and I followed his gaze down the grassy slope to the road. Sam was riding away and the strange black headwear was just visible, bobbing along the top of the wall.
“Aye, he can imitate a fly all right. Poor awd lad, it’s t’only thing he’s good at.”
FORTY-TWO
HURRYING AWAY FROM MR. Kay’s to my second test I reflected that if I had to be more than an hour late for an appointment it was a lucky thing that my next call was at the Hugills. The four brothers and their families ran a herd which, with cows, followers and calves must have amounted to nearly two hundred and I had to test the lot of them; but I knew that my lateness wouldn’t bring any querulous remarks on my head because the Hugills had developed the Dales tradition of courtesy to an extraordinary degree. The stranger within their gates was treated like royalty.
As I drove into the yard I could see everybody leaving their immediate tasks and advancing on me with beaming faces. The brothers were in the lead and they stopped opposite me as I got out of the car, and I thought as I always did that I had never seen such healthy-looking men. Their ages ranged from Walter, who was about sixty, down through Thomas and Fenwick to William, the youngest, who would be in his late forties, and I should say their average weight would be about fifteen stones. They weren’t fat, either, just huge, solid men with bright red, shining
faces and clear eyes.
William stepped forward from the group and I knew what was coming; this was always his job. He leaned forward, suddenly solemn, and looked into my face.
“How are you today, sorr?” he asked.
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Hugill,” I replied.
“Good!” said William fervently, and the other brothers all repeated “Good, good, good,” with deep satisfaction.
William took a deep breath. “And how is Mr. Farnon?”
“Oh, he’s very fit, thanks.”
“Good!” Then the rapid fire of the responses from behind him: “Good, good, good.”
William hadn’t finished yet. He cleared his throat. “And how is young Mr. Farnon?”
“In really top form.”
“Good!” But this time William allowed himself a gentle smile and from behind him came a few dignified ho-ho’s. Walter closed his eyes and his great shoulders shook silently. They all knew Tristan.
William stepped back into line, his appointed task done and we all went into the byre. I braced myself as I looked at the long row of backs, the tails swishing at the flies. There was some work ahead here.
“Sorry I’m so late,” I said, as I drew the tuberculin into the syringe. “I was held up at the last place. It’s difficult to forecast how long these tests will take.”
All four brothers replied eagerly. “Aye, you’re right, sorr. It’s difficult. It IS difficult. You’re right, you’re right, it’s difficult.” They went on till they had thrashed the last ounce out of the statement.
I finished filling the syringe, got out my scissors and began to push my way between the first two cows. It was a tight squeeze and I puffed slightly in the stifling atmosphere.
“It’s a bit warm in here,” I said.
Again the volley of agreement. “You’re right, sorr. Aye, it’s warm. It IS warm. You’re right. It’s warm. It’s warm. Aye, you’re right.” This was all delivered with immense conviction and vigorous nodding of heads as though I had made some incredible discovery; and as I looked at the grave, intent faces still pondering over my brilliant remark, I could feel my tensions beginning to dissolve. I was lucky to work here. Where else but in the high country of Yorkshire would I meet people like these?
I pushed along the cow and got hold of its ear, but Walter stopped me with a gentle cough.
“Nay, Mr. Herriot, you won’t have to look in the ears. I have all t’numbers wrote down.”
“Oh, that’s fine. It’ll save us a lot of time.” I had always found scratching the wax away to find ear tattoos an overrated pastime. And it was good to hear that the Hugills were attending to the clerical side; there was a section in the Ministry form which said: “Are the herd records in good order?” I always wrote “Yes,” keeping my fingers crossed as I thought of the scrawled figures on the backs of old bills, milk recording sheets, anything.
“Aye,” said Walter. “I have ’em all set down proper in a book.”
“Great! Can you go and get it, then?”
“No need, sorr, I have it ’ere.” Walter was the boss, there was no doubt about it. They all seemed to live in perfect harmony but when the chips were down Walter took over automatically. He was the organiser, the acknowledged brains of the outfit. The battered trilby which he always wore in contrast with the others’ caps gave him an extra air of authority.
Everybody watched respectfully as he slowly and deliberately extracted a spectacle case from an inside pocket. He opened it and took out an old pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, blowing away fragments of the hay and corn chaff with which the interior of the case was thickly powdered. There was a quiet dignity and importance in the way he unhurriedly threaded the side pieces over his ears and stood grimacing slightly to work everything into place. Then he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket.
When he took it out he was holding some object but it was difficult to identify, being almost obscured by his enormous thumb. Then I saw that it was a tiny, black-covered miniature diary about two inches square—the sort of novelty people give each other at Christmas.
“Is that the herd record?” I asked.
“Yes, this is it. It’s all set down in here.” Walter daintily flicked over the pages with a horny forefinger and squinted through his spectacles. “Now that fust cow—she’s number eighty-fower.”
“Splendid!” I said. “I’ll just check this one and then we can go by the book.” I peered into the ear. “That’s funny, I make it twenty-six.”
The brothers had a look. “You’re right, sorr, you’re right. It IS twenty-six.”
Walter pursed his lips. “Why, that’s Bluebell’s calf isn’t it?”
“Nay,” said Fenwick, “she’s out of awd Buttercup.”
“Can’t be,” mumbled Thomas. “Awd Buttercup was sold to Tim Jefferson afore this ’un was born. This is Brenda’s calf.”
William shook his head. “Ah’m sure we got her as a heifer at Bob Ashby’s sale.”
“All right,” I said, holding up a hand. “We’ll put in twenty-six.” I had to cut in. It was in no way an argument, just a leisurely discussion but it looked as if it could go on for some time. I wrote the number in my notebook and injected the cow. “Now how about this next one?”
“Well ah DO know that ’un,” said Walter confidently, stabbing at an entry in the diary. “Can’t make no mistake, she’s number five.”
I looked in the ear. “Says a hundred and thirty seven here.”
It started again. “She was bought in, wasn’t she?” “Nay, nay, she’s out of awd Dribbler.” “Don’t think so—Dribbler had nowt but bulls …”
I raised my hand again. “You know, I really think it might be quicker to look in all the ears. Time’s getting on.”
“Aye, you’re right, sorr, it IS getting on.” Walter returned the herd record to his waistcoat pocket philosophically and we started the laborious business of clipping, measuring and injecting every animal, plus rubbing the inside of the ears with a cloth soaked in spirit to identify the numbers which had often faded to a few unrelated dots. Occasionally Walter referred to his tiny book. “Ah, that’s right, ninety-two. I thowt so. It’s all set down here.”
Fighting with the loose animals in the boxes round the fold yard was like having a dirty Turkish bath while wearing oilskins. The brothers caught the big beasts effortlessly and even the strongest bullock grew quickly discouraged when it tried to struggle against those mighty arms. But I noticed one strange phenomenon: the men’s fingers were so thick and huge that they often slipped out of the animals’ noses through sheer immobility.
It took an awful long time but we finally got through. The last little calf had a space clipped in his shaggy neck and bawled heartily as he felt the needle, then I was out in the sweet air throwing my coat in the car boot. I looked at my watch—three o’clock. I was nearly two hours behind my schedule now and already I was hot and weary, with skinned toes on my right foot where a cow had trodden and a bruised left instep caused by the sudden descent of Fenwick’s size thirteen hobnails during a particularly violent mélée. As I closed the boot and limped round to the car door I began to wonder a little about this easy Ministry work.
Walter loomed over me and inclined his head graciously. “Come in and sit down and have a drink o’ tea.”
“It’s very kind of you and I wish I could, Mr. Hugill. But I’ve got a long string of inspections waiting and I don’t know when I’ll get round them. I’ve fixed up far too many and I completely underestimated the time needed for your test. I really am an absolute fool.”
And the brothers intoned sincerely. “Aye, you’re right, sorr, you’re right, you’re right.”
Well, there was no more testing today, but ten inspections still to do and I should have been at the first one two hours ago. I roared off, feeling that little ball tightening in my stomach as it always did when I was fighting the clock. Gripping the wheel with one hand and exploring my lunch packet with the other, I pulled out a piece of Mrs.
Hall’s ham and egg pie and began to gnaw at it as I went along.
But I had gone only a short way when reason asserted itself. This was no good. It was an excellent pie and I might as well enjoy it. I pulled off the unfenced road on to the grass, switched off the engine and opened the windows wide. The farm back there was like an island of activity in the quiet landscape and now that I was away from the noise and the stuffiness of the buildings the silence and the emptiness enveloped me like a soothing blanket. I leaned my head against the back of the seat and looked out at the checkered greens of the little fields along the flanks of the hills; thrusting upwards between their walls till they gave way to the jutting rocks and the harsh brown of the heather which flooded the wild country above.
I felt better when I drove away and didn’t particularly mind when the farmer at the first inspection greeted me with a scowl.”
“This isn’t one o’clock, Maister!” he snapped. “My cows have been in all afternoon and look at the bloody mess they’ve made. Ah’ll never get the place clean again!”
I had to agree with him when I saw the muck piled up behind the cows; it was one of the snags about housing animals in grass time. And the farmer’s expression grew blacker as most of them cocked their tails as though in welcome and added further layers to the heaps.
“I won’t keep you much longer,” I said briskly, and began to work my way down the row. Before the tuberculin testing scheme came into being, these clinical examinations were the only means of detecting tuberculous cows and I moved from animal to animal palpating the udders for any unusual induration. The routine examinations were known jocularly in the profession as “bag-snatching” or “cow-punching” and it was a job that soon got tedious.
All Creatures Great and Small Page 28