D.O.A. is what we write in the day book. Dead on arrival. Just three words but they covered all kinds of situations—the end of milk fever cows, bloated bullocks, calves in fits. And tonight they meant that I wouldn’t be clipping old Ben’s claws any more.
It wasn’t often these nephritis cases went off so suddenly but his urine albumen had been building up dangerously lately.
“Well, it was quick, Miss Stubbs. I’m sure the old chap didn’t suffer at all.” My words sounded lame and ineffectual.
The old lady was in full command of herself. No tears, only a fixity of expression as she looked down from the bed at her companion for so many years. My idea was to get him out of the place as quickly as possible and I pulled a blanket under him and lifted him up. As I was moving away, Miss Stubbs said, “Wait a moment.” With an effort she turned on to her side and gazed at Ben. Still without changing expression, she reached out and touched his head lightly. Then she lay back calmly as I hurried from the room.
In the back kitchen I had a whispered conference with Mrs. Broadwith. “I’ll run down t’village and get Fred Manners to come and bury him,” she said. “And if you’ve got time could you stay with the old lady while I’m gone. Talk to her, like, it’ll do her good.”
I went back and sat down by the bed. Miss Stubbs looked out of the window for a few moments then turned to me. “You know, Mr. Herriot,” she said casually. “It will be my turn next.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, tonight Ben has gone and I’m going to be the next one. I just know it.”
“Oh, nonsense! You’re feeling a bit low, that’s all. We all do when something like this happens.” But I was disturbed. I had never heard her even hint at such a thing before.
“I’m not afraid,” she said. “I know there’s something better waiting for me. I’ve never had any doubts.” There was silence between us as she lay calmly looking up at the card on the gas bracket.
Then the head on the pillow turned to me again. “I have only one fear.” Her expression changed with startling suddenness as if a mask had dropped. The brave face was almost unrecognisable. A kind of terror flickered in her eyes and she quickly grasped my hand.
“It’s my dogs and cats, Mr. Herriot. I’m afraid I might never see them when I’m gone and it worries me so. You see, I know I’ll be reunited with my parents and my brothers but … but …”
“Well, why not with your animals?”
“That’s just it.” She rocked her head on the pillow and for the first time I saw tears on her cheeks. “They say animals have no souls.”
“Who says?”
“Oh, I’ve read it and I know a lot of religious people believe it.”
“Well I don’t believe it.” I patted the hand which still grasped mine. “If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”
“Oh, I hope you’re right. Sometimes I lie at night thinking about it.”
“I know I’m right, Miss Stubbs, and don’t you argue with me. They teach us vets all about animals’ souls.”
The tension left her face and she laughed with a return of her old spirit. “I’m sorry to bore you with this and I’m not going to talk about it again. But before you go, I want you to be absolutely honest with me. I don’t want reassurance from you—just the truth. I know you are very young but please tell me—what are your beliefs? Will my animals go with me?”
She stared intently into my eyes. I shifted in my chair and swallowed once or twice.
“Miss Stubbs, I’m afraid I’m a bit foggy about all this,” I said. “But I’m absolutely certain of one thing. Wherever you are going, they are going too.”
She still stared at me but her face was calm again. “Thank you, Mr. Herriot, I know you are being honest with me. That is what you really believe, isn’t it?”
“I do believe it,” I said. “With all my heart I believe it.”
It must have been about a month later and it was entirely by accident that I learned I had seen Miss Stubbs for the last time. When a lonely, penniless old woman dies people don’t rush up to you in the street to tell you. I was on my rounds and a farmer happened to mention that the cottage in Corby village was up for sale.
“But what about Miss Stubbs?” I asked.
“Oh, went off sudden about three weeks ago. House is in a bad state, they say—nowt been done at it for years.”
“Mrs. Broadwith isn’t staying on, then?”
“Nay, I hear she’s staying at t’other end of village.”
“Do you know what’s happened to the dogs and cats?”
“What dogs and cats?”
I cut my visit short. And I didn’t go straight home though it was nearly lunch time. Instead I urged my complaining little car at top speed to Corby and asked the first person I saw where Mrs. Broadwith was living. It was a tiny house but attractive and Mrs. Broadwith answered my knock herself.
“Oh, come in, Mr. Herriot. It’s right good of you to call.” I went inside and we sat facing each other across a scrubbed table top.
“Well, it was sad about the old lady,” she said.
“Yes, I’ve only just heard.”
“Any road, she had a peaceful end. Just slept away at finish.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Mrs. Broadwith looked round the room. “I was real lucky to get this place—it’s just what I’ve always wanted.”
I could contain myself no longer. “What’s happened to the animals?” I blurted out.
“Oh, they’re in t’garden,” she said calmly. “I’ve got a grand big stretch at back.” She got up and opened the door and with a surge of relief I watched my old friends pour in.
Arthur was on my knee in a flash, arching himself ecstatically against my arm while his outboard motor roared sofdy above the barking of the dogs. Prince, wheezy as ever, tail fanning the air, laughed up at me delightedly between barks.
“They look great, Mrs. Broadwith. How long are they going to be here?”
“They’re here for good. I think just as much about them as t’old lady ever did and I couldn’t be parted from them. They’ll have a good home with me as long as they live.”
I looked at the typical Yorkshire country face, at the heavy cheeks with their grim lines belied by the kindly eyes. “This is wonderful,” I said. “But won’t you find it just a bit … er … expensive to feed them?”
“Nay, you don’t have to worry about that. I ’ave a bit put away.”
“Well fine, fine, and I’ll be looking in now and then to see how they are. I’m through the village every few days.” I got up and started for the door.
Mrs. Broadwith held up her hand. “There’s just one thing I’d like you to do before they start selling off the things at the cottage. Would you please pop in and collect what’s left of your medicines. They’re in t’front room.”
I took the key and drove along to the other end of the village. As I pushed open the rickety gate and began to walk through the tangled grass the front of the cottage looked strangely lifeless without the faces of the dogs at the window; and when the door creaked open and I went inside the silence was like a heavy pall.
Nothing had been moved. The bed with its rumpled blankets was still in the corner. I moved around, picking up half empty bottles, a jar of ointment, the cardboard box with old Ben’s tablets—a lot of good they had done him.
When I had got everything I looked slowly round the little room. I wouldn’t be coming here any more and at the door I paused and read for the last time the card which hung over the empty bed.
FORTY-FOUR
I WAS SPENDING TUESDAY evening as I spent all the Tuesday evenings—staring at the back of Helen Alderson’s head at the Darrowby Music Society. It was a slow way of getting to know her better but I had been unable to think of a better idea.
Since the morning on the high moor when I had set the cal
f’s leg, I had scanned the day book regularly in the hope of getting another visit to the farm. But the Aldersons seemed to have lamentably healthy stock. I had to be content with the thought that there was the visit at the month end to take off the plaster. The really crushing blow came when Helen’s father rang up to say that, since the calf was going sound he had removed the plaster himself. He was pleased to say that the fracture had knitted perfectly and there was no sign of lameness.
I had come to admire the self-reliance and initiative of the Dalesmen but I cursed it now at great length; and I joined the Music Society. I had seen Helen going into the schoolroom where the meetings were held and, with the courage of desperation, had followed her inside.
That was weeks ago and, I reflected miserably, I had made no progress at all. I couldn’t remember how many tenors, sopranos and male voice choirs had come and gone and on one occasion the local brass band had packed themselves into the little room and almost burst my ear drums; but I was no further forward.
Tonight a string quartet was scraping away industriously, but I hardly heard them. My eyes, as usual, were focused on Helen, several rows in front of me, sitting between the two old ladies she always seemed to bring with her. That was part of the trouble; those two old girls were always there, cutting out any chance of private conversation, even at the half-time break for tea. And there was the general atmosphere of the place; the members were nearly all elderly, and over everything hung the powerful schoolroom scent of ink and exercise books and chalk and lead pencils. It was the sort of place where you just couldn’t say without warning “Are you doing anything on Saturday night?”
The scraping stopped and everybody clapped. The vicar got up from the front row and beamed on the company. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I think we might stop for fifteen minutes as I see our willing helpers have prepared tea. The price, as usual is threepence.” There was laughter and a general pushing back of chairs.
I went to the back of the hall with the others, put my threepence on the plate and collected a cup of tea and a biscuit. This was when I tried to get near Helen in the blind hope that something might happen. It wasn’t always easy, because I was often buttonholed by the school headmaster and others who regarded a vet who liked music as an interesting curiosity, but tonight I managed to edge myself as if by accident into her group.
She looked at me over the top of her cup. “Good evening, Mr. Herriot, are you enjoying it?” Oh God, she always said that. And Mr. Herriot! But what could I do? “Call me Jim,” would sound great. I replied, as always, “Good evening, Miss Alderson. Yes, it’s very nice, isn’t it.” Things were going with a bang again.
I munched my biscuit while the old ladies talked about Mozart. It was going to be the same as all the other Tuesdays. It was about time I gave up the whole thing. I felt beaten.
The vicar approached our group, still beaming. “I’m afraid I have to call on somebody for the washing-up rota. Perhaps our two young friends would take it on tonight.” His friendly gaze twinkled from Helen to me and back again.
The idea of washing up teacups had never held much attraction for me but suddenly it was like sighting the promised land. “Yes, certainly, delighted—that is if it’s all right with Miss Alderson.”
Helen smiled. “Of course it’s all right. We all have to take a turn, don’t we?”
I wheeled the trolley of cups and saucers into the scullery. It was a cramped, narrow place with a sink and a few shelves and there was just about room for the two of us to get inside.
“Would you like to wash or dry?” Helen asked.
“I’ll wash,” I replied and began to run the hot water into the sink. It shouldn’t be too difficult now, I thought, to work the conversation round to where I wanted it. I’d never have a better chance than now, jammed into this little room with Helen.
But it was surprising how the time went by. Five whole minutes and we hadn’t talked about anything but music. With mounting frustration I saw that we had nearly got through the pile of crockery and I had achieved nothing. The feeling changed to near panic when I lifted the last cup from the soapy water.
It had to be now. I held out the cup to Helen and she tried to take it from me; but I kept a grip on the handle while I waited for inspiration. She pulled gently but I clung to it tenaciously. It was developing into a tug of war. Then I heard a hoarse croak which I only just recognised as my own voice. “Can I see you some time?”
For a moment she didn’t answer and I tried to read her face. Was she surprised, annoyed, even shocked? She flushed and replied, “If you like.” I heard the croak again. “Saturday evening?” She nodded, dried the cup and was gone.
I went back to my seat with my heart thudding. The strains of mangled Haydn from the quartet went unheeded. I had done it at last. But did she really want to come out? Had she been hustled into it against her will? My toes curled with embarrassment at the thought, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that for better or for worse it was a step forward. Yes, I had done it at last.
FORTY-FIVE
AT I SAT AT breakfast I looked out at the autumn mist dissolving in the early sunshine. It was going to be another fine day but there was a chill in the old house this morning, a shiveriness as though a cold hand had reached out to remind us that summer had gone and the hard months lay just ahead.
“It says here,” Siegfried said, adjusting his copy of the Darrowby and Houlton Times with care against the coffee-pot, “that farmers have no feeling for their animals.”
I buttered a piece of toast and looked across at him.
“Cruel, you mean?”
“Well, not exactly, but this chap maintains that to a farmer, livestock are purely commercial—there’s no sentiment in his attitude towards them, no affection.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do if they were all like poor Kit Bilton, would it? They’d all go mad.”
Kit was a lorry driver who, like so many of the working men of Darrowby, kept a pig at the bottom of his garden for family consumption. The snag was that when killing time came, Kit wept for three days. I happened to go into his house on one of these occasions and found his wife and daughter hard at it cutting up the meat for pies and brawn while Kit huddled miserably by the kitchen fire, his eyes swimming with tears. He was a huge man who could throw a twelve stone sack of meal on to his wagon with a jerk of his arms, but he seized my hand in his and sobbed at me “I can’t bear it, Mr. Herriot. He was like a Christian was that pig, just like a Christian.”
“No, I agree.” Siegfried leaned over and sawed off a slice of Mrs. Hall’s home-baked bread. “But Kit isn’t a real farmer. This article is about people who own large numbers of animals. The question is, is it possible for such men to become emotionally involved? Can the dairy farmer milking maybe fifty cows become really fond of any of them or are they just milk producing units?”
“It’s an interesting point,” I said. “And I think you’ve put your finger on it with the numbers. You know there are a lot of our farmers up in the high country who have only a few stock. They always have names for their cows—Daisy, Mabel, I even came across one called Kipperlugs the other day. I do think these small farmers have an affection for their animals but I don’t see how the big men can possibly have.”
Siegfried rose from the table and stretched luxuriously. “You’re probably right. Anyway, I’m sending you to see a really big man this morning. John Skipton of Dennaby Close—he’s got some tooth rasping to do. Couple of old horses losing condition. You’d better take all the instruments, it might be anything.”
I went through to the little room down the passage and surveyed the tooth instruments. I always felt at my most mediaeval when I was caught up in large animal dentistry and in the days of the draught horse it was a regular task. One of the commonest jobs was knocking the wolf teeth out of young horses. I have no idea how it got its name but you found the little wolf tooth just in front of the molars and if a young horse was doing badly it always got the blame.
It was no good the vets protesting that such a minute, vestigial object couldn’t possibly have any effect on the horse’s health and that the trouble was probably due to worms. The farmers were adamant; the tooth had to be removed.
We did this by having the horse backed into a corner, placing the forked end of a metal rod against the tooth and giving a sharp tap with an absurdly large wooden mallet. Since the tooth had no proper root the operation was not particularly painful, but the horse still didn’t like it. We usually had a couple of fore-feet waving around our ears at each tap.
And the annoying part was that after we had done the job and pointed out to the farmer that we had only performed this bit of black magic to humour him, the horse would take an immediate turn for the better and thrive consistently from then on. Farmers are normally reticent about our successful efforts for fear we might put a bit more on the bill but in these cases they cast aside all caution. They would shout at us across the market place: “Hey, remember that ’oss you knocked wolf teeth out of? Well he never looked back. It capped him.”
I looked again with distaste at the tooth instruments; the vicious forceps with two-feet-long arms, sharp-jawed shears, mouth gags, hammers and chisels, files and rasps; it was rather like a quiet corner in the Spanish Inquisition. We kept a long wooden box with a handle for carrying the things and I staggered out to the car with a fair selection,
Dennaby Close was not just a substantial farm, it was a monument to a man’s endurance and skill. The fine old house, the extensive buildings, the great sweep of lush grass land along the lower slopes of the fell were all proof that old John Skipton had achieved the impossible; he had started as an uneducated farm labourer and he was now a wealthy landowner.
The miracle hadn’t happened easily; old John had a lifetime of grinding toil behind him that would have killed most men, a lifetime with no room for a wife or family or creature comforts, but there was more to it than that; there was a brilliant acumen in agricultural matters that had made the old man a legend in the district. “When all t’world goes one road, I go t’other” was one of his quoted sayings and it is true that the Skipton farms had made money in the hard times when others were going bankrupt. Dennaby was only one of John’s farms; he had two large arable places of about four hundred acres each lower down the Dale.
All Creatures Great and Small Page 30