I hung my head sheepishly, and she relented. “Oh, well, now you’re here you might as well come upstairs.”
Helen had the same tired, flushed look that I remembered before. I kissed her thankfully. We didn’t say anything, just smiled at each other. Then I had a look in the cot by the bed.
Nurse Brown regarded me with tight lips and narrowed eyes as I peered down. Last time I had been so aghast at Jimmy’s appearance that I had mortally offended her by asking if there was anything wrong with him, and heaven help me, I felt the same now. I won’t go into details but the new little girl’s face was all squashed and red and bloated, and the sense of shock hit me as it had done before.
I looked up at the nurse, and it was only too clear that she was waiting for me to say something derogatory. Her normally laughing face was set in a threatening scowl. One wrong word from me and she would have kicked me on the shins—I was sure of that.
“Gorgeous,” I said weakly. “Really gorgeous.”
“All right.” She had seen enough of me. “Out you go.”
She ushered me downstairs, and as she opened the outside door, she fixed me with a piercing eye. That bright little woman could read me without effort. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as though addressing a person of limited intelligence.
“That … is … a … lovely … healthy … baby.…” she said and closed the door in my face.
And, bless her heart, her words helped me, because as I drove away, I knew she must be right. And now, all these years later, when I look at my handsome son and my beautiful daughter, I can hardly believe my own stupidity.
When I returned to the surgery, there was one visit waiting for me, high in the hills, and the journey up there was like a happy dream. My worry was over, and it seemed that all nature was rejoicing with me. It was the ninth of May, 1947, the beginning of the most perfect summer I can remember. The sun blazed; soft breezes swirled into the car, carrying their fragrance from the fells around; an elusive breath of the bluebells, primroses and violets scattered everywhere on the grass, flowing among the shadows of the trees.
After I had seen my patient, I took a walk on the high tops along a favourite path of beaten earth on the hill’s edge, with Sam trotting at my heels.
I looked away over the rolling patchwork of the plain, sleeping in the sun’s haze, and at the young bracken on the hillside, springing straight and green from last year’s dead brown stalks. Everywhere new life was calling out its exultant message, and it was so apt with my new little daughter lying down there in Darrowby.
We had decided to call her Rosemary. It is such a pretty name and I still love it, but it didn’t last long. It became Rosie at a very early stage and though I did make one or two ineffectual stands, it has remained so to this day. She is now Dr. Rosie in our community.
On that May day I caught myself just in time. It has always been my practice to recline in the sunshine on the springy bed of heather that clusters on these hillsides, and I was just settling down when I remembered I had other things to do today. I sped back to Skeldale House and began to telephone my glad news all over the country.
It was received rapturously by all, but it was Tristan who grasped the essentials of the situation.
“We’ve got to wet this baby’s head, Jim,” he said seriously.
I was ready for anything. “Of course, of course, when are you coming over?”
“I’ll be there at seven,” he replied crisply, and I knew he would be.
Tristan was concerned about the venue of the celebration. There were four of us in the sitting room at Skeldale House— Siegfried, Tristan, Alex Taylor and myself. Alex was my oldest friend—we started school together in Glasgow at the age of four —and when he came out of the army after five years in the western desert and Italy, he came to spend a few weeks with Helen and me in Darrowby. It wasn’t long before he had fallen under the spell of country life, and now he was learning farming and estate agency with a view to starting a new career. It was good that he should be with me tonight.
Tristan’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair as he thought aloud. His expression was fixed and grave, his eyes vacant.
“We’d normally go to the Drovers but they’ve got that big party on tonight, so that’s no good,” he muttered. “We want a bit of peace and quiet. Let’s see, now, there’s the George and Dragon—Tetley’s beer, splendid stuff, but I’ve known them a bit careless with their pipes and I’ve had the odd sour mouthful. And, of course, we have the Cross Keys. They pull a lovely pint of Cameron’s, and the draught Guinness is excellent. And we mustn’t forget the Hare and Pheasant—their bitter can rise to great heights, although the mild is ordinary.” He paused for a moment. “We might do worse than the Lord Nelson—very reliable ale—and, of course, there’s always …”
“Just a minute, Triss,” I broke in. “I went round to Nurse Brown’s this evening to see Helen, and Cliff asked if he could come with us. Don’t you think it would be rather nice to go to his pub since the baby was born in his house?”
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Which pub is that?”
“The Black Horse.”
“Ah, yes, ye-es.” Tristan looked at me thoughtfully and put his fingertips together. “Russell and Rangham’s. A good little brewery, that. I’ve had some first-rate pints in the Black Horse, though I’ve noticed a slight loss of nuttiness under very warm conditions.” He looked anxiously out of the window. “It’s been a hot day today. Perhaps we’d …”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Siegfried leaped to his feet. “You sound like an analytical chemist. It’s only beer you’re talking about, after all.”
Tristan looked at him in shocked silence, but Siegfried turned to me briskly. “I think that’s a pleasant idea of yours, James. Let’s go with Cliff to the Black Horse. It’s a quiet little place.”
And indeed, as we dropped to the chairs in the bar parlour, I felt we had chosen the ideal spot. The evening sunshine sent long golden shafts over the pitted oak tables and the high-backed settles where a few farm men sat with their glasses. There was nothing smart about this little inn, but the furniture which hadn’t been changed for a hundred years gave it an air of tranquillity. It was just right.
Reg Wilkey, the diminutive landlord, welcomed us and charged our glasses from his tall white jug.
Siegfried raised his pint. “James, may I be the first to wish a long life, health and happiness to Rosemary.”
“Thank you, Siegfried,” I said, feeling suddenly very much among friends as the others said, “Here, here,” and began to drink.
Cliff, his face wreathed in his eternal smile, lowered the level in his glass by half, then turned to the landlord. “It gets better, Reg,” he said reverently. “It gets better.”
As Reg bowed modestly, Cliff said, “Ye know, Jim, I’ve said for years that me two best friends are Mr. Russell and Mr. Rangham. I think the world of ’em.”
Everybody laughed, and the stage was set for a happy celebration. With my anxieties over, I felt wonderful.
After a couple of pints, Siegfried patted me on the shoulder. “I’m off, James. Have a good time. Can’t tell you how pleased I am.”
I watched him go, and I didn’t argue. He was right. There was a veterinary practice out there, and somebody had to watch the shop. And this was my night.
It was one of those cosy evenings when everything seemed perfect. Alex and I recalled our childhood in Glasgow, Tristan came up with some splendid memories of Skeldale House in the bachelor days and over everything, like a beneficent moon, hung the huge smile of Cliff Brown.
A great love of my fellow men mounted in me, and I kept buying drinks for the local people around us. Finally I grew tired of fumbling for money and handed my wallet to the landlord. It was stuffed with notes because I had made a special visit to the bank that afternoon.
“Here, Reg,” I said. “Just keep taking the drinks out of that.”
“Aye, right, Mr. Herriot,” he replied without changi
ng expression. “It’ll mek it easier.”
It did make it a lot easier. Men whom I hardly knew raised their glasses and toasted my new daughter repeatedly, and all I had to do was smile and raise mine in return.
When closing time was announced, it didn’t seem possible that it was all coming to an end.
As the little pub emptied, I approached the landlord. “We can’t go home yet, Reg.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Well, ye know the law, Mr. Herriot.”
“Yes, but this is a special night, isn’t it?”
“Aye, it is, I suppose.” He hesitated for a moment. “Tell ye what. I’ll lock up, then we could go down and ’ave one or two in the cellar, just to finish off.”
I put my arm round his shoulders. “Reg, what a delightful idea. Let’s go down there.”
We descended a few steps into the pub cellar, switched on the light and pulled the trapdoor closed after us. As we disposed ourselves among the barrels and crates, I looked around the company. Apart from the original four, we were now augmented by two young farmers, one of the local grocers and an official from the Darrowby Water Board. We were a warmly knit little group.
It was much easier down there. No need to bother the landlord with his jug. We just went to a barrel and turned the tap.
“Still plenty in the wallet, Reg?” I shouted.
“Aye, there’s plenty ’ere, don’t worry. Help yourselves.”
We kept doing that, and the party never flagged. It must have been past midnight when we heard the thumping on the outside door. Reg listened for a few moments, then went upstairs. He returned soon but was preceded through the trapdoor by the long blue legs, tunic, cadaverous face and helmet of Police Constable Hubert Goole.
A silence fell on the merry gathering as the constable’s melancholy gaze passed slowly over us.
“Drinkin’ a bit late, aren’t ye?” he enquired tunelessly.
“Ah, well.” Tristan gave a gay little laugh. “It’s a special occasion, you see, Mr. Goole. Mr. Herriot’s wife gave birth to a daughter this morning.”
“Oh, aye?” The Old Testament countenance looked down on my friend from its bony perch. “I don’t remember Mr. Wilkey applyin’ for an extended licence for tonight.”
It was the nearest he could get to making a joke, because P. C. Goole never made jokes. He was known in the town as a stern and unbending man, one who went by the book. It was no good riding a bike at night without lights when P. C. Goole was around. He was particularly merciless on this offence. He sang in the church choir, his morals were impeccable, he was active in community work, he did everything right. It was strange that in his mid-fifties he was still an ordinary constable.
Tristan bounced back. “Ah, yes, ha-ha, very good. But, of course, this was a totally impromptu thing. Spur of the moment, you know.”
“Ye can call it what ye like, but you’re breakin’ the law and you know it.” The big man unbuttoned his breast pocket and flipped open his notebook. “I’ll have to ’ave your names.”
I was sitting on an upturned crate, and I gripped my knees tightly. What an end to the happy evening. Nothing much happened in the town, and this would make headlines in the Darrowby and Houlton Times. It would look great, with all my friends involved, too. And poor little Reg standing sheepishly in the background—he would really get it in the neck, and it was all my fault.
Tristan, however, was not beaten yet. “Mr. Goole,” he said coldly, “I’m disappointed in you.”
“Eh?”
“I said I’m disappointed. I’d have expected you to show a different attitude on an occasion like this.”
The constable was unmoved. He poised his pencil. “I’m a policeman, Mr. Farnon, and I ’ave my duty to do. We might as well start with your name.” He wrote carefully, then looked up. “What’s your address, now?”
“It seems to me,” said Tristan, ignoring the question, “that you have forgotten all about little Julie.”
“What about Julie?” The long face showed a certain animation for the first time. Tristan’s mention of P. C. Goole’s beloved Yorkshire terrier had found a tender spot.
“Well, as I recall,” Tristan went on, “Mr. Herriot sat up for several hours during the night with Julie when she was having pups. In fact, if it hadn’t been for him, you might have lost the pups and Julie, too. I know it’s a few years ago, but I remember it distinctly.”
“Now, then, that has got nowt to do with tonight. I’ve told ye, I have my duty to do.” He turned to the official of the Water Board.
Tristan returned to the attack. “Yes, but surely you could have a drink with us on a night like this when Mr. Herriot has become a father for the second time. It’s the same thing, in a way.”
P. C. Goole paused, and his face softened. “Julie’s still goin’ strong.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Wonderful little thing for her age.”
“And I still have one of them pups.”
“Of course. You’ve had him in to see me a few times.”
“Aye … aye …” P. C. Goole hitched up his tunic, delved in his trouser pocket and brought out a large watch. He studied it thoughtfully. “Well, I’m off duty about now. Suppose I could have a drink with ye. I’ll just phone in to the office first.”
“Oh, good!” Tristan moved quickly to the barrel and drew another pint.
When the constable returned from the phone, he raised the glass solemnly. “Here’s wishin’ t’little lass all the best,” he said and took a long swallow.
“Thank you, Mr. Goole,” I replied. “You’re very kind.”
He sat down on one of the lower steps, placed his helmet on a crate and had another deep drink. “Both well, I ’ope?”
“Yes, just grand. Have another.”
It was surprising how soon he seemed to forget all about his notebook, and the party picked up again rapidly. The relief of the escape added greatly to the festivities, and joy reigned unrestrained.
“It’s bloody ’ot down ’ere,” P. C. Goole remarked after some time and removed his tunic. With this symbolic gesture, the last barrier went down.
And yet, over the next two hours, nobody got really plastered. Nobody, that is, except P. C. Goole. With the rest of us it was a case of laughter, reminiscing and an undoubted heightening of the senses, but the policeman passed through various phases on the road to a fairly profound inebriation.
The first was when he insisted on a Christian-name relationship, then he became almost tearfully affectionate as he rhapsodised on the wonders of birth, human and canine. The latest phase was more sinister. He was turning aggressive.
“You’re ’avin’ another, Jim.” It was a statement rather than an enquiry as the tall, shirt-sleeved figure bent, swaying slightly, over the tap of the barrel, glass at the ready.
“No thanks, Hubert,” I replied. “I’ve had enough.”
He blinked at me owlishly. “You’re not ’avin’ another?”
“No, honestly, Hubert, I’ve had it. I started long before you.”
He sent another pint frothing into his glass before continuing. “Then you’re a bloody piker, Jim,” he said. “And if there’s one thing I can’t shtand, if there’s one thing I can’t bloody well shtand, it’s a bloody piker.”
I tried an ingratiating smile. “I’m terribly sorry, Hubert, but I’m up to here, and, anyway, it’s half-past two. I really think we ought to be going.”
It seemed to be a general sentiment because the assembly all began to get to their feet.
“Goin’?” Hubert glared at me belligerently. “Whassa matter with you? The night’s young yet.” He slurped down another mouthful of beer indignantly. “You ask a feller to ’ave a drink with you, and next minute ye say we’re goin’. Itsh not right.”
“Now, now, Hubert,” said little Reg Wilkey, sidling up to him, smiling and radiating the bonhomie that came from thirty years’ practice at easing reluctant clients from his premises. “Be a good lad, now. We’ve all ’ad a
grand time and it’s been lovely seein’ you, but everybody’s settin’ off ’ome. Now where’s your jacket?”
The constable muttered and grumbled as we helped him into his tunic and balanced his helmet on his head but allowed us to lead him up the steps into the darkness of the pub. Outside, I installed him in the back of my car, with Tristan and Alex on either side. Cliff sat with me in front.
Before we left, the landlord passed my wallet through the window. It had slimmed down to the point of emaciation, and it occurred to me that my bank manager, who was always advising me in the kindest possible way to watch my overdraft, would be tossing uneasily in his bed if he knew.
I drove through the sleeping town and turned down the narrow street towards the market place. As we approached, I could see that the cobbled square was deserted except for two figures standing at the edge of the roadway under a street light. With a twinge of alarm I recognised Inspector Bowles and Sergeant Rostron, our two head policemen. They were standing, very erect and trim-looking, hands behind their back, glancing around them keenly. They looked as though they wouldn’t miss any misdemeanours in their vicinity.
A sudden scream from the back seat almost sent me through a shop window. Hubert had seen them, too.
“It’s that bugger Rostron!” he yelled. “I ’ate that bugger! He’s ’ad it in for me for years, and I’m goin’ to tell ’im what I think about ’im!”
There was a thrashing of arms in the back as he wound down the window and started his tirade at the top of his voice. “You bloody rotten …!”
For the second time that night an icy dread swept me that something awful was going to happen because of me.
“Quell him!” I shouted. “For God’s sake, quell him!”
However, my friends in the rear had anticipated me. Hubert’s cries were suddenly switched off as Tristan and Alex bundled him to the floor and fell on top of him. Tristan was actually sitting on his head when we came up to the two policemen, and only muffled sounds drifted from below.
As we passed, the inspector nodded and smiled, and the sergeant gave me a friendly salute. It was not difficult to read their minds as they docketed away another item of information. Mr. Herriot, returning from yet another night call. A dedicated vet, that young man.
The Lord God Made Them All Page 16