Vet in Harness

by James Herriot

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  Chapter Two.

  I had only to sit up in bed to look right across Darrowby to the hills

  beyond.

  I got up and walked to the window. It was going to be a fine morning and

  the early sun glanced over the weathered reds and greys of the jumbled

  roofs, some of them sagging under their burden of ancient tiles, and

  brightened the tufts of green where trees pushed upwards from the

  gardens among the bristle) of chimney pots. And behind everything the

  calm bulk of the fells.

  It was my good fortune that this was the first shine I saw every

  morning; after Helen, of course, w. which was better still.

  Following our unorthodox tuberculin testing honeymoon we had set up ow

  first home on the top of Skeldale House. Siegfried, my boss up to my

  wedding and now my partner, had offered us free use of these empty rooms

  on the thin storey and we had gratefully accepted; and though it was a

  makeshift arrangement there was an airy charm, an exhilaration in our

  high perch that many would have envied.

  It was makeshift because everything at that time had a temporary

  complexion and we had no idea how long we would be there. Siegfried and

  I had bot volunteered for the RAF and were on deferred service but that

  is all I am going to say about the war. This book is not about such

  things which in any case were so very far from Darrowby; it is the story

  of the months I had with Helen between our marriage and my call-up and

  is about the ordinary things which have always made up our lives, my

  work, the animals, the Dales.

  This front room was our bed-sitter and though it was not luxuriously

  furnished it did have an excellent bed, a carpet, a handsome side table

  which had belonged. to Helen's mother and two armchairs. It had an

  ancient wardrobe, too, but th~ lock didn't work and the only way we kept

  the door closed was by jamming One of my socks in it. The toe always

  dangled outside but it never seemed of an~t importance.

  I went out and across a few feet of landing to our kitchen-dining room

  at t back. This apartment was definitely spartan. I clumped over bare

  boards to bench we had rigged against the wall by the window. This held

  a gas ring a our crockery and cutlery. I seized a tall jug and began my

  long descent to t main kitchen downstairs because one minor snag was

  that there was no water at the top of the house. Down two flights to the

  three rooms on the first storey then down two more and a final gallop

  along the passage to the big stone-flagb kitchen at the end.

  I filled the jug and returned to our eyrie two steps at a time. I

  wouldn't like to do this now whenever I needed water but at that time I

  didn't find it the least ~.

  inconvenience.

  Helen soon had the kettle boiling and we drank our first cup of tea by

  window looking down on the long garden. From up here we had an aerial

  vi' of the unkempt lawns, the fruit trees, the wisteria climbing the

  weathered brick towards our window, and the high walls with their old

  stone copings stretch) away to the cobbled yard under the elms. Every

  day I went up and down t path to the garage in the yard but it looked so

  different from above.

  ~wait a minute, Helen,' I said. "Let me sit on that chair.'

  She had laid the breakfast on the bench where we ate and this was where

  the difficulty arose. Because it was a tall bench and our recently

  acquired high stool fitted it but our chair didn't.

  "No, I'm all right, Jim, really I am.' She smiled at me reassuringly

  from her absurd position, almost at eye level with her plate.

  "You can't be all right,' I retorted. "Your chin's nearly in among your

  cornflakes Please let me sit there.'

  She patted the seat of the stool. "Come on, stop arguing. Sit down and

  have your breakfast.'

  This, I felt, just wouldn't do. I tried a different tack.

  "Helen!' I said severely. "Get off that chair!'

  "No!' she replied without looking at me, her lips pushed forward in a

  characteristic pout which I always found enchanting but which also meant

  she wasn't kidding.

  I was at a loss. I toyed with the idea of pulling her off the chair, but

  she was a big girl. We had had a previous physical try-out when a minor

  disagreement had escalated into a wrestling match and though I

  thoroughly enjoyed the contest and actually won in the end I had been

  surprised by her sheer strength. At this time in the morning I didn't

  feel up to it. I sat on the stool.

  After breakfast Helen began to boil water for the washing-up, the next

  stage in our routine. Meanwhile I went downstairs, collected my gear,

  including suture material for a foal which had cut its leg and went out

  the side door into the garden. Just about opposite the rockery I turned

  and looked up at our window. It was open at the bottom and an arm

  emerged holding a dishcloth. I waved and the dishcloth waved back

  furiously. It was the start to every day.

  And, driving from the yard, it seemed a good start. In fact everything

  was good. The raucous cawing of the rooks in the elms above as I closed

  the double doors, the clean fragrance of the air which greeted me every

  morning, and the challenge and interest of my job.

  The injured foal was at Robert Corner's farm and I hadn't been there

  long before I spotted Jock, his sheepdog. And I began to watch the dog

  because behind a vet's daily chore of treating his patients there is

  always the fascinating kaleidoscope of animal personality and Jock was

  an interesting case.

  A lot of farm dogs are partial to a little light relief from their work.

  They like to play and one of their favourite games is chasing cars off

  the premises. Often I drove off with a hairy form galloping alongside

  and the dog would usually give a final defiant bark after a few hundred

  yards to speed me on my way. But Jock was different.

  He was really dedicated. Car chasing to him was a deadly serious art

  which he practised daily without a trace of levity. Corner's farm was at

  the end of a long track, twisting for nearly a mile between its stone

  walls down through the gently sloping fields to the road below and Jock

  didn't consider he had done his Job properly until he had escorted his

  chosen vehicle right to the very foot. So his hobby was an exacting one.

  I watched him now as I finished stitching the foal's leg and began to

  tie on a bandage. He was slinking about the buildings, a skinny little

  creature who Without his mass of black and white hair would have been an

  almost invisible mite, and he was playing out a transparent charade of

  pretending he was taking no noticed of me - wasn't the least bit

  interested in my presence, in fact. But his furtive glances in the

  direction of the stable, his repeated cries-crossing of my line of

  vision gave him away. He was waiting for his big moment.

  When I was putting on my shoes and throwing my Wellingtons into the boot

  I saw him again. Or rather part of him; just a long nose and one eye

  protruding from beneath a broken door. It wasn't till I had started the

  engine and began to move off
that he finally declared himself, stealing

  out from his hiding place, body low, tail trailing, eyes fixed intently

  on the car's front wheels, and as I gathered speed and headed down the

  track he broke into an effortless lope I had been through this before

  and was always afraid he might run in front of me so I put my foot down

  and began to hurtle downhill. This was where Jock came into his own. I

  often wondered how he'd fare against a racing greyhound because by golly

  he could run. That sparse frame housed a perfect physical machine and

  the slender limbs reached and flew again and again, devouring the stony

  ground beneath, keeping up with the speeding car with joyful ease.

  There was a sharp bend about half way down and here Jock would

  invariably sail over the wall and streaked across the turf, a little

  dark blur against the are and having craftily cut off the corner he

  reappeared like a missile zooming off the grey stones lower down. This

  put him into a nice position for the run to the road and when he finally

  saw me on to the tarmac my last view of him was a happy panting face

  looking after me. Clearly he considered it was a job well done and he

  would wander contentedly back up to the farm to await the next session,

  perhaps with the postman or the baker's van.

  And there was another side to Jock. He was an outstanding performer at

  sheepdog trials and Mr Corner had won many trophies with him. In fact

  the farmer could have sold the little animal for a lot of money but

  couldn't be persuaded to part with him. Instead he purchased a bitch, a

  scrawny little female counterpart of Jock and a trial winner in her own

  right. With this combination Mr Corner thought he could breed some

  world-beating types for sale. On Visits to the farm the bitch joined in

  the car-chasing but it seemed as though she was doing it more or less to

  humour her new mate and she always gave up at the first bend leaving

  Jock in command. You could see her heart wasn't in it.

  When the pups arrived, seven fluffy black balls tumbling about the yard

  and getting under everybody's feet. Jock watched indulgently as they

  tried to follow him in his pursuit of my vehicle and you could almost

  see him laughing as they fell over their feet and were left trailing far

  behind.

  It happened that I didn't have to go there for about ten months but I

  saw ~ Robert Corner in the market occasionally and he told me he was

  training the pups and they were shaping well. Not that they needed much

  training; it's in their blood and he said they had tried to round up the

  cattle and sheep as soon as they could walk. When I finally saw them

  they were like seven Jocks - meagre, darting little creatures flitting

  noiselessly about the buildings - and it didn't take me long to find out

  that they had learned more than sheep herding from their father. There

  was something very evocative about the way they began to prowl around in

  the background as I prepared to get into my car, peeping furtively from

  behind straw bales, slinking with elaborate nonchalance to favourable

  positions for a quick getaway. And as I settled in my seat I could sense

  they were all crouched in readiness for the take off.

  I revved my engine, let in the clutch with a bump and shot across the y.

  and in a second the immediate vicinity erupted in a mass of hairy forms.

  I roared on to the track and put my foot down and on either side of me

  the little animals pelted along shoulder to shoulder, their faces all

  wearing the inti fanatical expression I knew so well. When Jock cleared

  the wall the seven pups went with him and when they reappeared and

  entered the home straight I noticed something different. On past

  occasions Jock had always had one eye on the car - this was what he

  considered his opponent, but now on that last quail mile as he hurtled

  along at the head of a shaggy phalanx he was glancing at the pups on

  either side as though they were the main opposition. ~

  And there was no doubt he was in trouble. Superbly fit though he was.

  The Stringy bundles of bone and sinew which he had fathered had all his

  speed plus the newly minted energy of youth and it was taking every

  shred of his power to keep up with them. Indeed there was one terrible

  moment when he stumbled and was engulfed by the bounding creatures

  around him; it seemed that all was lost but there was a core of steel in

  Jock. Eyes popping, nostrils dilated, he fought his way through the pack

  until by the time we reached the road he was once more in the lead.

  But it had taken its toll. I slowed down before driving away and looked

  down at the little animal standing with lolling tongue and heaving

  flanks on the grass verge. It must have been like this with all the

  other vehicles and it wasn't a merry game any more. I suppose it sounds

  silly to say you could read a dog's thoughts but everything in his

  posture betrayed the mounting apprehension that his days of supremacy

  were numbered. Just round the corner lay the unthinkable ignominy of

  being left trailing in the rear of that litter of young up-starts and as

  I drew away Jock looked after me and his expression was eloquent.

  "How long can I keep this up?'

  I felt for the little dog and on my next visit to the farm about two

  months later I wasn't looking forward to witnessing the final

  degradation which I felt was inevitable. But when I drove into the yard

  I found the place strangely unpopulated.

  Robert Corner was forking hay into the cow's racks in the byre. He

  turned as I came in.

  "Where are all your dogs?' I asked.

  He put down his fork. "All gone. By yaw, there's a market for good

  workin' sheepdogs. I've done right well out of t'job.'

  "But you've still got Jock?'

  "Oh aye, ah couldn't part with t'awd lad. He's over there.'

  And so he was, creeping around as of old, pretending he wasn't watching

  me. And when the happy time finally arrived and I drove away it was like

  it used to be with the lean little animal haring along by the side of

  the car, but relaxed, enjoying the game, winging effortlessly over the

  wall and beating the car down to the tarmac with no trouble at all.

  I think I was as relieved as he was that he was left alone with his

  supremacy unchallenged; that he was still top dog.

  Chapter Three.

  you could hardly expect to find a more unlikely character in Darrowby

  than Roland Partridge. The thought came to me for the hundredth time as

  I saw him peering through the window which looked on to Trengate just a

  little way up the other side of the street from our surgery He was

  tapping the glass and beckoning to me and the eyes behind the thick

  Spectacles were wide with concern. I waited and when he opened the door

  I Stepped straight from the street into his living room because these

  were tiny dwellings with only a kitchen in the rear and a single small

  bedroom overlooking the street above. But when I went in I had the

  familiar feeling of surprise.

  Because most of the other occupants of the row were farmworkers and

  their furnishings were orthodox; but this place
was a studio.

  An easel stood in the light from the window and the walls were covered

  from floor to ceiling with paintings. Unframed canvases were stacked

  everywhere and the few ornate chairs and the table with its load of

  painted china and other bric-a-brac added to the artistic atmosphere. ~

  The simple explanation was, of course, that Mr Partridge was in fact an

  . artist. But the unlikely aspect came into it when you learned that

  this middle aged velvet jacketed aesthete was the son of a small farmer,

  a man whose forebears had been steeped in the soil for generations.

  "I happened to see you passing there, Mr Herriot,' he said. "Are you

  terribly busy?'

  "Not too busy, Mr Partridge. Can I help you?'

  He nodded gravely. "I wonder whether you could spare a moment to look at

  Percy. I'd be most grateful.'

  "Of course,' I replied. "Where is he?'

  He was ushering me towards the kitchen when there was a bang on the

  outer door and Bert Hardisty the postman burst in. Bert was a rough-hewn

  character and he dumped a parcel unceremoniously on the table.

  "There y'are, Rolie!' he shouted and turned to go.

  Mr Partridge gazed with unruffled dignity at the retreating back. "Thank

  you very much indeed, Bertram, good day to you.'

  Here was another thing. The postman and the artist were both Darrowby

  born and bred, had the same social background, had gone to the same

  school, yet their voices were quite different. Roland Partridge, in

  fact, spoke with the precise, well-modulated syllables of a

  barrister-at-law.

  We went into the kitchen. This was where he cooked for himself in his

  bachelor state. When his father died many years ago he had sold the farm

  immediately. Apparently his whole nature was appalled by the earthy

  farming scene and he could not get out quickly enough. At any rate he

  had got sufficient money from the sale to indulge his interests and he

  had taken up painting and lived ever since in this humble cottage,

  resolutely doing his own thing. This had all happened long before I came

  to Darrowby and the dangling lank hair was silver now. I always had the

  feeling that he was happy in his way because I couldn't imagine that

  small, rather exquisite figure plodding round a muddy farmyard.

  It was probably in keeping with his nature that he had never married.

  There was a touch of asceticism in the thin cheeks and pale blue eyes

  and it was possible that his self-contained imperturbable personality

  might denote a lack of warmth. But that didn't hold good with regard to

  his dog, Percy.

  He loved Percy with a fierce protective passion and as the little animal

  trotted towards him he bent over him, his face alight with tenderness.

  "He looks pretty bright to me,' I said. "He's not sick, is he?'

  "No .. . no .. .' Mr Partridge seemed strangely ill at ease. "He's

  perfectly well in himself, but I want you to look at him and see if you

  notice anything.'

  I looked. And I saw only what I had always seen, the snow-white, shaggy

  haired little object regarded by local dog breeders and other

  cognoscenti as negligible mongrel but nevertheless one of my- favourite

  patients. Mr Partridge; looking through the window of a pet shop in

  Brawton about five years ago had succumbed immediately to the charms of

  two soulful eyes gazing up at him from a six-week-old tangle of white

  hair and had put down his five bob and rushed the little creature home.

  Percy had been described in the shop somewhat vaguely~ as a 'terrier'

  and Mr Partridge had flirted fearfully with the idea of having his tail

  docked; but such was his infatuation that he couldn't bring himself to

  cause such a mutilation and the tail had grown in a great fringed curve