would I? Heh, inch, heh, heh!'
The fact that I had heard this joke about two thousand times interfered
with my full participation in the merriment but I managed a cracked
laugh in return.
"That's perfectly true, Mr Fryer. Well, why have you rung me?'
"Damn, I've told ye - to find out what the trouble is.'
"Yes, I understand that, but I'd like some details. What do you mean
when you say she's bad?'
"Well, she's just a bit off it.'
"Quite, but could you tell me a little more?'
A pause. "She's dowry, like.'
"Anything else?'
"No .. . no .. . she's a right poorly pig, though.'
I spent a few moments in thought. "Is she doing anything funny?'
"Funny? Funny? Nay, there's nowt funny about t'job, I'll tell the!
It's no laughin' matter.'
"Well .. . er ... let me put it this way. Why are you calling me out?'
"I'm calling ye out because you're a vet. That's your job, isn't it?'
I tried again. "It would help if I knew what to bring with me. What are
her symptoms?'
"Symptoms? Well, she's just off colour, like.'
"Yes, but what is she doing?'
"She's doin' nowt. That's what bothers me.'
"Let's see.' I scratched my head. "Is she very ill?'
"I reckon she's in bad fettle.'
"But would you say it was an urgent matter?'
Another long pause. "Well, she's nobbut middlin'. She's not framin' at
all.'
"Yes .. . yes .. . and how long has she been like this?'
"Oh, for a bit.'
"But how long exactly?'
"For a good bit.'
"But Mr Fryer, I want to know when she started these symptoms. How long
has she been affected?'
"Oh .. . ever since we got 'er.'
Ah, and when was that?'
Well, she came wi' the others .. .'
Chapter Eleven.
It was going to take a definite effort of will to get out of the car.
I had driven about ten miles from Darrowby, thinking all the time that
the Dales always looked their coldest, not when they were covered with
snow, but as now, when the first sprinkling streaked the bare flanks of
the fells in bars of black and white like the ribs of a crouching beast.
And now in front of me was the farm gate rattling on its hinges as the
wind shook it.
The car, heaterless and draughty as it was, seemed like a haven in an
uncharitable world and I gripped the wheel tightly with my
woollen-gloved hands for a few moments before opening the door. The wind
almost tore the handle from my fingers as I got out but I managed to
crash the door shut before stumbling over the frozen mud to the gate.
Muffled as I was in heavy coat and scarf pulled up to my ears I could
feel the icy gusts biting at my face, whipping up my nose and hammering
painfully into the air spaces in my head.
I had driven through and, streaming-eyed, was about to get back into the
car when I noticed something unusual. There was a frozen pond just off
the path and among the rime-covered rushes which fringed the dead
opacity of the surface a small object stood out, shiny black.
I went over and looked closer. It was a tiny kitten, probably about six
weeks old, huddled and immobile, eyes tightly closed. Bending down I
poked gently at the furry body. It must be dead; a morsel like this
couldn't possibly survive in such cold .. . but no, there was a spark of
life because the mouth opened soundlessly for a second then closed.
Quickly I lifted the little creature and tucked it inside my coat. As I
drove into the farmyard I called to the farmer who was carrying two
buckets out of the calf house. "I've got one of your kittens here, Mr
Butler. It must have strayed outside.'
Mr Butler put down his buckets and looked blank. "Kitten? We haven't got
no kittens at present.'
I showed him my find and he looked more puzzled.
"Well that's a rum 'un, there's no black cats on this spot. We've all
sorts o' colours but no black 'uns.'
"Well he must have come from somewhere else,' I said. "Though I can't
imagine anything so small travelling very far. It's rather mysterious.'
I held the kitten out and he engulfed it with his big, work-roughened
hand.
"Poor little beggar, he's only just alive. I'll take him into t'house
and see if the missus can do owl for him.'
In the farm kitchen Mrs Butler was all concern. "Oh what a shame!' She
smoothed back the bedraggled hair with one finger. "And it's got such a
pretty face.' She looked up at me. "What is it, anyway, a him or a her?'
I took a quick look behind the hind legs. "It's a Tom.'
"Right,' she said. "I'll get some warm milk into him but first of all
we'll give him the old cure.'
She went over to the fireside oven on the big black kitchen range,
opened the door and popped him inside.
I smiled. It was the classical procedure when new-born lambs were found
suffering from cold and exposure; into the oven they went and the
results were often dramatic. Mrs Butler left the door partly open and I
could just see the little black figure inside; he didn't seem to care
much what was happening to him.
The next hour I spent in the byre wrestling with the hind feet of a cow.
The cleats were overgrown and grossly misshapen and upturned, causing
the animal to hobble along on her heels. My job was to pare and hack
away the excess horn and my long held opinion that the hind feet of a
cow were never meant to be handled by man was thoroughly confirmed. We
had a rope round the hock and the leg pulled up over a-beam in the roof
but the leg still pistoned back and forth while I hung on till my teeth
rattled. By the time I had finished the sweat was running into my eyes
and I had quite forgotten the cold day outside.
Still, I thought, as I eased the kinks from my spine when I had
finished, there were compensations. There was a satisfaction in the
sight of the cow standing comfortably on two almost normal looking feet.
"Well that's summat like,' Mr Butler grunted. "Come in the house and
wash your hands.'
In the kitchen as I bent over the brown earthenware sink I kept glancing
across at the oven.
Mrs Butler laughed. "Oh he's still with us. Come and have a look.'
It was difficult to see the kitten in the dark interior but when I
spotted him I put out my hand and touched him and he turned his head
towards me.
"He's coming round,' I said. "That hour in there has worked wonders.'
"Doesn't often fail.' The farmers wife lifted him out. "I think he's a
little tough 'un.' She began to spoon warm milk into the tiny mouth. "I
reckon we'll have him lappin' in a day or two.'
"You're going to keep him, then?'
"Too true we are. I'm going to call him Moses.'
"Moses?'
"Aye, you found him among the rushes, didn't you?'
I laughed. "That's right. It's a good name.'
I was on the Butler farm about a fortnight later for the ever recurring
job of 'cleansing' a cow and I kept looking around for Moses. Farmers
rarely have their cats indoors and I thought that if the black kitte
n
had survived he would have joined the feline colony around the
buildings.
Farm cats have a pretty good time. They may not be petted or cosseted
but it has always seemed to me that they lead a free, natural life. They
are expected to catch mice but if they are not so inclined there is
abundant food at hand; bowls of milk here and there and the dogs' dishes
to be raided if anything interesting is left over. I had seen plenty of
cats around today, some flitting nervously away, others friendly and
purring. There was a tabby loping gracefully across the cobbles and a
big tortoiseshell was curled on a bed of straw at the warm end of the
byre; cats are connoisseurs of comfort. When Mr Butler went to fetch the
hot water I had a quick look in the bullock house and a white Tom
regarded me placidly from between the bars of a hay rack where he had
been taking a siesta. But there was no sign of Moses.
I finished drying my arms and was about to make a casual reference to
the kitten when Mr Butler handed me my jacket.
"Come round here with me if you've got a minute,' he said. "I've got
summat to show you.'
I followed him through the door at the end and across a passage into the
long, low-roofed piggery. He stopped at a pen about half way down and
pointed inside.
"Look 'ere,' he said.
I leaned over the wall and my face must have shown my astonishment
because the farmer burst into a shout of laughter.
"That's summat new for you, isn't it?'
I stared unbelievingly down- at a large sow stretched comfortably on her
side, suckling a litter of about twelve piglets and right in the middle
of the long pink row, furry black and incongruous, was Moses. He had a
teat in his mouth and was absorbing his nourishment with the same rapt
enjoyment as his smoothskinned fellows on either side.
"What the devil .. .?' I gasped.
Mr Butler was still laughing. "I thought you'd never have seen anything
like that before, I never have, any road.'
"But how did it happen?' I still couldn't drag my eyes away.
"It was the Missus's idea,' he replied. "When she'd got the little youth
lappin' milk she took him out to find a right warm spot for him in the
buildings. She settled on this pen because the sow, Bertha, had just had
a litter and I had a heater in and it was grand and cosy.'
I nodded. "Sounds just right.'
"Well she put Moses and a bowl of milk in here,' the farmer went on,
'but the little feller didn't stay by the heater very long - next time I
looked in he was round at t'milk bar.'
I shrugged my shoulders. "They say you see something new every day at
this game, but this is something I've never even heard of. Anyway, he
looks well on it - does he actually live on the sow's milk or does he
still drink from his bowl?'
"A bit of both, I reckon. It's hard to say.'
Anyway, whatever mixture Moses was getting he grew rapidly into a sleek,
handsome animal with an unusually high gloss to his coat which may or
may not have been due to the porcine element of his diet. I never went
to the Butlers' without having a look in the pig pen. Bertha, his foster
mother, seemed to find nothing unusual in this hairy intruder and pushed
him around casually with pleased grunts just as she did with the rest of
her brood.
Moses for his part appeared to find the society of the pigs very
congenial. When the piglets curled up together and settled down for a
sleep Moses would be somewhere in the heap and when his young colleagues
were weaned at eight weeks he showed his attachment to Bertha by
spending most of his time with her.
And it stayed that way over the years. Often he would be right inside
the pen, rubbing himself happily along the comforting bulk of the sow,
but I remember him best in his favourite place; crouching on the wall
looking down perhaps meditatively on what had been his first warm home.
Chapter Twelve.
I was beginning to learn a few tricks of my own.
In my bachelor days those early morning rings at the doorbell used to
start me galloping downstairs into the freezing passage in my pyjamas
full of enthusiasm, in fact almost bursting with impatience to learn
what the immediate future held for me. But marriage had maybe softened
me. At any rate, a long run of sessions in my bare feet on the doorstep
with the bracing Yorkshire air whistling round my ankles had persuaded
me that this was an overrated pastime.
The trouble was that in those days there were very few telephones on the
farms and many of the farmers used to cycle in to the surgery when they
wanted the vet; and of course farmers are inclined to rise rather early,
a lot of them seemed to think that around 7 a.m. was a good time.
I just had to alter my system and now when I heard that long jangling
downstairs I crawled out from beside Helen, tiptoed over to the window
and opened it. Our bed-sitter being at the front of the house I was able
to push my head through a few inches of space and carry on long
conversations while most of me stayed warmly inside.
~ But on this Sunday morning something was wrong. I had heard the ring,
taken up my kneeling position on the floor and got my head through the
window. But I couldn't see anybody.
"Hello!' I called.
"ellow!' came back the reply immediately. But there was nobody on the
step.
"Hello!' I shouted.
' 'ellow!' a hearty bellow responded.
"Hello!' I bawled at the top of my voice. I still couldn't see a soul.
' 'ellow, 'ellow, 'ellow!' echoed a full-throated yell with just a touch
of asperity in it.
This was ridiculous. I didn't feel up to another effort - my head was
beginning to throb - so I pushed the sash up a few inches more and
leaned further out into the street.
And as I gazed down over the long stretch of ivy-covered brick it became
clear why I had been unable to see anybody on the step. A man with very
bandy legs encased in brown leggings was leaning against the wall of the
house; he was bent double and apparently hollering straight down at the
ground. I was baffled at first then I realised that he was directing his
cries down through the small iron grating which led to the cellar. There
was a chute there where the coalman used to tip his bags.
From my new vantage point I was able to attract the man's attention and
when he looked up I saw it was Mr Dawson of Highstones.
He grinned cheerfully, quite unabashed. "Oh, you're there are you? I
have a cow with a touch o' felon. Give us a call some time this morning
will you?' He waved and was gone.
I returned thoughtfully to Helen's side. And as I tried to drop off to
sleep again the strong impression kept pushing into my consciousness
that Mr Dawson wouldn't have been at all surprised if I had popped my
head up through the grating instead of the window. It seemed to me that
he had accepted the fact that I dwelt somewhere in the grimy darkness at
the bottom of that cleft. It lent weight to an idea that had been
growing in my mind for some time; that farmers looked on vets as
different beings. We weren't really people at all.
There was Mr Coates last week. He had got me out of bed at 3 a.m. to a
farrowing and when I stumbled, eyes half closed, from the car he was
standing outside the piggery holding a lamp.
"Well now, Mr Herriot,'he said brightly, 'were you in bed when ah
phoned?'
I stared at the man. "In bed? Where the heck do you think I'd be at
three o'clock in the morning?'
"Well ah don't know.' Mr Coates looked a little confused. "Ah thought
you might be up studyin'.'
There it was again. Up studyin'! Did they really think a vet was a
creature apart - a kind of troglodyte who lived in a cell with only his
text books and instruments for company? He didn't have a social life, he
required no sleep, he didn't even have to eat. This last point was a
very real one; I have often noticed a certain puzzlement in a farmer's
face when I said I'd be as quick as I could but I'd have to finish my
dinner first; or a pregnant silence at the end of the phone when I said
I was just starting my breakfast.
But the man who most blatantly ignored my nutritional requirements and
actually seemed to be trying to sabotage them was Mr Grainger of
Beckton. He was a fierce man in his sixties and he called to see me
every Saturday evening at six o'clock. What made this particularly
wearing was that Helen chose each Saturday to put on a sumptuous high
tea. Maybe she wanted to remind me of my Scottish upbringing but she
used to set before me things like herrings in oatmeal with mustard sauce
or sole and chips or ham and eggs and fill in the spaces on the table
with new-baked scones, pancakes, curd tarts, cherry cakes.
It was usually when I was half way through the first course that the
bell rang and there, sure enough, was Mr Grainger glaring belligerently
through the glass door. He would never come into the house. All he
wanted was a ten minutes' discussion on the doorstep. At first I used to
say, "I'm just at my tea,' or something like that, or I'd go on chewing
in an exaggerated manner and keep wiping my lips on a napkin until I
realised I was wasting my time. Mr Grainger was only interested in me as
an object to talk at.
I said he wanted a discussion but that was the wrong word; he just
wanted to air his views. An insight into his character could be gained
from the remarks of one of his neighbours who told me that the Beckton
Farmers' Discussion Group had folded up because whenever Mr Grainger got
up to speak all the other farmers walked out.
In any case it seemed to enliven his Saturday evening to hold me trapped
there while he described the symptoms displayed by his livestock during
the previous week. He never asked me for advice; he made it quite clear
that he knew a lot better than me how to treat his animals, but he did
want to tell me about it. And he told me at great length, his hands
clasped over his stick in front of him, his eyes fixed on mine in a
hostile stare.
But nothing is wholly bad and I did reap some small recompense from
observing his antics as he tried to illustrate his case histories with
actions.
I can recall one Saturday when he was complaining bitterly that he had
been swindled over a carthorse he had just purchased. He was a
particularly stiffjointed man and not cut out for portraying the
lameness of horses, but he managed to give an astounding impression of
stringhalt. I diagnosed it instantly as he strutted up and down the
pavement in front of Skeldale House, jerking one leg up behind him at
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