Vet in Harness

by James Herriot

a tractor. I called over to him.

  "Hey, the lady in there says her name isn't Cook.'

  "She's right an' all. She's the cook over at the Hall. You've gotten a

  bit mixed up.' He laughed heartily.

  It all became suddenly clear; the entry in the day book, everything.

  "What's her right name, then?'

  "Booby,' he shouted just as the tractor roared into life.

  Funny name, I thought, as I produced my harmless vitamin tablets from

  the boot and returned to the cottage. Once inside I did my best to put

  things right ~ ~` ~rl l lu/II~3

  with plenty of "Yes, Mrs Booby' and "No, Mrs Booby' but the lady didn't

  thaw. I told her not to worry and that I was sure nothing would happen

  for several days but I could tell I wasn't impressing her.

  I waved cheerfully as I went down the path.

  "Goodbye, Mrs Booby,' I cried. "Don't hesitate to ring me if you're in

  doubt about anything.'

  She didn't appear to have heard.

  "Oh I wish you'd do as I say,' she wailed. "It was just a little prick.'

  The good lady certainly didn't hesitate to ring. She was at me again the

  next day and I had to rush out to her cottage. Her message was the same

  as before; she wanted the wonderful injection which would make those

  pups pop out and she wanted it right away. Mr Broomfield hadn't messed

  about and wasted time like I had. And on the third and fourth and fifth

  mornings she had me out at Marston examining the little bitch and

  reciting the same explanations. Things came to a head on the sixth day.

  In the room at Lilac Cottage the dark eyes held a desperate light as

  they stared into mine. "I'm about at the end of my tether, young man. I

  tell you I'll die if anything happens to this dog. I'll die. Don't you

  understand?'

  "Of course I know how you feel about her, Mrs Booby. Believe me, I fully

  understand.'

  "Then why don't you do something?' she snapped.

  I dug my nails into my palms. "Look, I've told you. A pituitrin

  injection works by contracting the muscular walls of the uterus so it

  can only bc given when labour has started and the cervix is open. If I

  find it is indicated I will do it, but if I give this injection now it

  could cause rupture of the uterus. It could cause death.' l stopped

  because I fancied little bubbles were beginning to collect at the

  corners of my mouth.

  But I don't think she had listened to a word. She sunk her head in her

  hands. "All this time, I can't stand it.'

  I was wondering if I could stand much more of it myself. Bulging

  Yorkshire Terriers had begun to prance through my dreams at night and I

  greeted each new day with a silent prayer that the pups had arrived. I

  held out my hand to Cindy and she crept reluctantly towards me. She was

  heartily sick of this strange man who came every day and squeezed her

  and~stuck fingers into her and she submitted again with trembling limbs

  and frightened eyes to the indignity.

  "Mrs Booby,' I said, 'are you absolutely sure that dog didn't have

  access to Cindy after the service date you gave me?'

  She sniffed. "You keep asking' me that and ah've been thinking about it.

  Maybe he did come a week after, now I think on.'

  "Well, that's it, then!' I spread my hands. "She's held to the second

  mating, so she should be due tomorrow.'

  "Ah would still far rather you would get it over with today like Mr

  Broomfield did .. . it was just a little prick.'

  "But Mrs Booby .. .!'

  "And let me tell you another thing, me name's not Booby!'

  I clutched at the back of the chair. "It's not?'

  "Naw!'

  "Well .. . what is it, then?'

  "It's Dooley .. . Dooley!' She looked very cross.

  "Right .. . right .. .'1 stumbled down the garden path and drove away.

  It was not a happy departure.

  Maybe all was well at last. But I turned cold when an urgent call to go

  to Lilac Cottage was passed on to one of the farms on my round. I was

  right at the far end of the practice area and was in the middle of a

  tough calving and it was well over three hours before I got out at the

  now familiar garden gate. The cottage door was open and as I ventured up

  the path a little brown missile hurtled out at me. It was Cindy, but a

  transformed Cindy, a snarling, barking little bundle of ferocity; and

  though I recoiled she fastened her teeth in my trouser cuff and hung on

  grimly.

  I was hopping around on one leg trying to shake off the growling little

  creature when a peal of almost girlish laughter made me look round.

  Mrs Dooley, vastly amused, was watching me from the doorway. "My word,

  she's different since she had them pups. Just shows what a good little

  mother she is, guarding them like that.' She gazed fondly at the tiny

  animal dangling from my ankle.

  "Had the pups ... ?'

  "Aye, when they said you'd be a long time I rang Mr Farnon. He came

  right away and d'you know he gave Cindy that injection I've wanted all

  along. And I tell you 'e wasn't right out of "'garden gate before the

  pups started. She's had seven - beauties they are.'

  "Ah well that's fine, Mrs Dooley ... splendid.' Siegfried had obviously

  felt a pup in the passage. I finally managed to rid myself of Cindy and

  when her mistress lifted her up I went into the kitchen to inspect the

  family.

  They certainly were grand pups and I lifted the squawking little morsels

  one by one from their basket while their mother snarled from Mrs

  Dooley's arms like a starving wolphound.

  "They're lovely, Mrs Dooley,' I murmured.

  She looked at me pityingly. "I told you what to do, didn't 1, but you

  wouldn't 'ave it. It only needed a little prick. Ooo, that Mr Farnon's a

  lovely man - just like Mr Broomfield.'

  This was a bit much. "But you must realise, Mrs Dooley, he just happened

  to arrive at the right time. If I had come .. .'

  "Now, now, young man, be fair. Ah'm not blamin' you, but some people

  have had more experience. We all 'ave to learn.' She sighed

  reminiscently. "It was just a little prick - Mr Farnon'll have to show

  you how to do it. I tell you he wasn't right out of "'garden gate.. .'

  Enough is enough. I drew myself up to my full height. "Mrs Dooley,

  madam,' I said frigidly, 'let me repeat once and for all .. .'

  "Oh, hoity toity, hoity toity, don't get on your high horse wi' me!' she

  exclaimed. "We've managed very nicely without you so don't complain.'

  Her expression became very severe. "And one more thing - me name's not

  Mrs Dooley.'

  My brain reeled for a moment. The world seemed to be crumbling about me.

  "What did you say?'

  "I said me name's not Mrs Dooley.'

  "It isn't?'

  "Naw!' She lifted her left hand and as I gazed at it dully I realised it

  must have been all the mental stress which have prevented me from

  noticing the total absence of rings.

  "New!' she said. "It's Miss!'

  Next morning I could hardly believe it when there was no call from

  Marston.

  Chapter Twenty-three.

  I had never been married before so there was nothing in my past

  ex
perience to go by but it was beginning to dawn on me that I was very

  nicely fixed.

  I am talking, of course, of material things. It would have been enough

  for me or anybody else to be paired with a beautiful girl whom I loved

  and who loved me. I hadn't reckoned on the other aspects.

  This business of studying my comfort, for instance. I thought such

  things had gone out of fashion, but not so with Helen. It was brought

  home to me again as I walked in to breakfast this morning. We had at

  last acquired a table - I had bought it at a farm sale and brought it

  home in triumph tied to the roof of my car - and now Helen had vacated

  the chair on which she used to sit at the bench and had taken over the

  high stool. She was perched away up there now, transporting her food

  from far below, while I was expected to sit comfortably in the chair. I

  don't think I am a selfish swine by nature but there was nothing I could

  do about it.

  And there were other little things. The neat pile of clothing laid out

  for me each morning; the clean, folded shirt and handkerchief and socks

  so different from the jumble of my bachelor days. And when I was late

  for meals, which was often, she served me with my food but instead of

  going off and doing something else she would down tools and sit watching

  me while I ate. It made me feel like a sultan.

  It was this last trait which gave me a clue to her behaviour. I suddenly

  remembered that I had seen her sitting by Mr Alderson while he had a

  late meal; sitting in the same pose, one arm on the table, quietly

  watching him. And I realised I was reaping the benefit of her lifetime

  attitude to her father. Mild little man though he was she had catered

  gladly to his every wish in the happy acceptance that the man of the

  house was number one; and the whole pattern was rubbing off on me now.

  In fact it set me thinking about the big question of how girls might be

  expected to behave after marriage. One old farmer giving me advice about

  choosing a wife once said; "Have a bloody good look at the mother first,

  lad', and I am sure he had a point. But if I may throw in my own little

  word of counsel it would be to have a passing glance at how she acts

  towards her father.

  Watching her now as she got down and started to serve my breakfast the

  warm knowledge flowed through me as it did so often that my wife was the

  sort who just liked looking after a man and that I was so very lucky.

  And I was certainly blooming under the treatment. A bit too much, in

  fact, and I was aware I shouldn't be attacking this plateful of porridge

  and cream; especially with all that material sizzling in the frying pan.

  Helen had brought with her to Skeldale House a delicious dowry in the

  shape of half a pig and there hung from the beams of the topmost attic a

  side of bacon and a majestic ham; a constant temptation. Some samples

  were in the pan now and though I had never been one for large breakfasts

  I did not demur when she threw in a couple of big brown eggs to keep

  them company. And I put up only feeble resistance when she added some

  particularly tasty smoked sausage which she used to buy in a shop in the

  market place.

  When I had got through it all I rose rather deliberately from the table

  and as I put on my coat I noticed it wasn't so easy to button as it used

  to be.

  "Here are your sandwiches, Jim,' Helen said, putting a parcel in my

  hand. I was spending a day in the Scarburn district, tuberculin testing

  for Ewan Ross and my wife was always concerned lest I grow faint from

  lack of nourishment on the long journey.

  I kissed her, made a somewhat ponderous descent of the long flights of

  stairs and went out the side door. Half way up the garden I stopped as

  always and looked up at the window under the tiles. An arm appeared and

  brandished a dishcloth vigorously. I waved back and continued my walk to

  the yard. I found I was puffing a little as I got the car out and I laid

  my parcel almost guiltily on the back seat. I knew what it would

  contain; not just sandwiches but meat and onion pie, buttered scones,

  ginger cake to lead me into further indiscretions.

  There is no doubt that in those early days I would have grown

  exceedingly gross under Helen's treatment. But my job saved me; the

  endless walking between the stone barns scattered along the hillsides,

  the climbing in and out of calf pens, pushing cows around, and regular

  outbursts of hard physical effort in calving and foaling. So I escaped

  with only a slight tightening of my collar and the occasional farmer's

  remark, "By yaw, you've been on a good pasture, young man!'

  Driving away, I marvelled at the way she indulged my little whims, too.

  I have always had a pathological loathing of fat, so Helen carefully

  trimmed every morsel from my meat. This feeling about fat, which almost

  amounted to terror, had been intensified since coming to Yorkshire,

  because back in the thirties the farmers seemed to live on the stuff.

  One old man, noticing my pop-eyed expression as I viewed him relishing

  his lunch of roast fat bacon, told me he had never touched lean meat in

  his life.

  "Ah like to feel "'grease runnin' down ma chin!' he chuckled. He

  pronounced it 'grayus' which made it sound even worse. But he was a

  ruddy-faced octogenarian, so it hadn't done him any harm; and this held

  good for hundreds of others just like him. I used to think that the day

  in day out hard labour of farming burned it up in their systems but if I

  had to eat the stuff it would kill me very rapidly.

  The latter was, of course, a fanciful notion as was proved to me one

  day.

  It was when I was torn from my bed one morning at 6 a.m. to attend a

  calving heifer at old Mr Homer's small farm and when I got there I found

  there was no malpresentation of the calf but that it was simply too big.

  I don't like a lot of pulling but the heifer, lying on her bed of straw,

  was obviously in need of assistance. Every few seconds she strained to

  the utmost and a pair of feet came into view momentarily then

  disappeared as she relaxed.

  "Is she getting those feet out any further?' I asked.

  "Nay, there's been no change for over an hour,' the old man replied.

  "And when did the water bag burst?'

  "Two hours since.'

  There was no doubt the calf was well and truly stuck and getting drier

  all the time, and if the labouring mother had been able to speak I think

  she would have said: "For Pete's sake get this thing away from me!'

  I could have done with a big strong man to help me but Mr Homer, apart

  from his advanced age, was a rather shaky lightweight. And since the

  farm was perched on a lonely eminence miles from the nearest village

  there was no chance of calling in a neighbour. I would have to do the

  job myself.

  It took me nearly an hour. With a thin rope behind the calf's ears and

  through his mouth to stop the neck from telescoping I eased the little

  creature inch by inch into the world. Not so much pulling but rather

  leaning back and helping the heifer as she strained. She was a
rather

  undersized little animal and she lay patiently on her side, accepting

  the situation with the resignation of her kind. She could never have

  calved without help and all the time I had the warm conviction that I

  was doing what she wanted and needed. I felt I should be as patient as

  she wasso I didn't hurry but let things come in their normal sequence;

  the little nose with the nostrils twitching reassuringly, then the eyes

  wearing a preoccupied light curing the tight squeeze, then the ears and

  with a final rush the rest of the calf.

  The young mother was obviously none the worse because she rolled on to

  her chest almost immediately and began to sniff with the utmost interest

  at the new arrival. She was in better shape than myself because I

  discovered with some surprise that I was sweating and breathless and my

  arms and shoulders were aching.

  The farmer, highly pleased, rubbed my back briskly with the towel as I

  bent over the bucket, then he helped me on with my shirt.

  "Well that's champion, lad. You'll come in and have a cup of tea now,

  won't you?'

  In the kitchen mrs Homer placed a steaming mug on the table and smiled

  across at me.

  "Will you sit down along o' my husband and have a bit o' breakfast?' she

  asked.

  There is nothing like an early calving to whet the appetite and I nodded

  readily. "That's very kind of you, I'd love to.'

  It is always a good feeling after a successful delivery and I sighed

  contentedly as I sank into a chair and watched the old lady set out

  bread, butter and jam in front of me. I sipped my tea and as I exchanged

  a word with the farmer I didn't see what she was doing next. Then my

  toes curled into a tight ball as I found two huge slices of pure white

  fat lying on my plate.

  Shrinking back in my seat I saw Mrs Homer sawing at a great hunk of cold

  boiled bacon. But it wasn't ordinary bacon, it was one hundred per cent

  fat without a strip of lean anywhere. Even in my shocked state I could

  see it was a work of art; cooked to a turn, beautifully encrusted with

  golden crumbs and resting on a spotless serving dish . .. but fat.

  She dropped two similar slices on her husband's plate and looked at me

  expectantly.

  My position was desperate. I could not possibly offend this sweet old

  person but on the other hand I knew beyond all doubt that there was no

  way I could eat what lay in front of me. Maybe I could have managed a

  tiny piece if it had been hot and crisp, but cold, boiled and clammy ..

  . never. And there was an enormous quantity; two slices about six inches

  by four and at least half an inch thick with ~he golden border of crumbs

  down one side. The thing was impossible.

  Mrs Homer sat down opposite me. She was wearing a flowered mob cap over

  her white hair and for a moment she reached out, bent her head to one

  side and turned the dish with the slab of bacon a little to the left to

  show it off better. Then she turned to me and smiled. It was a kind,

  proud smile.

  There have been times in my life when, confronted by black and hopeless

  circumstances, I have discovered in myself undreamed-of resources of

  courage and resolution. I took a deep breath, seized knife and fork and

  made a bold incision in one of the slices, but as I began to transport

  the greasy white segment to my mouth I began to shudder and my hand

  stayed frozen in space. It was at that momment I spotted the jar of

  piccalilli. Feverishly I scooped a mound of it on to my plate. It seemed

  to contain just about everything; onions, apples, cucumber and other

  assorted vegetables jostling each other in a powerful mustard-vinegar

  sauce. It was the work of a moment to smother my loaded fork with the