All Things Bright and Beautiful (17 page)

For a moment she rested her hand lightly on my shoulder and her eyes looked into mine.

“Mr. Herriot, are you quite sure that tea is to your liking?”

O
NE OF THE THINGS
Helen and I had to do was furnish our bed-sitter and kitchen. And when I say “furnish” I use the word in its most austere sense. We had no high-flown ideas about luxury; it was, after all a temporary arrangement and anyway we had no money to throw around.

My present to Helen at the time of our marriage was a modest gold watch and this had depleted my capital to the extent that a bank statement at the commencement of our married life revealed the sum of twenty five shillings standing to my credit. Admittedly I was a partner now but when you start from scratch it takes a long time to get your head above water.

But we did need the essentials like a table, chairs, cutlery, crockery, the odd rug and carpet, and Helen and I decided that it would be most sensible to pick up these things at house sales. Since I was constantly going round the district I was able to drop in at these events and the duty of acquiring our necessities had been delegated to me. But after a few weeks it was clear that I was falling down on the job.

I had never realised it before but I had a blind spot in these matters. I would go to a sale and come away with a pair of brass candlesticks and a stuffed owl. On another occasion I acquired an ornate inkwell with a carved metal figure of a dog on it together with a polished wooden box with unnumerable fascinating little drawers and compartments for keeping homeopathic prescriptions. I could go on for a long time about the things I bought but they were nearly all useless.

Helen was very nice about it.

“Jim,” she said one day when I was proudly showing her a model of a fully rigged sailing ship in a bottle which I had been lucky enough to pick up. “It’s lovely, but I don’t think we need it right now.”

I must have been a big disappointment to the poor girl and also to the local auctioneers who ran the sales. These gentlemen, when they saw me hovering around the back of the crowd would cheer up visibly. They, in common with most country folk, thought all vets were rich and that I would be bidding for some of the more expensive items. When a nice baby grand piano came up they would look over the heads at me with an expectant smile and their disappointment was evident when I finally went away with a cracked-faced barometer or a glove stretcher.

A sense of my failure began to seep through to me and when I had to take a sample through to the Leeds Laboratory I saw a chance to atone.

“Helen,” I said, “there’s a huge sale room right in the city centre. I’ll take an hour off and go in there. I’m bound to see something we need.”

“Oh good!” my wife replied. “That’s a great idea! There’ll be lots to choose from there. You haven’t had much chance to find anything at those little country sales.” Helen was always kind.

After my visit to the Leeds lab I asked the way to the sale rooms.

“Leave your car here,” one of the locals advised me. “You’ll never park in the main street and you can get a tram right to the door.”

I was glad I listened to him because when I arrived the traffic was surging both ways in a nonstop stream. The sale room was at the top of an extraordinarily long flight of smooth stone steps leading right to the top of the building. When I arrived, slightly out of breath, I thought immediately I had come to the right place, a vast enclosure strewn with furniture, cookers, gramophones, carets—everything you could possibly want in a house.

I wandered around fascinated for quite a long time then my attention centred on two tall piles of books quite near to where the auctioneer was selling. I lifted one of them. It was The Geography of the World. I had never seen such beautiful books; as big as encyclopaedias and with thick embossed covers and gold lettering. The pages, too, were edged with gold and the paper was of a delightfully smooth texture. Quite enthralled I turned the pages, marvelling at the handsome illustrations, the coloured pictures each with its covering transparent sheet They were a little old-fashioned, no doubt, and when I looked at the front I saw they were printed in 1858; but they were things of beauty.

Looking back, I feel that fate took a hand here because I had just reluctantly turned away when I heard the auctioneer’s voice.

“Now then, here’s a lovely set of books. The Geography of the World in Twenty Four Volumes. Just look at them. You don’t find books like them today. Who’ll give me a bid?”

I agreed with him. They were unique. But they must be worth pounds. I looked round the company but nobody said a word.

“Come on, ladies and gentlemen, surely somebody wants this wonderful addition to their library. Now, what do I hear?”

Again the silence then a seedy looking man in a soiled mackintosh spoke up.

“Arf a crown,” he said morosely.

I looked around expecting a burst of laughter at this sally, but nobody was amused. In fact the auctioneer didn’t seem surprised.

“I have a half a crown bid.” He glanced about him and raised his hammer. With a thudding of the heart I realised he was going to sell.

I heard my own voice, slightly breathless. “Three shillings.”

“I have a bid of three shillings for The Geography of the World in Twenty Four Volumes. Are you all done?” Bang went the hammer. “Sold to the gentleman over there.”

They were mine! I couldn’t believe my luck. This surely was the bargain to end all bargains. I paid my three shillings while one of the men tied a length of rough string round each pile. The first pause in my elation came when I tried to lift my purchases. Books are heavy things and these were massive specimens; and there were twenty four of them.

With a hand under each string I heaved like a weight-lifter and, pop-eyed, veins standing out on my forehead, I managed to get them off the ground and began to stagger shakily to the exit.

The first string broke on the top step and twelve of my volumes cascaded downwards over the smooth stone. After the first moment of panic I decided that the best way was to transport the intact set down to the bottom and come back for the others. I did this but it took me some time and I began to perspire before I was all tied up again and poised on the kerb ready to cross the road.

The second string broke right in the middle of the tram lines as I attempted a stiff-legged dash through a break in the traffic. For about a year I scrabbled there in the middle of the road while horns hooted, tram bells clanged and an interested crowd watched from the sidewalks. I had just got the escaped volumes balanced in a column and was reknotting the string when the other lot burst from their binding and slithered gently along the metal rails; and it was when I was retrieving them that I noticed a large policeman, attracted by the din and the long line of vehicles, walking with measured strides in my direction.

In my mental turmoil I saw myself for the first time in the hands of the law. I could be done on several charges—Breach of the Peace, Obstructing Traffic to name only two—but I perceived that the officer was approaching very slowly and rightly or wrongly I feel that when a policeman strolls towards you like that he is a decent chap and is giving you a chance to get away. I took my chance. He was still several yards off when I had my two piles reassembled and I thrust my hands under the strings, tottered to the far kerb and lost myself in the crowd.

When I finally decided there was no longer any fear of feeling the dread grip on my shoulder I stopped in my headlong flight and rested in a shop doorway. I was puffing like a broken-winded horse and my hands hurt abominably. The sale room string was coarse, hairy and abrasive and already it threatened to take the skin off my fingers.

Anyway, I thought, the worst was over. The tram stop was just at the end of the block there. I joined the queue and when the tram arrived, shuffled forward with the others. I had one foot on the step when a large hand was thrust before my eyes.

“Just a minute, brother, just a minute! Where d’you think you’re goin’?” The face under the conductor’s hat was the meaty, heavy jowled, pop-eyed kind which seems to take a mournful pleasure in imparting bad news.

“You’re not bringin’ that bloody lot on ’ere, brother, I’ll tell tha now!”

I looked up at him in dismay. “But…it’s just a few books…”

“Few books! You want a bloody delivery van for that lot. You’re not usin’ my tram—passengers couldn’t stir inside!” His mouth turned down aggressively.

“Oh but really,” I said with a ghastly attempt at an ingratiating smile, “I’m just going as far as…”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere in ’ere, brother! Ah’ve no time to argue—move your foot, ah’m off!”

The bell ding-dinged and the tram began to move. As I hopped off backwards one of the strings broke again.

After I had got myself sorted out I surveyed my situation and it appeared fairly desperate. My car must be over a mile away, mostly uphill, and I would defy the most stalwart Nepalese Sherpa to transport these books that far. I could of course just abandon the things; lean them against this wall and take to my heels…But no, that would be anti-social and anyway they were beautiful. If only I could get them home all would be well.

Another tram rumbled up to the stop and again I hefted my burden and joined the in-going passengers, hoping nobody would notice.

It was a female voice this time.

“Sorry, you can’t come on, luv.” She was middle-aged, motherly and her plump figure bulged her uniform tightly.

“We don’t ’ave delivery men on our trams. It’s against t’rules.”

I repressed a scream. “But I’m not a…these are my own books. I’ve just bought them.”

“Bought ’em?” Her eyebrows went up as she stared at the dusty columns.

“Yes…and I’ve got to get them home somehow.”

“Well somebody’ll tek ’em home for you luv. Hasta got far to go?”

“Darrowby.”

“Eee, by gum, that’s a long way. Right out in t’country.” She peered into the tram’s interior. “But there isn’t no room in there, luv.”

The passengers had all filed in and I was left alone standing between my twin edifices; and the conductress must have seen a desperate fight in my eyes because she made a sudden gesture.

“Come on then, luv! You can stand out ’ere on the platform wi’ me. I’m not supposed to, but ah can’t see you stuck there.”

I didn’t know whether to kiss her or burst into tears. In the end I did neither but stacked the books in a corner of the platform and stood swaying over them till we arrived at the park where I had left my car.

The relief at my deliverance was such that I laughed off the few extra contretemps on my way to the car. There were in fact several more spills before I had the books tucked away on the back seat but when I finally drove away I felt like singing.

It was when I was threading my way through the traffic that I began to rejoice that I lived in the country, because the car was filled with an acrid reek which I thought could only come from the conglomeration of petrol fumes and industrial smoke. But even when the city had been left behind and I was climbing into the swelling green of the Pennines the aroma was still with me.

I wound down the window and gulped greedily as the sweet grassy air flowed in but when I closed it the strange pungency returned immediately. I stopped, leaned over and sniffed at the region of the back seat. And there was no doubt about it; it was the books.

Ah well, they must have been kept in a damp place or something like that I was sure it would soon pass off. But in the meantime it certainly was powerful; it nearly made my eyes water.

I had never really noticed the long climb to our eyrie on top of Skeldale House but it was different today. I suppose my arms and shoulders were finally beginning to feel the strain and that string, bristly but fragile, was digging into my hands harder than ever, but it was true that every step was an effort and when I at last gained the top landing I almost collapsed against the door of our bed-sitter.

When, perspiring and dishevelled, I entered, Helen was on her knees, dusting the hearth. She looked up at me expectantly.

“Any luck, Jim?”

“Yes, I think so,” I replied with a trace of smugness. “I think I got a bargain.”

Helen rose and looked at me eagerly. “Really?”

“Yes,” I decided to play my trump card. “I only had to spend three shillings!”

“Three shillings! What…where…?”

“Wait there a minute.” I went out to the landing and put my hand under those strings. This, thank heaven, would be the last time I would have to do this. A lunge and a heave and I had my prizes through the doorway and displayed for my wife’s inspection.

She stared at the two piles. “What have you got there?”

“The Geography of the World in Twenty Four Volumes,” I replied triumphantly.

“The Geography of the…and is that all?”

“Yes, couldn’t manage anything else, I’m afraid. But look—aren’t they magnificent books!”

My wife’s level gaze had something of disbelief, a little of wonder. For a moment one corner of her mouth turned up then she coughed and became suddenly brisk.

“Ah well, we’ll have to see about getting some shelves for them. Anyway, leave them there for now.” She went over and kneeled again by the hearth. But after a minute or two she paused in her dusting.

“Can you smell anything funny?”

“Well, er…I think it’s the books, Helen. They’re just a bit musty…I don’t think it’ll last long.”

But the peculiar exhalation was very pervasive and it was redolent of extreme age. Very soon the atmosphere in our room was that of a freshly opened mausoleum.

I could see Helen didn’t want to hurt my feelings but she kept darting looks of growing alarm at my purchases. I decided to say it for her.

“Maybe I’d better take them downstairs just for now.”

She nodded gratefully.

The descent was torture, made worse by the fact that I had thought I was finished with such things. I finally staggered into the office and parked the books behind the desk. I was panting and rubbing my hands when Siegfried came in.

“Ah, James, had a nice run through to Leeds?”