All Things Bright and Beautiful (47 page)

I wanted to thank him for being a friend as well as a boss, for teaching me so much, for never letting me down. There were other things, too, but I never said them.

Come to think of it, I’ve never even thanked him for that fifty pounds…until now.

“L
OOK,
J
IM,”
H
ELEN SAID.
“This is one engagement we can’t be late for. Old Mrs. Hodgson is an absolute pet—she’d be terribly hurt if we let her supper spoil.”

I nodded. “You’re right, my girl, that mustn’t happen. But I’ve got only three calls this afternoon and Tristan’s doing the evening. I can’t see anything going wrong.”

This nervousness about a simple action like going out for a meal might be incomprehensible to the layman but to vets and their wives it was very real, particularly in those days of one or two man practices. The idea of somebody preparing a meal for me then waiting in vain for me to turn up was singularly horrifying but it happened to all of us occasionally.

It remained a gnawing worry whenever Helen and I were asked out; especially to somebody like the Hodgsons. Mr. Hodgson was a particularly likeable old farmer, short-sighted to the point of semiblindness, but the eyes which peered through the thick glasses were always friendly. His wife was just as kind and she had looked at me quizzically when I had visited the farm two days ago.

“Does it make you feel hungry, Mr. Herriot?”

“It does indeed, Mrs. Hodgson. It’s a marvellous sight.”

I was washing my hands in the farm kitchen and stealing a glance at a nearby table where all the paraphernalia of the family pig-killing lay in their full glory. Golden rows of pork pies, spare ribs, a mound of newly made sausages, jars of brawn. Great pots were being filled with lard, newly rendered in the fireside oven.

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Why don’t you bring Mrs. Herriot round one night and help us eat it?”

“Well that’s most kind of you and I’d love to, but…”

“Now then, no buts!” She laughed. “You know there’s far too much stuff here—we have to give so much away.”

This was quite true. In the days when every farmer and many of the townsfolk of Darrowby kept pigs for home consumption, killing time was an occasion for feasting. The hams and sides were cured and hung up but the masses of offal and miscellaneous pieces had to be eaten at the time; and though farmers with big families could tackle it, others usually passed delicious parcels round their friends in the happy knowledge that there would be a reciprocation in due course.

“Well, thanks, Mrs. Hodgson,” I said. “Tuesday evening, then, seven o’clock.”

And here I was on Tuesday afternoon heading confidently into the country with the image of Mrs. Hodgson’s supper hanging before me like a vision of the promised land. I knew what it would be; a glorious mixed grill of spare ribs, onions, liver and pork fillet garlanded with those divine farm sausages which are seen no more. It was something to dream about.

In fact I was still thinking about it when I drew into Edward Wiggin’s farm yard. I walked over to the covered barn and looked in at my patients—a dozen half grown bullocks resting on the deep straw. I had to inject these fellows with Blackleg vaccine. If I didn’t it was a fair bet that one or more of them would be found dead due to infection with the deadly Clostridium which dwelt in the pastures of that particular farm.

It was a common enough disease and stockholders had recognised it for generations and had resorted to some strange practices to prevent it; such as running a seton—a piece of twine or bandage—through the dewlap of the animal. But now we had an efficient vaccine.

I was thinking I’d be here for only a few minutes because Mr. Wiggin’s man, Wilf, was an expert beast catcher; then I saw the farmer coming across the yard and my spirits sank. He was carrying his lassoo. Wilf, by his side, rolled his eyes briefly heavenwards when he saw me. He too clearly feared the worst.

We went into the barn and Mr. Wiggin began the painstaking process of arranging his long, white rope, while we watched him gloomily. He was a frail little man in his sixties and had spent some years of his youth in America. He didn’t talk a lot about it but everybody in time gained the impression that he had been a sort of cowboy over there and indeed he talked in a soft Texan drawl and seemed obsessed with the mystique of the ranch and the open range. Anything to do with the Wild West was near to his heart and nearest of all was his lassoo.

You could insult Mr. Wiggin with many things and he wouldn’t turn a hair but question his ability to snare the wildest bovine with a single twirl of his rope and the mild little man could explode into anger. And the unfortunate thing was that he was no good at it.

Mr. Wiggin had now got a long loop dangling from his hand and he began to whirl it round his head as he crept towards the nearest bullock. When he finally made his cast the result was as expected; the rope fell limply half way along the animal’s back and dropped on to the straw.

“Tarnation!” said Mr. Wiggin and started again. He was a man of deliberate movements and there was something maddening in the way he methodically assembled his rope again. It seemed an age before he once more advanced on a bullock with the rope whirring round his head.

“Bugger it!” Wilf grunted as the loop end lashed him across the face.

His boss turned on him. “Keep out of the dadblasted road, Wilf,” he said querulously. “I gotta start again now.”

This time he didn’t even make contact with the animal and as he retrieved his lassoo from the straw Wilf and I leaned wearily against the wall of the barn.

Yet again the whizz of the rope and a particularly ambitious throw which sent it high into the criss-cross of beams in the roof where it stuck. The farmer tugged at it several times in vain.

“Goldurn it, it’s got round a nail up there. Slip across the yard and fetch a ladder, Wilf.”

As I waited for the ladder then watched Wilf climbing into the shadowy heights of the barn I pondered on Mr. Wiggin. The way he spoke, the expressions he used were familiar to most Yorkshire folk since they filtered continually across the Atlantic in films and books. In fact there were dark mutterings that Mr. Wiggin had learned them that way and had never been near a ranch in his life. There was no way of knowing.

At last the rope was retrieved, the ladder put away and the little man went into action once more. He missed again but one of the bullocks got its foot in the loop and for a few moments the farmer hung on with fierce determination as the animal produced a series of piston-like kicks to rid itself of the distraction. And as I watched the man’s lined face set grimly, the thin shoulders jerking, it came to me that Mr. Wiggin wasn’t just catching a beast for injection; he was roping a steer, the smell of the prairie was in his nostrils, the cry of the coyote in his ears.

It didn’t take long for the bullock to free itself and with a grunt of “Ornery crittur!” Mr. Wiggin started again. And as he kept on throwing his rope ineffectually I was uncomfortably aware that time was passing and that our chances of doing our job were rapidly diminishing. When you have to handle a bunch of young beasts the main thing is not to upset them. If Mr. Wiggin hadn’t been there we would have penned them quietly in a corner and Wilf would have moved among them and caught their noses in his powerful fingers.

They were thoroughly upset. They had been peacefully chewing the cud or having a mouthful of hay from the rack but now, goaded by the teasing rope, were charging around like racehorses. Wilf and I watched in growing despair as Mr. Wiggin for once managed to get a loop round one of them, but it was too wide and slipped down and round the body. The bullock shook it off with an angry bellow then went off at full gallop, bucking and kicking. I looked at the throng of frenzied creatures milling past; it was getting more like a rodeo every minute.

And it was a disastrous start to the afternoon. I had seen a couple of dogs at the surgery after lunch and it had been nearly two thirty when I set out. It was now nearly four o’clock and I hadn’t done a thing.

And I don’t think I ever would have if fate hadn’t stepped in. By an amazing fluke Mr. Wiggin cast his loop squarely over the horns of a shaggy projectile as it thundered past him, the rope tightened on the neck and Mr. Wiggin on the other end flew gracefully through the air for about twenty feet till he crashed into a wooden feeding trough.

We rushed to him and helped him to his feet. Badly shaken but uninjured he looked at us.

“Doggone, I jest couldn’t hold the blame thing,” he murmured. “Reckon I’d better sit down in the house for a while. You’ll have to catch that pesky lot yourselves.”

Back in the barn, Wilf whispered to me. “By gaw it’s an ill wind, guvnor. We can get on now. And maybe it’ll make ’im forget that bloody lassoo for a bit.”

The bullocks were too excited to be caught by the nose but instead Wilf treated me to an exhibition of roping, Yorkshire style. Like many of the local stocksmen he was an expert with a halter and it fascinated me to see him dropping it on the head of a moving animal so that one loop fell behind the ears and the other snared the nose.

With a gush of relief I pulled the syringe and bottle of vaccine from my pocket and had the whole batch inoculated within twenty minutes.

Driving off I glanced at my watch and my pulse quickened as I saw it was a quarter to five. The afternoon had almost slipped away and there were still two more calls. But I had till seven o’clock and surely I wouldn’t come across any more Mr. Wiggins. And as the stone walls flipped past I ruminated again on that mysterious little man. Had he once been a genuine cowboy or was the whole thing fantasy?

I recalled that one Thursday evening Helen and I were leaving the Brawton cinema where we usually finished our half day; the picture had been a Western, and just before leaving the dark interior I glanced along the back row and right at the far end I saw Mr. Wiggin all on his own, huddled in the corner and looking strangely furtive.

Ever since then I have wondered….

Five o’clock saw me hurrying into the smallholding belonging to the Misses Dunn. Their pig had cut its neck on a nail and my previous experience of this establishment suggested that it wouldn’t be anything very serious.

These two maiden ladies farmed a few acres just outside Dollingsford village. They were objects of interest because they did most of the work themselves and in the process they lavished such affection on their livestock that they had become like domestic pets. The little byre held four cows and whenever I had to examine one of them I could feel the rough tongue of her neighbour licking at my back; their few sheep ran up to people in the fields and sniffed round their legs like dogs; calves sucked at your fingers; an ancient pony wandered around wearing a benign expression and nuzzling anyone within reach. The only exception among the amiable colony was the pig, Prudence, who was thoroughly spoiled.

I looked at her now as she nosed around the straw in her pen. She was a vast sow and the four inch laceration in her neck muscles was obviously posing no threat to her life; but it was gaping and couldn’t be left like that.

“I’ll have to put a few stitches in there,” I said, and the big Miss Dunn gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

“Oh dear! Will it hurt her? I shan’t be able to look, I’m afraid.”

She was a tall muscular lady in her fifties with a bright red face and often as I looked at the wide shoulders and the great arms with their bulging biceps I had the feeling that she could flatten me effortlessly with one blow if she so desired. But strangely she was nervous and squeamish about the realities of animal doctoring and it was always her little wisp of a sister who helped at lambings, calvings and the rest.

“Oh you needn’t worry, Miss Dunn,” I replied. “It’ll be all over before she knows what’s happening.” I climbed into the pen, went up to Prudence and touched her gently on the neck.

Immediately the sow unleased a petulant scream as though she had been stabbed with a hot iron and when I tried to give her back a friendly scratch the huge mouth opened again and the deafening sound blasted out. And this time she advanced on me threateningly. I stood my ground till the yawning cavern with its yellowed teeth was almost touching my leg then I put a hand on the rail and vaulted out of the pen.

“We’ll have to get her into a smaller space,” I said. “I’ll never be able to stitch her in that big pen. She has too much room to move around and she’s too big to hold.”

Little Miss Dunn held up her hand. “We have the very place. In the calf house across the yard. If we got her into one of those narrow stalls she wouldn’t be able to turn round.”

“Fine!” I rubbed my hands. “And I’ll be able to do the stitching over the top from the passage. Let’s get her over there.”

I opened the door and after a bit of poking and pushing Prudence ambled majestically out on to the cobbles of the yard. But there she stood, grunting sulkily, a stubborn glint in her little eyes, and when I leaned my weight against her back end it was like trying to move an elephant She had no intention of moving any further; and that calf house was twenty yards away.

I stole a look at my watch. Five fifteen, and I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

The little Miss Dunn broke into my thoughts. “Mr. Herriot, I know how we can get her across the yard.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes, Prudence has been naughty before and we have found a way of persuading her to move.”

I managed a smile. “Great! How do you do it?”

“Well now,” and both sisters giggled. “She is very fond of digestive biscuits.”

“What’s that?”

“She simply loves digestive biscuits.”

“She does?”

“Adores them!”

“Well, that’s very nice,” I said. “But I don’t quite see…”

The big Miss Dunn laughed. “Just you wait and I’ll show you.”

She began to stroll towards the house and it seemed to me that though those ladies were by no means typical Dales farmers they did share the general attitude that time was of no consequence. The door closed behind her and I waited…and as the minutes ticked away I began to think she was brewing herself a cup of tea. In my mounting tension I turned away and gazed down over the hillside fields to where the grey roofs and old church tower of Dollingsford showed above the riverside trees. The quiet peace of the scene was in direct contrast to my mental state.