All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot
He didn’t say good morning but nodded briefly then jerked his head in the direction of the byre. “She’s in there” was all he said.
He watched in silence as I gave the injections and it wasn’t until I was putting the empty bottles into my pocket that he spoke.
“Don’t suppose I’ll have to milk her today?”
“No,” I replied. “Better leave the bag full.”
“Anything special about feedin’?”
“No, she can have anything she likes when she wants it.” Mr. Brown was very efficient. Always wanted to know every detail.
As we crossed the yard he halted suddenly and turned to face me. Could it be that he was going to ask me in for a nice hot cup of tea?
“You know,” he said, as I stood ankle deep in the snow, the frosty air nipping at my ears. “I’ve had a few of these cases lately. Maybe there’s summat wrong with my routine. Do you think I’m steaming up my cows too much?”
“It’s quite possible.” I hurried towards the car. One thing I wasn’t going to do was deliver a lecture on animal husbandry at this moment.
My hand was on the door handle when he said “I’ll give you another ring if she’s not up by dinner time. And there’s one other thing—that was a hell of a bill I had from you fellers last month, so tell your boss not to be so savage with ’is pen.” Then he turned and walked quickly towards the house.
Well that was nice, I thought as I drove away. Not even thanks or goodbye, just a complaint and a promise to haul me away from my roast goose if necessary. A sudden wave of anger surged in me. Bloody farmers! There were some miserable devils among them. Mr. Brown had doused my festive feeling as effectively as if he had thrown a bucket of water over me.
As I mounted the steps of Skeldale House the darkness had paled to a shivery grey. Helen met me in the passage. She was carrying a tray.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” she said. “There’s another urgent job. Siegfried’s had to go out, too. But I’ve got a cup of coffee and some fried bread for you. Come in and sit down—you’ve got time to eat it before you go.”
I sighed. It was going to be just another day after all. “What’s this about, Helen?” I asked, sipping the coffee.
“It’s old Mr. Kirby,” she replied. “He’s very worried about his nanny goat.”
“Nanny goat!”
“Yes, he says she’s choking.”
“Choking! How the heck can she be choking?” I shouted.
“I really don’t know. And I wish you wouldn’t shout at me, Jim. It’s not my fault.”
In an instant I was engulfed by shame. Here I was, in a bad temper, taking it out on my wife. It is a common reaction for vets to blame the hapless person who passes on an unwanted message but I am not proud of it. I held out my hand and Helen took it.
“I’m sorry,” I said and finished the coffee sheepishly. My feeling of goodwill was at a very low ebb.
Mr. Kirby was a retired farmer, but he had sensibly taken a cottage with a bit of land where he kept enough stock to occupy his time—a cow, a few pigs and his beloved goats. He had always had goats, even when he was running his dairy herd; he had a thing about them.
The cottage was in a village high up the Dale. Mr. Kirby met me at the gate.
“Ee, lad,” he said. “I’m right sorry to be bothering you this early in the morning and Christmas an’ all, but I didn’t have no choice, Dorothy’s real bad.”
He led the way to a stone shed which had been converted into a row of pens. Behind the wire of one of them a large white Saanen goat peered out at us anxiously and as I watched her she gulped, gave a series of retching coughs, then stood trembling, saliva drooling from her mouth.
The farmer turned to me, wide-eyed. “You see, I had to get you out, didn’t I? If I left her till tomorrow she’d be a goner.”
“You’re right, Mr. Kirby,” I replied. “You couldn’t leave her. There’s something in her throat.”
We went into the pen and as the old man held the goat against the wall I tried to open her mouth. She didn’t like it very much and as I prised her jaws apart she startled me with a loud, long-drawn, human-sounding cry. It wasn’t a big mouth but I have a small hand and, as the sharp back teeth tried to nibble me, I poked a finger deep into the pharynx.
There was something there all right I could just touch it but I couldn’t get hold of it. Then the animal began to throw her head about and. I had to come out; I stood there, saliva dripping from my hand, looking thoughtfully at Dorothy.
After a few moments I turned to the farmer. “You know, this is a bit baffling. I can feel something in the back of her throat but it’s soft—like cloth. I’d been expecting to find a bit of twig, or something sharp sticking in there—it’s funny what a goat will pick up when she’s pottering around outside. But if it’s cloth, what the heck is holding it there? Why hasn’t she swallowed it down?”
“Aye, it’s a rum ’un, isn’t it?” The old man ran a gentle hand along the animal’s back. “Do you think she’ll get rid of it herself? Maybe it’ll just slip down?”
“No, I don’t. It’s stuck fast, God knows how, but it is. And I’ve got to get it out soon because she’s beginning to blow up. Look there.” I pointed to the goat’s left side, bulged by the tympanitic rumen, and as I did so, Dorothy began another paroxysm of coughs which seemed almost to tear her apart
Mr. Kirby looked at me with a mute appeal, but just at that moment I didn’t see what I could do. Then I opened the door of the pen. “I’m going to get my torch from the car. Maybe I can see something to explain this.”
The old man held the torch as I once more pulled the goat’s mouth open and again heard the curious child-like wailing. It was when the animal was in full cry that I noticed something under the tongue—a thin, dark band.
“I can see what’s holding the thing now,” I cried. “It’s hooked round the tongue with string or something.” Carefully I pushed my forefinger under the band and began to pull.
It wasn’t string. It began to stretch as I pulled carefully at it…like elastic. Then it stopped stretching and I felt a real resistance…whatever was in the throat was beginning to move. I kept up a gentle traction and very slowly the mysterious obstruction came sliding up over the back of the tongue and into the mouth, and when it came within reach I let go the elastic, grabbed the sodden mass and hauled it forth. It seemed as if there was no end to it—a long snake of dripping material nearly two feet long—but at last I had it out on to the straw of the pen.
Mr. Kirby seized it and held it up and as he unravelled the mass wonderingly he gave a sudden cry.
“God ’elp us, it’s me summer drawers!”
“Your what?”
“Me summer drawers. Ah don’t like them long john when weather gets warmer and I allus change into these little short ’uns. Missus was havin’ a clear-out afore the end of t’year and she didn’t know whether to wash ’em or mek them into dusters. She washed them at t’finish and Dorothy must have got ’em off the line.” He held up the tattered shorts and regarded them ruefully. “By gaw, they’ve seen better days, but I reckon Dorothy’s fettled them this time.”
Then his body began to shake silently, a few low giggles escaped from him and finally he gave a great shout of laughter. It was an infectious laugh and I joined in as I watched him. He went on for quite a long time and when he had finished he was leaning weakly against the wire netting.
“Me poor awd drawers,” he gasped, then leaned over and patted the goat’s head. “But as long as you’re all right, lass, I’m not worried.”
“Oh, she’ll be O.K.” I pointed to her left flank. “You can see her stomach’s going down already.” As I spoke, Dorothy belched pleasurably and began to nose interestedly at her hay rack.
The farmer gazed at her fondly. “Isn’t that grand to see! She’s ready for her grub again. And if she hadn’t got her tongue round the elastic that lot would have gone right down and killed her.”
“I really don’t
“I see.” Mr. Kirby rubbed his chin. “So Dorothy might have wandered around with me drawers inside her for years.”
“It’s possible. You’d never have known what became of them.”
“By gaw, that’s right,” Mr. Kirby said, and for a moment I thought he was going to start giggling again, but he mastered himself and seized my arm. “But I don’t know what I’m keeping you out here for, lad. You must come in and have a bit o’ Christmas cake.”
Inside the tiny living room of the cottage I was ushered to the best chair by the fireside where two rough logs blazed and crackled.
“Bring cake out for Mr. Herriot, mother,” the farmer cried as he rummaged in the pantry. He reappeared with a bottle of whisky at the same time as his wife bustled in carrying a cake thickly laid with icing and ornamented with coloured spangles, toboggans, reindeers.
Mr. Kirby unscrewed the stopper. “You know, mother, we’re lucky to have such men as this to come out on a Christmas mornin’ to help us.”
“Aye, we are that.” The old lady cut a thick slice of the cake and placed it on a plate by the side of an enormous wedge of Wensleydale cheese.
Her husband meanwhile was pouring my drink. Yorkshiremen are amateurs with whisky and there was something delightfully untutored in the way he was sloshing it into the glass as if it was lemonade; he would have filled it to the brim if I hadn’t stopped him.
Drink in hand, cake on knee, I looked across at the farmer and his wife who were sitting in upright kitchen chairs watching me with quiet benevolence. The two faces had something in common—a kind of beauty. You would find faces like that only in the country; deeply wrinkled and weathered, clear-eyed, alight with a cheerful serenity.
I raised my glass. “A happy Christmas to you both.”
The old couple nodded and replied smilingly. “And the same to you, Mr. Herriot.”
“Aye, and thanks again, lad,” said Mr. Kirby. “We’re right grateful to you for runnin’ out here to save awd Dorothy. We’ve maybe mucked up your day for you but it would’ve mucked up ours if we’d lost the old lass, wouldn’t it, mother?”
“Don’t worry, you haven’t spoiled anything for me,” I said. “In fact you’ve made me realise again that it really is Christmas.” And as I looked around the little room with the decorations hanging from the low-beamed ceiling I could feel the emotions of last night, surging slowly back, a warmth creeping through me that had nothing to do with the whisky.
I took a bite of the cake and followed it with a moist slice of cheese. When I had first come to Yorkshire I had been aghast when offered this unheard-of combination, but time had brought wisdom and I had discovered that the mixture when chewed boldly together was exquisite; and, strangely, I had also found that there was nothing more suitable for washing it finally over the tonsils than a draught of raw whisky.
“You don’t mind t’wireless, Mr. Herriot?” Mrs. Kirby asked. “We always like to have it on Christmas morning to hear t’old hymns but I’ll turn it off if you like.”
“No, please leave it, it sounds grand.” I turned to look at the old radio with its chipped wooden veneer, the ornate scroll-work over the worn fabric; it must have been one of the earliest models and it gave off a tinny sound, but the singing of the church choir was none the less sweet…Hark the Herald Angels Sing—flooding the little room, mingling with the splutter of the logs and the soft voices of the old people.
They showed me a picture of their son, who was a policeman over in Houlton and their daughter who was married to a neighbouring farmer. They were bringing their grand-children up for Christmas dinner as they always did and Mrs. Kirby opened a box and ran a hand over the long row of crackers. The choir started on Once in Royal David’s City, I finished my whisky and put up only feeble resistance as the farmer plied the bottle again. Through the small window I could see the bright berries of a holly tree pushing-through their covering of snow.
It was really a shame to have to leave here and it was sadly that I drained my glass for the second time and scooped up the last crumbs of cake and icing from my plate.
Mr. Kirby came out with me and at the gate of the cottage he stopped and held out his hand.
“Thank ye lad, I’m right grateful,” he said. “And all the very best to you.”
For a moment the rough dry palm rasped against mine, then I was in the car, starting the engine. I looked at my watch; it was still only half past nine but the first early sunshine was sparkling from a sky of palest blue.
Beyond the village the road climbed steeply then curved around the rim of the valley in a wide arc, and it was here that you came suddenly upon the whole great expanse of the Plain of York spread out almost at your feet. I always slowed down here and there was always something different to see, but today the vast chequerboard of fields and farms and woods stood out with a clarity I had never seen before. Maybe it was because this was a holiday and down there no factory chimney smoked, no lorries belched fumes, but the distance was magically foreshortened in the clear, frosty air and I felt I could reach out and touch the familiar landmarks far below.
I looked back at the enormous white billows and folds of the fells, crowding close, one upon another into the blue distance, every crevice uncannily defined, the highest summits glittering where the sun touched them. I could see the village with the Kirby’s cottage at the end. I had found Christmas and peace and goodwill and everything back there.
Farmers? They were the salt of the earth.
21
MARMADUKE SKELTON WAS AN object of interest to me long before our paths crossed. For one thing I hadn’t thought people were ever called Marmaduke outside of books and for another he was a particularly well known member of the honourable profession of unqualified animal doctors.
Before the Veterinary Surgeons’ Act of 1948 anybody who fancied his chance at it could dabble in the treatment of animal disease. Veterinary students could quite legally be sent out to cases while they were seeing practice, certain members of the lay public did a bit of veterinary work as a sideline while others did it as a full time job. These last were usually called “quacks.”
The disparaging nature of the term was often unjust because, though some of them were a menace to the animal population, others were dedicated men who did their job with responsibility and humanity and after the Act were brought into the profession’s fold as Veterinary Practitioners.
But long before all this there were all sorts and types among them. The one I knew best was Arthur Lumley, a charming little ex-plumber who ran a thriving small animal practice in Brawton, much to the chagrin of Mr. Angus Grier MRCVS. Arthur used to drive around in a small van. He always wore a white coat and looked very clinical and efficient, and on the side of the van in foot-high letters which would have got a qualified man a severe dressing down from the Royal College was the legend, “Arthur Lumley M.K.C., Canine and Feline Specialist.” The lack of “letters” after their name was the one thing which differentiated these men from qualified vets in the eyes of the general public and I was interested to see that Arthur did have an academic attainment. However the degree of M.K.C. was unfamiliar to me and he was somewhat cagey when I asked him about it; I did find out eventually what it stood for; Member of the Kennel Club.
Marmaduke Skelton was a vastly different breed. I had been working long enough round the Scarburn district to become familiar with some of the local history and it seemed that when Mr. and Mrs. Skelton were producing a family in the early 1900’s they must have thought their offspring were destined for great things; they named their four sons Marmaduke, Sebastian, Cornelius and, incredibly, Alonzo. The two middle brothers drove lorries for the Express Dairy and Alonzo was a small farmer; one of my vivid memories is the shock of surprise when I was f
Marmaduke, or Duke as he was invariably called, was the colourful member of the family. I had heard a lot about him on my visits to the Scarburn farms; he was a “right good hand” at calving, foaling and lambing, and “as good as any vitnery” in the diagnosis and treatment of animals’ ailments. He was also an expert castrator, docker and pig-killer. He made a nice living at his trade and in Ewan Ross he had the ideal professional opposition; a veterinary surgeon who worked only when he felt like it and who didn’t bother to go to a case unless he was in the mood. Much as the farmers liked and in many cases revered Ewan, they were often forced to fall back on Duke’s services. Ewan was in his fifties and unable to cope with the growing volume of testing in his Scarburn practice. I used to help him out with it and in consequence saw a lot of Ewan and his wife, Ginny.
If Duke had confined his activities to treating his patients I don’t think Ewan would ever have spared him a thought; but Skelton liked to enliven his farm visits with sneers about the old Scotch vet who had never been much good and was definitely getting past it now. Maybe even that didn’t get very far under Ewan’s skin but at the mention of his rival’s name his mouth would harden a little and a ruminative expression creep into the blue eyes.
And it wasn’t easy to like Duke. There were the tales you heard about his savage brawls and about how he knocked his wife and children around when the mood was on him. I didn’t find his appearance engaging either when I first saw him swaggering across Scarburn market place; a black bull of a man, a shaggy Heathcliffe with fierce, darting eyes and a hint of braggadocio in the bright red handkerchief tied round his neck.