All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot
She put her arm through mine as we went in at the entrance gate to where a crescent of cars was drawn up at one end of a long field. The field was on the river’s edge and through a fringe of trees the afternoon sunshine glinted on the tumbling water of the shallows and turned the long beach of bleached stones to a dazzling white. Groups of men, mainly competitors, stood around chatting as they watched. They were quiet, easy, bronzed men and as they seemed to be drawn from all social strata from prosperous farmers to working men their garb was varied; cloth caps, trilbies, deerstalkers or no hat at all; tweed jackets, stiff best suits, open necked shirts, fancy ties, sometimes neither collar nor tie. Nearly all of them leaned on long crooks with the handles fashioned from ram’s horns.
Snatches of talk reached us as we walked among them.
“You got ’ere, then, Fred.” “That’s a good gather.” “Nay, ’e’s missed one, ’e’ll get nowt for that.” “Them sheep’s a bit flighty.” “Aye, they’re buggers.” And above it all the whistles of the man running a dog; every conceivable level and pitch of whistle with now and then a shout. “Sit!” “Get by!” Every man had his own way with his dog.
The dogs waiting their turn were tied up to a fence with a hedge growing over it. There were about seventy of them and it was rather wonderful to see that long row of waving tails and friendly expressions. They were mostly strangers to each other but there wasn’t even the semblance of disagreement, never mind a fight. It seemed that the natural obedience of these little creatures was linked to an amicable disposition.
This appeared to be common to their owners, too. There was no animosity, no resentment at defeat, no unseemly display of triumph in victory. If a man overran his time he ushered his group of sheep quietly into the corner and returned with a philosophical grin to his colleagues. There was a little quiet leg-pulling but that was all
We came across Sep Wilkin leaning against his car at the best vantage point about thirty yards away from the final pen. Gyp, tied to the bumper, turned and gave me his crooked grin while Mrs. Wilkin on a camp stool by his side rested a hand on his shoulder. Gyp, it seemed, had got under her skin too.
Helen went over to speak to her and I turned to her husband. “Are you running a dog today, Mr. Wilkin?”
“No, not this time, just come to watch. I know a lot o’ the dogs.”
I stood near him for a while watching the competitors in action, breathing in the clean smell of trampled grass and plug tobacco. In front of us next to the pen the judge stood by his post.
I had been there for about ten minutes when Mr. Wilkin lifted a pointing finger. “Look who’s there!”
George Crossly with Sweep trotting at his heels was making his way unhurriedly to the post. Gyp suddenly stiffened and sat up very straight his cocked ears accentuating the lop-sided look. It was many months since he had seen his brother and companion; it seemed unlikely, I thought that he would remember him. But his interest was clearly intense, and as the judge waved his white handkerchief and the three sheep were released from the far corner he rose slowly to his feet.
A gesture from Mr. Crossley sent Sweep winging round the perimeter of the field in a wide, joyous gallop and as he neared the sheep a whistle dropped him on his belly. From then on it was an object lesson in the cooperation of man and dog. Sep Wilkin had always said Sweep would be a champion and he looked the part, darting and falling at his master’s commands. Short piercing whistles, shrill plaintive whistles; he was in tune with them all.
No dog all day had brought his sheep through the three lots of gates as effortlessly as Sweep did now and as he approached the pen near us it was obvious that he would win the cup unless some disaster struck. But this was the touchy bit; more than once with other dogs the sheep had broken free and gone bounding away within feet of the wooden rails.
George Crossley held the gate wide and extended his crook. You could see now why they all carried those long sticks. His commands to Sweep, huddled flat along the turf, were now almost inaudible but the quiet words brought the dog inching first one way then the other. The sheep were in the entrance to the pen now but they still looked around them irresolutely and the game was not over yet. But as Sweep wriggled towards them almost imperceptibly they turned and entered and Mr. Crossley crashed the gate behind them.
As he did so he turned to Sweep with a happy cry of “GOOD LAD!” and the dog responded with a quick jerking wag of his tail.
At that, Gyp, who had been standing very tall, watching every move with the most intense concentration raised his head and emitted a single resounding bark.
“WOOF!” went Gyp as we all stared at him in astonishment.
“Did you hear that?” gasped Mrs. Wilkin.
“Well, by gaw!” her husband burst out looking open-mouthed at his dog.
Gyp didn’t seem to be aware that he had done anything unusual. He was too preoccupied by the reunion with his brother and within seconds the two dogs were rolling around, chewing playfully at each other as of old.
I suppose the Wilkins as well as myself had the feeling that this event might start Gyp barking like any other dog, but it was not to be.
Six years later I was on the farm and went to the house to get some hot water. As Mrs. Wilkin handed me the bucket she looked down at Gyp who was basking in the sunshine outside the kitchen window.
“There you are, then, funny fellow,” she said to the dog.
I laughed. “Has he ever barked since that day?”
Mrs. Wilkin shook her head. “No he hasn’t, not a sound. I waited a long time but I know he’s not going to do it now.”
“Ah well, it’s not important. But still, I’ll never forget that afternoon at the trial,” I said.
“Nor will I!” She looked at Gyp again and her eyes softened in reminiscence. “Poor old lad, eight years old and only one woof .”
35
CLERICAL WORK HAS NEVER been my strong point and after an evening of writing letters it was a relief to trot down the stairs from our bed-sitter and stroll across the market place to the post office. I had just dropped the letters in the box when a burst of jazz music came over the cobbles from an open doorway. And in an instant I was back in my bachelor days, back to the night of that dance when my courtship of Helen had been progressing badly .…
The big room at Skeldale House had been full that night. It seemed to me that this room with its graceful alcoves, high, carved ceiling and trench windows lay at the centre of our life in Darrowby. It was where Siegfried, Tristan and I gathered when the day’s work was done, toasting our feet by the white wood fireplace with the glass-fronted cupboard on top, talking over the day’s events. It was the heart of our bachelor existence, sitting there in a happy stupor, reading, listening to the radio, Tristan usually flipping effortlessly through the Daily Telegraph crossword.
It was where Siegfried entertained his friends and there was a constant stream of them—old and young, male and female. But tonight it was Tristan’s turn and the pack of young people with drinks in their hands were there at his invitation. And they wouldn’t need much persuasion. Though just about the opposite of his brother in many ways he had the same attractiveness which brought the friends running at the crook of a finger.
The occasion was the Daffodil Ball at the Drovers’ Arms and we were dressed in our best. This was a different kind of function from the usual village institute hop with the farm lads in their big boots and music from a scraping fiddle and piano. It was a proper dance with a popular local band—Sadie Butterfield and her Hot Shots—and was an annual affair to herald the arrival of spring.
I watched Tristan dispensing the drinks. The bottles of whisky, gin and sherry which Siegfried kept in the fireplace cupboard had taken some severe punishment but Tristan himself had been abstemious. An occasional sip from a glass of light ale perhaps, but nothing more. Drinking, to him, meant the bulk intake of draught bitter; all else was mere vanity and folly. Dainty little glasses were anathema and even now when I see him at a
“Nice little gathering, Jim,” he said, appearing at my elbow. “A few more blokes than girls but that won’t matter much.”
I eyed him coldly. I knew why there were extra men. It was so that Tristan wouldn’t have to take the floor too often. It fitted in with his general dislike of squandering energy that he was an unenthusiastic dancer; he didn’t mind walking a girl round the floor now and again during the evening but he preferred to spend most of the time in the bar.
So, in fact, did a lot of the Darrowby folk. When we arrived at the Drovers the bar was congested while only a dedicated few circled round the ballroom. But as time went on more and more couples ventured out and by ten o’clock the dance floor was truly packed.
And I soon found I was enjoying myself. Tristan’s friends were an effervescent bunch; likeable young men and attractive girls; I just couldn’t help having a good time.
Butterfield’s famed band in their short red jackets added greatly to the general merriment. Sadie herself looked about fifty five and indeed all four of the Hot Shots ensemble were rather elderly, but they made up for their grey hairs by sheer vivacity. Not that Sadie’s hair was grey; it was dyed a determined black and she thumped the piano with dynamic energy, beaming out at the company through her horn-rimmed glasses, occasionally bawling a chorus into the microphone by her side, announcing the dances, making throaty wisecracks. She gave value for money.
There was no pairing off in our party and I danced with all the girls in turn. At the peak of the evening I was jockeying my way around the floor with Daphne and the way she was constructed made it a rewarding experience. I never have been one for skinny women but I suppose you could say that Daphne’s development had strayed a little too far in the other direction. She wasn’t fat just lavishly endowed.
Battling through the crush, colliding with exuberant neighbours, bouncing deliriously off Daphne, with everybody singing as they danced and the Hot Shots pouring out an insistent boom-boom beat, I felt I hadn’t a care in the world. And then I saw Helen.
She was dancing with the inevitable Richard Edmundson, his shining gold head floating above the company like an emblem of doom. And it was uncanny how in an instant my cosy little world disintegrated leaving a chill gnawing emptiness.
When the music stopped I returned Daphne to her friends and went to find Tristan. The comfortable little bar in the Drovers was overflowing and the temperature like an oven. Through an almost impenetrable fog of cigarette smoke I discerned my colleague on a high stool holding court with a group of perspiring revellers. Tristan himself looked cool and as always, profoundly content. He drained his glass, smacked his lips gently as though it had been the best pint of beer he’d ever tasted, then, as he reached across the counter and courteously requested a refill he spotted me struggling towards him.
When I reached his stool he laid an affable hand on my shoulder. “Ah, Jim, nice to see you. Splendid dance, this, don’t you think?”
I didn’t bring up the fact that I hadn’t seen him on the floor yet, but making my voice casual I mentioned that Helen was there.
Tristan nodded benignly. “Yes, saw her come in. Why don’t you go and dance with her?”
“I can’t do that. She’s with a partner—young Edmundson.”
“Not at all.” Tristan surveyed his fresh pint with a critical eye and took an exploratory sip. “She’s with a party, like us. No partner.”
“How do you know that?”
“I watched all the fellows hang their coats out there while the girls went upstairs. No reason at all why you shouldn’t have a dance with her.”
“I see.” I hesitated for a few moments then made my way back to the ballroom.
But it wasn’t as easy as that. I had to keep doing my duty with the girls in our group and whenever I headed for Helen she was whisked away by one of her men friends before I got near her. At times I fancied she was looking over at me but I couldn’t be sure; the only thing I knew for certain was that I wasn’t enjoying myself any more; the magic and gaiety had gone and I felt a rising misery at the thought that this was going to be another of my frustrating contacts with Helen when all I could do was look at her hopelessly. Only this time was worse—I hadn’t even spoken to her.
I was almost relieved when the manager came up and told me there was a call for me. I went to the phone and spoke to Mrs. Hall. There was a bitch in trouble whelping and I had to go. I looked at my watch—after midnight, so that was the end of the dance for me.
I stood for a moment listening to the muffled thudding from the dance floor then slowly pulled on my coat before going in to say goodbye to Tristan’s friends. I exchanged a few words with them, waved, then turned back and pushed the swing door open.
Helen was standing there, about a foot away from me. Her hand was on the door, too. I didn’t wonder whether she was going in or out but stared dumbly into her smiling blue eyes.
“Leaving already, Jim?” she said.
“Yes, I’ve got a call, I’m afraid.”
“Oh what a shame. I hope it’s nothing very serious.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but her dark beauty and the very nearness of her suddenly filled my world and a wave of hopeless longing swept over and submerged me. I slid my hand a few inches down the door and gripped hers as a drowning man might, and wonderingly I felt her fingers come round and entwine themselves tightly in mine.
And in an instant there was no band, no noise, no people, just the two of us standing very close in the doorway.
“Come with me,” I said.
Helen’s eyes were very large as she smiled that smile I knew so well.
“I’ll get my coat,” she murmured.
This wasn’t really me, I thought, standing on the hall carpet watching Helen trotting quickly up the stairs, but I had to believe it as she reappeared on the landing pulling on her coat. Outside, on the cobbles of the market place my car, too, appeared to be taken by surprise because it roared into life at the first touch of the starter.
I had to go back to the surgery for my whelping instruments and in the silent moonlit street we got out and I opened the big white door to Skeldale House.
And once in the passage it was the most natural thing in the world to take her in my arms and kiss her gratefully and unhurriedly. I had waited a long time for this and the minutes flowed past unnoticed as we stood there, our feet on the black and red eighteenth century tiles, our heads almost touching the vast picture of the Death of Nelson which dominated the entrance.
We kissed again at the first bend of the passage under the companion picture of the Meeting of Wellington and Blucher at Waterloo. We kissed at the second bend by the tall cupboard where Siegfried kept his riding coats and boots. We kissed in the dispensary in between searching for my instruments. Then we tried it out in the garden and this was the best of all with the flowers still and expectant in the moonlight and the fragrance of the moist earth and grass rising about us.
I have never driven so slowly to a case. About ten miles an hour with Helen’s head on my shoulder and all the scents of spring drifting in through the open window. And it was like sailing from stormy seas into a sweet, safe harbour, like coming home.
The light in the cottage window was the only one showing in the sleeping village, and when I knocked at the door Bert Chapman answered. Bert was a council roadman—one of the breed for whom I felt an abiding affinity.
The council men were my brethren of the roads. Like me they spent most of their lives on the lonely by-ways around Darrowby and I saw them most days of the week, repairing the tarmac, cutting back the grass verges in the summer, gritting and snow ploughing in the winter. And when they spotted me driving past they would grin cheerfully and wave as if the very sight of me had made their day. I don’t know whether they were specially picked for good nature but I don’t think I have ever met a more equable body of men.
One
I had seen Bert Chapman just a day or two ago, sitting on a grassy bank, his shovel by his side, a vast sandwich in his hand. He had raised a corded forearm in salute, a broad smile bisecting his round, sun-reddened face. He had looked eternally carefree but tonight his smile was strained.
“I’m sorry to bother you this late, Mr. Herriot,” he said as he ushered us into the house, “but I’m gettin’ a bit worried about Susie. Her pups are due and she’s been making a bed for them and messing about all day but nowt’s happened. I was goin’ to leave her till morning but about midnight she started panting like ’ell—I don’t like the look of her.”
Susie was one of my regular patients. Her big, burly master was always bringing her to the surgery, a little shame-faced at his solicitude, and when I saw him sitting in the waiting room looking strangely out of place among the ladies with their pets, he usually said “T’missus asked me to bring Susie.” But it was a transparent excuse.
“She’s nobbut a little mongrel, but very faithful,” Bert said, still apologetic, but I could understand how he felt about Susie, a shaggy little ragamuffin whose only wile was to put her paws on my knees and laugh up into my face with her tail lashing. I found her irresistible.
But she was a very different character tonight. As we went into the living room of the cottage the little animal crept from her basket, gave a single indeterminate wag of her tail, then stood miserably in the middle of the floor, her ribs heaving. As I bent to examine her she turned a wide panting mouth and anxious eyes up to me.
I ran my hands over her abdomen. I don’t think I have ever felt a more bloated little dog; she was as round as a football, absolutely bulging with pups, ready to pop, but nothing was happening.
“What do you think?” Bert’s face was haggard under his sunburn and he touched the dog’s head briefly with a big calloused hand.