Vet in Harness Page 9

would I? Heh, inch, heh, heh!'

  The fact that I had heard this joke about two thousand times interfered

  with my full participation in the merriment but I managed a cracked

  laugh in return.

  "That's perfectly true, Mr Fryer. Well, why have you rung me?'

  "Damn, I've told ye - to find out what the trouble is.'

  "Yes, I understand that, but I'd like some details. What do you mean

  when you say she's bad?'

  "Well, she's just a bit off it.'

  "Quite, but could you tell me a little more?'

  A pause. "She's dowry, like.'

  "Anything else?'

  "No .. . no .. . she's a right poorly pig, though.'

  I spent a few moments in thought. "Is she doing anything funny?'

  "Funny? Funny? Nay, there's nowt funny about t'job, I'll tell the!

  It's no laughin' matter.'

  "Well .. . er ... let me put it this way. Why are you calling me out?'

  "I'm calling ye out because you're a vet. That's your job, isn't it?'

  I tried again. "It would help if I knew what to bring with me. What are

  her symptoms?'

  "Symptoms? Well, she's just off colour, like.'

  "Yes, but what is she doing?'

  "She's doin' nowt. That's what bothers me.'

  "Let's see.' I scratched my head. "Is she very ill?'

  "I reckon she's in bad fettle.'

  "But would you say it was an urgent matter?'

  Another long pause. "Well, she's nobbut middlin'. She's not framin' at

  all.'

  "Yes .. . yes .. . and how long has she been like this?'

  "Oh, for a bit.'

  "But how long exactly?'

  "For a good bit.'

  "But Mr Fryer, I want to know when she started these symptoms. How long

  has she been affected?'

  "Oh .. . ever since we got 'er.'

  Ah, and when was that?'

  Well, she came wi' the others .. .'

  Chapter Eleven.

  It was going to take a definite effort of will to get out of the car.

  I had driven about ten miles from Darrowby, thinking all the time that

  the Dales always looked their coldest, not when they were covered with

  snow, but as now, when the first sprinkling streaked the bare flanks of

  the fells in bars of black and white like the ribs of a crouching beast.

  And now in front of me was the farm gate rattling on its hinges as the

  wind shook it.

  The car, heaterless and draughty as it was, seemed like a haven in an

  uncharitable world and I gripped the wheel tightly with my

  woollen-gloved hands for a few moments before opening the door. The wind

  almost tore the handle from my fingers as I got out but I managed to

  crash the door shut before stumbling over the frozen mud to the gate.

  Muffled as I was in heavy coat and scarf pulled up to my ears I could

  feel the icy gusts biting at my face, whipping up my nose and hammering

  painfully into the air spaces in my head.

  I had driven through and, streaming-eyed, was about to get back into the

  car when I noticed something unusual. There was a frozen pond just off

  the path and among the rime-covered rushes which fringed the dead

  opacity of the surface a small object stood out, shiny black.

  I went over and looked closer. It was a tiny kitten, probably about six

  weeks old, huddled and immobile, eyes tightly closed. Bending down I

  poked gently at the furry body. It must be dead; a morsel like this

  couldn't possibly survive in such cold .. . but no, there was a spark of

  life because the mouth opened soundlessly for a second then closed.

  Quickly I lifted the little creature and tucked it inside my coat. As I

  drove into the farmyard I called to the farmer who was carrying two

  buckets out of the calf house. "I've got one of your kittens here, Mr

  Butler. It must have strayed outside.'

  Mr Butler put down his buckets and looked blank. "Kitten? We haven't got

  no kittens at present.'

  I showed him my find and he looked more puzzled.

  "Well that's a rum 'un, there's no black cats on this spot. We've all

  sorts o' colours but no black 'uns.'

  "Well he must have come from somewhere else,' I said. "Though I can't

  imagine anything so small travelling very far. It's rather mysterious.'

  I held the kitten out and he engulfed it with his big, work-roughened

  hand.

  "Poor little beggar, he's only just alive. I'll take him into t'house

  and see if the missus can do owl for him.'

  In the farm kitchen Mrs Butler was all concern. "Oh what a shame!' She

  smoothed back the bedraggled hair with one finger. "And it's got such a

  pretty face.' She looked up at me. "What is it, anyway, a him or a her?'

  I took a quick look behind the hind legs. "It's a Tom.'

  "Right,' she said. "I'll get some warm milk into him but first of all

  we'll give him the old cure.'

  She went over to the fireside oven on the big black kitchen range,

  opened the door and popped him inside.

  I smiled. It was the classical procedure when new-born lambs were found

  suffering from cold and exposure; into the oven they went and the

  results were often dramatic. Mrs Butler left the door partly open and I

  could just see the little black figure inside; he didn't seem to care

  much what was happening to him.

  The next hour I spent in the byre wrestling with the hind feet of a cow.

  The cleats were overgrown and grossly misshapen and upturned, causing

  the animal to hobble along on her heels. My job was to pare and hack

  away the excess horn and my long held opinion that the hind feet of a

  cow were never meant to be handled by man was thoroughly confirmed. We

  had a rope round the hock and the leg pulled up over a-beam in the roof

  but the leg still pistoned back and forth while I hung on till my teeth

  rattled. By the time I had finished the sweat was running into my eyes

  and I had quite forgotten the cold day outside.

  Still, I thought, as I eased the kinks from my spine when I had

  finished, there were compensations. There was a satisfaction in the

  sight of the cow standing comfortably on two almost normal looking feet.

  "Well that's summat like,' Mr Butler grunted. "Come in the house and

  wash your hands.'

  In the kitchen as I bent over the brown earthenware sink I kept glancing

  across at the oven.

  Mrs Butler laughed. "Oh he's still with us. Come and have a look.'

  It was difficult to see the kitten in the dark interior but when I

  spotted him I put out my hand and touched him and he turned his head

  towards me.

  "He's coming round,' I said. "That hour in there has worked wonders.'

  "Doesn't often fail.' The farmers wife lifted him out. "I think he's a

  little tough 'un.' She began to spoon warm milk into the tiny mouth. "I

  reckon we'll have him lappin' in a day or two.'

  "You're going to keep him, then?'

  "Too true we are. I'm going to call him Moses.'

  "Moses?'

  "Aye, you found him among the rushes, didn't you?'

  I laughed. "That's right. It's a good name.'

  I was on the Butler farm about a fortnight later for the ever recurring

  job of 'cleansing' a cow and I kept looking around for Moses. Farmers

  rarely have their cats indoors and I thought that if the black kitte
n

  had survived he would have joined the feline colony around the

  buildings.

  Farm cats have a pretty good time. They may not be petted or cosseted

  but it has always seemed to me that they lead a free, natural life. They

  are expected to catch mice but if they are not so inclined there is

  abundant food at hand; bowls of milk here and there and the dogs' dishes

  to be raided if anything interesting is left over. I had seen plenty of

  cats around today, some flitting nervously away, others friendly and

  purring. There was a tabby loping gracefully across the cobbles and a

  big tortoiseshell was curled on a bed of straw at the warm end of the

  byre; cats are connoisseurs of comfort. When Mr Butler went to fetch the

  hot water I had a quick look in the bullock house and a white Tom

  regarded me placidly from between the bars of a hay rack where he had

  been taking a siesta. But there was no sign of Moses.

  I finished drying my arms and was about to make a casual reference to

  the kitten when Mr Butler handed me my jacket.

  "Come round here with me if you've got a minute,' he said. "I've got

  summat to show you.'

  I followed him through the door at the end and across a passage into the

  long, low-roofed piggery. He stopped at a pen about half way down and

  pointed inside.

  "Look 'ere,' he said.

  I leaned over the wall and my face must have shown my astonishment

  because the farmer burst into a shout of laughter.

  "That's summat new for you, isn't it?'

  I stared unbelievingly down- at a large sow stretched comfortably on her

  side, suckling a litter of about twelve piglets and right in the middle

  of the long pink row, furry black and incongruous, was Moses. He had a

  teat in his mouth and was absorbing his nourishment with the same rapt

  enjoyment as his smoothskinned fellows on either side.

  "What the devil .. .?' I gasped.

  Mr Butler was still laughing. "I thought you'd never have seen anything

  like that before, I never have, any road.'

  "But how did it happen?' I still couldn't drag my eyes away.

  "It was the Missus's idea,' he replied. "When she'd got the little youth

  lappin' milk she took him out to find a right warm spot for him in the

  buildings. She settled on this pen because the sow, Bertha, had just had

  a litter and I had a heater in and it was grand and cosy.'

  I nodded. "Sounds just right.'

  "Well she put Moses and a bowl of milk in here,' the farmer went on,

  'but the little feller didn't stay by the heater very long - next time I

  looked in he was round at t'milk bar.'

  I shrugged my shoulders. "They say you see something new every day at

  this game, but this is something I've never even heard of. Anyway, he

  looks well on it - does he actually live on the sow's milk or does he

  still drink from his bowl?'

  "A bit of both, I reckon. It's hard to say.'

  Anyway, whatever mixture Moses was getting he grew rapidly into a sleek,

  handsome animal with an unusually high gloss to his coat which may or

  may not have been due to the porcine element of his diet. I never went

  to the Butlers' without having a look in the pig pen. Bertha, his foster

  mother, seemed to find nothing unusual in this hairy intruder and pushed

  him around casually with pleased grunts just as she did with the rest of

  her brood.

  Moses for his part appeared to find the society of the pigs very

  congenial. When the piglets curled up together and settled down for a

  sleep Moses would be somewhere in the heap and when his young colleagues

  were weaned at eight weeks he showed his attachment to Bertha by

  spending most of his time with her.

  And it stayed that way over the years. Often he would be right inside

  the pen, rubbing himself happily along the comforting bulk of the sow,

  but I remember him best in his favourite place; crouching on the wall

  looking down perhaps meditatively on what had been his first warm home.

  Chapter Twelve.

  I was beginning to learn a few tricks of my own.

  In my bachelor days those early morning rings at the doorbell used to

  start me galloping downstairs into the freezing passage in my pyjamas

  full of enthusiasm, in fact almost bursting with impatience to learn

  what the immediate future held for me. But marriage had maybe softened

  me. At any rate, a long run of sessions in my bare feet on the doorstep

  with the bracing Yorkshire air whistling round my ankles had persuaded

  me that this was an overrated pastime.

  The trouble was that in those days there were very few telephones on the

  farms and many of the farmers used to cycle in to the surgery when they

  wanted the vet; and of course farmers are inclined to rise rather early,

  a lot of them seemed to think that around 7 a.m. was a good time.

  I just had to alter my system and now when I heard that long jangling

  downstairs I crawled out from beside Helen, tiptoed over to the window

  and opened it. Our bed-sitter being at the front of the house I was able

  to push my head through a few inches of space and carry on long

  conversations while most of me stayed warmly inside.

  ~ But on this Sunday morning something was wrong. I had heard the ring,

  taken up my kneeling position on the floor and got my head through the

  window. But I couldn't see anybody.

  "Hello!' I called.

  "ellow!' came back the reply immediately. But there was nobody on the

  step.

  "Hello!' I shouted.

  ' 'ellow!' a hearty bellow responded.

  "Hello!' I bawled at the top of my voice. I still couldn't see a soul.

  ' 'ellow, 'ellow, 'ellow!' echoed a full-throated yell with just a touch

  of asperity in it.

  This was ridiculous. I didn't feel up to another effort - my head was

  beginning to throb - so I pushed the sash up a few inches more and

  leaned further out into the street.

  And as I gazed down over the long stretch of ivy-covered brick it became

  clear why I had been unable to see anybody on the step. A man with very

  bandy legs encased in brown leggings was leaning against the wall of the

  house; he was bent double and apparently hollering straight down at the

  ground. I was baffled at first then I realised that he was directing his

  cries down through the small iron grating which led to the cellar. There

  was a chute there where the coalman used to tip his bags.

  From my new vantage point I was able to attract the man's attention and

  when he looked up I saw it was Mr Dawson of Highstones.

  He grinned cheerfully, quite unabashed. "Oh, you're there are you? I

  have a cow with a touch o' felon. Give us a call some time this morning

  will you?' He waved and was gone.

  I returned thoughtfully to Helen's side. And as I tried to drop off to

  sleep again the strong impression kept pushing into my consciousness

  that Mr Dawson wouldn't have been at all surprised if I had popped my

  head up through the grating instead of the window. It seemed to me that

  he had accepted the fact that I dwelt somewhere in the grimy darkness at

  the bottom of that cleft. It lent weight to an idea that had been

 
growing in my mind for some time; that farmers looked on vets as

  different beings. We weren't really people at all.

  There was Mr Coates last week. He had got me out of bed at 3 a.m. to a

  farrowing and when I stumbled, eyes half closed, from the car he was

  standing outside the piggery holding a lamp.

  "Well now, Mr Herriot,'he said brightly, 'were you in bed when ah

  phoned?'

  I stared at the man. "In bed? Where the heck do you think I'd be at

  three o'clock in the morning?'

  "Well ah don't know.' Mr Coates looked a little confused. "Ah thought

  you might be up studyin'.'

  There it was again. Up studyin'! Did they really think a vet was a

  creature apart - a kind of troglodyte who lived in a cell with only his

  text books and instruments for company? He didn't have a social life, he

  required no sleep, he didn't even have to eat. This last point was a

  very real one; I have often noticed a certain puzzlement in a farmer's

  face when I said I'd be as quick as I could but I'd have to finish my

  dinner first; or a pregnant silence at the end of the phone when I said

  I was just starting my breakfast.

  But the man who most blatantly ignored my nutritional requirements and

  actually seemed to be trying to sabotage them was Mr Grainger of

  Beckton. He was a fierce man in his sixties and he called to see me

  every Saturday evening at six o'clock. What made this particularly

  wearing was that Helen chose each Saturday to put on a sumptuous high

  tea. Maybe she wanted to remind me of my Scottish upbringing but she

  used to set before me things like herrings in oatmeal with mustard sauce

  or sole and chips or ham and eggs and fill in the spaces on the table

  with new-baked scones, pancakes, curd tarts, cherry cakes.

  It was usually when I was half way through the first course that the

  bell rang and there, sure enough, was Mr Grainger glaring belligerently

  through the glass door. He would never come into the house. All he

  wanted was a ten minutes' discussion on the doorstep. At first I used to

  say, "I'm just at my tea,' or something like that, or I'd go on chewing

  in an exaggerated manner and keep wiping my lips on a napkin until I

  realised I was wasting my time. Mr Grainger was only interested in me as

  an object to talk at.

  I said he wanted a discussion but that was the wrong word; he just

  wanted to air his views. An insight into his character could be gained

  from the remarks of one of his neighbours who told me that the Beckton

  Farmers' Discussion Group had folded up because whenever Mr Grainger got

  up to speak all the other farmers walked out.

  In any case it seemed to enliven his Saturday evening to hold me trapped

  there while he described the symptoms displayed by his livestock during

  the previous week. He never asked me for advice; he made it quite clear

  that he knew a lot better than me how to treat his animals, but he did

  want to tell me about it. And he told me at great length, his hands

  clasped over his stick in front of him, his eyes fixed on mine in a

  hostile stare.

  But nothing is wholly bad and I did reap some small recompense from

  observing his antics as he tried to illustrate his case histories with

  actions.

  I can recall one Saturday when he was complaining bitterly that he had

  been swindled over a carthorse he had just purchased. He was a

  particularly stiffjointed man and not cut out for portraying the

  lameness of horses, but he managed to give an astounding impression of

  stringhalt. I diagnosed it instantly as he strutted up and down the

  pavement in front of Skeldale House, jerking one leg up behind him at