“Aye right,” he grunted. “Let’s get on with t’next job.”
As we went down the byre I looked out and saw a horse being led across the yard. Siegfried pointed to it.
“Is that the gelding I operated on for fistulous withers?” he asked.
“That’s the one.” The farmer’s voice was airy.
We went out and Siegfried ran his hand over the horse’s shoulders. The broad fibrous scar over the withers was all that was left of the discharging, stinking sinus of a few weeks back. Healing was perfect. These cases were desperately difficult to treat and I remembered my partner cutting and chiselling at the mass of necrotic tissue, curetting deeply till only healthy flesh and bone remained. His efforts had been rewarded; it was a brilliant success.
Siegfried gave the gelding a final pat on the neck. “That’s done rather well.”
Mr. Kendall shrugged and turned back towards the byre. “Aye, not so bad, I suppose.” But he really wasn’t impressed.
The cow with the tumour was standing just inside the door. The growth was in the perineal region, a smooth round object like an apple projecting from the animal’s rear end, clearly visible an inch to the right of the tail.
Mr. Kendall was in full cry again. “Now we’ll see what you’re made of. How are you chaps going to get that thing off, eh? It’s a big ’un—you’ll need a carving knife or a hack saw for t’job. And are you goin’ to put her to sleep or tie her up or what?” He grinned and his bright little eyes darted at each of us in turn.
Siegfried reached out and grasped the tumour, feeling round the base with his fingers. “Hmm…yes…hmm…bring me some soap and water and a towel, will you please?”
“I have it just outside t’door.” The farmer scuttled into the yard and back again with the bucket
“Thank you very much,” Siegfried said. He washed his hands and gave them a leisurely towelling. “Now I believe you have another case to see. A scouring calf, wasn’t it?”
The farmer’s eyes widened. “Yes, I ’ave. But how about getting this big lump off the cow first?”
Siegfried folded the towel and hung it over the half door. “Oh, I’ve removed the tumour,” he said quietly.
“What’s that?” Mr. Kendall stared at the cow’s backside. We all stared at it. And there was no doubt about it—the growth was gone. And there was another funny thing—there wasn’t even a scar or mark remaining. I was standing quite close to the animal and I could see exactly to a fraction of an inch where that big ugly projection had been; and there was nothing, not a drop of blood, nothing.
“Aye,” Mr. Kendall said irresolutely. “You’ve er…you’ve removed…you’ve removed it, aye, that’s right.” The smile had vanished from his face and his entire personality seemed suddenly deflated. Being a man who knew everything and was surprised by nothing he was unable to say, “When the devil did you do it? And how? And what on earth have you done with it?” He had to maintain face at all costs, but he was rattled. He darted little glances around the byre, along the channel. The cow was standing in a clean-swept stall with no straw and there was nothing lying on the floor there or anywhere. Casually, as though by accident he pushed a milking stool to one side with his foot—still nothing.
“Well now, perhaps we can see the calf.” Siegfried began to move away.
Mr. Kendall nodded. “Yes…yes…the calf. He’s in t’corner there. I’ll just lift bucket first.”
It was a blatant excuse. He went over to the bucket and as he passed behind the cow he whipped out his spectacles, jammed them on his nose and directed a piercing glare at the cow’s bottom. He only took an instant because he didn’t want to show undue concern, but when he turned back towards us his face registered utter despair and he put his spectacles away with a weary gesture of defeat.
As he approached I turned and brushed against my partner.
“Where the hell is it?” I hissed.
“Up my sleeve,” murmured Siegfried without moving his lips or changing expression.
“What…?” I began, but Siegfried was climbing over a gate into the makeshift pen where the calf was cornered.
He was in an expansive mood as he examined the little creature and injected it. He kept up a steady flow of light conversation and Mr. Kendall, showing great character, managed to get his smile back on and answer back. But his preoccupied manner, the tortured eyes and the repeated incredulous glances back along the byre floor in the direction of the cow betrayed the fact that he was under immense strain.
Siegfried didn’t hurry over the calf and when he had finished he lingered a while in the yard, chatting about the weather, the way the grass was springing, the price of fat bullocks.
Mr. Kendall hung on grimly but by the time Siegfried finally waved farewell the farmer’s eyes were popping and his face was an anguished mask. He bolted back into the byre and as the car backed round I could see him bent double with his glasses on again, peering into the corners.
“Poor fellow,” I said. “He’s still looking for that thing. And for God’s sake where is it, anyway?”
“I told you, didn’t I?” Siegfried removed one arm from the wheel and shook it. A round fleshy ball rolled down into his hand.
I stared at it in amazement. “But…I never saw you take it off…what happened?”
“I’ll tell you.” My partner smiled indulgently. “I was fingering it over to see how deeply it was attached when I felt it begin to move. The back of it was merely encapsulated by the skin and when I gave another squeeze it just popped out and shot up my sleeve. And after it had gone the lips of the skin sprang back together again so that you couldn’t see where it had been. Extraordinary thing.”
Tristan reached over from the back seat. “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll take it back to college with me and get it sectioned. We’ll find out what kind of tumour it is.”
His brother smiled. “Yes, I expect they’ll give it some fancy name, but I’ll always remember it as the only thing that shook Mr. Kendall.”
“That was an interesting session in there,” I said. “And I must say I admired the way you dealt with that eye, Siegfried. Very smooth indeed.”
“You’re very kind, James,” my partner murmured. “That was just one of my little tricks—and of course the forceps helped a lot.”
I nodded. “Yes, wonderful little things. I’ve never seen anything like them. Where did you get them?”
“Picked them up on an instrument stall at the last Veterinary Congress. They cost me a packet but they’ve been worth it. Here, let me show them to you.” He put his hand in his breast pocket then his side pockets, and as he continued to rummage all over his person a look of sick dismay spread slowly across his face.
Finally he abandoned the search, cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on the road ahead.
“I’ll er…I’ll show you them some other time, James,” he said huskily.
I didn’t say anything but I knew and Siegfried knew and Tristan knew.
He’d left them on the farm.
7
ONE OF THE NICEST things about my married life was that my new wife got on so well with the Farnon brothers. And this was fitting because both of them had done their utmost to further my suit, Siegfried by means of some well-timed kicks in the pants, Tristan by more subtle motivation. The young man had been reassuring when I consulted him in the dispensary about my wooing that early summer morning.
“Well, it’s a good sign.” Tristan reluctantly expelled a lungful of Woodbine smoke and looked at me with wide, encouraging eyes.
“You think so?” I said doubtfully.
Tristan nodded “Sure of it. Helen just rang you up, did she?”
“Yes, out of the blue. I haven’t seen her since I took her to the pictures that night and it’s been hectic ever since with the lambing—and suddenly there she was asking me to tea on Sunday.”
“I like the sound of it,” Tristan said. “But of course you don’t want to get the idea you’re home and d
ry or anything like that. You know there are others in the field?”
“Hell, yes, I suppose I’m one of a crowd.”
“Not exactly, but Helen Alderson is really something. Not just a looker but…mm-mm, very nice. There’s a touch of class about that girl.”
“Oh I know, I know. There’s bound to be a mob of blokes after her. Like young Richard Edmundson—I hear he’s very well placed.”
“That’s right,” Tristan said “Old friends of the family, big farmers, rolling in brass. I understand old man Alderson fancies Richard strongly as a son-in-law.”
I dug my hands into my pockets. “Can’t blame him. A ragged arsed young vet isn’t much competition.”
“Well, don’t be gloomy, old lad, you’ve made a bit of progress, haven’t you?”
“In a way,” I said with a wry smile. “I’ve taken her out twice—to a dinner dance which wasn’t on and to a cinema showing the wrong film. A dead loss the first time and not much better the second. I just don’t seem to have any luck there—something goes wrong every time. Maybe this invitation is just a polite gesture—returning hospitality or something like that.”
“Nonsense!” Tristan laughed and patted me on the shoulder. This is the beginning of better things. You’ll see—nothing will go wrong this time.”
And on Sunday afternoon as I got out of the car to open the gate to Heston Grange it did seem as if all was right with the world. The rough track snaked down from the gate through the fields to Helen’s home slumbering in the sunshine by the curving river, and the grey-stoned old building was like a restful haven against the stark backcloth of the fells beyond.
I leaned on the gate for a moment, breathing in the sweet air. There had been a change during the last week; the harsh winds had dropped, everything had softened and greened and the warming land gave off its scents. On the lower slopes of the fell, in the shade of the pine woods, a pale mist of bluebells drifted among the dead bronze of the bracken and their fragrance came up to me on the breeze.
I drove down the track among the cows relishing the tender young grass after their long winter in the byres and as I knocked on the farmhouse door I felt a surge of optimism and well-being. Helen’s younger sister answered and it wasn’t until I walked into the big flagged kitchen that I experienced a qualm. Maybe it was because it was so like that first disastrous time I had called for Helen; Mr. Alderson was there by the fireside, deep in the Farmer and Stockbreeder as before, while above his head the cows in the vast oil painting still paddled in the lake of startling blue under the shattered peaks. On the whitewashed wall the clock still tick-tocked inexorably.
Helen’s father looked up over his spectacles just as he had done before. “Good afternoon, young man, come and sit down.” And as I dropped into the chair opposite to him he looked at me uncertainly for a few seconds. “It’s a better day,” he murmured, then his eyes were drawn back irresistibly to the pages on his knee. As he bent his head and started to read again I gained the strong impression that he hadn’t the slightest idea who I was.
It came back to me forcibly that there was a big difference in coming to a farm as a vet and visiting socially. I was often in farm kitchens on my rounds, washing my hands in the sink after kicking my boots off in the porch, chatting effortlessly to the farmer’s wife about the sick beast. But here I was in my good suit sitting stiffly across from a silent little man whose daughter I had come to court. It wasn’t the same at all.
I was relieved when Helen came in carrying a cake which she placed on the big table. This wasn’t easy as the table was already loaded; ham and egg pies rubbing shoulders with snowy scones, a pickled tongue cheek by jowl with a bowl of mixed salad, luscious looking custard tarts jockeying for position with sausage rolls, tomato sandwiches, fairy cakes. In a clearing near the centre a vast trifle reared its cream-topped head. It was a real Yorkshire tea.
Helen came over to me. “Hello, Jim, it’s nice to see you—you’re quite a stranger.” She smiled her slow, friendly smile.
“Hello, Helen. Yes, you know what lambing time’s like. I hope things will ease up a bit now.”
“Well I hope so too. Hard work’s all right up to a point but you need a break some time. Anyway, come and have some tea. Are you hungry?”
“I am now,” I said, gazing at the packed foodstuffs. Helen laughed. “Well come on, sit in. Dad, leave your precious Farmer and Stockbreeder and come over here. We were going to sit you in the dining room, Jim, but Dad won’t have his tea anywhere but in here, so that’s all about it.”
I took my place along with Helen, young Tommy and Mary her brother and sister, and Auntie Lucy, Mr. Alderson’s widowed sister who had recently come to live with the family. Mr. Alderson groaned his way over the flags, collapsed onto a high-backed wooden chair and began to saw phlegmatically at the tongue.
As I accepted my laden plate I can’t say I felt entirely at ease. In the course of my work I had eaten many meals in the homes of the hospitable Dalesmen and I had discovered that light chatter was not welcomed at table. The accepted thing, particularly among the more old-fashioned types, was to put the food away in silence and get back on the job, but maybe this was different. Sunday tea might be a more social occasion; I looked round the table, waiting for somebody to lead the way.
Helen spoke up. “Jim’s had a busy time among the sheep since we saw him last.”
“Oh yes?” Auntie Lucy put her head on one side and smiled. She was a little bird-like woman, very like her brother and the way she looked at me made me feel she was on my side.
The young people regarded me fixedly with twitching mouths. The only other time I had met them they had found me an object of some amusement and things didn’t seem to have changed. Mr. Alderson sprinkled some salt on a radish, conveyed it to his mouth and crunched it impassively.
“Did you have much twin lamb disease this time, Jim?” Helen asked, trying again.
“Quite a bit,” I replied brightly. “Haven’t had much luck with treatment though. I tried dosing the ewes with glucose this year and I think it did a bit of good.”
Mr. Alderson swallowed the last of his radish. “I think nowt to glucose,” he grunted. “I’ve had a go with it and I think nowt to it.”
“Really?” I said. “Well now that’s interesting. Yes…yes…quite.”
I buried myself in my salad for a spell before offering a further contribution.
“There’s been a lot of sudden deaths in the lambs,” I said. “Seems to be more Pulpy Kidney about.”
“Fancy that,” said Auntie Lucy, smiling encouragingly.
“Yes,” I went on, getting into my stride. “It’s a good job we’ve got a vaccine against it now.”
“Wonderful things, those vaccines,” Helen chipped in. “You’ll soon be able to prevent a lot of the sheep diseases that way.” The conversation was warming up.
Mr. Alderson finished his tongue and pushed his plate away. “I think nowt to the vaccines. And those sudden deaths you’re on about—they’re caused by wool ball on t’stomach. Nowt to do wi’ the kidneys.”
“Ah yes, wool ball eh? I see, wool ball.” I subsided and decided to concentrate on the food.
And it was worth concentrating on. As I worked my way through I was aware of a growing sense of wonder that Helen had probably baked the entire spread. It was when my teeth were sinking into a poem of a curd tart that I really began to appreciate the miracle that somebody of Helen’s radiant attractiveness should be capable of this.
I looked across at her. She was a big girl, nothing like her little wisp of a father. She must have taken after her mother. Mrs. Alderson had been dead for many years and I wondered if she had had that same wide, generous mouth that smiled so easily, those same warm blue eyes under the soft mass of black-brown hair.
A spluttering from Tommy and Mary showed that they had been appreciatively observing me gawping at their sister.
“That’s enough, you two,” Auntie Lucy reproved. “Anyway you can go now,
we’re going to clear the table.”
Helen and she began to move the dishes to the scullery beyond the door while Mr. Alderson and I returned to our chairs by the fireside.
The little man ushered me to mine with a vague wave of the hand. “Here…take a seat, er…young man.”
A clattering issued from the kitchen as the washing-up began. We were alone.
Mr. Alderson’s hand strayed automatically towards his Farmer and Stockbreeders but he withdrew it after a single hunted glance in my direction and began to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair, whistling softly under his breath.
I groped desperately for an opening gambit but came up with nothing. The ticking of the clock boomed out into the silence. I was beginning to break out into a sweat when the little man cleared his throat
“Pigs were a good trade on Monday,” he vouchsafed.
“They were, eh? Well, that’s fine—jolly good.”
Mr. Alderson nodded, fixed his gaze somewhere above my left shoulder and started drumming his fingers again. Once more the heavy silence blanketed us and the clock continued to hammer out its message.
After several years Mr. Alderson stirred in his seat and gave a little cough. I looked at him eagerly.
“Store cattle were down, though,” he said.
“Ah, too bad, what a pity,” I babbled. “But that’s how it goes, I suppose, eh?”
Helen’s father shrugged and we settled down again. This time I knew it was hopeless. My mind was a void and my companion had the defeated look of a man who has shot his conversational bolt. I lay back and studied the hams and sides of bacon hanging from their hooks in the ceiling, then I worked my way along the row of plates on the big oak dresser to a gaudy calendar from a cattle cake firm which dangled from a nail on the wall. I took a chance then and stole a glance at Mr. Alderson out of the corner of my eye and my toes curled as I saw he had chosen that precise moment to have a sideways peep at me. We both looked away hurriedly.