“Well, you ought to have him covered, too.”
“But he’s nobbut a lad.”
“Okay.” George spread his hands. “He goes in cheaper. Five pounds a year. Same benefits.”
The brothers’ resistance seemed to have crumbled. “Awright, s’pose we might as well. We’ll do ’im, too.”
George tripped off to his car, whistling merrily, and we got on with the test.
It was about three weeks later that I met Clem in Darrowby market place. He was sauntering along, looking in the shop windows, and he was wearing a smart dark suit, obviously not his working clothes. It was late afternoon when he would normally have been bringing in his cows for milking, and I wondered at his presence in the town until he turned round and I saw that his arm was in a sling.
“What on earth have you been doing, Clem?” I asked.
He looked down at the bulky white cast. “Broke me arm. Slipped up on the cow-house floor. And would you believe it?” His eyes widened. “It was nubbut three days after I’d signed that insurance form. Ah’m gettin’ twenty pun a week, and the doctor reckons it’ll be another nine weeks afore I can start work. That’ll be more than two hundred quid I’ll have collected. All right, eh?”
“It certainly is. What a blessing you took George Forsyth’s advice. But you’ll be paying for somebody to help you?”
“Nay, nay, we’re managin’ grand as it is.” He walked away, chuckling.
Clem’s injury had healed by the time I had to visit the Hudson farm again to “cleanse” a cow. Clem brought me a bucket of hot water, and I was soaping my arms when Dick came in. I should say he hobbled in, because he was on crutches.
I stared at him, and an eerie sense of the workings of fate stirred in my mind. “Broken leg?”
“Aye,” Dick replied laconically. “Did it as easy as owt. Tryin’ to catch an awd ewe on top pasture and upskittled meself in a rabbit hole.”
“You’ll be out of action for a while, then?”
“Aye, plaster’s got to stay on for fourteen weeks. It’s a bloody nuisance, but all them twenty quids is very nice. Good job we signed that paper.”
I didn’t see him until he came into the surgery one market day to pay his veterinary bill. He had shed his cast but was still limping slightly.
“How is the leg, Dick?” I asked as I wrote in the receipt book.
He grimaced. “Nobbut middlin’. Aches like ’ell sometimes, but I think it’s gettin’ stronger.”
“Ah, well.” I handed him the receipted account. “You’ll just have to take things a bit easier till you’re back to normal.”
“Can’t do that,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re short-handed as it is. Young Herbert’s had a accident.”
“What!”
“Aye, stuck a hay fork into ’is foot and got blood poisonin’. He’s well enough in ’imself, but Doctor says it’ll be a long time afore he can walk about.”
In fact, it was ten weeks before Herbert returned to work, but as Clem confided to me over a beer when I encountered him one night in the Drovers’ Arms, the two hundred pounds they collected from the insurance company had been something of a consolation.
“Remarkable thing,” I said. “George Forsyth must have been sent from heaven that morning. His company has been a tremendous help to you.”
Clem showed no enthusiasm but stared gloomily into his glass. “But ah’ll tell tha summat. They’re funny fellers, them insurance men. Would ye believe it, after all that talkin’ they don’t want us any more.”
“Really? How’s that?”
“Well, we got a letter from them sayin’, ‘We do not wish to renew your insurance.’ What d’you make of that?”
“That sometimes happens, Clem,” I said. Privately, I wasn’t surprised. For an outlay of twenty-five pounds, the Hudsons had received more than seven hundred pounds within a few months. I could imagine any company beating a hasty retreat.
“Any road,” he continued, “we got another lot to take us on at t’end of the year. We’ve shifted all our business to them—farm, car and t’lot.”
“And another accident policy, I suppose?”
Clem tipped up his glass and took a long swallow. “Oh, aye.” Then he turned to me with an injured expression. “But they’ve made us pay an extra pound each.”
It was some months later, shortly after the new company had shouldered the burden of the Hudsons’ insurance, that Dick fell into the bowels of the tractor. He could have been seriously injured but sustained only a fracture of the thumb, which kept him off work for eight weeks.
He told me about it himself when he had recovered and I was having a cup of tea in the farmhouse. “Another one hundred sixty pounds into the kitty,” he said philosophically, pushing a plateful of homemade scones towards me.
I must have looked bemused because he laughed. “And that’s not all, Mr. Herriot. I had a accident with the car.”
“No!”
“Aye, ah did. Ran into t’side of young Bessie Trenholm’s car and smashed me radiator and lights.”
“Well, that’s almost unbelievable. And another claim, eh?”
Dick gave me a wry smile. “Well, now, I’ll tell ye. There’s a bit of a story there. It was Bessie’s fault, all right—she came out of her farm gate with no warnin’—but ah’d only insured my car for third party, and I thought if it came to an argument wi’ only my word against hers, I’d have no chance because she’s a bonny young lass, is Bessie. So I decided not to claim, though ah did mention it to the agent.”
“So nothing doing this time?”
Dick’s smile widened. “That’s what ah thought, but the agent came to see me a few days after and told me they’d made a mistake at his office. They’d insured me car comprehensive.”
“Good Lord! So you collected again?”
“Aye, another one hundred fifty pounds. Not bad.” Dick cut a piece from a wedge of Wensleydale cheese, and his expression grew serious. “There’s only one thing we’re worried about. The agent acted a bit queer-like when ’e gave us the money. Didn’t seem ower pleased. We’re just hopin’ this company isn’t goin’ to give us t’push like the last one.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand. That would be unfortunate.”
“It would ’an all.” Dick nodded gravely. “Clem and me’s big believers in insurance.”
Chapter
21
November 3, 1961
I CRAWLED INTO MY bunk at 3 A.M., and it seemed that I had hardly fallen asleep before I was awakened by the ship leaping and bucking like a wild thing. I looked out of my window at a vast stretch of wind-tossed ocean.
Away in the distance, the lights of Klaipeda glimmered and faded. So the mate had been right; our captain was not to be deterred by a bit of bad weather.
For the rest of the night I remembered painfully the warnings I had heard about coming home against the wind. On the way to Klaipeda, the main motion had been a sideways rolling, which I had countered by jamming knees and elbows against the sides of the bunk, but this was a violent fore-and-aft movement, and it was ten times worse. Over and over again I slid from one end of the bunk to the other, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. From my weird changes of position, I could divine that the ship’s bows were high in the air one moment and pointing right down the next.
Outside, the gale howled, spray dashed against the windows and the cabin furniture and my worldly goods flew around the place unchecked. I let them get on with it. Tidying up, I felt, would be a fruitless and dangerous business.
Being thrown about constantly and listening to the medley of bangs and clatterings from all over the ship gave me small chance of sleep, and when dawn came I peered out at a dismal scene.
I discovered then the reason for one of the new sounds I had heard during the night. Whereas the ship had slid down the sides of the huge waves with the wind behind it, it now fell, keel first, into each green chasm, and when this happened, there was a jarring crash as though w
e had hit a rock. It was like a diver doing a belly flop, and the effect was alarming.
It seemed that after this terrible night my friends on the ship had decided that I would be prostrate and helpless this morning, because instead of the mess boy calling me at 8 A.M., Nielsen himself knocked and spoke through the door.
“You stay in bed, Mr. Herriot. I bring you a little breakfast.”
“No thanks,” I replied. “Come in.”
He opened the door and looked startled when he saw me trying to shave with my back jammed against one wall and my foot against another.
“You okay?” he asked disbelievingly.
I seized upon a momentary pause in the ship’s pitching to scrape another inch of soap from my face. “Yes, fine. What did you say about breakfast?”
“Well … we have kippers, fried eggs and some nice smoked sausage.”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He gave me a final incredulous glance and left.
When I entered the mess room, only the mate was present. He was working among the assorted foodstuffs, and he raised his eyebrows and paused, fork halfway to his mouth, when he saw me start enthusiastically on my piled plate.
“Mr. Herriot,” he said solemnly, “you are the first landsman I have known who is not sick after last night.”
It made me feel good. As I have said, there is nothing clever about not being sick, but it was nice to know I had something special in the way of stomachs.
It is interesting to note that the only time I felt strange was when I struggled up to the deck for some fresh air and stood for some time looking out on the crazily swinging sea. After a while, as I hung onto a rail, I began to experience a sort of dizziness. It was a visual thing, brought on somehow by watching the constant lifting and falling of the world about me, but it wasn’t pleasant and I went back to my cabin.
In fact, I have stayed in my bunk most of the day. It is the only safe place. Since my sheep have gone I have nothing to do and, in any case, it is dangerous for an inexperienced sailor like me to move about. I have had one or two frights through being suddenly catapulted off my feet, and the danger of breaking a limb or splitting my head on a sharp projection is very real.
So it looks as though my life for the next few days is going to consist of lying on my back, reading paperback books and eating. This is all very fine, but I am used to an active existence, and I feel that a very bloated Herriot is going to roll back to Darrowby.
One hazard is that the faithful Nielsen now has me at his mercy. The galley is only a few yards away, and he keeps opening my door and sliding in a crate of lager or a tray with a mug of coffee and bread and jam.
Sometimes it is a more substantial offering, as when he marched into my cabin this afternoon, his body adjusting miraculously to the shifting slope of the floor. In one hand he held a plate and in the other a jug. On the plate rested a ring of mashed potatoes, into which he poured hot fat containing bacon and onions.
He laughed eagerly. “This is beeg food of the poor in Denmark. Is called Hot Love.”
He watched with deep satisfaction as I consumed this strange dish. I relished every morsel, though dieticians would frown on it. The same dieticians would be horrified if they knew that this was merely an interlude between a lunch of huge beefy things that looked like hamburgers followed by a chocolate soup with unpronounceable rusks broken into it, and a dinner consisting of a creation of sauerkraut cooked in butter, milk and flour and mixed with potatoes. I say nothing of the usual array of cold dishes always at my disposal to allay any lingering hunger pangs. Yes, there is no doubt about it. I am going to get fat.
If I was on this ship long enough, I would probably finish up like Carl Rasmussen, the plump little mate. He is the champion eater of the ship. He ploughs impassively through the official meal, then starts on the cold stuff, of which he consumes a vast quantity before finishing with slice after slice of bread and dripping. The captain often looks at him with his gentle smile and pats his stomach wonderingly.
I am not going to say that he has the biggest appetite I have ever seen because I have come across some mighty troughers on the Dales farms, but he is undoubtedly in the top flight. I myself have a modest reputation in this field—Tristan often refers to me as “the big eater from Darrowby”—but I am not in Carl’s class. He enthralls me.
Over the schnapps the captain told me that they had intended to go to Danzig on the way back, but the plan has been changed. We are going instead to the Polish port of Stettin. At least, those were their names when they were part of Germany, but they are now called Gdansk and Szczecin, although the ship’s officers refer to them by their German names. We have to pick up 800 pigs to transport to Lübeck.
He hopes to arrive in Stettin (I think I’ll stick to the old spelling) on Sunday and get the pigs to Lübeck by Monday, but everything depends on the weather, which is still foul. With this gale against us, we are managing to do only six knots.
As I scribble in my diary I keep sliding down to the cabin door, then I have to drag myself back to the other end and start again. It looks like another sleepless night.
Chapter
22
“I LET MY HEART fall into careless hands.” Little Rosie’s voice piped in my ear as I guided my car over a stretch of rutted road. I had singing now to cheer the hours of driving.
I was on my way to dress a wound on a cow’s back and it was nice to hear the singing. But it was beginning to dawn on me that something better still was happening. I was starting all over again with another child. When Jimmy went to school I missed his company in the car, but I did not realise that the whole thing was going to begin anew with Rosie.
The intense pleasure of showing them the farm animals and seeing their growing wonder at the things of the countryside, the childish chatter that never palled; the fun and the laughter that lightened my days—it all happened twice to me.
The singing had originated in the purchase of a radiogram. Music has always meant a lot to me and I owned a record player that gave me a lot of pleasure. Still, I felt I wanted something better, some means of reproducing more faithfully the sounds of my favourite orchestras, singers, instrumentalists.
Hi-fi outfits hadn’t been heard of at that time, nor stereo, nor wrap-around sound, nor any of the other things that have revolutionised the world of listening. The best the music lover could do was to get a good radiogram.
After much agonising and reading of pamphlets and listening to advice from many quarters, I narrowed my list down to three models and made my choice by having them brought round to Skeldale House and playing the opening of the “Beethoven Violin Concerto” on one after the other, again and again. I must have driven the two men from the electric shop nearly mad, but at the end there was no doubt left in my mind.
It had to be the Murphy, a handsome piece of furniture with a louvred front and graceful legs, and it bellowed out the full volume of the Philharmonia Orchestra without a trace of muzziness. I was enchanted with it, but there was one snag; it cost over ninety pounds, and that was an awful lot of money in 1950.
“Helen,” I said when we had installed it in the sitting room, “we’ve got to look after this thing. The kids can put records on my old player, but we must keep them away from the Murphy.”
Foolish words. The very next day as I came in the front door, the passage was echoing with Yippee ay ooooh, yippee ay aaaay, ghost riders in the skyyy! It was Bing Crosby’s back-up choir, belting out the other side of the “Careless Hands” record, and the Murphy was giving it full value.
I peeped round the sitting-room door. “Ghost Riders” had come to an end, and with her chubby little hands Rosie removed the record, placed it in its cover and marched, pigtails swinging, to the record cabinet. She selected another disc and was halfway across the floor when I waylaid her.
“Which one is that?” I asked.
“ ‘The Little Gingerbread Man,’ ” she replied.
I looke
d at the label. It was, too, and how did she know, because I had a whole array of these children’s records, and many of them looked exactly the same. The same colour, the same grouping of words, and Rosie, at the age of three, could not read.
She fitted the disc expertly on the turntable and set it going. I listened to “The Gingerbread Man” right through and watched as she picked out another record.
I looked over her shoulder. “What is it this time?”
“ Tubby the Tuba.’ “
And indeed it was. I had an hour to spare, and Rosie gave me a recital. We went through “Uncle Mac’s Nursery Rhymes,” The Happy Prince,” “Peter and the Wolf” and many of the immortal Bing, to whom I was and am devoted. I was intrigued to find that her favourite Crosby record was not “Please,” or “How Deep Is the Ocean” or his other classics, but “Careless Hands.” This one had something special for her.
At the end of the session, I decided that it was fruitless to try to keep Rosie and the Murphy apart. Whenever she was not out with me, she played with the radiogram. It was her toy.
It all turned out for the best, too, because she did my precious acquisition no harm, and when she came with me on my rounds, she sang the things she had played so often and which were word-perfect in her mind. And I really loved that singing. “Careless Hands” soon became my favourite, too.
There were three gates on the road to this farm, and we came bumping up to the first one now. The singing stopped abruptly. This was one of my daughter’s big moments. When I drew up she jumped from the car, strutted proudly to the gate and opened it. She took this duty very seriously, and her small face was grave as I drove through. When she returned to take her place by my dog, Sam, on the passenger seat, I patted her knee.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said. “You’re such a big help to me all the time.”
She didn’t say anything but blushed and seemed to swell with importance. She knew I meant what I said, because opening gates is a chore.
We negotiated the other two gates in similar manner and drove into the farmyard. The farmer, Mr. Binns, had shut the cow up in a ramshackle pen with a passage that stretched from a dead end to the outside.