All Creatures Great and Small (60 page)

Nothing more was said until he had replenished our glasses, balancing the amounts meticulously again. He took a sip at his second measure then he looked down at the rug and spoke in a small voice.

“James,” he said, “I had a wife in a thousand.”

I was so surprised I hardly knew what to say. “Yes, I know,” I murmured. “I’ve heard a lot about her.”

Mr. Alderson went on, still looking down, his voice full of gentle yearning.

“Aye, she was the grandest lass for miles around and the bonniest.” He looked up at me suddenly with the ghost of a smile. “Nobody thought she’d ever have a feller like me, you know. But she did.” He paused and looked away. “Aye, she did.”

He began to tell me about his dead wife. He told me calmly, without self-pity, but with a wistful gratitude for the happiness he had known. And I discovered that Mr. Alderson was different from a lot of the farmers of his generation because he said nothing about her being a “good worker.” So many of the women of those times seemed to be judged mainly on their working ability and when I had first come to Darrowby I had been shocked when I commiserated with a newly-widowed old man. He had brushed a tear from his eye and said “Aye, she was a grand worker.”

But Mr. Alderson said only that his wife had been beautiful, that she had been kind, and that he had loved her very much. He talked about Helen, too, about the things she had said and done when she was a little girl, about how very like her mother she was in every way. He never said anything about me but I had the feeling all the time that he meant it to concern me; and the very fact that he was talking so freely seemed a sign that the barriers were coming down.

Actually he was talking a little too freely. He was half way down his third huge whisky and in my experience Yorkshire-men just couldn’t take the stuff. I had seen burly ten-pint men from the local pubs keel over after a mere sniff at the amber fluid and little Mr. Alderson hardly drank at all. I was getting worried.

But there was nothing I could do, so I let him ramble on happily. He was lying right back in his chair now, completely at ease, his eyes, alight with his memories, gazing somewhere above my head. In fact I am convinced he had forgotten I was there because after one long passage he dropped his eyes, caught sight of me and stared for a moment without recognition. When he did manage to place me it seemed to remind him of his duties as a host. But as he reached again for the bottle he caught sight of the clock on the wall.

“Well dang it, it’s four o’clock. We’ve been here long enough. It’s hardly worth goin’ to bed, but I suppose we’d better have an hour or two’s sleep.” He tipped the last of the whisky down his throat, jumped briskly to his feet, looked around him for a few moments in a business-like sort of way then pitched head first with a sickening clatter among the fire irons.

Frozen with horror, I started forward to help the small figure scrabbling on the hearth but I needn’t have worried because he bounced back to his feet in a second or two and looked me in the eye as if nothing had happened.

“Well, I’d better be off,” I said. “Thanks for the drink.” There was no point in staying longer as I realised that the chances of Mr. Alderson saying “Bless you, my son,” or anything like that were remote. But I had a comforting impression that all was going to be well.

As I made my way to the door the farmer made a creditable attempt to usher me out but his direction was faulty and he tacked helplessly away from me across the kitchen floor before collapsing against a tall dresser. From under a row of willow pattern dinner plates his face looked at me with simple bewilderment.

I hesitated then turned back. “I’ll just walk up the stairs with you, Mr. Alderson,” I said in a matter-of-fact voice and the little man made no resistance as I took his arm and guided him towards the door in the far corner.

As we creaked our way upstairs he stumbled and would have gone down again had I not grabbed him round the waist. As I caught him he looked up at me and grunted “Thanks, lad,” and we grinned at each other for a moment before restarting the climb.

I supported him across the landing to his bedroom door and he stood hesitating as though about to say something. But finally he just nodded to me a couple of times before ducking inside.

I waited outside the door, listening in some anxiety to the bumps and thumps from within; but I relaxed as a loud, tuneless humming came through the panels. Everything most certainly was going to be all right.

SIXTY-SEVEN

C
ONSIDERING WE SPENT OUR
honeymoon tuberculin testing it was a big success. It compared favourably, at any rate, with the experiences of a lot of people I know who celebrated this milestone in their lives by cruising for a month on sunny seas and still wrote it off as a dead loss. For Helen and me it had all the ingredients; laughter, fulfilment and cameraderie, and yet it only lasted a week. And, as I say, we spent it tuberculin testing.

The situation had its origins one morning at the breakfast table when Siegfried, red-eyed after a bad night with a colicky mare, was opening the morning mail. He drew his breath in sharply as a thick roll of forms fell from an official envelope.

“God almighty! Look at all that testing!” He smoothed out the forms on the tablecloth and read feverishly down the long list of farm premises. “And they want us to start this lot around Ellerthorpe next week without fail—it’s very urgent.” He glared at me for a moment. “That’s when you’re getting married, isn’t it?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

Siegfried snatched a piece of toast from the rack and began to slap butter on it like an exasperated bricklayer. “Well this is just great, isn’t it? The practice going mad, a week’s testing right at the top of the Dale, away in the back of beyond, and your bloody wedding smack in the middle of it. You’ll be drifting gaily off on your honeymoon without a care in the world while I’m rushing around here nearly disappearing up my own backside!” He bit a piece from the toast and began to crunch it savagely.

“I’m sorry, Siegfried,” I said. “I didn’t mean to land you in the cart like this. I couldn’t know the practice was going to get so busy right now and I never expected them to throw all this testing at us.”

Siegfried paused in his chewing and pointed a finger at me. “That’s just it, James, that’s your trouble—you don’t look ahead. You just go belting straight on without a thought. Even when it comes to a bloody wedding you’re not worried—oh no, let’s get on with it, to hell with the consequences.” He paused to cough up a few crumbs which he had inhaled in his agitation. “In fact I can’t see what all the hurry is—you’ve got all the time in the world to get married, you’re just a boy. And another thing—you hardly know this girl, you’ve only been seeing her regularly for a few weeks.”

“But wait a minute, you said …”

“No, let me finish, James. Marriage is a very serious step, not to be embarked upon without long and serious thought. Why in God’s name does it have to be next week? Next year would have been soon enough and you could have enjoyed a nice long engagement. But no, you’ve got to rush in and tie the knot and it isn’t so easily untied you know.”

“Oh hell, Siegfried, this is too bad! You know perfectly well it was you who …”

“One moment more. Your precipitate marital arrangements are going to cause me a considerable headache but believe me I wish you well. I hope all turns out for the best despite your complete lack of foresight, but at the same time I must remind you of the old saying: ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ ”

I could stand no more. I leaped to my feet, thumped a fist on the table and yelled at him.

“But damn it, it was your idea! I was all for leaving it for a bit but you …”

Siegfried wasn’t listening. He had been cooling off all the time and now his face broke into a seraphic smile. “Now, now, now, James, you’re getting excited again. Sit down and calm yourself. You mustn’t mind my speaking to you like this—you are very young and it’s my duty. You haven’t done anything wrong at all; I suppose it’s the most natural thing in the world for people of your age to act without thinking ahead, to jump into things with never a thought of the morrow. It’s just the improvidence of youth.” Siegfried was about six years older than I but he had donned the mantle of the omniscient greybeard without effort.

I dug my fingers into my knees and decided not to pursue the matter. I had no chance anyway, and besides, I was beginning to feel a bit worried about clearing off and leaving him snowed under with work. I got up and walked to the window where I watched old Will Varley pushing a bicycle up the street with a sack of potatoes balanced on the handlebars as I had watched him a hundred times before. Then I turned back to my employer. I had had one of my infrequent ideas.

“Look, Siegfried, I wouldn’t mind spending my honeymoon round Ellerthorpe. It’s wonderful up there at this time of the year and we could stay at the Wheat Sheaf. I could do the testing from there.”

He looked at me in astonishment. “Spend it at Ellerthorpe? And testing? It’s impossible—what would Helen say?”

“She wouldn’t mind. In fact she could do the writing for me. We were only going off touring in the car so we haven’t made any plans, and anyway it’s funny, but Helen and I have often said we’d like to stay at the Wheat Sheaf some time—there’s something about that little pub.”

Siegfried shook his head decisively. “No, James, I won’t hear of it. In fact you’re beginning to make me feel guilty. I’ll get through the work all right so forget about it and go away and have a good time.”

“No, I’ve made up my mind. I’m really beginning to like the idea.” I scanned the list quickly. “I can start testing at Allen’s and do all those smaller ones around there on Tuesday, get married on Wednesday and go back for the second injection and readings on Thursday and Friday. I can knock hell out of that list by the end of the week.”

Siegfried looked at me as though he was seeing me for the first time. He argued and protested but for once I got my way. I fished the Ministry notification cards from the desk drawer and began to make the arrangements for my honeymoon.

On Tuesday at 12 noon I had finished testing Allen’s huge herd scattered for miles over the stark fells at the top of the Dale and was settling down with the hospitable folk for the inevitable “bit o’ dinner.” Mr. Allen was at the head of the scrubbed table and facing me were his two sons, Jack, aged about twenty, and Robbie, about seventeen. The young men were superbly fit and tough and I had been watching all morning in something like awe as they manhandled the wild, scattered beasts, chasing and catching tirelessly hour after hour. I had stared incredulously as Jack had run down a galloping heifer on the open moor, seized its horns and borne it slowly to the ground for me to inject; it struck me more than once that it was a pity that an Olympic Selector was unlikely to stray into this remote corner of high Yorkshire—he would have seen material to beat the world.

I always had to stand a bit of leg-pulling from Mrs. Allen, a jolly talkative woman; on previous visits she had ribbed me mercilessly about being a slowcoach with the girls, the disgrace of having nothing better than a housekeeper to look after me. I knew she would start on me again today but I bided my time; I had a devastating riposte up my sleeve. She had just opened the oven door, filling the room with a delectable fragrance, and as she dumped a huge slab of roast ham on the table she looked down at me with a smile.

“Now then, Mr. Herriot, when are we going to get you married off? It’s time you found a nice girl, you know I’m always at you but you take not a bit o’ notice.” She giggled as she bustled back to the cooking range for a bowl of mashed potatoes.

I waited until she had returned before I dropped my bombshell. “Well, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Allen,” I said airily, “I’ve decided to accept your advice. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

The good woman, mounding mashed potatoes on to my plate, stopped with her spoon in mid air. “Married tomorrow?” Her face was a study in blank astonishment.

“That’s right. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“But … but … you’re coming back here on Thursday and Friday.”

“Well of course. I have to finish the test, haven’t I? I’ll be bringing my wife with me—I’m looking forward to introducing her to you.”

There was a silence. The young men stared at me, Mr. Allen stopped sawing at the ham and regarded me stolidly, then his wife gave an uncertain laugh.

“Oh come on, I don’t believe it. You’re kidding us. You’d be off on your honeymoon if you were getting married tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Allen,” I said with dignity, “I wouldn’t joke about a serious matter like that. Let me repeat—tomorrow is my wedding day and I’ll be bringing my wife along on Thursday to see you.”

Completely deflated, she heaped our plates and we all fell to in silence. But I knew she was in agony; she kept darting little glances at me and it was obvious she was dying to ask me more. The boys, too, seemed intrigued; only Mr. Allen, a tall, quiet man who, I’m sure, wouldn’t have cared if I’d been going to rob a bank tomorrow, ploughed calmly through his food.

Nothing more was said until I was about to leave, then Mrs. Allen put a hand on my arm.

“You really don’t mean it, do you?” Her face was haggard with strain.

I got into the car and called out through the window. “Goodbye and thank you. Mrs. Herriot and I will be along first thing on Thursday.”

I can’t remember much about the wedding. It was a “quiet do” and my main recollection is of desiring to get it all over with as soon as possible. I have only one vivid memory; of Siegfried, just behind me in the church booming “Amen” at regular intervals throughout the ceremony—the only time I have ever heard a best man do this.

It was an incredible relief when Helen and I were ready to drive away and when we were passing Skeldale House Helen grasped my hand.

“Look!” she cried excitedly. “Look over there!”

Underneath Siegfried’s brass plate which always hung slightly askew on the iron railings was a brand new one. It was of the modern bakelite type with a black background and bold white letters which read “J. Herriot M.R.C.V.S. Veterinary Surgeon,” and it was screwed very straight and level on the metal.