James Herriot (42 page)

“Please, Mr. Harcourt, I give you my word, I … we … we do want the work very much.” And I meant it with all my heart.

The big man slumped back in his chair and regarded me for a few moments in silence. Then he glanced at his wrist watch.

“Ten past twelve,” he murmured. “They’ll be open at the Red Lion. Let’s go and have a beer.”

In the pub lounge he took a long pull at his glass, placed it carefully on the table in front of him, then turned to me with a touch of weariness.

“You know, Herriot, I do wish you’d stop doing this sort of thing. It takes it out of me.”

I believed him. His face had lost a little of its colour and his hand trembled slightly as he raised his glass again.

“I’m truly sorry, Mr. Harcourt, I don’t know how it happened. I did try to get it right this time and I’ll do my best to avoid troubling you in future.”

He nodded a few times then clapped me on the shoulder. “Good, good—let’s just have one more.”

He moved over to the bar, brought back the drinks then fished out a brown paper parcel from his pocket.

“Little wedding present, Herriot. Understand you’re getting married soon—this is from my missus and me with our best wishes.”

I didn’t know what to say. I fumbled the wrapping away and uncovered a small square barometer.

Shame engulfed me as I muttered a few words of thanks. This man was the head of the Ministry in the area while I was the newest and lowest of his minions. Not only that, but I was pretty sure I caused him more trouble than all the others put together—I was like a hair shirt to him. There was no earthly reason why he should give me a barometer.

This last experience deepened my dread of form filling to the extent that I hoped it would be a long time before I encountered another tuberculous animal, but fate decreed that I had some concentrated days of clinical inspections and it was with a feeling of inevitability that I surveyed Mr. Moverley’s Ayrshire cow.

It was the soft cough which made me stop and look at her more closely, and as I studied her my spirits sank. This was another one. The skin stretched tightly over the bony frame, the slightly accelerated respirations and that deep careful cough. Mercifully you don’t see cows like that now, but in those days they were all too common.

I moved along her side and examined the wall in front of her. The tell-tale blobs of sputum were clearly visible on the rough stones and I quickly lifted a sample and smeared it on a glass slide.

Back at the surgery I stained the smear by Ziehl-Nielson’s method and pushed the slide under the microscope. The red clumps of tubercle bacilli lay among the scattered cells, tiny, iridescent and deadly. I hadn’t really needed the grim proof but it was there.

Mr. Moverley was not amused when I told him next morning that the animal would have to be slaughtered.

“It’s nobbut got a bit of a chill,” he grunted. The farmers were never pleased when one of their milk producers was removed by a petty bureaucrat like me. “But ah suppose it’s no use arguin’.”

“I assure you, Mr. Moverley, there’s no doubt about it I examined that sample last night and …”

“Oh never mind about that.” The farmer waved an impatient hand. “If t’bloody government says me cow’s got to go she’s got to go. But ah get compensation, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.”

“How much?”

I thought rapidly. The rules stated that the animal be valued as if it were up for sale in the open market in its present condition. The minimum was five pounds and there was no doubt that this emaciated cow came into that category.

“The statutory value is five pounds,” I said.

“Shit!” replied Mr. Moverley.

“We can appoint a valuer if you don’t agree.”

“Oh ’ell, let’s get t’job over with.” He was clearly disgusted and I thought it imprudent to tell him that he would only get a proportion of the five pounds, depending on the post mortem.

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll tell Jeff Mallock to collect her as soon as possible.”

The fact that I was unpopular with Mr. Moverley didn’t worry me as much as the prospect of dealing with the dreaded forms. The very thought of sending another batch winging hopefully on its way to Charles Harcourt brought me out in a sweat.

Then I had a flash of inspiration. Such things don’t often happen to me, but this struck me as brilliant. I wouldn’t send off the forms till I’d had them vetted by Kitty Pattison.

I couldn’t wait to get the plan under way. Almost gleefully I laid the papers out in a long row, signed them and laid them by their envelopes, ready for their varied journeys. Then I ’phoned the Ministry office.

Kitty was patient and kind. I am sure she realised that I did my work conscientiously but that I was a clerical numbskull and she sympathised.

When I had finished going through the list she congratulated me. “Well done, Mr. Herriot you’ve got them right this time! All you need now is the knacker man’s signature and your post mortem report and you’re home and dry.”

‘“Bless you, Kitty,” I said. “You’ve made my day.”

And she had. The airy sensation of relief was tremendous. The knowledge that there would be no come-back from Charles this time was like the sun bursting through dark clouds. I felt like singing as I went round to Mallow’s yard and arranged with him to pick up the cow.

“Have her ready for me to inspect tomorrow, Jeff,” I said, and went on my way with a light heart.

I couldn’t understand it when Mr. Moverley waved me down from his farm gate next day. As I drew up I could see he was extremely agitated.

“Hey!” he cried. “Ah’ve just got back from the market and my missus tells me Mallock’s been!”

I smiled. “That’s right Mr. Moverley. Remember I told you I was going to send him round for your cow.”

“Aye, ah know all about that!” He paused and glared at me. “But he’s took the wrong one!”

“Wrong … wrong what?”

“Wrong cow, that’s what! He’s off wi’ the best cow in me herd. Pedigree Ayrshire—ah bought ’er in Dumfries last week and they only delivered ’er this mornin’.”

Horror drove through me in a freezing wave. I had told the knacker man to collect the Ayrshire which would be isolated in the loose box in the yard. The new animal would be in a box, too, after her arrival. I could see Jeff and his man leading her up the ramp into his wagon with a dreadful clarity.

“This is your responsibility, tha knaws!” The farmer waved a threatening finger. “If he kills me good cow you’ll ’ave to answer for it!”

He didn’t have to tell me. I’d have to answer for it to a lot of people, including Charles Harcourt.

“Get on the ’phone to the knacker yard right away!” I gasped.

The farmer waved his arms about. “Ah’ve tried that and there’s no reply. Ah tell ye he’ll shoot ’er afore we can stop ’im. Do you know how much ah paid for that cow?”

“Never mind about that! Which way did he go?”

“T’missus said he went towards Grampton—about ten minutes ago.”

I started my engine. “He’ll maybe be picking up other beasts—I’ll go after him.”

Teeth clenched, eyes popping, I roared along the Grampton road. The enormity of this latest catastrophe was almost more than I could assimilate. The wrong form was bad enough, but the wrong cow was unthinkable. But it had happened. Charles would crucify me this time. He was a good bloke but he would have no option, because the higher-ups in the Ministry would get wind of an immortal boner like this and they would howl for blood.

Feverishly but vainly I scanned each farm entrance in Grampton village as I shot through, and when I saw the open countryside ahead of me again the tension was almost unbearable. I was telling myself that the thing was hopeless when in the far distance above a row of trees I spotted the familiar top of Mallock’s wagon.

It was a high, wooden-sided vehicle and I couldn’t mistake it. Repressing a shout of triumph I put my foot on the boards and set off in that direction with the fanatical zeal of the hunter. But it was a long way off and I hadn’t travelled a mile before I realised I had lost it.

Over the years many things have stayed in my memory, but the Great Cow Chase is engraven deeper than most. The sheer terror I felt is vivid to this day. I kept sighting the wagon among the maze of lanes and side roads but by the time I had cut across country my quarry had disappeared behind a hillside or dipped into one of the many hollows in the wide vista. I was constantly deceived by the fact that I expected him to be turning towards Darrowby after passing through a village, but he never did. Clearly he had other business on the way.

The whole thing seemed to last a very long time and there was no fun in it for me. I was gripped throughout by a cold dread, and the violent swings—the alternating scents of hope and despair—were wearing to the point of exhaustion. I was utterly drained when at last I saw the tall lorry rocking along a straight road in front of me.

I had him now! Forcing my little car to the limit, I drew abreast of him, sounding my horn repeatedly till he stopped. Breathlessly I pulled up in front of him and ran round to offer my explanations. But as I looked up into the driver’s cab my eager smile vanished. It wasn’t Jeff Mallock at all. I had been following the wrong man.

It was the “ket feller.” He had exactly the same type of wagon as Mallock and he went round a wide area of Yorkshire picking animals which even the knacker men didn’t want. It was a strange job and he was a strange-looking man. The oddly piercing eyes glittered uncannily from under a tattered army peaked cap.

“Wot’s up, guvnor?” He removed a cigarette from his mouth and spat companionably into the roadway.

My throat was tight “I—I’m sorry. I thought you were Jeff Mallock.”

The eyes did not change expression, but the corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “If tha wants Jeff he’ll be back at his yard now, ah reckon.” He spat again and replaced his cigarette.

I nodded dully. Jeff would be there now all right—long ago. I had been chasing the wrong wagon for about an hour and that cow would be dead and hanging up on hooks at this moment. The knacker man was a fast and skillful worker and wasted no time when he got back with his beasts.

“Well, ah’m off ’ome now,” the ket feller said. “So long, boss.” He winked at me, started his engine and the big vehicle rumbled away.

I trailed back to my car. There was no hurry now. And strangely, now that all was lost my mood relaxed. In fact, as I drove away, a great calm settled on me and I began to assess my future with cool objectivity. I would be drummed out of the Ministry’s service for sure, and idly I wondered if they had any special ceremony for the occasion—perhaps a ritual stripping of the Panel Certificates or something of the sort.

I tried to put away the thought that more than the Ministry would be interested in my latest exploit. How about the Royal College? Did they strike you off for something like this? Well, it was possible, and in my serene state of mind I toyed with the possibilities of alternative avenues of employment. I had often thought it must be fun to run a second hand book shop and now that I began to consider it seriously I felt sure there was an opening for one in Darrowby. I experienced a comfortable glow at the vision of myself sitting under the rows of dusty volumes, pulling one down from the shelf when I felt like it or maybe just looking out into the street through the window from my safe little world where there were no forms or telephones or messages saying “Ring Min.”

In Darrowby I drove round without haste to the knacker yard. I left my car outside the grim little building with the black smoke drifting from its chimney. I pulled back the sliding door and saw Jeff seated at his ease on a pile of cow hides, holding a slice of apple pie in blood-stained fingers. And, ah yes, there, Just behind him hung the two great sides of beef and on the floor, the lungs, bowels and other viscera—the sad remnants of Mr. Moverley’s pedigree Ayrshire.

“Hello, Jeff,” I said.

“Now then, Mr. Harriot.” He gave me the beatific smile which mirrored his personality so well. “Ah’m just havin’ a little snack. I allus like a bite about this time.” He sank his teeth into the pie and chewed appreciatively.

“So I see.” I sorrowfully scanned the hanging carcase. Just dog meat and not even much of that Ayrshires were never very fat. I was wondering how to break the news to him when he spoke again.

“Ah’m sorry you’ve caught me out this time, Mr. Herriot,” he said, reaching for a greasy mug of tea.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I allus reckon to have t’beast dressed and ready for you but you’ve come a bit early.”

I stared at him. “ But … everything’s here, surely.” I waved a hand around me.

“Nay, nay, that’s not ’er.”

“You mean … that isn’t the cow from Moverley’s.”

“That’s right.” He took a long draught from the mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I ’ad to do this ’un first. Moverley’s cow’s still in t’wagon out at the back.”

“Alive?”

He looked mildly surprised. “Aye, of course. She’s never had a finger on ’er. Nice cow for a screw, too.”

I could have fainted with relief. “She’s no screw, Jeff. That’s the wrong cow you’ve got there!”

“Wrong cow?” Nothing ever startled him but he obviously desired more information. I told him the whole story.

When I had finished, his shoulders began to shake gently and the beautiful clear eyes twinkled in the pink face.

“Well, that’s a licker,” he murmured, and continued to laugh gently. There was nothing immoderate in his mirth and indeed nothing I had said disturbed him in the least. The fact that he had wasted his journey or that the farmer might be annoyed was of no moment to him.

Again, looking at Jeff Mallock, it struck me, as many times before, that there was nothing like a lifetime of dabbling among diseased carcases and lethal bacteria for breeding tranquillity of mind.

“You’ll slip back and change the cow?” I said.

“Aye, in a minute or two. There’s nowt spoilin’. Ah never likes to hurry me grub.” He belched contentedly. “And how about you, Mr. Herriot? You could do with summat to keep your strength up.” He produced another mug and broke off a generous wedge of pie which he offered to me.