All Creatures Great and Small (33 page)

I fumbled the money from my pocket. Obviously my first impression that somebody had invited me to have a drink with them had been mistaken. Looking round the faces, there was no way of telling who had called out, and as the beer disappeared, the group round the bar thinned out like magic; the members just drifted away as though by accident till I found myself alone. I was no longer an object of interest and nobody paid any attention as I drained my glass and left.

The glow from the pig pen showed through the darkness of the yard and as I crossed over, the soft rumble of pig and human voices told me that Mr. Worley was still talking things over with his sow. He looked up as I came in and his face in the dim light was ecstatic.

“Mr. Herriot,” he whispered. “Isn’t that a beautiful sight?”

He pointed to the little pigs who were lying motionless in a layered heap, sprawled over each other without plan or pattern, eyes tightly closed, stomachs bloated with Marigold’s bountiful fluid.

“It is indeed,” I said, prodding the sleeping mass with my finger but getting no response beyond the lazy opening of an eye. “You’d have to go a long way to beat it.”

And I did share his pleasure; it was one of the satisfying little jobs. Climbing into the car I felt that the nocturnal visit had been worth while even though I had been effortlessly duped into buying a round with no hope of reciprocation. Not that I wanted to drink any more—my stomach wasn’t used to receiving pints of ale at 2 a.m. and a few whimpers of surprise and indignation were already coming up—but I was just a bit ruffled by the offhand, professional way those gentlemen in the tap room had handled me.

But, winding my way home through the empty, moonlit roads, I was unaware that the hand of retribution was hovering over that happy band. This was, in fact, a fateful night, because ten minutes after I had left, Mr. Worley’s pub was raided. Perhaps that is a rather dramatic word, but it happened that it was the constable’s annual holiday and the relief man, a young policeman who did not share Mr. Dalloway’s liberal views, had come up on his bicycle and pinched everybody in the place.

The account of the court proceedings in the
Darrowby and Houlton Times
made good reading. Gobber Newhouse and company were all fined £2 each and warned as to their future conduct. The magistrates, obviously a heartless lot, had remained unmoved by Gobber’s passionate protestations that the beer in the glasses had all been purchased before closing time and that he and his friends had been lingering over it in light conversation for the subsequent four hours.

Mr. Worley was fined £15 but I don’t think he really minded; Marigold and her litter were doing well.

T
HIS WAS THE LAST
gate. I got out to open it since Tristan was driving, and looked back at the farm, a long way below us now, and at the marks our tyres had made on the steep, grassy slopes. Strange places, some of these Dales farms; this one had no road to it—not even a track. From down there you just drove across the fields from gate to gate till you got to the main road above the valley. And this was the last one; ten minutes’ driving and we’d be home.

Tristan was acting as my chauffeur, as my left hand had been infected after a bad calving and I had my arm in a sling. He didn’t drive up through the gate but got out of the car, leaned his back against the gate post and lit a Woodbine.

Obviously he wasn’t in any rush to leave. And with the sun warm on the back of his neck and the two bottles of Whitbread’s nestling comfortably in his stomach I could divine that he felt pretty good. Come to think of it, it had been all right back there. He had taken some warts off a heifer’s teats and the farmer had said he shaped well for a young ’un, (‘Aye, you really framed at t’job, lad’) and asked us in for a bottle of beer since it was so hot. Impressed by the ecstatic speed with which Tristan had consumed his, he had given him another.

Yes, it had been all right, and I could see Tristan thought so too. With a smile of utter content he took a long, deep gulp of moorland air and Woodbine smoke and closed his eyes.

He opened them quickly as a grinding noise came from the car. “Christ! She’s off, Jim!” he shouted.

The little Austin was moving gently backwards down the slope—it must have slipped out of gear and it had no brakes to speak of. We both leaped after it. Tristan was nearest and he just managed to touch the bonnet with one finger; the speed was too much for him. We gave it up and watched.

The hillside was steep and the little car rapidly gathered momentum, bouncing crazily over the uneven ground. I glanced at Tristan; his mind invariably worked quickly and clearly in a crisis and I had a good idea what he was thinking. It was only a fortnight since he had turned the Hillman over, taking a girl home from a dance. It had been a complete write-off and the insurance people had been rather nasty about it; and of course Siegfried had gone nearly berserk and had finished by sacking him finally, once and for all—never wanted to see his face in the place again.

But he had been sacked so often; he knew he had only to keep out of his way for a bit and his brother would forget. And he had been lucky this time because Siegfried had talked his bank manager into letting him buy a beautiful new Rover and this had blotted everything else from his mind.

It was distinctly unfortunate that this should happen when he, as driver, was technically in charge of the Austin. The car appeared now to be doing about 70 m.p.h. hurtling terrifyingly down the long, green hill. One by one the doors burst open till all four flapped wildly and the car swooped downwards looking like a huge, ungainly bird.

From the open doors, bottles, instruments, bandages, cotton wool cascaded out onto the turf, leaving a long, broken trail. Now and again a packet of nux vomica and bicarb stomach powder would fly out and burst like a bomb, splashing vivid white against the green.

Tristan threw up his arms. “Look! The bloody thing’s going straight for that hut.” He drew harder on his Woodbine.

There was indeed only one obstruction on the bare hillside—a small building near the foot where the land levelled out and the Austin, as if drawn by a magnet, was thundering straight towards it.

I couldn’t bear to watch. Just before the impact I turned away and focused my attention on the end of Tristan’s cigarette which was glowing bright red when the crash came. When I looked back down the hill the building was no longer there. It had been completely flattened and everything I had ever heard about houses of cards surged into my mind. On top of the shattered timbers the little car lay peacefully on its side, its wheels still turning lazily.

As we galloped down the hill it was easy to guess Tristan’s thoughts. He wouldn’t be looking forward to telling Siegfried he had wrecked the Austin; in fact it was something the mind almost refused to contemplate. But as we neared the scene of devastation, passing on our way syringes, scalpels, bottles of vaccine, it was difficult to see any other outcome.

Arriving at the car, we made an anxious inspection. The body had been so bashed and dented before that it wasn’t easy to identify any new marks. Certainly the rear end was pretty well caved in but it didn’t show up very much. The only obvious damage was a smashed rear light. Our hopes rising, we set off for the farm for help.

The farmer greeted us amiably. “Now then, you lads, hasta come back for more beer?”

“It wouldn’t come amiss,” Tristan replied. “We’ve had a bit of an accident.”

We went into the house and the hospitable man opened some more bottles. He didn’t seem disturbed when he heard of the demolition of the hut. “Nay, that’s not mine. Belongs to t’golf club—it’s t’club house.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh no! Don’t say we’ve flattened the headquarters of the Darrowby Golf Club!”

“Aye, lad, you must have. It’s t’only wooden building in them fields. I rent that part of my land to the club and they’ve made a little nine hole course. Don’t worry, hardly anybody plays on it—mainly t’bank manager and ah don’t like that feller.”

Mr. Prescott got a horse out of the stable and we went back to the car and pulled it upright again. Trembling a little, Tristan climbed in and pressed the starter. The sturdy little engine burst into a confident roar immediately and he drove carefully over the prostrate wooden walls on to the grass.

“Well thanks a lot, Mr. Prescott,” he shouted. “We seem to have got away with it.”

“Champion, lad, champion. You’re as good as new.” Then the farmer winked and held up a finger. “Now you say nowt about this job and I’ll say nowt. Right?”

“Right! Come on, Jim, get in.” Tristan put his foot down and we chugged thankfully up the hill once more.

He seemed thoughtful on the way and didn’t speak till we got on to the road. Then he turned to me.

“You know, Jim, it’s all very well, but I’ve still got to confess to Siegfried about that rear light. And of course I’ll get the lash again. Don’t you think it’s just a bit hard the way I get blamed for everything that happens to his cars? You’ve seen it over and over again—he gives me a lot of bloody old wrecks to drive and when they start to fall to bits it’s always my fault. The bloody tyres are all down to the canvas but if I get a puncture there’s hell to pay. It isn’t fair.”

“Well Siegfried isn’t the man to suffer in silence, you know.” I said. “He’s got to lash out and you’re nearest.”

Tristan was silent for a moment then he took a deeper drag at his Woodbine, blew out his cheeks and assumed a judicial expression. “Mind you, I’m not saying I was entirely blameless with regard to the Hillman—I was taking that sharp turn in Dringley at sixty with my arm round a little nurse—but all in all I’ve just had sheer bad luck. In fact, Jim, I’m a helpless victim of prejudice.”

Siegfried was out of sorts when we met in the surgery. He was starting a summer cold and was sniffly and listless, but he still managed to raise a burst of energy at the news.

“You bloody young maniac! It’s the rear light now, is it? God help me, I think all I work for is to pay for the repair bills you run up. You’ll ruin me before you’re finished. Go on, get to hell out of it. I’m finished with you.”

Tristan retired with dignity and followed his usual policy of lying low. He didn’t see his brother until the following morning. Siegfried’s condition had deteriorated; the cold had settled in his throat, always his weak spot, and he was down with laryngitis. His neck was swathed in vinegar-soaked Thermogene and when Tristan and I came into the bedroom he was feebly turning over the pages of the
Darrowby and Houlton Times.

He spoke in a tortured whisper. “Have you seen this? It says here that the golf clubhouse was knocked down yesterday and there’s no clue as to how it happened. Damn funny thing. On Prescott’s land, isn’t it?” His head jerked suddenly from the pillow and he glared at his brother. “You were there yesterday!” he croaked, then he fell back, muttering. “Oh no, no, I’m sorry, it’s too ridiculous—and it’s wrong of me to blame you for everything.”

Tristan stared. He had never heard this kind of talk from Siegfried before. I too felt a pang of anxiety; could my boss be delirious?

Siegfried swallowed painfully. “I’ve just had an urgent call from Armitage of Sorton. He’s got a cow down with milk fever and I want you to drive James out there straight away. Go on, now—get moving.”

“Afraid I can’t,” Tristan shrugged. “Jim’s car is in Hammond’s garage. They’re fixing that light—it’ll take them about an hour.”

“Oh God, yes, and they said they couldn’t let us have a spare. Well, Armitage is in a bit of a panic—that cow could be dead in an hour. What the hell can we do?”

“There’s the Rover,” Tristan said quietly.

Siegfried’s form stiffened suddenly under the blankets and wild terror flickered in his eyes. For a few moments his head rolled about on the pillow and his long, bony fingers picked nervously at the quilt, then with an effort he heaved himself on to his side and stared into his brother’s eyes. He spoke slowly and the agonised hissing of his voice lent menace to his words.

“Right, so you’ll have to take the Rover. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d let a wrecker like you drive it, but just let me tell you this. If you put a scratch on that car I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you with my own two hands.”

The old pattern was asserting itself. Siegfried’s eyes had begun to bulge, a dark flush was creeping over his cheeks while Tristan’s face had lost all expression.

Using the last remnants of his strength, Siegfried hoisted himself even higher. “Now do you really think you are capable of driving that car five miles to Sorton and back without smashing it up? All right then, get on with it and just remember what I’ve said.”

Tristan withdrew in offended silence and as I followed him I took a last look at the figure in the bed. Siegfried had fallen back and was staring at the ceiling with feverish eyes. His lips moved feebly as though he were praying.

Outside the room, Tristan rubbed his hands delightedly. “What a break, Jim! A chance in a lifetime! You know I never thought I’d get behind the wheel of that Rover in a hundred years.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Just shows you—everything happens for the best.”

Five minutes later he was backing carefully out of the yard and into the lane and once on the Sorton road I saw he was beginning to enjoy himself. For two miles the way ahead stretched straight and clear except for a milk lorry approaching in the far distance; a perfect place to see what the Rover could do. He nestled down in the rich leather upholstery and pressed his foot hard on the accelerator.

We were doing an effortless eighty when I saw a car beginning to overtake the milk lorry; it was an ancient, square-topped, high-built vehicle like a biscuit tin on wheels and it had no business trying to overtake anything. I waited for it to pull back but it still came on. And the lorry, perhaps with a sporting driver, seemed to be spurting to make a race of it.

With increasing alarm I saw the two vehicles abreast and bearing down on us only a few hundred yards away and not a foot of space on either side of them. Of course the old car would pull in behind the lorry—it had to, there was no other way—but it was taking a long time about it. Tristan jammed on his brakes. If the lorry did the same, the other car would just be able to dodge between. But within seconds I realised nothing like that was going to happen and as they thundered towards us I resigned myself with dumb horror to a head-on collision.