Джеймс Хэрриот - Every Living Thing

“Wait…wait…” she said. “Put on the jacket.”

“What good will that do?”

“The lapels are very high, just put it on.”

With a feeling of hopelessness I shrugged myself into the jacket and turned towards her.

Helen was looking at me with something like awe. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered. “Incredible.”

“What is?”

“Look at yourself.”

I looked into the mirror and Lord Herriot of Darrowby looked out at me. The waistband was quite hidden and the suit was there in all its glory of rich material and superb tailoring, draped on me elegantly as if it had been made for me.

“My God,” I breathed. “I never knew clothes could make all that difference. I’m like another person.”

“Yes, you are,” agreed Helen eagerly. “You’re like an important, prestigious person. You must wear it for the committee—you’ll knock them cold!”

While I washed and combed my hair I had the warm sense of everything slotting into place when all had seemed lost, and as I left after a final admiring glance at myself in the mirror I was filled with an airy confidence.

Outside, a bitter wind swept over the fields but I couldn’t feel it. Nothing could penetrate my apparel; in fact I felt sure that, dressed like this, I could walk in comfort to the North Pole without changing.

In the car my body heat rose rapidly and I had to open the windows. I was glad when I reached my destination and was able to take a few breaths of the cold air. My relief, however, was short-lived because as soon as the swing doors of the Ministry Office closed behind me a stifling heat hit me. On all my previous visits I had wondered how people could work in this atmosphere with the central heating going full blast, and as I walked along the corridor looking through the glass at the typists and technicians and Ministry officials apparently going about their business, quite happily I marvelled anew. Only this time it was worse. Much, much worse. This time I was cocooned almost up to my chin in two layers of carpet-like material.

It was the waistband, of course, that was the trouble, clamped round my entire rib-cage like a great constricting hand; and I had the silly feeling that the suit itself was carrying me along to the double doors of the conference room at the end of the corridor. In the big room it was hotter than ever and I had a moment of panic when I thought I wouldn’t be able to breathe, but I settled down as the committee members welcomed me in their usual friendly way and the chairman ushered me to my seat at the long table.

There were about twenty people in the Milk Committee: big farmers, technical officers of the Ministry, two of the great landowners of the district in Lord Darbrough and Sir Henry Brookly, a physician and one practising veterinary surgeon, me. I had felt honoured when I was invited to join and had tried to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability, but this morning was something special.

Sir Henry was chairman and as he started the proceedings I prayed that it would be a short session. I knew I couldn’t stand it for long, tightly muffled in this heat, but as the minutes ticked away with agonising slowness I realised that there was a tremendous amount of business to get through. Long discussions about sterilisation, farm buildings and husbandry, cattle diseases, points of law—it went on and on as I sat there getting hotter and hotter. Quite often I was asked for my opinion and I answered in a breathless way that I hoped went unnoticed, but it seemed that my most important contribution was being kept until the end.

My condition deteriorated steadily until after an hour I was sure I was suffocating and it was only a matter of time before I fainted away and was carried from the room. I was breathing only with difficulty, I could feel the sweat running down my neck onto my collar and had to fight the impulse to tear open my jacket and let out some of the pent-up heat, but the thought of this decorous group of men dissolving into laughter at the sight of my chin-high trousers stayed my hand.

It was after almost two hours that Sir Henry looked around the table and introduced my subject. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “to conclude our business this morning we have to decide on the borderline case of hill-farmer Edward Newcombe’s application for a Tuberculin Tested licence and I understand that our young friend, Mr. Herriot, has been looking into the matter for us. Mr. Herriot…?” He smiled across the table at me.

Somebody began to talk about Ted Newcombe and for a few moments I didn’t realise it was myself. The words were familiar but they seemed to be coming from somewhere outside me, panting and hoarse. Through the blur of sweat trickling into my eyes I could see them all looking at me kindly. They had always been kind, these men, maybe because I was the youngest member, but as my utterances tumbled out—“outstanding stocksman”…“cattle in immaculate condition”…“hard worker”…“meticulous attention to hygiene”…“man of the highest integrity”— they kept smiling and nodding encouragingly and as the last phrase emerged, “Edward Newcombe’s buildings may not be perfect but he really is a trier and if he is granted his licence he will never let anybody down,” I seemed to be surrounded by cheerful, friendly faces.

Sir Henry beamed at me. “Ah, thank you so much, Mr. Herriot, that is most helpful and we are grateful to you. I think we can take it, gentlemen, that there will be no difficulty in granting the licence?” Hands went up in agreement all round the table.

I have very little recollection of how I left the room, only of rushing downstairs into the men’s lavatory, locking myself into one of the cubicles, throwing off my jacket and collapsing, open-mouthed, onto the toilet seat. As I opened the front of the vast trousers, unbuttoned my shirt and lay back, gasping, waves of heat mingled with relief and triumph rolled from me. I had got it over. Ted had his licence and I was still alive.

As I slowly recovered I heard two men come in. From my semi-prone position I could see their feet under the door and I recognised the voices of Sir Henry and Lord Darbrough. The feet disappeared as the men retreated to the opposite wall.

There was a silence, then, “Tell you what, Henry,” boomed his Lordship. “It did me good to see that young fella fighting his corner for the hill-farmer.”

“Couldn’t agree more, George. Damn good show, I thought.”

“Threw everything into it, by gaw. Didn’t spare himself. Never seen anything like it—sweat was rolling down his face.”

“Mm, I saw. Dedication, I’d call it.”

“That’s it, dedication. Good to see in somebody his age.” There was another pause, then, “Y’know, Henry, there was something else about that young fella.”

“What was that, George?”

“Knows his clothes. Splendid suit. Rather envy him his tailor.”

Chapter 7

“LOOK AT THAT LITTLE lad!”

Farmer Dugdale was amused as he watched Jimmy directing his torch beam as I calved the cow. My son, ten years old, was taking his duty very seriously. It was quite dark in the loose box and he solemnly followed my every movement with his beam, shining on the cow’s rear end as I worked, then on the bucket of hot water each time I resoaped my arms or dipped the ropes in the disinfectant.

“Yes,” I said, “he loves night work.”

Jimmy, in fact, loved all veterinary work, but if I was called out in the evening before his bedtime it was his particular delight to come with me, sitting by me, quite absorbed, as the headlights picked out the twists and turns of the country lanes.

And tonight when we arrived he had been into the boot before me, picking out the different coloured ropes to go on the calf’s head and feet, busily tipping the right amount of disinfectant into the bucket.