Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

“You’d better stick around, James. I’ll get through the morning round on my own. Take it quietly, my boy. All will be well.”

It was difficult to take it quietly. I found that expectant fathers really did pace the floor for long periods, and I varied this by trying to read the newspaper upside down.

It was around eleven o’clock when the long-awaited telephone call came. It was my doctor and good friend, Harry Allinson. Harry always spoke in a sort of cheerful shout, and his very presence in a sickroom was a tonic. This morning the booming voice was like the sweetest music.

“A sister for Jimmy!” His words were followed by a burst of laughter.

“Oh great, Harry. Thank you, thank you. That’s marvellous news.” I held the receiver against my chest for a few moments before putting it down. I walked with dragging steps to the sitting room and lay back in a chair until my nerves had stopped vibrating.

Then, on an impulse, I leaped to my feet. I believe I have said before that I am a fairly sensible man with a propensity for doing daft things, and I decided that I had to go round to the nursing home immediately.

At that time, a husband was not welcome straight after the birth. I knew it because I had gone to see Jimmy too soon and had not been well received. But still I went.

When I burst into her establishment, Nurse Brown’s usual smile was absent. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you?” she said with some asperity. “I told you with Jimmy that you should have given us time to get the baby washed, but it seems you took no notice.”

I hung my head sheepishly, and she relented. “Oh, well, now you’re here you might as well come upstairs.”

Helen had the same tired, flushed look that I remembered before. I kissed her thankfully. We didn’t say anything, just smiled at each other. Then I had a look in the cot by the bed.

Nurse Brown regarded me with tight lips and narrowed eyes as I peered down. Last time I had been so aghast at Jimmy’s appearance that I had mortally offended her by asking if there was anything wrong with him, and heaven help me, I felt the same now. I won’t go into details but the new little girl’s face was all squashed and red and bloated, and the sense of shock hit me as it had done before.

I looked up at the nurse, and it was only too clear that she was waiting for me to say something derogatory. Her normally laughing face was set in a threatening scowl. One wrong word from me and she would have kicked me on the shins—I was sure of that.

“Gorgeous,” I said weakly. “Really gorgeous.”

“All right.” She had seen enough of me. “Out you go.”

She ushered me downstairs, and as she opened the outside door, she fixed me with a piercing eye. That bright little woman could read me without effort. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as though addressing a person of limited intelligence.

“That … is … a … lovely … healthy … baby.…” she said and closed the door in my face.

And, bless her heart, her words helped me, because as I drove away, I knew she must be right. And now, all these years later, when I look at my handsome son and my beautiful daughter, I can hardly believe my own stupidity.

When I returned to the surgery, there was one visit waiting for me, high in the hills, and the journey up there was like a happy dream. My worry was over, and it seemed that all nature was rejoicing with me. It was the ninth of May, 1947, the beginning of the most perfect summer I can remember. The sun blazed; soft breezes swirled into the car, carrying their fragrance from the fells around; an elusive breath of the bluebells, primroses and violets scattered everywhere on the grass, flowing among the shadows of the trees.

After I had seen my patient, I took a walk on the high tops along a favourite path of beaten earth on the hill’s edge, with Sam trotting at my heels.

I looked away over the rolling patchwork of the plain, sleeping in the sun’s haze, and at the young bracken on the hillside, springing straight and green from last year’s dead brown stalks. Everywhere new life was calling out its exultant message, and it was so apt with my new little daughter lying down there in Darrowby.

We had decided to call her Rosemary. It is such a pretty name and I still love it, but it didn’t last long. It became Rosie at a very early stage and though I did make one or two ineffectual stands, it has remained so to this day. She is now Dr. Rosie in our community.

On that May day I caught myself just in time. It has always been my practice to recline in the sunshine on the springy bed of heather that clusters on these hillsides, and I was just settling down when I remembered I had other things to do today. I sped back to Skeldale House and began to telephone my glad news all over the country.

It was received rapturously by all, but it was Tristan who grasped the essentials of the situation.

“We’ve got to wet this baby’s head, Jim,” he said seriously.

I was ready for anything. “Of course, of course, when are you coming over?”

“I’ll be there at seven,” he replied crisply, and I knew he would be.

Tristan was concerned about the venue of the celebration. There were four of us in the sitting room at Skeldale House— Siegfried, Tristan, Alex Taylor and myself. Alex was my oldest friend—we started school together in Glasgow at the age of four —and when he came out of the army after five years in the western desert and Italy, he came to spend a few weeks with Helen and me in Darrowby. It wasn’t long before he had fallen under the spell of country life, and now he was learning farming and estate agency with a view to starting a new career. It was good that he should be with me tonight.

Tristan’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair as he thought aloud. His expression was fixed and grave, his eyes vacant.

“We’d normally go to the Drovers but they’ve got that big party on tonight, so that’s no good,” he muttered. “We want a bit of peace and quiet. Let’s see, now, there’s the George and Dragon—Tetley’s beer, splendid stuff, but I’ve known them a bit careless with their pipes and I’ve had the odd sour mouthful. And, of course, we have the Cross Keys. They pull a lovely pint of Cameron’s, and the draught Guinness is excellent. And we mustn’t forget the Hare and Pheasant—their bitter can rise to great heights, although the mild is ordinary.” He paused for a moment. “We might do worse than the Lord Nelson—very reliable ale—and, of course, there’s always …”

“Just a minute, Triss,” I broke in. “I went round to Nurse Brown’s this evening to see Helen, and Cliff asked if he could come with us. Don’t you think it would be rather nice to go to his pub since the baby was born in his house?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Which pub is that?”

“The Black Horse.”

“Ah, yes, ye-es.” Tristan looked at me thoughtfully and put his fingertips together. “Russell and Rangham’s. A good little brewery, that. I’ve had some first-rate pints in the Black Horse, though I’ve noticed a slight loss of nuttiness under very warm conditions.” He looked anxiously out of the window. “It’s been a hot day today. Perhaps we’d …”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Siegfried leaped to his feet. “You sound like an analytical chemist. It’s only beer you’re talking about, after all.”

Tristan looked at him in shocked silence, but Siegfried turned to me briskly. “I think that’s a pleasant idea of yours, James. Let’s go with Cliff to the Black Horse. It’s a quiet little place.”

And indeed, as we dropped to the chairs in the bar parlour, I felt we had chosen the ideal spot. The evening sunshine sent long golden shafts over the pitted oak tables and the high-backed settles where a few farm men sat with their glasses. There was nothing smart about this little inn, but the furniture which hadn’t been changed for a hundred years gave it an air of tranquillity. It was just right.