Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

That was Lionel’s kind of farming.

Chapter

38

IT WAS A SUNDAY morning in June, and I was washing my hands in the sink in Matt Clarke’s kitchen. The sun was bright, with a brisk wind scouring the fell-sides, so that through the window I could see every cleft and gully lying sharp and clear on the green flanks as the cloud shadows drove across them.

I glanced back beyond the stone flags at the white head of Grandma Clarke bent over her knitting. The radio on the dresser was tuned to the morning service and, as I watched, the old lady looked up from her work and listened intently to some words of the sermon for a few moments before starting her needles clicking again.

In that brief time I had a profound impression of serenity and unquestioning faith that has remained with me to this day. It is a strange thing, but over the years whenever I have heard discussions and arguments on religion, on the varying beliefs and doctrines, on the sincerity or otherwise of some pious individuals, there still rises before me the seamed old face and calm eyes of Grandma Clarke. She knew and was secure. Goodness seemed to flow from her.

She was in her late eighties and always dressed in black with a little black neckband. She had come through the hard times of farming and could look back on a long life of toil, in the fields as well as in the home.

As I reached for the towel, the farmer led Rosie into the kitchen.

“Mr. Clarke’s been showing me some baby chicks, Daddy,” she said.

Grandma looked up again. “Is that your little lass, Mr. Her-riot?”

“Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” I replied. “This is Rosie.”

“Aye, of course. I’ve seen her before, many a time.” The old lady put down her knitting and rose stiffly from her chair. She shuffled over to a cupboard, brought out a gaily coloured tin and extracted a bar of chocolate.

“How old are ye now, Rosie?” she asked as she presented the chocolate.

“Thank you, I’m six,” my daughter replied.

Grandma looked down at the smiling face, at the sturdy, tanned legs in their blue shorts and sandals. “Well, you’re a grand little lass.” For a moment she rested her work-roughened hand against the little girl’s cheek, then she returned to her chair. They didn’t make much of a fuss, those old Yorkshire folk, but to me the gesture was like a benediction.

The old lady picked up her knitting again. “And how’s that lad o’ yours? How’s Jimmy?”

“Oh, he’s fine thank you. Ten years old now. He’s out with some of his pals this morning.”

‘Ten, eh? Ten and six… ten and six …” For a few seconds her thoughts seemed far away as she plied her needles, then she looked at me again. “Maybe ye don’t know it, Mr. Herriot, but this is the best time of your life.”

“Do you think so?”

“Aye, there’s no doubt about it. When your children are young and growin’ up around ye—that’s when it’s best. It’s the same for everybody, only a lot o’ folk don’t know it and a lot find out when it’s too late. It doesn’t last long, you know.”

“I believe I’ve always realised that, Mrs. Clarke, without thinking about it very much.”

“Reckon you have, young man.” She gave me a sideways smile. “You allus seem to have one or t’other of your bairns with you on your calls.”

As I drove away from the farm, the old lady’s words stayed in my mind. They are still in my mind, all these years later, when Helen and I are soon about to celebrate our Ruby Wedding of forty years of marriage. Life has been good to us and is still good to us. We are lucky—we have had so many good times—but I think we both agree that Grandma Clarke was right about the very best time of all.

When I got back to Skeldale House that summer morning, I found Siegfried replenishing the store of drugs in his car boot. His children, Alan and Janet, were helping him. Like me, he usually took his family around with him.

He banged down the lid of the boot. “Right, that’s that for another few days.” He glanced at me and smiled. “There are no more calls at the moment, James; let’s have a walk down the back.”

With the children running ahead of us, we went through the passage and out into the long garden behind the house. Here the sunshine was imprisoned between the high old walls, with the wind banished to the upper air and ruffling the top leaves of the apple trees.

When we reached the big lawn, Siegfried flopped on the turf and rested on his elbow. I sat down by his side.

My partner pulled a piece of grass and chewed it contemplatively.

“Pity about the acacia,” he murmured.

I looked at him in surprise. It was many years since the beautiful tree, which had once soared from the middle of the lawn, had blown down in a gale.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “It was magnificent.” I paused for a moment. “Remember, I fell asleep against it the first day I came here to apply for a job? We first met right on this spot.”

Siegfried laughed. “I do remember.” He looked around him at the mellow brick and stone copings of the walls, at the rockery and rose bed, the children playing in the old henhouse at the far end. “My word, James, when you think about it, we’ve come through a few things together since then. A lot of water, as they say, has flown under the bridge.”

We were both silent for a while, and my thoughts went back over the struggles and the laughter of those years. Almost unconsciously I lay back on the grass and closed my eyes, feeling the sun warm on my face, hearing the hum of the bees among the flowers, the croaking of the rooks in the great elms that overhung the yard.

My colleague’s voice seemed to come from afar. “Hey, you’re not going to do the same trick again, are you? Going to sleep in front of me?”

I sat up, blinking. “Gosh, I’m sorry, Siegfried, I nearly did. I was out at a farrowing at five o’clock this morning and it’s just catching up with me.”

“Ah, well,” he said, smiling. “You won’t need your book tonight.”

I laughed. “No, I won’t Not tonight.”

Neither Siegfried nor I suffered from insomnia, but on the rare occasions when sleep would not come we had recourse to our particular books. Mine was The Brothers Karamazov, a great novel, but to me, soporific in its names. Even at the beginning I felt those names lulling me. “Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov.” Then, by the time I had encountered Grigory Kutuzov, Yefim Petrovich Pole-nov, Stepanida Bedryagina and a few others, I was floating away.

With Siegfried, it was a book on the physiology of the eye which he kept by his bedside. There was one passage that never failed to start him nodding. He showed it to me once: “The first ciliary muscle is inserted into the ciliary body and by its contraction pulls the ciliary body forward and so slackens the tension on the suspensory ligament, while the second ciliary muscle is a circular muscle embedded in the ciliary body and by its contraction drags the ciliary body towards the crystalline lens.” He had never managed to get much further than that.

“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I won’t need any encouragement tonight.” I rolled onto my side. “By the way, I was at Matt Clarke’s this morning.” I told him what Grandma had said.

Siegfried selected a fresh piece of grass and resumed his chewing.

“Well, she’s a wise old lady and she’s seen it all. If she’s right we’ll have no regrets in the future, because we have both enjoyed our children and been with them from the beginning.”

I was beginning to feel sleepy again when my partner startled me by sitting up abruptly.

“Do you know, James,” he said, “I’m convinced that the same thing applies to our job. We’re going through the best time there, too.”