Джеймс Хэрриот - All Things Wise and Wonderful

I stopped panting, too. In fact I didn’t breathe at all as I bore the shining little object slowly and tenderly through the opening and dropped it with a gentle rat-tat on the table.

“Is that it?” asked Roddy, almost in a whisper.

“That’s it” I reached for needle and suture silk. “All is well now.”

The stitching took only a few minutes and by the end of it Jake was bright-eyed and alert, paws shifting impatiently, ready for anything. He seemed to know his troubles were over.

Roddy brought him back in ten days to have the stitches removed. It was, in fact, the very morning he was leaving the Darrowby district, and after I had picked the few loops of silk from the nicely healed wound I walked with him to the front door while Jake capered round our feet.

On the pavement outside Skeldale House the ancient pram stood in all its high, rusted dignity. Roddy pulled back the cover.

“Up, boy,” he murmured, and the big dog leaped effortlessly into his accustomed place.

Roddy took hold of the handle with both hands and as the autumn sunshine broke suddenly through the clouds it lit up a picture which had grown familiar and part of the daily scene. The golf jacket, the open shirt and brown chest, the handsome animal sitting up, looking around him with natural grace.

“Well, so long, Roddy,” I said. “I suppose you’ll be round these parts again.”

He turned and I saw that smile again. “Aye, reckon ah’ll be back.”

He gave a push and they were off, the strange vehicle creaking, Jake swaying gently as they went down the street. The memory came back to me of what I had seen under the cover that night in the surgery. The haversack, which would contain his razor, towel, soap and a few other things. The packet of tea and the thermos. And something else—a creased old photograph of a young woman which slipped from an envelope in the scuffle. It added a little more mystery to the man … and explained other things, too.

That farmer was right. All Roddy possessed was in that pram. And it seemed it was all he desired, too, because as he turned the corner and disappeared from my view I could hear him whistling.

CHAPTER 45

I HAVE NEVER BEEN much good at small talk but as I sat in the stores day after day without seeing a friendly face I realised how much I used to enjoy chatting with the farmers during my veterinary calls.

It is one of the nicest things about country practice, but you have to keep your mind on the job at the same time or you could be in trouble. And at Mr. Duggleby’s I nearly landed in the biggest trouble of all. He was a small-holder who kept a few sows and reared the litters to pork weight in some ramshackle sheds behind the railway line outside Darrowby.

He was also a cricket fanatic, steeped in the lore and history of the game, and he would talk about it for hours on end. He never tired of it.

I was a willing listener because cricket has always fascinated me, even though I grew up in Scotland where it is little played. As I moved among the young pigs only part of my attention was focused on the little animals—most of me was out on the great green oval at Headingly with the Yorkshire heroes.

“By gaw, you should’ve seen Len Hutton on Saturday,” he breathed reverently. “A hundred and eighty and never gave a chance. It was lovely to watch ’im.” He gave a fair imitation of the great man’s cover drive.

“Yes, I can imagine it.” I nodded and smiled. “You said these pigs were lame, Mr. Duggleby?”

“Aye, noticed a few of ’em hoppin’ about with a leg up this mornin’. And you know, Maurice Leyland was nearly as good. Not as classy as Len, tha knows, but by heck ’e can clump ’em.”

“Yes, he’s a lion-hearted little player is Maurice,” I said. I reached down, grabbed a pig by the tail and thrust my thermometer into its rectum. “Remember him and Eddie Paynter in the test match against Australia?”

He gave a dreamy smile. “Remember it? By gaw, that’s summat I’ll never forget. What a day that was!”

I withdrew the thermometer. “This little chap’s got a temperature of a hundred and five. Must be some infection somewhere—maybe a touch of joint ill.” I felt my way along the small pink limbs. “And yet it’s funny, the joints aren’t swollen.”

“Ah reckon Bill Bowes’ll skittle Somerset out when they start their innings today. This wicket’s just to ’is liking.”

“Yes, he’s a great bowler, isn’t he?” I said. “I love watching a good fast bowler. I suppose you’ll have seen them all—Larwood, Voce, G. O. Allen and the rest?”

“Aye, that I have. I could go on all day about those men.”

I caught another of the lame pigs and examined it. “This is rather strange, Mr. Duggleby. About half the pigs in this pen seem to be lame but there’s nothing to see.”

“Aye well, happen it’s like you said—joint ill. You can give ’em a jab for that can’t you? And while you’re doin’ it I’ll tell you of the time I saw Wilfred Rhodes take eight wickets in an afternoon.”

I filled a syringe. “Right we’d better give them all a shot. Have you got a marking pencil there?”

The farmer nodded and lifted one of the little animals which promptly unleashed a protesting scream. “There was never anybody like awd Wilfred,” he shouted above the noise. “It was about half past two and the wicket had had a shower of rain on it when t’skipper threw ’im the ball.”

I smiled and raised my syringe. It passed the time so pleasantly listening to these reminiscences. Well content, I was about to plunge the needle into the pink thigh when one of the pigs began to nibble at the heel of my Wellington. I looked down at a ring of the little creatures all looking up at me, alarmed by the shrill screeches of their friend.

My mind was still with Wilfred Rhodes when I noticed what looked like a small white knob on one of the uptilted snouts. And there was another on that one—and that one … I had been unable to see their faces until now because they had been trying to run away from me, but a warning bell clanged suddenly in my head.

I reached down and seized a pig, and as I squeezed the swelling on the snout a cold wind blew through me, scattering the gentle vision of cricket and sunshine and green grass. It wasn’t a knob, it was a vesicle, a delicate blister which ruptured easily on pressure.

I could feel my arms shaking as I turned the piglet up and began to examine the tiny cloven feet. There were more vesicles there, flatter and more diffuse, but telling the same dread story.

Dry mouthed, I lifted two other pigs. They were just the same. As I turned to the farmer I felt bowed down by a crushing weight of pity, almost of guilt. He was still smiling eagerly, anxious to get on with his tale, and I was about to give him the worst news a veterinary surgeon can give a stockman.

“Mr. Duggleby,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to telephone the Ministry of Agriculture.”

“The Ministry …? What for?’

“To tell them I have a case of suspected Foot and Mouth Disease.”

“Foot and Mouth? Never!”

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not up to me to be definite about it Mr. Duggleby. One of the Ministry officers will have to do that—I must ’phone them right away.”

It was an unlikely place to find a telephone but Mr. Duggleby ran a little coal delivery round on the side. I was quickly through to the Ministry and I spoke to Neville Craggs, one of the full time officers.

He groaned. “Sounds awful like it Jim. Anyway, stay put till I see you.”

In the farm kitchen Mr. Duggleby looked at me enquiringly. “What now?”

“You’ll just have to put up with me for a bit” I said. “I can’t leave till I get the verdict.”