Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

The news did a lot to lighten my outlook. I went over to the desk and got the day book. “Here are this morning’s calls. What would you like me to do?”

Farnon picked out a round of visits, scribbled the list on a scrap of paper and handed it over. “Here you are,” he said, “a few nice, trouble-free cases to get yourself worked in.”

I was turning to leave when he called me back. “Oh, there’s one other thing I’d like you to do. My young brother is hitching from Edinburgh today. He’s at the Veterinary College there and the term finished yesterday. When he gets within striking distance he’ll probably give us a ring. I wonder if you’d slip out and pick him up?”

“Certainly. Glad to.”

“His name is Tristan, by the way.”

“Tristan?”

“Yes. Oh, I should have told you. You must have wondered about my own queer name. It was my father. Great Wagnerian. It nearly ruled his life. It was music all the time—mainly Wagner.”

“I’m a bit partial myself.”

“Ah well, yes, but you didn’t get it morning, noon and night like we did. And then to be stuck with a name like Siegfried. Anyway, it could have been worse—Wotan, for instance.”

“Or Pogner.”

Farnon looked startled. “By golly, you’re right. I’d forgotten about old Pogner. I suppose I’ve a lot to be thankful for.”

It was late afternoon before the expected call came. The voice at the other end was uncannily familiar.

“This is Tristan Farnon.”

“Gosh, you sound just like your brother.”

A pleasant laugh answered me. “Everybody says that—oh, that’s very good of you. I’d be glad of a lift. I’m at the Holly Tree Café on the Great North Road.”

After the voice I had been expecting to find a younger edition of my employer but the small, boyish-faced figure sitting on a rucksack could hardly have been less like him. He got up, pushed back the dark hair from his forehead and held out his hand. The smile was charming.

“Had much walking to do?” I asked.

“Oh, a fair bit, but I needed the exercise. We had a roughish end of term party last night.” He opened the car door and threw the rucksack into the back. As I started the engine he settled himself in the passenger seat as though it were a luxurious armchair, pulled out a paper packet of Woodbines, lit one with tender concentration and gulped the smoke down blissfully. He produced the Daily Mirror from a side pocket and shook it open with a sigh of utter content. The smoke, which had been gone a long time, began to wisp from his nose and mouth.

I turned west off the great highway and the rumble of traffic faded rapidly behind us. I glanced round at Tristan. “You’ll have just finished exams?” I said.

“Yes, pathology and parasitology.”

I almost broke one of my steadfast rules by asking him if he had passed, but stopped myself in time. It is a chancy business. But in any case, there was no shortage of conversation. Tristan had something to say about most of the news items and now and then he read out an extract and discussed it with me. I felt a growing conviction that I was in the presence of a quicker and livelier mind than my own. It seemed no time at all before we pulled up outside Skeldale House.

Siegfried was out when we arrived and it was early evening when he returned. He came in through the french window, gave me a friendly greeting and threw himself into an armchair. He had begun to talk about one of his cases when Tristan walked in.

The atmosphere in the room changed as though somebody had clicked a switch. Siegfried’s smile became sardonic and he gave his brother a long, appraising look. He grunted a “hello,” then reached up and began to run his finger along the titles of the books in the alcove. He seemed absorbed in this for a few minutes and I could feel the tension building up. Tristan’s expression had changed remarkably; his face had gone completely deadpan but his eyes were wary.

Siegfried finally located the book he was looking for, took it down from the shelf and began to leaf through it unhurriedly. Then, without looking up, he said quietly: “Well, how did the exams go?”

Tristan swallowed carefully and took a deep breath. “Did all right in parasitology,” he replied in a flat monotone.

Siegfried didn’t appear to have heard. He had found something interesting in his book and settled back to read. He took his time over it, then put the book back on the shelf. He began again the business of going along the titles; still with his back to his brother, he spoke again in the same soft voice.

“How about pathology?”

Tristan was on the edge of his chair now, as if ready to make a run for it. His eyes darted from his brother to the book shelves and back again. “Didn’t get it,” he said tonelessly.

There was no reaction from Siegfried. He kept up his patient search for his book, occasionally pulling a volume out, glancing at it and replacing it carefully. Then he gave up the hunt, lay back in the chair with his arms dangling almost to the floor and looked at Tristan. “So you failed pathology,” he said conversationally.

I was surprised to hear myself babbling with an edge of hysteria in my voice. “Well now that’s pretty good you know. It puts him in the final year and he’ll be able to sit path. at Christmas. He won’t lose any time that way and, after all, it’s a tough subject.”

Siegfried turned a cold eye on me. “So you think it’s pretty good, do you?” There was a pause and a long silence which was broken by a totally unexpected bellow as he rounded on his brother. “Well, I don’t! I think it is bloody awful! It’s a damned disgrace, that’s what it is. What the hell have you been doing all this term, anyway? Boozing, I should think, chasing women, spending my money, anything but working. And now you’ve got the bloody nerve to walk in here and tell me you’ve failed pathology. You’re lazy, that’s your trouble, isn’t it? You’re bloody bone idle!”

He was almost unrecognisable. His face was darkly flushed and his eyes glared. He yelled wildly again at his brother. “But I’ve had enough this time. I’m sick of you. I’m not going to work my fingers to the bloody bone to keep you up there idling your time away. This is the end. You’re sacked, do you hear me? Sacked once and for all. So get out of here—I don’t want to see you around any more. Go on, get out!”

Tristan, who had preserved an air of injured dignity throughout, withdrew quietly.

Writhing with embarrassment, I looked at Siegfried. He was showing the strain of the interview. His complexion had gone blotchy; he muttered to himself and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

I was aghast at having to witness this break-up and I was grateful when Siegfried sent me on a call and I was able to get out of the room.

It was nearly dark when I got back and I drove round to the back lane and into the yard at the foot of the garden. The creaking of the garage doors disturbed the rooks in the great elms which overhung the buildings. Far up in the darkness there was a faint fluttering, a muffled cawing then silence. As I stood listening, I became aware of a figure in the gloom, standing by the yard door, looking down the garden. As the face turned towards me I saw it was Tristan.

Again, I felt embarrassed. It was an unfortunate intrusion when the poor fellow had come up here to brood alone. “Sorry about the way things turned out,” I said awkwardly.

The tip of the cigarette glowed brightly as Tristan took a long pull. “No, no, that’s all right. Could have been a lot worse, you know.”

“Worse? Well, it’s bad enough, isn’t it? What are you going to do?”

“Do? What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve been kicked out, haven’t you? Where are you going to sleep tonight?”