Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

Siegfried looked at me as though he was seeing me for the first time. He argued and protested but for once I got my way. I fished the Ministry notification cards from the desk drawer and began to make the arrangements for my honeymoon.

On Tuesday at 12 noon I had finished testing Allen’s huge herd scattered for miles over the stark fells at the top of the Dale and was settling down with the hospitable folk for the inevitable “bit o’ dinner.” Mr. Allen was at the head of the scrubbed table and facing me were his two sons, Jack, aged about twenty, and Robbie, about seventeen. The young men were superbly fit and tough and I had been watching all morning in something like awe as they manhandled the wild, scattered beasts, chasing and catching tirelessly hour after hour. I had stared incredulously as Jack had run down a galloping heifer on the open moor, seized its horns and borne it slowly to the ground for me to inject; it struck me more than once that it was a pity that an Olympic Selector was unlikely to stray into this remote corner of high Yorkshire—he would have seen material to beat the world.

I always had to stand a bit of leg-pulling from Mrs. Allen, a jolly talkative woman; on previous visits she had ribbed me mercilessly about being a slowcoach with the girls, the disgrace of having nothing better than a housekeeper to look after me. I knew she would start on me again today but I bided my time; I had a devastating riposte up my sleeve. She had just opened the oven door, filling the room with a delectable fragrance, and as she dumped a huge slab of roast ham on the table she looked down at me with a smile.

“Now then, Mr. Herriot, when are we going to get you married off? It’s time you found a nice girl, you know I’m always at you but you take not a bit o’ notice.” She giggled as she bustled back to the cooking range for a bowl of mashed potatoes.

I waited until she had returned before I dropped my bombshell. “Well, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Allen,” I said airily, “I’ve decided to accept your advice. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

The good woman, mounding mashed potatoes on to my plate, stopped with her spoon in mid air. “Married tomorrow?” Her face was a study in blank astonishment.

“That’s right. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“But … but … you’re coming back here on Thursday and Friday.”

“Well of course. I have to finish the test, haven’t I? I’ll be bringing my wife with me—I’m looking forward to introducing her to you.”

There was a silence. The young men stared at me, Mr. Allen stopped sawing at the ham and regarded me stolidly, then his wife gave an uncertain laugh.

“Oh come on, I don’t believe it. You’re kidding us. You’d be off on your honeymoon if you were getting married tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Allen,” I said with dignity, “I wouldn’t joke about a serious matter like that. Let me repeat—tomorrow is my wedding day and I’ll be bringing my wife along on Thursday to see you.”

Completely deflated, she heaped our plates and we all fell to in silence. But I knew she was in agony; she kept darting little glances at me and it was obvious she was dying to ask me more. The boys, too, seemed intrigued; only Mr. Allen, a tall, quiet man who, I’m sure, wouldn’t have cared if I’d been going to rob a bank tomorrow, ploughed calmly through his food.

Nothing more was said until I was about to leave, then Mrs. Allen put a hand on my arm.

“You really don’t mean it, do you?” Her face was haggard with strain.

I got into the car and called out through the window. “Goodbye and thank you. Mrs. Herriot and I will be along first thing on Thursday.”

I can’t remember much about the wedding. It was a “quiet do” and my main recollection is of desiring to get it all over with as soon as possible. I have only one vivid memory; of Siegfried, just behind me in the church booming “Amen” at regular intervals throughout the ceremony—the only time I have ever heard a best man do this.

It was an incredible relief when Helen and I were ready to drive away and when we were passing Skeldale House Helen grasped my hand.

“Look!” she cried excitedly. “Look over there!”

Underneath Siegfried’s brass plate which always hung slightly askew on the iron railings was a brand new one. It was of the modern bakelite type with a black background and bold white letters which read “J. Herriot M.R.C.V.S. Veterinary Surgeon,” and it was screwed very straight and level on the metal.

I looked back down the street to try to see Siegfried but we had said our goodbyes and I would have to thank him later. So I drove out of Darrowby with a feeling of swelling pride because I knew what the plate meant—I was a partner, a man with a real place in the world. The thought made me slightly breathless. In fact we were both a little dizzy and we cruised for hours around the countryside, getting out when we felt like it, walking among the hills, taking no account of time. It must have been nine o’clock in the evening and darkness coming in fast when we realised we had gone far out of our way.

We had to drive ten miles over a desolate moor on the fell top and it was very dark when we rattled down the steep, narrow road into Ellerthorpe. The Wheat Sheaf was an unostentatious part of the single long village street, a low grey stone building with no light over the door, and as we went into the slightly musty-smelling hallway the gentle clink of glasses came from the public bar on our left. Mrs. Burn, the elderly widow who owned the place, appeared from a back room and scrutinised us unemotionally.

“We’ve met before, Mrs. Burn,” I said and she nodded. I apologised for our lateness and was wondering whether I dare ask for a few sandwiches at this time of night when the old lady spoke up, quite unperturbed.

“Nay,” she said, “it’s all right. We’ve been expecting you and your supper’s waiting.” She led us to the dining-room where her niece, Beryl, served a hot meal in no time. Thick lentil soup, followed by what would probably be called a goulash these days but which was in fact simply a delicious stew with mushrooms and vegetables obviously concocted by a culinary genius. We had to say no to the gooseberry pie and cream.

It was like that all the time at the Wheat Sheaf. The whole place was aggressively unfashionable; needing a lick of paint, crammed with hideous Victorian furniture, but it was easy to see how it had won its reputation. It didn’t have stylish guests, but fat, comfortable men from the industrial West Riding brought their wives at the weekends and did a bit of fishing or just took in the incomparable air between the meal times, which were the big moments of the day. There was only one guest while we were there and he was a permanent one—a retired draper from Darlington who was always at the table in good time, a huge white napkin tucked under his chin, his eyes gleaming as he watched Beryl bring in the food.

But it wasn’t just the home-fed ham, the Wensleydale cheese, the succulent steak and kidney pies, the bilberry tarts and mountainous Yorkshire puddings which captivated Helen and me. There was a peace, a sleepy insinuating charm about the old pub which we always recall with happiness. I still often pass the Wheat Sheaf, and as I look at its ancient stone frontage, quite unaltered by the passage of a mere thirty years, the memories are still fresh and warm; our footsteps echoing in the empty street when we took our last walk at night, the old brass bedstead almost filling the little room, the dark rim of the fells bulking against the night sky beyond our window, faint bursts of laughter from the farmers in the bar downstairs.

I particularly enjoyed, too, our very first morning when I took Helen to do the test at Allen’s. As I got out of the car I could see Mrs. Allen peeping round the curtains in the kitchen window. She was soon out in the yard and her eyes popped when I brought my bride over to her. Helen was one of the pioneers of slacks in the Dales and she was wearing a bright purple pair this morning which would in modern parlance knock your eye out. The farmer’s wife was partly shocked, partly fascinated but she soon found that Helen was of the same stock as herself and within seconds the two women were chattering busily. I judged from Mrs. Allen’s vigorous head-nodding and her ever widening smile that Helen was putting her out of her pain by explaining all the circumstances. It took a long time and finally Mr. Allen had to break into the conversation.