Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

I was thinking of ringing the bell again when I saw a large woman in the passage. She rapped out a single word and the noise stopped as if by magic. When she opened the door the ravening pack was slinking round her feet ingratiatingly, showing the whites of their eyes and wagging their tucked-in tails. I had never seen such a servile crew.

“Good afternoon,” I said with my best smile. “My name is Herriot.”

The woman looked bigger than ever with the door open. She was about sixty but her hair, tightly pulled back from her forehead, was jet black and hardly streaked with grey. She nodded and looked at me with grim benevolence, but she seemed to be waiting for further information. Evidently, the name struck no answering spark.

“Mr. Farnon is expecting me. He wrote asking me to come today.”

“Mr. Herriot?” she said thoughtfully. “Surgery is from six to seven o’clock. If you wanted to bring a dog in, that would be your best time.”

“No, no,” I said, hanging on to my smile. “I’m applying for the position of assistant. Mr. Farnon said to come in time for tea.”

“Assistant? Well, now, that’s nice.” The lines in her face softened a little. “I’m Mrs. Hall. I keep house for Mr. Farnon. He’s a bachelor, you know. He never said anything to me about you, but never mind, come in and have a cup of tea. He shouldn’t be long before he’s back.”

I followed her between whitewashed walls, my feet clattering on the tiles. We turned right at the end into another passage and I was beginning to wonder just how far back the house extended when I was shown into a sunlit room.

It had been built in the grand manner, high-ceilinged and airy with a massive fireplace flanked by arched alcoves. One end was taken up by a french window which gave on a long, high-walled garden. I could see unkempt lawns, a rockery and many fruit trees. A great bank of peonies blazed in the hot sunshine and at the far end, rooks cawed in the branches of a group of tall elms. Above and beyond were the green hills with their climbing walls.

Ordinary-looking furniture stood around on a very worn carpet. Hunting prints hung on the walls and books were scattered everywhere, some on shelves in the alcoves but others piled on the floor in the corners. A pewter pint pot occupied a prominent place at one end of the mantelpiece. It was an interesting pot. Cheques and bank notes had been stuffed into it till they bulged out of the top and overflowed on to the hearth beneath. I was studying this with astonishment when Mrs. Hall came in with a tea tray.

“I suppose Mr. Farnon is out on a case,” I said.

“No, he’s gone through to Brawton to visit his mother. I can’t really say when he’ll be back.” She left me with my tea.

The dogs arranged themselves peacefully around the room and, except for a brief dispute between the Scottie and the cocker spaniel about the occupancy of a deep chair, there was no sign of their previous violent behaviour. They lay regarding me with friendly boredom and, at the same time, fighting a losing battle against sleep. Soon the last nodding head had fallen back and a chorus of heavy breathing filled the room.

But I was unable to relax with them. A feeling of let-down gripped me; I had screwed myself up for an interview and I was left dangling. This was all very odd. Why should anyone write for an assistant, arrange a time to meet him and then go to visit his mother? Another thing—if I was engaged, I would be living in this house, yet the housekeeper had no instructions to prepare a room for me. In fact, she had never even heard of me.

My musings were interrupted by the door bell ringing and the dogs, as if touched by a live wire, leaped screaming into the air and launched themselves in a solid mass through the door. I wished they didn’t take their duties so seriously. There was no sign of Mrs. Hall so I went out to the front door where the dogs were putting everything into their fierce act.

“Shut up!” I shouted and the din switched itself off. The five dogs cringed abjectly round my ankles, almost walking on their knees. The big greyhound got the best effect by drawing his lips back from his teeth in an apologetic grin.

I opened the door and looked into a round, eager face. Its owner, a plump man in Wellington boots, leaned confidently against the railings.

“Hello, ’ello, Mr. Farnon in?”

“Not at the moment. Can I help you?”

“Aye, give ’im a message when he comes in. Tell ’im Bert Sharpe of Barrow Hills has a cow wot wants borin’ out?”

“Boring out?”

“That’s right, she’s nobbut going on three cylinders.”

“Three cylinders?”

“Aye and if we don’t do summat she’ll go wrang in ’er ewer, won’t she?”

“Very probably.”

“Don’t want felon, do we?”

“Certainly not.”

“O.K., you’ll tell ’im, then. Ta-ta.”

I returned thoughtfully to the sitting-room. It was disconcerting but I had listened to my first case history without understanding a word of it.

I had hardly sat down when the bell rang again. This time I unleashed a frightening yell which froze the dogs when they were still in mid air; they took the point and returned, abashed, to their chairs.

This time it was a solemn gentleman with a straightly adjusted cloth cap resting on his ears, a muffler knotted precisely over his Adam’s apple and a clay pipe growing from the exact centre of his mouth. He removed the pipe and spoke with a rich, unexpected accent.

“Me name’s Mulligan and I want Misther Farnon to make up some midicine for me dog.”

“Oh, what’s the trouble with your dog, Mr. Mulligan?”

He raised a questioning eyebrow and put a hand to his ear. I tried again with a full blooded shout.

“What’s the trouble?”

He looked at me doubtfully for a moment. “He’s womitin’, sorr. Womitin’ bad.”

I immediately felt on secure ground now and my brain began to seethe with diagnostic procedures. “How long after eating does he vomit?”

The hand went to the ear again. “Phwhat’s that?”

I leaned close to the side of his head, inflated my lungs and bawled: “When does he womit—I mean vomit?”

Comprehension spread slowly across Mr. Mulligan’s face. He gave a gentle smile. “Oh aye, he’s womitin’. Womitin’ bad, sorr.”

I didn’t feel up to another effort so I told him I would see to it and asked him to call later. He must have been able to lipread me because he seemed satisfied and walked away.

Back in the sitting-room, I sank into a chair and poured a cup of tea. I had taken one sip when the bell rang again. This time, a wild glare from me was enough to make the dogs cower back in their chairs; I was relieved they had caught on so quickly.

Outside the front door a lovely, red-haired girl was standing. She smiled, showing a lot of very white teeth.

“Good afternoon,” she said in a loud, well-bred voice. “I am Diana Brompton. Mr. Farnon is expecting me for tea.”

I gulped and clung to the door handle. “He’s asked YOU to tea?”

The smile became fixed. “Yes, that is correct,” she said, spelling the words out carefully. “He asked me to tea.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Farnon isn’t at home. I can’t say when he’ll be back.”

The smile was plucked away. “Oh,” she said, and she got a lot into the word. “At any rate, perhaps I could come in.”

“Oh, certainly, do come in. I’m sorry,” I babbled, suddenly conscious that I had been staring, open mouthed, at her.

I held open the door and she brushed past me without a word. She knew her way about because, when I got to the first corner, she had disappeared into the room. I tiptoed past the door and broke into a gallop which took me along another thirty yards or so of twisting passage to a huge, stone-flagged kitchen. Mrs. Hall was pottering about there and I rushed at her.