Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

“There’s a young lady here, a Miss Brompton. She’s come to tea, too.” I had to fight an impulse to pluck at her sleeve.

Mrs. Hall’s face was expressionless. I thought she might have started to wave her arms about, but she didn’t even seem surprised.

“You go through and talk to her and I’ll bring a few more cakes,” she said.

“But what the heck am I going to talk to her about? How long is Mr. Farnon going to be?”

“Oh, just chat to her for a bit. I shouldn’t think he’ll be very long,” she said calmly.

Slowly, I made my way back to the sitting-room and when I opened the door the girl turned quickly with the makings of another big smile. She made no attempt to hide her disgust when she saw it was only me.

“Mrs. Hall thinks he should be back fairly soon. Perhaps you would join me in a cup of tea while you’re waiting.”

She gave me a quick glance which raked me from my rumpled hair to my scuffed old shoes. I realised suddenly how grimy and sweaty I was after the long journey. Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned away. The dogs regarded her apathetically. A heavy silence blanketed the room.

I poured a cup of tea and held it out to her. She ignored me and lit a cigarette. This was going to be tough, but I could only try.

I cleared my throat and spoke lightly. “I’ve only just arrived myself. I hope to be the new assistant.”

This time she didn’t trouble to look round. She just said “Oh” and again the monosyllable carried a tremendous punch.

“Lovely part of the world, this,” I said, returning to the attack.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been in Yorkshire before, but I like what I’ve seen.”

“Oh.”

“Have you known Mr. Farnon very long?”

“Yes.”

“I believe he’s quite young—about thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful weather.”

“Yes.”

I kept at it with courage and tenacity for about five minutes, hunting for something original or witty, but finally, Miss Brompton, instead of answering, took the cigarette from her mouth, turned towards me and gave me a long, blank stare. I knew that was the end and shrank into silence.

After that, she sat staring out of the french window, pulling deeply at her cigarette, narrowing her eyes as the smoke trickled from her lips. As far as she was concerned, I just wasn’t there.

I was able to observe her at will and she was interesting. I had never met a living piece of a society magazine before. Cool, linen dress, expensive-looking cardigan, elegant legs and the glorious red hair falling on her shoulders.

And yet here was a fascinating thought. She was sitting there positively hungering for a little fat German vet. This Farnon must have something.

The tableau was finally broken up when Miss Brompton jumped to her feet. She hurled her cigarette savagely into the fireplace and marched from the room.

Wearily, I got out of my chair. My head began to ache as I shuffled through the french window into the garden. I flopped down among the knee deep grass on the lawn and rested my back against a towering acacia tree. Where the devil was Farnon? Was he really expecting me or had somebody played a horrible practical joke on me? I felt suddenly cold. I had spent my last few pounds getting here and if there was some mistake I was in trouble.

But, looking around me, I began to feel better. The sunshine beat back from the high old walls, bees droned among the bright masses of flowers. A gentle breeze stirred the withered blooms of a magnificent wistaria which almost covered the back of the house. There was peace here.

I leaned my head against the bark and closed my eyes. I could see Herr Farrenen, looking just as I had imagined him, standing over me. He wore a shocked expression.

“Wass is dis you haff done?” he spluttered, his fat jowls quivering with rage. “You kom to my house under false pretences, you insult Fräulein Brompton, you trink my tea, you eat my food. Vat else you do, hein? Maybe you steal my spoons. You talk about assistant but I vant no assistant. Is best I telephone the police.”

Herr Farrenen seized the phone in a pudgy hand. Even in my dream, I wondered how the man could use such a completely corny accent. I heard the thick voice saying “Hello, hello.”

And I opened my eyes. Somebody was saying “Hello,” but it wasn’t Herr Farrenen. A tall, thin man was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. Something seemed to be amusing him. As I struggled to my feet, he heaved himself away from the wall and held out his hand. “Sorry you’ve had to wait. I’m Siegfried Farnon.”

He was just about the most English-looking man I had ever seen. Long, humorous, strong-jawed face. Small, clipped moustache, untidy, sandy hair. He was wearing an old tweed jacket and shapeless flannel trousers. The collar of his check shirt was frayed and the tie carelessly knotted. He looked as though he didn’t spend much time in front of a mirror.

Studying him, I began to feel better despite the ache in my neck where it had rested against the tree. I shook my head to get my eyes fully open and tufts of grass fell from my hair. “There was a Miss Brompton here,” I blurted out. “She came to tea. I explained you had been called away.”

Farnon looked thoughtful, but not put out. He rubbed his chin slowly. “Mm, yes—well, never mind. But I do apologise for being out when you arrived. I have a shocking memory and I just forgot.”

It was the most English voice, too.

Farnon gave me a long, searching look, then he grinned. “Let’s go inside. I want to show you round the place.”

THREE

THE LONG OFFSHOOT BEHIND the house had been the servants’ quarters in grander days. Here, everything was dark and narrow and poky as if in deliberate contrast with the front.

Farnon led me to the first of several doors which opened off a passage where the smell of ether and carbolic hung on the air. “This,” he said, with a secret gleam in his eye as though he were about to unveil the mysteries of Aladdin’s cave, “is the dispensary.”

The dispensary was an important place in the days before penicillin and the sulphonamides. Rows of gleaming Winchester bottles lined the white walls from floor to ceiling. I savoured the familiar names: Sweet Spirits of Nitre, Tincture of Camphor, Chlorodyne, Formalin, Salammoniac, Hexamine, Sugar of Lead, Linimentum Album, Perchloride of Mercury, Red Blister. The lines of labels were comforting.

I was an initiate among old friends. I had painfully accumulated their lore, ferreting out their secrets over the years. I knew their origins, actions and uses, and their maddeningly varied dosage. The examiner’s voice—“And what is the dose for the horse?—and the cow?—and the sheep?—and the pig?—and the dog?—and the cat?”

These shelves held the vet’s entire armoury against disease and, on a bench under the window, I could see the instruments for compounding them; the graduated vessels and beakers, the mortars and pestles. And underneath, in an open cupboard, the medicine bottles, piles of corks of all sizes, pill boxes, powder papers.

As we moved around, Farnon’s manner became more and more animated. His eyes glittered and he talked rapidly. Often, he reached up and caressed a Winchester on its shelf; or he would lift out a horse-ball or an electuary from its box, give it a friendly pat and replace it with tenderness.

“Look at this stuff, Herriot,” he shouted without warning. “Adrevan! This is the remedy, par excellence, for red worms in horses. A bit expensive, mind you—ten bob a packet. And these gentian violet pessaries. If you shove one of these into a cow’s uterus after a dirty cleansing, it turns the discharges a very pretty colour. Really looks as though it’s doing something. And have you seen this trick?”