Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

“Well thanks a lot, Mr. Prescott,” he shouted. “We seem to have got away with it.”

“Champion, lad, champion. You’re as good as new.” Then the farmer winked and held up a finger. “Now you say nowt about this job and I’ll say nowt. Right?”

“Right! Come on, Jim, get in.” Tristan put his foot down and we chugged thankfully up the hill once more.

He seemed thoughtful on the way and didn’t speak till we got on to the road. Then he turned to me.

“You know, Jim, it’s all very well, but I’ve still got to confess to Siegfried about that rear light. And of course I’ll get the lash again. Don’t you think it’s just a bit hard the way I get blamed for everything that happens to his cars? You’ve seen it over and over again—he gives me a lot of bloody old wrecks to drive and when they start to fall to bits it’s always my fault. The bloody tyres are all down to the canvas but if I get a puncture there’s hell to pay. It isn’t fair.”

“Well Siegfried isn’t the man to suffer in silence, you know.” I said. “He’s got to lash out and you’re nearest.”

Tristan was silent for a moment then he took a deeper drag at his Woodbine, blew out his cheeks and assumed a judicial expression. “Mind you, I’m not saying I was entirely blameless with regard to the Hillman—I was taking that sharp turn in Dringley at sixty with my arm round a little nurse—but all in all I’ve just had sheer bad luck. In fact, Jim, I’m a helpless victim of prejudice.”

Siegfried was out of sorts when we met in the surgery. He was starting a summer cold and was sniffly and listless, but he still managed to raise a burst of energy at the news.

“You bloody young maniac! It’s the rear light now, is it? God help me, I think all I work for is to pay for the repair bills you run up. You’ll ruin me before you’re finished. Go on, get to hell out of it. I’m finished with you.”

Tristan retired with dignity and followed his usual policy of lying low. He didn’t see his brother until the following morning. Siegfried’s condition had deteriorated; the cold had settled in his throat, always his weak spot, and he was down with laryngitis. His neck was swathed in vinegar-soaked Thermogene and when Tristan and I came into the bedroom he was feebly turning over the pages of the Darrowby and Houlton Times.

He spoke in a tortured whisper. “Have you seen this? It says here that the golf clubhouse was knocked down yesterday and there’s no clue as to how it happened. Damn funny thing. On Prescott’s land, isn’t it?” His head jerked suddenly from the pillow and he glared at his brother. “You were there yesterday!” he croaked, then he fell back, muttering. “Oh no, no, I’m sorry, it’s too ridiculous—and it’s wrong of me to blame you for everything.”

Tristan stared. He had never heard this kind of talk from Siegfried before. I too felt a pang of anxiety; could my boss be delirious?

Siegfried swallowed painfully. “I’ve just had an urgent call from Armitage of Sorton. He’s got a cow down with milk fever and I want you to drive James out there straight away. Go on, now—get moving.”

“Afraid I can’t,” Tristan shrugged. “Jim’s car is in Hammond’s garage. They’re fixing that light—it’ll take them about an hour.”

“Oh God, yes, and they said they couldn’t let us have a spare. Well, Armitage is in a bit of a panic—that cow could be dead in an hour. What the hell can we do?”

“There’s the Rover,” Tristan said quietly.

Siegfried’s form stiffened suddenly under the blankets and wild terror flickered in his eyes. For a few moments his head rolled about on the pillow and his long, bony fingers picked nervously at the quilt, then with an effort he heaved himself on to his side and stared into his brother’s eyes. He spoke slowly and the agonised hissing of his voice lent menace to his words.

“Right, so you’ll have to take the Rover. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d let a wrecker like you drive it, but just let me tell you this. If you put a scratch on that car I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you with my own two hands.”

The old pattern was asserting itself. Siegfried’s eyes had begun to bulge, a dark flush was creeping over his cheeks while Tristan’s face had lost all expression.

Using the last remnants of his strength, Siegfried hoisted himself even higher. “Now do you really think you are capable of driving that car five miles to Sorton and back without smashing it up? All right then, get on with it and just remember what I’ve said.”

Tristan withdrew in offended silence and as I followed him I took a last look at the figure in the bed. Siegfried had fallen back and was staring at the ceiling with feverish eyes. His lips moved feebly as though he were praying.

Outside the room, Tristan rubbed his hands delightedly. “What a break, Jim! A chance in a lifetime! You know I never thought I’d get behind the wheel of that Rover in a hundred years.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Just shows you—everything happens for the best.”

Five minutes later he was backing carefully out of the yard and into the lane and once on the Sorton road I saw he was beginning to enjoy himself. For two miles the way ahead stretched straight and clear except for a milk lorry approaching in the far distance; a perfect place to see what the Rover could do. He nestled down in the rich leather upholstery and pressed his foot hard on the accelerator.

We were doing an effortless eighty when I saw a car beginning to overtake the milk lorry; it was an ancient, square-topped, high-built vehicle like a biscuit tin on wheels and it had no business trying to overtake anything. I waited for it to pull back but it still came on. And the lorry, perhaps with a sporting driver, seemed to be spurting to make a race of it.

With increasing alarm I saw the two vehicles abreast and bearing down on us only a few hundred yards away and not a foot of space on either side of them. Of course the old car would pull in behind the lorry—it had to, there was no other way—but it was taking a long time about it. Tristan jammed on his brakes. If the lorry did the same, the other car would just be able to dodge between. But within seconds I realised nothing like that was going to happen and as they thundered towards us I resigned myself with dumb horror to a head-on collision.

Just before I closed my eyes I had a fleeting glimpse of a large, alarmed face behind the wheel of the old car, then something hit the left side of the Rover with a rending crash.

When I opened my eyes we were stationary. There was just Tristan and myself staring straight ahead at the road, empty and quiet, curving ahead of us into the peaceful green of the hills.

I sat motionless, listening to my thumping heart then I looked over my shoulder and saw the lorry disappearing at high speed round a distant bend; in passing I studied Tristan’s face with interest—I had never seen a completely green face before.

After quite a long time, feeling a draught from the left, I looked carefully round in that direction. There were no doors on that side—one was lying by the roadside a few yards back and the other hung from a single broken hinge; as I watched, this one too, clattered on to the tarmac with a note of flat finality. Slowly, as in a dream, I got out and surveyed the damage; the left side of the Rover was a desert of twisted metal where the old car, diving for the verge at the last split second, had ploughed its way.

Tristan had flopped down on the grass, his face blank. A nasty scratch on the paintwork might have sent him into a panic but this wholesale destruction seemed to have numbed his senses. But this state didn’t last long; he began to blink, then his eyes narrowed and he felt for his Woodbines. His agile mind was back at work and it wasn’t difficult to read his thoughts. What was he going to do now?