It DID happen to a vet!

We continue our glorious summer reading revivals with James Herriot’s utterly enchanting account of the life of pre-war Yorkshire vets, captured so magically on TV by Robert Hardy, who died last week

THE actor Robert Hardy, who has died at the age of 91, is fondly remembered for his role as the Yorkshire vet Siegfried Farnon in the BBC TV series based on James Herriot’s bestselling books. Starting today and all next week, we celebrate the publication 45 years ago of the quintessentially English and much-loved All Creatures Great And Small by revisiting its heartwarming world of animals and their often eccentric owners...

THEY didn’t say anything about this in the textbooks, I thought, as the snow blew in through the gaping doorway of the barn and settled on my naked back. I was lying face down in a pool of nameless muck next to a cow that just didn’t seem to want to give birth.

It had been a miserable session throughout. The farmer, Mr Dinsdale, was a long, sad, silent man of few words. He had a long, sad, silent son with him and the two of them were watching my futile efforts with deepening gloom.

But worst of all was the presence of Mr Dinsdale’s brother, ‘Uncle’, a bright-eyed old man in a pork pie hat.

‘Now then, young man,’ he’d cried in the nasal twang of Yorkshire’s West Riding when I arrived. ‘I farm over in Listondale — my vet is Mr Broomfield. I expect you know him? Wonderful man is Mr Broomfield, especially at calving. I’ve never seen him beat yet!’

I’d managed a weak smile. Normally I would have been delighted to hear about the prowess of my fellow vet. But somehow an unheated barn in the middle of a freezing Yorkshire night seemed neither the time nor the place.

‘And how long have you been qualified, may I ask?’ said Uncle. ‘Oh, about seven months.’ ‘ Seven months!’ Uncle had smiled indulgently. ‘ Well, there’s nowt like a bit of experience, I always says. Mr Broomfield’s been doing my work now for over ten years and he really knows what he’s about. No, you can ’ ave your book learning. Give me experience every time.’

And now, two hours later, defeat was around the corner and I was exhausted. I’d rolled and grovelled on the filthy cobbles to no avail while the Dinsdales watched in silence and Uncle kept up a non-stop stream of comment. He was the only one of us — the cow included — who was having any fun.

‘You’re about beat, young man,’ he said with deep satisfaction. ‘I’ve never seen Mr Broomfield beat, but then he’s had a lot of experience. And what’s more, he’s strong — really strong. Never seen such muscles on a man.’

Rage flooded through me. I clenched my teeth, braced my legs and pushed my arm farther inside the animal. With a sensation of disbelief I felt my rope noose slide over the sharp little incisor teeth and into the calf’s mouth.

Gingerly, muttering a prayer, I pulled on the thin rope and felt the slipknot tighten. After hours of trying, I had hold of its lower jaw.

‘Now hold this rope, Mr Dinsdale, and just keep a gentle tension on it,’ I said. ‘ I’m going to repel the calf and if you pull steadily at the same time, the head ought to come round.’

‘What if the rope comes off?’ asked Uncle hopefully.

I didn’t answer. As the head turned round I extended the noose till it reached behind the calf’s ears. ‘Now pull on the head as she strains,’ I said.

‘Nay, you should pull on the legs now,’ cried Uncle.

‘Pull on the bloody head rope, I tell you!’ I bellowed at the top of my voice and felt immediately better as Uncle retired, offended, to a hay bale. With traction, the head was brought out and the body followed easily. The little animal lay motionless on the cobbles.

‘ It’ll be dead. Bound to be,’ grunted Uncle, returning to the attack.

I blew hard down the throat and began artificial respiration. The calf gave a gasp and its eyelids flickered.

This was the bit I loved — the miracle of which I never tired.

‘I know what this little fellow wants,’ I said. I grasped the tiny creature by its forelegs and pulled it up to its mother’s head.

The cow was stretched out on her side, her head extended wearily along the rough floor, her eyes almost shut. She looked past caring about anything.

But then she felt the calf’s body against her face and there was a transformation: her eyes opened wide and her muzzle began a snuffling exploration. The little creature arched its back as she began to lick him methodically all over.

Uncle took off his hat and scratched his head in disbelief.

‘By gaw — it’s alive. I’d have thowt it’d be dead after you’d messed about all that time.’

Some of the fire, it seemed, had gone out of him.

‘ How about a drink?’ asked Mr Dinsdale.

A vision of hot tea well laced with whisky swam before me. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Dinsdale, I’d love a drink. It’s been a hard couple of hours.’

‘Nay,’ said Mr Dinsdale, looking at me steadily. ‘I meant for the cow.’ I began to babble. ‘Oh yes, of course, certainly, by all means give her a drink. She must be very thirsty. It’ll do her good. Yes, a drink. Absolutely.’

I gathered up my tackle and stumbled out of the barn.

On the moor a bitter wind whipped over the snow, stinging my eyes. As I plodded down the slope to my car, Uncle’s voice, strident and undefeated, reached me for the last time.

‘Mr Broomfield doesn’t believe in giving a drink after calving. Says it chills the stomach.’

IT HADN’T seemed true when the letter came from Darrowby, in the Yorkshire Dales.

Mr Siegfried Farnon MRCVS would like to see me on Friday afternoon. I was to come to tea, and if we were mutually suited I could stay on as his assistant.

I had grabbed at the lifeline in disbelief — so many of my friends who had qualified as vets with me were unemployed or working as shipyard labourers that I had almost given up hope of a future in the job I loved.

Darrowby didn’t get much space in the guidebooks — a grey town with a cobbled marketplace and little of interest except its two ancient bridges. But its setting was beautiful, on the shores of a pebbly river where the buildings clustered along the lower slopes of a picturesque 2,000ft fell.

There was a clarity in the air, a sense of space and airiness that made me feel as though I had shed something a few miles before: the confinement of a city, the grime, the smoke — already they seemed to be falling away from me.

Trengate was a quiet street off the market square and I had my first sight of Skeldale House — a handsome Georgian building

with a fine, white-painted doorway. I rang the doorbell and instantly the afternoon peace was shattered by a distant baying like a wolf pack in full cry.

As I peered through the glass a river of dogs poured round the corner of a long passage and dashed itself with frenzied yelps against the door.

If I hadn’t been used to animals I would have run for my life.

A large woman appeared 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, wagging their tucked-in tails.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said with my best smile. ‘My name is Herriot. I’m applying for the position of assistant. Mr Farnon said to come in time for tea.’

‘Well now, that’s nice,’ she said, ushering me into the sitting room. ‘ I’m Mrs Hall, the housekeeper. It shouldn’t be long before he’s back.’ Moments later the doorbell rang again. The dogs, as if touched by a live wire, leapt screaming into the air and launched themselves at the door.

There was no sign of Mrs Hall, so I went out to the door myself.

‘Shut up!’ I yelled and the din switched itself off. I opened the door and looked into an eager face. ‘Ello, ello. Mr Farnon in?’ said its owner.

‘ Not at the moment. Can 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?’

I‘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.’ ‘OK, 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 leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I must have nodded off, because the next thing I heard was a voice saying: ‘Hello! Hello!’

A tall, thin man was standing looking at me as if something was amusing him. Long, humorous, strong-jawed face. ‘ Sorry you’ve had to wait. I’m Siegfried Farnon.’ I told him about Bert Sharpe. ‘Something about boring out a cow which was going on three cylinders. He talked about her ewer and felon — I didn’t quite get it, I’m afraid.’

Farnon laughed. ‘ I think I can translate. He wants a Hudson’s operation doing on a blocked teat. Ewer is the udder and felon the local term for mastitis. How about coming with me and I’ll show you a bit of the district?’

Farnon was an unorthodox driver. Apparently captivated by the scene, he drove slowly down the hill, elbows resting on the wheel, his chin cupped in his hands.

At the bottom of the hill he came out of his reverie and spurted to 70 miles an hour. His old car rocked crazily along the narrow road and my seat slewed from side to side as I jammed my feet against the floorboards. Then he slammed on the brakes, pointed out some pedigree shorthorns in a field and jolted away again.

He never looked at the road in front; all his attention seemed to be on the countryside around and behind him.

It was that last bit that worried me, as he spent a lot of time driving fast and looking over his shoulder at the same time.

Mr Sharpe was waiting for us, still looking eager. He led us into the byre and Farnon gestured towards the cow. ‘ See what you make of it.’

I squatted down and palpated the teat, feeling the mass of thickened tissue. It would have to be broken down by a Hudson’s instrument and I began to work the thin metal spiral up the teat.

One second later I was sitting gasping in the dung channel with the neat imprint of a cloven hoof on my shirt front.

It was embarrassing, but there was nothing I could do but sit there fighting for breath, my mouth opening and shutting like a stranded fish.

Mr Sharpe held his hand over his mouth, his innate politeness at war with his natural amusement at seeing the vet come to grief.

‘I’m sorry, young man, but I owt to ’ave told you that this is a very friendly cow. She allus likes to shake hands.’ Then, overcome by his own wit, he went into a long paroxysm of silent mirth.

I took my time to recover, then rose with dignity from the dung channel.

With Mr Sharpe holding the nose and Siegfried lifting up the tail, I managed to clear the obstruction — but not before the cow had got in several telling blows on my arms and legs.

When it was over, the farmer grasped the teat and sent a long white jet frothing on the floor. ‘Capital!’ he said. ‘She’s going on four cylinders now!’

On the way home we stopped off at a country pub. Farnon guided me to a seat, ordered two beers and turned to face me.

‘Well, you can have this job if you want it,’ he said. ‘Four quid a week and full board. OK?’ I was in. And four pounds a week was sheer affluence. ‘Thank you,’ I said, trying not to look triumphant. ‘I accept.’

It was the start of a working relationship — and a close friendship — that would last for more than four decades. I WAS so lucky to meet my brilliant, eccentric, mercurial boss that day, and later his equally brilliant, happy-go-lucky student brother Tristan. And so fortunate to have been given a job full of small incidents that invariably brightened my day.

Like the letter from the Bramleys. That really made me feel good.

The Bramley family was in many ways unique — even by the standards of the Thirties their lives were untouched by the flood of progress. There were four of them: three brothers and a sister, Rosemary.

There was no road to their farm, but that didn’t bother the Bramleys because the outside world held no great attraction for them.

Rosemary made occasional trips to Darrowby on market days for provisions and Herbert, the middle brother, had come into town in the spring of 1929 to have a tooth out, but apart from that they stayed contentedly at home.

I knew they were fond of cats by the number and variety that swarmed over the place and perched confidently on my car bonnet on cold days. But I was unprepared for the family’s utter desolation when the cats started to die.

Miss Bramley was on the doorstep at Skeldale House nearly every day, carrying an egg basket with another pitiful patient — a cat or sometimes a few tiny kittens — huddling miserably inside. Even today, with the full range of modern antibiotics, the treatment of feline enteritis is unrewarding, and I had

little success with my prewar potions. The Bramleys were utterly stricken.

I was surprised at their grief because most farmers look on cats as pest-killers and nothing more.

But when Miss Bramley came in one morning with a fresh consignment of invalids she was in a sorry state. She stared at me across the surgery table and her rough fingers clasped and unclasped on the handle of the basket.

‘Is it going to go through ’em all?’ she quavered.

‘Well, it’s very infectious and I’m sorry to say it looks as though most of your young cats will get it.’

For a moment Miss Bramley seemed to be struggling with herself. Her eyes brimmed and two tears wandered among the network of wrinkles on her cheeks. I looked at her helplessly.

‘It’s Topsy’s kittens I’m worried about,’ she gasped out at length. ‘There’s five of ’em and they’re the best we’ve got.’

Topsy was one of a strain of incomparable ratters and mousers. Her last family were only about ten weeks old and it would be a crushing blow to the Bramleys if anything happened to them. But what the devil could I do? There was, as yet, no protective vaccine against the disease — or was there? I remembered I’d heard a rumour that one of the pharmaceutical companies was working on one.

I made a quick phone call. The company told me they were having great results with a new vaccine and would be glad to let me have five doses if I would inform them of the result.

The vaccine arrived promptly and as I injected the tiny creatures Miss Bramley extolled the virtues of the Topsy line. ‘Look at the size of them ears! Did you ever see bigger ’uns on kittens?’

I hadn’t. The ears were enormous, saillike, and they made the ravishingly pretty little faces look even smaller.

Miss Bramley nodded and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Aye, you can allus tell. It’s the sure sign of a good mouser.’

The injection was repeated a week later. So far, so good.

‘Well that’s it,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to wait now. But remember I want to know the outcome of this, so please don’t forget to let me know.’

I didn’t hear from the Bramleys for several months and had almost forgotten about the little experiment when I came upon a grubby envelope which had been pushed under the surgery door. It was the promised report and was, in its way, a model of conciseness.

It was in a careful, spidery scrawl and said simply: ‘Dere Sir, Them kittens is now big cats. Yrs trly, R. Bramley.’

There was nothing more I needed to know. Without wasted words, that note was the work of a true Yorkshire farmer.

ALL Creatures Great And Small: the Classic Memoirs Of A Yorkshire Country Vet, by James herriot, Pan Books, £9.99. to order a copy for £7.49 (25 per cent discount) visit www. mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. P&P free on orders over £15. Offer valid until September 8, 2017.