The night I wanted to murder tipsy Tristan
Lose yourself in the latest magical chapter of James Herriot’s tales of life as a Yorkshire vet – with a drunken prank sending tensions sky-rocketing
FOLLOWING the death of actor Robert Hardy, 91 — who played Siegfried Farnon in TV’s muchloved All Creatures Great And Small — all this week we are revisiting the magnificent memoirs of James Herriot that provided the basis for the drama about a young vet in the Yorkshire Dales. Today, James recalls how the beasts in the fields could be less trouble than the beastly people he sometimes had to deal with . . .
wHen I was plodding up Mr Kay’s field for the ninth time, it began to dawn on me that this wasn’t going to be my day. For some time now I had been an LVI, the owner of a certificate informing whosoever it may concern that James Herriot, MRCVS, was a local veterinary inspector of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. It involved a lot of routine work like clinical examinations and tuberculin testing. It also highlighted something which I had suspected for some time: the Dales farmers’ attitude to time was different from my own.
So when I drove up to Mr Kay’s farm for a tuberculin test and found his cows tied up in their stalls I breathed a sigh of relief. We were through them in no time and I thought I was having a wonderful start to the day when the farmer said he had just half a dozen young heifers for me to see. It was when I left the buildings and saw the group of shaggy roans and reds grazing at the far end of a large field that I felt the old foreboding.
‘I thought you’d have them inside, Mr Kay,’ I said apprehensively.
Mr Kay tapped out his pipe on to his palm. ‘nay, nay,’ he said. ‘Ah didn’t like to put them in on a grand ’ot day like this. We’ll drive them up to that little house.’
He pointed to a tumbledown grey-stone barn at the summit of the long, steeply sloping pasture. ‘Won’t take many minutes,’ he said confidently.
At his last sentence a cold hand clutched at me. I’d heard these words so many times before. We made our way to the bottom of the field and got behind the heifers. ‘Cush, cush!’ cried Mr Kay. ‘Cush, cush!’ I added encouragingly, slapping my hands against my thighs.
The heifers stopped pulling the grass and regarded us with mild interest, their jaws moving lazily, then in response to further cries they began to meander casually up the hill. We managed to coax them up to the door of the barn but there they stopped.
The leader put her head inside for a moment then turned suddenly and made a dash down the hill. The others followed suit immediately, and though we waved our arms madly at them they ran past as if we weren’t there. Tails high, kicking up their heels like mustangs, they were thoroughly enjoying this new game.
After we had been going on like this for 40 minutes or so, the farmer seemed to recognise that I was at breaking point. I was already way behind schedule. ‘Aye, it’s no good,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get Sam.’ ‘Sam?’ ‘Aye, Sam Broadbent. Works for me neighbour. He’ll get ’em in all right.’ ‘How’s he going to do that?’ ‘Oh, he can imitate a fly.’ For a moment my mind reeled. ‘Did you say imitate a fly?’
‘That’s right. A warble fly, tha knows. He’s a bit slow, is t’lad, but by gaw, he can imitate a fly. I’ll go and get him — he’s only two fields down the road.’
To my relief Mr Kay was soon on his way back. Just behind him a large, fat man was riding slowly on a very small bicycle, his heels on the pedals, his feet and knees sticking out at right angles. Tufts of greasy black hair stuck out at random from under a kind of skull cap which looked like an old bowler without the brim. ‘Sam’s come to give us a hand,’ said Mr Kay with an air of quiet triumph.
The heifers, standing nearby, watched with languid interest as we came through the gate. They had obviously enjoyed every minute of the morning’s entertainment and it seemed they were game for more fun if we wanted it.
Sam paced solemnly forward. He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and placed it to his lips. His cheeks worked as though he was getting everything into place, then he took a deep breath. And from nowhere, it seemed, came a sudden swelling of angry sound, a vicious humming and buzzing which made me look round in alarm for the enraged insect zooming in for the kill.
The effect on the heifers was electric. Their superior air vanished and was replaced by rigid anxiety; then, as the noise increased in volume, they turned and charged up the hill. But it wasn’t the carefree frolic of before — no tossing heads, waving tails and kicking heels; this time they kept shoulder to shoulder in a frightened block.
Mr Kay and I, trotting on either side, directed them yet again up to the building where they stopped outside and looked nervously around them. At the top Sam paused to regain his breath, fixed the animals with a blank gaze and carefully adjusted his fingers against his mouth. A moment’s tense silence, then the humming broke out again, even more furious and insistent than before.
The heifers knew when they were beaten. With a chorus of startled bellows they turned and rushed into the building and I crashed the half door closed behind them.
A few minutes later, after Sam had left us, I was happily clipping and injecting the necks. I looked up at the farmer. ‘You know, I can still hardly believe what I saw there. It was like magic. That chap has a wonderful gift.’
‘Aye, he can imitate a fly all right. Poor awd lad — it’s t’only thing he’s good at.’ I’D HARDLY noticed the passage of the months as I settled into my life in the Yorkshire Dales. The district was taking shape in my mind, and the people (and animals) emerging as real personalities.
My boss Siegfried was a force to be reckoned with, charging round the practice with a fierce energy from dawn till dark. I often wondered what drove him — it wasn’t
money, because he treated it with scant respect. When money came in, the cash went into the pint pot on the mantelpiece, and he just grabbed handfuls whenever he needed it.
I got used to his erratic changes of mind, along with the frequent lectures he gave me about life. As when he caught me one evening staring at the wall, swearing softly.
Siegfried smiled whimsically. ‘Now what is it, James?’
‘I’ve just had a torrid ten minutes with Rolston. You remember that outbreak of calf pneumonia? Well, I spent hours with those calves, poured expensive drugs into them. There wasn’t a single death. And now he’s complaining about this bill. Not a word of thanks. Hell, there’s no justice.’
Siegfried walked over and put his arm round my shoulders. He was wearing his patient look. ‘My dear chap,’ he cooed. ‘Just look at you. Red in the face, all tensed up. You mustn’t let yourself get upset like this. You must try to relax.
‘Yes, yes, I know these things are annoying, but you’ve got to take them in your stride. Keep calm, James, calm. It just isn’t worth it — I mean, it will all be the same in a hundred years.’
He delivered the sermon with a serene smile, patting my shoulder reassuringly like a psychiatrist soothing a violent patient.
I was writing a label on a jar a few days later when Siegfried catapulted into the room. He must have kicked the door open because it flew back viciously against the rubber stop and rebounded almost into his face. He rushed over to the desk where I was sitting and began to pound on it with the flat of his hand. His eyes glared wildly from a flushed face.
‘I’ve just come from that bloody swine Holt!’ he shouted. ‘Ned Holt, you mean?’ ‘Yes, damn him!’ I was surprised. Mr Holt was a likeable man who worked on the roads for the county council and kept four cows as a sideline. ‘One of your favourites, isn’t he?’ ‘Was, by God. Was,’ Siegfried snarled. ‘I’ve been treating Muriel for him — you know, the big red cow. She’s had recurrent tympany and I’d tried about everything. Nothing did any good.
‘Then it struck me that it might be actinobacillosis of the reticulum. I shot some sodium iodine into the vein and when I saw her today the difference was incredible — she was standing there, chewing her cud, right as rain.
‘I was just patting myself on the back, and do you know what Holt said? He said he knew she’d be better today because last night he gave her half a pound of Epsom salts in a bran mash. That was what had cured her!’
Siegfried took some empty bottles from his pockets and hurled them savagely into the wastepaper basket. He began to shout again.
‘Do you know, for the past fortnight I’ve puzzled and worried and damn nearly dreamt about that cow. Now I’ve found the cause of the trouble, applied the most modern treatment and the animal has recovered. And what happens? Does the owner express his grateful thanks for my skill? Does he hell — the entire credit goes to half a pound of Epsom salts!’
He dealt the desk another sickening blow.
‘But I frightened him, James,’ he said, his eyes staring. ‘By God, I frightened him. When he made that crack about the salts, I yelled out “You bugger!” and made a grab for him. I think I would have strangled him, but he shot into the house and stayed there.’
Siegfried threw himself into a chair and began to churn his hair about. ‘Epsom salts!’ he groaned. ‘Oh God, it makes you despair.’
I thought of telling him to relax and pointing out that it would all be the same in a hundred years, but my employer still had an empty bottle dangling from one hand. I discarded the idea.
And then there was Siegfried’s wayward but charming student brother, Tristan. I’d wondered at first how he fitted into the set-up. Was he supposed to be doing work experience for his veterinary degree, having a holiday, or what?
To Siegfried he was an extra pair of hands who dispensed and delivered medicines, washed the cars, answered the phone and even, in an emergency, went to a case.
Tristan interpreted his role rather differently, devoting a considerable amount of his acute intelligence to the cause of doing as little as possible. Most evenings found him sitting at the bar of the Drovers’ Arms, chatting with the barmaid.
At other times he would be out with one of the young nurses from the local hospital. All in all, he managed to lead a fairly full life. SATURDAY night, 10.30pm, and I was writing up my visits when the phone rang. I swore, crossed my fingers and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello, Herriot speaking.’ Oh, it’s you, is it?’ growled a dour voice in broadest Yorkshire. ‘Well, ah want Mr Farnon.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Farnon is out. Can I help you?’
‘Well, I ’ope so, but I’d far raither ’ave your boss. This is Sims of Beal Close.’ (Oh no, please, no, not Beal Close on a Saturday night. Miles up in the hills at the end of a rough lane with about eight gates.)
‘Yes, Mr Sims, and what the trouble?’
‘Ah’ll tell you, there is some trouble an’ all. I ’ave a grand big show ’oss here. All of 17 hands. He’s cut ’isself badly on the hind leg, just above the hock. I want him stitched immediately.’
(Glory be! Above the hock! What a charming place to have to stitch a horse. Unless he’s very quiet, this is going to be a real picnic.)
‘How big is the wound, Mr Sims?’
‘Big? It’s a gurt big thing about a foot long and bleedin’ like ’ell. And this ’oss is as wick as an eel. Could kick a fly’s eye out. Twiltin’ gurt ’oss, ’e is.’
(Damn you, Mr Sims, damn Beal Close and damn your twiltin’ gurt ’oss.)
‘Very well, I’m leaving now, Mr Sims.’
‘Oh, ah nearly forgot. My road got washed away in the floods yesterday. You’ll ’ave to walk the last mile and a half. So get a move on and don’t keep me waiting all night.’
‘Look here, Mr Sims, I don’t like your tone. I said I would leave now and I will get there just as soon as I can.’
‘You don’t like ma tone, eh? Well, ah don’t like useless young apprentices practising on my good stock. You know nowt about t’damn job, any road.’
‘Now just listen to me, Sims. If it wasn’t for the sake of the horse I’d refuse to come out at all. Who do you think you are, anyway?’
‘Now, now, Jim, get a grip on yourself. Take it easy, old boy. You’ll burst a blood vessel if you go on like this.’ ‘Who the devil … ?’ ‘Ah, ah, Jim, calm yourself now. That temper of yours, you know. You’ll really have to watch it.’
‘Tristan! Where the hell are you speaking from?’
‘The kiosk outside the Drovers. Five pints inside me and just thought I’d give you a quick ring.’
‘By God, I’ll murder you one of these days if you don’t stop this, Tris. It’s putting years on me. This is the third time this week.’
‘Ah, but this was by far the best, Jim. Oh God, I wish you could have heard yourself …’ He trailed off into helpless laughter.
And then my feeble attempts at retaliation; creeping, trembling, into some lonely phone box.
‘Is that young Mr Farnon?’ in a guttural croak. ‘Well, this is Tilson of High Wood. Ah want you to come out here immediately. I ’ave a terrible case of …’
‘Excuse me for interrupting, Jim, but is there something the matter with your tonsils? Oh, good. Well, go on with what you were saying, old lad. Sounds very interesting.’
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 mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. P&P free on orders over £15. Offer is valid until September 8, 2017.