Every Living Thing (20 page)

“Eh?”

“I say it was a lucky thing you didn’t get it, because I’ve been in that place many a time and I can tell ye it’s not all it appears.”

“Really?”

“Aye, it’s a good-lookin’ house, but the roof leaks like ’ell.”

“Never!”

“I’m not jokin’, I’ve been up in the attic and seen rows of buckets and pots and pans set out to try to catch the water. They’ve been tryin’ to mend that roof for years but they’ve never managed it.”

“Heavens!”

“And the timbers up there are rotten with all the damp.”

“My God!”

He patted my arm and laughed. “So you see you ’ad a lucky escape. Just thought I’d tell ye.”

“Well, thanks, Bert. That does make us feel better.” I waved to him as he hurried away across the market-place, then I turned to Helen.

“Well, isn’t that strange. We have had somebody to cheer us up after all. Maybe next time will be third time lucky.”

Despite our latest defeat our determination was as strong as ever, or rather mine was, because, as I say, Helen didn’t seem all that worried. But my mind was set in a groove. I scanned the advertisements in the local newspapers, stopped eagerly at every
For Sale
board in the gardens of the district, but nothing really got moving until we were introduced at a party to Bob and Elizabeth Mollison. They were young architects about our own age who had opened an office in a nearby market town.

“You know,” said Elizabeth, “you’re going through the mill trying to find a suitable house, but we could build you a really nice house for three thousand pounds—planned by yourselves with all the features you want—it would be a far better prospect for you, and in fact, probably cheaper in the long run.”

Helen and I looked at each other. We had never thought of that.

“If you can find a plot of land, Bob and I could have a place built for you in a few months,” Elizabeth went on. “Think it over, anyway.”

I really didn’t need to think it over. The whole horizon seemed filled with blinding light. “This is the right idea,” I said eagerly, and Helen nodded, too. “Why didn’t we think of this before? We’ll do it!”

The Mollisons regarded us uncertainly. “Are you quite sure? You’d maybe better have a think for a few days.”

I shook my head decisively. “No, no, we’ll go right ahead. You draw up some plans and I’ll find a plot somewhere as I go round the country.”

Bob smiled. “Fine, but hold on—we’d have to have a proper conference to know just what you want. We’d need a lot of details.”

“We want a hatch,” I said.

“A hatch? That’s all…? How about you, Helen?”

“A hatch,” replied my wife firmly. In both our minds there floated the heavenly image of our meals being handed through that little hole in the wall from kitchen to dining room. After the years of tramping the long passage at Skeldale House, that had to be the number-one thing.

The Mollisons had a good long laugh at this, but then they hadn’t seen the Skeldale passages.

“Right,” Elizabeth said between giggles. “So we design this house round the hatch, eh?”

“Absolutely.” More laughter, but for Helen and me there was a very serious core to our jollity.

Later we did have our conference and worked out the less important aspects like bedrooms and bathrooms, and it wasn’t long before the young couple produced a most attractive plan.

“It’s a lovely house,” Helen murmured as she studied it. “Such a nice little hall and staircase and all those useful cupboards and wardrobes built in. You’ve thought of everything.”

“Especially the hatch!” said the Mollisons together, and the laughter started again.

Meanwhile I was scouring the countryside for a plot and finding it very difficult. Something called Town and Country Planning had come into being and it was no good asking one of my farmer friends to sell me a bit of land in one of their fields where there was a nice view.

Nice chaps as they were, they wanted to help, but couldn’t.

“I’d be delighted, Jim,” one of them said, “but it’s not allowed. I can’t even build a house in my fields for me own son!”

That was the story everywhere and I realised that I had to find a bit of ground somewhere inside the tight building line that had been drawn around Darrowby. My search became more and more desperate till I ended up with a plot between two houses on the edge of the town. It was a pleasant situation but very narrow.

“There’s only one thing for it,” Bob Mollison said. “If you buy this plot we’ll have to put the house in long ways on.”

This worried us. “But what a shame,” Helen said. “It’s such a pretty house—I just love that frontage.”

Bob shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s that or nothing. Lots of people are trying to find land to build. You might have to wait ages for anything else to turn up. And we can make modifications. We can make it look very attractive the other way round.”

Elizabeth came to us with a modified design and indeed it was an acceptable compromise. We bought the land and prepared for action.

We immediately came up against other unexpected snags. In the early fifties Britain was still recovering from the austerities of the war. Many things were still in short supply—including builders. We tried everywhere but couldn’t find anybody to take on the contract. Finally we decided that the only way to get started was to employ the various tradesmen—joiners, bricklayers, plumbers, et cetera—ourselves. This was done and before long we had the foundations laid.

It was exciting from then on, but frustrating, too, because time after time I would call at the site to find the bricklayers sitting smoking and drinking tea. The explanation was always the same: “We can’t get on. The joiners haven’t turned up.” Or it was the joiners drinking tea because the bricklayers hadn’t arrived. “We can’t get on” was a phrase I grew to dread.

Because of this, progress was slow. After several weeks the walls were only knee high. We went off on our summer holiday for a fortnight, and as we drove past the site on our return, expecting to see a big advance, our hopes were dashed when we found that the house had not grown at all.

However, the troubles began to sort themselves out and there was a rush of activity over several weeks when the place began to rise at magical speed. The big day arrived when the bricklayers, honest lads and keen to please me, had the gable end nearly up to roof height.

“We’ll have t’roof on tomorrow, Mr. Herriot,” one of them said cheerfully. “Only thing is the joiners should’ve been here to put the ridge and last spars in, but we’ll build up the gable to full height and the joiners’ll be here this afternoon to support it. Then we’ll all be happy—we’ll put up the flag. You’ll be glad to see that!”

He spoke the truth. I would be more than glad, in fact ecstatic and fulfilled to see the roof on our new house with the traditional flag flying. I couldn’t wait to get along first thing next morning to see it.

It had been a windy night with a ninety-mile-an-hour gale according to the radio, but I didn’t think anything about it until I drew up my car and looked out at the devastation. The joiners had not arrived when expected and the unsupported gable, which fronted the road, lay in a tumbled heap of bricks in the front garden. Twisted scaffolding hung around everywhere. I cannot quite describe my emotions.

Yes, on that one fateful night the gale came and blew the whole thing down. It was just bad luck, nobody’s fault, and that was how I came to be apologising to Lord Hulton for my delayed visit to his horse.

Like most of the little disasters of life this was overcome. The gable was rebuilt and the house triumphantly completed within weeks. And a fine house it was; a brilliant success and a lasting testimony to the skills of Bob and Elizabeth with its many innovative features and modern ideas.

The whole concept of building for ourselves was vindicated and in the end we had what we wanted—a happy home for our family for many years. But at times my mind goes back to that morning when I drove along the Brawton road and looked from my car as the wind still howled over the heap of bricks and mangled scaffolding.

That was a really bad moment. Oh, crumbs, it was.

T
HERE WAS ONE TIME
during Calum’s reign when I was sure I was hallucinating. I came in through the front door of Skeldale House and there, in the passage, I saw a badger waddling unhurriedly towards me. Marilyn had the run of the house now and I had grown fond of the amiable little animal.

“Hello, old girl,” I said, patting the attractive striped head. “You’re really friendly, aren’t you. I’m beginning to understand your master’s thing about your breed.”

I turned into the office and stood in shock for a moment. Calum was sitting at the desk with Marilyn on his shoulder.

“What…what…”I stammered.

Calum looked up and was about to reply when Siegfried strode into the room. For a few seconds he stared unbelievingly at the young man. “What the hell’s this? I nearly tripped over your bloody badger out there and now she’s in here.”

Calum smiled. “Ah, yes,” he said airily. “That’s not Marilyn in the passage, it’s Kelly.”

“Kelly?”

“Yes, my other badger.”

Siegfried flushed. “Other badger…I didn’t know you had another one.”

“Oh well, I just had to get him. I could see Marilyn was lonely—I know the signs. You see,” he said earnestly, “I know she has me for company, but really, when an animal’s lonely, there’s no substitute for another of the same species.”

“Yes, that’s all very fine,” said Siegfried, his voice rising. “But I wasn’t keen on having one of those things around and now there’s two. What d’you think this place is—a lonely-heart home for badgers?”

“Oh, no, no. But you must admit that they’re nice, friendly little things—they’re no trouble at all.”

“That’s not the point—I…” My partner was stopped in mid-flow by the phone ringing. He lifted the receiver and as he listened, Kelly shuffled into the room. After a few moments Siegfried put down the phone and jumped to his feet. “Damn! That good horse at Lord Hulton’s isn’t any better, in fact, it’s worse. I’ve got to go.” With a final incredulous glance at the two badgers, playing now on the floor, he hurried from the room.

“He isn’t upset, is he?” Calum enquired.

“Well, just a bit, but he’ll forget about it. I’d leave Kelly in your flat for a few days if I were you.”

He nodded, then pointed out the window. “There’s Rod Milburn’s van outside. He’s brought a ewe. Thinks it’s ringwomb.”

We were in the thick of lambing, and this was the year when the Caesarean operation on sheep, previously uncommon, soared into popularity. The reasons were several. Farmers and vets were unanimous that in many protracted lambing cases it was better to operate on the ewe and “tek ’em out of t’side,” as the saying went. It was absolutely fatal to be the slightest bit rough with a ewe—forcing open a cervix to pull out an oversize lamb could easily tear the tissues—and for some reason the condition of ringwomb had become very common.

This was when the cervix didn’t present its usual corrugated feel but was solely a smooth band of tissue that simply would not yield even after the usual injections for an undilated cervix. In these cases it was best to operate without delay to avoid suffering for the ewe and to obtain live lambs.

Vets were also doing the Caesarean for bad cases of pregnancy toxaemia because once delivered of her lambs the ewe had a better chance of recovery. The upshot was that we were doing the operation so frequently that often the farmers would bring their ewes into the surgery to save us a journey.

We ushered Rod Milburn round to the yard, where Calum scrubbed up an arm and explored inside the ewe.

“Typical ringwomb, Rod,” he said, “so we’d better not mess about. We’ll boil up while you do your clipping.”

The farmer produced his clippers from the van, tipped up the ewe and expertly cut away the thick fleece from the flank. I shaved, disinfected and infiltrated the site with local anaesthetic before Calum reappeared with the sterilised instruments on a tray. I have never known a vet more meticulous about asepsis—wherever he went on his rounds he carried a metal container with freshly boiled knives, forceps and needles and he hadn’t been with us very long before his high rate of success became apparent. When Calum operated, his patients lived.

I was letting him have a go now, and it was impressive to see his big, strong-fingered hands at work, quickly incising skin, muscles and peritoneum before opening the uterus and drawing out two wriggling black-faced lambs. In no time at all he was stitching up, grinning at the two tiny creatures determinedly tottering towards the udder.

Rod was delighted. “That’s great! A good job I came down right away. We’ve got live twins and a healthy mother.” He lifted the lambs into the straw in the back of his van and the ewe hopped in after them as though nothing had happened to her.

I had done a lot of these operations, but I never ceased to be amazed at how little the ewe seemed to be affected. On one occasion I had just finished stitching after a Caesarean in a loose box on the farm when the ewe jerked her head from the farmer’s grasp, jumped from the straw-bale operating table where she had been lying and with a mighty leap, cleared the half-door and galloped off across the field.

When I saw the farmer a few days later and enquired about her, he said, “Aye, she came back for ’er lambs, otherwise God knows when I’d ’ave seen her again!”

After Rod Milburn had driven away with the new family we started on our work in the surgery. I did a laparotomy on a Labrador that had swallowed his favourite ball and Calum removed a mammary tumour from a springer spaniel with his customary aplomb.

We were cleaning up when he pointed to three cat cages standing by the door. “What’s happening to those cats?”

“Oh, they’re spays. I’m taking them through to Granville Bennett.”

“Don’t you ever do those jobs yourself?”

“No. All cat and bitch spays go to Granville.”

Calum stared at me. “Why on earth do you do that?”

“Oh, he’s a top man—brilliant. Makes a great job and they all come back in good shape.”