It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

humour him, the horse would take an immediate turn for the better and

  thrive consistently from then on. Farmers are normally reticent about

  our successful efforts for fear we might put a bit more on the bill but

  in these cases they cast aside all caution. They would shout at us

  across the market place: "Hey, remember that 'oss you knocked wolf teeth

  out of? Well he never looked back. It capped him."

  I looked again with distaste at the tooth instruments; the vicious

  forceps with two-feet-long arms, shar.pjawed shears, mouth gags, hammers

  and chisels, files and rasps; it was rather like a quiet corner in the

  Spanish Inquisition. We kept a long wooden box with a handle for

  carrying the things and I staggered out to the car with a fair

  selection.

  Dennaby Close was not just a substantial farm, it was a monument to a

  man's endurance and skill. The fine old house, the extensive buildings,

  the great sweep of lush grassland along the lower slopes of the fell

  were all proof that old John Skipton had achieved the impossible; he had

  started as an uneducated farm labourer and he was now a wealthy

  landowner.

  The miracle hadn't happened easily; old John had a lifetime of grinding

  toil behind him that would have killed most men, a lifetime with no room

  for a wife or family or creature comforts, but there was more to it than

  that; there was a brilliant acumen in agricultural matters that had made

  the old man a legend in the district. "When all t'world goes one road, I

  go "'other' was one of his quoted sayings and it is true that the

  Skipton farms had made money in the hard times when others were going

  bankrupt. Dennaby was only one of John's farms; he had two large arable

  places of about four hundred acres each lower down the Dale.

  He had conquered, but to some people it seemed that he had himself been

  conquered in the process. He had battled against the odds for so many

  years and driven himself so fiercely that he couldn't stop. He could be

  enjoying all kinds of luxuries now but he just hadn't the time; they

  said that the poorest of his workers lived in better style than he did.

  I paused as I got out of the car and stood gazing at the house as though

  I had never seen it before; and I marvelled again at the elegance which

  had withstood over three hundred years of the harsh climate. People came

  a long way to see Dennaby Close and take photographs of the graceful

  manor with its tall, leaded windows, the massive chimneys towering over

  the old moss-grown tiles; or to wander through the neglected garden and

  climb up the sweep of steps to the entrance with its wide stone arch

  over the great studded door.

  There should have been a beautiful woman in one of those pointed hats

  peeping out from that mullioned casement or a cavalier in ruffles and

  hose pacing beneath the high wall with its pointed copings. But there

  was just old John stumping impatiently towards me, his tattered,

  buttonless coat secured only by a length of binder twine round his

  middle.

  "Come in a minute, young man," he cried. "I've got a little bill to pay

  you." He led the way round to the back of the house and I followed,

  pondering on the odd fact that it was always a 'little bill' in

  Yorkshire. We went in through a flagged kitchen to a room which was

  graceful and spacious but furnished only with a table, a few wooden

  chairs and a collapsed sofa.

  The old man bustled over to the mantelpiece and fished out a bundle of

  papers from behind the clock. He leafed through them, threw an envelope

  on to the table then produced a cheque book and slapped it down in front

  of me. I did the usual - took out the bill, made out the amount on the

  cheque and pushed it over for him to sign. He wrote with a careful

  concentration, the small-featured, weathered face bent low, the peak of

  the old cloth cap almost touching the pen. His trousers had ridden up

  his legs as he sat down showing the skinny calves and bare ankles. There

  were no socks underneath the heavy boots.

  When I had pocketed the cheque, John jumped to his feet. "We'll have to

  walk down to striver; 'osses are down there." He left the house almost

  at a trot.

  I eased my box of instruments from the car boot. It was a funny thing

  but whenever I had heavy equipment to lug about, my patients were always

  a long way away. This box seemed to be filled with lead and it wasn't

  going to get any lighter on the journey down through the walled

  pastures.

  , ."

  The old man seized a pitch fork, stabbed it into a bale of hay and

  hoisted it effortlessly over his shoulder. He set off again at the same

  brisk pace. We made our way down from one gateway to another, often

  walking diagonally across the fields. John didn't reduce speed and I

  stumbled after him, puffing a little and trying to put away the thought

  that he was at least fifty years older than me.

  About half way down we came across a group of men at the age-old task of

  'walling' - repairing a gap in one of the dry stone walls which trace

  their patterns everywhere on the green slopes of the Dales. One of the

  men looked up. "Nice mornin', Mr. Skipton,'he sang out cheerfully.

  "Bugger t'mornin'. Get on wi'some work," grunted old John in reply and

  the man smiled contentedly as though he had received a compliment.

  I was glad when we reached the flat land at the bottom. My arms seemed

  to have been stretched by several inches and I could feel a trickle of

  sweat on my brow. Old John appeared unaffected; he flicked the fork from

  his shoulder and the bale thudded on to the grass.

  The two horses turned towards us at the sound. They were standing

  fetlock deep in the pebbly shallows just beyond a little beach which

  merged into the green carpet of turf; nose to tail, they had been

  rubbing their chins gently along each other's backs, unconscious of our

  approach. A high'cliff overhanging the far bank made a perfect wind

  break while on either side of us clumps of oak and beech blazed in the

  autumn sunshine.

  "They're in a nice spot, Mr. Skipton," I said.

  "Aye, they can keep cool in the hot weather and they've got the barn

  when winter comes." John pointed to a low, thick-walled building with a

  single door. "They can come and go as they please."

  The sound of his voice brought the horses out of the river at a stiff

  trot and as they came near you could see they really were old. The mare

  was a chestnut and the gelding was a light bay but their coats were so

  flecked with grey that they almost looked like roans. This was most

  pronounced on their faces where the sprinkling of white hairs, the

  sunken eyes and the deep cavity above the eyes gave them a truly

  venerable appearance.

  For all that, they capered around John with a fair attempt at

  skittishness, stamping their feet, throwing their heads about, pushing

  his cap over his eyes with their muzzles.

  "Get by, leave off!" he shouted. "Daft awd beggars." But he tugged

  absently at the mare's forelock and ran his hand briefly along the neck

  of the gelding.