James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  And just at that moment, as the unkind words were thick upon the air, I saw Helen and Richard Edmundson on the fringe of the circle, taking it all in. I wasn’t worried about him but again it struck me as strange that it should be my destiny always to be looking a bit of a clown when Helen was around.

  Anyway, the measuring was over and I felt in need of sustenance. I retreated and went to find Tristan.

  The memory of Darrowby Show has stayed with me and it has left me with a deep respect and sympathy for the many veterinarians who have the thankless task of adjudicating at these functions. People just don’t like it when you have to turn their animals down. Of course I have had many trouble-free occasions since then, and I sometimes think it was my youth and inexperience which made me such a target for disapproval. I didn’t mention it in the story, but things got so bad on that day that I was glad to see the local police sergeant strolling round the field. I quite seriously thought that I would ultimately have to ask for police protection.

  12. A Momentous Birth

  The occasion was the Daffodil Ball at the Drovers’ Arms and we were dressed in our best. This was a different kind of function from the usual village institute hop with the farm lads in their big boots and music from a scraping fiddle and piano. It was a proper dance with a popular local band – Lenny Butterfield and His Hot Shots – and was an annual affair to herald the arrival of spring.

  I watched Tristan dispensing the drinks.

  ‘Nice little gathering, Jim,’ he said, appearing at my elbow. ‘A few more blokes than girls but that won’t matter much.’

  I eyed him coldly. I knew why there were extra men. It was so that Tristan wouldn’t have to take the floor too often. It fitted in with his general dislike of squandering energy that he was an unenthusiastic dancer; he didn’t mind walking a girl round the floor now and again during the evening, but he preferred to spend most of the time in the bar.

  So, in fact, did a lot of the Darrowby folk. When we arrived at the Drovers’ the bar was congested while only a dedicated few circled round the ballroom. But as time went on more and more couples ventured out and by ten o’clock the dance floor was truly packed.

  And I soon found I was enjoying myself. Tristan’s friends were an effervescent bunch, likeable young men and attractive girls; I just couldn’t help having a good time.

  Butterfield’s famed band in their short red jackets added greatly to the general merriment. Lenny himself looked about fifty-five and indeed all four of the Hot Shots ensemble were rather elderly, but they made up for their grey hairs by sheer vivacity. Not that Lenny’s hair was grey; it was dyed a determined black and he thumped the piano with dynamic energy, beaming out at the company through his horn-rimmed glasses, occasionally bawling a chorus into the microphone by his side, announcing the dances, making throaty wisecracks. He gave value for money.

  There was no pairing off in our party and I danced with all the girls in turn. At the peak of the evening I was jockeying my way around the floor with Daphne and the way she was constructed made it a rewarding experience. I never have been one for skinny women but I suppose you could say that Daphne’s development had strayed a little too far in the other direction. She wasn’t fat, just lavishly endowed.

  Battling through the crush, colliding with exuberant neighbours, bouncing deliriously off Daphne, with everybody singing as they danced and the Hot Shots pouring out an insistent boom-boom beat, I felt I hadn’t a care in the world. And then I saw Helen.

  She was dancing with the inevitable Richard Edmundson, his shining gold head floating above the company like an emblem of doom. And it was uncanny how in an instant my cosy little world disintegrated, leaving a chill, gnawing emptiness.

  When the music stopped I returned Daphne to her friends and went to find Tristan. The comfortable little bar in the Drovers’ was overflowing and the temperature like an oven. Through an almost impenetrable fog of cigarette smoke I discerned my colleague on a high stool holding court with a group of perspiring revellers. Tristan himself looked cool and, as always, profoundly content. He drained his glass, smacked his lips gently as though it had been the best pint of beer he’d ever tasted, then, as he reached across the counter and courteously requested a refill, he spotted me struggling towards him.

  When I reached his stool he laid an affable hand on my shoulder. ‘Ah, Jim, nice to see you. Splendid dance, this, don’t you think?’

  I didn’t bring up the fact that I hadn’t seen him on the floor yet, but making my voice casual I mentioned that Helen was there.

  Tristan nodded benignly. ‘Yes, saw her come in. Why don’t you go and dance with her?’

  ‘I can’t do that. She’s with a partner – young Edmundson.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Tristan surveyed his fresh pint with a critical eye and took an exploratory sip. ‘She’s with a party, like us. No partner.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I watched all the fellows hang their coats out there while the girls went upstairs. No reason at all why you shouldn’t have a dance with her.’

  ‘I see.’ I hesitated for a few moments then made my way back to the ballroom.

  But it wasn’t as easy as that. I had to keep doing my duty with the girls in our group, and whenever I headed for Helen she was whisked away by one of her men friends before I got near her. At times I fancied she was looking over at me but I couldn’t be sure; the only thing I knew for certain was that I wasn’t enjoying myself any more; the magic and gaiety had gone and I felt a rising misery at the thought that this was going to be another of my frustrating contacts with Helen when all I could do was look at her hopelessly. Only this time was worse – I hadn’t even spoken to her.

  I was almost relieved when the manager came up and told me there was a call for me. I went to the phone and spoke to Mrs Hall. There was a bitch in trouble whelping and I had to go. I looked at my watch – after midnight, so that was the end of the dance for me.

  I stood for a moment listening to the muffled thudding from the dance floor, then slowly pulled on my coat before going in to say goodbye to Tristan’s friends. I exchanged a few words with them, waved, then turned back and pushed the swing door open.

  Helen was standing there, about a foot away from me. Her hand was on the door, too. I didn’t wonder whether she was going in or out but stared dumbly into her smiling blue eyes.

  ‘Leaving already, Jim?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a call, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh what a shame. I hope it’s nothing very serious.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but her dark beauty and the very nearness of her suddenly filled my world and a wave of hopeless longing swept over and submerged me. I slid my hand a few inches down the door and gripped hers as a drowning man might, and wonderingly I felt her fingers come round and entwine themselves tightly in mine.

  And in an instant there was no band, no noise, no people, just the two of us standing very close in the doorway.

  ‘Come with me,’ I said.

  Helen’s eyes were very large as she smiled that smile I knew so well.

  ‘I’ll get my coat,’ she murmured.

  This wasn’t really me, I thought, standing on the hall carpet watching Helen trotting quickly up the stairs, but I had to believe it as she reappeared on the landing pulling on her coat. Outside, on the cobbles of the market-place my car, too, appeared to be taken by surprise because it roared into life at the first touch of the starter.

  I had to go back to the surgery for my whelping instruments and in the silent moonlit street we got out and I opened the big white door to Skeldale House.

  And once in the passage it was the most natural thing in the world to take her in my arms and kiss her gratefully and unhurriedly. I had waited a long time for this and the minutes flowed past unnoticed as we stood there, our feet on the black and red eighteenth-century tiles, our heads almost touching the vast picture of the Death of Nelson which dominated the entrance.

  We k