All Creatures Great and Small Read online

  “Mrs. Pumphrey!” I thundered, pointing at the bowls. The poor woman put her hand to her mouth and shrank away from me.

  “Oh do forgive me,” she wailed, her face a picture of guilt. “It’s just a special treat because he’s alone tonight. And the weather is so cold, too.” She clasped her hands and looked at me abjectly.

  “I’ll forgive you,” I said sternly, “if you will remove half the chicken and all the cake.”

  Fluttering, like a little girl caught in naughtiness, she did as I said.

  I parted regretfully from the little peke. It had been a busy day and I was sleepy from the hours in the biting cold. This room with its fire and soft lighting looked more inviting than the noisy glitter of the ballroom and I would have preferred to curl up here with Tricki on my knee for an hour or two.

  Mrs. Pumphrey became brisk. “Now you must come and meet some of my friends.” We went into the ballroom where light blazed down from three cut glass chandeliers and was reflected dazzlingly from the cream and gold, many-mirrored walls. We moved from group to group as Mrs. Pumphrey introduced me and I squirmed in embarrassment as I heard myself described as “Tricki’s dear kind uncle.” But either they were people of superb self-control or they were familiar with their hostess’s blind spot because the information was received with complete gravity.

  Along one wall a five-piece orchestra was tuning up; white-jacketed waiters hurried among the guests with trays of food and drinks. Mrs. Pumphrey stopped one of the waiters. “François, some champagne for this gentleman.”

  “Yes, Madame.” The waiter proffered his tray.

  “No, no, no, not those. One of the big glasses.”

  François hurried away and returned with something like a soup plate with a stem. It was brimming with champagne.

  “François.”

  “Yes, Madame?”

  “This is Mr. Herriot. I want you to take a good look at him.”

  The waiter turned a pair of sad, spaniel eyes on me and drank me in for a few moments.

  “I want you to look after him. See that his glass is full and that he has plenty to eat.”

  “Certainly, Madame.” He bowed and moved away.

  I buried my face in the ice cold champagne and when I looked up, there was François holding out a tray of smoked salmon sandwiches.

  It was like that all the evening. François seemed always to be at my elbow, filling up the enormous glass or pushing dainties at me. I found it delightful; the salty snacks brought on a thirst which I quenched with deep draughts of champagne, then I had more snacks which made me thirsty again and François would unfailingly pop up with the magnum.

  It was the first time I had had the opportunity of drinking champagne by the pint and it was a rewarding experience. I was quickly aware of a glorious lightness, a heightening of the perceptions. I stopped being overawed by this new world and began to enjoy it. I danced with everybody in sight—sleek young beauties, elderly dowagers and twice with a giggling Mrs. Pumphrey.

  Or I just talked. And it was witty talk; I repeatedly amazed myself by my lightning shafts. Once I caught sight of myself in a mirror—a distinguished figure, glass in hand, the hired suit hanging on me with quiet grace. It took my breath away.

  Eating, drinking, talking, dancing, the evening winged past. When it was time to go and I had my coat on and was shaking hands with Mrs. Pumphrey in the hall, François appeared again with a bowl of hot soup. He seemed to be worried lest I grow faint on the journey home.

  After the soup, Mrs. Pumphrey said: “And now you must come and say good night to Tricki. He’ll never forgive you if you don’t.” We went into his room and the little dog yawned from the depths of the chair and wagged his tail. Mrs. Pumphrey put her hand on my sleeve. “While you’re here, I wonder if you would be so kind as to examine his claws. I’ve been so worried in case they might be growing too long.”

  I lifted up the paws one by one and scrutinised the claws while Tricki lazily licked my hands. “No, you needn’t worry, they’re perfectly all right.”

  “Thank you so much, I’m so grateful to you. Now you must wash your hands.”

  In the familiar bathroom with the sea green basins and the enamelled fishes on the walls and the dressing-table and the bottles on the glass shelves, I looked around as the steaming water ran from the tap. There was my own towel by the basin and the usual new slab of soap—soap that lathered in an instant and gave off an expensive scent. It was the final touch of balm on a gracious evening. It had been a few hours of luxury and light and I carried the memory back with me to Skeldale House.

  I got into bed, switched off the light and lay on my back looking up into the darkness. Snatches of music still tinkled about in my head and I was beginning to swim back to the ballroom when the phone rang.

  “This is Atkinson of Beck Cottage,” a far away voice said. “I ’ave a sow ’ere what can’t get pigged. She’s been on all night. Will you come?”

  I looked at the clock as I put down the receiver. It was 2 a.m. I felt numbed. A farrowing right on top of the champagne and the smoked salmon and those little biscuits with the black heaps of caviare. And at Beck Cottage, one of the most primitive small-holdings in the district. It wasn’t fair.

  Sleepily, I took off my pyjamas and pulled on my shirt. As I reached for the stiff, worn corduroys I used for work, I tried not to look at the hired suit hanging on a corner of the wardrobe.

  I groped my way down the long garden to the garage. In the darkness of the yard I closed my eyes and the great chandeliers blazed again, the mirrors flashed and the music played.

  It was only two miles out to Beck Cottage. It lay in a hollow and in the winter the place was a sea of mud. I left my car and squelched through the blackness to the door of the house. My knock was unanswered and I moved across to the cluster of buildings opposite and opened the half door into the byre. The warm, sweet bovine smell met me as I peered towards a light showing dimly at the far end where a figure was standing.

  I went inside past the shadowy row of cows standing side by side with broken wooden partitions between them and past the mounds of manure piled behind them. Mr. Atkinson didn’t believe in mucking out too often.

  Stumbling over the broken floor, splashing through pools of urine, I arrived at the end where a pen had been made by closing off a corner with a gate. I could just make out the form of a pig, pale in the gloom, lying on her side. There was a scanty bed of straw under her and she lay very still except for the trembling of her flanks. As I watched, she caught her breath and strained for a few seconds then the straining began again.

  Mr. Atkinson received me without enthusiasm. He was middle-aged, sported a week’s growth of beard and wore an ancient hat with a brim which flopped round his ears. He stood hunched against a wall, one hand deep in a ragged pocket, the other holding a bicycle lamp with a fast-failing battery.

  “Is this all the light we’ve got?” I asked.

  “Aye, it is,” Mr. Atkinson replied, obviously surprised. He looked from the lamp to me with a “what more does he want?” expression.

  “Let’s have it, then.” I trained the feeble beam on my patient. “Just a young pig, isn’t she?”

  “Aye, nobbut a gilt. Fust litter.”

  The pig strained again, shuddered and lay still.

  “Something stuck there, I reckon,” I said. “Will you bring me a bucket of hot water, some soap and a towel, please?”

  “Haven’t got no ’ot water. Fire’s out.”

  “O.K., bring me whatever you’ve got.”

  The farmer clattered away down the byre taking the light with him and, with the darkness, the music came back again. It was a Strauss waltz and I was dancing with Lady Frenswick; she was young and very fair and she laughed as I swung her round. I could see her white shoulders and the diamonds winking at her throat and the wheeling mirrors.

  Mr. Atkinson came shuffling back and dumped a bucket of water on the floor. I dipped a finger in the water; it was ice cold.