All Things Wise and Wonderful Read online

  A pleasant warmth met me as I went into the pub. There was no bar counter, only high-backed settles and oak tables arranged under the whitewashed walls of what was simply a converted farm kitchen. At one end a wood fire crackled in an old black cooking range and above it the tick of a wall clock sounded above the murmur of voices. It wasn’t as lively as the modern places but it was peaceful.

  “Now then, Mr. Herriot, you’ve been workin’,” my neighbour said as I sank into the settle.

  “Yes, Ted, how did you know?”

  The man glanced over my soiled mackintosh and the Wellingtons which I hadn’t bothered to change on the farm. “Well, that’s not your Sunday suit, there’s blood on your nose end and cow shit on your ear.” Ted Dobson was a burly cowman in his thirties and his white teeth showed suddenly in a wide grin.

  I smiled too and plied my handkerchief. “It’s funny how you always want to scratch your nose at times like that.”

  I looked around the room. There were about a dozen men drinking from pint glasses, some of them playing dominoes. They were all farm workers, the people I saw when I was called from my bed in the darkness before dawn; hunched figures they were then, shapeless in old greatcoats, cycling out to the farms, heads down against the wind and rain, accepting the facts of their hard existence. I often thought at those times that this happened to me only occasionally, but they did it every morning.

  And they did it for thirty shillings a week; just seeing them here made me feel a little ashamed.

  Mr. Waters, the landlord, whose name let him in for a certain amount of ribbing, filled my glass, holding his tall jug high to produce the professional froth.

  “There y’are, Mr. Herriot, that’ll be sixpence. Cheap a ’alf the price.”

  Every drop of beer was brought up in that jug from the wooden barrels in the cellar. It would have been totally impracticable in a busy establishment, but the Fox and Hounds was seldom bustling and Mr. Waters would never get rich as a publican. But he had four cows in the little byre adjoining this room, fifty hens pecked around in his long back garden and he reared a few litters of pigs every year from his two sows.

  “Thank you, Mr. Waters.” I took a deep pull at the glass. I had lost some sweat despite the cold and my thirst welcomed the flow of rich nutty ale. I had been in here a few times before and the faces were all familiar. Especially old Albert Close, a retired shepherd who sat in the same place every night at the end of the settle hard against the fire.

  He sat as always, his hands and chin resting on the tall crook which he had carried through his working days, his eyes blank. Stretched half under the seat, half under the table lay his dog, Mick, old and retired like his master. The animal was clearly in the middle of a vivid dream; his paws pedalled the air spasmodically, his lips and ears twitched and now and then he emitted a stifled bark.

  Ted Dobson nudged me and laughed. “Ah reckon awd Mick’s still rounding up them sheep.”

  I nodded. There was little doubt the dog was reliving the great days, crouching and darting, speeding in a wide arc round the perimeter of the field at his master’s whistle. And Albert himself. What lay behind those empty eyes? I could imagine him in his youth, striding the windy uplands, covering endless miles over moor and rock and beck, digging that same crook into the turf at every step. There were no fitter men than the Dales shepherds, living in the open in all weathers, throwing a sack over their shoulders in snow and rain.

  And there was Albert now, a broken, arthritic old man gazing apathetically from beneath the ragged peak of an ancient tweed cap. I noticed he had just drained his glass and I walked across the room.

  “Good evening, Mr. Close,” I said.

  He cupped an ear with his hand and blinked up at me. “Eh?”

  I raised my voice to a shout. “How are you, Mr. Close?”

  “Can’t complain, young man,” he murmured. “Can’t complain.”

  “Will you have a drink?”

  “Aye, thank ye.” He directed a trembling finger at his glass. “You can put a drop i’ there, young man.”

  I knew a drop meant a pint and beckoned to the landlord who plied his jug expertly. The old shepherd lifted the recharged glass and looked up at me.

  “Good ’ealth,” he grunted.

  “All the best,” I said and was about to return to my seat when the old dog sat up. My shouts at his master must have wakened him from his dream because he stretched sleepily, shook his head a couple of times and looked around him. And as he turned and faced me I felt a sudden sense of shock.

  His eyes were terrible. In fact I could hardly see them as they winked painfully at me through a sodden fringe of pus-caked lashes. Rivulets of discharge showed dark and ugly against the white hair on either side of the nose.

  I stretched my hand out to him and the dog wagged his tail briefly before closing his eyes and keeping them closed. It seemed he felt better that way.

  I put my hand on Albert’s shoulder. “Mr. Close, how long has he been like this?”

  “Eh?”

  I increased my volume. “Mick’s eyes. They’re in a bad state.”

  “Oh aye.” The old man nodded in comprehension. “He’s got a bit o’ caud in ’em. He’s allus been subjeck to it ever since ’e were a pup.”

  “No, it’s more than cold, it’s his eyelids.”

  “Eh?”

  I took a deep breath and let go at the top of my voice.

  “He’s got turned-in eyelids. It’s rather a serious thing.”

  The old man nodded again. “Aye, ’e lies a lot wi’ his head at foot of t’door. It’s draughty there.”

  “No, Mr. Close!” I bawled. “It’s got nothing to do with that. It’s a thing called entropion and it needs an operation to put it right.”

  “That’s right young man.” He took a sip at his beer. “Just a bit o’ caud. Ever since he were a pup he’s been subjeck …”

  I turned away wearily and returned to my seat. Ted Dobson looked at me enquiringly.

  “What was that about?”

  “Well, it’s a nasty thing, Ted. Entropion is when the eyelids are turned in and the lashes rub against the eyeball. Causes a lot of pain, sometimes ulceration or even blindness. Even a mild case is damned uncomfortable for a dog.”

  “I see,” Ted said ruminatively. “Ah’ve noticed awd Mick’s had mucky eyes for a long time but they’ve got worse lately.”

  “Yes, sometimes it happens like that but often it’s congenital. I should think Mick has had a touch of it all his life but for some reason it’s suddenly developed to this horrible state.” I turned again towards the old dog, sitting patiently under the table, eyes still tight shut.

  “He’s sufferin’ then?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, you know what it’s like if you have a speck of dust in your eyes or even one lash turned in. I should say he feels pretty miserable.”

  “Poor awd beggar. Ah never knew it was owt like that.” He drew on his cigarette. “And could an operation cure it?”

  “Yes, Ted, it’s one of the most satisfying jobs a vet can do. I always feel I’ve done a dog a good turn when I’ve finished.”

  “Aye, ah bet you do. It must be a nice feelin’. But it’ll be a costly job, ah reckon?”

  I smiled wryly. “It depends how you look at it. It’s a fiddly business and takes time. We usually charge about a pound for it.” A human surgeon would laugh at a sum like that but it would still be too much for old Albert.

  For a few moments we were both silent looking across the room at the old man, at the threadbare coat, the long tatter of trouser bottoms falling over the broken boots. A pound was two weeks of the old age pension. It was a fortune.

  Ted got up suddenly. “Any road, somebody ought to tell ’im. Ah’ll explain it to ’im.”

  He crossed the room. “Are ye ready for another, Albert?”

  The old shepherd glanced at him absently then indicated his glass, empty again. “Aye, ye can put a drop i’ there, Ted.”