The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  I hung my head sheepishly, and she relented. “Oh, well, now you’re here you might as well come upstairs.”

  Helen had the same tired, flushed look that I remembered before. I kissed her thankfully. We didn’t say anything, just smiled at each other. Then I had a look in the cot by the bed.

  Nurse Brown regarded me with tight lips and narrowed eyes as I peered down. Last time I had been so aghast at Jimmy’s appearance that I had mortally offended her by asking if there was anything wrong with him, and heaven help me, I felt the same now. I won’t go into details but the new little girl’s face was all squashed and red and bloated, and the sense of shock hit me as it had done before.

  I looked up at the nurse, and it was only too clear that she was waiting for me to say something derogatory. Her normally laughing face was set in a threatening scowl. One wrong word from me and she would have kicked me on the shins—I was sure of that.

  “Gorgeous,” I said weakly. “Really gorgeous.”

  “All right.” She had seen enough of me. “Out you go.”

  She ushered me downstairs, and as she opened the outside door, she fixed me with a piercing eye. That bright little woman could read me without effort. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as though addressing a person of limited intelligence.

  “That … is … a … lovely … healthy … baby.…” she said and closed the door in my face.

  And, bless her heart, her words helped me, because as I drove away, I knew she must be right. And now, all these years later, when I look at my handsome son and my beautiful daughter, I can hardly believe my own stupidity.

  When I returned to the surgery, there was one visit waiting for me, high in the hills, and the journey up there was like a happy dream. My worry was over, and it seemed that all nature was rejoicing with me. It was the ninth of May, 1947, the beginning of the most perfect summer I can remember. The sun blazed; soft breezes swirled into the car, carrying their fragrance from the fells around; an elusive breath of the bluebells, primroses and violets scattered everywhere on the grass, flowing among the shadows of the trees.

  After I had seen my patient, I took a walk on the high tops along a favourite path of beaten earth on the hill’s edge, with Sam trotting at my heels.

  I looked away over the rolling patchwork of the plain, sleeping in the sun’s haze, and at the young bracken on the hillside, springing straight and green from last year’s dead brown stalks. Everywhere new life was calling out its exultant message, and it was so apt with my new little daughter lying down there in Darrowby.

  We had decided to call her Rosemary. It is such a pretty name and I still love it, but it didn’t last long. It became Rosie at a very early stage and though I did make one or two ineffectual stands, it has remained so to this day. She is now Dr. Rosie in our community.

  On that May day I caught myself just in time. It has always been my practice to recline in the sunshine on the springy bed of heather that clusters on these hillsides, and I was just settling down when I remembered I had other things to do today. I sped back to Skeldale House and began to telephone my glad news all over the country.

  It was received rapturously by all, but it was Tristan who grasped the essentials of the situation.

  “We’ve got to wet this baby’s head, Jim,” he said seriously.

  I was ready for anything. “Of course, of course, when are you coming over?”

  “I’ll be there at seven,” he replied crisply, and I knew he would be.

  Tristan was concerned about the venue of the celebration. There were four of us in the sitting room at Skeldale House— Siegfried, Tristan, Alex Taylor and myself. Alex was my oldest friend—we started school together in Glasgow at the age of four —and when he came out of the army after five years in the western desert and Italy, he came to spend a few weeks with Helen and me in Darrowby. It wasn’t long before he had fallen under the spell of country life, and now he was learning farming and estate agency with a view to starting a new career. It was good that he should be with me tonight.

  Tristan’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair as he thought aloud. His expression was fixed and grave, his eyes vacant.

  “We’d normally go to the Drovers but they’ve got that big party on tonight, so that’s no good,” he muttered. “We want a bit of peace and quiet. Let’s see, now, there’s the George and Dragon—Tetley’s beer, splendid stuff, but I’ve known them a bit careless with their pipes and I’ve had the odd sour mouthful. And, of course, we have the Cross Keys. They pull a lovely pint of Cameron’s, and the draught Guinness is excellent. And we mustn’t forget the Hare and Pheasant—their bitter can rise to great heights, although the mild is ordinary.” He paused for a moment. “We might do worse than the Lord Nelson—very reliable ale—and, of course, there’s always …”

  “Just a minute, Triss,” I broke in. “I went round to Nurse Brown’s this evening to see Helen, and Cliff asked if he could come with us. Don’t you think it would be rather nice to go to his pub since the baby was born in his house?”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Which pub is that?”

  “The Black Horse.”

  “Ah, yes, ye-es.” Tristan looked at me thoughtfully and put his fingertips together. “Russell and Rangham’s. A good little brewery, that. I’ve had some first-rate pints in the Black Horse, though I’ve noticed a slight loss of nuttiness under very warm conditions.” He looked anxiously out of the window. “It’s been a hot day today. Perhaps we’d …”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Siegfried leaped to his feet. “You sound like an analytical chemist. It’s only beer you’re talking about, after all.”

  Tristan looked at him in shocked silence, but Siegfried turned to me briskly. “I think that’s a pleasant idea of yours, James. Let’s go with Cliff to the Black Horse. It’s a quiet little place.”

  And indeed, as we dropped to the chairs in the bar parlour, I felt we had chosen the ideal spot. The evening sunshine sent long golden shafts over the pitted oak tables and the high-backed settles where a few farm men sat with their glasses. There was nothing smart about this little inn, but the furniture which hadn’t been changed for a hundred years gave it an air of tranquillity. It was just right.

  Reg Wilkey, the diminutive landlord, welcomed us and charged our glasses from his tall white jug.

  Siegfried raised his pint. “James, may I be the first to wish a long life, health and happiness to Rosemary.”

  “Thank you, Siegfried,” I said, feeling suddenly very much among friends as the others said, “Here, here,” and began to drink.

  Cliff, his face wreathed in his eternal smile, lowered the level in his glass by half, then turned to the landlord. “It gets better, Reg,” he said reverently. “It gets better.”

  As Reg bowed modestly, Cliff said, “Ye know, Jim, I’ve said for years that me two best friends are Mr. Russell and Mr. Rangham. I think the world of ’em.”

  Everybody laughed, and the stage was set for a happy celebration. With my anxieties over, I felt wonderful.

  After a couple of pints, Siegfried patted me on the shoulder. “I’m off, James. Have a good time. Can’t tell you how pleased I am.”

  I watched him go, and I didn’t argue. He was right. There was a veterinary practice out there, and somebody had to watch the shop. And this was my night.

  It was one of those cosy evenings when everything seemed perfect. Alex and I recalled our childhood in Glasgow, Tristan came up with some splendid memories of Skeldale House in the bachelor days and over everything, like a beneficent moon, hung the huge smile of Cliff Brown.

  A great love of my fellow men mounted in me, and I kept buying drinks for the local people around us. Finally I grew tired of fumbling for money and handed my wallet to the landlord. It was stuffed with notes because I had made a special visit to the bank that afternoon.

  “Here, Reg,” I said. “Just keep taking the drinks out of that.”

  “Aye, right, Mr. Herriot,” he replied without changi