Every Living Thing Read online

  As we rose and began to shuffle out with the crowd I saw a grey-haired man shaking hands with the auctioneer and laughing in what I thought was an insufferably smug manner, then we were outside, walking over the cobbles of the market-place.

  The deflated feeling was the same as before. Helen was still holding my hand and I managed to work up a smile.

  “Well, it’s happened again,” I murmured. “But maybe I’m not as white this time?”

  My wife studied my face for a moment. “No…a bit pale perhaps, but nothing like last time.” Then she laughed. “Poor old lad, you never had the chance to get really white. It was over in a flash. Anyway, never mind—I often think that so many things happen for the best.”

  “Still, it’s another disappointment,” I said. “Last time we had Mrs. Dryden to console us a bit, but there’s nobody today.”

  As I spoke, I felt a tug at my sleeve. I turned and saw Bert Rawlings, whose smallholding’s fields bordered the house that had just been sold.

  “Hullo, Bert,” I said. “Been to the sale?”

  “Aye, I ’ave, Mr. Herriot, and I’m right glad you didn’t get that ’ouse.”

  “Eh?”

  “I say it was a lucky thing you didn’t get it, because I’ve been in that place many a time and I can tell ye it’s not all it appears.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye, it’s a good-lookin’ house, but the roof leaks like ’ell.”

  “Never!”

  “I’m not jokin’, I’ve been up in the attic and seen rows of buckets and pots and pans set out to try to catch the water. They’ve been tryin’ to mend that roof for years but they’ve never managed it.”

  “Heavens!”

  “And the timbers up there are rotten with all the damp.”

  “My God!”

  He patted my arm and laughed. “So you see you ’ad a lucky escape. Just thought I’d tell ye.”

  “Well, thanks, Bert. That does make us feel better.” I waved to him as he hurried away across the market-place, then I turned to Helen.

  “Well, isn’t that strange. We have had somebody to cheer us up after all. Maybe next time will be third time lucky.”

  Despite our latest defeat our determination was as strong as ever, or rather mine was, because, as I say, Helen didn’t seem all that worried. But my mind was set in a groove. I scanned the advertisements in the local newspapers, stopped eagerly at every For Sale board in the gardens of the district, but nothing really got moving until we were introduced at a party to Bob and Elizabeth Mollison. They were young architects about our own age who had opened an office in a nearby market town.

  “You know,” said Elizabeth, “you’re going through the mill trying to find a suitable house, but we could build you a really nice house for three thousand pounds—planned by yourselves with all the features you want—it would be a far better prospect for you, and in fact, probably cheaper in the long run.”

  Helen and I looked at each other. We had never thought of that.

  “If you can find a plot of land, Bob and I could have a place built for you in a few months,” Elizabeth went on. “Think it over, anyway.”

  I really didn’t need to think it over. The whole horizon seemed filled with blinding light. “This is the right idea,” I said eagerly, and Helen nodded, too. “Why didn’t we think of this before? We’ll do it!”

  The Mollisons regarded us uncertainly. “Are you quite sure? You’d maybe better have a think for a few days.”

  I shook my head decisively. “No, no, we’ll go right ahead. You draw up some plans and I’ll find a plot somewhere as I go round the country.”

  Bob smiled. “Fine, but hold on—we’d have to have a proper conference to know just what you want. We’d need a lot of details.”

  “We want a hatch,” I said.

  “A hatch? That’s all…? How about you, Helen?”

  “A hatch,” replied my wife firmly. In both our minds there floated the heavenly image of our meals being handed through that little hole in the wall from kitchen to dining room. After the years of tramping the long passage at Skeldale House, that had to be the number-one thing.

  The Mollisons had a good long laugh at this, but then they hadn’t seen the Skeldale passages.

  “Right,” Elizabeth said between giggles. “So we design this house round the hatch, eh?”

  “Absolutely.” More laughter, but for Helen and me there was a very serious core to our jollity.

  Later we did have our conference and worked out the less important aspects like bedrooms and bathrooms, and it wasn’t long before the young couple produced a most attractive plan.

  “It’s a lovely house,” Helen murmured as she studied it. “Such a nice little hall and staircase and all those useful cupboards and wardrobes built in. You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Especially the hatch!” said the Mollisons together, and the laughter started again.

  Meanwhile I was scouring the countryside for a plot and finding it very difficult. Something called Town and Country Planning had come into being and it was no good asking one of my farmer friends to sell me a bit of land in one of their fields where there was a nice view.

  Nice chaps as they were, they wanted to help, but couldn’t.

  “I’d be delighted, Jim,” one of them said, “but it’s not allowed. I can’t even build a house in my fields for me own son!”

  That was the story everywhere and I realised that I had to find a bit of ground somewhere inside the tight building line that had been drawn around Darrowby. My search became more and more desperate till I ended up with a plot between two houses on the edge of the town. It was a pleasant situation but very narrow.

  “There’s only one thing for it,” Bob Mollison said. “If you buy this plot we’ll have to put the house in long ways on.”

  This worried us. “But what a shame,” Helen said. “It’s such a pretty house—I just love that frontage.”

  Bob shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s that or nothing. Lots of people are trying to find land to build. You might have to wait ages for anything else to turn up. And we can make modifications. We can make it look very attractive the other way round.”

  Elizabeth came to us with a modified design and indeed it was an acceptable compromise. We bought the land and prepared for action.

  We immediately came up against other unexpected snags. In the early fifties Britain was still recovering from the austerities of the war. Many things were still in short supply—including builders. We tried everywhere but couldn’t find anybody to take on the contract. Finally we decided that the only way to get started was to employ the various tradesmen—joiners, bricklayers, plumbers, et cetera—ourselves. This was done and before long we had the foundations laid.

  It was exciting from then on, but frustrating, too, because time after time I would call at the site to find the bricklayers sitting smoking and drinking tea. The explanation was always the same: “We can’t get on. The joiners haven’t turned up.” Or it was the joiners drinking tea because the bricklayers hadn’t arrived. “We can’t get on” was a phrase I grew to dread.

  Because of this, progress was slow. After several weeks the walls were only knee high. We went off on our summer holiday for a fortnight, and as we drove past the site on our return, expecting to see a big advance, our hopes were dashed when we found that the house had not grown at all.

  However, the troubles began to sort themselves out and there was a rush of activity over several weeks when the place began to rise at magical speed. The big day arrived when the bricklayers, honest lads and keen to please me, had the gable end nearly up to roof height.

  “We’ll have t’roof on tomorrow, Mr. Herriot,” one of them said cheerfully. “Only thing is the joiners should’ve been here to put the ridge and last spars in, but we’ll build up the gable to full height and the joiners’ll be here this afternoon to support it. Then we’ll all be happy—we’ll put up the flag. You’ll be glad to see that!”