Vet in Harness Read online

mass, then I popped it into my mouth, gave a couple of quick chews and

  swallowed. It was a start and I hadn't tasted a thing except the

  piccalilli.

  "Nice bit ,of bacon,' Mr Homer murmured.

  "Delicious!' I replied, munching desperately at the second forkful.

  "Absolutely delicious!'

  "And you like ma piccalilli too!' The old lady beamed at me. "Ah can

  tell by the way you're slappin' it on!' She gave a peal of delighted

  laughter.

  "Yes, indeed.' I looked at her with streaming eyes. "Some of the best

  I've ever tasted.'

  Looking back, I realise it was one of the bravest things I have ever

  done. I stuck to my task unwaveringly, dipping again and again into the

  jar, keeping my mind a blank, refusing grimly to think of the horrible

  thing that was happening to me. There was only one bad moment, when the

  piccalilli, which packed a tremendous punch and was never meant to be

  consumed in large mouthfuls, completely took my breath away and I went

  into a long coughing spasm. But at last I came to the end. A final

  heroic crunch and swallow, a long gulp at my tea and the plate was

  empty. The thing was accomplished.

  And there was no doubt it had been worth it. I had been a tremendous

  success with the old folks. Mr Homer slapped my shoulder.

  "By yaw, it's good to see a young feller enjoyin' his food! When I were

  a lad I used to put it away sharpish, like that, but ah can't do it

  now.' Chuckling to himself, he continued with his breakfast.

  His wife showed me the door. "Aye, it was a real compliment to me.' She

  looked at the table and giggled. "You've nearly finished the jar!'

  "Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs Homer,' I said, smiling through my tears and trying

  to ignore the churning in my stomach. "But I just couldn't resist it.'

  Contrary to my expectations I didn't drop down dead soon afterwards but

  for a week I was oppressed by a feeling of nausea which I am prepared to

  believe was purely psychosomatic.

  At any rate, since that little episode I have never knowingly eaten fat

  again. My hatred was transformed into something like an obsession from

  then on.

  And I haven't been all that crazy about piccalilli either.

  Chapter Twenty-four.

  I wondered how long this feeling of novelty at being a married man would

  last. Maybe it went on for years and years. At any rate I did feel an

  entirely different person from the old Herriot as I paced with my wife

  among the stalls at the garden fete.

  It was an annual affair in aid of the Society for the Prevention of

  Cruelty to Children and it was held on the big lawn behind the Darrowby

  vicarage with the weathered brick of the old house showinv meiinw r-A

  h^~^rerl t1~ tr~c Tl~ hot June sunshine bathed the typically English

  scene; the women in their flowered dresses, the men perspiring in their

  best suits, laughing children running from the tombola to the coconut

  shy or the ice-cream kiosk. In a little tent at one end, Mrs Newbould,

  the butcher's wife, thinly disguised as Madame Claire the fortune

  teller, was doing a brisk trade. It all seemed a long way from Glasgow.

  And the solid citizen feeling was heightened by the pressure of Helen's

  hand on my arm and the friendly nods of the passers-by. One of these was

  the curate. Mr Blenkinsopp. He came up to us, exuding, as always, a

  charm that was completely unworldly.

  "Ah, James,' he murmured. "And Helen!' He beamed on us with the

  benevolence he felt for the entire human race. "How nice to see you

  here!'

  He walked along with us as the scent from the flower beds and the

  trodden grass rose in the warm air.

  "You know, James, I was just thinking about you the other day. I was in

  Rainby - you know I take the service there every second week - and they

  were telling me they were having great difficulty in finding young men

  for the cricket team. I wondered if you would care to turn out for

  them.'

  "Me? Play cricket?'

  "Yes, of course.'

  I laughed. "I'm afraid I'm no cricketer. I'm interested in the game and

  I like to watch it, but where I come from they don't play it very much.'

  "Oh, but surely you must have played at some time or other.'

  "A bit at school, but they go more for tennis in Scotland. And anyway it

  was a long time ago.'

  "Oh well, there you are.' Mr Blenkinsopp spread his hands. "It will come

  back to you easily.'

  "I don't know about that,' I said. "But another thing, I don't live in

  Rainby, doesn't that matter?'

  "Not really,' the curate replied. "It is such a problem finding eleven

  players in these tiny villages that they often call on outsiders. Nobody

  minds.'

  I stopped my stroll over the grass and turned to Helen. She was giving

  me an encouraging smile and I began to think, well ... why not? It

  looked as though I had settled in Yorkshire. I had married a Yorkshire

  girl. I might as well start doing the Yorkshire things, like playing

  cricket - there wasn't anything more Yorkshire than that.

  "All right then, Mr Blenkinsopp,"I said. "You're not getting any bargain

  but I don't mind having a go.'

  "Splendid! The next match is on Tuesday evening - against Hedwick. I am

  playing so I'll pick you up at six o'clock. His face radiated happiness

  as though I had done him the greatest favour.

  "Well, thanks,' I replied. "I'll have to fix it with my partner to be

  off that night, but I'm sure it will be O.K.'

  The weather was still fine on Tuesday and, going round my visits, I

  found it difficult to assimilate the fact that for the first time in my

  life I was going to perform in a real genuine cricket match.

  It was funny the way I felt about cricket. All my experience of the game

  was based on the long-range impressions I had gained during my Glasgow

  boyhood. Gleaned from newspapers, from boys' magazines, from occasional

  glimpses of Hobbs and Sutcliffe and Woolley on the cinema newsreels,

  they had built up a strangely glamorous picture in my mind. The whole

  thing, it seemed to me, was so deeply and completely English; the gentle

  clunk of bat on ball, the white-clad figures on the wide sweep of smooth

  turf; there was a softness a graciousness about cricket which you found

  nowhere else; nobody ever got excited or upset at this leisurely

  pursuit. There was no doubt at all that I looked on cricket with a

  romanticism and nostalgia which would have been incomprehensible to

  people who had played the game all their lives.

  Promptly at six Mr Blenkinsopp tooted the horn of his little car outside

  the surgery. Helen had advised me to dress ready for action and she had

  clearly been right because the curate, too, was resplendent in white

  flannels and blazer. The three young farmers crammed in the back were,

  however, wearing opennecked shirts with their ordinary clothes.

  "Hello, James!' said Mr Blenkinsopp.

  "Now then, Jim,' said two of the young men in the back. But "Good

  afternoon, Mr Herriot,' said the one in the middle.

  He was Tom Willis, the captain of the Rainby team and in my opinion, one

  of natur