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  The Gillards left on their journey back to the south and a couple of hours later Stewie and his family returned. The children were very brown; even the baby, still bawling resolutely, had a fine tan. The skin had peeled off Meg’s nose but she looked wonderfully relaxed. Stewie, in open necked shirt and with a face like a boiled lobster, seemed to have put on weight.

  “That holiday saved our lives, Jim,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough, and please tell Siegfried how grateful we are.” He looked fondly at his turbulent brood flooding through the house, then as an afterthought he turned to me.

  “Is everything all right in the practice?”

  “Yes, Stewie, it is. I had my ups and downs of course.”

  He laughed. “Don’t we all.”

  “We certainly do, but everything’s fine now.”

  And everything did seem fine as I drove away from the smoke. I watched the houses thin and fall away behind me till the whole world opened out clean and free and I saw the green line of the fells rising over Darrowby.

  I suppose we all tend to remember the good things but as it turned out I had no option. The following Christmas I had a letter from the Gillards with a packet of snapshots showing a big golden dog clearing a gate, leaping high for a ball, strutting proudly with a stick in his mouth. There was hardly any stiffness in the leg, they said; he was perfectly sound.

  So even now when I think of Hensfield the thing I remember best is Kim.

  CHAPTER 23

  THERE WAS A LOT of shouting in the RAF. The NCOs always seemed to be shouting at me or at somebody else and a lot of them had impressively powerful voices. But for sheer volume I don’t think any of them could beat Len Hampson.

  I was on the way to Len’s farm and on an impulse I pulled up the car and leaned for a moment on the wheel. It was a hot, still day in late summer and this was one of the softer corners of the Dales, sheltered by the enclosing fells from the harsh winds which shrivelled all but the heather and the tough moorland grass.

  Here, great trees, oak, elm and sycamore in full rich leaf, stood in gentle majesty in the green dips and hollows, their branches quite still in the windless air.

  In all the grassy miles around me I could see no movement, nor could I hear anything except the fleeting hum of a bee and the distant bleating of a sheep.

  Through the open window drifted the scents of summer; warm grass, clover and the sweetness of hidden flowers. But in the car they had to compete with the all-pervading smell of cow. I had spent the last hour injecting fifty wild cattle and I sat there in soiled breeches and sweat-soaked shirt looking out sleepily at the tranquil landscape.

  I opened the door and Sam jumped out and trotted into a nearby wood. I followed him into the cool shade, into the damp secret fragrance of pine needles and fallen leaves which came from the dark heart of the crowding boles. From somewhere in the branches high above I could hear that most soothing of sounds, the cooing of a woodpigeon.

  Then, although the farm was two fields away, I heard Len Hampson’s voice. He wasn’t calling the cattle home or anything like that. He was just conversing with his family as he always did in a long tireless shout.

  I drove on to the farm and he opened the gate to let me into the yard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hampson,” I said.

  “NOW THEN, MR. HERRIOT,” he bawled, “IT’S A GRAND MORNIN’.”

  The blast of sound drove me back a step but his three sons smiled contentedly. No doubt they were used to it

  I stayed at a safe distance. “You want me to see a pig.”

  “AYE, A GOOD BACON PIG. GONE RIGHT OFF. IT HASN’T ATE NOWT FOR TWO DAYS.”

  We went into the pig pen and it was easy to pick out my patient. Most of the big white occupants careered around at the sight of a stranger, but one of them stood quietly in a corner.

  It isn’t often a pig will stand unresisting as you take its temperature but this one never stirred as I slipped the thermometer into its rectum. There was only a slight fever but the animal had the look of doom about it; back slightly arched, unwilling to move, eyes withdrawn and anxious.

  I looked up at Len Hampson’s red-faced bulk leaning over the wall of the pen.

  “Did this start suddenly or gradually?” I asked.

  “RIGHT SUDDEN!” In the confined space the full throated yell was deafening, “HE WERE AS RIGHT AS NINEPENCE ON MONDAY NIGHT AND LIKE THIS ON TUESDAY MORNIN’.”

  I felt my way over the pig’s abdomen. The musculature was tense and boardlike and the abdominal contents were difficult to palpate because of this, but the whole area was tender to the touch.

  “I’ve seen them like this before,” I said. “This pig has a ruptured bowel. They do it when they are fighting or jostling each other, especially when they are full after a meal.”

  “WHAT’S GOIN’ TO ’APPEN THEN?”

  “Well, the food material has leaked into the abdomen, causing peritonitis. I’ve opened up pigs like this and they are a mass of adhesions—the abdominal organs are growing together. I’m afraid the chances of recovery are very small.”

  He took off his cap, scratched his bald head and replaced the tattered headgear. “THAT’S A BUGGER, GOOD PIG AN’ ALL. IS IT ’OPELESS?” He still gave tongue at the top of his voice despite his disappointment.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s pretty hopeless. They usually eat very little and just waste away. It would really be best to slaughter him.”

  “NAY, AH DON’T LIKE THAT MUCH! AH ALLUS LKE TO ’AVE A GO. ISN’T THERE SUMMAT WE CAN DO? WHERE THERE’S LIFE THERE’S ’OPE, THA KNAWS.”

  I smiled. “I suppose there’s always some hope, Mr. Hampson.”

  “WELL THEN, LET’S GET ON. LET’S TRY!”

  “All right.” I shrugged. “He’s not really in acute pain—more discomfort—so I suppose there’s no harm in treating him. I’ll leave you a course of powders.”

  As I pushed my way from the pen I couldn’t help noticing the superb sleek condition of the other pigs.

  “My word,” I said. “These pigs are in grand fettle. I’ve never seen a better lot. You must feed them well.”

  It was a mistake. Enthusiasm added many decibels to his volume.

  “Aye!” he bellowed. “YOU’VE GOT TO GIVE STOCK A BIT O’ GOOD STUFF TO MEK ‘EM DO RIGHT!”

  My head was still ringing when I reached the car and opened the boot. I handed over a packet of my faithful sulphonamide powders. They had done great things for me but I didn’t expect much here.

  It was strange that I should go straight from the chief shouter of the practice to the chief whisperer. Elijah Wentworth made all his communications sotto voce.

  I found Mr. Wentworth hosing down his cow byre and he turned and looked at me with his habitual serious expression. He was a tall, thin man, very precise in his speech and ways, and though he was a hard-working farmer he didn’t look like one. This impression was heightened by his clothes which were more suited to office work than his rough trade.

  A fairly new trilby hat sat straight on his head as he came over to me. I was able to examine it thoroughly because he came so close that we were almost touching noses.

  He took a quick look around him. “Mr. Herriot,” he whispered, “I’ve got a real bad case.” He spoke always as though every pronouncement was of the utmost gravity and secrecy.

  “Oh I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the trouble?”

  “Fine big bullock, Mr. Herriot. Goin’ down fast.” He moved in closer till he could murmur directly into my ear. “I suspect TB.” He backed away, face drawn.

  “That doesn’t sound so good,” I said. “Where is he?”

  The farmer crooked a finger and I followed him into a loose box. The bullock was a Hereford Cross and should have weighed about ten hundredweight, but was gaunt and emaciated. I could understand Mr. Wentworth’s fears, but I was beginning to develop a clinical sense and it didn’t look like TB to me.

  “Is he coughing?” I asked.

  “No, never cough