It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

transition was almost violent as the trees and bushes thinned out and

  gave way to the bare, rocky hillside and the miles of limestone walls.

  And though the valley had been rich with the fresh green of the new

  leaves, up here the buds were unopened and the naked branches stretched

  against the sky still had the look of winter.

  Tim Alton's farm lay at the top of the track and as I pulled up at the

  gate I wondered as I always did how the man could scrape a living from

  those few harsh acres with the grass flattened and yellowed by the wind

  which always blew. At any rate, many generations had accomplished the

  miracle and had lived and struggled and died in that house with its

  outbuildings crouching in the lee of a group of stunted, wind-bent

  trees, its massive stones crumbling under three centuries of fierce

  weathering.

  Why should anybody want to build a farm in such a place? I turned as I

  opened the gate and looked back at the track threading between the walls

  down and down to where the white stones of the river glittered in the

  spring sunshine. Maybe the builder had stood here and looked across the

  green vastness and breathed in the cold, sweet air and thought it was

  enough.

  I saw Tim Alton coming across the yard. There had been no need to lay

  down concrete or cobbles here; they had just swept away the thin soil

  and there, between house and buildings was a sloping stretch of fissured

  rock. It was more than a durable surface - it was everlasting.

  "It's your pig this time, then, Tim," I said and the farmer nodded

  seriously.

  "Aye, right as owl yesterday and laid flat like a deed 'un this morning.

  Never looked up when I filled his trough and by gaw when a pig won't

  tackle his grub there's summat far won"." Tim dug his hands inside the

  broad leather belt which encircled his oversized trousers and which

  always seemed to be about to nip his narrow frame in two and led the way

  gloomily into the sty. Despite the bitter poverty of his existence he

  was a man who took misfortune cheerfully. I had never seen him look like

  this and I thought I knew the reason; there is something personal about

  the family pig.

  Smallholders like Tim Alton made their meagre living from a few cows;

  they sold their milk to the big dairies or made butter. And they killed

  a pig or two each year and cured it themselves for home consumption. On

  the poorer places it seemed to me that they ate little else; whatever

  meal I happened to stumble in on, the cooking smell was always the same

  - roasting fat bacon.

  It appeared to be a matter of pride to make the pig as fat as possible;

  in fact, on these little wind-blown farms where the people and the cows

  and the dogs were lean and spare, the pig was about the only fat thing

  to be seen.

  I had seen the Alton pig before. I had been stitching a cow's torn teat

  about a fortnight ago and Tim had patted me on the shoulder and

  whispered: "Now come along wi' me, Mr. Herriot and I'll show the summat.

  "We had looked into the sty at a twenty-five-stone monster effortlessly

  emptying a huge trough of wet meal I could remember the pride in the

  farmer's eyes and the way he listened to the smacking and slobbering as

  if to great music.

  It was different today. The pig looked, if possible, even more enormous

  as it lay on its side, eyes closed, filling the entire floor of the sty

  like a beached whale. Tim splashed a stick among the untouched meal in

  the trough and made encouraging noises but the animal never stirred. The

  farmer looked at me with haggard eyes.

  "He's bad, Mr. Herriot. It's serious whatever it is."

  I had been taking the temperature and when I read the thermometer I

  whistled. "A hundred and seven. That's some fever."

  The colour drained from Tim's face. "Oh 'elf! A hundred and seven! It's

  hopeless, then. It's ower with him."

  I had been feeling along the animal's side and I smiled reassuringly.

  "No, don't worry, Tim. I think he's going to be all right. He's got

  erysipelas. Here, put your fingers along his back. You can feel a lot of

  flat swellings on his skin - those are the diamonds. He'll have a

  beautiful rash within a few hours but at the moment you can't see it,

  you can only feel it."

  "And you can make him better."

  "I'm nearly sure I can. I'll give him a whacking dose of serum and I'd

  like to bet you he'll have his nose in that trough in a couple of days.

  Most of them get over it all right."

  "Well that's a bit o' good news, any road," said Tim, a smile flooding

  over his face. "You had me worried there with your hundred and seven,

  clang you."

  I laughed. "Sorry, Tim, didn't mean to frighten you. I'm often happier

  to see a high temperature than a low one. But it's a funny time for

  erysipelas. We usually see it in late summer."

  "All right, I'll let ye off this time. Come in and wash your hands."

  In the kitchen I ducked my head but couldn't avoid bumping the massive

  side of bacon hanging from the beamed ceiling. The heavy mass rocked

  gently on its hooks; it was about eight inches thick in parts - all pure

  white fat. Only by close inspection was it possible to discern a thin

  strip of lean meat.

  Mrs. Alton produced a cup of tea and as I sipped I looked across at Tim

  who had fallen back into a chair and lay with his hands hanging down,

  for a moment he closed his eyes and his face became a mask of weariness.

  I thought for the hundredth time about the endless labour which made up

  the lives of these little farmers. Alton was only forty but his body was

  already bent and ravaged by the constant demands he made on it; you

  could read his story in the corded forearm the rough, work-swollen

  fingers. He told me once that the last time he missed a milking was

  twelve years ago and that was for his father's funeral.

  I was taking my leave when I saw Jennie. She was the Altons' eldest

  child and was pumping vigorously at the tyre of her bicycle which was

  leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen door.

  "Going somewhere?" I asked and the girl straightened up quickly, pushing

  back a few strands of dark hair from her forehead. She was about

  eighteen with delicate features and large, expressive eyes; in her wild,

  pinched prettiness there was something of the wheeling curlews, the wind

  and sun, the wide emptiness of the moors.

  "I'm going down to "'village." She stole a glance into the kitchen. "I'm

  going to get a bottle of Guinness for dad."

  "The village! It's a long way to go for a bottle of Guinness. It must be

  two miles and then you've got to push back up this hill. Are you going

  all that way just for one bottle."

  "Ay, just one," she whispered, counting out a sixpence and some coppers

  into her palm with calm absorption. "Dad's been up all night waiting for

  a heifer to calve - he's tired out. I won't be long and he can have his

  Guinness with his dinner. That's what he likes." She looked up at me

  conspiratorially. "It'll be a surprise for him."

  As she spoke, her father, still sprawled in the chair, turned h