All Things Bright and Beautiful Read online

“Now then, one of me sows is bad.”

  “Oh right, what’s the trouble?”

  A throaty chuckle. “Ah, that’s what ah want YOU to tell ME!”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Aye, ah wouldn’t be ringin’ you up if I knew what the trouble was, would I? Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

  The fact that I had heard this joke about two thousand times interfered with my full participation in the merriment but I managed a cracked laugh in return.

  “That’s perfectly true, Mr. Fryer. Well, why have you rung me?”

  “Damn, I’ve told ye—to find out what the trouble is.”

  “Yes, I understand that, but I’d like some details. What do you mean when you say she’s bad?”

  “Well, she’s just a bit off it.”

  “Quite, but could you tell me a little more?”

  A pause. “She’s dowly, like.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No…no…she’s a right poorly pig, though.”

  I spent a few moments in thought. “Is she doing anything funny?”

  “Funny? Funny? Nay, there’s nowt funny about t’job, I’ll tell tha! It’s no laughin’ matter.”

  “Well…er…let me put it this way. Why are you calling me out?”

  “I’m callin’ ye out because you’re a vet. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  I tried again. “It would help if I knew what to bring with me. What are her symptoms?”

  “Symptoms? Well, she’s just off colour, like.”

  “Yes, but what is she doing?”

  “She’s doin’ nowt. That’s what bothers me.”

  “Let’s see.” I scratched my head. “Is she very ill?”

  “I reckon she’s in bad fettle.”

  “But would you say it was an urgent matter?”

  Another long pause. “Well, she’s nobbut middlin’. She’s not framin’ at all.”

  “Yes…yes…and how long has she been like this?”

  “Oh, for a bit.”

  “But how long exactly?”

  “For a good bit.”

  “But Mr. Fryer, I want to know when she started these symptoms. How long has she been affected?”

  “Oh…ever since we got ’er.”

  “Ah, and when was that?”

  “Well, she came wi’ the others….”

  28

  I ALWAYS LIKED HAVING a student with us. These young men had to see at least six months’ practice on their way through college and most of their vacations were spent going round with a vet.

  We, of course, had our own resident student in Tristan but he was in a different category; he didn’t have to be taught anything—he seemed to know things, to absorb knowledge without apparent effort or indeed without showing interest. If you took Tristan to a case he usually spent his time on the farm sitting in the car reading his Daily Mirror and smoking Woodbines.

  There were all types among the others—some from the country, some from the towns, some dull-witted, some bright—but as I say, I liked having them.

  For one thing, before I had Sam they were good company in the car. A big part of a country vet’s life consists of solitary driving and it was a relief to be able to talk to somebody. It was wonderful, too, to have a gate-opener. Some of the outlying farms were approached through long, gated roads—one which always struck terror into me had eight gates—and it is hard to convey the feeling of sheer luxury when somebody else leaped out and opened them.

  And there was another little pleasure; asking the students questions. My own days of studying and examinations were still fresh in my memory and on top of that I had all the vast experience of nearly three years of practice. It gave me a feeling of power to drop casual little queries about the cases we saw and watch the lads squirm as I had so recently squirmed myself. I suppose that even in those early days I was forming a pattern for later life; unknown to myself I was falling into the way of asking a series of my own pet questions as all examiners are liable to do and many years later I overheard one youngster asking another: “Has he grilled you on the causes of fits in calves yet? Don’t worry, he will.” That made me feel suddenly old but there was compensation on another occasion when a newly qualified ex-student rushed up to me and offered to buy me all the beer I could drink. “You know what the examiner asked me in the final oral? The causes of fits in calves! By God I paralysed him—he had to beg me to stop talking.”

  And students were useful in other ways. They ran and got things out of the car boot, they pulled a rope at carvings, they were skilled assistants at operations, they were a repository for my worries and doubts; it isn’t too much to say that during their brief visits they revolutionised my life.

  So this Easter I waited on the platform of Darrowby station with pleasant anticipation. This lad had been recommended by one of the Ministry officials. “A really first class chap. Final year London—several times gold medallist. He’s seen mixed and town practice and thought he ought to have a look at some of the real rural stuff. I said I’d give you a ring. His name is Richard Carmody.”

  Veterinary students came in a variety of shapes and sizes but there were a few features most of them had in common and I always had a mental picture of an eager-faced lad in tweed jacket and rumpled slacks carrying a rucksack. He would probably jump on to the platform as soon as the train drew up. But this time there was no immediate sign of life and a porter had begun to load a stack of egg boxes into the guard’s van before one of the compartment doors opened and a tall figure descended leisurely.

  I was doubtful about his identity but he seemed to place me on sight. He walked over, held out a hand and surveyed me with a level gaze.

  “Mr. Herriot?”

  “Yes…er…yes. Tha’s right.”

  “My name is Carmody.”

  “Ah yes, good. How are you?” We shook hands and I took in the fine check suit and tweedy hat, the shining brogues and pigskin case. This was a very superior student, in fact a highly impressive young man. About a couple of years younger than myself but with a mature air in the set of his broad shoulders and the assurance on his strong, high-coloured face.

  I led him across the bridge out onto the station yard. He didn’t actually raise his eyebrows when he saw my car but he shot a cold glance at the mud-spattered vehicle, at the cracked windscreen and smooth tyres; and when I opened the door for him I thought for a moment he was going to wipe the seat before sitting down.

  At the surgery I showed him round. I was only the assistant but I was proud of our modest set-up and most people were impressed by their first sight of it. But Carmody said “Hm,” in the little operating room, “Yes, I see,” in the dispensary, and “Quite” at the instrument cupboard. In the stockroom he was more forthcoming. He reached out and touched a packet of our beloved Adrevan worm medicine for horses.

  “Still using this stuff, eh?” he said with a faint smile.

  He didn’t go into any ecstasies but he did show signs of approval when I took him out through the french windows into the long, high-walled garden where the daffodils glowed among the unkempt tangle and the wisteria climbed high over the old bricks of the tall Georgian house. In the cobbled yard at the foot of the garden he looked up at the rooks making their din high in the overhanging elms and he gazed for a few moments through the trees to where you could see the bare ribs of the fells still showing the last white runnels of winter.

  “Charming,” he murmured. “Charming.”

  I was glad enough to see him to his lodgings that evening. I felt I needed time to readjust my thinking.

  When we started out next morning I saw he had discarded his check suit but was still very smart in a hacking jacket and flannels.

  “Haven’t you any protective clothing?” I asked.

  “I’ve got these.” He indicated a spotless pair of Wellingtons in the back of the car.

  “Yes, but I mean an oilskin or a coat of some kind. Some of our jobs are pretty dirty.”

  He smiled indulgently. “