All Things Bright and Beautiful Read online

  She put her arm through mine as we went in at the entrance gate to where a crescent of cars was drawn up at one end of a long field. The field was on the river’s edge and through a fringe of trees the afternoon sunshine glinted on the tumbling water of the shallows and turned the long beach of bleached stones to a dazzling white. Groups of men, mainly competitors, stood around chatting as they watched. They were quiet, easy, bronzed men and as they seemed to be drawn from all social strata from prosperous farmers to working men their garb was varied; cloth caps, trilbies, deerstalkers or no hat at all; tweed jackets, stiff best suits, open necked shirts, fancy ties, sometimes neither collar nor tie. Nearly all of them leaned on long crooks with the handles fashioned from ram’s horns.

  Snatches of talk reached us as we walked among them.

  “You got ’ere, then, Fred.” “That’s a good gather.” “Nay, ’e’s missed one, ’e’ll get nowt for that.” “Them sheep’s a bit flighty.” “Aye, they’re buggers.” And above it all the whistles of the man running a dog; every conceivable level and pitch of whistle with now and then a shout. “Sit!” “Get by!” Every man had his own way with his dog.

  The dogs waiting their turn were tied up to a fence with a hedge growing over it. There were about seventy of them and it was rather wonderful to see that long row of waving tails and friendly expressions. They were mostly strangers to each other but there wasn’t even the semblance of disagreement, never mind a fight. It seemed that the natural obedience of these little creatures was linked to an amicable disposition.

  This appeared to be common to their owners, too. There was no animosity, no resentment at defeat, no unseemly display of triumph in victory. If a man overran his time he ushered his group of sheep quietly into the corner and returned with a philosophical grin to his colleagues. There was a little quiet leg-pulling but that was all

  We came across Sep Wilkin leaning against his car at the best vantage point about thirty yards away from the final pen. Gyp, tied to the bumper, turned and gave me his crooked grin while Mrs. Wilkin on a camp stool by his side rested a hand on his shoulder. Gyp, it seemed, had got under her skin too.

  Helen went over to speak to her and I turned to her husband. “Are you running a dog today, Mr. Wilkin?”

  “No, not this time, just come to watch. I know a lot o’ the dogs.”

  I stood near him for a while watching the competitors in action, breathing in the clean smell of trampled grass and plug tobacco. In front of us next to the pen the judge stood by his post.

  I had been there for about ten minutes when Mr. Wilkin lifted a pointing finger. “Look who’s there!”

  George Crossly with Sweep trotting at his heels was making his way unhurriedly to the post. Gyp suddenly stiffened and sat up very straight his cocked ears accentuating the lop-sided look. It was many months since he had seen his brother and companion; it seemed unlikely, I thought that he would remember him. But his interest was clearly intense, and as the judge waved his white handkerchief and the three sheep were released from the far corner he rose slowly to his feet.

  A gesture from Mr. Crossley sent Sweep winging round the perimeter of the field in a wide, joyous gallop and as he neared the sheep a whistle dropped him on his belly. From then on it was an object lesson in the cooperation of man and dog. Sep Wilkin had always said Sweep would be a champion and he looked the part, darting and falling at his master’s commands. Short piercing whistles, shrill plaintive whistles; he was in tune with them all.

  No dog all day had brought his sheep through the three lots of gates as effortlessly as Sweep did now and as he approached the pen near us it was obvious that he would win the cup unless some disaster struck. But this was the touchy bit; more than once with other dogs the sheep had broken free and gone bounding away within feet of the wooden rails.

  George Crossley held the gate wide and extended his crook. You could see now why they all carried those long sticks. His commands to Sweep, huddled flat along the turf, were now almost inaudible but the quiet words brought the dog inching first one way then the other. The sheep were in the entrance to the pen now but they still looked around them irresolutely and the game was not over yet. But as Sweep wriggled towards them almost imperceptibly they turned and entered and Mr. Crossley crashed the gate behind them.

  As he did so he turned to Sweep with a happy cry of “GOOD LAD!” and the dog responded with a quick jerking wag of his tail.

  At that, Gyp, who had been standing very tall, watching every move with the most intense concentration raised his head and emitted a single resounding bark.

  “WOOF!” went Gyp as we all stared at him in astonishment.

  “Did you hear that?” gasped Mrs. Wilkin.

  “Well, by gaw!” her husband burst out looking open-mouthed at his dog.

  Gyp didn’t seem to be aware that he had done anything unusual. He was too preoccupied by the reunion with his brother and within seconds the two dogs were rolling around, chewing playfully at each other as of old.

  I suppose the Wilkins as well as myself had the feeling that this event might start Gyp barking like any other dog, but it was not to be.

  Six years later I was on the farm and went to the house to get some hot water. As Mrs. Wilkin handed me the bucket she looked down at Gyp who was basking in the sunshine outside the kitchen window.

  “There you are, then, funny fellow,” she said to the dog.

  I laughed. “Has he ever barked since that day?”

  Mrs. Wilkin shook her head. “No he hasn’t, not a sound. I waited a long time but I know he’s not going to do it now.”

  “Ah well, it’s not important. But still, I’ll never forget that afternoon at the trial,” I said.

  “Nor will I!” She looked at Gyp again and her eyes softened in reminiscence. “Poor old lad, eight years old and only one woof .”

  35

  CLERICAL WORK HAS NEVER been my strong point and after an evening of writing letters it was a relief to trot down the stairs from our bed-sitter and stroll across the market place to the post office. I had just dropped the letters in the box when a burst of jazz music came over the cobbles from an open doorway. And in an instant I was back in my bachelor days, back to the night of that dance when my courtship of Helen had been progressing badly .…

  The big room at Skeldale House had been full that night. It seemed to me that this room with its graceful alcoves, high, carved ceiling and trench windows lay at the centre of our life in Darrowby. It was where Siegfried, Tristan and I gathered when the day’s work was done, toasting our feet by the white wood fireplace with the glass-fronted cupboard on top, talking over the day’s events. It was the heart of our bachelor existence, sitting there in a happy stupor, reading, listening to the radio, Tristan usually flipping effortlessly through the Daily Telegraph crossword.

  It was where Siegfried entertained his friends and there was a constant stream of them—old and young, male and female. But tonight it was Tristan’s turn and the pack of young people with drinks in their hands were there at his invitation. And they wouldn’t need much persuasion. Though just about the opposite of his brother in many ways he had the same attractiveness which brought the friends running at the crook of a finger.

  The occasion was the Daffodil Ball at the Drovers’ Arms and we were dressed in our best. This was a different kind of function from the usual village institute hop with the farm lads in their big boots and music from a scraping fiddle and piano. It was a proper dance with a popular local band—Sadie Butterfield and her Hot Shots—and was an annual affair to herald the arrival of spring.

  I watched Tristan dispensing the drinks. The bottles of whisky, gin and sherry which Siegfried kept in the fireplace cupboard had taken some severe punishment but Tristan himself had been abstemious. An occasional sip from a glass of light ale perhaps, but nothing more. Drinking, to him, meant the bulk intake of draught bitter; all else was mere vanity and folly. Dainty little glasses were anathema and even now when I see him at a