Read Online If Only They Could Talk by James Herriot - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Herriot
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weren't a blade of grass out of place in them days and the flowers all in rows and the trees pruned, tidy-like. And this yard - it were t'owd doctor's favourite spot. He'd come and look over t' door at me sitting here p'lishing the harness and pass time o' day, quiet like. He were a real gentleman but you couldn't cross 'im. A few specks o' dust anywhere down here and he'd go nearly mad.'
'But the war finished it all. Everybody's rushing about now. They don't care about them things now. They've no time, no time at all.'
He would look round in disbelief at the overgrown cobbles, the peeling garage doors hanging crazily on their hinges. At the empty stable and the pump from which no water flowed.
He was always friendly with me in an absent way, but with Siegfried he seemed to step back into his former character, holding himself up smartly and saying 'very good, sir,' and saluting repeatedly with one finger. It was as though he recognised something there - something of the strength of authority of t'owd doctor - and reached out eagerly towards the lost days.
'Morning, Boardman,' I said, as I opened the garage door. 'How are you today?'
'Oh, middlin' lad, just middlin'.' He limped across and watched me get the starting handle and begin the next part of the daily routine. The car allotted to me was a tiny Austin of an almost forgotten vintage and one of Boardman's voluntary duties was towing it off when it wouldn't start.
But this morning, surprisingly, the engine coughed into life after six turns.
As I drove round the corner of the back lane, I had the feeling, as I did every morning, that this was where things really got started. The problems and pressures of my job were waiting for me out there and at the moment I seemed to have plenty.
I had arrived in the Dales, I felt, at a bad time. The farmers, after a generation of neglect, had seen the coming of a prophet, the wonderful new vet, Mr. Farnon. He appeared like a comet, trailing his new ideas in his wake. He was able, energetic and charming and they received him as a maiden would a lover. And now, at the height of the honeymoon, I had to push my way into the act, and I just wasn't wanted.
I was beginning to get used to the questions. 'Where's Mr. Farnon?' - 'Is he ill or something?' - 'I expected Mr. Farnon.' It was a bit daunting to watch their faces fall when they saw me walking on to their farms. Usually they looked past me hopefully and some even went and peered into the car to see if the man they really wanted was hiding in there.
And it was uphill work examining an animal when its owner was chafing in the background, wishing with all his heart that I was somebody else.
But I had to admit they were fair. I got no effusive welcomes and when I started to tell them what I thought about the case they listened with open scepticism, but I found that if I got my jacket off and really worked at the job they began to thaw a little. And they were hospitable. Even though they were disappointed at having me they asked me into their homes. 'Come in and have a bit o'
dinner,' was a phrase I heard nearly every day. Sometimes I was glad to accept and I ate some memorable meals with them.
Often, too, they would slip half a dozen eggs or a pound of butter into the car as I was leaving.
This hospitality was traditional in the Dales and I knew they would probably do the same for any visitor, but it showed the core of friendliness which lay under the often unsmiling surface of these people and it helped.
I was beginning to learn about the farmers and what I found I liked. They had a toughness and a philosophical attitude which was new to me. Misfortunes which would make the city dweller want to bang his head against a wall were shrugged off with 'Aye, well, these things happen.'
It looked like being another hot day and I wound down the car windows as far as they would go. I was on my way to do a tuberculin test; the national scheme was beginning to make its first impact in
'But the war finished it all. Everybody's rushing about now. They don't care about them things now. They've no time, no time at all.'
He would look round in disbelief at the overgrown cobbles, the peeling garage doors hanging crazily on their hinges. At the empty stable and the pump from which no water flowed.
He was always friendly with me in an absent way, but with Siegfried he seemed to step back into his former character, holding himself up smartly and saying 'very good, sir,' and saluting repeatedly with one finger. It was as though he recognised something there - something of the strength of authority of t'owd doctor - and reached out eagerly towards the lost days.
'Morning, Boardman,' I said, as I opened the garage door. 'How are you today?'
'Oh, middlin' lad, just middlin'.' He limped across and watched me get the starting handle and begin the next part of the daily routine. The car allotted to me was a tiny Austin of an almost forgotten vintage and one of Boardman's voluntary duties was towing it off when it wouldn't start.
But this morning, surprisingly, the engine coughed into life after six turns.
As I drove round the corner of the back lane, I had the feeling, as I did every morning, that this was where things really got started. The problems and pressures of my job were waiting for me out there and at the moment I seemed to have plenty.
I had arrived in the Dales, I felt, at a bad time. The farmers, after a generation of neglect, had seen the coming of a prophet, the wonderful new vet, Mr. Farnon. He appeared like a comet, trailing his new ideas in his wake. He was able, energetic and charming and they received him as a maiden would a lover. And now, at the height of the honeymoon, I had to push my way into the act, and I just wasn't wanted.
I was beginning to get used to the questions. 'Where's Mr. Farnon?' - 'Is he ill or something?' - 'I expected Mr. Farnon.' It was a bit daunting to watch their faces fall when they saw me walking on to their farms. Usually they looked past me hopefully and some even went and peered into the car to see if the man they really wanted was hiding in there.
And it was uphill work examining an animal when its owner was chafing in the background, wishing with all his heart that I was somebody else.
But I had to admit they were fair. I got no effusive welcomes and when I started to tell them what I thought about the case they listened with open scepticism, but I found that if I got my jacket off and really worked at the job they began to thaw a little. And they were hospitable. Even though they were disappointed at having me they asked me into their homes. 'Come in and have a bit o'
dinner,' was a phrase I heard nearly every day. Sometimes I was glad to accept and I ate some memorable meals with them.
Often, too, they would slip half a dozen eggs or a pound of butter into the car as I was leaving.
This hospitality was traditional in the Dales and I knew they would probably do the same for any visitor, but it showed the core of friendliness which lay under the often unsmiling surface of these people and it helped.
I was beginning to learn about the farmers and what I found I liked. They had a toughness and a philosophical attitude which was new to me. Misfortunes which would make the city dweller want to bang his head against a wall were shrugged off with 'Aye, well, these things happen.'
It looked like being another hot day and I wound down the car windows as far as they would go. I was on my way to do a tuberculin test; the national scheme was beginning to make its first impact in
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