As Britain’s most beloved vet, James Herriot’s delightfully honest and at times hilarious reminiscences of a vet’s life in 1930s Yorkshire charmed millions in his books — and were turned into a long-running hit series.
And as this exclusive reprint reveals around 50 years after it was first published, his magical work is still able to warm a nation’s hearts in this darkest of times . . .
Them masticks,’ said Mr Pickersgill judicially, ‘is a proper bugger.’
Most farmers would have been content with the local word ‘felon’ for their cows’ inflamed udders, rather than making a determined if somewhat inaccurate attempt at mastitis.
But Mr Pickersgill had what he considered to be a scholastic background.
A man of about 60, he had in his teens attended a two-week course of instruction for agricultural workers at Leeds University. And no capped and gowned don ever looked back to his years among the spires of Oxford with more nostalgia than did Mr Pickersgill to his fortnight at Leeds.
‘In ma college days I was allus told that you got dirty milk with them masticks,’ he continued. ‘But this must be another kind. Just little bits of flakes in the milk. Ah don’t know what to make of it.’
As Britain’s most beloved vet, James Herriot’s delightfully honest and at times hilarious reminiscences of a vet’s life in 1930s Yorkshire charmed millions in his books — and were turned into a long-running hit BBC series
In fact, I had a good idea what was behind it. I had watched Mr Pickersgill and his daughter Olive as they milked the ten cows in their little byre and one thing was immediately obvious.
While Olive drew the milk by almost imperceptible movements of her fingers, her father hauled away at the teats as though he was trying to ring in the new year.
But how to tell him that the only solution was to learn a more gentle technique or let Olive take over all the milking?
The answer came as Mr Pickersgill pulled from his hip pocket a yellowed slip of paper almost falling apart at the folds. It turned out to be a recipe for udder salve devised by Professor Malleson, the godlike figure who had been in charge of his course.
I was about to say that I didn’t think it would make the slightest difference when Mr Pickersgill groaned loudly. The very act of reaching for the recipe had brought on a twinge of lumbago.
‘By gaw, it does give me some stick,’ he grimaced. ‘And doctor can’t do nowt about it.’
I’m not brilliant but I do get the odd blinding flash and I had one now.
‘Mr Pickersgill,’ I said solemnly, ‘I think it might be crouching on that little milking stool night and morning that’s giving you that bad back.’
‘You really think . . . ’
‘Yes, I think you ought to stop milking. Olive’s always saying she should do it all.’
D ang it, young man, I believe you’re right!’ he said. ‘I’ll pack it in, now — I’ve made my decision!’
I stood up. ‘Fine, fine. I’ll take this prescription with me and make up the udder salve. It’ll be ready for you tonight and I should start using it immediately.’
About a month later I saw Mr Pickersgill pedalling his bicycle majestically across the market place in Darrowby. ‘Now then, Mr Herriot,’ he said, puffing as he dismounted. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you that we don’t have no flakes in the milk now. Ever since we started with t’salve they began to disappear and milk’s as clear as can be.’
‘Oh, great. And how’s your lumbago?’
‘Well I’ll tell you, you’ve really capped it and I’m grateful. Ah’ve never milked since that day and I hardly get a twinge now.’
He paused and smiled indulgently.
‘You gave me some good advice for me back, but we had to go back to awd Professor Malleson to cure them masticks, didn’t we?’
Although Olive Pickersgill was in her late 30s, she had no fears of spinsterhood. She had been assiduously courted for 15 years by Charlie Hudson from the Darrowby fish shop and though Charlie was not a tempestuous suitor, there was nothing flighty about him and he was confidently expected to pop the question over the next ten years or so.
My boss Siegfried Farnon seemed to think it might also take me some time to get around to proposing to my own intended, a farmer’s daughter named Helen Alderson. And it was at his urging that I finally asked her to marry me. As a wedding present, he made me a partner in the practice and Helen and I took over the top floor of Skeldale House, the three storeys of mellow brick and climbing ivy which I had, until then, shared with Siegfried and his younger brother Tristan.
One of our earliest social engagements as newlyweds was an invitation to dinner with the Hodgsons, a likeable old farmer and his wife.
We were due there one Tuesday at 7pm and that afternoon I headed confidently into the country with the image of Mrs Hodgson’s supper hanging before me like a vision of the promised land.
As this exclusive reprint reveals around 50 years after it was first published, his magical work is still able to warm a nation’s hearts in this darkest of times
I knew what it would be; a glorious mixed grill of spare ribs, onions, liver and pork fillet, garlanded with those divine farm sausages which are seen no more. It was something to dream about.
In fact, I was still thinking about it when I drew into Edward Wiggin’s farmyard.
I was there to vaccinate a dozen grown bullocks against the deadly Clostridium disease and I reckoned I’d be here for only a few minutes because Mr Wiggin’s man, Wilf, was an expert beast-catcher.
Then I saw the farmer coming across the yard and my spirits sank. He was carrying his lasso.
Wilf, by his side, rolled his eyes briefly heavenwards when he saw me. He too clearly feared the worst.
We went into the barn and Mr Wiggin began the painstaking process of arranging his long, white rope while we watched him gloomily.
A frail little man in his 60s, who had spent some years of his youth in America, he talked in a soft Texan drawl and seemed obsessed with the mystique of the ranch and the open range. Anything to do with the Wild West was near to his heart — and nearest of all was his lasso. You could insult Mr Wiggin with many things and he wouldn’t turn a hair, but question his ability to snare the wildest bovine with a single twirl of his rope and the mild little man could explode into anger.
And the unfortunate thing was that he was no good at it.
Mr Wiggin had now got a long loop dangling from his hand and he began whirling it round his head as he crept towards the nearest bullock. When he finally made his cast the result was as expected; the rope fell limply halfway along the animal’s back and dropped on to the straw.
‘Tarnation!’ said Mr Wiggin and it seemed an age before he once more advanced with the rope whirring round his head.
‘Bugger it!’ Wilf grunted as the loop end lashed him across the face. His boss turned on him.
‘Keep out of the dadblasted road, Wilf,’ he said querulously. ‘I gotta start again now.’
This time he didn’t even make contact with the animal and as he retrieved his lasso from the straw, Wilf and I leaned wearily against the wall of the barn.
I was uncomfortably aware that time was passing and that our chances of doing our job were rapidly diminishing, but Mr Wiggin wasn’t just catching a beast for injection; he was roping a steer, the smell of the prairie in his nostrils, the cry of the coyote in his ears. It was now nearly four o’clock and I hadn’t done a thing. And I don’t think I ever would have if fate hadn’t stepped in.
By an amazing fluke, Mr Wiggin cast his loop squarely over the horns of a shaggy projectile as it thundered past him, the rope tightened on the neck and Mr Wiggin on the other end flew gracefully through the air for about 20 feet, till he crashed into a wooden feeding trough.
Badly shaken but uninjured, he looked at us.
‘Doggone, I jest couldn’t hold the blame thing,’ he murmured. ‘Reckon I’d better sit down in the house for a while. You’ll have to catch that pesky lot yourselves.’
Like many of the local stocksmen, Wilf was an expert with a halter. We had the whole batch inoculated within 20 minutes and five o’clock saw me hurrying into the smallholding belonging to the Misses Dunn.
Their pig Prudence, a creature who was thoroughly spoiled, had cut her neck on a nail. I needed to get her out of her sty and into the Dunns’ calf-house, where there were narrow stalls which would stop her moving around too much as I put in the stitches.
After a bit of poking and pushing, Prudence ambled majestically out onto the cobbles. But there she stood, grunting sulkily, a stubborn glint in her little eyes, and when I leaned my weight against her back end it was like trying to move an elephant.
She had no intention of moving any farther and that calf-house was 20 yards away.
I stole a look at my watch. Five fifteen, and I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
The little Miss Dunn broke into my thoughts. ‘Mr Herriot. Prudence has been naughty before and we have found a way of persuading her to move.’
James Herriot’s books have entertained thousands of Britons for generations
I managed a smile. ‘Great! How do you do it?’
‘Well now,’ and both sisters giggled. ‘She is very fond of digestive biscuits.’
‘Well, that’s very nice,’ I said. ‘But I don’t quite see . . .’
The big Miss Dunn laughed. ‘Just you wait and I’ll show you.’
She strolled towards the house and it seemed to me that though these ladies were by no means typical Dales farmers, they did share the general attitude that time was of no consequence.
As the minutes ticked away, I began to think that big Miss Dunn was brewing herself a cup of tea but just when I was giving up hope, she reappeared carrying a long, round paper container. She gave me a roguish smile.
‘These are what she likes. Now just watch.’
She produced a biscuit and threw it down on the cobbles a few feet in front of the sow. Prudence eyed it impassively for a few moments, then without haste strolled forward, examined it carefully and began to eat it.
When she had finished, big Miss Dunn glanced at me conspiratorially and threw another biscuit in front of her. The pig again moved unhurriedly and started on the second course.
This was gradually leading her towards the buildings across the yard but I reckoned that it was going to take nearly 20 minutes to get there. ‘Look,’ I stammered. ‘Do you think you could throw the biscuits a bit farther ahead of her . . . just to save time, I mean?’
Little Miss Dunn laughed gaily. ‘Oh, we’ve tried that but she’s such a clever old darling. She knows she’ll get less that way.’
To demonstrate, she threw the next biscuit about 15ft away from the pig but the massive animal surveyed it with a cynical expression and didn’t budge until it was kicked back to the required spot. Miss Dunn was right; Prudence wasn’t so daft.
I just had to wait, gritting my teeth as I watched the agonising progress. But at last the final biscuit was cast into the calf-pen, the pig made her leisurely way inside and the ladies, with triumphant giggles, closed the door behind her.
I leapt forward with my needle and suture silk and as soon as I laid a finger on her skin, Prudence set up an almost unbearable non-stop squeal of rage.
Big Miss Dunn fled in terror but her little sister stayed bravely and passed me my scissors whenever I asked in sign language above the din.
My head was still ringing as I drove away, but that didn’t worry me as much as the time. It was six o’clock.
Tensely, I assessed my position. I could still be pushing my knees under Mrs Hodgson’s table by seven o’clock if all went well with my final job of the day, inserting a ring into the nose of old Ted Buckle’s bull.
All went well until I managed to prick the formidably large bull a little on the muzzle and he reared on his hind legs, leapt over the half-door of his stall and thundered like an express train into a nearby field.
‘It’ll tek us an hour to catch that bugger,’ grunted one of Mr Buckle’s men gloomily and I set up a wail of lamentation.
‘Yes, dammit, and I’ve got an appointment in Darrowby at seven o’clock!’ I stamped over the cobbles for a moment or two, then swung round on old Ted.
‘I’ll never make it now . . . I’ll have to ring my wife . . . have you got a phone?’
‘Nay,’ he said. ’Ah don’t believe in them things.’
He fished out a tobacco tin from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and produced a battered timepiece, which he scrutinised without haste.
James Herriot’s best selling series of books were turned into a drama series by the BBC
‘Any road, there’s nowt to stop ye bein’ back i’ Darrowby by seven.’
‘But . . .but . . .that’s impossible . . . he’s just said it’ll take an hour to catch that bull!’
‘Fiddlesticks! Ernest allus talks like that . . .’e’s never ’appy unless ’e’s miserable. Ah’ll get bull in i’ five minutes.’
W earily, I sank on to an old stone trough and buried my face in my hands. When I looked up, the old man was coming out of the byre and in front of him ambled a venerable cow.
‘Get out there, awd lass,’ Ted said and she trotted into the field, her pendulous udder swinging gently at each step. I watched her until she had disappeared over the hill, then turned to see Ted throwing cattle cake into a bucket.
‘Cush, cush!’ he cried. ‘Cush, pet, cush!’
Almost immediately the cow reappeared over the brow and just behind her the bull. I looked with wonder as Ted banged on his bucket and the cow broke into a stiff gallop with my patient close by her side.
When she reached the old man, she plunged her head in among the cake while the bull, though he was as big as she, pushed his nose underneath her and seized one of her teats in his great mouth. It was an absurd sight but she didn’t seem to mind as the big animal, almost on his knees, sucked away placidly.
In fact it was like a soothing potion because when the cow was led inside, he followed; and he made no complaint as I slipped the ring in his nose.
‘Quarter to seven!’ I panted happily as I jumped into the driving seat. ‘I’ll get there in time now.’
I could see Helen and me standing on the Hodgsons’ step and the door opening and the heavenly scent of the spare ribs and onions drifting out from the kitchen.
‘You did a wonderful job there, Mr Buckle,’ I said. ‘It was amazing how that bull followed the cow in like that.’
The old man smiled and I had a sudden surging impression of the wisdom in that quiet mind.
‘There’s nowt amazin’ about it, lad, it’s most nat’ral thing in t’world. That’s ’is mother.’
- Adapted from James Herriot’s series All Creatures Great And Small, published by Pan Macmillan. © James Herriot 1970.