And there was no doubt it had been worth it. I had been a tremendous success with the old folks. Mr Horner slapped my shoulder.

  ‘By gaw, it’s good to see a young feller enjoyin’ his food! When I were a lad I used to put it away sharpish, like that, but ah can’t do it now.’ Chuckling to himself, he continued with his breakfast.

  His wife showed me the door. ‘Aye, it was a real compliment to me.’ She looked at the table and giggled. ‘You’ve nearly finished the jar!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs Horner,’ I said, smiling through my tears and trying to ignore the churning in my stomach. ‘But I just couldn’t resist it.’

  Contrary to my expectations I didn’t drop down dead soon afterwards but for a week I was oppressed by a feeling of nausea which I am prepared to believe was purely psychosomatic.

  At any rate, since that little episode I have never knowingly eaten fat again. My hatred was transformed into something like an obsession from then on.

  And I haven’t been all that crazy about piccalilli either.

  While generosity abounds in the Dales, so too does thriftiness. Farmers are often careful with their money and those unable or reluctant to part with their cash resent having to pay vet bills, only calling a veterinary surgeon in as a very last resort when all other home-spun remedies have failed. The odd farmer also delights in crafty schemes to save or make themselves a bit of money – as is the case with Mr Cranford and others like him who blatantly bend the rules when it comes to insurance claims.

  Cranford was a hard man, a man who had cast his life in a mould of iron austerity. A sharp bargainer, a win-at-all-cost character and, in a region where thrift was general, he was noted for meanness. He farmed some of the best land in the lower Dale, his shorthorns won prizes regularly at the shows but he was nobody’s friend. Mr Bateson, his neighbour to the north, summed it up: ‘That feller ’ud skin a flea for its hide.’ Mr Dickon, his neighbour to the south, put it differently: ‘If he gets haud on a pound note, by gaw it’s a prisoner.’

  This morning’s meeting had had its origin the previous day. A phone call mid-afternoon from Mr Cranford. ‘I’ve had a cow struck by lightning. She’s laid dead in the field.’

  I was surprised. ‘Lightning? Are you sure? We haven’t had a storm today.’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t, but we have ’ere.’

  ‘Mmm, all right, I’ll come and have a look at her.’

  Driving to the farm, I couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for the impending interview. This lightning business could be a bit of a headache. All farmers were insured against lightning stroke – it was usually part of their fire policy – and after a severe thunderstorm it was common enough for the vets’ phones to start ringing with requests to examine dead beasts.

  The insurance companies were reasonable about it. If they received a certificate from the vet that he believed lightning to be the cause of death they would usually pay up without fuss.

  In cases of doubt they would ask for a post-mortem or a second opinion from another practitioner. The difficulty was that there are no diagnostic post-mortem features to go on; occasionally a bruising of the tissues under the skin, but very little else. The happiest situation was when the beast was found with the tell-tale scorch marks running from an ear down the leg to earth into the ground. Often the animal would be found under a tree which itself had obviously been blasted and torn by lightning. Diagnosis was easy then.

  Ninety-nine per cent of the farmers were looking only for a square deal and if their vet found some other clear cause of death they would accept his verdict philosophically. But the odd one could be very difficult.

  I had heard Siegfried tell of one old chap who had called him out to verify a lightning death. The long scorch marks on the carcass were absolutely classic and Siegfried, viewing them, had been almost lyrical. ‘Beautiful, Charlie, beautiful, I’ve never seen more typical marks. But there’s just one thing.’ He put an arm round the old man’s shoulder. ‘What a great pity you let the candle grease fall on the skin.’

  The old man looked closer and thumped a fist into his palm. ‘Dang it, you’re right, maister! Ah’ve mucked t’job up. And ah took pains ower it an’ all – been on for dang near an hour.’ He walked away muttering. He showed no embarrassment, only disgust at his own technological shortcomings.

  While Mr Cranford grows increasingly frustrated with James when he refuses to collude with the farmer’s bogus insurance claims, there is the odd family who positively despise James, Siegfried and any vet. Principal of these are the Sidlows, who are unwavering in their contempt of vets. In their view, veterinary surgeons are parasites of the agricultural community who know nothing about animals and are out to rob farmers of their hard-earned money. This viewpoint is only confirmed when in Every Living Thing James has the audacity to turn up in a new-looking car.

  ‘You call yourself a vet, but you’re nowt but a robber!’

  Mrs Sidlow, her fierce little dark eyes crackling with fury, spat out the words and as I looked at her, taking in the lank, black hair framing the haggard face with its pointed chin, I thought, not for the first time, how very much she resembled a witch. It was easy to imagine her throwing a leg over a broomstick and zooming off for a quick flip across the moon.

  ‘All t’country’s talkin’ about you and your big bills,’ she continued. ‘I don’t know how you get away with it, it’s daylight robbery – robbin’ the poor farmers and then you come out here bold as brass in your flash car.’

  That was what had started it. Since my old vehicle was dropping to bits I had splashed out on a second-hand Austin 10. It had done twenty thousand miles but had been well maintained and looked like new with its black bodywork shining in the sun and the very sight of it had sparked off Mrs Sidlow.

  The purchase of a new car was invariably greeted with a bit of leg-pulling by most of the farmers. ‘Job must be payin’ well,’ they would say with a grin. But it was all friendly, with never a hint of the venom which seemed to be part of the Sidlow menage.

  The Sidlows hated vets. Not just me, but all of them and that was quite a few because they had tried every practice for miles around and had found them all wanting. The trouble was that Mr Sidlow himself was quite simply the only man in the district who knew anything about doctoring sick animals – his wife and all his grown-up family knew this as an article of faith and whenever illness struck any of his cattle, it was natural that father took over. It was only when he had exhausted his supply of secret remedies that the vet was called in. I personally had seen only dying animals on that farm and had been unable to bring them back to life, so the Sidlows were invariably confirmed in their opinion of me along with the rest of my profession.

  Today I had been viewing with the old feeling of hopelessness an emaciated little beast huddled in a dark corner of the fold yard taking its last few breaths after a week of pneumonia while the family stood around breathing hostility, shooting the usual side glances at me from their glowering faces. I had been trailing wearily back to my car on the way out when Mrs Sidlow had spotted me from the kitchen window and catapulted into the yard.

  ‘Aye, it’s awright for you,’ she went on. ‘We ’ave to work hard to make a livin’ on this spot and then such as you come and take our money away from us without doin’ anythin’ for it. Ah know what it is, your idea is to get rich quick!’

  Only my long training that the customer is always right stopped me from barking back. Instead I forced a smile.

  ‘Mrs Sidlow,’ I said, ‘I assure you that I’m anything but rich. In fact, if you could see my bank balance, you would see what I mean.’

  ‘You’re tellin’ me you haven’t much money?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She waved towards the Austin and gave me another searing glare. ‘So this fancy car’s just a lot o’ show on nowt!’

  I had no answer. She had me both ways – either I was a fat cat or a stuck-up poseur.

  As I drove away up the rising road I looked back at the farm with its substantial house and wide sprawl of buildings. There were five hundred lush acres down there, lying in the low country at the foot of the Dale. The Sidlows were big, prosperous farmers with none of the worries of the hill men who struggled to exist on the bleak smallholdings higher up, and it was difficult to understand why my imagined affluence should be such an affront to them.

  Another distinctly unfriendly client is the local scrap merchant and second-hand car dealer Walt Barnett. A hard-edged character, he keeps some livestock and horses, but calls James in to take a look at his ailing cat, Fred. James is surprised to discover there’s a sentimental side to the cheerless Walt Barnett, proving that even he has a heart and that animals can sometimes bring out the best in people.

  When Walt Barnett asked me to see his cat I was surprised. He had employed other veterinary surgeons ever since Siegfried had mortally offended him by charging him ten pounds for castrating a horse, and that had been a long time ago. I was surprised, too, that a man like him should concern himself with the ailments of a cat.

  A lot of people said Walt Barnett was the richest man in Darrowby – rolling in brass which he made from his many and diverse enterprises. He was mainly a scrap merchant, but he had a haulage business, too, and he was a dealer in second-hand cars, furniture – anything, in fact, that came his way. I knew he kept some livestock and horses around his big house outside the town, but there was money in these things and money was the ruling passion of his life. There was no profit in cat-keeping.

  Another thing which puzzled me as I drove to his office was that owning a pet indicated some warmth of character, a vein of sentiment, however small. It just didn’t fit in with his nature.

  I picked my way through the litter of the scrapyard to the wooden shed in the corner from which the empire was run. Walt Barnett was sitting behind a cheap desk and he was exactly as I remembered him, the massive body stretching the seams of his shiny navy-blue suit, the cigarette dangling from his lips, even the brown trilby hat perched on the back of his head. Unchanged, too, was the beefy red face with its arrogant expression and hostile eyes.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, glowering at me and poking a finger at a black and white cat sitting among the papers on the desk.

  It was a typical greeting. I hadn’t expected him to say ‘Good morning’ or anything like that, and he never smiled. I reached across the desk and tickled the animal’s cheek, and was rewarded with a rich purring and an arching of the back against my hand. He was a big tom, long-haired and attractively marked with a white breast and white paws, and though I have always had a predilection for tabbies I took an immediate liking to this cat. He exuded friendliness. ‘Nice cat,’ I said. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  James eventually discovers that somebody had cruelly put an elastic band first around the cat’s legs and then his neck. As James explains, the police are aware that this cruelty occurs but they rarely catch the culprits in the act. A year later Fred falls ill, not by poisoning as Walt Barnett first suspects, but from an outbreak of the highly contagious virus, cat distemper. Fred sadly dies from the condition, much to the distress of his owner.

  Fred was still and as I approached I saw with a dull feeling of inevitability that he was not breathing. I put my stethoscope over his heart for a few moments and then looked up.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr Barnett.’

  The big man did not change expression. He reached slowly across and rubbed his forefinger against the dark fur in that familiar gesture. Then he put his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands.

  I did not know what to say, but watched helplessly as his shoulders began to shake and tears welled between the thick fingers. He stayed like that for some time, then he spoke.

  ‘He was my friend,’ he said.

  I still could find no words and the silence was heavy in the room until he suddenly pulled his hands from his face.

  He glared at me defiantly. ‘Aye, ah know what you’re thinkin’. This is that big tough bugger, Walt Barnett, cryin’ his eyes out over a cat. What a joke! I reckon you’ll have a bloody good laugh later on.’

  Evidently he was sure that what he considered a display of weakness would lower my opinion of him, and yet he was so wrong. I have liked him better ever since.

  James and Siegfried come across many other local people who are just as sentimental about their animals, even if they’re bred to feed their families or as farm livestock. With the size of farms on the increase, Siegfried in It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet reads out an article claiming that the larger the farm, the less affection there is for the animals. The two vets agree that, sadly, this is likely to be the case.

  As I sat at breakfast I looked out at the autumn mist dissolving in the early sunshine. It was going to be another fine day but there was a chill in the old house this morning, a shiveriness as though a cold hand had reached out to remind us that summer had gone and the hard months lay just ahead.

  ‘It says here,’ Siegfried said, adjusting his copy of the Darrowby and Houlton Times with care against the coffee pot, ‘that farmers have no feeling for their animals.’ I buttered a piece of toast and looked across at him.

  ‘Cruel, you mean?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, but this chap maintains that to a farmer, livestock are purely commercial – there’s no sentiment in his attitude towards them, no affection.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t do if they were all like poor Kit Bilton, would it? They’d all go mad.’

  Kit was a lorry driver who, like so many of the working men of Darrowby, kept a pig at the bottom of his garden for family consumption. The snag was that when killing time came, Kit wept for three days. I happened to go into his house on one of these occasions and found his wife and daughter hard at it cutting up the meat for pies and brawn while Kit huddled miserably by the kitchen fire, his eyes swimming with tears. He was a huge man who could throw a twelve-stone sack of meal on to his wagon with a jerk of his arms, but he seized my hand in his and sobbed at me, ‘I can’t bear it, Mr Herriot. He was like a Christian was that pig, just like a Christian.’

  ‘No, I agree.’ Siegfried leaned over and sawed off a slice of Mrs Hall’s home-baked bread. ‘But Kit isn’t a real farmer. This article is about people who own large numbers of animals. The question is, is it possible for such men to become emotionally involved? Can the dairy farmer milking maybe fifty cows become really fond of any of them or are they just milk-producing units?’

  ‘It’s an interesting point,’ I said, ‘and I think you’ve put your finger on it with the numbers. You know there are a lot of our farmers up in the high country who have only a few stock. They always have names for their cows – Daisy, Mabel, I even came across one called Kipperlugs the other day. I do think these small farmers have an affection for their animals but I don’t see how the big men can possibly have.’

  One small farmer who is undoubtedly sentimental about his animals is Mr Dakin. In Vets Might Fly, James is sent to stitch up the udder of Blossom the cow, who lives in a cobbled byre with six other cows, all of whom have names. Blossom is very old and her drooping udder needs repeated stitching. It’s clear she’s reached the end of her productive life and Mr Dakin reluctantly agrees to send her for slaughter. Dodson the drover is called in and James is there when he takes Blossom away. He and Mr Dakin then attend to one of the other cows which needs its afterbirth removing. When they have finished, James and Mr Dakin are suddenly alerted to another sound.

  From somewhere on the hillside I could hear the clip-clop of a cow’s feet. There were two ways to the farm and the sound came from a narrow track which joined the main road half a mile beyond the other entrance. As we listened a cow rounded a rocky outcrop and came towards us.

  It was Blossom, moving at a brisk trot, great udder swinging, eyes fixed purposefully on the open door behind us.

  ‘What the hangment . . .?’ Mr Dakin burst out, but the old cow brushed past us and marched without hesitation into the stall which she had occupied for all those years. She sniffed enquiringly at the empty hay rack and looked round at her owner.

  Mr Dakin stared back at her. The eyes in the weathered face were expressionless but the smoke rose from his pipe in a series of rapid puffs.

  Mr Dodson the drover comes running after Blossom but Mr Dakin blocks his approach. He then fastens a chain around Blossom’s neck and fills her rack with hay.

  ‘What’s to do, Mr Dakin?’ the drover cried in bewilderment. ‘They’re waiting for me at t’mart!’

  The farmer tapped out his pipe on the half door and began to fill it with black shag from a battered tin. ‘Ah’m sorry to waste your time, Jack, but you’ll have to go without ’er.’

  ‘Without ’er . . .? But . . .?’

  ‘Aye, ye’ll think I’m daft, but that’s how it is. T’awd lass has come ’ome and she’s stoppin’ ’ome.’ He directed a look of flat finality at the drover.

  Dodson nodded a couple of times then shuffled from the byre. Mr Dakin followed and called after him, ‘Ah’ll pay ye for your time, Jack. Put it down on ma bill.’

  He returned, applied a match to his pipe and drew deeply.

  ‘Mr Herriot,’ he said as the smoke rose around his ears, ‘do you ever feel when summat happens that it was meant to happen and that it was for t’best?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Mr Dakin. I often feel that.’

  ‘Aye well, that’s how I felt when Blossom came down that hill.’ He reached out and scratched the root of the cow’s tail. ‘She’s allus been a favourite and by gaw I’m glad she’s back.’

  ‘But how about those teats? I’m willing to keep stitching them up, but . . .’

  ‘Nay, lad, ah’ve had an idea. Just came to me when you were tekkin’ away that cleansin’ and I thowt I was ower late.’

  ‘An idea?’

  ‘Aye.’ The old man nodded and tamped down the tobacco with his thumb. ‘I can put two or three calves on to ’er instead of milkin’ ’er. The old stable is empty – she can live in there where there’s nobody to stand on ’er awd tits.’