Free All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot Page A

No, no … I wasn’t complaining.

EIGHT
    I HARDLY NOTICED THE passage of the weeks as I rattled along the moorland roads on my daily rounds; but the district was beginning to take shape, the people to emerge as separate personalities. Most days I had a puncture. The tyres were through to the canvas on all wheels; it surprised me that they took me anywhere at all.
    One of the few refinements on the car was a rusty “sunshine roof.” It grated dismally when I slid it back, but most of the time I kept it open and the windows too, and I drove in my shirt sleeves with the delicious air swirling about me. On wet days it didn’t help much to close the roof because the rain dripped through the joints and formed pools on my lap and the passenger seat.
    I developed great skill in zig-zagging round puddles. To drive through was a mistake as the muddy water fountained up through the gaps in the floorboards.
    But it was a fine summer and long days in the open gave me a tan which rivalled the farmers’. Even mending a puncture was no penance on the high, unfenced roads with the wheeling curlews for company and the wind bringing the scents of flowers and trees up from the valleys. And I could find other excuses to get out and sit on the crisp grass and look out over the airy roof of Yorkshire. It was like taking time out of life. Time to get things into perspective and assess my progress. Everything was so different that it confused me. This countryside after years of city streets, the sense of release from exams and study, the job with its daily challenge. And then there was my boss.
    Siegfried Farnon charged round the practice with fierce energy from dawn till dark and I often wondered what drove him on. It wasn’t money because he treated it with scant respect. When the bills were paid, the cash went into the pint pot on the mantelpiece and he grabbed handfuls when he wanted it. I never saw him take out a wallet, but his pockets bulged with loose silver and balled-up notes. When he pulled out a thermometer they flew around him in a cloud.
    After a week or two of headlong rush he would disappear; maybe for the evening, maybe overnight and often without saying where he was going. Mrs. Hall would serve a meal for two, but when she saw I was eating alone she would remove the food without comment.
    He dashed off the list of calls each morning with such speed that I was quite often sent hurrying off to the wrong farm or to do the wrong thing. When I told him later of my embarrassment he would laugh heartily.
    There was one time when he got involved himself. I had just taken a call from a Mr. Heaton of Bronsett about doing a P.M. on a dead sheep.
    “I’d like you to come with me, James,” Siegfried said. “Things are quiet this morning and I believe they teach you blokes a pretty hot post-mortem procedure. I want to see you in action.”
    We drove into the village of Bronsett and Siegfried swung the car left into a gated lane.
    “Where are you going?” I said. “Heaton’s is at the other end of the village.”
    “But you said Seaton’s.”
    “No, I assure you …”
    “Look, James, I was right by you when you were talking to the man. I distinctly heard you say the name.”
    I opened my mouth to argue further but the car was hurtling down the lane and Siegfried’s jaw was jutting. I decided to let him find out for himself.
    We arrived outside the farmhouse with a screaming of brakes. Siegfried had left his seat and was rummaging in the boot before the car had stopped shuddering. “Hell!” he shouted. “No post-mortem knife. Never mind, I’ll borrow something from the house.” He slammed down the lid and bustled over to the door.
    The farmer’s wife answered and Siegfried beamed on her. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Seaton, have you a carving knife?”
    The good lady raised her eyebrows. “What was that you said?”
    “A carving knife, Mrs. Seaton, a carving knife, and a good sharp one, please.”
    “You want a carving