Free James Herriot by All Things Wise, Wonderful Page B

farmer asked, voicing my thoughts.
    I shrugged. “It’s acute gastritis, Mr. Billings, but I wish I knew the cause. I could swear this calf has eaten some irritant or corrosive poison.”
    “Well, dang it, they’ve nobbut had milk and a few nuts.” The farmer spread his hands. “There’s nothing they can get to hurt them.”
    Again, wearily, I went through the old routine; ferreting around in the calf pen, trying to find some clue. An old paint tin, a burst packet of sheep dip. It was amazing, the things you came across in the clutter of a farm building.
    But not at Mr. Billings’s place. He was meticulously tidy, particularly with his calves, and the window sills and shelves were free from rubbish. It was the same with the milk buckets, scoured to spotless cleanliness after every feed.
    Mr. Billings had a thing about his calves. His two teenage sons were fanatically keen on farming and he encouraged them in all the agricultural skills; but he fed the calves himself.
    “Feeding them calves is t’most important job in stock rearing,” he used to say. “Get ’em over that first month and you’re halfway there.’’
    And he knew what he was talking about His charges never suffered from the normal ailments of the young; no scour, no joint ill, no pneumonia. I had often marvelled at it, but it made the present disaster all the more unbearable.
    “All right,” I said with false breeziness as I left. “Maybe this one won’t be so bad. Give me a ring in the morning.”
    I did the rest of my round in a state of gloom and at lunch I was still so preoccupied that I wondered what had happened when Tristan served the meal. I had entirely forgotten about Mrs. Hall’s absence.
    However, the sausage and mash wasn’t at all bad and Tristan was lavish with his helpings. The three of us cleaned our plates pretty thoroughly, because morning is the busiest working time in practice and I was always famished by midday.
    My mind was still on Mr. Billings’s problem during the afternoon calls and when we sat down to supper I was only mildly surprised to find another offering of sausage and mash.
    “Same again, eh?” Siegfried grunted, but he got through his plateful and left without further comment.
    The next day started badly. I came into the dining room to find the table bare and Siegfried stamping around.
    “Where the hell is our breakfast?” he burst out. “And where the hell is Tristan?”
    He pounded along the passage and I heard his shouts in the kitchen, “Tristan! Tristan!”
    I knew he was wasting his time. His brother often slept in and it was just more noticeable this morning.
    My boss returned along the passage at a furious gallop and I steeled myself for some unpleasantness as the young man was rousted from his bed. But Tristan, as usual, was master of the situation. Siegfried had just begun to take the stairs three at a time when his brother descended from the landing, knotting his tie with perfect composure. It was uncanny. He always got more than his share of sleeping time but was rarely caught between the sheets.
    “Sorry, chaps,” he murmured. “Afraid I overslept.”
    “Yes, that’s all right!” shouted Siegfried. “But how about our bloody breakfast? I gave you a job to do!”
    Tristan was contrite. “I really do apologise, but I was up late last night, peeling potatoes.”
    His brother’s face flushed. “I know all about that!” he barked. “You didn’t start till after closing time at the Drovers’!”
    “Well, that’s right” Tristan swallowed and his face assumed the familiar expression of pained dignity. “I did feel a bit dry last night. Think it must have been all the cleaning and dusting I did.”
    Siegfried did not reply. He shot a single exasperated look at the young man then turned to me. “We’ll have to make do with bread and marmalade this morning, James. Come through to the kitchen and we’ll …”
    The jangling telephone cut off his words. I lifted the receiver and