Free All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot

is really something. Not just a looker but…mm-mm, very nice. There’s a touch of class about that girl.”
    “Oh I know, I know. There’s bound to be a mob of blokes after her. Like young Richard Edmundson—I hear he’s very well placed.”
    “That’s right,” Tristan said “Old friends of the family, big farmers, rolling in brass. I understand old man Alderson fancies Richard strongly as a son-in-law.”
    I dug my hands into my pockets. “Can’t blame him. A ragged arsed young vet isn’t much competition.”
    “Well, don’t be gloomy, old lad, you’ve made a bit of progress, haven’t you?”
    “In a way,” I said with a wry smile. “I’ve taken her out twice—to a dinner dance which wasn’t on and to a cinema showing the wrong film. A dead loss the first time and not much better the second. I just don’t seem to have any luck there—something goes wrong every time. Maybe this invitation is just a polite gesture—returning hospitality or something like that.”
    “Nonsense!” Tristan laughed and patted me on the shoulder. This is the beginning of better things. You’ll see—nothing will go wrong this time.”
    And on Sunday afternoon as I got out of the car to open the gate to Heston Grange it did seem as if all was right with the world. The rough track snaked down from the gate through the fields to Helen’s home slumbering in the sunshine by the curving river, and the grey-stoned old building was like a restful haven against the stark backcloth of the fells beyond.
    I leaned on the gate for a moment, breathing in the sweet air. There had been a change during the last week; the harsh winds had dropped, everything had softened and greened and the warming land gave off its scents. On the lower slopes of the fell, in the shade of the pine woods, a pale mist of bluebells drifted among the dead bronze of the bracken and their fragrance came up to me on the breeze.
    I drove down the track among the cows relishing the tender young grass after their long winter in the byres and as I knocked on the farmhouse door I felt a surge of optimism and well-being. Helen’s younger sister answered and it wasn’t until I walked into the big flagged kitchen that I experienced a qualm. Maybe it was because it was so like that first disastrous time I had called for Helen; Mr. Alderson was there by the fireside, deep in the Farmer and Stockbreeder as before, while above his head the cows in the vast oil painting still paddled in the lake of startling blue under the shattered peaks. On the whitewashed wall the clock still tick-tocked inexorably.
    Helen’s father looked up over his spectacles just as he had done before. “Good afternoon, young man, come and sit down.” And as I dropped into the chair opposite to him he looked at me uncertainly for a few seconds. “It’s a better day,” he murmured, then his eyes were drawn back irresistibly to the pages on his knee. As he bent his head and started to read again I gained the strong impression that he hadn’t the slightest idea who I was.
    It came back to me forcibly that there was a big difference in coming to a farm as a vet and visiting socially. I was often in farm kitchens on my rounds, washing my hands in the sink after kicking my boots off in the porch, chatting effortlessly to the farmer’s wife about the sick beast. But here I was in my good suit sitting stiffly across from a silent little man whose daughter I had come to court. It wasn’t the same at all.
    I was relieved when Helen came in carrying a cake which she placed on the big table. This wasn’t easy as the table was already loaded; ham and egg pies rubbing shoulders with snowy scones, a pickled tongue cheek by jowl with a bowl of mixed salad, luscious looking custard tarts jockeying for position with sausage rolls, tomato sandwiches, fairy cakes. In a clearing near the centre a vast trifle reared its cream-topped head. It was a real Yorkshire tea.
    Helen came over to me. “Hello, Jim, it’s