Lord God Made Them All (21 page)

P. C. Goole paused, and his face softened. “Julie’s still goin’ strong.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Wonderful little thing for her age.”

“And I still have one of them pups.”

“Of course. You’ve had him in to see me a few times.”

“Aye … aye …” P. C. Goole hitched up his tunic, delved in his trouser pocket and brought out a large watch. He studied it thoughtfully. “Well, I’m off duty about now. Suppose I could have a drink with ye. I’ll just phone in to the office first.”

“Oh, good!” Tristan moved quickly to the barrel and drew another pint.

When the constable returned from the phone, he raised the glass solemnly. “Here’s wishin’ t’little lass all the best,” he said and took a long swallow.

“Thank you, Mr. Goole,” I replied. “You’re very kind.”

He sat down on one of the lower steps, placed his helmet on a crate and had another deep drink. “Both well, I ’ope?”

“Yes, just grand. Have another.”

It was surprising how soon he seemed to forget all about his notebook, and the party picked up again rapidly. The relief of the escape added greatly to the festivities, and joy reigned unrestrained.

“It’s bloody ’ot down ’ere,” P. C. Goole remarked after some time and removed his tunic. With this symbolic gesture, the last barrier went down.

And yet, over the next two hours, nobody got really plastered. Nobody, that is, except P. C. Goole. With the rest of us it was a case of laughter, reminiscing and an undoubted heightening of the senses, but the policeman passed through various phases on the road to a fairly profound inebriation.

The first was when he insisted on a Christian-name relationship, then he became almost tearfully affectionate as he rhapsodised on the wonders of birth, human and canine. The latest phase was more sinister. He was turning aggressive.

“You’re ’avin’ another, Jim.” It was a statement rather than an enquiry as the tall, shirt-sleeved figure bent, swaying slightly, over the tap of the barrel, glass at the ready.

“No thanks, Hubert,” I replied. “I’ve had enough.”

He blinked at me owlishly. “You’re not ’avin’ another?”

“No, honestly, Hubert, I’ve had it. I started long before you.”

He sent another pint frothing into his glass before continuing. “Then you’re a bloody piker, Jim,” he said. “And if there’s one thing I can’t shtand, if there’s one thing I can’t bloody well shtand, it’s a bloody piker.”

I tried an ingratiating smile. “I’m terribly sorry, Hubert, but I’m up to here, and, anyway, it’s half-past two. I really think we ought to be going.”

It seemed to be a general sentiment because the assembly all began to get to their feet.

“Goin’?” Hubert glared at me belligerently. “Whassa matter with you? The night’s young yet.” He slurped down another mouthful of beer indignantly. “You ask a feller to ’ave a drink with you, and next minute ye say we’re goin’. Itsh not right.”

“Now, now, Hubert,” said little Reg Wilkey, sidling up to him, smiling and radiating the bonhomie that came from thirty years’ practice at easing reluctant clients from his premises. “Be a good lad, now. We’ve all ’ad a grand time and it’s been lovely seein’ you, but everybody’s settin’ off ’ome. Now where’s your jacket?”

The constable muttered and grumbled as we helped him into his tunic and balanced his helmet on his head but allowed us to lead him up the steps into the darkness of the pub. Outside, I installed him in the back of my car, with Tristan and Alex on either side. Cliff sat with me in front.

Before we left, the landlord passed my wallet through the window. It had slimmed down to the point of emaciation, and it occurred to me that my bank manager, who was always advising me in the kindest possible way to watch my overdraft, would be tossing uneasily in his bed if he knew.

I drove through the sleeping town and turned down the narrow street towards the market place. As we approached, I could see that the cobbled square was deserted except for two figures standing at the edge of the roadway under a street light. With a twinge of alarm I recognised Inspector Bowles and Sergeant Rostron, our two head policemen. They were standing, very erect and trim-looking, hands behind their back, glancing around them keenly. They looked as though they wouldn’t miss any misdemeanours in their vicinity.

A sudden scream from the back seat almost sent me through a shop window. Hubert had seen them, too.

“It’s that bugger Rostron!” he yelled. “I ’ate that bugger! He’s ’ad it in for me for years, and I’m goin’ to tell ’im what I think about ’im!”

There was a thrashing of arms in the back as he wound down the window and started his tirade at the top of his voice. “You bloody rotten …!”

For the second time that night an icy dread swept me that something awful was going to happen because of me.

“Quell him!” I shouted. “For God’s sake, quell him!”

However, my friends in the rear had anticipated me. Hubert’s cries were suddenly switched off as Tristan and Alex bundled him to the floor and fell on top of him. Tristan was actually sitting on his head when we came up to the two policemen, and only muffled sounds drifted from below.

As we passed, the inspector nodded and smiled, and the sergeant gave me a friendly salute. It was not difficult to read their minds as they docketed away another item of information. Mr. Herriot, returning from yet another night call. A dedicated vet, that young man.

With their colleague writhing on the floor behind me, I could not relax until we had turned off the square, out of sight and sound. Hubert, when allowed to get up, seemed to have lost a lot of his belligerence. In fact he was reaching the sleepy stage and when he arrived at his home, he walked quietly and fairly steadily up his garden path.

Back in Skeldale House, I went up to our bedroom. The big room with the double bed, wardrobe and dressing table was eerily empty without Helen.

I opened the door to the long, narrow apartment that had been the dressing room in the great days of the old house. It was where Tristan had slept when we were all bachelors together, but now it was Jimmy’s room, and his bed stood in exactly the same place as my old friend’s.

I looked down on my son as I had often looked down on Tristan in his slumbers. I used to marvel at Tristan’s cherubic innocence, but even he could not compete with a sleeping child.

I gazed at little Jimmy, then glanced at the other end of the room where a cot stood to receive Rosie.

Soon, I thought, I would have two in here. I was becoming rich.

November 2, 1961

W
E LEARNED THIS MORNING
that we would not start unloading the sheep until this evening as the
Ubbergen
was still occupying the berth, so this gave me plenty of opportunity to explore the town.

Shortly after breakfast an important person came aboard, the head director of “Inflot,” which deals with the movement of all ships in the harbour.

He was a kindly-looking man of about fifty, with an attractive smile. He wore very thick glasses, and he told me that his weak eyesight had been caused by hours of studying at night. His English was very good.

Maybe it was because he was so pleasant that I was emboldened to broach the question of the school. Another reason, of course, was that I was somewhat puffed up by my own importance. When I was recently elected chairman of the Darrowby Parent-Teachers’ Association, it gave my ego a definite boost, and when our headmaster expressed an interest in Russian education, he started an idea in my mind.

Anyway, whatever the cause, I was about to do another of my daft things.

“Do you think I could possibly see inside a Russian school?” I asked him.

The eyes behind the glasses stopped twinkling, and he gave me a long, thoughtful stare. After a few moments he nodded. “I think it will be all right if you ask permission when you get to the school. As it happens, my wife is a teacher, and if you go to Skola Number Two, you could ask for Madame Juowskaya.”

I could hardly wait to get ashore, but again I couldn’t find any volunteers to come with me. When I finally approached the captain, he probably felt like throwing me over the side. He was short of sleep after our stormy voyage and weary with his long negotiations with the officials but still he had the goodness to humour me.

He smiled and said, “Of course, Mr. Herriot.” As he settled his peaked hat on his silvery head and pulled on a smart navy-blue coat, I thought how very distinguished he looked.

Down the gangway again, past the unsmiling soldiers and along the railway tracks towards the gate. But I just had to solve the mystery of the man-eating dog. As we passed the wagon of last night I caught the captain’s arm.

“Just a minute,” I said. “I want to have a peep behind here.”

For a moment he lost his poise and his eyes widened. “Mr. Herriot, no! What are you doing?”

“It’s all right.” I smiled reassuringly. “I only want a quick look.”

With the greatest care I edged my way behind the wagon, but the dog was gone. There was only an empty kennel. Then I noticed there was a kennel about every fifty yards and a chain attached by a ring to a wire that stretched along the entire length of the fence.

As I re-emerged, to the obvious relief of the captain, I saw in the distance groups of dogs being led towards us. We passed them on the way to the gate house; large, stringy creatures loping along on the end of their leads, looking neither to right nor left. They were of the Alsatian type but taller, and they certainly had a lean and hungry look.

I looked around at the soldiers by the water’s edge and in the watch towers, and back again at the dogs. Best of luck, I thought, to anybody who tried to get in or out of here after dark.

As we walked along, loudspeakers blared at us from all directions. This has gone on all the time the ship has been in Klaipeda; it is not music, but talking. Talk, talk, talk, all day. I do not know if it is political indoctrination or news of Soviet achievements, but it goes on without stopping, and I am getting tired of it.

Once outside the harbour, we began to make our way through the streets. Klaipeda is a town of 100,000 inhabitants, and we headed for what we thought was the centre of the place.

The streets on the outskirts were simply packed-down earth, and this applied also to the footpaths. Great muddy puddles stood everywhere, and there were holes, sometimes three-or four-feet-deep, dug in the footpaths and apparently just left with the heap of soil beside them.

Apart from the tenements there were the old Lithuanian houses, and these were in a very poor state of repair, with the paint flaking and roof tiles loose or missing. Many of the houses had little balconies in front of the upper windows.

There were quite a few people about, picking their way over the reddish clay.

We walked until we reached the main street, Montes Street. This had a cobbled surface and proper pavements, and there were shops on either side.

The book shops seemed to sell only technical literature. There was a store full of bicycles, scooters and mopeds and a sports shop with roller skates—of a different type from ours—fencing foils and table-tennis sets in the window. One shop was apparently devoted entirely to chessmen and chessboards.

We saw what looked like one of our licenced grocers, with lots of tinned and bottled goods and bottles of wine on show, but the place that really intrigued me was the fish shop. Its window was filled with large imitation fish of all colours. These models were covered with dust and were enough to put one off fish for life. Inside, I could see a high counter, with white enamel bowls filled with the real things.

A characteristic of all the shops was their general dinginess. The windows were all dirty and unwashed, and there was no attempt to display their wares attractively.

There was very little traffic—mainly commercial vehicles, with an occasional private car or taxi.

There were a lot of people in the town centre, most of the women in head scarves and undistinguished clothes. It occurred to me then that I had not seen a single smartly dressed woman since my arrival. In fact, women seemed to do a lot of the rough jobs. Back in the harbour, women, dressed in cloaks and hoods, operated some of the mighty cranes that served the ships. I noticed, too, on a building site a group of girls throwing bricks from one to another, as our bricklayers do. Their hands must have been hard and rough.

A column of youngsters marched by, led by a tall man, probably a teacher. They were laughing and singing and looked very like English children, except that many of the boys had peaked army-style caps and the little girls without exception wore long, brown woollen stockings of the sort girls used to wear in our country in my early schooldays. All the children looked healthy and happy.

I stopped a young man in the street and showed him the slip of paper with the name of the school written in Russian. Again there was the polite response. He went out of his way and led us to the door of the school.

It was a large, old-fashioned type of building set flush on the roadside, with no sign of a playground. It looked more like a big block of offices.

The man from Inflot had told me to ask permission, but there didn’t seem to be anybody about, so I did my second daft thing of the trip: I just barged inside, followed dutifully by the captain.

Once through the door there was something I noticed immediately—the intense silence, unusual in a school. We were in a long passage, with walls hung with brightly coloured paintings of every conceivable sporting activity and of Russian feats of arms. These latter were done in a very romantic style: soldiers with bandaged foreheads, bayonets outstretched, handsome faces gazing fearlessly ahead. There was a glass case containing diplomas and certificates.

Many doors led off the passage, and I began to work my way along, knocking first, then trying the handle. They all seemed to be locked, and when I reached one near the end I had given up hope. I turned the handle without knocking, and it flew open.

I almost fell into a big room with a lot of startled women looking at me. They were all seated around a long table, and at the top was a big, impressive man with craggy features. He was staring at me harder than any of them.