Work Text:
January, 1934
The shed was once an old dwelling house, occupied some eighty years ago and since fallen into disrepair, now repurposed as a shelter for livestock, with the windows bricked up and a new tin roof affixed to keep the unpredictable weather of the Dales seasons at bay.
The dirt floor has been covered with fresh straw, a ewe and day-old twin lambs resting in a makeshift pen in one corner. One of the lambs gets up, wanders over to the hurdle that’s keeping it and its family contained — it sticks its head through the gap, perhaps curious to see how Siegfried, on his knees at the other side of the shed, is getting on.
Not well, is the answer.
Siegfried manages to brush the unborn lamb’s bent knee with his fingertip, but his hand’s going numb, circulation in his arm restricted as the ewe pushes with another contraction. The ewe’s breathing heavily, in pain, but she’s still got her feet under her and Siegfried needs to act fast before she tires to the point of lying down, something that will make what he needs to do ten times more difficult.
Mr Seacombe is standing anxiously at the ewe’s head, so close to the animal that his trouser leg is blocking Siegfried’s view of her eye.
“I’ve nearly got it,” Siegfried says, strain in his voice as he reaches for the knee again. His brief attempt at reassuring eye contact with Mr Seacombe is foiled by the strands of his hair that are falling into his eyes — he should’ve combed it back before he left Skeldale House, but the call-out was an emergency one. Mrs Hall had answered the telephone, relayed to Siegfried that this ewe had been in labour for hours with no progress and Mr Seacombe needed help — urgently.
Mr Seacombe nods in response, kindly doesn’t mention that Siegfried has already given him several such false assurances since his arrival. He has a firm grip on one of the ewe’s horns — unnecessary, as she’s already secured to a hurdle by a fraying length of binder twine, but if it helps Mr Seacombe feel useful, so be it.
He’s got large hands, the old shepherd, broad palms with stubby fingers, skin weathered with age — it’s hard to tell exactly, with just the light of the flickering lantern to go by, but arthritis will be setting in, no doubt.
Siegfried remembers, with sharp clarity, the first time he had to assist a ewe with lambing — he’d been along with Pa for the day, Mother laid low with a bout of influenza. Pa had a list of farms to visit and Siegfried was keen to tag along, nodding enthusiastically when Pa pointed out that their absence from the house would allow Mother to rest — although, for young Siegfried, it was the opportunity to spend time alone with Pa that had him promising to be on his very best behaviour, yes, sir.
Much of that day was spent on Fenella, Pa’s steady yet deceptively athletic mare, clinging onto the back of his father’s jacket as she carried them from farm to farm through the Dales, the fine April or May sunshine glorious to behold.
Mid-afternoon, they were seeing to a milk cow with a broken hoof, the split in the hoof wall causing the animal to limp. Siegfried had been given the important job of digging through Pa’s bag and handing him whatever had been asked for, a huge responsibility that Siegfried didn’t take lightly. Pa was trimming the broken pieces of hoof away, the farmer and several helpers holding onto various ropes so that the cow was unable to kick and break Pa’s nose should she wish to. Pa had just straightened from his work, rubbing his lower back, when a farmhand from the next farm over came running across the field, arms flailing above his head. He skidded to a stop next to them, almost tripped over his own boots. A ewe was lambing, he told them between great gulps of air, a head sticking out but no feet — could you please come quickly?
There was a race back across the field — the ewe was on her side, in the shelter of a dry stone wall, being held down by a girl not much older than Siegfried. Pa tried, kneeling down behind the ewe, but he couldn’t get his hand past the head, had no hope of reaching the feet, let alone the knees. The head was already swelling, the lamb gasping for air. Pa turned to each person there — the farmhand, the girl — and Siegfried, not yet ten years old, who had held back, still clutching Pa’s bag, on his very best behaviour.
Pa stood up, making room at the ewe’s rear. “You’ll have to do it,” he said to Siegfried.
There was no argument to be had, not with Pa, not about this. Siegfried dropped Pa’s bag, stepped forth. He was so scared — not of the gore, or the ewe’s odd flailing hoof — but of the responsibility for multiple lives that now rested upon his shoulders. Bracing himself, he reached in, underneath the lamb’s head and neck, inside the strange warmth of the ewe. It was tight inside, but he could flex his fingers, rotate his wrist. With some verbal instruction from Pa, Siegfried was able to hook one of the bent back legs by the knee, ewe and boy both grunting with effort as he slowly but surely straightened the limb out.
Siegfried was prepared to reach inside again for the second leg, but Pa said they should try pulling the lamb out now — the sooner it was out, the better. Siegfried took hold of the leg he’d pulled into position, birthing fluid making the task harder as his hand threatened to slip, while Pa grabbed the lamb by the neck. Together they pulled, father and son, angling the lamb down towards the elder. For a horrifying moment, Siegfried was sure the lamb was stuck fast — he strained, holding the leg with both hands now as he pulled and pulled.
The ewe bleated loudly as, with a last, sudden heave, the lamb came free of the birth canal, hind legs encased in the remains of the amniotic sac. Both Pa and Siegfried stumbled, such was their effort. Pa recovered his balance first and rushed forward, kneeling down to rub the lamb’s side, encouraging the lamb to take that first proper, deep breath. Siegfried remembers how his hands trembled as he caught his breath, how he blushed when he saw the girl smiling at him. The lamb responded to Pa’s ministrations — its head was swollen up like a turnip, but it was alive.
Pa, the farmhand and the girl stepped away from the newborn, allowing the ewe the opportunity to lick and bond with her daughter. He came to stand beside Siegfried, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing for a moment before letting it drop.
Siegfried was so proud, couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mother.
He no longer shakes like he did that day, doesn’t feel scared when faced with a difficult lambing — he simply rolls up his shirtsleeves and gets on with it.
The lamb’s nose is just there, poking out of its mother, not swelling up like a turnip, thank Christ, but both feet are bent back, and the lamb’s so big. Siegfried will have to straighten both legs before attempting to pull the lamb — to do otherwise would risk it becoming completely jammed within the pelvis.
Gritting his teeth, he reaches again, pushing harder into the ewe — he manages to hook one of the lamb’s forelegs behind the knee with just his index finger, but it’s enough. A slow, steady pull has the limb satisfyingly popping into the correct birthing presentation. The second leg is further back inside the ewe, even harder and more painful to reach now that both the first leg and the lamb’s head are taking up space in the birth canal.
His hand is feeling numb — he pulls it out of the ewe, shakes it to encourage some feeling back into his fingers. “Just need that other leg now,” he tells Mr Seacombe.
Siegfried manages to push his way back inside, his wrist being rubbed painfully as it passes the pelvic rim. To his relief, the lamb shifts slightly, and he can just about hook the knee with his finger — but he struggles to move his hand as a contraction has the ewe pushing against him. To get the leg repositioned, Siegfried is going to have to pull — the issue is that there isn’t enough room in the ewe’s pelvis for his hand and the leg to pass through at the same time.
Tristan has accompanied Siegfried out on calls like these before, usually to beg tea and biscuits off the farmer’s wife, but it’s times like these that Tristan and his slimmer hands would be useful — but he’s not here, having left to continue his first year of veterinary college last week.
On occasion, even Evelyn would have —
Siegfried sucks in a fortifying breath, takes hold of the leg between three fingers, and pulls it through the gap. The bones of his hand crunch under the strain, but with both legs now in the correct position, it’s only the work of a moment more to have the lamb coming free. It lands in the straw, the shock of the cold, mid-January air causing it to gasp in its first, vital lungful of air.
The ewe, silent until now, immediately begins bleating for her lamb — she can’t see it even as she turns her head, her face digging into the corduroy fabric of Mr Seacombe’s trouser leg.
The painful throb of his right hand is ignored as Siegfried gets to his feet, barley awns from the straw clinging to his knees. He lifts the lamb up by the hind legs, swinging it back and forth upside-down, letting gravity do its work to clear the lamb’s airways.
The lamb — a ram, judging by the size of the horn buds — sneezes when Siegfried sets it back down, wet ears making a slapping sound as it shakes its head.
Visibly relieved, Mr Seacombe gets to work undoing the knots in the binder twine in order to let the ewe greet her newborn. Siegfried doesn’t need to put his hand back inside to know she’s empty, her sides visibly sunken in despite the generous covering of wool. She staggers slightly as she’s released and turns around, seeking her lamb. Siegfried steps back until his back hits the stone wall of the old dwelling house, works to steady his breath as he shakes his right hand out, the movement dulling the pain for a moment.
Mr Seacombe and Siegfried both look on as the ewe takes to licking her lamb with gusto, murmuring to it all the while. It begins to respond with quiet bleats of its own, already making to stand.
Pleased with the lamb’s strength and confident that the ewe requires no further assistance either, Siegfried turns his attention to the enamel basin of water that has now cooled to lukewarm. He’s able to rinse off the worst of the blood and fluids, the water turning from clear to a pale pink.
“You have a strong pair there, Mr Seacombe,” Siegfried says, not looking up from drying his hands with an old rag. “They should be ready to go outside come the morning — but I would keep them inside an extra day to be sure. It was quite the tug — for both of them.”
He collects his tan coat from where he’d left it, draped over a hurdle — one of the twin lambs has left a damp patch where it’s been mouthing at the sleeve — and his unopened vet bag from by the doorway. He reaches into an outer pocket for his handheld torch. Mr Seacombe turns to him, holds out his hand — on instinct, Siegfried fumbles with the torch until he can accept the handshake offered, and does his best to limit his reaction to a minor wince when his right hand is the one free to be grasped.
“Thank you, Mr Farnon,” Mr Seacombe says, crow’s feet deepening when his smile reaches his eyes.
Siegfried can’t quite maintain the eye contact. “Not at all,” he says, shaking his head in a show of humility. He draws Mr Seacombe’s attention away from himself, nods to the ewe and her lamb. They’re just in time to see it attempt to stand, getting its hind legs under it. It manages two steps, shuffling forward through the straw on its knees, before it overbalances and falls. The ewe makes a fuss — the lamb sneezes, barley awns clinging to its nose. “They should be alright now — but you can of course call the surgery if a problem arises.”
He leaves Mr Seacombe to tend to his animals by lantern light, slips away into the pitch black of the Dales night.
He stops once he’s outside to see that the clear night has given way to a silent, persistent drizzle. Siegfried could take a few moments to put his tan coat on, but he doesn’t even know what day it is any more, today or tomorrow, which date to put at the top of Mr Seacombe’s invoice. “Bugger it,” he mutters under his breath, and walks on — it’s only a short walk downhill to the car, after all. His torch does more to illuminate the thousands of individual rain droplets in front of him than the well-trod ground he’s trying to navigate.
He follows the dry stone wall down, squeezes himself and his belongings through the gap between the gatepost and the self same wall when he reaches the bottom of the hill. His car is where he left it, sparkling with raindrops in the torchlight. He opens the rear door, hinge creaking, and leaves his coat and bag on the backseat, swapping them for his dry jacket, which he shrugs on over mildly damp shoulders.
Torch in hand, he makes his way to the front of the vehicle to crank the engine. He bends over at the waist to turn the crank, rather than soil his trousers any further with mud — he needs a new car, the thought a common refrain these days. Yet, he’d rather be driving than riding a horse home — or, Heaven forbid, a bicycle.
He gives the bonnet a pat, leaving behind a wet handprint, as he makes his way to the driver’s side door and slides in behind the wheel. He prays the engine will start, is rewarded when it noisily splutters into life, then settles into its usual, puttering rhythm.
Wipers on, headlights on full beam, he makes steady progress through the gloom. His eyelids feel heavy, and his right hand feels warmer than his left, throbbing in time with every beat of his battered heart.
There’s something mesmerising about driving through the dark, keeping to the centre of the narrow road, dry stone walls passing by on either side. He tries to keep his mind busy by working out how long he’s been awake for — at least since four this morning — likely yesterday morning by now — when there’d been a telephone call about another ewe having trouble giving birth.
Mrs Hall had been a Godsend, putting plates of food and cups of tea in front of him whenever she saw the opportunity arise throughout the day.
Twenty hours on the go, then, maybe — not the longest he’s gone without sleep, certainly, but he’s hardly on his best form these days.
He approaches a pair of eyes, glowing red in the dark — the spectre registers, has him slamming his foot down on the brake pedal. The car rolls to a steady stop despite the suddenness of his movements thanks to unreliable brakes — but he’s not too late, instinct winning the war against fatigue in this instance.
It’s a wild rabbit, pale, dusty brown in colour with a flash of white on its tail — it’s partway across the road, frozen with fear in the beam of his car headlights. Siegfried and the rabbit both stare at one another, some connection forming between them despite the still falling drizzle, the pane of glass between them. Two solitary souls, making their way through the darkness.
He presses down on the car’s horn — startled, the sound somehow amplified in the stillness of the pitch black night, the rabbit hops away, disappearing into a hole in the ditch. Siegfried isn’t sure how long he sits there, staring at where it once was, before he blinks and sets the car back into motion.
It’s not long before he’s pulling into the yard behind Skeldale House — with the car’s engine switched off, Siegfried once again finds himself enveloped in an almost eerie silence. He takes a moment to breathe it in, this confirmation that he’s alone in the world — until he recalls the circumstances of his leaving some hours ago, his eyes drawn to the shed door.
Petra, an elderly black and tan Border Collie mix, was kicked by the grocer’s horse and required an emergency operation earlier today — or, Siegfried corrects himself tiredly, having not bothered to strap his wristwatch back on, almost certainly yesterday by now. Siegfried had considered the operation a reasonable success, given the nature of the injury and the age of the dog, but she wasn’t out of the woods by any means — deeper internal issues could’ve been biding their time. She was howling when he left in a rush for Mr Seacombe’s — heartsick for her owner, he informed a frowning Mrs Hall, and there was nothing he could do about that, now where the blazes were the car keys?
A tabby cat looks up when the door opens and he flicks on the overhead light — the bulb blinks three times before emitting a steady glow. The cage where he’d left Petra to recover is empty, blankets folded neatly in one corner — it could only be Mrs Hall’s doing. His heart sinks, guilt swirling in his gut as he considers what he could possibly have done differently, how he could’ve saved Petra while also saving Mr Seacombe’s lamb — but he simply cannot be in two places at once. Mr and Mrs Moore will be devastated, but the news should come from him. He’ll call them in the morning.
Head down, mind conjuring a punishing selection of what-ifs at breakneck speed, Siegfried crosses the yard and enters the house via the back door. He has walked past where he’s supposed to take off his boots before he realises he has done so — he spins on the spot, veterinary bag bumping up against the wall as he turns, motions all the more awkward in his haste and distraction.
He sits on the bench to untie his boots with an impatient huff, leaves his jacket hanging off the coat hook by one shoulder. In the kitchen, Mrs Hall’s desk lamp has been left on, either by mistake or design — but it casts just enough light for Siegfried to navigate by. He drops off his bag in the dispensary to be dealt with in the morning, fully intending to climb the stairs and collapse in a pile on top of his bed, but he’s drawn by the light that’s still on in the living room, the faint crackling sound of a flickering fire.
It’s Mrs Hall’s first experience of the relentless lambing season at Skeldale House, and she’s only a fortnight in to answering the telephone for him at all hours of the day and night. Since her arrival in his life a few months ago, she’s darned holes in his socks, fed and watered him, somehow known when to sit beside him — and when to leave him be.
One of the armchairs in the living room has become hers by some unspoken rule, and it’s here she sits, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking position over a half-knitted sock. Her gold wedding band reflects the light of the dancing fire, her hands slack as she dozes.
It’s not the first time that Mrs Hall has waited up for him, despite his assurances that it’s unnecessary for her to do so — but it’s the first time he’s come home to find her, having failed in her quest to wait up for him, in such a state of ease.
She’s exhausted, powering through the best she can — Siegfried can identify with the struggle — but to leave her in this position would be unfair.
He clears his throat loudly, taking the single step that has him leaving the hallway and entering the living room. She stirs, hand clenching in her knitting without thought. She lifts her head, blinking sleepily for a moment before she registers what she’s seeing. “Oh, Mr Farnon, you’re back,” she says, sounding pleased as she gets to her feet. “I am sorry —” she starts a needless apology, catches his look. “I’ll put the kettle on, make you some tea.”
“I’d rather a nightcap,” he says with a longing glance at the whiskey decanter.
She comes up behind him, having crossed the room with more speed than he expected. She holds her hands out and walks behind him, careful to keep a respectful distance, and yet effectively shepherding him in the direction of his armchair.
It’s then that he notices what she’s done while he’s been out, stops mid-step.
His sudden halt catches Mrs Hall unawares — her hands dig into the flesh of his lower back for the briefest of moments before she snatches them back.
Siegfried rounds on her, eyebrow raised.
She stands there, sure of herself and her actions. “She weren’t happy out there.”
“So you took it upon yourself to bring her inside.”
“I couldn’t listen to her ‘owling any longer.”
“You shouldn’t have moved her.” He jabs a finger at Petra — the old dog is curled up in blankets next to the heat of the fire, remaining fast asleep, despite the rising volume of Siegfried’s voice. “This dog had a serious operation just this afternoon. You could’ve torn her stitches, caused excess bleeding —” He interrupts himself to kneel down, pulling back layers of smooth, warm fabric until he can see the bandages for himself. No blood has seeped through. Petra blinks sleepily, stretches out her paws in contentment. Siegfried places a hand on her head, rubs between her ears — even with a blanket overtop, he can make out her tail waggling. He sighs, his temper calming as quickly as it reared up.
Mrs Hall, unapologetic, nigh-on defiant: “She were lonely. In a strange place. She was scared.”
Siegfried stands up, still scrutinising Petra. “She does seem comfortable now,” he allows after a moment, quiet. He can sense that Mrs Hall is still watching him — he takes a deep breath, musters up a small smile as he meets her eye for the first time since he arrived home. He can say any manner of things in this moment — he settles on: “You said something about a nightcap?”
She crosses her arms, tilts her head that way, not fooled for a second. “We’ll start with that cup of tea, hm?”
He watches her leave for the kitchen before he settles into his armchair, next to the fire, staring at Petra — Mrs Hall is considerably more argumentative than the previous housekeeper, a woman who only lasted two days. Siegfried finds that he doesn’t mind.
The armchair is comfortable, the fire is warm — he must fall asleep, startles awake when Mrs Hall and her tea tray materialise right in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere. He blinks up at her, catches her knowing expression before he takes in the contents of the tray. Familiar china cups and saucers, a small plate of Mrs Hall’s delectable shortbread biscuits — and a battered old tin.
“What’s that?” he asks, squinting at the last, the words a little slurred.
“For your hand,” she tells him with a nod towards his right hand.
He’s been ignoring it — doing a bloody good job of it, if he says so himself. The pain has eased from an angry throb to a dull, persistent ache — but now that he looks at it, the back of his hand is red, slightly swollen. He didn’t expect her to notice, but he knows better than to be surprised that she did.
She opens the tin — it’s a homemade salve of some kind, thick and sweet-smelling.
“I can do it,” he says, reaching.
She pulls the tin back. “You’re exhausted. Drink your tea. Give us your hand.”
Siegfried balances his tea cup and saucer on his left thigh, while Mrs Hall sits down in the other armchair, reaching across to take his right hand carefully in hers. He can’t help but wince and twitch at first, the salve cold on his skin, but as Mrs Hall rubs it in, the cream warms.
Evelyn used to sit in that chair, holding his hand — Siegfried stares into the flames, blinking heavily, all at once overcome. He soothes the lump in his throat with a mouthful of tea — he can’t look at Mrs Hall, but he can feel her, her fingers calloused from hard work but achingly gentle on his skin.
“How’s that?” Mrs Hall asks, breaking him free of whatever trance he’d fallen into.
Siegfried finds that she has let his hand go. He flexes his fingers — it does feel better, and he tells her so. She smiles at him, much kinder to him than he deserves — tired, distracted, he almost misses the saucer when he tries to set his tea cup down.
“How was it? Mr Seacombe’s?”
Siegfried chews and swallows a piece of shortbread — Mrs Hall waits patiently as he does so. “All well, in the end, but I hurt my hand getting one of the legs up.” He looks down at his hand, the skin shiny now with a thin layer of salve. “It’s a common injury for me at this time of year — the back of my hand is black and blue before long, bruise upon bruise.”
“I’ll make sure we have plenty of that salve on hand, then.”
Something about Petra’s blanket catches his eye. “Is that my dressing gown?”
“Sorry, Mr Farnon,” Mrs Hall says. “She wouldn’t settle until she was wrapped up in that. I was putting a few stitches in the hem like you asked me to when she — when I brought her in. Maybe it reminds her of Mr Moore.” She gets to her feet but doesn’t move closer to the dog, wringing her hands together. “I can take it off her.”
She sounds reluctant to do so, however, and Siegfried finds himself eager to reassure, even if he resents Petra’s implication that Siegfried’s nightwear smells like an elderly, infirm fishmonger. “It’s quite alright,” he says, soft. “She can keep it for now. Goodnight, Mrs Hall.”
Siegfried suspects Mrs Hall’s visible relief is not on her own account. She picks up the tea tray. “Goodnight, Mr Farnon.”
She’s on the other side of the sofa with her tray before he says to her, “Thank you.” He’s not sure what exactly for — nothing in particular. Everything.
“It’s no trouble,” she replies after a moment, half-turning to meet his eye.
“Of course,” he lies.
He listens to her receding footsteps as she heads to the kitchen, before, with a tired sigh, he stands, leaving the comforting embrace of his armchair with some reluctance. He passes the clock on his way to the stairs — it strikes one o’clock.
So that’s the time, Siegfried thinks.