Chapter 1 - Skeldale House.

Wind rattled the windows at Skeldale House. Crystalline fronds inched across the glass panes as the room grew colder and darker. It was early March of 1933. A winter storm was building over Darrowby, a cluster of stone buildings lining a narrow valley in the midst of England's northern Dales.

Mrs. Audrey Hall sat rigidly upright in an ornately carved armchair, waiting. Her wool gloved hands lay crossed in her lap and both booted feet were flat on the worn oriental carpet. She gazed straight ahead watching dust motes drift snow-like in the muted light to rest at last in a velvet layer across the cluttered mahogany table top.

Drifts clung to every corner and edge of each horizontal surface, she noted, glancing from the table to the floor lamp in the corner, to ceiling-high shelves stuffed with technical books, and to the blue and white China umbrella stand beside the door. She had entered that door at the invitation of Mrs. Warren, a middle-aged woman of considerable girth, who had been leaving just as Mrs. Hall reached to pull the front door bell cord.

"Come ye in," Mrs. Warren had bawled at her over the shrill howl of the wind. "Naow, I've left a dish of pork bits and taters in oven. I'll drop by w'nother for purr man day after morrow."

Then she hustled away across the wind-blown square toward a stolid stone church, seeking shelter before the storm's fullness struck. Evidently a church lady, Mrs. Hall decided, doing charitable works for unfortunate Mr. Farnon, the man Mrs. Hall hoped might employ her to cook and keep his house.

As she stepped through the entryway, it became clear that the man needed looking after. From the street his old Georgian house had pleasing lines and a solid, comfortable appearance, but past the threshold any sense of homeyness vanished, dashed by a pervasive reek of burnt food, medicinal antiseptics, and barnyard odors.

The mantel clock struck two o'clock as she shut the door and called out. "I'm here!" She called twice more, there was no response. So, she seated herself at a table just to the side of the hallway and waited.

And waited.

The clock struck five o'clock.

"Three hours," Mrs. Hall muttered under her breath, as if someone was present who might overhear.

There was no one - only rattling windows, howling wind, and the tick, tock, tick of a mantel clock. She shifted in the chair and rubbed her hands together, wondering what on earth to do. She needed this job. She liked the look of the town. Her Vicar spoke well of it and she had tried for every suitable job available in Scarborough with no luck.

The half hour chimed. Mrs. Hall stood abruptly. This position might have been her salvation, but Mr. Farnon had either changed his mind, disregarded the Vicar's advice, or forgotten their appointment. She reached for the doorknob, but paused. Curiosity made her turn away and lured her down the dark tiled hallway toward she knew not what.

She found herself in a disreputable kitchen that must have once belonged to Mrs. Farnon. Feminine touches survived beneath the chaos. Lovely wallpaper, a well-executed watercolor of bluebirds on a blooming branch, a back-splash at the kitchen sink painted cheerful apple green, just visible behind grime and a mountain of burnt pots and dirty cutlery, bowls, and plates. No former housekeeper could have been the source of the fading femininity. Such niceties were the province of ownership not employment.

There had been a loving mistress of this house.

The beleaguered apple green paint enchanted Mrs. Hall. A sensitive soul had ruled this kitchen - A person of taste with a feeling for beauty in even the most utilitarian of things. And, she felt certain, that person had been a happy woman who had brought joy and contentment to those who dwelt in her orbit.

Now she was no more. Her presence was fading under neglect born of despair. For, Mrs. Hall's Vicar had confided, Mr. Farnon's wife had been killed in a riding accident two months ago. Her horse had fallen at an unremarkable jump. The horse hadn't been injured. The rider broke her neck.

Distracted from her own difficulties, Mrs. Hall removed her gloves, her best hat and her only wool coat, carefully placed them on a hook - the only unsoiled spot in the kitchen - and rolled up her sleeves. She glanced about for a moment before recalling a closet door she'd passed in the hallway. Behind that door, she found a nook for brooms, dust pans, and an array of medieval instruments that made her pause and shudder.

"Lord knows what those are for," she muttered as she reached past them for an apron that hung at the back. She gave it a brisk shake to dislodge cobwebs and any resident spiders and pulled it over her best blouse and skirt.

When seven o'clock struck the kitchen was sparkling and tidy. Plates stood scrubbed and dry in their rack over the sink. Whisky glasses and a solitary tea cup were washed and drying on the drain board. Silverware was clean and polished. The apple green back-splash shone brightly over a gleaming porcelain sink.

Mrs. Warren's pork and taters had long since heated. Rather than let it dry out and burn to cinders, Mrs. Hall set it to cool, banked the oven coals, and then went to see if there was room to store it in the ice box.

"Oh dear!" she'd exclaimed when she peered inside.

A chock-a-block jumble of crockery, platters, and jars within made her retreat for a moment, aghast. She set the casserole aside and gingerly began to excavate the contents of the ice box. After about three-quarters of an hour, she had sorted out what she might salvage from the completely inedible. Cheese could be saved. A ham bone and eggs were still serviceable. Stale bread might be toasted. And there were a jug of milk, a head of cabbage, and bunches of carrots and parsnips.

The rest was mummified crusts that had once been pies and casseroles, the remnants of weeks of charitable works by church ladies like Mrs. Warren. More scraping and scrubbing yielded a clean stack of well-worn platters and bowls that bore no resemblance to one another, almost certainly belonging to others' households.

Nine o'clock chimed and Mrs. Hall suddenly realized her untenable situation. In her determination to set a ghost's kitchen to rights, she had missed her bus back to Scarborough - the only bus. She had no money to spare for a room - if Darrowby even boasted a hotel. Wind moaned in the chimney and shook the windows. She was stranded in the house of a total stranger, a man to whom she had never even spoken, and in the midst of a blizzard.

Mrs. Hall did the only thing she could think to do. She scrubbed the kitchen floor. She swept the hallway and living room. She emptied the fireplace ashes and set up fresh wood in the fireplace. She fed coal into the kitchen oven. She dusted. She tidied the papers, bills, and newspapers that overflowed from every flat surface, spilling onto chairs and floors. She arranged them into rational piles on the shining mahogany table.

When all had been scrubbed, swept, dusted or tidied away, and still no one had appeared to evict her, she cooked. Water, ham bone, cabbage, carrots, and parsnips went into a pot. Pepper and salt followed along with a generous dose of vinegar that she had searched out in a room that appeared to be a medical dispensary. Flour, fat and salt became a dozen biscuits.

Before the clock struck ten o'clock, a tremendous blast of snow and freezing wind exploded across the kitchen along with a furious barrage of atrocious language.

"Bloody hell and damnation!" a voice bellowed from the back hall and an ice-encrusted man charged into the kitchen shedding ice and snow in every direction as he flung off cap, scarf, and long wool coat. The man stood swearing and struggling unsuccessfully to unbutton a blood-encrusted shirt with what must have been benumbed fingers.

"Bloody thing!" he roared.

A button shot loose, skittered across the floor and bounced off the edge of Mrs. Hall's boot. She bent to pick it up and made her presence known, before he embarrassed them both by succeeding in his furious attempts to strip.

"I'll thank you to moderate your language, Mr. Farnon."

Her quiet statement froze Siegfried Farnon mid-syllable. With his filthy shirt jerked from his corduroy breeches and dragged halfway over his chest, he disentangled his arms from the shirt - for he'd been about to pull the abused garment, still mostly buttoned, over his head. He dragged the shirt tails down to his belt and dropped onto a kitchen chair, transfixed by the strange woman standing in his kitchen.

"That's..." he gestured weakly. "That is not your apron."

'Yes, I borrowed it for the day. I am Mrs. Hall," she replied primly as she untied the apron strings, pulled it from her shoulders and from around her waist, and folded it neatly before placing it on a chair. "We were to meet at 2 o'clock this afternoon, Mr. Farnon, to talk about the housekeeper position you advertised. My Vicar spoke to your Vicar about it, I believe."

Comprehension failed to register. Mr. Farnon simply stared at her.

Mrs. Hall relented. How could she be angry with a man whose shaggy beard was actually frozen to his collar, his boots heavy with clotted muck, and his dishevelled shirt front soaked with unmentionable gore? The dead-white pallor of physical exhaustion, the mud, and bloody shirt suddenly resurrected memories of men she'd nursed in the Great War. Her heart went out to him.

"You look done in, Mr. Farnon," she said. "There's boiled ham dinner and biscuits ready."

Farnon stood, squinting and frowning, and stammered, "That apron ... it belonged to my wife."

His mouth twisted and his gaze dropped. He seemed at a loss, but rallied and continued briskly, "I am ... Um ... I do apologize for having missed our appointment, Mrs. Hall. Inexcusable negligence on my part. I can only offer that it's lambing season. I've delivered sixty-one since morning, six sets of triplets and a dozen sets of twins, the rest singles. The ewes are scattered across high Dale hillsides. The beasts choose time and place, you see. Perverse creatures. Still, one must attend!"

A trace of desperate hope in his expression touched her and she said, "Wash up and put on something dry. Supper will be on table when you're ready."

He dropped back down into the chair and slumped forward to struggle with his filth-caked boots.

She stepped close and knelt. "Let me," she said and he leaned back obediently.

When his stocking feet were freed, she looked up from the holes in his socks and smiled. To her shock, he actually blushed.

"Thanks for that," he muttered. "It's been a miserable day."

Twenty minutes later, a fresh-faced Siegfried Farnon appeared. His tousled hair combed, his eyelashes and beard ice free, and a degree of colour in his cheeks.

"Have you been waiting here since 2 o'clock, Mrs. Hall?" he asked. "You must be famished! Please join me for supper. It smells marvellous."

He pulled out a chair and looked at her expectantly, until Mrs. Hall allowed him to seat her. Then he fetched a second place-setting, poured them both a glass of cider from a jug stored on the window sill, and took his seat.

Mrs. Hall ladled a double portion of boiled ham, broth, and vegetables into his bowl and took a small helping for herself. She watched her prospective employer as he ate. It was obvious he had missed lunch. The dishes she'd washed had offered no sign he'd had anything but tea for breakfast either. His unkempt auburn beard hung down his shirt and curled around his ears, but did nothing to hide his haggard face. His well-cut tweed jacket hung loose on his shoulders despite the thick wool sweater he wore beneath it.

The man across table from her hadn't been eating.

And he had been working to exhaustion.

And it had gone on far too long.

When he wasn't bellowing and swearing, Mr. Siegfried Farnon gave the impression of being a considerate person, even courtly toward women. He had, after all, invited an unexpected stranger to join him for supper and even held her chair for her, actions unexpected in an employer.

Even so, his dinner conversation was painfully limited. He inquired about her trip to Darrowby and then fell deeply silent, intent on filling himself with everything placed before him. Long minutes passed before he remembered her presence and asked if she had been born in Scarborough. Then he forgot her and fell asleep in front of his empty bowl.

Mrs. Hall stood, touched his hand to wake him, and took charge. "I think you need to sleep and I'll do the same. Shall we talk about the position in the morning?"

"Um... Well, yes," he answered, blinking and rubbing his eyes. "There's a room at the back of the house for guests. You will have complete privacy upstairs. I shall stretch out down here on the sofa. It's nearer the fireplace."

Crossing her arms, Mrs. Hall shook her head. "No. That won't do at all."

"Sorry? I don't understand," he said. "Do you prefer a hotel? The nearest is in ..."

She cut him off. "You've spent God-knows how many hours out in the cold and the storm today. Tomorrow will probably be worse. I will not have you missing a night's sleep in your own bed, Mr. Farnon, as a nod to antiquated ideas of feminine sensitivity. That's idiotic. If I fill this position, we'll be sleeping under the same roof. So, if you'll show me my room and point out the facilities, it's time for you to turn in."

"You have the job, Mrs. Hall," he blurted. "It pays a half pound a week for the first six months, plus room and board. If we get on, that rate will double with modest annual increases if my practice can support it. Is that satisfactory?"

"I accept Mr. Farnon," she said, "on one condition."

"Oh?" His eager face fell.

"Yes. I'm a married woman and you're an unmarried man. We shall be living under one roof. People hereabouts don't truck with loose morals. So, for the sake of your reputation it will be necessary for you to join me at church. I understand there are early services here every Wednesday and Sunday."

"Church!?" he protested. "Church ... twice a week?! Church! Did your Vicar suggest this?"

"No, Mr. Farnon," she replied. "Your Vicar. And I don't think it was a suggestion."

Chapter 2 - Siegfried Farnon.

The next morning, Mrs. Hall woke at sunrise. She'd expected to interview and catch the bus back to Scarborough. So, she had arrived without luggage and needed to have her things sent. She wrote out a short letter to her Vicar asking him to send her clothing and her small box of photographs, jewellery, and her books by train and to dispose of the rest as he saw fit. Then she washed and dressed and crept downstairs to survey her new domain. The main floor was already familiar, but she had not seen the back of the house. So, she borrowed a heavy coat and went out.

A donkey brayed nearby and a massive golden retriever bounded out of a ramshackle shed to greet her wagging its entire body with pleasure.

"That's Jess," a voice called out from the shed. A moment later Mr. Farnon appeared, smiling and dusting straw from his pants legs. " She prefers the company of women, " he continued. "Doesn't really trust us men."

He was quite different this morning. His shaggy beard had been neatly trimmed close to his jaw and his eyes were bright and twinkled when he smiled. It was a nice smile.

"Let me show you the place," he said. "My resident patients are in here." He thrust back a sagging Dutch door and muttered, "That hinge needs tightening."

Inside were three levels of small wooden enclosures with mesh door fronts and straw bedding, hutches for eighteen small animals. Cats occupied two of them. A pair of rabbits shared a third.

"I feed and water them twice a day," he continued. "And there are stalls for larger patients. Currently, I am treating a wolfhound that tangled with what might have been a wolf, although it was probably a pack of feral dogs. Watching her for hydrophobia. It would be a shame to put her down. She's a fine dog. There's a donkey that's gone lame, tendinitis requiring vigorous application of liniment twice a day and light exercise. And I'm host to a perfectly sound Welsh pony. Constables found her wandering the back roads. They've advertised. I expect an owner will show up eventually. They usually do. Hopefully, she'll be back where she belongs before she foals. Must have gone off seeking companionship."

He looked around the tiny shed with proprietary pride. "I'm finished here. Let's step into the surgery. That's where it gets really interesting."

Mrs. Hall followed, studying the man as closely as the premises. There had been a startling transformation. Last night's monosyllabic wreck was, this morning, a competent professional bursting with enthusiasm to share details of his work and his world. Her concerns began to fade over the inordinate number of empty whisky glasses she'd encountered in her cleaning frenzy. She had no qualms against a man having a drink. God knows a hardworking man deserved a bit of comfort, but she'd had far more than her fill of lie-about drunkards.

"I have a well-stocked dispensary," he continued proudly, "all the basic surgical equipment, as well as an autoclave and incubator. Here are two examination rooms, and a surgical suite for small animal work. I see a fair share of that as well as caring for farmer's needs - hoof trimming, birthing, castration, dehorning, tending to infections, lacerations, fractures, sprains and some more interesting matters such as colic, brain-worm, and various reportable infectious diseases such as tuberculosis, brucellosis, foot and mouth disease, anthrax, sheep scab and pox, equine influenza, and that sort of thing. Every dead farm animal has to have a certificate before it can go to the knackers yard."

He spun on her suddenly and declared, "I'm boring you! I do apologize!"

Mrs. Hall shook her head and smiled, "Not a bit. I was a nurse in the war, Mr. Farnon. This is familiar ground to me! Not that those medical men ever bothered to show us the inner workings of their world as you are. For us it was bed pans, bandages, pills, scrubbing and laundry, and a sympathetic ear for the lads. This is fascinating."

He beamed. "Excellent! You're a woman of many parts, Mrs. Hall. Would you like to discuss office procedures, or shall we eat first?"

"As you like," she replied. "You're the boss. But I warn you, Mr. Farnon, there's only toast, eggs and cheese that's fit to eat. I could do you toast and a cheese omelette, unless you want me to heat Mrs. Warren's pork and taters? I haven't been out to the shops."

"It's not yet 7 o'clock," he confirmed. "Still too early for the shop-keepers. Let's have a pot of tea and go through the basics of office procedures. Then, if I'm not called away, we'll both go shopping. I will acquaint you with Darrowby, before I leave you on your own."

They stepped outside. Siegfried Farnon whistled as they crossed the snowy back yard, his breath forming a frosty cloud in the sub-zero air. Streaks of red shot across the eastern horizon warning of more foul weather in the offing. But for the moment the world was pure and pleasant and wrapped in quiet, except for the gay whistling of the local veterinarian.

Chapter 3 - Tristan Farnon.

As Mrs. Hall followed her employer inside, she froze at the back doorway, stunned by an explosion of vitriolic shouting by Siegfried in the front hall.

"Expelled! Unacceptable! Totally unacceptable! Of all the stupid, inconsiderate, dunder-headed exploits, this tears it. My God you stole a car? You could have gone to prison! You're lucky no one was killed in that wreck! All to impress a girl? To show off for other juvenile delinquents? You've been thrown out of one of the best preparatory schools in England. You've lost your scholarship - a full scholarship. Gone! All for a drunken spree. I am fed up. Completely worn out by your juvenile antics. You are no longer a child! You are fifteen years old and it is long past time you buckled down. Boys your age work twelve and fifteen hours a day, seven days a week on the docks, in the fields. I was in the army at your age, no chance for me to study at a posh school! Do you realize the opportunity you have wasted? What I would have given to ... God Damn it, Tristan! I can't bear to look at you. Oh no you don't! Come back here this instant; don't you dare turn your back on me. By God there will be consequences!"

A low male voice unsuccessfully attempted to stem Siegfried's outburst. The words were too soft to hear, not that Mrs. Hall wished to hear any of it. Shouting upset her. She'd had more than enough of male anger during the years of her marriage. Her husband's drunken tantrums had grown to beatings - of her and eventually of her son, Edward. She had stood the abuse, but when Edward became a target, she took him and fled. That had been in summer 1914, a week before war was declared. She had left Edward in the care of her sister-in-law and joined the Red Cross voluntary nurses' corps, one of the few respectable jobs open to unskilled women willing to learn and work hard.

As a VAD she'd driven ambulances and acted as surgical aide and stretcher bearer, as well as nursing near the front lines. She'd been at the first battle of the Marne, at Ypres, and Verdun, before she was wounded and reassigned to St John hospital in Etaples, nine miles behind the front line of the battle of the Somme in 1916.

In 1917, Britain established the WRENs, allowing women to officially serve and Mrs. Hall signed up. Almost immediately her unit was shipped home to care for wounded at Catterick Camp hospital - an army base in Yorkshire converted into a 750-bed facility to absorb the masses of wounded men flooding home for care and convalescence.

All that had happened almost two decades ago, but male anger and the threat of violence still froze her blood.

The telephone rang, interrupting Siegfried's rant.

"Darrowby two-two-nine-seven," he barked at the caller. "Where? ... How long? ... Yes. I'm coming. Keep her warm and quiet."

Then, "Mrs. Hall! I've been called out. We'll talk later. My brother, Tristan, can show you around town. I think he can just about manage that! There's petty cash on the mantle. For god's-sake don't give him any money. If anyone calls for me, take down the details. It's a bad presentation in a farrowing pig. It could take a few hours."

Mrs. Hall turned to the ice box. She cut stale bread and cheese, added sweet pickles from a jar, and folded together three sandwiches, wrapping them in paper. She poured hot water over tea leaves and searched for a thermos. Finding none, she tied a hand towel around a quart jar and filled it with tea and sugar, thrusting it all into a bag that she put into Siegfried's hand as he dashed toward the back door, carrying his wool coat and boots.

As Siegfried slammed out the back door, a thin young man with a mop of shaggy auburn hair and a pretty face stole into the kitchen.

"How do you do?" he asked politely. "I'm Tristan Farnon." He smiled a crooked grin.

"Pleased to meet you," she replied. "I'm Mrs. Hall, Mr. Farnon's housekeeper. He suggested you might show me around Darrowby. How does that sound? "

"If it means I get breakfast, I'm your man, Mrs. Hall!"

Chapter 4 - One Must Attend!

A blast of cold and a bellow from the back hall and Siegfried Farnon reappeared. "We'll need shovels to reach that Ashburton pig," he barked. "Tristan, you're coming with me. It's going to be a bloody ... Um..." he glanced at Mrs. Hall. "A very hard job getting up to the Ashburton place. They are well up beyond the Dimsdale's. Well!? Get a move on! The pig can't wait! "

On a whim, Mrs. Hall claimed a heavy coat, pulled Siegfried's hole-ridden socks, which had been drying over the oven, on over her woollen stockings and claimed a pair of Wellingtons standing in the back hallway. "I'm coming too," she called out as the Farnon brothers began shovelling a path from the car toward the road.

"You can't come!" Siegfried called at her. "It's brutal up in the high Dales and it could take hours just to reach the place."

"I'll stay to watch the phone, " Tristan offered.

"Shovel, "Siegfried growled at him. "Alright, Mrs. Hall. If someone needs us, they're out of luck anyway. The Ashburtons have no telephone. They called from a neighbor's. If it's urgent they can always call back. God knows they always do - usually in the middle of the night."

And so, Mrs. Hall bundled into the back seat of the little black car, alongside a leather medical bag, a large metal tray, a sack of sugar, and an empty wine bottle. After a few minutes, Siegfried Farnon added two shovels to the pile, climbed in front and fired up the engine. With Tristan pushing, they skittered across the cobbled yard and out into the road. Tristan leapt in and they were on their way.

Siegfried had not exaggerated the difficulties ahead. Although there were already wagon ruts in the snow-covered road, the car's axle was narrower. He kept one set of wheels in the rut, while the other wheels ploughed through deep drifts, constantly pulling the vehicle sideways. In the valley, it was challenging. As they climbed into higher country, it became life threatening. Freestone walls reared up along one side of the road, but on the other the land plunged away. Any error could send the car tumbling into nothingness.

Mrs. Hall watched silently as they snaked up the narrow path until, finally there was no path at all. The wagon ruts turned in at a small cobble house with a large stone barn. But Siegfried did not turn the wheel. He gunned the engine and ploughed on through fresh snow following a road he must have known by heart, because the landscape gave no hint as to just where the road might be.

Momentum carried the car another quarter mile uphill. Then, just as they were about to bog down, they crested the mountain and began a descent. They built speed as they rolled, until the vehicle flew, spewing plumes of snow aside like the wake of a ship. Mrs. Hall found it thrilling. She hadn't had such fun since she'd driven an army ambulance through roadless wastes in France. But their plummet slowed as the next hill approached. She watched Siegfried's shoulders tense as the car skewed crazily, spun sideways and stopped.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered, killing the engine. "It's still three miles. Shall we shovel or walk?"

Tristan groaned and replied, "We can go across country. Shorter that way."

"Good. Mrs. Hall, would you pass us the equipment?" Siegfried said as he climbed out. "There's a bearskin rug in the trunk. It should keep you reasonably warm. I'll leave you the tea and sandwiches. "

"I'm coming," she replied handing out the leather bag, sugar bag and wine bottle. "I saw worse than this in France, gentlemen. I'll carry the platter."

Slogging through snow that was, at times thigh deep, was hard going. Mr. Farnon broke trail, Mrs. Hall kept up. Tristan lagged behind, grousing to himself so that only Mrs. Hall heard. By the time they could see the farmstead that was their objective, Mrs. Hall had gained deeper respect for her employer. The man was impressive. Not only was he a dedicated professional, he was in excellent shape. His brother on the other hand was not. Fifteen-year-old Tristan was staggering and sweating profusely and threw himself down onto a bale of hay the instant they reached the barn.

The farmer, Mr. Ashburton had seen them coming and joined them at the barn door.

"She's delivered a dozen, Mr. Farnon," he rasped, "but summat else come out. It's a bloody mess! She's a good sow. Don't want to lose her."

Farnon followed the man into the dark barn. A massive pig stretched full length in a bed of bloody straw. Piglets sucked greedily at her teats. But as the farmer had said, something was definitely wrong.

"What is that?" Tristan gawked at a vast pile of engorged flesh that seemed to emerge from the sow's bottom.

"It's her uterus, poor thing!" Mrs. Hall declared before Siegfried could answer.

"Yes, perfectly correct, Mrs. Hall. It's a prolapse," he continued. "The organ has simply been pushed out along with the litter. Happens sometimes with older sows How old is she, Mr. Ashburton?"

"Going on fifteen," he replied soberly. "Litter every year. Good mom. Never seen this before. Will she die? I'd hate to lose her and her wee ones."

"We'll see, " Siegfried said. "There are three options - I can try to reposition the organ. That is difficult. As you can see its contaminated with all sorts of filth and debris. But it looks intact. So, if I can sluice it off, there's a chance of getting the thing back where it can function."

Mr. Ashburton nodded and said, "Let's have a go!"

Siegfried shook his head and continued, "I can amputate the organ and you can send her to the knacker. Or, if you prefer, you can shoot her. That's the cheapest way. She's your pig, Mr. Ashburton. Shall I try to save her? I warn you, it's a long shot that she'll survive. That organ is completely out of place. I've heard it can be done. I've never done it myself, but I've got the gear. With luck it might work."

"Let's try, Mr. Farnon!" Ashburton repeated. "She's a damn good pig."

"All right then," Siegfried agreed. "I need a large clean surface - a study table - bring several buckets of hot water and soap, block and tackle, and strong men to help. Someone bind her jaws. She's not going to appreciate what I'm about to do."

Ashburton hustled off to gather what might serve. A young man slipped a rope around the sow's jaws and strapped it behind her ears before he snugged it to a thick beam.

The sow growled a deep, menacing rumble.

By the time Ashburton returned, Siegfried had stripped to the waist in the cold barn. He studied the sow, saw she was firmly restrained, and said, "Take the litter away. Wouldn't want to tread on one."

Tristan and Mrs. Hall each picked up six of the squirming piglets and tucked them away in a straw lined stall. At the sound of their squealing protests, the sow growled again, struggled to her feet, and pulled against the rope that held her.

Siegfried made soothing sounds as he approached and scratched her back.

"I know, he murmured. "Your litter is alright. I have to get you back together or they won't be. You won't like it, but trust me, mother. It's your best chance."

Then he slipped a leather mask over the pig's snout and thrust a ball of chloroform-soaked cotton through a slit in the side of the mask. Within moments the pig toppled over and was unresponsive.

Siegfried ordered Ashburton to rig the block and tackle from an overhead beam. "Tie the end to her back trotters. Quickly now. The anaesthetic won't last forever. Get her backside up in the air. Tristan! Drag that table over here. You boys support the prolapse! Pull her higher. I want her backside even with the table top. Mrs. Hall, would you bring those buckets and see about cleansing the organ as best you can? I'm most grateful."

While the others followed orders, Siegfried placed the large metal tray and sack of sugar within reach, washed and soaped the wine bottle, and thoroughly scrubbed both his arms. Then he inspected the tissue. The mass of flesh was as large as a bag of feed and it was formless and slippery. The idea seemed preposterous that it might be returned to within the sow.

When all was to his liking, and with the help of four strong men, Siegfried lifted its mass onto the metal tray. Then he tore open the sugar sack and poured its entire contents over the swollen organ.

With that done, to everyone's shock, Siegfried washed his hands, pulled out his pipe and tobacco from the pocket of his tweed coat that hung beside his shirt on a nail, and lit up. He sat on a hay bale, staring at the pig suspended from the rafters with her uterus spread out behind her. No one spoke. The barn was silent except for the soft suck as Siegfried puffed pipe smoke into his lungs, the occasional protesting squeals of the newborn piglets, and the stamp and rattle of the plough horse and her companion shifting in their stalls at the far end of the dark barn.

After about ten minutes, Ashburton broke the silence. "Well? How long will she hang there Mr. Farnon?

"Oh, maybe another ten minutes, Dick. Maybe an hour."

"And it just goes back in by itself?" the farmer asked.

Siegfried laughed bitterly, "No, Dick. In a while the sugar will reduce the size of that grossly engorged uterus. After it does, I get to work." Then he glanced around the barn, "Mrs. Hall? Any chance of that tea and a sandwich? "

Twenty minutes later, after eating cold bread and cheese washed down with lukewarm sweet tea, Siegfried lathered his arms, gathered the much-reduced mass and began. The muscles of his back knotted as he carefully forced the delicate tissue inch by inch into the insensible sow's body. It was heavy work, but gravity helped.

After two hours of working the mass deeper and deeper into the sow's body, he grunted, "Tristan soap the bottle! Hand it over. I need to position the Fallopian tubes and stitch them in place before this whole thing shifts." More sweating and straining followed before he gasped, "Mrs. Hall, I'd be grateful if you would hand me the 2-inch curved needle with 4-inches of suture attached."

Finally, after more than three hours, he stood away from the pig. His arms were gore-covered, his chest caked with sugar and unmentionable fluids, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

The pig grunted and began to struggle.

"Let her down immediately," he ordered, bending over a cold bucket and splashing water over his head, back and arms. "That went well," he said as someone tossed him a burlap sack as a towel.

As he reached for it, everything went wrong. The table tipped. The rope broke and the block and tackle crashed down. The pig was on her feet and tore free from her muzzle with a fierce bark. Mrs. Hall jumped back, for she had just bent to hand Siegfried the burlap sack, but the pig was fast. It charged at her across the small space, but before it struck, Siegfried stepped between them.

The huge sow hit him hard, knocked him flat, and clamped onto his left shoulder. He punched her with his right fist, but she shook him like a rag. He bellowed as she pinned him into the muck. Blood poured from the beast's mouth.

Tristan charged the pig, yelling and repeatedly kicking her in the side. A farm hand grabbed a shovel and hit her hard across the back. Mrs. Hall snatched up the leather instrument satchel and struck the pig on the snout, pummelling Siegfried, as well. But he was past caring and was no longer screaming.

Finally, someone jammed an axe handle between the animal's jaws, prying them apart. Tristan up-ended the table and with the help of the other men, used it to shove the 300-pound pig away from his prostrate brother, as Ashburton grabbed Siegfried by the boots and dragged him from the pen. The others scrambled out as well. Tristan came last as he abandoned the table and vaulted over the plank siding of the pen.

The pig barked and snarled, savaging everything within her reach. Fortunately, Mrs. Hall still held the instrument satchel.

"Water," she snapped. "A clean sheet, cloth, anything! Get him off this muck. Put him on that wagon bed. I need light."

Siegfried's shoulder was a mass of torn flesh. White shards of bone protruded and he was bleeding heavily. Mrs. Hall set aside her terror and forced herself to consider the problem clinically. She'd never performed surgery, but had assisted on far worse injuries on the battlefields.

First, she told herself, stem the bleeding. Deal with shock. Thoroughly cleanse the wounds, probe for bone shards, set the breaks, apply sterilant and bind the wounds. Transport. She tore strips of cloth from Siegfried's shirt and pressed them into the wounds to stem the bleeding, while she ordered the others to act.

"Tristan, get a blanket over him."

"Mr. Ashburton, hitch your horse to a wagon or sled if you have one."

"Hold that light higher."

After Tristan threw a filthy horse blanket over her patient, Mrs. Hall said, "Tristan, take that other horse and the men and get the car out of the ditch and turned around. We need to get your brother to a doctor as soon as possible." She dug the keys out of Siegfried's pocket and tossed them to him. "Hurry!"

Ashburton arrived with his plough horse hitched to a stone sledge. "This will go overland Missus, but you're new here. There is no proper doctor. There's a midwife and a traveling nurse comes once about every other month. Anything worse, we goes to Scarborough to hospital."

"That's more than eighty miles," she replied. "What about emergencies?"

"Mr. Farnon always sets things aright for us, don't generally need to bother with a doctor."

The Ashburtons did far more than Mrs. Hall had asked. Mrs. Ashburton brought a thermos of tea, two hot water bottles, a clean shirt, and a heavy blanket from the house. She helped Mrs. Hall dress Siegfried and then the three of them bundled him onto the sledge wrapped in both blankets with hot water bottles on his chest and feet. Fortunately, he was unconscious, making the processes easier on everyone.

Mr. Ashburton rode the plough horse, making room on the sledge for Siegfried and Mrs. Hall. The trip overland was slow but uneventful. As she stared at the horse's rump, Mrs. Hall fought back panic. Was there really no one to help? What on earth could she do?

'Deal with what needs doing!' she told herself, gripping Siegfried's unresponsive hand under the blankets. Then she prayed hard, until the car came into sight.

Mr. Ashburton pulled the horse and sledge close to the vehicle, dismounted and took charge. The men had Siegfried bundled into the back seat of the car with little fuss. When Tristan started to climb behind the wheel, she stopped him.

"Oh no," she said. "I'll drive. Your brother needs you. Get in back and hold him steady. He might wake up. Do not alarm him. Be reassuring. No details. Just comfort him. Lie if you have to, Tristan."

Fortunately, the sun had melted enough of the snow to reveal the road back to Skeldale House. Mrs. Hall drove as fast as she dared -intent on not wasting the golden hour - that brief period when medical care could make the difference between success and failure.

Mrs. Hall pulled the car close to the back door of the infirmary and said, "Run over to the pub, Tristan. We need strong men to get your brother inside. Send them over, but you go on and find the Vicar. I need someone to steady me. Then go on to the druggist. Get iodine, gauze, hypodermic needles, sodium hypochlorite and boric acid. Also, stop at a shop for food - chicken, beef bones, fresh vegetables - anything for broth. Money's on the mantel."

Tristan bolted from the back seat, leaving Mrs. Hall and Siegfried alone. He moaned. She turned in the front seat to see him struggling against the blankets.

"Damned stupid of me," he muttered. "Not a good start for you, Mrs. Hall. I do hope you won't abandon your post. I'm not always such a bother."

"Nonsense," she replied. "I'm sure you are always an incredible bother, Mr. Farnon. I do appreciate your saving me from that pig. She had me in her sights, not you."

"Think nothing of it, dear lady. My duty. Not the first time I bungled a job. There was a horse just last week. Terrible thing. Machinegun fire does a horse no good at all. But he was still standing, brave lad. I used local anaesthetic and got the bullets out of his flank and side. I was stitching him up when it wore off. He reared. Came right over on top of me. Broke my arm, ankle, and three ribs. Put the needle right through my hand. Felt a fool, I can tell you. Out of commission for the better part of three months."

His jocular façade slipped and he groaned, "Where are the medics, sister? Is there morphine?"

Mrs. Hall climbed out of the driver's seat and into the back. She laid her hand on Siegfried's forehead. It was too hot.

"You're home, Mr. Farnon, in Darrowby," she said. "You're a bit confused. You're not in France. You are home. We'll have you inside soon and see to your shoulder. Does anything else hurt?"

"Ribs," he croaked. "Cracked a couple, I think. Can't feel my arm. Nerve damage, I suppose. Who's the surgeon? Do you know? Is he any good?"

"Hush, now. Close your eyes," Mrs. Hall answered as she held a cotton wad soaked in chloroform under his nose. "He's the best we have. Don't you worry."

Chapter 5 - Mrs. Hall.

Lads from the pub had manhandled Siegfried Farnon into the small animal surgery. An improvised surgical table was made from a door pulled from its hinges and lashed to the metal surgical table used for treating cats and dogs.

When the Vicar appeared, he had been no help at all, merely a distraction. Mrs. Hall knew it as soon as he demanded she join him in prayer. The man may have known how to comfort the dying, but Siegfried Farnon would not die. Not if Mrs. Hall could help it. Prayer would come later.

She dismissed the man, saying, "God helps them that helps themselves." Fortunately, he didn't debate, but slunk quietly away to join the crowd from the pub, who lingered in the hallway.

It was surprisingly easy for Mrs. Hall to forget that she knew the man lying insensible before her. But training had kicked in. Despite two decades since her service at the front, she could view Mr. Farnon as a casualty, not as the man she'd come to admire.

She called rapid fire orders at Tristan.

"Tristan, find gauze, a small metal pan, suture material, a sterile bottle I can use for irrigation, bring the measuring cup from the kitchen and salt."

"Bring me everything from the druggist. Get these men out of here - the Vicar, as well. He can help you in the kitchen to put whatever meat bones you bought on the stove for broth."

"While you're in the kitchen set the largest pot to boil. Stoke the fire. When the water boils, bring it here. Also scissors."

"I need clean clothes Tristan. My skirt and blouse are filthy. Bring me one of your clean shirts, a pair of trousers and then give me some privacy."

Then she stepped into the hallway and said, "Thank you all. Now please go away."

Mrs. Hall closed the door firmly behind the crowd of helpers who had been gawking at Siegfried Farnon, who had become a local attraction.

She scrubbed her bloody hands in the small sink, thanking God she worked for a medical man. A moment later there was a soft knock on the door. Tristan opened it slightly and placed carefully folded men's clothing inside. As the door closed again Mrs. Hall stripped to her bare skin, returned to the sink and scrubbed herself thoroughly. She tied a clean cloth over her hair, dressed in Tristan's shirt and trousers, scrubbed her hands and arms again, pulled on surgical gloves, and turned to her patient.

Tristan returned with the equipment she'd ordered and, minutes later, with a pot of boiling water.

"Put everything but the chemicals and gauze into the boiling water," she told him. "When you've done that, remove his shirt, boots, socks and pants. Toss a sheet over him. That shirt belongs to the Ashburtons. I'll wash it. Just put it in cold water in the kitchen sink for those blood stains."

Mrs. Hall examined the man in her care. He looked years younger. Unburdened of responsibility for his brother and the welfare of others lifted years from his face.

"There's tenderness there," she realized. "He hides it behind rigid self-control or total fury."

Then she set to work. With Tristan out of the way dealing with kitchen chores, she examined her patient for injuries from head to toes. She ran her fingers carefully through his hair and along his neck. The muck had softened his fall, but the weight of a 300-pound pig at full speed could cause concussion or spinal damage. All seemed well, but his confusion in the car was a warning sign.

She checked his chest next. He'd complained of rib pain and his left side was discoloured. There were cracked ribs. She felt them give under gentle pressure. She bent low and placed her ear against his chest, listening for the tell-tale swish of a perforated lung. All seemed well. "Thank the lord," she muttered. "A punctured lung would have been beyond me."

Next, she palpated his belly, feeling for internal damage. There was no evidence of swelling. She continued down each thigh and leg. Nothing was broken.

Satisfied that she knew the worst of it, Mrs. Hall shone the tiny surgical lamp on the massively disfigured shoulder. It had begun to clot, which was good in that it slowed the blood loss, but unacceptable because it would also trap and encourage growth and build-up of infective organisms. Even through the mess of bloody cloth, she could make out the shattered ends of the collar bone, the rounded knob of the humerus, and the shimmering cartilage that was the edge of the left rotator cuff. In addition to the torn muscle, the shoulder joint was dislocated.

Repositioning the joint could wait. The first step must be irrigation and disinfection. The pig pen had been strewn with straw. Beneath had been a layer of dried muck, common in any Yorkshire barn. There'd been fresh blood and birthing offal, as well as fresh manure. All together the place was a cornucopia of germs. Worse still was the mouth of the pig. Animal bites of any kind carried high risk of sepsis.

Mrs. Hall had seen otherwise young healthy men die of rat bites simply because they'd had no effective treatment for the resulting purulence. Trial and error by desperate doctors had led to bizarre treatments – such as drainage of infected areas through multiple ignipunctures, a series of holes into the wound via bites performed by "thermomocautery" – a fancy term for shoving red hot pokers into a patient's flesh. They also tried laminar drainage, suction drainage and a host of other inventions involving rubber tubing, pumps and layers of impermeable materials, including bicycle inner tube sections flattened and fashioned into something resembling roofing tiles. It had been all far too complicated for front line medical care.

Ultimately the most practical technique was to keep the wound open, cover it lightly with gauze wetted with a five percent solution sodium hypochlorite, and avoid any constrictions, such as bandages. Since sodium hypochlorite is caustic and burns healthy flesh, areas at the edge of the wound were protected with a layer of petroleum jelly or other surgical cream.

And so, first, she scrubbed blood, gore and muck from every part of Siegfried's body, paying special attention to his arms, hands, chest, neck, hair, and back. After several changes of soapy water, the sugary slime, the pig dung and bits of straw and grit were banished, leaving only clean pink skin on a broad chest dusted with rusty hair. Then, she gently brushed the undamaged skin of his left shoulder and upper arm with iodine. She dried the area around the wound and applied petroleum jelly.

She carefully pulled away the cloth strips she'd used to stem the bleeding, breaking away blood clots and snipping bits of torn skin that were sure to die anyway. Anything that might impede the essential flow of purulent material from the wound must go. The wound began to bleed freely again, but she ignored the blood.

Instead, she fully opened the wound. Then, she mixed a five percent solution of sodium hypochlorite and irrigated the torn flesh, flooding the gaping wound aggressively, forcing out debris, clots of blood, and bits of shattered bone. When no foreign matter remained, she inspected the source of the bone shards. While the rotator cuff and head of the humerus appeared intact, the collar bone had been crushed into four major pieces, and innumerable tiny shards.

Taking her time, Mrs. Hall searched thoroughly, plucking out every miniscule white glimmer of bone. She left four alarmingly large pieces in place. They were once the collar bone. She knew no way to set them. How the collar bone would ever knit, she could not imagine. But that was a future concern.

Finally satisfied, she dusted the raw flesh with a light layer of boric acid powder. Then she applied a loose covering of wet gauze to the wound. It immediately became soaked with blood, but she applied another layer and another, until the blood stopped oozing. Then, she bound his two cracked ribs with broad straps of surgical tape.

At last, she stepped into the hallway and called for the Vicar and Tristan.

"I'm not strong enough to reduce a dislocated shoulder," she said. "If you follow my instructions, it's simple enough. Vicar, hold him down firmly. Do not let him slip. Tristan, take a firm grip on his upper arm. Brace your foot against the surgical table and pull with a hard, straight jerk. The ball of the humerus should pop right back into the socket."

The pair of men looked unsure.

"Look! I've already done the hard part," she barked. "I simply cannot do this. Now, get ready, you two. On three. One, two, three!"

And it worked. There was an awful pop, but the shoulder joint slid back into place and the deformity vanished, leaving only the horrendous hole – mercifully covered by wet gauze to avoid alarming the men more than necessary.

"Thank god," Mrs. Hall whispered.

"Amen to that," the Vicar agreed.

Tristan said nothing. He stood silently staring down at the insensible elder brother who had made his last two years hell with his demands and his bullying.

"Will Siegfried be alright, Mrs. Hall?" he asked softly.

"If we can beat sepsis. He's got a good chance," Mrs. Hall replied.

Silently Tristan began to weep. His shoulders shook and then he stepped around the table, wrapped Mrs. Hall in his arms, and sobbed into her shoulder.

Chapter 7 - Laid low.

"Mrs. Hall?" Siegfried Farnon croaked." Mrs. Hall? Tristan!"

Tristan strolled into his brother's bedroom. "Oh, you're awake," he said.

"What has happened?" Siegfried demanded.

"Nothing much. Dick Ashburton's pig nearly killed you. Mrs. Hall has pulled you through. Can you imagine? That woman performed emergency care on the Ashburton's wagon and then actual surgery in your small animal suite. Aside from that, it has been a quiet week."

"Week!" Siegfried coughed. "A week of income lost during lambing season? I'm ruined. Ruined! What are you smiling at, idiot? WE are ruined!"

Tristan grinned, relishing the moment.

"Lambing is over, dear brother" he purred. "We finished the last of them off three days ago. Now it's all the usual stuff – calving, foaling, plus run-of-the-mill calls for lacerations, horn and hoof trimming."

Siegfried pulled himself upright, gripping his ribs, threw back the bed covers and rasped:

"We!

Who!?

Exactly!

Is WE!?"

"It's Mrs. Hall, Siegfried, and me. She created a sensation, since you danced with that pig. The Ashburtons spread the word. They call her nothing short of a miracle worker. The fellows from the pub saw her in action, as well. I believe your Vicar is also quite impressed."

Tristan stopped smiling and said sternly. "Show some gratitude for once. Your new housekeeper has kept our house and your practice alive, with just a little help from your good-for-nothing little brother."

Siegfried collapsed back onto his pillows with a groan. His crimson face had gone deathly pale.

"Idiots!" he hissed. "You don't even know what you have done. I will lose my license to practice. Everything I have worked for since I was younger than you, because neither of you are veterinarians!"

The bedroom door swung open.

"We don't have to be veterinarians," Mrs. Hall stated as she entered with a tray. "We can just be neighbors helping out our neighbors. No money has changed hands."

Siegfried blinked, astonished, and stammered, "No money?! Then, we're destitute. Here I am, stuck in bed, while it all falls apart."

His face turned ashen grey and he suddenly stopped yelling.

"To hell with it," he said softly turning his face into the pillow. "I give up."

Mrs. Hall shot a warning look at Tristan, who slunk away, closing the door behind him.

She set the tray aside and leaned over Siegfried, who turned his face away from the pillow to gaze up at her with alarm as she touched his top pyjama button.

"What are you doing?" he protested.

"Checking your shoulder," she replied. "Just as I've done two dozen times a day for the past ten days. It's only different now because you're back in your right mind."

"I wasn't?"

"No. You had a high temperature. You were delirious, very worried about a horse that you treated at the front twenty years ago. Kept insisting I check on him."

"I shot that beast a few months later."

"Oh dear. I am sorry. That must have been hard."

"Just one of thousands, Mrs. Hall, but I'd have rather shot myself. And, as long as we are on the subject of hard actions. I must let you go. I am sorry."

"No," she replied.

"I can't pay you," he explained.

"Our contract terms allow me a six-month trial to prove myself."

"I have no money and no way of earning any. I cannot pay you," he repeated desperately.

"I understood I was to enjoy room and board as well as 1/2 pound a week. There was no discussion of exactly when I would be paid, Mr. Farnon."

Siegfried stared at her, realized she was refusing to abandon him, and blinked hard, "I can't feed you. I can't even feed Tristan and myself."

"Not to worry about that," Mrs. Hall replied. "Now, hush and let me see your shoulder."

After she had completed her examination, Mrs. Hall said, "You're doing well, Mr. Farnon. There is already granulation of the wound. The infection has drained well. I am concerned that you are still running a fever. I need you to be calm and to do as you are told for a while longer. I know it's not in your nature, but please try to be patient with me. Here. Eat some soup."

As she ladled soup into her employer, he watched her with growing suspicion. Finally, he couldn't contain himself.

"You said there was nothing to eat in this house, but bread, eggs, and cheese. We were going to the shops, before the Ashburtons called for me."

"True."

"Then how is it that I am being fed this very rich beef broth? Where did the funds for beef come from?" he barked.

"I didn't purchase it. When we help our neighbors, each of them press a little something on us. A jar of pickled pigs' feet. A loaf of bread. Sausages, eggs, a hen, or a meaty beef bone or two. Fresh milk. Home churned butter. It's just as they always have done when you helped them out. It's not payment. It's friendship. It is friendship you've earned over the years of helping your neighbors. It's enough to keep us going while you mend."

At the look on Siegfried's face, Mrs. Hall stood and left the room with the tray, closing the door behind her. Siegfried Farnon was a proud man and Mrs. Hall did not intend to see his tears.

Chapter 8 - Scarborough.

The bus to Scarborough left Darrowby at 6 o'clock. Siegfried Farnon boarded the bus reluctantly with an eager Tristan at his heels.

"She's right," Tristan repeated as they took seats at the back. "You need a qualified doctor to check you over before you go back full-time."

"Absolute nonsense," Siegfried growled as the bus rolled out of the town square, heading south. "A full day wasted. A day's income lost. I feel perfectly fit. I've been working for two months without any problem."

"Mrs. Hall's a fine nurse, but she's the first to admit she could do nothing for your collar bone. The pig smashed it to bits. I saw the bone shards. There's nothing holding you together but scar tissue and stubborn pride. "

Siegfried didn't respond. So, Tristan continued. "You did fine on that calf yesterday. It looked like hard work, and it went on for hours."

"Your point?" Siegfried demanded.

Tristan shot back, "Three whiskies last night. Third time this week. Before the accident you rarely had two. Most nights it was tea. You are in pain."

"I can still do my job," Siegfried replied. "There's no one else. There's no other way."

Tristan gripped his brother's arm and said, "There's me."

"You?" Siegfried laughed. "You're a boy, Tristan. You are far too intelligent for me to allow you to waste yourself as a labourer. Right now, that's all you are qualified to do. Besides, I doubt you would be any Dale farmer's first pick. So, it's down to me you see. Besides I promised."

The bus bounded along the rolling terrain of the Dales. Neither Farnon brother spoke for hours. What could Tristan say to Siegfried's logic. It was true. He knew nothing and could do nothing.

When the sea came into view at last, Tristan wondered aloud. "Why would Mrs. Hall leave a place with such gorgeous views to come to the high Dales? Look at the shops. Look at the people! There's a cinema! There's a cafe and a real restaurant."

Siegfried held his tongue, but the question Tristan raised had occurred to him many times since she first appeared in his kitchen. She was so amiable, conscientious, skilful, brave even. The woman had saved his life one day, his livelihood the next and, in her free moments, had darned his socks, sewed on buttons, laundered and ironed his clothes, tidied, cooked, kept the books and took calls, and found time in the evenings after supper for intelligent conversation. She was a marvel.

A person of such qualities must have left behind friends and maybe even children. She'd had a husband. Was he living? Dead? In jail, oversees, living with another woman? The possible explanations were endless. What event could explain a good woman's flight to Darrowby, the back of beyond?

Being a man exposed to the uglier side of life during the Great War, Siegfried had a theory. Mrs. Hall's escape to Darrowby involved a man, either a miserable marriage, a scandal, or both. Imagining upstanding Mrs. Hall as the cause of intrigue was unthinkable. So, that left her husband.

Blessed with a fierce love for his own dear wife and aching from her sudden loss, Siegfried hated to imagine Mrs. Hall trapped in a loveless or violent marriage. It drove him to do everything within his power to instil in her a sense of perfect safety and total respect under his roof. It was hard at times to curb his language and almost impossible to control his temper. He did try.

He tried ever since he had seen her face pale when he exploded and he felt profoundly ashamed. That he might cause such a reaction in her was simply unacceptable. Her reaction confirmed violence in her past. That such a fine woman might be afraid, or harmed in any way, caused him to heartily wish he dared broach the subject with her, so he could find the brute responsible and give him a well-deserved thrashing.

That was impossible, however. It would require him to invade something very painful and private. Someday she might choose to trust him with her story, but he could never ask.

The bus pulled to a stop on Scarborough's High Street. Tristan was on his feet and lost in the crowd of departing passengers. Siegfried watched him go. He didn't move. He was here under pressure and dreaded what a physician might say about his wrecked shoulder. Tristan - who was generally unaware of his brother except as a source of funds and castigation- knew he was drinking at night to kill the pain. Therefore, Mrs. Hall also knew.

During busy days he could ignore it. Nights, however, were agony, making him short tempered, morose and unable to rest. Some nights it hardly seemed worth the bother. He had access to half a dozen ways to end the pain.

In the quiet of sleepless hours, he yearned to join his wife in eternal slumber. Many nights he considered his options. If it could be made to appear accidental, Tristan would receive funds enough to complete his schooling.

But, no. To Tristan money was an endless stream. If Siegfried was not present to stem his impulses, the boy would burn through his inheritance and Siegfried's life insurance in one glorious burst of fun, and then spend the rest of his days in pinch-penny misery.

And, there was Mrs. Hall to consider. She could keep house elsewhere, or even return to nursing, but the woman exuded tenderness and even a feeling of being somehow responsible for him well beyond cooking, cleaning and mending. A strange turnabout, since he was master. But there it was. He could not justify hurting her the way his wife's sudden death had devastated him. It was too cruel.

Siegfried stood and followed the last few passengers onto the cobbled square. Tristan was already gazing into windows, as if he had funds. He didn't. Siegfried had made certain. He'd checked the boy's pockets, counted the petty cash, and verified that Mrs. Hall hadn't slipped him anything.

Merely window shopping was harmless. It would keep Tristan occupied while Siegfried attended to more serious matters at the veteran's hospital, the bank, and at Mrs. Hall's former church.

"I have several appointments this morning," he said as Tristan trotted up. "You deserve some fun. Here's five shillings. Don't be late back here for the bus. It leaves at 4:30 on the minute. Miss it and you'll be sleeping in the park, if the police don't pick you up as a vagrant."

The distraction of money and unsupervised time worked. Tristan didn't question why Siegfried might want privacy. With a surprised grin, he said, "Thanks!" And charged off without a glance back.

Siegfried turned in the opposite direction. His doctor's appointment was just before noon, leaving him 40 minutes to speak to Mrs. Hall's Vicar at her previous parish. The church was three blocks off the high street and in the opposite direction of the shops that lured Tristan. As he approached the Norman Era structure, Siegfried's steps slowed. How was this less of an intrusion? He'd justified the appointment because he had grown very fond of Mrs. Hall and, frankly, he worried about her. Whatever she'd run from might well appear on his doorstep. He needed to prepare. Or so he'd told himself.

Filled with doubt over his motives, he stepped into the cool darkness of the stone building and the musty sweetness of lingering incense enveloped him. No one was about, so he walked to the bank of candles and lit two for his parents, one for his wife, and another for luck - a bit of a sacrilege. Holy candles were not supposed to be lucky charms. They were not meant to be lit for the living, but he felt the need and thought The Almighty might understand his intention.

"Mr. Farnon? " a voice called out and footsteps echoed between the stone walls.

"Yes" Siegfried answered. "Thank you for meeting with me."

The two men walked through a side door that led through a hallway and into modest office.

"You seem troubled," the Vicar said.

"I'm in pain. I had an accident and I'm not quite myself. But, yes. I'm concerned about a friend."

"Audrey is a fine woman. I am so pleased you see her as something more than an employee."

"Yes, well," Siegfried stammered. "I suppose it is obvious that I'm speaking of Mrs. Hall. Something drove her to leave here. I am absolutely not asking you to divulge anything confidential. But should I worry? It's clear her marriage has not been easy."

"Stay on your guard, Mr. Farnon. I can't say more, but your instincts are correct. She'll not tell you, I suppose, but ... well, look after her."

"I shall," Siegfried said earnestly. "I admire Mrs. Hall and owe her more than I can ever repay."

"So, I've heard! Vicars are not immune to gossip. She is quite amazing. You can do one thing for her, Mr. Farnon."

"Oh?" Siegfried asked.

"Look after yourself as well. I have it on indubitable authority that Audrey would be devastated should any harm come to you. For her sake, promise?"

Siegfried stood abruptly, shocked by the man's insight - or was it a lucky guess? From the wisdom of the eyes that bore into him, he thought not.

"I'm responsible for a younger brother and I am quite aware that Mrs. Hall depends on me financially. If it reassures you to know, I am visiting an army doctor in just a few minutes to discuss my prognosis. I hope to find some relief from the pain that persists."

"I am glad to hear it, Mr. Farnon. If you follow the street to the right, it takes you directly to the veteran's hospital. You will notice a ramshackle junk shop on your left. It might be an interesting place to stop by after your appointment. Good luck."

The men shook hands and Siegfried left feeling unsettled. The Vicar had answered his unspoken question. Mrs. Hall's husband was alive, in Scarborough and, undoubtedly trouble.

Chapter 9 -Doctor John Ascoli.

The veteran's hospital was a massive building of red brick hidden behind a screen of old oaks and three quarters covered with ivy. There was nothing charming about the grounds. Acres of lawn stretched away from the actual structure. Here and there white coated keepers hovered over resident patients in wheelchairs or hobbling slowly across the green with no particular destination. Many of those men were of Siegfried's generation. Seeing their bleak existence shocked him. He very nearly fled the place. He'd given his word, however, and continued briskly toward the massive, overwrought entryway of marble columns and vast oaken doors. Inside the familiar odours of phenol carried him back twenty years to another hospital- one of sunshine and the charm of the French countryside. It had been unpleasant at the time, but now it seemed a relief by contrast to the ugly depressing space.

"Do you have an appointment, Sir."

"Yes, 11:45 am with Doctor John Ascoli," Siegfried replied.

"Up to third floor, ask at desk 6."

Siegfried found his way and was escorted into a small, worn room containing two chairs, a desk, an examination table and a scale. There was no window. He sat and waited. Twenty minutes passed before a person joined him.

"So," the ancient man said, "You've buggered yourself up again, have you Siegfried? "

"I beg your pardon?" Siegfried replied stiffly.

"Ha!" the old man barked. "I've seen your file. I set bones for you two decades ago, Sir. Crushed under a horse!" Ascoli said.

"This time it was a pig," Siegfried replied. "Tore a hole in my shoulder. Better now, but it hurts like bloody hell."

"All the time?" Ascoli asked.

"Yes, but worse at night."

"Shirt off. Let's have a look."

The old man poked and clucked, pulled Siegfried's shoulder this way and that, and then dug out an instrument and pricked his skin here and there. Finally, he said, "I'd swear this is front line surgery if I didn't know better."

"My housekeeper was a nurse in the war," Siegfried explained.

"She was a damned fine surgical nurse and in the front lines. I know the look of it," Ascoli said. "You're a lucky man. First rate job. But you say it hurts."

"Yes."

"That's because a piece of the crushed clavicle is pressing on a nerve. You're wise to have come. We'll have it out and you'll get relief. Probably lose the use of your arm if we don't. It's not much of a choice. The shards can move any time. Can sever a nerve or cut a blood vessel. That area controls important things - your heart, for example."

"I can't afford to be an invalid. I'm a veterinarian. I work solo."

"Your choice, but dead men can't work. Recovery doesn't have to take more than a few weeks. You just lay off the heavy stuff. Neuter a few dogs and cats, leave the cattle and horses alone. Or take your chances and drop dead one of these days. "

The doctor stepped out of the room. Siegfried sat, stunned.

When the doctor returned, he said, "We can take you now. I told them it's an emergency case. Don't be a fool. Let me remove those bits of bone. I'll stitch you up and we might even get you back on the bus back to Darrowby today. "

Two hours later, Siegfried was escorted out of the hospital wearing an L-shaped contraption that allowed him to move his hand and forearm, but held his shoulder rigid. His chest ached. Ascoli had sliced through the scar tissue and removed most of his left collar bone, then stitched him up, swaddled his chest in absorbent padding, gauze and tape, strapped him into a brace, and released him.

And despite the surgical pain, the deep agony that had gnawed at him was gone.

Chapter 10 - Mr. Hall.

Siegfried retraced his steps back toward the church. He felt light-headed from the anaesthetic. He needed to see his banker, but he was drawn to have a look at the junk shop that somehow related to Mrs. Hall.

The shop stood at the corner of a small side street. A pub flanked it. The shop windows were filthy with dust and he had to enter to see anything. He stepped inside. The place was dark and a jumble of unsorted miscellany flanked both sides of a narrow aisle. At the end of the walkway stood a glass enclosed office.

Siegfried recognized this was no junk shop. It was a bookies' establishment. The junk was camouflage. Since making book was not strictly prohibited, there was more involved here. Loan-sharking seemed likely.

"Whatcha need?" a voice called out.

On a whim, Siegfried called back, "Can't work. Can't make my rent. Bunged up my arm. Heard you might be able to help me out."

"Well friend, that's correct." A large man with thick black hair and brilliant blue eyes emerged from the office and leered at him. He had a misshapen nose of a boxer and fists like hams. His shirt sleeves stretched over bulging biceps and he walked on his toes, ready for any sudden move.

Siegfried's hackles rose. He knew a predator when he saw one.

"How much? " Siegfried asked.

"Vigorish is 20 percent. I can let you have 50 bob. Payback in full in 3 months. You can't pay, we work something else out."

"Work something out?" Siegfried asked. "Like what?"

"I give you a little job or two, until you catch up on payments. Where do you work?"

"Stockyards," Siegfried lied. "I'm a knocker."

"So, you bring me steaks. Or maybe you do some knocking for me on the side."

Siegfried smiled, although his blood ran cold, and said, "I'll be back. Got to check with my bookie. Maybe my horse came in this time." Then he backed out of the shop.

So, that was Mr. Hall.

Siegfried quickly walked away and turned down a side street, eager to leave behind what he'd just encountered. The man was far more than a bookie, or even a loan-shark. He was a criminal of the worst sort. Siegfried had felt Hall measuring him, like a lion stalking a wounded beast. How Audrey Hall had come under the power of such a man mystified him. She had a good head on her shoulders. She had skills. She was moral to the bone.

What had possessed her to marry such a man?

Whatever her reasons, Siegfried knew without a doubt he would stand between Mrs. Hall and the man to whom she was legally tied, no matter what, whatever it required. The thought of sweet-natured, intelligent, kind-hearted Audrey Hall under the power of that brute was simply, entirely unacceptable.

With that in mind, he turned toward his bank. He had an appointment to meet his banker and solicitor there to update his Last Will and Testament and then store it safely away. His recent injury had brought home to Siegfried how vulnerable Tristan was. A moment of inattention, a bit of bad luck, any error could bring Siegfried down. He'd surely have died, if not for Mrs. Hall. His brother would have been alone in the world, without skills, income, or adult supervision.

Siegfried had been lax in his filial duties. Thus, the will must be adjusted. He would name Mrs. Hall as Tristan's guardian, if he should die, until the boy reached the age of majority, 21. In addition, Mrs. Hall must be protected. An annual stipend of 200 pounds, funded by his veteran's life insurance, and life tenancy at Skeldale House would set her up nicely.

Tristan wouldn't mind. Those two got on far better than they ever had as brothers. Siegfried had been serving under Allenby in the Middle East when his brother was born. He'd never set eyes on the child until after the Great War ended and Siegfried mustered out. The boy had been a shy toddler hiding behind his mother's skirts.

Solidifying arrangements for Tristan's future was a relief. Siegfried had never wanted the responsibility of seeing Tristan through to adulthood, but he took it seriously. It was a deathbed promise to their father. Not something an eldest son could shirk.

Having set to rights matters of money and law, Siegfried had just time to walk past shops and cafés along the high street to the square where the Darrowby bus stood idling. He boarded awkwardly. The L-shaped brace required him to sidle to the back. It did not allow him to sit normally. He had to slip in back first and ended up seated sideways across two seats with his feet projecting into the aisle. It was all less than dignified.

He dosed off, exhausted by the operation, and still feeling the influence of the anaesthetic. Only when the bus began to roll, did he awake. He looked across the seats for Tristan's shock of auburn hair. He couldn't see it.

"Bloody hell," he muttered and then shouted. "Stop the bus."

Chapter 11 - Tristan disappears.

It was difficult to clamber off, but Siegfried managed, checking along the way that his younger brother was, in fact, absent. Then, he climbed down onto the cobbles and watched their bus drive away.

He posted himself on a bench to watch for his brother's late arrival. Forty-five minutes passed. An hour. Two hours.

It was getting dark and Siegfried was worried. He'd been furious but that emotion had cooled as the minutes ticked by. What might have happened? Tristan had been on his own at school for two years. He was a seasoned traveller.

Finally, Siegfried stood and abandoned his plan to watch for his brother's late arrival. He wasn't coming.

Siegfried walked to the nearest telephone box and called Skeldale House. Mrs. Hall answered.

"Is Tristan there?" Siegfried asked.

"No. Isn't he with you?" she replied.

"He didn't show for the bus. I've waited two hours. I'm going to check with the police. I'll call again, in case he finds his way home. If you speak to him, tell him I'm spending the night here and will leave word with the police as to which hotel."

Siegfried rang off and walked several blocks before he saw a blue lamp, indicating a police station.

Siegfried approached the desk Sergeant and explained. "My brother was to meet me for the bus back to Darrowby. He's only fifteen and he hasn't shown."

"We don't bother with missing persons for 24-hours, Sir."

"Yes," Siegfried answered, holding his temper. "I wonder if he might be in custody."

The Sergeant's eyebrows raised and he said, "Oh! One of those kids! Take a seat and I'll see who we've nabbed today that might fit the bill."

Siegfried felt his ears burn. He held his temper. The Sergeant had no reason to know Tristan was basically a good lad, just high spirited. "He's 5' 10" with auburn hair, about 8 stone. He was wearing a grey school suit, white shirt, blue tie, and tan shoes," Siegfried reported. Then he sat heavily on the wooden bench and waited. His chest ached and he longed to lay down.

After several long conversations and a number of other matters involving booking vagrants, pickpockets, and ladies of questionable character, the Sergeant called out.

"Sorry, Sir. We don't have him. At least not yet."

Siegfried stood and asked, "I need a cheap hotel. Can you recommend a place where I won't find more grief?

"My sister has rooms. Two houses down," the Sergeant jerked his thumb to the right. "I'll let you know if anything comes up."

The room was simple, clean and cheap. Siegfried used a telephone box nearby to let Mrs. Hall know how to reach him. Then he eased himself onto the bed and slept.

The next morning, on a desperate hope, he called the veteran's hospital and left a message for Ascoli, asking if he could check for enlistment that occurred in the past 30-hours. The Sergeant's sister fed him breakfast and took payment for two nights. Then he placed another call to Mrs. Hall, but she had no good news.

Unable to rest, Siegfried walked back to the church. He had no intention of speaking to the Vicar. He needed peace and the cool, dark simplicity of the church. He knelt in a pew and prayed. At some point prayer turned to tears. He had driven his brother away. God knew where the boy was, how he was, if he was safe, hungry, cold.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Siegfried looked up into the Vicar's concerned face.

"Come," the old man said.

Siegfried followed him. This time the Vicar led him to a warm room with a couch, armchair s, and a fireplace.

"Tell me." he said.

"My brother is gone. He didn't meet me as we agreed. I've checked with the police. I left a message with a doctor in case ..."

"In case he's injured?"

"No! In case he enlisted. I've rubbed his nose in the fact that I had to enter military service to become a veterinarian. Good God, I never checked the hospitals. " He stood as if to leave, but the Vicar placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into place.

"Let me make a few calls. You have a cup of tea."

He rang a bell and told his housekeeper to bring a pot of tea and some biscuits. Then he excused himself. Hours passed and Siegfried slept. Finally, the Vicar woke him, smiling.

"You were right. He joined the Marines. Lied about his age. They don't take fifteen-year-olds without a parent's signature. They've already put him on the early bus to Darrowby. I've arranged a car to drive you home. You need to take it easy. Take a couple of your pain pills and you'll be there before you wake up."

Chapter12 - Home Again.

"You said it and you are right," Tristan repeated. "I know nothing. I can do nothing. I'm a child at the same age you were learning a trade, serving in the army, making a difference. You were a man at my age. I am nothing."

Siegfried shook his head and tried to stand, but Mrs. Hall put a gentle hand on his shoulder and held him in the armchair by the fire.

"I've been far too hard on you, Tris," Siegfried sighed. "I'd take it back if I could, but all I can do is promise things will be different. What is it you would like to make of yourself? The entire world is open to you. You just have to commit to your dream. Really, that's all I did. I wanted to be a vet. I did anything that brought me closer to that reality."

Tristan stared into the fire.

Mrs. Hall had built it up as soon as the car arrived with Siegfried. One look at his haggard face, the lumpy bandaging beneath his jacket, and the Vicar's official driver helping him out of the back seat of the vehicle, and she knew he had more to deal with than his missing brother. But that was sorted at least. Her boys were both home.

"You don't know how lucky you are, Siegfried," Tristan finally said. "You knew what you wanted. You went after it and look at you now!"

After a moment, the three of them laughed out loud. The truth of it, however, was not lost on Siegfried.

"Yes," he said. "I knew all my life. I can't recall ever wanting to be anything else. Just this. It's damned hard work. There's not much money in it. Or security. But it's what I wanted and I wouldn't change it, even after that damned Ashburton pig. Maybe because it turned out all right."

He looked up at Mrs. Hall, until she met his gaze and her cheeks turned pink.

"Don't scare me like that again, Tristan. Please," he continued. "I don't want to lose you, too. We've only got each other, and you of course Mrs. Hall, if you don't mind throwing your lot in with us. All I want is for you to be happy and to grow up to be something you can be proud of. If it's music. Go for it. You have talent. If it's politics, well give it a try. If it's…."

"I want to be a veterinarian," Tristan interrupted. "Watching you. Helping out these past weeks, I've begun to understand why you love it. It's dirty. It's hard. It's dangerous, but when a calf struggles to its feet for the first time and the cow makes that satisfied rumble deep in her chest, something happens inside me. Even if it doesn't turn out, like the Ashburton pig. After all the work you did, she died. She's sausage now and her piglets are dead, but I was impressed by the work, by the effort you made for that animal."

"I was sorry to hear about that pig," Siegfried sighed. "The Ashburtons can't afford the loss."

He stared silently into his brother's eyes for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You have the brains to be a physician or a professor. You're that smart, but if you want to give it a try, Tristan, I will do everything in my power to help. If you really, truly want it."

"I do," Tristan repeated.

"Good," Siegfried laughed. "I have a full list tomorrow and none of it involves small animals. So, I will need you to stand in on three hoof trimmings, a dehorning, deworming a horse, and mending a lacerated bull. I shall guide you, but as long as I am trapped in this contraption, I'm not good for much else."

Mrs. Hall stood suddenly and blew her nose. "Who would like a cuppa tea?" Then she left the living room and fled to the kitchen for a good cry.

As the fire burned low, Mrs. Hall sent Tristan up to bed. She sipped the last of her tea and sat for a few minutes watching Mr. Farnon sleep. He'd had no whisky. In fact, he had refused the pills the medical men had sent home with him.

The pain was gone, the crisis had passed.

Mr. Farnon's face was relaxed and soft in the golden glow of the dying fire. He was not a handsome man, but he had character. It showed in his face, making him more than handsome. He was beautiful.

Mrs. Hall had never felt the emotion she felt for this man, this odd man so full of contradictions. Angry, nasty, irreverent, and rude one moment, tender-hearted and insightful the next. And surprisingly forgiving when least expected.

Tristan had dreaded the confrontation while they had waited for Siegfried to arrive from Scarborough. Instead of berating the boy, he had apologized and spoke of all the wonderful, useful things Tristan might do with his life.

Mrs. Hall was overcome with a sense of gratitude that somehow their paths had crossed. It was a blessing to know such a man and she fully intended to make life as agreeable for him as it was in her power to do so, to help him survive his grief, to regain his health, and to look forward to a future full of his own possibilities.

The last log collapsed into coals. Mrs. Hall stood and stepped close to his armchair, leaned over slightly, and brushed his unruly hair with her finger tips.

"Mr. Farnon," she said gently. "Time for bed."