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It had been shaping up to be a rather successful morning so far, Bosworth had decided, stepping out of his car just then. A very accomplished start to the day, he thinks, as he shuts the door now and straightens his badge. He’d done all his usual rounds of course, had managed to write up five tickets and collect two fines - that too, before lunch time - and he is quite convinced now that all this war needed, was a little order. A few more people like him in charge, and those Nazi buggers wouldn’t stand a chance.
This was his last stop before he could look in at the little pub across the square, and then maybe he would grab a bite to eat. He’d be sure to get an extra pork pie for old Bingo, too. Mrs Pumphrey had mentioned that this was where she stayed, hadn’t she? Bosworth checks the address again, squinting down now at the little page in his ledger. Skeldale House, Market Place.
It seems a rather big house compared to his little place on the hill, he thinks, some kind of veterinary's by the looks of the polished plaque, though he doesn't get a chance to read it properly. Bosworth is just approaching the house after all, just stepping up onto the little porch when the front door flies open, before a large white something nearly knocks him flat on his face. He stumbles as it slams shut again, and just about manages to catch himself on the little stoop.
“Watch where you’re going!” he snaps then, righting himself.
"Sorry!" says the little old woman, whom in Bosworth's opinion, doesn't look very sorry at all. "Hilda's got a mind of her own, you know."
The something which had nearly flattened him, appears by all accounts, to have been a goat. Hilda, presumably, looks balefully up at him. Bosworth gives a loud hrmph as he smartens himself up again, wiping the grit from his palms and dusting off his lapels. With one finger, he presses the doorbell and makes a mental note to check his handbook later, see if it mentions anything about owning a goat license during times of war.
"Coming!" a woman’s voice hollers from inside.
Next moment, the door swings open again and there is Mrs Hall, standing before him in a flowered pinny, a basket balanced on her hip and looking slightly harassed.
“Oh! Good morning, Mr Bosworth,” she says, and it comes out more as a question, rather than a greeting. “I thought you were the post.”
Behind her, the hallway is full of bustling movement, buzzing with its many occupants, human and furry alike. A young lad in an oversized lab coat is peering down at his clipboard, like a boy wearing his father’s clothes, and muttering something about triage forms. Somewhere in the distance, he hears a baby crying, and a man bellowing has anyone seen my blasted pipe?
“Eh no, I’m…not,” Bosworth replies then, a little taken aback by the discord and the din.
“Yes, I see that,” Mrs Hall says, archly.
She seems completely unfazed however, as though this was an everyday occurrence as she shoos the dogs away now, to let him through. “What can I do for you?”
“Um right, yes, good morning, Mrs Hall,” he says, shaking his head. “Well uh, there were actually a number of matters, in regards to your duties, that is, that I wish to discuss—”
Unfortunately, the beginning of his preamble is cut short then, by the sudden shrill ringing of the telephone. “Oh for goodness—" she mutters, setting down her basket. “Would you excuse me a moment?”
“—it’s alright. I’ll get it,” comes yet another voice then, from somewhere deep inside the house.
“Thank you, James, love,” she calls back, relief evident on her face as a dark headed lad emerges, stopping the incessant ringing. It would be her son, Bosworth presumes, though he can’t account for the Scottish lilt.
But before she can turn her attention back to the topic at hand then, the younger boy - another son, or nephew perhaps - with the clipboard emerges again, comes out from Exam Room 2 with a desperate look in his eye.
“You haven’t seen my book, have you?” he asks her. “The one I was reading at breakfast. I rather need it. It’s called, 'A Compendium of British Ornithology.'”
Mrs Hall sighs, but seems only mildly exasperated with the lad. “You mean the book about birds? You left it in the pantry.”
The boy looks positively delighted at the news. “The pantry! Of course.”
He envelopes his mother, or possibly aunt, in an awkward embrace, before flouncing off.
She shakes her head then, before turning back to her guest, at last. “Sorry Mr Bosworth, you were saying—”
Bosworth clears his throat, a little disgruntled now, himself. "Er yes, where was I— right, the duties Mrs Hall, that you’d be expected to—”
And he has just resumed his briefing then, has just gotten back in the flow of things when they are promptly, and rather rudely in his opinion, interrupted again. A middle-aged man this time, comes hurrying down the hallway, bouncing a baby in his arms. He has auburn hair and a beard with a little grey in it, and evidently he too, is in need of Mrs Hall's assistance. This must be the husband.
“Do we have any clean towels? Only, I told Helen I’d feed him and—” he stops short at the sight of Bosworth in the entryway. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
The husband apologises for the intrusion, approaching the vestibule now with their grandson in tow, when Bosworth suddenly spies what the source of the trouble is. Upon closer inspection, he notices that the baby is covered almost entirely in what must have been his mid-morning snack. He can't attest to knowing much about babies of course, but he is quite certain that the puréed fruit, currently smeared across his chubby pink cheeks and all over his clothes had in fact, been meant for inside his stomach.
“What in the Lord’s good, green earth have you done to him?” exclaims Mrs Hall, clearly vexed now. “And where’s his bib?”
“Ah yes, a bib!” the man cries, smacking his forehead in realisation, and leaving a trail of jam there too. It was lucky he married a capable, organised woman such as Mrs Hall, thinks Bosworth then, because he didn't seem the sharpest tool in the shed.
“Oh for the love of—" she mutters, snatching the child out of his arms and rolling her eyes at him. “If you’ll just excuse me, Mr Bosworth—"
“Eh, actually, if you could just wait a moment,” the head warden calls, attempting again to reclaim her attention, to call her back to the business at hand, but in vain. “Mrs Hall, if you’ll just allow me to—”
He is extremely miffed now, to say the least, as he pulls back his sleeve to check the time on his watch. He’d be late for lunch at this rate, which meant he’d be late for the afternoon circuit, and that wouldn’t do at all. The Germans would certainly not be defeated by tardiness. Not to mention poor Bingo would be waiting for him to get home. The other gentleman however, looks entirely unperturbed. He sticks out his hand, still smeared in sticky residue of puréed fruit, for Bosworth to shake.
“Ah, so you're the infamous Mr Bosworth, whom I've heard so much about,” he says, jovially. "The man who has our resident WRN cycling around Darrowby at all hours.”
“Well, sir, eh I did in fact try—” he replies, not taking the proffered palm. "—very hard, if you’ll imagine, to discourage your wife from this dangerous occupa—”
But the fellow's face inexplicably then, turns a light shade of crimson. “Oh no, she’s not— we’re not um—” he stutters, looking down at his shoes.
Bosworth frowns at the interjection. "But Mrs Pumphrey insisted, you see, eh— and I was hardly in a position where I could refuse—”
And to his great relief then, and apparently to the other man's as well, Mrs Hall has returned at last, now holding a clean and pristine infant in her arms.
“Mr Farnon is my employer,” she says, smoothly. “I keep house for him.”
Bosworth stops short, blinks now at this surprising, slightly confounding news. “Your employer, you say?”
He blinks again.
She passes her employer back the baby, and with a clean cloth in hand, she reaches over to wipe the smudge off his forehead before sliding something that resembles a tobacco pipe, into his breast pocket.
The man who is not her husband grins down at her, fondly. “Well, only in a matter of speaking. We all answer to her, in fact, do we not, Mr Bosworth?”
“Er, well I…” says the warden, shrugging. "I do beg your pardon. I had assumed because—”
He gestures vaguely in front of him, to the baby who may or may not be somebody's grandson, and to the casual manner in which they seemed to conduct themselves. "But yes, anyway, Mrs Hall, the thing I came to speak with you about—”
"Oh, the boy's mine!" The Scot's voice pipes up then, the receiver still hanging off his ear. "James Herriot Junior. And you're alright, Mr Bosworth. It’s hardly the first time!"
In the same instance, the peculiar young man from earlier resurfaces from another part of the house, appearing to have found his precious tome. Bosworth pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Not even the first time this week, in fact," he observes helpfully, thumb and forefinger holding his place between the pages. "It does seem rather odd though, that people keep assuming you're married.”
“Yes, thank you, Carmody,” says the ginger-haired gentleman now, rolling his eyes. “Farnon, Siegfried. Don’t ask.”
He sticks out his hand again and seeing it is now free of blended fruit, Bosworth determines he has no choice but to take it. Begrudgingly, he admits that if this is what Mrs Hall has to contend with on a daily basis, then perhaps Mrs Pumphrey had been right to recommend her.
“Why don’t you come through here, Mr Bosworth,” says the housekeeper then at last, motioning toward the dining room.
He sighs deeply. Supposes then, that his lunch and those afternoon rounds would just have to wait. He'd be sure to get Bingo two pork pies, to make it up to him.