All Creatures Great and Small (25 page)

Then he turned to me and made a ghastly attempt to smile. And his eyes, trained on my lapels, tried valiantly to inch their way upwards. There was a fleeting instance when they met my gaze before flickering away in alarm.

He drew me to one side and addressed himself to my larynx. There was a wheedling note in the hoarse whisper.

“Now look here, Mr. Herriot, we’re both men of the world. You know as well as I do that the insurance company can afford this loss a lot better nor me. So why can’t you just say it is lightning?”

“Even though I think it isn’t?”

“Well, what the hangment does it matter? You can say it is, can’t you? Nobody’s going to know.”

I scratched my head. “But what would bother me, Mr. Cranford, is that I would know.”

“You would know?” The farmer was mystified.

“That’s right. And it’s no good—I can’t give you a certificate for this cow and that’s the end of it.”

Dismay, disbelief, frustration chased across Mr. Cranford’s features. “Well, I’ll tell you this. I’m not leaving the matter here. I’m going to see your boss about you.” He swung round and pointed at the cow. “There’s no sign of disease there. Trying to tell me it’s all due to little things in the heart. You don’t know your job—you don’t even know what them things are!”

Jeff Mallock removed his unspeakable pipe from his mouth. “But ah know. It’s what ah said. Stagnation o’ t’lungs is caused by milk from milk vein getting back into the body. Finally it gets to t’heart and then it’s over wi’t. Them’s milk clots you’re looking at.”

Cranford rounded on him. “Shut up, you great gumph! You’re as bad as this feller here. It was lightning killed my good cow. Lightning!” He was almost screaming. Then he controlled himself and spoke quietly to me. “You’ll hear more of this, Mr. Knowledge, and I’ll just tell you one thing. You’ll never walk on to my farm again.” He turned and hurried away with his quick-stepping gait.

I said good morning to Jeff and climbed wearily into my car. Well, everything had worked out just great. If only vetting just consisted of treating sick animals. But it didn’t. There were so many other things. I started the engine and drove away.

TWENTY-NINE

I
T DIDN’T TAKE
M
R
. Cranford long to make good his threat. He called at the surgery shortly after lunch the following day and Siegfried and I, enjoying a post-prandial cigarette in the sitting-room, heard the jangle of the door bell. We didn’t get up, because most of the farmers walked in after ringing.

The dogs, however, went into their usual routine. They had had a long run on the high moor that morning and had just finished licking out their dinner bowls. Tired and distended, they had collapsed in a snoring heap around Siegfried’s feet. There was nothing they wanted more than ten minutes’ peace but, dedicated as they were to their self-appointed role of fierce guardians of the house, they did not hesitate. They leaped, baying, from the rug and hurled themselves into the passage.

People often wondered why Siegfried kept five dogs. Not only kept them but took them everywhere with him. Driving on his rounds it was difficult to see him at all among the shaggy heads and waving tails; and anybody approaching the car would recoil in terror from the savage barking and the bared fangs and glaring eyes framed in the windows.

“I cannot for the life of me understand,” Siegfried would declare, thumping his fist on his knee, “why people keep dogs as pets. A dog should have a useful function. Let it be used for farm work, for shooting, for guiding; but why anybody should keep the things just hanging around the place beats me.”

It was a pronouncement he was continually making, often through a screen of flapping ears and lolling tongues as he sat in his car. His listener would look wonderingly from the huge greyhound to the tiny terrier, from the spaniel to the whippet to the Scottie; but nobody ever asked Siegfried why he kept his own dogs.

I judged that the pack fell upon Mr. Cranford about the bend of the passage and many a lesser man would have fled; but I could hear him fighting his way doggedly forward. When he came through the sitting-room door he had removed his hat and was beating the dogs off with it. It wasn’t a wise move and the barking rose to a higher pitch. The man’s eyes stared and his lips moved continuously, but nothing came through.

Siegfried, courteous as ever, rose and indicated a chair. His lips, too, were moving, no doubt in a few gracious words of welcome. Mr. Cranford flapped his black coat, swooped across the carpet and perched. The dogs sat in a ring round him and yelled up into his face. Usually they collapsed after their exhausting performance but there was something in the look or smell of Mr. Cranford that they didn’t like.

Siegfried leaned back in his armchair, put his fingers together and assumed a judicial expression. Now and again he nodded understandingly or narrowed his eyes as if taking an interesting point. Practically nothing could be heard from Mr. Cranford but occasionally a word or phrase penetrated.

“… have a serious complaint to make …”

“… doesn’t know his job …”

“… can’t afford … not a rich man …”

“… these danged dogs …”

“… won’t have ’im again …”

“… down dog, get bye …”

“… nowt but robbery …”

Siegfried, completely relaxed and apparently oblivious of the din, listened attentively but as the minutes passed I could see the strain beginning to tell on Mr. Cranford. His eyes began to start from their sockets and the veins corded on his scrawny neck as he tried to get his message across. Finally it was too much for him; he jumped up and a leaping brown tide bore him to the door. He gave a last defiant cry, lashed out again with his hat and was gone.

Pushing open the dispensary door a few weeks later, I found my boss mixing an ointment. He was working with great care, turning and re-turning the glutinous mass on a marble slab.

“What’s this you’re doing?” I asked.

Siegfried threw down his spatula and straightened his back. “Ointment for a boar.” He looked past me at Tristan who had just come in. “And I don’t know why the hell I’m doing it when some people are sitting around on their backsides.” He indicated the spatula. “Right, Tristan, you can have a go. When you’ve finished your cigarette, that is.”

His expression softened as Tristan hastily nipped out his Woodbine and began to work away on the slab. “Pretty stiff concoction, that. Takes a bit of mixing,” Siegfried said with satisfaction, looking at his brother’s bent head. “The back of my neck was beginning to ache with it.”

He turned to me. “By the way, you’ll be interested to hear it’s for your old friend Cranford. For that prize boar of his. It’s got a nasty sore across its back and he’s worried to death about it. Wins him a lot of money at the shows and a blemish there would be disastrous.”

“Cranford’s still with us, then.”

“Yes, it’s a funny thing, but we can’t get rid of him. I don’t like losing clients but I’d gladly make an exception of this chap. He won’t have you near the place after that lightning job and he makes it very clear he doesn’t think much of me either. Tells me I never do his beasts any good—says it would have been a lot better if he’d never called me. And moans like hell when he gets his bill. He’s more bother than he’s worth and on top of everything he gives me the creeps. But he won’t leave—he damn well won’t leave.”

“He knows which side his bread’s buttered,” I said. “He gets first-rate service and the moaning is part of the system to keep the bills down.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I wish there was a simple way to get rid of him.” He tapped Tristan on the shoulder. “All right, don’t strain yourself. That’ll do. Put it into this ointment box and label it: ‘Apply liberally to the boar’s back three times daily, working it well in with the fingers.’ And post it to Mr. Cranford. And while you’re on, will you post this faeces sample to the laboratory at Leeds to test for Johne’s disease?” He held out a treacle tin brimming with foul-smelling liquid diarrhoea.

It was a common thing to collect such samples and send them away for Johne’s tests, worm counts, etc., and there was always one thing all the samples had in common—they were very large. All that was needed for the tests was a couple of teaspoonfuls but the farmers were lavish in their quantities. They seemed pleasantly surprised that all the vet wanted was a bit of muck from the dung channel; they threw aside their natural caution and shovelled the stuff up cheerfully into the biggest container they could find. They brushed aside all protests; “take plenty, we’ve lots of it” was their attitude.

Tristan took hold of the tin gingerly and began to look along the shelves. “We don’t seem to have any of those little glass sample jars.”

“That’s right, we’re out of them,” said Siegfried. “I meant to order some more. But never mind—shove the lid on that tin and press it down tight, then parcel it up well in brown paper. It’ll travel to the lab all right.”

It took only three days for Mr. Cranford’s name to come up again. Siegfried was opening the morning mail, throwing the circulars to one side and making a pile of the bills and receipts when he became suddenly very still. He had frozen over a letter on blue notepaper and he sat like a statue till he read it through. At length he raised his head; his face was expressionless. “James, this is just about the most vitriolic letter I have ever read. It’s from Cranford. He’s finished with us for good and all and is considering taking legal action against us.”

“What have we done this time?” I asked.

“He accuses us of grossly insulting him and endangering the health of his boar. He says we sent him a treacle tin full of cow shit with instructions to rub it on the boar’s back three times daily.”

Tristan, who had been sitting with his eyes half closed, became fully awake. He rose unhurriedly and began to make his way towards the door. His hand was on the knob when his brother’s voice thundered out.

“Tristan! Come back here! Sit down—I think we have something to talk about.”

Tristan looked up resolutely, waiting for the storm to break, but Siegfried was unexpectedly calm. His voice was gentle.

“So you’ve done it again. When will I ever learn that I can’t trust you to carry out the simplest task? It wasn’t much to ask, was it? Two little parcels to post—hardly a tough assignment. But you managed to botch it. You got the labels wrong, didn’t you?”

Tristan wriggled in his chair. “I’m sorry, I can’t think how …”

Siegfried held up his hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Your usual luck has come to your aid. With anybody else this bloomer would be catastrophic but with Cranford—it’s like divine providence.” He paused for a moment and a dreamy expression crept into his eyes. “The label said to work it well in with the fingers, I seem to recall. And Mr. Cranford says he opened the package at the breakfast table … Yes, Tristan, I think you have found the way. This, I do believe, has done it.”

I said, “But how about the legal action?”

“Oh, I think we can forget about that. Mr. Cranford has a great sense of his own dignity. Just think how it would sound in court.” He crumpled the letter and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. “Well, let’s get on with some work.”

He led the way out and stopped abruptly in the passage. He turned to face us. “There’s another thing, of course. I wonder how the lab is making out, testing that ointment for Johne’s disease?”

THIRTY

I
WAS REALLY WORRIED
about Tricki this time. I had pulled up my car when I saw him in the street with his mistress and I was shocked at his appearance. He had become hugely fat, like a bloated sausage with a leg at each corner. His eyes, bloodshot and rheumy, stared straight ahead and his tongue lolled from his jaws.

Mrs. Pumphrey hastened to explain. “He was so listless, Mr. Herriot. He seemed to have no energy. I thought he must be suffering from malnutrition, so I have been giving him some little extras between meals to build him up. Some calf’s foot jelly and malt and cod liver oil and a bowl of Horlick’s at night to make him sleep—nothing much really.”

“And did you cut down on the sweet things as I told you?”

“Oh, I did for a bit, but he seemed to be so weak. I had to relent. He does love cream cakes and chocolates so. I can’t bear to refuse him.”

I looked down again at the little dog. That was the trouble. Tricki’s only fault was greed. He had never been known to refuse food; he would tackle a meal at any hour of the day or night. And I wondered about all the things Mrs. Pumphrey hadn’t mentioned; the pâté on thin biscuits, the fudge, the rich trifles—Tricki loved them all.

“Are you giving him plenty of exercise?”

“Well, he has his little walks with me as you can see, but Hodgkin has been down with lumbago, so there has been no ring-throwing lately.”

I tried to sound severe. “Now I really mean this. If you don’t cut his food right down and give him more exercise he is going to be really ill. You must harden your heart and keep him on a very strict diet.”

Mrs. Pumphrey wrung her hands. “Oh I will, Mr. Herriot. I’m sure you are right, but it is so difficult, so very difficult.” She set off, head down, along the road, as if determined to put the new régime into practice immediately.

I watched their progress with growing concern. Tricki was tottering along in his little tweed coat; he had a whole wardrobe of these coats—warm tweed or tartan ones for the cold weather and macintoshes for the wet days. He struggled on, drooping in his harness. I thought it wouldn’t be long before I heard from Mrs. Pumphrey.

The expected call came within a few days. Mrs. Pumphrey was distraught. Tricki would eat nothing. Refused even his favourite dishes; and besides, he had bouts of vomiting. He spent all his time lying on a rug, panting. Didn’t want to go walks, didn’t want to do anything.

I had made my plans in advance. The only way was to get Tricki out of the house for a period. I suggested that he be hospitalised for about a fortnight to be kept under observation.

The poor lady almost swooned. She had never been separated from her darling before; she was sure he would pine and die if he did not see her every day.