James Herriot (21 page)

I regarded her thoughtfully, taking in the small compact figure, the healthy cheeks, the neat helmet of grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. Was she really a poor widow? There was cause for doubt. Her next-door neighbour in Rayton village was a confirmed skeptic.

“It’s all a tale, Mr. Herriot,” he had said. “She tries it on wi’ everybody, but I’ll tell you this—she’s got a long stockin’. Owns property all over t’place.”

I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Beck. We often do work at reduced rates for people who can’t afford to pay, but this is what we call a luxury operation.”

“Luxury!” The lady was aghast “Eee, ah’ve been tellin’ you how Georgina keeps havin’ them kittens. She’s at it all the time and it’s gettin’ me down. Ah can’t sleep for worryin’ when t’next lot’s comin’.” She dabbed her eyes.

“I understand and I’m sorry. I can only tell you again that the only way to prevent this trouble is to spay your cat and the charge is one pound.”

“Nay, I can’t afford that much!”

I spread my hands. “But you are asking me to do it for half the price. That’s ridiculous. This operation involves the removal of the uterus and ovaries under a general anaesthetic. You just can’t do a job like that for ten shillings.’’

“Oh, you are cruel!” She turned and looked out of the window and her shoulders began to shake. “You won’t even take pity on a poor widder.”

This had been going on for ten minutes and it began to dawn on me that I was in the presence of a stronger character than myself. I glanced at my watch—I should have been on my round by now and it was becoming increasingly obvious that I wasn’t going to win this argument.

I sighed. Maybe she really was a poor widow. “All right, Mrs. Beck, I’ll do it for ten shillings, just this once. Will Tuesday afternoon be all right for you?”

She swung round from the window, her face crinkling magically into a smile. “That’ll suit me grand! Eee, that’s right kind of you.” She tripped past me and I followed her along the passage.

“Just one thing,” I said as I held the front door open for her. “Don’t give Georgina any food from midday on Monday. She must have an empty stomach when you bring her in.”

“Bring ’er in?” She was a picture of bewilderment. “But I ’aven’t got no car. I thought you’d be collectin’ her.”

“Collecting! But Rayton’s five miles away!”

“Yes, and bring ’er back afterwards, too. I ’ave no transport.”

“Collect … operate on her … take her back! All for ten shillings!”

She was still smiling but a touch of steel glinted in her eyes.

‘Well, that’s what you agreed to charge—ten shillings.”

“But … but …”

“Oh now you’re startin’ again.” The smile faded and she put her head on one side. “And I’m only a poor …”

“Okay, okay,” I said hastily. “I’ll call on Tuesday.”

And when Tuesday afternoon came round I cursed my softness. If that cat had been been brought in I could have operated on her at two o’clock and been out on the road doing my farm calls by two thirty. I didn’t mind working at a loss for half an hour, but how long was this business going to take?

On my way out I glanced through the open door of the sitting room. Tristan was supposed to be studying but was sleeping soundly in his favourite chair. I went in and looked down at him, marvelling at the utter relaxation, seen only in a dedicated sleeper. His face was as smooth and untroubled as a baby’s, the
Daily Mirror,
open at the comic strips, had fallen across his chest and a burnt-out Woodbine hung from one dangling hand.

I shook him gently. “Like to come with me, Triss? I’ve got to pick up a cat.”

He came round slowly, stretching and grimacing, but his fundamental good nature soon reasserted itself.

“Certainly, Jim,” he said with a final yawn. “It will be a pleasure.”

Mrs. Beck lived half way down the left side of Rayton village. I read “Jasmine Cottage” on the brightly painted gate, and as we went up the garden path the door opened and the little woman waved gaily.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, I’m right glad to see you both.” She ushered us into the living-room among good, solid-looking furniture which showed no sign of poverty. The open cupboard of a mahogany sideboard gave me a glimpse of glasses and bottles. I managed to identify Scotch, cherry brandy and sherry before she nudged the door shut with her knee.

I pointed to a cardboard box loosely tied with string. “Ah, good, you’ve got her in there, have you?”

“Nay, bless you, she’s in t’garden. She allus has a bit of play out there of an afternoon.”

“In the garden, eh?” I said nervously. “Well, please get her in, we’re in rather a hurry.”

We went through a tiled kitchen to the back door. Most of these cottages had a surprising amount of land behind them and Mrs. Beck’s patch was in very nice order. Flower beds bordered a smooth stretch of lawn and the sunshine drew glittering colours from the apples and pears among the branches of the trees.

“Georgina,” carolled Mrs. Beck. “Where are you, my pet?”

No cat appeared and she turned to me with a roguish smile. “I think the little imp’s playin’ a game with us. She does that, you know.”

“Really?” I said without enthusiasm. “Well, I wish she’d show herself. I really don’t have much …”

At that moment a very fat tabby darted from a patch of chrysanthemums and flitted across the grass into a clump of rhododendrons with Tristan in close pursuit. The young man dived among the greenery and the cat emerged from the other end at top speed, did a couple of laps of the lawn then shot up a gnarled tree.

Tristan, eyes gleaming in anticipation, lifted a couple of windfall apples from the turf. “I’ll soon shift the bugger from there, Jim,” he whispered and took aim.

I grabbed his arm. “For heaven’s sake, Triss!” I hissed. “You can’t do that. Put those things down.”

“Oh … all right.” He dropped the apples and made for the tree. “I’ll get hold of her for you, anyway.”

“Wait a minute.” I seized his coat as he passed. “I’ll do it. You stay down here and try to catch her if she jumps.”

Tristan looked disappointed but I gave him a warning look. The way the cat had moved, it struck me that it only needed a bit of my colleague’s ebullience to send the animal winging into the next county. I began to climb the tree.

I like cats, I’ve always liked them, and since I feel that animals recognise this in a person I have usually been able to approach and handle the most difficult types. It is not too much to say that I prided myself on my cat technique; I didn’t foresee any trouble here.

Puffing slightly, I reached the top branch and extended a hand to the crouching animal.

“Pooss-pooss,” I cooed, using my irresistible cat tone.

Georgina eyed me coldly and gave no answering sign other than a higher arching of the back.

I leaned further along the branch. “Pooss-pooss, pooss-pooss.” My voice was like molten honey, my finger near her face. I would rub her cheek ever so gently and she would be mine. It never failed.

“Pah!” replied Georgina warningly but I took no heed and touched the fur under her chin.

“Pah-pah!” Georgina spat and followed with a lightning left hook which opened a bloody track across the back of my hand.

Muttering fervently, I retreated and nursed my wounds. From below Mrs. Beck gave a tinkling laugh.

“Oh, isn’t she a little monkey! She’s that playful, bless her.”

I snorted and began to ease my way along the branch again. This time, I thought grimly, I would dispense with finesse. The quick grab was indicated here.

As though reading my thoughts the little creature tripped to the end of the branch and as it bent low under her weight she dropped lightly to the grass.

Tristan was on her in a flash, throwing himself full length and seizing her by the hind leg. Georgina whipped round and unhesitatingly sank her teeth into his thumb but Tristan’s core of resilience showed. After a single howl of agony he changed his grip at lightning speed to the scruff of the neck.

A moment later he was standing upright holding a dangling fighting fury high in the air.

“Right, Jim,” he called happily. “I have her.”

“Good lad! Hang on!” I said breathlessly and slithered down the tree as quickly as I could. Too quickly, in fact, as an ominous ripping sound announced the removal of a triangular piece of my jacket elbow.

But I couldn’t bother with trifles. Ushering Tristan at a gallop into the house I opened the cardboard box. There were no sophisticated cat containers in those days and it was a tricky job to enclose Georgina, who was lashing out in all directions and complaining bitterly in a bad-tempered wail.

It took a panting ten minutes to imprison the cat but even with several yards of rough twine round the floppy cardboard I still didn’t feel very secure as I bore it to the car.

Mrs. Beck raised a finger as we were about to drive away. I carefully explored my lacerated hand and Tristan sucked his thumb as we waited for her to speak.

“Mr. Herriot, I ’ope you’ll be gentle with ’er,” she said anxiously. “She’s very timid, you know.”

We had covered barely half a mile before sounds of strife arose from the back.

“Get back! Get in there. Get back, you bugger!”

I glanced behind me. Tristan was having trouble. Georgina clearly didn’t care for the motion of the car and from the slits in the box clawed feet issued repeatedly; on one occasion an enraged spitting face got free as far as the neck. Tristan kept pushing everything back with great resolution but I could tell from the rising desperation of his cries that he was fighting a losing battle.

I heard the final shout with a feeling of inevitability.

“She’s out, Jim! The bugger’s out!”

Well this was great. Anybody who has driven a car with a hysterical cat hurtling around the interior will appreciate my situation. I crouched low over the wheel as the furry creature streaked round the sides or leaped clawing at the roof or windscreen with Tristan lunging vainly after her.

But cruel fate had not finished with us yet. My colleague’s gasps and grunts from the rear ceased for a moment to be replaced by a horrified shriek.

“The bloody thing’s shitting, Jim! She’s shitting everywhere!”

The cat was obviously using every weapon at her disposal and he didn’t have to tell me. My nose was way ahead of him, and I frantically wound down the window. But I closed it just as quickly at the rising image of Georgina escaping and disappearing into the unknown.

I don’t like to think of the rest of that journey. I tried to breathe through my mouth and Tristan puffed out dense clouds of Woodbine smoke but it was still pretty terrible. Just outside Darrowby I stopped the car and we made a concerted onslaught on the animal; at the cost of a few more wounds, including a particularly painful scratch on my nose, we cornered her and fastened her once more in the box.

Even on the operating table Georgina had a few tricks left. We were using ether and oxygen as anaesthetic and she was particularly adept at holding her breath while the mask was on her face then returning suddenly to violent life when we thought she was asleep. We were both sweating when she finally went under.

I suppose it was inevitable, too, that she should be a difficult case. Ovaro-hysterectomy in the cat is a fairly straightforward procedure and nowadays we do innumerable cases uneventfully, but in the thirties, particularly in country practice, it was infrequently done and consequently a much larger undertaking.

I personally had my own preferences and aversions in this field. For instance, I found thin cats easy to do and fat cats difficult. Georgina was extremely fat.

When I opened her abdomen an ocean of fat welled up at me, obscuring everything, and I spent a long nerve-racking period lifting out portions of bowel or omentum with my forceps, surveying them gloomily and stuffing them back in again. A great weariness had begun to creep over me by the time I at last managed to grip the pink ovary between the metallic jaws and drew forth the slender string of uterus. After that it was routine, but I still felt a strange sense of exhaustion as I inserted the last stitch.

I put the sleeping cat into the box and beckoned to Tristan. “Come on, let’s get her home before she comes round.” I was starting along the passage when he put his hand on my arm.

“Jim,” he said gravely. “You know I’m your friend.”

“Yes, Triss, of course.”

“I’d do anything for you, Jim.”

“I’m sure you would.”

He took a deep breath. “Except one thing. I’m not going back in that bloody car.”

I nodded dully. I really couldn’t blame him. “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll be off then.” Before leaving I sprinkled the interior with pine-smelling disinfectant but it didn’t make much difference. In any case my main emotion was the hope that Georgina wouldn’t wake up before I got to Rayton, and that was shattered before I had crossed Darrowby market place. The hair prickled on the back of my neck as an ominous droning issued from the box on the rear seat. It was like the sound of a distant swarm of bees but I knew what it meant; the anaesthetic was wearing off.

Once clear of the town I put my foot on the boards. This was something I rarely did because whenever I pushed my vehicle above forty miles an hour there was such a clamour of protest from engine and body that I always feared the thing would disintegrate around me. But at this moment I didn’t care. Teeth clenched, eyes staring. I hurtled forward, but I didn’t see the lonely strip of tarmac or the stone walls flitting past; all my attention was focused behind me, where the swarm of bees was getting nearer and the tone angrier.

When it developed into a bad-tempered yowling and was accompanied by the sound of strong claws tearing at cardboard I began to tremble. As I thundered into Rayton village I glanced behind me. Georgina was half out of the box. I reached back and grasped her scruff and when I stopped at the gate of Jasmine Cottage I pulled on the brake with one hand and lifted her on to my lap with the other.

I sagged in the seat, my breath escaping in a great explosion of relief; and my stiff features almost bent into a smile as I saw Mrs. Beck pottering in her garden.