James Herriot (25 page)

Feeling suddenly weak I leaned against the table. “I’m sorry about the terrible smell. All the pus and discharge have been decomposing under the bandage for a week but despite the mess it’s not as bad as I feared.”

“Do you … do you think you can save his leg?” Marjorie Gillard’s voice trembled.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. So much has to happen. But I’d say it was a case of so far so good.”

I cleaned the area thoroughly with spirit, gave a dusting of iodoform and applied fresh lint and two more plaster bandages.

“You’ll feel a lot more comfortable now, Kim,” I said, and the big dog flapped his tail against the wood at the sound of his name.

I turned to his owners. “I want him to have another week in plaster, so what would you like to do?”

“Oh, we’ll stay around Hensfield,” Peter Gillard replied. “We’ve found a place for our caravan by the river—it’s not too bad.”

“Very well, till next Saturday, then.” I watched Kim hobble out, holding his new white cast high, and as I went back into the house relief flowed over me in a warm wave.

But at the back of my mind the voice of caution sounded. There was still a long way to go … .

T
HE SECOND WEEK WENT
by without incident. I had a mildly indecent postcard from Stewie and a view of Blackpool Tower from his wife. The weather was scorching and they were having the best holiday of their lives. I tried to picture them enjoying themselves but I had to wait a few weeks for the evidence—a snap taken by a beach photographer. The whole family were standing in the sea, grinning delightedly into the camera as the wavelets lapped round their ankles. The children brandished buckets and spades, the baby dangled bandy legs towards the water, but it was Stewie who fascinated me. A smile of blissful contentment beamed from beneath a knotted handkerchief, sturdy braces supported baggy flannel trousers rolled decorously calf high. He was the archetype of the British father on holiday.

The last event of my stay in Hensfield was a visit to the local greyhound track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to inspect the dogs.

The Hensfield stadium was not prepossessing from the outside. It had been built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and was surrounded by ramshackle hoardings.

It was a cool night and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear the tinny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Formby singing “When I’m Cleaning Windows” and strumming on his famous ukelele.

There are all kinds of greyhound tracks. My own experience had been as a student, accompanying vets who officiated under the auspices of the National Greyhound Racing Club, but this was an unlicensed or “flapping” track, and vastly different. I know there are many highly reputable flapping tracks but this one had a seedy air. It was, I thought wryly, just the sort of place that would be under the care of Stewie.

First I had to go to the manager’s office. Mr. Coker was a hard-eyed man in a shiny pin-striped suit and he nodded briefly before giving me a calculating stare.

“Your duties here are just a formality,” he said, twisting his features into a smile. “There’ll be nothing to trouble you.”

I had the impression that he was assessing me with quiet satisfaction, looking me up and down, taking in my rumpled jacket and slacks, savouring my obvious youth and inexperience. He kept the smile going as he stubbed out his cigar. “Well, I hope you’ll have a pleasant evening.”

“Thank you,” I replied, and left

I met the judge, timekeeper and other officials then went down to a long glass-fronted bar overlooking the track. Quite suddenly I felt I was in an alien environment. The place was rapidly filling up and the faces around me were out of a different mould from the wholesome rural countenances of Darrowby. There seemed to be a large proportion of fat men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-looking characters studied race cards and glared intently at the flickering numbers on the tote board.

I looked at my watch. It was time to inspect the dogs for the first race. “When I’m cleanin’ winders!” bawled George Formby as I made my way round the edge of the track to the paddock, a paved enclosure with a wire-netting surround. Five dogs were being led round the perimeter and I stood in the centre and watched them for a minute or two. Then I halted them and went from one to the other, looking at their eyes, examining their mouths for salivation and finally palpating their abdomens.

They all appeared bright and normal except number four which seemed rather full in the stomach region. A greyhound should only have a light meal on the morning of a race and nothing thereafter and I turned to the man who was holding the animal.

“Has this dog been fed within the last hour or two?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “He’s had nothing since breakfast.”

As I passed my fingers over the abdomen again I had the feeling that several of the onlookers were watching me with unusual intentness. But I dismissed it as imagination and passed on to the next animal.

Number four was second favourite but from the moment it left its trap it was flagging. It finished last and from the darkness on the far side of the track a storm of booing broke out. I was able to make out some of the remarks which came across on the night air. “Open your bloody eyes, vet!” was one of them. And here, in the long, brightly lit bar I could see people nudging each other and looking at me.

I felt a thrill of anger. Maybe some of those gentlemen down there thought they could cash in on Stewie’s absence. I probably looked a soft touch to them.

My next visit to the paddock was greeted with friendly nods and grins from all sides. In fact there was a strong atmosphere of joviality. When I went round the dogs all was well until I came to number five and this time I couldn’t be mistaken. Under my probing fingers the stomach bulged tensely and the animal gave a soft grunt as I squeezed.

“You’ll have to take this dog out of the race,” I said. “He’s got a full stomach.”

The owner was standing by the kennel lad.

“Can’t ’ave!” he burst out. “He’s had nowt!”

I straightened up and looked him full in the face but his eyes were reluctant to meet mine. I knew some of the tricks; a couple of pounds of steak before the race; a bowlful of bread crumbs and two pints of milk—the crumbs swelled beautifully within a short time.

“Would you like me to vomit him?” I began to move away. “I’ve got some washing soda in my car—we’ll soon find out.”

The man held up a hand. “Naw, naw, I don’t want you messin’ about with me dog.” He gave me a malevolent glare and trailed sulkily away.

I had only just got back to the bar when I heard the announcement over the loudspeakers. “Will the vet please report to the manager’s office.”

Mr. Coker looked up from his desk and glared at me through a haze of cigar smoke. “You’ve taken a dog out of the race!”

“That’s right. I’m sorry, but his stomach was full.”

“But damn it …!” He stabbed a finger at me then subsided and forced a tortured smile across his face. “Now, Mr. Herriot, we have to be reasonable in these matters. I’ve no doubt you know your job, but don’t you think there’s just a chance you could be wrong?” He waved his cigar expansively. “After all, anybody can make a mistake, so perhaps you would be kind enough to reconsider.” He stretched his smile wider.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Coker, but that would be impossible.”

There was a long pause. “That’s your last word, then?”

“It is.”

The smile vanished and he gave me a threatening stare.

“Now look,” he said. “You’ve mucked up that race and it’s a serious matter. I don’t want any repetition, do you understand?” He ground his cigar out savagely and his jaw jutted. “So I hope we won’t have any more trouble like this.”

“I hope so, too, Mr. Coker,” I said as I went out.

It seemed a long way down to the paddock on my next visit. It was very dark now and I was conscious of the hum of the crowd, the shouts of the bookies and George and his ukelele still going full blast. “Oh, don’t the wind blow cold!” he roared.

This time it was dog number two. I could feel the tension as I examined him and found the same turgid belly.

“This one’s out,” I said, and apart from a few black looks there was no argument.

They say bad news travels fast and I had hardly started my return journey when George was switched off and the loudspeaker asked me to report to the manager’s office.

Mr. Coker was no longer at his desk. He was pacing up and down agitatedly and when he saw me he did another length of the room before coming to a halt. His expression was venomous and it was clear he had decided that the tough approach was best.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” he barked. “Are you trying to ruin this meeting?”

“No,” I replied. “I’ve just taken out another dog which was unfit to run. That’s my job. That’s what I’m here for.”

His face flushed deep red. “I don’t think you know what you’re here for. Mr. Brannan goes off on holiday and leaves us at the mercy of a young clever clogs like you, throwing your weight about and spoiling people’s pleasure. Wait till I see him!”

“Mr. Brannan would have done just the same as I have. Any veterinary surgeon would.”

“Rubbish! Don’t tell me what it’s all about—you’re still wet behind the ears.” He advanced slowly towards me.

“But I’ll tell you this, I’ve had enough! So get it straight, once and for all—no more of this nonsense. Cut it out!”

I felt my heart thudding as I went down to see the dogs for the next race. As I examined the five animals the owners and kennel lads fixed me with a hypnotic stare as though I were some strange freak. My pulse began to slow down when I found there were no full stomachs this time and I glanced back in relief along the line. I was about to walk away when I noticed that number one looked a little unusual. I went back and bent over him, trying to decide what it was about him that had caught my attention. Then I realised what it was—he looked sleepy. The head was hanging slightly and he had an air of apathy.

I lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. The pupils were dilated and every now and then there was a faint twitch of nystagmus. There was absolutely no doubt about it—he had received some kind of sedative. He had been doped.

The men in the paddock were very still as I stood upright. For a few moments I gazed through the wire netting at the brightly lit green oval, feeling the night air cold on my cheeks. George was still at it on the loudspeakers.

“Oh Mr. Wu,” he trilled. “What can I do?”

Well I knew what I had to do, anyway. I tapped the dog on the back.

“This one’s out,” I said.

I didn’t wait for the announcement and was half way up the steps to the manager’s office before I heard the request for my presence blared across the stadium.

When I opened the door I half expected Mr. Coker to rush at me and attack me and I was surprised when I found him sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands. I stood there on the carpet for some time before he raised a ghastly countenance to me.

“Is it true?” he whispered despairingly. “Have you done it again?”

I nodded. “Afraid so.”

His lips trembled but he didn’t say anything, and after a brief, disbelieving scrutiny he sank his head in his hands again.

I waited for a minute or two but when he stayed like that, quite motionless, I realised that the audience was at an end and took my leave.

I found no fault with the dogs for the next race and as I left the paddock an unaccustomed peace settled around me. I couldn’t understand it when I heard the loudspeaker again—“Will the vet please report …” But this time it was to the paddock and I wondered if a dog had been injured. Anyway, it would be a relief to do a bit of real vetting for a change.

But when I arrived there were no animals to be seen; only two men cradling a fat companion in their arms.

“What’s this?” I asked one of them.

“Ambrose ’ere fell down the steps in the stand and skinned ’is knee.”

I stared at him. “But I’m a vet, not a doctor.”

“Ain’t no doctor on the track,” the man mumbled. “We reckoned you could patch ’im up.”

Ah well, it was a funny night. “Put him over on that bench,” I said.

I rolled up the trouser to reveal a rather revolting fat dimpled knee. Ambrose emitted a hollow groan as I touched a very minor abrasion on the patella.

“It’s nothing much,” I said. “You’ve just knocked a bit of skin off.”

Ambrose looked at me tremblingly. “Aye, but it could go t’wrong way, couldn’t it? I don’t want no blood poisonin’.”

“All right, I’ll put something on it.” I looked inside Stewie’s medical bag. The selection was limited but I found some tincture of iodine and I poured a little on a pad of cotton wool and dabbed the wound.

Ambrose gave a shrill yelp. “Bloody ’ell, that ’urts! What are you doin’ to me?” His foot jerked up and rapped me sharply on the elbow.

Even my human patients kicked me, it seemed. I smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, it won’t sting for long. I’ll put a bandage on now.”

I bound up the knee, rolled down the trouser and patted the fat man’s shoulder. “There you are—good as new.”

He got off the bench, nodded, then grimacing painfully, prepared to leave. But an afterthought appeared to strike him and he pulled a handful of change from his pocket. He rummaged among it with a forefinger before selecting a coin which he pressed into my palm.

“There y’are,” he said.

I looked at the coin. It was a sixpence, the fee for my only piece of doctoring of my own species. I stared stupidly at it for a long time and when I finally looked up with the half-formed idea of throwing Ambrose’s honorarium back at his head the man was limping into the crowd and was soon lost to sight.

Back in the bar I was gazing apathetically through the glass at the dogs parading round the track when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned and recognised a man I had spotted earlier in the evening. He was one of a group of three men and three women, the men dark, tight-suited, the women loud and overdressed. There was something sinister about them and I remembered thinking that in different clothes the men could have passed without question as a group of bandits.