James Herriot (26 page)

The man put his face close to mine and I had a brief impression of black, darting eyes and a predatory smile.

“Is number three fit?” he whispered.

I couldn’t understand the question. He seemed to know I was the vet and surely it was obvious that if I had passed the dog I considered him fit.

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, he is.”

The man nodded vigorously and gave me a knowing glance from hooded eyes. He returned and held a short, intimate conversation with his friends, then they all turned and looked over at me approvingly.

I was bewildered, then it struck me that they may have thought I was giving them an inside tip. To this day I am not really sure but I think that was it because when number three finished nowhere in the race their attitude changed dramatically and they flashed me some black glares which made them look more like bandits than ever.

Anyway I had no more trouble down at the paddock for the rest of the evening. No more dogs to take out which was just as well, because I had made enough enemies for one night.

After the last race I looked around the long bar. Most of the tables were occupied by people having a final drink, but I noticed an empty one and sank wearily into a chair. Stewie had asked me to stay for half an hour after the finish to make sure all the dogs got away safely and I would stick to my bargain even though what I wanted most in the world was to get away from here and never come back.

George was still in splendid voice on the loudspeakers.

“I always get to bed by half past nine,” he warbled, and I felt strongly that he had a point there.

Along the bar counter were assembled most of the people with whom I had clashed; Mr. Coker and other officials and dog owners. There was a lot of nudging and whispering and I didn’t have to be told the subject of their discussion. The bandits, too, were doing their bit with fierce side glances and I could almost feel the waves of antagonism beating against me.

My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a bookie and his clerk. The bookie dropped into a chair opposite me and tipped out a huge leather bag on to the table. I had never seen so much money in my life. I peered at the man over a mountain of fivers and pounds and ten-shilling notes while little streams and tributaries of coins ran down its flanks.

The two of them began a methodical stacking and counting of the loot while I watched hypnotically. They had eroded the mountain to about half its height when the bookie caught my eye. Maybe he thought I looked envious or poverty-stricken or just miserable because he put his finger behind a stray half crown and flicked it expertly across the smooth surface in my direction.

“Get yourself a drink, son,” he said.

It was the second time I had been offered money during the last hour and I was almost as much taken aback as the first time. The bookie looked at me expressionlessly for a moment then he grinned. He had an attractively ugly, good-natured face that I liked instinctively and suddenly I felt grateful to him, not for the money but for the sight of a friendly face. It was the only one I had seen all evening.

I smiled back. “Thanks,” I said. I lifted the half crown and went over to the bar.

I awoke next morning with the knowledge that it was my last day at Hensfield. Stewie was due back at lunch time.

When I parted the now familiar curtains at the morning surgery I still felt a vague depression, a hangover from my unhappy night at the dog track.

But when I looked into the waiting room my mood lightened immediately. There was only one animal among the odd assortment of chairs but that animal was Kim, massive, golden and beautiful, sitting between his owners, and when he saw me he sprang up with swishing tail and laughing mouth.

There was none of the smell which had horrified me before but as I looked at the dog I could sniff something else—the sweet, sweet scent of success. Because he was touching the ground with that leg; not putting any weight on it but definitely dotting it down as he capered around me.

In an instant I was back in my world again and Mr. Coker and the events of last night were but the dissolving mists of a bad dream.

I could hardly wait to get started.

“Get him on the table,” I cried, then began to laugh as the Gillards automatically pushed their legs against the collapsible struts. They knew the drill now.

I had to restrain myself from doing a dance of joy when I got the plaster off. There was a bit of discharge but when I cleaned it away I found healthy granulation tissue everywhere. Pink new flesh binding the shattered joint together, smoothing over and hiding the original mutilation.

“Is his leg safe now?” Marjorie Gillard asked softly.

I looked at her and smiled. “Yes, it is. There’s no doubt about it now.” I rubbed my hand under the big dog’s chin and the tail beat ecstatically on the wood. “He’ll probably have a stiff joint but that won’t matter, will it?”

I applied the last of Stewie’s bandages then we hoisted Kim off the table.

“Well, that’s it,” I said. “Take him to your own vet in another fortnight. After that I don’t think he’ll need a bandage at all.”

The Gillards left on their journey back to the south and a couple of hours later Stewie and his family returned. The children were very brown; even the baby, still bawling resolutely, had a fine tan. The skin had peeled off Meg’s nose but she looked wonderfully relaxed. Stewie, in open necked shirt and with a face like a boiled lobster, seemed to have put on weight.

“That holiday saved our lives, Jim,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough, and please tell Siegfried how grateful we are.” He looked fondly at his turbulent brood flooding through the house, then as an afterthought he turned to me.

“Is everything all right in the practice?”

“Yes, Stewie, it is. I had my ups and downs of course.”

He laughed. “Don’t we all.”

“We certainly do, but everything’s fine now.”

And everything did seem fine as I drove away from the smoke. I watched the houses thin and fall away behind me till the whole world opened out clean and free and I saw the green line of the fells rising over Darrowby.

I suppose we all tend to remember the good things but as it turned out I had no option. The following Christmas I had a letter from the Gillards with a packet of snapshots showing a big golden dog clearing a gate, leaping high for a ball, strutting proudly with a stick in his mouth. There was hardly any stiffness in the leg, they said; he was perfectly sound.

So even now when I think of Hensfield the thing I remember best is Kim.

T
HERE WAS A LOT
of shouting in the RAF. The NCOs always seemed to be shouting at me or at somebody else and a lot of them had impressively powerful voices. But for sheer volume I don’t think any of them could beat Len Hampson.

I was on the way to Len’s farm and on an impulse I pulled up the car and leaned for a moment on the wheel. It was a hot, still day in late summer and this was one of the softer corners of the Dales, sheltered by the enclosing fells from the harsh winds which shrivelled all but the heather and the tough moorland grass.

Here, great trees, oak, elm and sycamore in full rich leaf, stood in gentle majesty in the green dips and hollows, their branches quite still in the windless air.

In all the grassy miles around me I could see no movement, nor could I hear anything except the fleeting hum of a bee and the distant bleating of a sheep.

Through the open window drifted the scents of summer; warm grass, clover and the sweetness of hidden flowers. But in the car they had to compete with the all-pervading smell of cow. I had spent the last hour injecting fifty wild cattle and I sat there in soiled breeches and sweat-soaked shirt looking out sleepily at the tranquil landscape.

I opened the door and Sam jumped out and trotted into a nearby wood. I followed him into the cool shade, into the damp secret fragrance of pine needles and fallen leaves which came from the dark heart of the crowding boles. From somewhere in the branches high above I could hear that most soothing of sounds, the cooing of a woodpigeon.

Then, although the farm was two fields away, I heard Len Hampson’s voice. He wasn’t calling the cattle home or anything like that. He was just conversing with his family as he always did in a long tireless shout.

I drove on to the farm and he opened the gate to let me into the yard.

“Good morning, Mr. Hampson,” I said.

“NOW THEN, MR. HERRIOT,” he bawled, “IT’S A GRAND MORNIN’.”

The blast of sound drove me back a step but his three sons smiled contentedly. No doubt they were used to it

I stayed at a safe distance. “You want me to see a pig.”

“AYE, A GOOD BACON PIG. GONE RIGHT OFF. IT HASN’T ATE NOWT FOR TWO DAYS.”

We went into the pig pen and it was easy to pick out my patient. Most of the big white occupants careered around at the sight of a stranger, but one of them stood quietly in a corner.

It isn’t often a pig will stand unresisting as you take its temperature but this one never stirred as I slipped the thermometer into its rectum. There was only a slight fever but the animal had the look of doom about it; back slightly arched, unwilling to move, eyes withdrawn and anxious.

I looked up at Len Hampson’s red-faced bulk leaning over the wall of the pen.

“Did this start suddenly or gradually?” I asked.

“RIGHT SUDDEN!” In the confined space the full throated yell was deafening, “HE WERE AS RIGHT AS NINEPENCE ON MONDAY NIGHT AND LIKE THIS ON TUESDAY MORNIN’.”

I felt my way over the pig’s abdomen. The musculature was tense and boardlike and the abdominal contents were difficult to palpate because of this, but the whole area was tender to the touch.

“I’ve seen them like this before,” I said. “This pig has a ruptured bowel. They do it when they are fighting or jostling each other, especially when they are full after a meal.”

“WHAT’S GOIN’ TO ’APPEN THEN?”

“Well, the food material has leaked into the abdomen, causing peritonitis. I’ve opened up pigs like this and they are a mass of adhesions—the abdominal organs are growing together. I’m afraid the chances of recovery are very small.”

He took off his cap, scratched his bald head and replaced the tattered headgear. “THAT’S A BUGGER, GOOD PIG AN’ ALL. IS IT ’OPELESS?” He still gave tongue at the top of his voice despite his disappointment.

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s pretty hopeless. They usually eat very little and just waste away. It would really be best to slaughter him.”

“NAY, AH DON’T LIKE THAT MUCH! AH ALLUS LKE TO ’AVE A GO. ISN’T THERE SUMMAT WE CAN DO? WHERE THERE’S LIFE THERE’S ’OPE, THA KNAWS.”

I smiled. “I suppose there’s always some hope, Mr. Hampson.”

“WELL THEN, LET’S GET ON. LET’S TRY!”

“All right.” I shrugged. “He’s not really in acute pain—more discomfort—so I suppose there’s no harm in treating him. I’ll leave you a course of powders.”

As I pushed my way from the pen I couldn’t help noticing the superb sleek condition of the other pigs.

“My word,” I said. “These pigs are in grand fettle. I’ve never seen a better lot. You must feed them well.”

It was a mistake. Enthusiasm added many decibels to his volume.

“Aye!”
he bellowed. “YOU’VE GOT TO GIVE STOCK A BIT O’ GOOD STUFF TO MEK ‘EM DO RIGHT!”

My head was still ringing when I reached the car and opened the boot. I handed over a packet of my faithful sulphonamide powders. They had done great things for me but I didn’t expect much here.

It was strange that I should go straight from the chief shouter of the practice to the chief whisperer. Elijah Wentworth made all his communications
sotto voce.

I found Mr. Wentworth hosing down his cow byre and he turned and looked at me with his habitual serious expression. He was a tall, thin man, very precise in his speech and ways, and though he was a hard-working farmer he didn’t look like one. This impression was heightened by his clothes which were more suited to office work than his rough trade.

A fairly new trilby hat sat straight on his head as he came over to me. I was able to examine it thoroughly because he came so close that we were almost touching noses.

He took a quick look around him. “Mr. Herriot,” he whispered, “I’ve got a real bad case.” He spoke always as though every pronouncement was of the utmost gravity and secrecy.

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the trouble?”

“Fine big bullock, Mr. Herriot. Goin’ down fast.” He moved in closer till he could murmur directly into my ear. “I suspect TB.” He backed away, face drawn.

“That doesn’t sound so good,” I said. “Where is he?”

The farmer crooked a finger and I followed him into a loose box. The bullock was a Hereford Cross and should have weighed about ten hundredweight, but was gaunt and emaciated. I could understand Mr. Wentworth’s fears, but I was beginning to develop a clinical sense and it didn’t look like TB to me.

“Is he coughing?” I asked.

“No, never coughs, but he’s a bit skittered.”

I went over the animal carefully and there were a few things—the submaxillary oedema, the pot-bellied appearance, the pallor of the mucous membranes—which made diagnosis straightforward.

“I think he’s got liver fluke, Mr. Wentworth. I’ll take a dung sample and have it examined for fluke eggs but I want to treat him right away.”

“Liver fluke? Where would he pick that up?”

“Usually from a wet pasture. Where has he been running lately?”

The farmer pointed through the door. “Over yonder. I’ll show you.”

I walked with him a few hundred yards and through a couple of gates into a wide flat field lying at the base of the fell. The squelchy feel of the turf and the scattered tufts of bog grass told the whole story.

“This is just the place for it,” I said. “As you know, it’s a parasite which infests the liver, but during its life cycle it has to pass through a snail and that snail can only live where there is water.”

He nodded slowly and solemnly several times then began to look around him and I knew he was going to say something. Again he came very close then scanned the horizon anxiously. In all directions the grassland stretched empty and bare for miles but he still seemed worried he might be overheard.