James Herriot (4 page)

“May I say, sir, that this isn’t a bite, it’s a feast. It is all absolutely delicious.”

His face lit up with impish glee. “Well, dash it … do you really think so? I’m so pleased. And you’ve done nobly, dear boy. Can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

As I continued to eat ecstatically, feeling the strength ebbing back, he glanced uneasily into the pen.

“Herriot … those stitches. Don’t like the look of them much …”

“Oh yes,” I said. “They’re just a precaution. You can nick them out in a couple of days.”

“Splendid! But won’t they leave a wound? We’d better put something on there.”

I paused in mid chew. Here it was again. He only needed his Propamidine to complete his happiness.

“Yes, old chap, we must apply some of that Prip … Prom … oh hell and blast, it’s no good!” He threw back his head and bellowed, “Charlie!”

The foreman appeared in the entrance, touching his cap. “Morning, m’lord.”

“Morning, Charlie. See that this sow gets some of that wonderful cream on her. What the blazes d’you call it again?”

Charlie swallowed and squared his shoulders. “Propopamide, m’lord.”

The little man threw his arms high in delight. “Of course, of course! Propopamide! I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get that word out?” He looked admiringly at his foreman. “Charlie, you never fail—I don’t know how you do it.”

Charlie bowed gravely in acknowledgement.

Lord Hulton turned to me. “You’ll let us have some more Propopamide, won’t you, Herriot?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “I think I have some in the car.”

Sitting there on the bucket amid the mixed aromas of pig and barley meal and coffee I could almost feel the waves of pleasure beating on me. His lordship was clearly enchanted by the whole business, Charlie was wearing the superior smile which always accompanied his demonstrations of lingual dexterity, and as for myself I was experiencing a mounting euphoria.

I could see into the pen and the sight was rewarding. The little pigs who had been sheltered in a large box during the operation were back with their mother, side by side in a long pink row as their tiny mouths enclosed the teats. The sow seemed to be letting her milk down, too, because there was no frantic scramble for position, just a rapt concentration.

She was a fine pedigree pig and instead of lying on the butcher’s slab today she would be starting to bring up her family. As though reading my thoughts she gave a series of contented grunts and the old feeling began to bubble in me, the deep sense of fulfillment and satisfaction that comes from even the smallest triumph and makes our lives worthwhile.

And there was something else. A new thought stealing into my consciousness with a delicious fresh tingle about it. At this moment, who else in the length and breadth of Britain was eating a breakfast personally prepared and served by a marquis?

I
AM AFRAID OF DENTISTS.

I am particularly afraid of strange dentists, so before I went into the RAF I made sure my teeth were in order. Everybody told me they were very strict about the aircrews’ teeth and I didn’t want some unknown prodding around in my mouth. There had to be no holes anywhere or they would start to ache away up there in the sky, so they said.

So before my call-up I went to old Mr. Grover in Darrowby and he painstakingly did all that was necessary. He was good at his job and was always gentle and careful and didn’t strike the same terror into me as other dentists. All I felt when I went to his surgery was a dryness of the throat and a quivering at the knees, and providing I kept my eyes tightly shut all the time I managed to get through the visit fairly easily.

My fear of dentists dates back to my earliest experiences in the twenties. As a child I was taken to the dread Hector McDarroch in Glasgow and he did my dental work right up to my teens. Friends of my youth tell me that he inspired a similar lasting fear in them, too, and in fact there must be a whole generation of Glaswegians who feel the same.

Of course you couldn’t blame Hector entirely. The equipment in those days was primitive and a visit to any dental practitioner was an ordeal. But Hector, with his booming laugh, was so large and overpowering that he made it worse. Actually he was a very nice man, cheerful and good-natured, but the other side of him blotted it all out.

The electric drill had not yet been invented or if it had, it hadn’t reached Scotland, and Hector bored holes in teeth with a fearsome foot-operated machine. There was a great wheel driven by a leather belt and this powered the drill, and as you lay in the chair two things dominated the outlook; the wheel whirring by your ear and Hector’s huge knee pistoning almost into your face as he pedalled furiously.

He came from the far north and at the Highland games he used to array himself in kilt and sporran and throw cabers around like matchsticks. He was so big and strong that I always felt hopelessly trapped in that chair with his bulk over me and the wheel grinding and the pedal thumping. He didn’t exactly put his foot on my chest but he had me all right.

And it didn’t worry him when he got into the sensitive parts with his drill; my strangled cries were of no avail and he carried on remorselessly to the end. I had the impression that Hector thought it was sissy to feel pain, or maybe he was of the opinion that suffering was good for the soul.

Anyway, since those days I’ve had a marked preference for small frail soft-spoken dentists like Mr. Graver. I like to feel that if it came to a stand-up fight I would have a good chance of victory and escape. Also, Mr. Grover understood that people were afraid, and that helped. I remember him chuckling when he told me about the big farm men who came to have their teeth extracted. Many a time, he said, he had gone across the room for his instruments and turned back to find the chair empty.

I still don’t enjoy going to the dentist but I have to admit that the modern men are wonderful. I hardly see mine when I go. Just a brief glimpse of a white coat then all is done from behind. Fingers come round, things go in and out of my mouth but even when I venture to open my eyes I see nothing.

Hector McDarroch, on the other hand, seemed to take a pleasure in showing off his grisly implements, filling the long-needled syringe right in front of my eyes and squirting the cocaine ceilingwards a few times before he started on me. And worse, before an extraction he used to clank about in a tin box, producing a series of hideous forceps and examining them, whistling softly, till he found the right one.

So with all this in mind, as I sat in a long queue of airmen for the preliminary examination, I was thankful I had been to Mr. Grover for a complete check-up. A dentist stood by a chair at the end of the long room and he examined the young men in blue one by one before calling out his findings to an orderly at a desk.

I derived considerable entertainment from watching the expressions on the lads’ faces when the call went out. “Three fillings, two extractions!” “Eight fillings!” Most of them looked stunned, some thunderstruck, others almost tearful. Now and again one would try to expostulate with the man in white but it was no good; nobody was listening. At times I could have laughed out loud. Mind you, I felt a bit mean at being amused, but after all they had only themselves to blame. If only they had shown my foresight they would have had nothing to worry about.

When my name was called I strolled across, humming a little tune, and dropped nonchalantly into the chair. It didn’t take the man long. He poked his way swiftly along my teeth then rapped out, “Five fillings and one extraction!”

I sat bolt upright and stared at him in amazement.

“But … but …” I began to yammer, “I had a check-up by my own …”

“Next, please,” murmured the dentist.

“But Mr. Grover said …”

“Next man! Move along!” bawled the orderly, and as I shuffled away I gazed appealingly at the white-coated figure. But he was reciting a list of my premolars and incisors and showed no interest.

I was still trembling when I was handed the details of my fate.

“Report at Regent Lodge tomorrow morning for the extraction,” the WAAF girl said.

Tomorrow morning! By God, they didn’t mess about! And what the heck did it all mean, anyway? My teeth were perfectly sound. There was only that one with the bit of enamel chipped off. Mr. Grover had pointed it out and said it wouldn’t give any trouble. It was the tooth that held my pipe—surely it couldn’t be that one.

But there came the disquieting thought that my opinion didn’t matter. When my feeble protests were ignored back there it hit me for the first time that I wasn’t a civilian any more.

Next morning the din from the dustbin lids had hardly subsided when the grim realisation drove into my brain.

I was going to have a tooth out today! And very soon, too. I passed the intervening hours in growing apprehension; morning parade, the march through the darkness to breakfast. The dried egg and fried bread were less attractive than ever and the grey day had hardly got under way before I was approaching the forbidding facade of Regent Lodge.

As I climbed the steps my palms began to sweat. I didn’t like having my teeth drilled but extractions were infinitely worse. Something in me recoiled from the idea of having a part of myself torn away by force, even if it didn’t hurt. But of course, I told myself as I walked along an echoing corridor, it never did hurt nowadays. Just a little prick, then nothing.

I was nurturing this comforting thought when I turned into a large assembly room with numbered doors leading from it. About thirty airmen sat around wearing a variety of expressions from sickly smiles to tough bravado. A chilling smell of antiseptic hung on the air. I chose a chair and settled down to wait. I had been in the armed forces long enough to know that you waited a long time fcr everything and I saw no reason why a dental appointment should be any different.

As I sat down the man on my left gave me a brief nod. He was fat, and greasy black hair fell over his pimpled brow. Though engrossed in picking his teeth with a match he gave me a long appraising stare before addressing me in rich cockney.

“What room you goin’ in, mate?”

I looked at my card. “Room four.”

“Blimey, mate, you’ve ’ad it!” He removed his matchstick and grinned wolfishly.

“Had it …? What do you mean?”

“Well, haven’t you ’eard? That’s The Butcher in there.”

“The … The … Butcher?” I quavered.

“Yeh, that’s what they call the dental officer in there.” He gave an expansive smile. “He’s a right killer, that bloke, I’ll tell yer.”

I swallowed. “Butcher … ? Killer … ? Oh come on. They’ll all be the same, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you believe it, mate. There’s good an there’s bad, and that bloke’s pure murder. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“How do you know, anyway?”

He waved an airy hand. “Oh I’ve been ’ere a few times and I’ve heard some bleedin’ awful screams comin’ out of that room. Spoken to some of the chaps afterwards, too. They all call ’im The Butcher.”

I rubbed my hands on the rough blue of my trousers. “Oh you hear these tales. I’m sure they’re exaggerated.”

“Well, you’ll find out, mate.” He resumed his tooth picking. “But don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

He went on about various things but I only half heard him. His name, it seemed, was Simkin, and he was not an aircrew cadet like the rest of us but a regular and a member of the groundstaff; he worked in the kitchens. He spoke scornfully of us raw recruits and pointed out that we would have to “get some service in” before we were fit to associate with the real members of the Royal Air Force. I noticed, however, that despite his own years of allegiance he was still an AC2 like myself.

Almost an hour passed with my heart thumping every time the door of number four opened. I had to admit that the young men leaving that room all looked a bit shattered and one almost reeled out, holding his mouth with both hands.

“Cor! Look at that poor bugger!” Simkin drawled with ill-concealed satisfaction. “Strike me! He’s been through it, poor bleeder. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, mate.”

I could feel the tension mounting in me. “What room are you going into, anyway?” I asked.

He did a bit of deep exploration with his match. “Room two, mate. I’ve been in there before. He’s a grand bloke, one of the best. Never ’urts you.”

“Well you’re lucky, aren’t you?”

“Not lucky, mate.” He paused and stabbed his match at me. “I know my way around, that’s all. There’s ways and means.” He allowed one eyelid to drop briefly.

The conversation was abruptly terminated as the dread door opened and a WAAF came out

“AC2 Herriot!” she called.

I got up on shaking limbs and took a deep breath. As I set off I had a fleeting glimpse of the leer of pure delight on Simkin’s face. He was really enjoying himself.

As I passed the portals my feeling of doom increased. The Butcher was another Hector McDarroch; about six feet two with rugby forward shoulders bulging his white coat. My flesh crept as he unleashed a hearty laugh and motioned me towards the chair.

As I sat down I decided to have one last try.

“Is this the tooth?” I asked, tapping the only possible suspect.

“It is indeed!” boomed The Butcher. That’s the one.”

“Ah well,” I said with a light laugh. “I’m sure I can explain. There’s been some mistake …”

“Yes … yes …” he murmured, filling the syringe before my eyes and sending a few playful spurts into the air.

There’s just a bit of enamel off it and Mr. Grover said …”

The WAAF suddenly wound the chair back and I found myself in the semi-prone position with the white bulk looming over me.

“You see,” I gasped desperately. “I need that tooth. It’s the one that holds my …”

A strong finger was on my gum and I felt the needle going in. I resigned myself to my fate.

When he had inserted the local the big man put the syringe down. “We’ll just give that a minute or two,” he said, and left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him the WAAF tiptoed over to me.

“This feller’s loopy!” she whispered.