James Herriot (41 page)

“Good. That’s settled then. I thought I’d ask your advice first.” He smiled happily.

I looked at him as though I had never seen him before. “What’s your name?”

“Phelps,” he replied. “P. C. Phelps.”

He was a good-looking young fellow, clear-skinned, with cheerful blue eyes and a solid dependable look about him. I had to fight against an impulse to wring his hand and thump him on the back. But I managed to preserve the professional exterior.

“Well, that’s fine.” I bent and stroked the little dog. “Don’t forget to bring him along to the surgery in ten days for removal of the stiches, and we’ll have to get that plaster off in about a month.”

It was Siegfried who took out the stitches, and I didn’t see our patient again until four weeks later.

P. C. Phelps had his little girls, aged four and six, with him as well as the dog.

“You said the plaster ought to come off about now,” he said, and I nodded.

He looked down at the children. “Well, come on, you two, lift him on the table.”

Eagerly the little girls put their arms around their new pet and as they hoisted him the tail wagged furiously and the wide mouth panted in delight.

“Looks as though he’s been a success,” I said.

He smiled. “That’s an understatement. He’s perfect with these two. I can’t tell you what pleasure he’s given us. He’s one of the family.”

I got out my little saw and began to hack at the plaster.

“It’s worked both ways, I should say. A dog loves a secure home.”

“Well, he couldn’t be more secure.” He ran his hand along the brown coat and laughed as he addressed the little dog. “That’s what you get for begging among the stalls on market day, my lad. You’re in the hands of the law now.”

W
HEN
I
ENTERED THE
RAF I had a secret fear. All my life I have suffered from vertigo and even now I have only to look down from the smallest height to be engulfed by that dreadful dizziness and panic. What would I feel, then, when I started to fly?

As it turned out, I felt nothing. I could gaze downwards from the open cockpit through thousands of feet of space without a qualm, so my fear was groundless.

I had my fears in veterinary practice, too, and in the early days the thing which raised the greatest terror in my breast was the Ministry of Agriculture.

An extraordinary statement, perhaps, but true. It was the clerical side that scared me—all those forms. As to the practical Ministry work itself, I felt in all modesty that I was quite good at it. My thoughts often turned back to all the tuberculin testing I used to do—clipping a clean little area from just the right place in the cow’s neck, inserting the needle into the thickness of the skin and injecting one tenth of a cc of tuberculin.

It was on Mr. Hill’s farm, and I watched the satisfactory intradermal “pea” rise up under my needle. That was the way it should be, and when it came up like that you knew you were really doing your job and testing the animal for tuberculosis.

“That ’un’s number 65,” the farmer said, then a slightly injured look spread over his face as I checked the number in the ear.

“You’re wastin’ your time, Mr. Herriot I ’ave the whole list, all in t’correct order. Wrote it out special for you so you could take it away with you.”

I had my doubts. All farmers were convinced that their herd records were flawless but I had been caught out before. I seemed to have the gift of making every possible clerical mistake and I didn’t need any help from the farmers.

But still … it was tempting. I looked at the long list of figures dangling from the horny fingers. If I accepted it I would save a lot of time. There were still more than fifty animals to test here and I had to get through two more herds before lunch time.

I looked at my watch. Damn! I was well behind my programme and I felt the old stab of frustration.

“Right, Mr. Hill, I’ll take it and thank you very much.” I stuffed the sheet of paper into my pocket and began to move along the byre, clipping and injecting at top speed.

A week later the dread words leaped out at me from the open day book. “Ring Min.” The cryptic phrase in Miss Harbottle’s writing had the power to freeze my blood quicker than anything else. It meant simply that I had to telephone the Ministry of Agriculture office, and whenever our secretary wrote those words in the book it meant that I was in trouble again. I extended a trembling hand towards the receiver.

As always, Kitty Pattison answered my call and I could detect the note of pity in her voice. She was the attractive girl in charge of the office staff and she knew all about my misdemeanours. In fact when it was something very trivial she sometimes brought it to my attention herself, but when I had really dropped a large brick I was dealt with by the boss, Charles Harcourt the Divisional Inspector.

“Ah, Mr. Herriot,” Kitty said lightly. I knew she sympathised with me but she couldn’t do a thing about it. “Mr. Harcourt wants a word with you.”

There it was. The terrible sentence that always set my heart thumping.

“Thank you,” I said huskily, and waited an eternity as the ’phone was switched through.

“Herriot!” The booming voice made me jump.

I swallowed. “Good morning, Mr. Harcourt. How are you?”

“I’ll tell you how I am, I’m bloody annoyed!” I could imagine vividly the handsome, high-coloured, choleric face flushing deeper, the greenish eyes glaring. “In fact I’m hopping bloody mad!”

“Oh.”

“It’s no use saying ‘oh.’ That’s what you said the last time when you tested that cow of Frankland’s that had been dead for two years! That was very clever—I don’t know how you managed it. Now I’ve been going over your test at Hill’s of High View and there are two cows here that you’ve tested—numbers 74 and 103. Now our records show that he sold both of them at Brawton Auction Mart six months ago, so you’ve performed another miracle.”

“I’m sorry …”

“Please don’t be sorry, it’s bloody marvellous how you do it. I have all the figures here—skin measurements, the lot I see you found they were both thin-skinned animals even though they were about fifteen miles away at the time. Clever stuff!”

“Well I …”

“All right Herriot, I’ll dispense with the comedy. I’m going to tell you once more, for the last time, and I hope you’re listening.” He paused and I could almost see the big shoulders hunching as he barked into the phone. “LOOK IN THE BLOODY EARS IN FUTURE!”

I broke into a rapid gabble. “I will indeed, Mr. Harcourt, I assure you from now on …”

“All right, all right but there’s something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yes, I’m not finished yet.” The voice took on a great weariness. “Can I ask you to cast your mind back to that cow you took under the TB order from Wilson of Low Parks?”

I dug my nails into my palm. We were heading for deep water. “Yes—I remember it.”

“Well now, Herriot, lad, do you remember a little chat we had about the forms?” Charles was trying to be patient, because he was a decent man, but it was costing him dearly. “Didn’t anything I told you sink in?”

“Well yes, of course.”

“Then why, why didn’t you send me a receipt for slaughter?”

“Receipt for … didn’t I …?”

“No, you didn’t” he said. “And honestly I can’t understand it. I went over it with you step by step last time when you forgot to forward a copy of the valuation agreement.”

“Oh dear, I really am sorry.”

A deep sigh came from the other end. “And there’s nothing to it.” He paused. “Tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go over the procedure once more, shall we?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“Very well,” he said. “First of all, when you find an infected animal you serve B. 205 D.T., Form A., which is the notice requiring detention and isolation of the animal. Next,” and I could hear the slap of finger on palm as he enumerated his points. “Next, there is B. 207 D.T., Form C., Notice of intended slaughter. Then B. 208 D.T., Form D., Post Mortem Certificate. Then B. 196 D.T., Veterinary Inspector’s report. Then B. 209 D.T., Valuation agreement, and in cases where the owner objects, there is B. 213 D.T., Appointment of valuer. Then we have B. 212 D.T., Notice to owner of time and place of slaughter, followed by B. 227 D.T., Receipt for animal for slaughter, and finally B. 230 D.T., Notice requiring cleansing and disinfection. Dammit, a child could understand that. It’s perfectly simple, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, certainly, absolutely.” It wasn’t simple to me, but I didn’t mention the fact. He had calmed down nicely and I didn’t want to inflame him again.

“Well thank you, Mr. Harcourt,” I said. “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.” I put down the receiver with the feeling that things could have turned out a lot worse, but for all that my nerves didn’t stop jangling for some time. The trouble was that the Ministry work was desperately important to general practitioners. In fact in those precarious days it was the main rent payer.

This business of the Tuberculosis Order. When a veterinary surgeon came upon a cow with open TB it was his duty to see that the animal was slaughtered immediately because its milk could be a danger to the public. That sounds easy, but unfortunately the law insisted that the demise of each unhappy creature be commemorated by a confetti-like shower of the doom-laden forms.

It wasn’t just that there were so many of these forms, but they had to be sent to an amazing variety of people. Sometimes I used to think that there were very few people in England who didn’t get one. Apart from Charles Harcourt, other recipients included the farmer concerned, the police, the Head Office of the Ministry, the knacker man, the local authority. I nearly always managed to forget one of them. I used to have nightmares about standing in the middle of the market place, throwing the forms around me at the passers-by and laughing hysterically.

Looking back, I can hardly believe that for all this wear and tear on the nervous system the payment was one guinea plus ten and sixpence for the post mortem.

It was a mere two days after my interview with the Divisional Inspector that I had to take another cow under the T.B. Order. When I came to fill in the forms I sat at the surgery desk in a dither of apprehension, going over them again and again, laying them out side by side and enclosing them one by one in their various envelopes. This time there must be no mistake.

I took them over to the post myself and uttered a silent prayer as I dropped them into the box. Charles would have them the following morning, and I would soon know if I had done it again. When two days passed without incident I felt I was safe, but midway through the third morning I dropped in at the surgery and read the message in letters of fire. “RING MIN!”

Kitty Pattison sounded strained. She didn’t even try to appear casual. “Oh yes, Mr. Herriot,” she said hurriedly. “Mr. Harcourt asked me to call you. I’m putting you through now.”

My heart almost stopped as I waited for the familiar bellow, but when the quiet voice came on the line it frightened me even more.

“Good morning, Herriot.” Charles was curt and impersonal. “I’d like to discuss that last cow you took under the Order.”

“Oh yes?” I croaked.

“But not over the telephone. I want to see you here in the office.”

“In the … the office?”

“Yes, right away if you can.”

I put down the ’phone and went out to the car with my knees knocking. Charles was really upset this time. There was a kind of restrained fury in his words, and this business of going to the office—that was reserved for serious transgressions.

Twenty minutes later my footsteps echoed in the corridor of the Ministry building. Marching stiffly like a condemned man I passed the windows where I could see the typists at work, then I read “Divisional Inspector”’ on the door at the end.

I took one long shuddering breath then knocked. “Come in.” The voice was still quiet and controlled.

Charles looked up unsmilingly from his desk as I entered. He motioned me to a chair and directed a cold stare at me.

“Herriot,” he said unemotionally. “You’re really on the carpet this time.”

Charles had been a Major in the Punjabi Rifles and he was very much the Indian Army officer at this moment. A fine looking man, clear-skinned and ruddy, with massive cheek bones above a powerful jaw. Looking at the dangerously glinting eyes it struck me that only a fool would trifle with somebody like him—and I had a nasty feeling that I had been trifling.

Dry-mouthed, I waited.

“You know, Herriot,” he went on. “After our last telephone conversation about TB forms I thought you might give me a little peace.”

“Peace …?”

“Yes, yes, it was silly of me, I know, but when I took all that time to go over the procedure with you I actually thought you were listening.”

“Oh I was, I was!”

“You were? Oh good.” He gave me a mirthless smile. “Then I suppose it was even more foolish of me to expect you to act upon my instructions. In my innocence I thought you cared about what I was telling you.”

“Mr. Harcourt, believe me, I do care, I …”

“THEN WHY,” he bawled without warning, bringing his great hand flailing down on the desk with a crash that made pens and inkwells dance. “WHY THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU KEEP MAKING A BALLS OF IT?”

I resisted a strong impulse to run away. “Making a … I don’t quite understand.”

“You don’t?” He kept up his pounding on the desk. “Well I’ll tell you. One of my veterinary officers was on that farm, and he found that you hadn’t served a Notice of Cleansing and Disinfection!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it bloody well is so! You didn’t give one to the farmer but you sent one to me. Maybe you want me to go and disinfect the place, is that it? Would you like me to slip along there and get busy with a hosepipe—I’ll go now if it’ll make you feel any happier!”

“Oh no, no, no … no.”

Charles was apparently not satisfied with the thunderous noise he was making because he began to use both hands, bringing them down simultaneously with sickening force on the wood while he glared wildly.

“Herriot!” he shouted. “There’s just one thing I want to know from you—do you want this bloody work or don’t you? Just say the word and I’ll give it to another practice and then maybe we’d both be able to live a quiet life!”