All Creatures Great and Small (56 page)

We paused at a row of pegs at the top of the stairs while some people hung up their coats. I was surprised to see Maggie Robinson the blacksmith’s daughter there, taking the tickets, and she appeared to be intrigued by the sight of us. She simpered and giggled, darted glances at Helen and did everything but dig me in the ribs. Finally she parted the curtains and we went inside.

It struck me immediately that the management were determined that their patrons wouldn’t feel cold because if it hadn’t been for the all-pervading smell of old sofas we might have been plunging into a tropical jungle. Maggie steered us through the stifling heat to our places and as I sat down I noticed that there was no arm between the two seats.

“Them’s the courting seats,” she blurted out and fled with her hand to her mouth.

The lights were still on and I looked round the tiny balcony. There were only about a dozen people dotted here and there sitting in patient silence under the plain distempered walls. By the side of the screen the hands of a clock stood resolutely at twenty-past four.

But it was all right sitting there with Helen. I felt fine except for a tendency to gasp like a goldfish in the airless atmosphere. I was settling down cosily when a little man seated in front of us with his wife turned slowly round. The mouth in the haggard face was pursed grimly and he fixed his eyes on mine in a long, challenging stare. We faced each other for several silent moments before he finally spoke.

“She’s dead,” he said.

A thrill of horror shot through me. “Dead?”

“Aye, she is. She’s dead.” He dragged the word out slowly with a kind of mournful satisfaction while his eyes still stared into mine.

I swallowed a couple of times. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Truly sorry.”

He nodded grimly and continued to regard me with a peculiar intensity as though he expected me to say more. Then with apparent reluctance he turned away and settled in his seat.

I looked helplessly at the rigid back, at the square, narrow shoulders muffled in a heavy overcoat. Who in God’s name was this? And what was he talking about? I knew the face from somewhere—must be a client. And what was dead? Cow? Ewe? Sow? My mind began to race over the cases I had seen during the past week but that face didn’t seem to fit in anywhere.

Helen was looking at me questioningly and I managed a wan smile. But the spell was shattered. I started to say something to her when the little man began to turn again with menacing deliberation.

He fixed me once more with a hostile glare. “Ah don’t think there was ever owt wrong with her stomach,” he declared.

“You don’t, eh?”

“No, young man, ah don’t.” He dragged his eyes unwillingly from my face and turned towards the screen again.

The effect of this second attack was heightened because the lights went off suddenly and an incredible explosion of noise blasted my ear drums. It was the Gaumont News. The sound machine, like the heating system, had apparently been designed for something like the Albert Hall and for a moment I cowered back under the assault. As a voice bellowed details of fortnight-old events I closed my eyes and tried again to place the man in front of me.

I often had trouble identifying people outside their usual environment and had once discussed the problem with Siegfried.

He had been airy. “There’s an easy way, James. Just ask them how they spell their names. You’ll have no trouble at all.”

I had tried this on one occasion and the farmer had looked at me strangely, replied “S-M-I-T-H” and hurried away. So there seemed nothing to do now but sit sweating with my eyes on the disapproving back and search through my memory. When the news finished with a raucous burst of music I had got back about three weeks without result.

There was a blessed respite of a few seconds before the uproar broke out again. This was the main feature—the film about Scotland was on later—and was described outside as a tender love story. I can’t remember the title but there was a lot of embracing which would have been all right except that every kiss was accompanied by a chorus of long-drawn sucking noises from the little boys downstairs. The less romantic blew raspberries.

And all the time it got hotter. I opened my jacket wide and unbuttoned my shirt collar but I was beginning to feel decidedly light-headed. The little man in front, still huddled in his heavy coat, seemed unperturbed. Twice the projector broke down and we stared for several minutes at a blank screen while a storm of whistling and stamping came up from the stalls.

Maggie Robinson, standing in the dim light by the curtain, still appeared to be fascinated by the sight of Helen and me. Whenever I looked up I found her eyes fixed upon us with a knowing leer. About half-way through the film, however, her concentration was disturbed by a commotion on the other side of the curtain and she was suddenly brushed aside as a large form burst through.

With a feeling of disbelief I recognised Gobber Newhouse. I had had previous experience of his disregard of the licensing laws and it was clear he had been at it again. He spent most afternoons in the back rooms of the local pubs and here he was, come to relax after a rough session.

He reeled up the aisle, turned, to my dismay, into our row, rested briefly on Helen’s lap, trod on my toe and finally spread his enormous carcass over the seat on my left. Fortunately it was another courting seat with no central arm to get in his way but for all that he had great difficulty in finding a comfortable position. He heaved and squirmed about and the wheezing and snuffling and grunting in the darkness might have come from a pen of bacon pigs. But at last he found a spot and with a final cavernous belch composed himself for slumber.

The tender love story never did have much of a chance but Gobber sounded its death knell. With his snores reverberating in my ear and a dense pall of stale beer drifting over me I was unable to appreciate any of the delicate nuances.

It was a relief when the last close-up came to an end and the lights went up. I was a bit worried about Helen. I had noticed as the evening wore on that her lips had a tendency to twitch occasionally and now and then she drew her brows down in a deep frown. I wondered if she was upset. But Maggie appeared providentially with a tray round her neck and stood over us, still leering while I purchased two chocolate ices.

I had taken only one bite when I noticed a stirring under the overcoat in front of me. The little man was returning to the attack. The eyes staring from the grim mask were as chilling as ever.

“Ah knew,” he said. “Right from start, that you were on the wrong track.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye, I’ve been among beasts for fifty years and they never go on like that when it’s the stomach.”

“Don’t they? You’re probably right.”

The little man twisted higher in his seat and for a moment I thought he was going to climb over at me. He raised a forefinger. “For one thing a beast wi’ a bad stomach is allus hard in its muck.”

“I see.”

“And if you think back, this un’s muck was soft, real soft.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” I said hastily, glancing across at Helen. This was great—just what I needed to complete the romantic atmosphere.

He sniffed and turned away and once again, as if the whole thing had been stage-managed, we were plunged into blackness and the noise blasted out again. I was lying back quivering when it came through to me that something was wrong. What was this strident Western music? Then the title flashed on the screen. Arizona Guns.

I turned to Helen in alarm. “What’s going on? This is supposed to be the Scottish film, isn’t it? The one we came to see?”

“It’s supposed to be.” Helen paused and looked at me with a half-smile. “But I’m afraid it isn’t going to be. The thing is they often change the supporting film without warning. Nobody seems to mind.”

I slumped wearily in my seat. Well I’d done it again. No dance at the Reniston, wrong picture tonight. I was a genius in my own way.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind too much.”

She shook her head. “Not a bit. Anyway, let’s give this one a chance. It may be all right.”

But as the ancient horse opera crackled out its cliché-ridden message I gave up hope. This was going to be another of those evenings. I watched apathetically as the posse galloped for the fourth time past the same piece of rock and I was totally unprepared for the deafening fusillade of shots which rang out. It made me jump and it even roused Gobber from his sleep.

“ ’Ellow! ’ellow! ’ellow!” he bawled jerking upright and thrashing around him with his arms. A backhander on the side of the head drove me violently against Helen’s shoulder and I was beginning to apologise when I saw that her twitching and frowning had come on again. But this time it spread and her whole face seemed to break up. She began to laugh, silently and helplessly.

I had never seen a girl laugh like this. It was as though it was something she had wanted to do for a long time. She abandoned herself utterly to it, lying back with her head on the back of the seat, legs stretched out in front of her, arms dangling by her side. She took her time and waited until she had got it all out of her system before she turned to me.

She put her hand on my arm. “Look,” she said faintly. “Next time, why don’t we just go for a walk?”

I settled down. Gobber was asleep again and his snores, louder than ever, competed with the bangs and howls from the screen. I still hadn’t the slightest idea who that little man in front could be and I had the feeling he wasn’t finished with me yet. The clock still stood at twenty-past four. Maggie was still staring at us and a steady trickle of sweat ran down my back.

The environment wasn’t all I could have desired, but never mind. There was going to be a next time.

SIXTY-THREE

S
IEGFRIED HAD A HABIT
of pulling at the lobe of his ear and staring blankly ahead when preoccupied. He was doing it now, his other hand, outstretched, crumbling a crust of bread on his plate.

I didn’t usually pry into my boss’s meditations and anyway, I wanted to be off on the morning round, but there was something portentous in his face which made me speak.

“What’s the matter? Something on your mind?”

Siegfried turned his head slowly and his eyes glared sightlessly for a few moments until recognition dawned. He stopped his lobe-pulling, got to his feet, walked over to the window and looked out at the empty street

“There is, James, there is indeed. In fact, I was just about to ask your advice. It’s about this letter I got this morning.” He ransacked his pockets impatiently, pulling out handkerchiefs, thermometers, crumpled bank-notes, lists of calls, till he found a long blue envelope. “Here, read it.”

I opened the envelope and quickly scanned the single sheet. I looked up, puzzled. “Sorry, I don’t get it. All it says here is that H. W. St. J. Ransom, Maj. Gen., would like the pleasure of your company at Brawton races on Saturday. No problem there, is there? You like racing.”

“Ah, but it’s not so simple as that,” Siegfried said, starting again on the lobe. “This is in the nature of a trial. General Ransom is one of the big boys in the North West Racing Circuit and he’s bringing one of his pals along on Saturday to vet me. They’re going to examine me for soundness.”

I must have looked alarmed because he grinned. “Look, I’d better start at the beginning. And I’ll cut it short. The officials of the North West Circuit are looking for a veterinary surgeon to supervise all meetings. You know the local man attends if there’s a racecourse in his town and he is on call in case of injury to the horses, but this would be different. This supervisory vet would deal with cases of suspected doping and the like—in fact he’d have to be a bit of a specialist. Well I’ve had a whisper that they think I might be the man for the job and that’s what Saturday’s about. I know old Ransom but I haven’t met his colleague. The idea is to have a day at the races with me and size me up.”

“If you got the job would it mean giving up general practice?” I asked. And a chill wind seemed to creep around me at the idea.

“No, no, but it would mean spending something like three days a week on racecourses and I’m wondering if that wouldn’t be just a bit much.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I finished my coffee and pushed back my chair. “I’m not really the one to advise you on this. I haven’t had a lot of experience with racehorses and I’m not interested in racing. You’ll have to make up your own mind. But you’ve often talked of specialising in horse work and you love the atmosphere of a racecourse.”

“You’re right there, James, I do. And there’s no doubt the extra money would come in very useful. It’s what every practice needs—a contract of some sort, a regular income from somewhere to make you less dependent on the farmers paying their bills.” He turned away from the window. “Anyway, I’ll go to Brawton races with them on Saturday and we’ll see how it turns out. And you must come too.”

“Me! Why?”

“Well it says in the letter ‘and partner.’ ”

“That means some woman. They’ll have their wives with them, no doubt.”

“Doesn’t matter what it means, James, you’re coming with me. A day out and a bit of free food and booze will do you good. Tristan can hold the fort for a few hours.”

It was nearly noon on Saturday when I answered the door bell. As I walked along the passage it was easy to identify the people beyond the glass door.

General Ransom was short and square with a moustache of surprising blackness thrusting aggressively from his upper lip. Colonel Tremayne was tall, hawk-nosed and stooping but he shared with his companion the almost tangible aura of authority which comes from a lifetime of command. Two tweedy women stood behind them on the lower step.

I opened the door, feeling my shoulders squaring and my heels coming together under the battery of fierce, unsmiling glares.

“Mr. Farnon!” barked the general. “Expectin’ us, I think.”

I retreated a pace and opened the door. “Oh yes, certainly, please come in.”

The two women swept in first, Mrs. Ransom as squat and chunky and even tougher-looking than her husband, then Mrs. Tremayne, much younger and attractive in a hard-boiled fashion. All of them completely ignored me except the colonel who brought up the rear and fixed me for a moment with a fishy eye.