All Things Bright and Beautiful (32 page)

In Darrowby it was confined to a group of hardbitten characters, all of them elderly, so even then the custom was on the wane. But it wasn’t uncommon to see them when they came to pay their bills, leaning helplessly against the surgery wall and pushing their cheque books wordlessly at us. Some of them still used a pony and trap and the old joke about the horse taking them home was illustrated regularly. One old chap kept an enormously powerful ancient car simply for the purpose of getting him home; even if he engaged top gear by mistake when he collapsed into the driver’s seat the vehicle would still take off. Some didn’t go home at all on market day but spent the night carousing and playing cards till dawn.

As I looked at Joe Bentley swaying on the step I wondered what his programme might be for the rest of the evening. He closed his eyes, held his fist close to his face and spoke again.

“Hellow, who’s there?” he asked in an affected telephone voice.

“Herriot speaking,” I replied. Clearly Joe wasn’t trying to be funny. He was just a little confused. It was only right to cooperate with him. “How are you, Mr. Bentley?”

“Nicely, thank ye,” Joe answered solemnly, eyes still tightly closed. “Are you very well?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Now what can I do for you?”

This seemed to floor him temporarily because he remained silent for several seconds, opening his eyes occasionally and squinting somewhere over my left shoulder with intense concentration. Then something seemed to click; he closed his eyes again, cleared his throat and recommenced.

“Will you come up to ma place? I’ve a cow wants cleansin’.”

“Do you want me to come tonight?”

Joe gave this serious thought, pursing his lips and scratching his ear with his free hand before answering.

“Nay, morning’ll do. Goodbye and thank ye.” He placed the phantom telephone carefully in its rest, swung round and made his way down the street with great dignity. He hardly staggered at all and there was something purposeful in his bearing which convinced me that he was heading back to the Red Bear. For a moment I thought he would fall outside Johnson’s the ironmongers but by the time he rounded the corner into the market place he was going so well that I felt sure he’d make it.

And I can remember Mr. Biggins standing by the desk in our office, hands deep in his pockets, chin thrust forward stubbornly.

“I ’ave a cow gruntin’ a bit.”

“Oh, right, we’ll have a look at her.” I reached for a pen to write the visit in the book.

He shuffled his feet. “Well ah don’t know. She’s maybe not as bad as all that.”

“Well, whatever you say…”

“No,” he said. “It’s what you say—you’re t’vet.”

“It’s a bit difficult,” I replied. “After all, I haven’t seen her. Maybe I’d better pay you a visit.”

“Aye, that’s all very fine, but it’s a big expense. It’s ten bob every time you fellers walk on to ma place and that’s before you start. There’s all t’medicines and everything on top.”

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Biggins. Well, would you like to take something away with you? A tin of stomach powder, perhaps?”

“How do you know it’s t’stomach?”

“Well I don’t actually…”

“It might be summat else.”

“That’s very true, but…”

“She’s a right good cow, this,” he said with a touch of aggression. “Paid fifty pun for her at Scarburn Market.”

“Yes, I’m sure she is. And consequently I really think she’d be worth a visit I could come out this afternoon.”

There was a long silence. “Aye, but it wouldn’t be just one visit would it? You’d be comin’ again next day and maybe the one after that and before we knew we’d ’ave a clonkin’ great bill.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Biggins, everything is so expensive these days.”

“Yes, by gaw!” He nodded, vigorously. “Sometimes it ud be cheaper to give you t’cow at t’end of it.”

“Well now, hardly that…but I do see your point.”

I spent a few moments in thought. “How about taking a fever drink as well as the stomach powder? That would be safer.”

He gave me a long blank stare. “But you still wouldn’t be sure, would you?”

“No, not quite sure, not absolutely…”

“She could even ’ave a wire in ’er.”

“True, very true.”

“Well then, shoving medicines down her neck isn’t goin’ to do no good is it?”

“It isn’t, you’re right.”

“Ah don’t want to lose this cow, tha knows!” he burst out truculently. “Ah can’t afford to lose ’er!”

“I realise that, Mr. Biggins. That’s why I feel I should see her—I did suggest that if you remember.”

He did not reply immediately and only the strain in his eyes and a faint twitching of a cheek muscle betrayed the inner struggle which was raging. When he finally spoke it was in a hoarse croak.

“Aye, well, it might be best…but…er…we could mebbes leave ’er till mornin’ and see how she is then.”

“That’s a good idea.” I smiled in relief. “You have a look at her first thing in the morning and give me a ring before nine if she’s no better.”

My words seemed to deepen his gloom. “But what if she doesn’t last till mornin’?”

“Well of course there is that risk.”

“Not much good ringin’ you if she’s dead, is it?”

“That’s true, of course.”

“Ah’d be ringin’ Mallock the knacker man, wouldn’t I?”

“Afraid so, yes…”

“Well that’s no bloody use to me, gettin’ five quid from Mallock for a good cow!”

“Mm, no…I can see how you feel.”

“Ah think a lot about this cow!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It ud be a big loss for me.”

“Quite.”

Mr. Biggins hunched his shoulders and glared at me belligerently. “Well then what are you goin’ to do about ’er?”

“Let’s see,” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Perhaps you could wait till tonight and see if she recovers and if she isn’t right by say, eight o’clock you could let me know and I’d come out.”

“You’d come out then, would you?” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes.

I gave him a bright smile. “That’s right.”

“Aye, but last time you came out at night you charged extra, ah’m sure you did.”

“Well, probably,” I said, spreading my hands. “That’s usual in veterinary practices.”

“So we’re worse off than afore, aren’t we?”

“When you look at it like that…I suppose so…”

“Ah’m not a rich man, tha knows.”

“I realise that.”

“Takes me all ma time to pay t’ordinary bill without extras.”

“Oh I’m sure…”

“So that idea’s a bad egg, ain’t it?”

“Seems like it…yes…” I lay back in my chair, feeling suddenly tired.

Mr. Biggins glowered at me morosely but I wasn’t going to be tempted into any further gambits. I gave him what I fancied was a neutral stare and I hoped it conveyed the message that I was open to suggestions but wasn’t going to make any myself.

The silence which now blanketed the room seemed to be of a durable nature. Down at the end of the street the church clock tolled the quarter hour, far off in the market place a dog barked, Miss Dobson the grocer’s daughter glided past the window on her bicycle but no word was uttered.

Mr. Biggins, biting his lower lip, darting his eyes desperately from his feet to me and back again, was clearly at the end of his resources, and it came to me at last that I had to take a firm initiative.

“Mr. Biggins,” I said. “I’ve got to be on my way. I have a lot of calls and one of them is within a mile of your farm, so I shall see your cow around three o’clock.” I stood up to indicate that the interview was over.

The farmer gave me a hunted look. I had the feeling that he had been resigned to a long period of stalemate and this sudden attack had taken him out of his stride. He opened his mouth as though to speak then appeared to change his mind and turned to go. At the door he paused, raised his hand and looked at me beseechingly for a moment, then he sank his chin on his chest and left the room.

I watched him through the window and as he crossed the road he stopped half way in the same indeterminate way, muttering to himself and glancing back at the surgery; and as he lingered there I grew anxious that he might be struck by a passing car, but at length he squared his shoulders and trailed slowly out of sight.

And sometimes it isn’t easy to get a clear picture over the telephone…

“This is Bob Fryer.”

“Good morning, Herriot here.”

“Now then, one of me sows is bad.”

“Oh right, what’s the trouble?”

A throaty chuckle. “Ah, that’s what ah want YOU to tell ME!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Aye, ah wouldn’t be ringin’ you up if I knew what the trouble was, would I? Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

The fact that I had heard this joke about two thousand times interfered with my full participation in the merriment but I managed a cracked laugh in return.

“That’s perfectly true, Mr. Fryer. Well, why have you rung me?”

“Damn, I’ve told ye—to find out what the trouble is.”

“Yes, I understand that, but I’d like some details. What do you mean when you say she’s bad?”

“Well, she’s just a bit off it.”

“Quite, but could you tell me a little more?”

A pause. “She’s dowly, like.”

“Anything else?”

“No…no…she’s a right poorly pig, though.”

I spent a few moments in thought. “Is she doing anything funny?”

“Funny? Funny? Nay, there’s nowt funny about t’job, I’ll tell tha! It’s no laughin’ matter.”

“Well…er…let me put it this way. Why are you calling me out?”

“I’m callin’ ye out because you’re a vet. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

I tried again. “It would help if I knew what to bring with me. What are her symptoms?”

“Symptoms? Well, she’s just off colour, like.”

“Yes, but what is she doing?”

“She’s doin’ nowt. That’s what bothers me.”

“Let’s see.” I scratched my head. “Is she very ill?”

“I reckon she’s in bad fettle.”

“But would you say it was an urgent matter?”

Another long pause. “Well, she’s nobbut middlin’. She’s not framin’ at all.”

“Yes…yes…and how long has she been like this?”

“Oh, for a bit.”

“But how long exactly?”

“For a good bit.”

“But Mr. Fryer, I want to know when she started these symptoms. How long has she been affected?”

“Oh…ever since we got ’er.”

“Ah, and when was that?”

“Well, she came wi’ the others….”

I
ALWAYS LIKED HAVING
a student with us. These young men had to see at least six months’ practice on their way through college and most of their vacations were spent going round with a vet.

We, of course, had our own resident student in Tristan but he was in a different category; he didn’t have to be taught anything—he seemed to know things, to absorb knowledge without apparent effort or indeed without showing interest. If you took Tristan to a case he usually spent his time on the farm sitting in the car reading his Daily Mirror and smoking Woodbines.

There were all types among the others—some from the country, some from the towns, some dull-witted, some bright—but as I say, I liked having them.

For one thing, before I had Sam they were good company in the car. A big part of a country vet’s life consists of solitary driving and it was a relief to be able to talk to somebody. It was wonderful, too, to have a gate-opener. Some of the outlying farms were approached through long, gated roads—one which always struck terror into me had eight gates—and it is hard to convey the feeling of sheer luxury when somebody else leaped out and opened them.

And there was another little pleasure; asking the students questions. My own days of studying and examinations were still fresh in my memory and on top of that I had all the vast experience of nearly three years of practice. It gave me a feeling of power to drop casual little queries about the cases we saw and watch the lads squirm as I had so recently squirmed myself. I suppose that even in those early days I was forming a pattern for later life; unknown to myself I was falling into the way of asking a series of my own pet questions as all examiners are liable to do and many years later I overheard one youngster asking another: “Has he grilled you on the causes of fits in calves yet? Don’t worry, he will.” That made me feel suddenly old but there was compensation on another occasion when a newly qualified ex-student rushed up to me and offered to buy me all the beer I could drink. “You know what the examiner asked me in the final oral? The causes of fits in calves! By God I paralysed him—he had to beg me to stop talking.”

And students were useful in other ways. They ran and got things out of the car boot, they pulled a rope at carvings, they were skilled assistants at operations, they were a repository for my worries and doubts; it isn’t too much to say that during their brief visits they revolutionised my life.

So this Easter I waited on the platform of Darrowby station with pleasant anticipation. This lad had been recommended by one of the Ministry officials. “A really first class chap. Final year London—several times gold medallist. He’s seen mixed and town practice and thought he ought to have a look at some of the real rural stuff. I said I’d give you a ring. His name is Richard Carmody.”

Veterinary students came in a variety of shapes and sizes but there were a few features most of them had in common and I always had a mental picture of an eager-faced lad in tweed jacket and rumpled slacks carrying a rucksack. He would probably jump on to the platform as soon as the train drew up. But this time there was no immediate sign of life and a porter had begun to load a stack of egg boxes into the guard’s van before one of the compartment doors opened and a tall figure descended leisurely.

I was doubtful about his identity but he seemed to place me on sight. He walked over, held out a hand and surveyed me with a level gaze.

“Mr. Herriot?”

“Yes…er…yes. Tha’s right.”

“My name is Carmody.”

“Ah yes, good. How are you?” We shook hands and I took in the fine check suit and tweedy hat, the shining brogues and pigskin case. This was a very superior student, in fact a highly impressive young man. About a couple of years younger than myself but with a mature air in the set of his broad shoulders and the assurance on his strong, high-coloured face.