All Things Wise and Wonderful

by James Herriot

  “Well then,” Helen continued, with the persistence that is part of even the sweetest women. “Why don’t we accept their invitation? I’d rather like to meet them—and it’s a bit embarrassing when they keep ’phoning.”

  I turned on my side. “Okay, we’ll go one of these days, I promise.”

  But if it hadn’t been for the little papilloma on Sam’s lip I don’t think we would ever have got there. I noticed the thing—a growth smaller than a pea—near the left commissure when I was giving our beagle an illicit chocolate biscuit. It was a typical benign tumour and on anybody else’s dog I should have administered a quick local and whipped it off in a minute. But since it was Sam I turned pale and ’phoned Granville.

  I have always been as soppy as any old lady over my pets and I suspect many of my colleagues are the same. I listened apprehensively to the buzz-buzz at the far end, then the big voice came on the line.

  “Bennett here.”

  “Hello, Granville, it’s …”

  “Jim!” The boom of delight was flattering. “Where have you been hiding yourself, laddie?”

  He didn’t know how near he was to the truth. I told him about Sam.

  “Doesn’t sound much, old son, but I’ll have a look at him with pleasure. Tell you what. We’ve been trying to get you over here for a meal—why not bring the little chap with you?”

  “Well …” A whole evening in Granville’s hands—it was a daunting prospect.

  “Now don’t mess about Jim. You know, there’s a wonderful Indian restaurant in Newcastle. Zoe and I would love to take you both out there. It’s about time we met your wife, isn’t it?”

  “Yes … of course it is. Indian restaurant eh?”

  “Yes, laddie. Superb curries—mild, medium or blast your bloody head off. Onion bhajis, bhuna lamb, gorgeous nan bread.”

  My mind was working fast. “Sounds marvellous, Granville.” It did seem fairly secure. He was most dangerous on his own territory and it would take forty-five minutes’ driving each way to Newcastle. Then maybe an hour and a half in the restaurant. I should be reasonably safe for most of the evening. There was just the bit at his house before we left—that was the only worry.

  It was uncanny how he seemed to read my thoughts. “Before we leave, Jim, we’ll have a little session in my garden.”

  “Your garden?” It sounded strange in November.

  “That’s right old lad.”

  Ah well, maybe he was proud of his late chrysanthemums, and I couldn’t see myself coming to much harm there. “Well, fine, Granville. Maybe Wednesday night?”

  “Lovely, lovely, lovely—can’t wait to meet Helen.”

  Wednesday was one of those bright frosty late autumn days which turn misty in the afternoon and by six o’clock the countryside was blanketed by one of the thickest fogs I had ever seen in Yorkshire.

  Creeping along in our little car, my nose almost on the windscreen, I muttered against the glass.

  “God’s truth, Helen, we’ll never get to Newcastle tonight! I know Granville’s some driver but you can’t see ten yards out there.”

  Almost at walking pace we covered the twenty miles to the Bennett residence and it was with a feeling of relief that I saw the brightly lit doorway rising out of the mirk.

  Granville, as vast and impressive as ever, was there in the hall with arms outspread. Bashfulness had never been one of his problems and he folded my wife in a bear-like embrace.

  “Helen, my pet,” he said and kissed her fondly and lingeringly. He stopped to take a breath, regarded her for a moment with deep appreciation then kissed her again.

  I shook hands decorously with Zoe and the two girls were introduced. They made quite a picture standing there. An attractive woman is a gift from heaven and it was a rare bonus to see two of them in close proximity. Helen very dark and blue-eyed, Zoe brown-haired with eyes of greyish-green, but both of them warm and smiling.

  Zoe had her usual effect on me. That old feeling was welling up; the desire to look my best, in fact better than my best. I cast a furtive glance at the hall mirror. Immaculately suited, clean shirted, freshly shaven, I was sure I projected the desired image of the clean-limbed young veterinary surgeon, the newly married man of high principles and impeccable behaviour.

  I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that at last she was seeing me stone cold sober and normal. Tonight I would expunge all her squalid memories of me from her mind.

  “Zoe, my sweet,” carolled Granville. “Take Helen into the garden while I see Jim’s dog.”

  I blinked. The garden in this fog. I just didn’t get it, but I was too anxious about Sam to give the thing much thought. I opened the car door and the beagle trotted into the house.

  My colleague greeted him with delight “Come inside, my little man.” Then he hollered at the top of his voice.

  “Phoebles! Victoria! Yoo-hoo! Come and meet cousin Sam!”

  The obese Staffordshire bull terrier waddled in, closely followed by the Yorkie, who bared her teeth in an ingratiating smile at all present.

  After the dogs had met and exchanged pleasantries Granville lifted Sam into his arms.

  “Is that what you mean, Jim? Is that what you’re worried about?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “Good God, I could take a deep breath and blow the damn thing off!” He looked at me incredulously and smiled. “Jim, old lad, why are you so daft about your dog?”

  “Why do you call Phoebe Phoebles?” I countered swiftly.

  “Oh well …” He cleared his throat “I’ll get my equipment. Hang on a minute.”

  He disappeared and came back with a syringe and scissors. About half a cc was enough to numb the part, then he snipped off the papilloma, applied some styptic and put the beagle on the floor. The operation took about two minutes but even in that brief spell his unique dexterity was manifest.

  “That’ll be ten guineas, Mr. Herriot,” he murmured, then gave a shout of laughter. “Come on, let’s get into the garden. Sam will be quite happy with my dogs.”

  He led me out of the back door and we stumbled through the fog by a rockery and rose bushes. I was just wondering how on earth he expected to show me anything in this weather when we came up against a stone outhouse. He threw open the door and I stepped into a brightly lit sparkling Aladdin’s cave.

  It was quite simply a fully fitted bar. At the far end a polished counter with beer handles and, behind, a long row of bottles of every imaginable liquor. A fire crackled in the hearth and hunting prints, cartoons and bright posters looked down from the walls. It was completely authentic.

  Granville saw my astonished face and laughed. “All right, eh, Jim? I thought it would be a nice idea to have my own little pub in the garden. Rather cosy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes … yes indeed … charming.”

  “Good, good.” My colleague slipped behind the counter. “Now what are you going to have?”

  Helen and Zoe took sherry and I made a quick decision to stick to one fairly harmless drink. “Gin and tonic, please, Granville.” The girls received a normal measure of sherry but when the big man took my glass over to the gin bottle hanging on the wall his hand seemed to be overcome by an uncontrollable trembling. The bottle was upended with one of those little optic attachments you push up with the rim of the glass to give a single measure.

  But as I say, as Granville inserted the neck of the bottle into the glass his whole arm jerked repeatedly as though he were going into a convulsion. It was obvious that the result would be about six gins instead of one and I was about to remonstrate when he took the glass away and topped it up quickly with tonic, ice and sliced lemon.

  I looked at it apprehensively. “Rather a big one, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all, laddie, nearly all tonic. Well, cheers, so nice to see you both.”

  And it certainly was. They were generous, warm people and veterinary folk like ourselves. I felt a gush of gratitude for the friendliness they had always shown me and as I sipped my d
rink, which was chokingly strong, I felt as I had often done that these contacts were one of the brightest rewards of my job.

  Granville held out his hand. “Have another, laddie.”

  “Well, hadn’t we better be getting on our way? It’s a terrible night—in fact I don’t see us ever getting to Newcastle in this fog.”

  “Nonsense, old son.” He took my glass, reached up to the gin bottle and again was seized with a series of violent tremors of the forearm. “No problem, Jim. Straight along the north road—half an hour or so-—know it like the back of my hand.”

  The four of us stood around the fire. The girls clearly had a lot to say to each other and Granville and I, like all vets, talked shop. It is wonderful how easy veterinary practice is in a warm room with good company and a dollop of alcohol in the stomach.

  “One for the road, Jim,” my colleague said.

  “No really, Granville, I’ve had enough,” I replied firmly. “Let’s be off.”

  “Jim, Jim.” The familiar hurt look was creeping over his face. “There’s no rush. Look, we’ll just have this last one while I tell you about this gorgeous restaurant.”

  Once more he approached the gin bottle and this time the rigor lasted so long I wondered if he had some history of malaria.

  Glass in hand he expounded. “It’s not just the curry, the cooking in general is exquisite.” He put his fingers to his lips and blew a reverent kiss into space. “The flavours are unbelievable. All the spices of the orient, Jim.”

  He went on at length and I wished he would stop because he was making me hungry. I had had a hard day round the farms and had eaten very little with the evening’s feast in view, and as my colleague waved his hand around and drew word pictures of how they blended the rare herbs with the meat and fish, then served it on a bed of saffron rice, I was almost drooling.

  I was relieved when I got through the third massive drink and Granville squeezed round to the front of the bar as if ready to go. We were on our way out when a man’s bulk loomed in the doorway.

  “Raymond!” cried Granville in delight. “Come in, I’ve been wanting you to meet Jim Herriot. Jim, this is one of my neighbours—likes a bit of gardening, don’t you Raymond?”

  The man replied with a fat chuckle. “Right, old boy! Splendid garden, this!” Granville seemed to know a lot of large, red-faced hearty men and this was one more.

  My friend was behind the counter again. “We must just have one with Raymond.”

  I felt trapped as he again pressed my glass against the bottle and went into another paroxysm, but the girls didn’t seem to mind. They were still deep in conversation and seemed unaware of the passage of time or the ravages of hunger.

  Raymond was just leaving when Tubby Pinder dropped in. He was another enthusiastic horticulturist and I wasn’t surprised to see that he was large, red-faced and hearty.

  We had to have one with Tubby and I noticed with some alarm that after another palsied replenishment of my glass he had to replace the empty gin bottle with a fresh one. If the first one had been full then I had consumed nearly all of it.

  I could hardly believe it when at last we were in the hall putting on our coats. Granville was almost purring with contentment.

  “You two are going to love this place. It will be a joy to lead you through the menu.”

  Outside the fog was thicker than ever. My colleague backed his enormous Bentley from the garage and began to usher us inside with great ceremony. He installed Helen and Zoe in the back, clucking solicitously over them, then he helped me into the passenger seat in front as though I were a disabled old man, tucking my coat in, adjusting the angle of the seat for maximum comfort, showing me how the cigar lighter worked, lighting up the glove compartment, enquiring which radio programme I desired.

  At last he himself was in residence behind the wheel, massive and composed. Beyond the windscreen the fog parted for a second to show a steep, almost vertical grassy bank opposite the house, then it closed down like a dirty yellow curtain cutting off everything.

  “Granville,” I said. “We’ll never get to Newcastle in this. It’s over thirty miles.”

  He turned and gave me a gentle smile. “Absolutely no problem, laddie. We’ll be there in half an hour, sampling that wonderful food. Tandoori chicken, all the spices of the orient, old son. Don’t worry about a thing—I really know these roads. No chance of losing my way.”

  He started the engine and drove confidently off, but unfortunately instead of taking the orthodox route along the road he proceeded straight up the grassy bank. He didn’t seem to notice as the nose of the great car rose steadily higher, but when we had achieved an angle of forty-five degrees Zoe broke in gently from the back.

  “Granville, dear, you’re on the grass.”

  My colleague looked round in some surprise. “Not at all, my love. The road slopes a little here if you remember.” He kept his foot on the throttle.

  I said nothing as my feet rose and my head went back. There was a point when the Bentley was almost perpendicular and I thought we were going over backwards, then I heard Zoe again.

  “Granville, darling.” There was a hint of urgency in her tone. “You’re going up the bank.”

  This time it seemed her husband was prepared to concede a little.

  “Yes … yes, my pet,” he murmured as we hung there, all four of us gazing up at the fog-shrouded sky. “Possibly I have strayed a little on to the verge.”

  He took his foot off the brake and the car shot backwards at frightening speed into the darkness. We were brought up by a grinding crunch from the rear.

  Zoe again: “You’ve hit Mrs. Thompson’s wall, dear.”

  “Have I, sweetheart? Ah, one moment. We’ll soon be on our way.”

  With undiminished aplomb he let in his clutch and we surged forward powerfully. But only for two seconds. From the gloom ahead there sounded a dull crash followed by a tinkling of glass and metal.

  “Darling,” Zoe piped. “That was the thirty miles an hour sign.”

  “Was it really, my angel?” Granville rubbed his hand on the window. “You know, Jim, the visibility isn’t too good.” He paused for a moment. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if we postponed our visit till another time.”

  He maneuvered the big car back into the garage and we got out. We had covered, I should think, about five yards on our journey to Newcastle.

  Back in the garden bar, Granville was soon in full cry again. And I was all for it because my earlier trepidation had vanished entirely. I was floating in a happy haze and I offered no resistance as my colleague jerked and twitched more samples from the gin bottle.

  Suddenly he held up a hand. “I’m sure we’re all starving. Let’s have some hot dogs!”

  “Hot dogs?” I cried. “Splendid idea!” It was a long call from all the spices of the orient but I was ready for anything.

  “Zoe, sweet,” he said. “We can use the big can of saveloy sausages if you would just heat it up.”

  His wife left for the kitchen and Helen touched my arm.

  “Jim,” she said. “Saveloys …?”

  I knew what she meant. I have a pretty good digestion but there are certain things I can’t eat. A single saveloy was enough to bring my entire metabolism to a halt but at that moment it seemed a pettifogging detail.

  “Oh don’t worry, Helen,” I whispered, putting my arm round her. “They won’t hurt me.”

  When Zoe came back with the food Granville was in his element, slicing the juicy smoked sausages lengthways, slapping mustard on them and enclosing them in rolls.

  As I bit into the first one I thought I had never tasted anything so delicious. Chewing happily I found it difficult to comprehend my previous ridiculous prejudice.

  “Ready for another, old son?” Granville held up a loaded roll.

  “Sure! These are absolutely marvellous. Best hot dogs I’ve ever tasted!” I munched it down quickly and reached for a third.

  I think it was when I had downed
five of them that my friend prodded me in the ribs.

  “Jim, lad,” he said between chews. “We want a drop of beer to wash these down, don’t you agree?”

  I waved my arm extravagantly. “Of course we do! Bloody gin’s no good for this job!”

  Granville pulled two pints of draught. Powerful delicious ale which flowed in a cooling wave over my inflamed mucous membranes, making me feel I had been waiting for it all my life. We each had three pints and another hot dog or two while waves of euphoria billowed around me.

  The occasional anxious glance from Helen didn’t worry me in the least. She was making signs that it was time to go home, but the very idea was unthinkable. I was having the time of my life, the world was a wonderful place and this little private pub was the finest corner of it.

  Granville put down a half-eaten roll. “Zoe, my precious, it would be nice to have something sweet to top this off. Why don’t you bring out some of those little gooey things you made yesterday?”

  She produced a plateful of very rich-looking cakelets. I do not have a sweet tooth and normally skip this part of the meal but I bit into one of Zoe’s creations with relish. It was beautifully made and I could detect chocolate, marzipan, caramel and other things.

  It was when I was eating the third that matters began to deteriorate. I found that my merry chatter had died and it was Granville doing all the talking, and as I listened to him owlishly I was surprised to see his face becoming two faces which floated apart and came together repeatedly. It was an astonishing phenomenon and it was happening with everything else in the room.

  And I wasn’t feeling so healthy now. That boundless vigour was no longer surging through my veins and I felt only a great weariness and a rising nausea.

  I lost count of time around then. No doubt the conversation went on among the four of us but I can’t remember any of it and my next recollection was of the party breaking up. Granville was helping Helen on with her coat and there was a general air of cheerful departure.

  “Ready, Jim?” my friend said briskly.