‘This one’s out,’ I said.
I didn’t wait for the announcement and was half-way up the steps to the manager’s office before I heard the request for my presence blared across the stadium.
When I opened the door I half-expected Mr Coker to rush at me and attack me, and I was surprised when I found him sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands. I stood there on the carpet for some time before he raised a ghastly countenance to me.
‘Is it true?’ he whispered despairingly. ‘Have you done it again?’
I nodded. ‘Afraid so.’
His lips trembled but he didn’t say anything, and after a brief, disbelieving scrutiny he sank his head in his hands again.
I waited for a minute or two but when he stayed like that, quite motionless, I realised that the audience was at an end and took my leave.
I found no fault with the dogs for the next race and as I left the paddock an unaccustomed peace settled around me. I couldn’t understand it when I heard the loudspeaker again – ‘Will the vet please report . . .’ But this time it was to the paddock, and I wondered if a dog had been injured. Anyway, it would be a relief to do a bit of real vetting for a change.
But when I arrived there were no animals to be seen; only two men cradling a fat companion in their arms.
‘What’s this?’ I asked one of them.
‘Ambrose ’ere fell down the steps in the stand and skinned ’is knee.’
I stared at him. ‘But I’m a vet, not a doctor.’
‘Ain’t no doctor on the track,’ the man mumbled. ‘We reckoned you could patch ’im up.’
Ah well, it was a funny night. ‘Put him over on that bench,’ I said.
I rolled up the trouser to reveal a rather revolting fat dimpled knee. Ambrose emitted a hollow groan as I touched a very minor abrasion on the patella.
‘It’s nothing much,’ I said. ‘You’ve just knocked a bit of skin off.’
Ambrose looked at me tremblingly. ‘Aye, but it could go t’wrong way, couldn’t it? I don’t want no blood poisonin’.’
‘All right, I’ll put something on it.’ I looked inside Stewie’s medical bag. The selection was limited, but I found some tincture of iodine and I poured a little on a pad of cotton wool and dabbed the wound.
Ambrose gave a shrill yelp. ‘Bloody ’ell, that ’urts! What are you doin’ to me?’ His foot jerked up and rapped me sharply on the elbow.
Even my human patients kicked me, it seemed. I smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t sting for long. I’ll put a bandage on now.’
I bound up the knee, rolled down the trouser and patted the fat man’s shoulder. ‘There you are – good as new.’
He got off the bench, nodded, then grimacing painfully, prepared to leave. But an afterthought appeared to strike him and he pulled a handful of change from his pocket. He rummaged among it with a forefinger before selecting a coin which he pressed into my palm.
‘There y’are,’ he said.
I looked at the coin. It was a sixpence, the fee for my only piece of doctoring of my own species. I stared stupidly at it for a long time, and when I finally looked up with the half-formed idea of throwing Ambrose’s honorarium back at his head the man was limping into the crowd and was soon lost to sight.
Back in the bar I was gazing apathetically through the glass at the dogs parading round the track when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned and recognised a man I had spotted earlier in the evening. He was one of a group of three men and three women, the men dark, tight-suited, foreign-looking, the women loud and over-dressed. There was something sinister about them, and I remembered thinking they could have passed without question as members of the Mafia.
The man put his face close to mine and I had a brief impression of black, darting eyes and a predatory smile.
‘Is number three fit?’ he whispered.
I couldn’t understand the question. He seemed to know I was the vet and surely it was obvious that if I had passed the dog I considered him fit.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, he is.’
The man nodded vigorously and gave me a knowing glance from hooded eyes. He returned and held a short, intimate conversation with his friends, then they all turned and looked over at me approvingly.
I was bewildered, then it struck me that they may have thought I was giving them an inside tip. To this day I am not really sure, but I think that was it because when number three finished nowhere in the race their attitude changed dramatically and they flashed me some black glares which made them look more like the Mafia than ever.
Anyway I had no more trouble down at the paddock for the rest of the evening. No more dogs to take out, which was just as well, because I had made enough enemies for one night.
After the last race I looked around the long bar. Most of the tables were occupied by people having a final drink, but I noticed an empty one and sank wearily into a chair. Stewie had asked me to stay for half an hour after the finish to make sure all the dogs got away safely, and I would stick to my bargain even though what I wanted most in the world was to get away from here and never come back.
George was still in splendid voice on the loudspeakers. ‘I always get to bed by half past nine,’ he warbled, and I felt strongly that he had a point there.
Along the bar counter were assembled most of the people with whom I had clashed: Mr Coker and other officials and dog owners. There was a lot of nudging and whispering and I didn’t have to be told the subject of their discussion. The Mafia, too, were doing their bit with fierce side glances, and I could almost feel the waves of antagonism beating against me.
My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a bookie and his clerk. The bookie dropped into a chair opposite me and tipped out a huge leather bag on to the table. I had never seen so much money in my life. I peered at the man over a mountain of fivers and pounds and ten-shilling notes while little streams and tributaries of coins ran down its flanks.
The two of them began a methodical stacking and counting of the loot while I watched hypnotically. They had eroded the mountain to about half its height when the bookie caught my eye. Maybe he thought I looked envious or poverty-stricken or just miserable, because he put his finger behind a stray half-crown and flicked it expertly across the smooth surface in my direction.
‘Get yourself a drink, son,’ he said.
It was the second time I had been offered money during the last hour and I was almost as much taken aback as the first time. The bookie looked at me expressionlessly for a moment then he grinned. He had an attractively ugly, good-natured face that I liked instinctively, and suddenly I felt grateful to him, not for the money but for the sight of a friendly face. It was the only one I had seen all evening.
I smiled back. ‘Thanks,’ I said. I lifted the half-crown and went over to the bar.
I awoke next morning with the knowledge that it was my last day at Hensfield. Stewie was due back at lunch time.
When I parted the now familiar curtains at the morning surgery I still felt a vague depression, a hangover from my unhappy night at the dog track.
But when I looked into the waiting-room my mood lightened immediately. There was only one animal among the odd assortment of chairs but that animal was Kim, massive, golden and beautiful, sitting between his owners, and when he saw me he sprang up with swishing tail and laughing mouth.
There was none of the smell which had horrified me before, but as I looked at the dog I could sniff something else – the sweet, sweet scent of success. Because he was touching the ground with that leg; not putting any weight on it but definitely dotting it down as he capered around me.
In an instant I was back in my world again and Mr Coker and the events of last night were but the dissolving mists of a bad dream.
I could hardly wait to get started.
‘Get him on the table,’ I cried, then began to laugh as the Gillards automatically pushed their legs against the collapsible struts. They knew the drill now.
>
I had to restrain myself from doing a dance of joy when I got the plaster off. There was a bit of discharge, but when I cleaned it away I found healthy granulation tissue everywhere. Pink new flesh binding the shattered joint together, smoothing over and hiding the original mutilation.
‘Is his leg safe now?’ Marjorie Gillard asked softly.
I looked at her and smiled. ‘Yes, it is. There’s no doubt about it now.’ I rubbed my hand under the big dog’s chin and the tail beat ecstatically on the wood. ‘He’ll probably have a stiff joint but that won’t matter, will it?’
I applied the last of Stewie’s bandages then we hoisted Kim off the table.
‘Well, that’s it,’ I said. ‘Take him to your own vet in another fortnight. After that I don’t think he’ll need a bandage at all.’
The Gillards left on their journey back to the south, and a couple of hours later Stewie and his family returned. The children were very brown; even the baby, still bawling resolutely, had a fine tan. The skin had peeled off Meg’s nose but she looked wonderfully relaxed. Stewie, in open-necked shirt and with a face like a boiled lobster, seemed to have put on weight.
‘That holiday saved our lives, Jim,’ he said. ‘I can’t thank you enough, and please tell Siegfried how grateful we are.’ He looked fondly at his turbulent brood flooding through the house, then as an afterthought he turned to me.
‘Is everything all right in the practice?’
‘Yes, Stewie, it is. I had my ups and downs of course.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t we all.’
‘We certainly do, but everything’s fine now.’
And everything did seem fine as I drove away from the smoke. I watched the houses thin and fall away behind me till the whole world opened out clean and free and I saw the green line of the fells rising over Darrowby.
I suppose we all tend to remember the good things, but as it turned out I had no option. The following Christmas I had a letter from the Gillards with a packet of snapshots showing a big golden dog clearing a gate, leaping high for a ball, strutting proudly with a stick in his mouth. There was hardly any stiffness in the leg, they said; he was perfectly sound.
So even now when I think of Hensfield the thing I remember best is Kim.
I know I was unfortunate in having to officiate at an unlicensed ‘flapping’ track, but the experience cured me for ever of any desire to earn my living that way. But the end of the story records one of my happiest triumphs – the saving of Kim’s leg. How strange and wonderful that there should be such an outcome. If that dog came into our surgery today, with all our antibiotics and equipment to hand I could not possibly hope that the mangled limb would heal more perfectly. The ancient surgeons used to talk about ‘laudable pus’. It means something to me now.
32. Mr Pinkerton’s Problem
Mr Pinkerton, a smallholder, was sitting in the office next to Miss Harbottle’s desk. By his side sat his farm Collie.
‘Well, what can I do for you, Mr Pinkerton?’ I asked as I closed the door behind me.
The farmer hesitated. ‘It’s me dog – ’e isn’t right.’
‘What do you mean? Is he ill?’ I bent down and stroked the shaggy head and as the dog leaped up in delight his tail began to beat a booming tom-tom rhythm against the side of the desk.
‘Nay, nay, he’s right enough in ’imself.’ The man was clearly ill at ease.
‘Well, what’s the trouble? He looks the picture of health to me.’
‘Aye, but ah’m a bit worried. Ye see it’s ’is . . .’ He glanced furtively towards Miss Harbottle. ‘It’s ’is pencil.’
‘What d’you say?’
A faint flush mounted in Mr Pinkerton’s thin cheeks. Again he shot a terrified glance at Miss Harbottle. ‘It’s ’is . . . pencil. There’s summat matter with ’is pencil.’ He indicated by the merest twitch of his forefinger somewhere in the direction of the animal’s belly.
I looked. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see anything unusual.’
‘Ah, but there is.’ The farmer’s face twisted in an agony of embarrassment and he pushed his face close to mine. ‘There’s summat there,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Summat comin’ from ’is . . . ’is pencil.’
I got down on my knees and had a closer look, and suddenly all became clear.
‘Is that what you mean?’ I pointed to a tiny blob of semen on the end of the prepuce.
He nodded dumbly, his face a study in woe.
I laughed. ‘Well you can stop worrying. That’s nothing abnormal. You might call it an overflow. He’s just a young dog, isn’t he?’
‘Aye, nobbut eighteen months.’
‘Well, that’s it. He’s just too full of the joys. Plenty of good food and maybe not a lot of work to do, eh?’
‘Aye, he gets good grub. Nowt but the best. And you’re right – I ’aven’t much work for him.’
‘Well, there you are.’ I held out a hand. ‘Just cut down his diet and see he gets more exercise and this thing will sort itself out.’
Mr Pinkerton stared at me. ‘But aren’t you goin’ to do anything to ’is . . . ’is . . .’ Again he cast an anguished glance at our secretary.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I assure you there’s nothing wrong with his . . . er . . . pencil. No local trouble at all.’
I could see he was still totally unconvinced so I threw in another ploy. ‘I tell you what. I’ll give you sedative tablets for him. They’ll help a bit.’
I went through to the dispensary and counted the tablets into a box. Back in the office I handed them to the farmer with a confident smile, but his face registered only a deepening misery. Obviously I hadn’t explained the thing clearly enough and as I led him along the passage to the front door I talked incessantly, putting the whole into simple words which I was sure he would understand.
As he stood on the doorstep I gave him a final pat on the shoulder and though I was almost breathless with my own babbling I thought it best to sum up the entire oration before he left.
‘So there you are,’ I said with a light laugh. ‘Reduce his food, see that he gets plenty of work and exercise, and give him one of the tablets night and morning.’
The farmer’s mouth drooped until I thought he would burst into tears, then he turned and trailed down the steps into the street. He took a couple of indeterminate strides then swung round and his voice rose in a plaintive wail.
‘But Mr Herriot . . . ’ow about ’is pencil?’
A happy reminder of the days when, among the farming community, even remotely sexual matters were either unmentionable or were referred to with the utmost delicacy. ‘Pencil’ was only one of the many euphemisms. How different it is now when the young farmers’ wives often make me gulp with their recital of explicit anatomical details.
33. Kind Hearts and Country Vets
It was one of the many times Siegfried had to take me to task. An old-age pensioner was leading a small mongrel dog along the passage on the end of a piece of string. I patted the consulting room table.
‘Put him up here, will you?’ I said.
The old man bent over slowly, groaning and puffing.
‘Wait a minute.’ I tapped his shoulder. ‘Let me do it.’ I hoisted the little animal on to the smooth surface.
‘Thank ye, sir.’ The man straightened up and rubbed his back and leg. ‘I ’ave arthritis bad and I’m not much good at liftin’. My name’s Bailey and I live at t’council houses.’
‘Right, Mr Bailey, what’s the trouble?’
‘It’s this cough. He’s allus at it. And ’e kind of retches at t’end of it.’
‘I see. How old is he?’
‘He were ten last month.’
‘Yes . . .’ I took the temperature and carefully auscultated the chest. As I moved the stethoscope over the ribs Siegfried came in and began to rummage in the cupboard.
‘It’s a chronic bronchitis, Mr Bailey,’ I said. ‘Many older dogs suffer from it just like old folks.’
He laughed.
‘Aye, ah’m a bit wheezy meself sometimes.’
‘That’s right, but you’re not so bad, really, are you?’
‘Naw, naw.’
‘Well neither is your little dog. I’m going to give him an injection and a course of tablets and it will help him quite a bit. I’m afraid he’ll never quite get rid of this cough, but bring him in again if it gets very bad.’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Very good, sir. Thank ye kindly, sir.’
As Siegfried banged about in the cupboard I gave the injection and counted out twenty of the new M&B 693 tablets.
The old man gazed at them with interest, then put them in his pocket. ‘Now what do ah owe ye, Mr Herriot?’
I looked at the ragged tie knotted carefully over the frayed shirt collar, at the threadbare antiquity of the jacket. His trouser knees had been darned but on one side I caught a pink glimpse of the flesh through the material.
‘No, that’s all right, Mr Bailey. Just see how he goes on.’
‘Eh?’
‘There’s no charge.’
‘But . . .’
‘Now don’t worry about it – it’s nothing, really. Just see he gets his tablets regularly.’
‘I will, sir, and it’s very kind of you. I never expected . . .’
‘I know you didn’t, Mr Bailey. Goodbye for now and bring him back if he’s not a lot better in a few days.’
The sound of the old man’s footsteps had hardly died away when Siegfried emerged from the cupboard. He brandished a pair of horse tooth forceps in my face. ‘God, I’ve been ages hunting these down. I’m sure you deliberately hide things from me, James.’
I smiled but made no reply and as I was replacing my syringe on the trolley my colleague spoke again.
‘James, I don’t like to mention this, but aren’t you rather rash, doing work for nothing?’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘He was an old-age pensioner. Pretty hard up I should think.’
‘Maybe so, but really, you know, you just cannot give your services free.’
‘Oh but surely occasionally, Siegfried – in a case like this . . .’
James Herriot's Dog Stories Page 32