Vets Might Fly

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Vets Might Fly Page 24

by James Herriot


  seriously ill."

  "Nay, nay, nob but a bit o' cough, but ah want 'im see in' to."

  "Certainly, certainly, I'll be right out, Mr . . . er . . ."

  "Pyre's ma name and ah live next to t'post office in Rolf village."

  "Aye, two miles outside Hens field."

  I sighed with relief.

  "Very good, Mr Pyre, I'm on my way."

  "Thank ye." The voice sounded mollified.

  "Well, the knows me now, don't the - Pyre o' Rolf."

  The light was blinding.

  "Pyre o' Rolf!" Such a simple explanation.

  A lot of Mrs Holroyd's messages were eccentric but I could usually

  interpret them after some thought. However one bizarre entry jolted me

  later in the we It read simply: "Johnson, 12, Back Lane, Smiling Harry

  Syphilis."

  I wrestled with this for a long time before making a diffident approach

  Mrs Holroyd.

  She was kneading dough for scones and didn't look up as I entered the

  kitchen' "Ah, Mrs Holroyd." I rubbed my hands nervously.

  "I see you have written down that I have to go to MrJohnson'ss."

  "That's right, luv."

  "Weller . . . fine, but I don't quite understand the other part the

  Smiling Harry Syphilis."

  She shot a sidelong glance at me.

  "Well that'sow you spell that word, is it? Ah looked it up once in a

  doctor's book in our 'ouse," she said defensively "Oh yes, of course,

  yes, you've spelled it correctly. It's just the Smiling . .

  . a the Harry." .

  Her eyes glinted dangerously and she blew a puff of smoke at me.

  "Wel that's what "'feller said. Repeated it three times. Couldn't

  make no mistake' "I see. But did he mention any particular animal?"

  "New, 'e didn't. That was what 'e said. That and no more." A grey

  spicul of ash toppled into the basin and was immediately incorporated

  in the scone "Ah do ma best, the knows!"

  "Of course you do, Mrs Holroyd," I said hastily.

  "I'll just pop round to Bx Lane now."

  And Mr Johnson put everything right within seconds as he led me to a

  she on his allotment.

  "It's me pig, guvnor. (covered wi' big red spots. Reckon it's Swine

  Erysipelas Only he pronounced it arrysipelas and he did have a slurring

  mode of speech~ I really couldn't blame Mrs Holroyd.

  Little things like that enlivened the week but the tension still

  mounted as awaited the return of Kim. And even when the seventh day

  came round I w.

  still in suspense because the Gillards did not appear at the morning

  surgery When they failed to. show up at the afternoon session I began

  to conclude that they had had the good sense to return south to a more

  sophisticated establishment But at five thirty they were there.

  I knew it even before I pulled the curtains apart. The smell of doom

  was everywhere, filling the premises, and when I went through the

  curtains it h me; the sickening stink of putrefaction.

  Gangrene. It was the fear which had haunted me all week and now it was

  realised.

  There were about half a dozen other people in the waiting room, all

  keep in as far away as possible from the young couple who looked up at

  me with strained smiles. Kim tried to rise when he saw me but I had

  eyes only for the dangling useless hind limb where my once stone-hard

  plaster hung in sodden folds.

  Of course it had to happen that the Gillards were last in and I was

  forced t see all the other animals first. I examined them and

  prescribed treatment in a stupor of misery and shame. What had I done

  to that beautiful dog out there I had been crazy to try that

  experiment. A gangrenous leg meant that even amputation might be too

  late to save his life. Death from septicaemia was likely now and what

  the hell could I do for him in this ramshackle surgery?

  When at last it was their turn the Gillards came in with Kim limping

  between them, and it was an extra stab to realise afresh what a

  handsome animal he we', I bent over the great golden head and for a

  moment the friendly eyes looked into mine and the tail waved.

  ~ . .. .

  ' Right," I said to Peter Gillard, putting my arms under the chest.

  "You take the back end and we'll lift him up."

  As we hoisted the heavy dog on to the table the flimsy structure

  disintegrated immediately' but this time the young people were ready

  for it and thrust their legs under the struts like a well-trained team

  till the surface was level again.

  With Kim stretched on his side I fingered the bandage. It usually took

  time and patience with a special saw to remove a plaster but this was

  just a stinking pulp. My hand shook as I cut the bandage length ways

  with scissors and removed I had steeled myself against the sight of the

  cold dead limb;lb with its green flesh but though there was pus and

  serous fluid everywhere the exposed flesh was a surprising, healthy

  pink. I took the foot in my hand and my heart gave a great bound. It

  was warm and so was the leg, right up to the hock. There was no

  gangrene.

  Feeling suddenly weak I leaned against the table.

  "I'm sorry about the terrible smell. All the pus and discharge have

  been decomposing under the bandage for a week but despite the mess it's

  not as bad as I feared."

  "Do you ... do you think you can save his leg?" Marjorie Gillard's

  voice trembled.

  "I don't know. I honestly don't know. So much has to happen. But I'd

  say it was a case of so far so good."

  I cleaned the area thoroughly with spirit, gave a dusting of iodoform

  and applied fresh lint and two more plaster bandages.

  "You'll feel a lot more comfortable now, Kim," I said, and the big dog

  flapped his tail against the wood at the sound of his name.

  I turned to his owners.

  "I want him to have another week in plaster, so what would you like to

  do?"

  "Oh, we'll stay around Hens field," Peter Gillard replied.

  "We've found a place for our caravan by the river it's not too bad."

  "Very well, till next Saturday, then." I watched Kim hobble out,

  holding his new white cast high, and as I went back into the house

  relief flowed over me in a warm wave.

  But at the back of my mind the voice of caution sounded. There was

  still a long way to go . . .

  Chapter Twenty-three The second week went by without incident. I had a

  mildly indecent postcard from Stewie and a view of Black pool Tower

  from his wife. The weather was scorching and they were having the best

  holiday of their lives. I tried to picture them enjoying themselves

  but I had to wait a few weeks for the evidence a snap taken by a beach

  photographer. The whole family were standing in the sea, grinning

  delightedly into the camera as the wavelets lapped round their ankles

  The children brandished buckets and spades, the baby dangled bandy legs

  towards the water, but it was Stewie who fascinated me. A smile of

  blissful Contentment beamed from beneath a knotted handkerchief, sturdy

  braces sup ported baggy flannel trousers rolled decorously calf high.

  He w~c ~h~ ~r`~h~`,^ of the British father on holiday.

  ,r The last event of my st
ay in Hens field was a visit to the local

  greyhoun track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to

  inspect the dogs, The Hens field stadium was not prepossessing from the

  outside. It had bee built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and

  was surrounded by ramch~r~l hoardings.

  It was a cool night and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear

  the tinnny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Form by

  singing

  "When I'm Cleaning Windows' and strumming on his famous ukelele.

  There are all kinds of greyhound tracks. My own experience had been as

  a student, accompanying vets who officiated under the auspices of the

  National Greyhound Racing Club, but this was an unlicensed or

  "Rapping' track, and vastly different. I know there are many highly

  reputable flapping tracks but this' one had a seedy air. It was, I

  thought wryly, just the sort of place that would be under the care of

  Stewie.

  First I had to go to the manager's office. Mr Coker was a hard-eyed

  man in a shiny pin-striped suit and he nodded briefly before giving me

  a calculating stare.

  "Your duties here are just a formality," he said, twisting his features

  into a smile.

  "There'll be nothing to trouble you."

  I had the impression that he was assessing me with quiet satisfaction,

  loo king me up and down, taking in my rumpled jacket and slacks,

  savouring my obvious youth and inexperience. He kept the smile going

  as he stubbed out his cigar.

  "Well, I hope you'll have a pleasant evening"

  "Thank you," I replied, and left.

  I met the judge, timekeeper and other officials then went down to a

  long glass-fronted bar overlooking the track. Quite suddenly I felt I

  was in an alien environment. The place was rapidly filling up and the

  faces around me were out of a different mould from the wholesome rural

  countenances of Darrow by There seemed to be a large proportion of fat

  men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-loo king

  characters studied race cards and glared intently at the flickering

  numbers on the tote board.

  I looked at my watch. It was time to inspect the dogs for the first

  race.

  "Wines I'm clean in' winders!" bawled George Form by as I made my way

  round the edge of the track to the paddock, a paved enclosure with a

  wire-netting surround.

  Five dogs were being led round the perimeter and I stood in the centre

  and watched them for a minute or two. Then I halted them and went from

  one to the other, loo king at their eyes, examining their mouths for

  salivation and finally palpating their abdomens. ~ They all appeared

  bright and normal except number four which seemed rather full in the

  stomach region. A greyhound should only have a light meal on the

  morning of a race and nothing thereafter and I turned to the man who'

  was holding the animal.

  "Has this dog been fed within the last hour or two?" I asked.

  "No," he replied.

  "He's had nothing since breakfast."

  As I passed my fingers over the abdomen again I had the feeling that

  several of the onlookers were watching me with unusual intentness. But

  I dismissed it as imagination and passed on to the next animal.

  Number four was second favourite but from the moment it left its trap

  it was flagging. It finished last and from the darkness on the far

  side of the track-S storm of booing broke out. I was able to make out

  some of the remarks which came across on the night air.

  "Open your bloody eyes, vet!" was one of them.

  Ar~ here, in the long, brightly lit bar I could see people nudging each

  other and loo king at me.

  I felt a thrill of anger. Maybe some of those gentlemen down there

  thought they could cash in on Stewie's absence. I probably looked a

  soft touch to them.

  My next visit to the paddock was greeted with friendly nods and grins

  from all sides In fact there was a strong atmosphere of joviality. When

  I went round the dogs all was well until I came to number five and this

  time I couldn't be mistaken. Under my probing fingers the stomach

  bulged tensely and the animal gave a soft grunt as I squeezed.

  "You'll have to take this dog out of the race," I said.

  "He's got a full stomach."

  The owner was standing by the kennel lad.

  "Can't 'ave?" he burst out.

  "He's had nowt?"

  I straightened up and looked him full in the face but his eyes were

  reluctant to meet mine. I knew some of the tricks; a couple of pounds

  of steak before the race, a bowlful of bread crumbs and two pints of

  milk the crumbs swelled beautifully within a short time.

  "Would you like me to vomit him?" I began to move away.

  "I've got some washing soda in my car we'll soon find out."

  The man held up a hand.

  "New, new, I don't want you mess in' about with me dog." He gave me a

  malevolent glare and trailed sulkily away.

  I had only just got back to the bar when I heard the announcement over

  the loudspeakers.

  "Will the vet please report to the manager's office."

  Mr Coker looked up from his desk and glared at me through a haze of

  cigar smoke.

  "You've taken a dog out of the race!"

  "That's right. I'm sorry, but his stomach was full."

  "But damn it ... !" He stabbed a finger at me then subsided and forced

  a tortured smile across his face.

  "Now, Mr Herriot, we have to be reasonable in these matters. I've no

  doubt you know your job, but don't you think there's just a chance you

  could be wrong?" He waved his cigar expansively.

  "After all, anybody can make a mistake, so perhaps you would be kind

  enough to reconsider."

  He stretched his smile wider.

  "No, I'm sorry, Mr Coker, but that would be impossible."

  There was a long pause.

  "That's your last word, then?"

  "It is."

  The smile vanished and he gave me a threatening stare.

  "Now look," he said.

  "You've mucked up that race and it's a serious matter.

  I don't want any repetition, do you understand?" He ground his cigar

  out savagely and his jaw jutted.

  "So I hope we won't have any more trouble like this."

  "I hope so, too, Mr Coker," I said as I went out.

  It seemed a long way down to the paddock on my next visit. It was very

  dark now and I was conscious of the hum of the crowd, the shouts of the

  bookies and George and his ukelele still going full blast.

  "Oh, don't the wind blow cold!"

  he roared.

  This time it was dog number two. I could feel the tension as I

  examined him and found the same turgid belly.

  "This one's out," I said, and apart from a few black looks there was no

  argument.

  They say bad news travels fast and I had hardly started my return

  journey when George was switched off and the loud-speaker asked me to

  report to the manager's office.

  Mr Coker was no longer at his desk. He was pacing up and down

  agitatedly and when he saw me he did another length of the room before

  coming to a halt.

  v ~,
1vlzgaz rzy .

  His expression was venomous and it was clear he had decided that the

  tough approach was best.

  "What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" he barked.

  "Are trying to ruin this meeting?"

  "No," I replied.

  "I've just taken out another dog which was unfit to run. Th; my job.

  That's what I'm here for."

  His face flushed deep red.

  "I don't think you know what you're here for. I Brannan goes off on

  holiday and leaves us at the mercy of a young clever cO like you,

  throwing your weight about and spoiling people's pleasure. Wait I see

  him!"

  "Mr Brannan would have done just the same as I have. Any veterinary

  surgeon would."

  "Rubbish! Don't tell me what it's all about you're still wet behind

  the ears He advanced slowly towards me.

 

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