Siegfried made a polished apology—he’d had a lot of practice—and bought the man a drink. They parted on good terms.
The pity of it was that Siegfried, who seldom remembered anything, didn’t remember this. A month later, also in the Swan, he ran into Billy Breckenridge again. This time, Billy wasn’t so jocular. “Hey, remember that bill you sent me twice? Well, I’ve had it again.”
Siegfried did his best, but his charm bounced off the little man. He was offended. “Right, I can see you don’t believe I paid your bill. I had a receipt from your brother, but I’ve lost it.” He brushed aside Siegfried’s protestations. “No, no, there’s only one way to settle this. I say I’ve paid the three and six, you say I haven’t. All right, I’ll toss you for it.”
Miserably, Siegfried demurred, but Billy was adamant. He produced a penny and, with great dignity, balanced it on his thumbnail. “O.K., you call.”
“Heads,” muttered Siegfried and heads it was. The little man did not change expression. Still dignified, he handed the three and six to Siegfried. “Perhaps we might be able to consider the matter closed.” He walked out of the bar.
Now there are all kinds of bad memories, but Siegfried’s was of the inspired type. He somehow forgot to make a note of this last transaction and, at the end of the month, Billy Breckenridge received a fourth request for the amount which he had already paid twice. It was about then that Siegfried changed his pub and started going to the Cross Keys.
THIRTEEN
AS AUTUMN WORE INTO winter and the high tops were streaked with the first snows, the discomforts of practice in the Dales began to make themselves felt.
Driving for hours with frozen feet, climbing to the high barns in biting winds which seared and flattened the wiry hill grass. The interminable stripping off in draughty buildings and the washing of hands and chest in buckets of cold water, using scrubbing soap and often a piece of sacking for a towel.
I really found out the meaning of chapped hands. When there was a rush of work, my hands were never quite dry and the little red fissures crept up almost to my elbows.
This was when some small animal work came as a blessed relief. To step out of the rough, hard routine for a while; to walk into a warm drawing-room instead of a cow house and tackle something less formidable than a horse or a bull. And among all those comfortable drawing-rooms there was none so beguiling as Mrs. Pumphrey’s.
Mrs. Pumphrey was an elderly widow. Her late husband, a, beer baron whose breweries and pubs were scattered widely over the broad bosom of Yorkshire, had left her a vast fortune and a beautiful house on the outskirts of Darrowby. Here she lived with a large staff of servants, a gardener, a chauffeur and Tricki Woo. Tricki Woo was a Pekingese and the apple of his mistress’ eye.
Standing now in the magnificent doorway, I furtively rubbed the toes of my shoes on the backs of my trousers and blew on my cold hands. I could almost see the deep armchair drawn close to the leaping flames, the tray of cocktail biscuits, the bottle of excellent sherry. Because of the sherry, I was always careful to time my visits for half an hour before lunch.
A maid answered my ring, beaming on me as an honoured guest and led me to the room, crammed with expensive furniture and littered with glossy magazines and the latest novels. Mrs. Pumphrey, in the high-backed chair by the fire, put down her book with a cry of delight. “Tricki! Tricki! Here is your Uncle Herriot.” I had been made an uncle very early and, sensing the advantages of the relationship, had made no objection.
Tricki, as always, bounded from his cushion, leaped on to the back of a sofa and put his paws on my shoulders. He then licked my face thoroughly before retiring, exhausted. He was soon exhausted because he was given roughly twice the amount of food needed for a dog of his size. And it was the wrong kind of food.
“Oh, Mr. Herriot,” Mrs. Pumphrey said, looking at her pet anxiously. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Tricki has gone flop-bott again.”
This ailment, not to be found in any textbook, was her way of describing the symptoms of Tricki’s impacted anal glands. When the glands filled up, he showed discomfort by sitting down suddenly in mid walk and his mistress would rush to the phone in great agitation.
“Mr. Herriot! Please come, he’s going flop-bott again!”
I hoisted the little dog on to a table and, by pressure on the anus with a pad of cotton wool, I evacuated the glands.
It baffled me that the Peke was always so pleased to see me. Any dog who could still like a man who grabbed him and squeezed his bottom hard every time they met had to have an incredibly forgiving nature. But Tricki never showed any resentment; in fact he was an outstandingly equable little animal, bursting with intelligence, and I was genuinely attached to him. It was a pleasure to be his personal physician.
The squeezing over, I lifted my patient from the table, noticing the increased weight, the padding of extra flesh over the ribs. “You know, Mrs. Pumphrey, you’re overfeeding him again. Didn’t I tell you to cut out all those pieces of cake and give him more protein?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Herriot,” Mrs. Pumphrey wailed. “But what can I do? He’s so tired of chicken.”
I shrugged; it was hopeless. I allowed the maid to lead me to the palatial bathroom where I always performed a ritual handwashing after the operation. It was a huge room with a fully stocked dressing-table, massive green ware and rows of glass shelves laden with toilet preparations. My private guest towel was laid out next to the slab of expensive soap.
Then I returned to the drawing-room, my sherry glass was filled and I settled down by the fire to listen to Mrs. Pumphrey. It couldn’t be called a conversation because she did all the talking, but I always found it rewarding.
Mrs. Pumphrey was likeable, gave widely to charities and would help anybody in trouble. She was intelligent and amusing and had a lot of waffling charm; but most people have a blind spot and hers was Tricki Woo. The tales she told about her darling ranged far into the realms of fantasy and I waited eagerly for the next instalment.
“Oh Mr. Herriot, I have the most exciting news. Tricki has a pen pal! Yes, he wrote a letter to the editor of Doggy World enclosing a donation, and told him that even though he was descended from a long line of Chinese emperors, he had decided to come down and mingle freely with the common dogs. He asked the editor to seek out a pen pal for him among the dogs he knew so that they could correspond to their mutual benefit. And for this purpose, Tricki said he would adopt the name of Mr. Utterbunkum. And, do you know, he received the most beautiful letter from the editor” (I could imagine the sensible man leaping upon this potential gold mine) “who said he would like to introduce Bonzo Fotheringham, a lonely dalmatian who would be delighted to exchange letters with a new friend in Yorkshire.”
I sipped the sherry. Tricki snored on my lap. Mrs. Pumphrey went on.
“But I’m so disappointed about the new summerhouse—you know I got it specially for Tricki so we could sit out together on warm afternoons. It’s such a nice little rustic shelter, but he’s taken a passionate dislike to it. Simply loathes it—absolutely refuses to go inside. You should see the dreadful expression on his face when he looks at it. And do you know what he called it yesterday? Oh, I hardly dare tell you.” She looked around the room before leaning over and whispering: “He called it ‘the bloody hut’!”
The maid struck fresh life into the fire and refilled my glass. The wind hurled a handful of sleet against the window. This, I thought, was the life. I listened for more.
“And did I tell you, Mr. Herriot, Tricki had another good win yesterday? You know, I’m sure he must study the racing columns, he’s such a tremendous judge of form. Well, he told me to back Canny Lad in the three o’clock at Redcar yesterday and, as usual, it won. He put on a shilling each way and got back nine shillings.”
These bets were always placed in the name of Tricki Woo and I thought with compassion of the reactions of the local bookies. The Darrowby turf accountants were a harassed and fugitive body of men. A board would app
ear at the end of some alley urging the population to invest with Joe Downs and enjoy perfect security. Joe would live for a few months on a knife edge while he pitted his wits against the knowledgeable citizens, but the end was always the same; a few favourites would win in a row and Joe would be gone in the night, taking his board with him. Once I had asked a local inhabitant about the sudden departure of one of these luckless nomads. He replied unemotionally: “Oh, we broke ’im.”
Losing a regular flow of shillings to a dog must have been a heavy cross for these unfortunate men to bear.
“I had such a frightening experience last week,” Mrs. Pumphrey continued. “I was sure I would have to call you out. Poor little Tricki—he went completely crackerdog!”
I mentally lined this up with flop-bott among the new canine diseases and asked for more information.
“It was awful. I was terrified. The gardener was throwing rings for Tricki—you know he does this for half an hour every day.” I had witnessed this spectacle several times. Hodgkin, a dour, bent old Yorkshireman who looked as though he hated all dogs and Tricki in particular, had to go out on the lawn every day and throw little rubber rings over and over again. Tricki bounded after them and brought them back, barking madly till the process was repeated. The bitter lines on the old man’s face deepened as the game progressed. His lips moved continually, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying.
Mrs. Pumphrey went on: “Well, he was playing his game, and he does adore it so, when suddenly, without warning, he went crackerdog. He forgot all about his rings and began to run around in circles, barking and yelping in such a strange way. Then he fell over on his side and lay like a little dead thing. Do you know, Mr. Herriot, I really thought he was dead, he lay so perfectly still. And what hurt me most was that Hodgkin began to laugh. He has been with me for twenty-four years and I have never even seen him smile, and yet, when he looked down at that still form, he broke into a queer, high-pitched cackle. It was horrid. I was just going to rush to the telephone when Tricki got up and walked away—he seemed perfectly normal.”
Hysteria, I thought, brought on by wrong feeding and over-excitement. I put down my glass and fixed Mrs. Pumphrey with a severe glare. “Now look, this is just what I was talking about. If you persist in feeding all that fancy rubbish to Tricki you are going to ruin his health. You really must get him on to a sensible dog diet of one or, at the most, two small meals a day of meat and brown bread or a little biscuit And nothing in between.”
Mrs. Pumphrey shrank into her chair, a picture of abject guilt. “Oh, please don’t speak to me like that. I do try to give him the right things, but it is so difficult. When he begs for his little titbits, I can’t refuse him.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
But I was unrelenting. “All right Mrs. Pumphrey, it’s up to you, but I warn you that if you go on as you are doing, Tricki will go crackerdog more and more often.”
I left the cosy haven with reluctance, pausing on the gravelled drive to look back at Mrs. Pumphrey waving and Tricki, as always, standing against the window, his wide-mouthed face apparently in the middle of a hearty laugh.
Driving home, I mused on the many advantages of being Tricki’s uncle. When he went to the seaside he sent me boxes of oak-smoked kippers; and when the tomatoes ripened in his green-house, he sent a pound or two every week. Tins of tobacco arrived regularly, sometimes with a photograph carrying a loving inscription.
But it was when the Christmas hamper arrived from Fortnum and Mason’s that I decided that I was on a really good thing which should be helped along a bit. Hitherto, I had merely rung up and thanked Mrs. Pumphrey for the gifts, and she had been rather cool, pointing out that it was Tricki who had sent the things and he was the one who should be thanked.
With the arrival of the hamper it came to me, blindingly, that I had been guilty of a grave error of tactics. I set myself to compose a letter to Tricki. Avoiding Siegfried’s sardonic eye, I thanked my doggy nephew for his Christmas gifts and for all his generosity in the past. I expressed my sincere hopes that the festive fare had not upset his delicate digestion and suggested that if he did experience any discomfort he should have recourse to the black powder his uncle always prescribed. A vague feeling of professional shame was easily swamped by floating visions of kippers, tomatoes and hampers. I addressed the envelope to Master Tricki Pumphrey, Barlby Grange and slipped it into the post box with only a slight feeling of guilt.
On my next visit, Mrs. Pumphrey drew me to one side. “Mr. Herriot,” she whispered, “Tricki adored your charming letter and he will keep it always, but he was very put out about one thing—you addressed it to Master Tricki and he does insist upon Mister. He was dreadfully affronted at first, quite beside himself, but when he saw it was from you he soon recovered his good temper. I can’t think why he should have these little prejudices. Perhaps it is because he is an only dog—I do think an only dog develops more prejudices than one from a large family.”
Entering Skeldale House was like returning to a colder world. Siegfried bumped into me in the passage. “Ah, who have we here? Why I do believe it’s dear Uncle Herriot. And what have you been doing, Uncle? Slaving away at Barlby Grange, I expect. Poor fellow, you must be tired out. Do you really think it’s worth it, working your fingers to the bone for another hamper?”
FOURTEEN
LOOKING BACK, I CAN scarcely believe we used to spend all those hours in making up medicines. But our drugs didn’t come to us in proprietary packages and before we could get out on the road we had to fill our cars with a wide variety of carefully compounded and largely useless remedies.
When Siegfried came upon me that morning I was holding a twelve-ounce bottle at eye level while I poured syrup of coccilana into it. Tristan was moodily mixing stomach powders with a mortar and pestle and he stepped up his speed of stroke when he saw his brother’s eye on him. He was surrounded by packets of the powder and, further along the bench, were orderly piles of pessaries which he had made by filling cellophane cylinders with boric acid.
Tristan looked industrious; his elbow jogged furiously as he ground away at the ammon carb and nux vomica. Siegfried smiled benevolently.
I smiled too. I felt the strain badly when the brothers were at variance, but I could see that this was going to be one of the happy mornings. There had been a distinct improvement in the atmosphere since Christmas when Tristan had slipped casually back to college and, apparently without having done any work, had re-sat and passed his exams. And there was something else about my boss today; he seemed to glow with inner satisfaction as though he knew for certain that something good was on the way. He came in and closed the door.
“I’ve got a bit of good news.”
I screwed the cork into the bottle. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Let’s have it.”
Siegfried looked from one of us to the other. He was almost smirking. “You remember that bloody awful shambles when Tristan took charge of the bills?”
His brother looked away and began to grind still faster, but Siegfried laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to do it again. In fact, you’ll never have to do it again because, from now on, the job will be done by an expert.” He paused and cleared his throat. “We’re going to have a secretary.”
As we stared blankly at him he went on. “Yes, I picked her myself and I consider she’s perfect.”
“Well, what’s she like?” I asked.
Siegfried pursed his lips. “It’s difficult to describe her. But just think—what do we want here? We don’t want some flighty young thing hanging about the place. We don’t want a pretty little blonde sitting behind that desk powdering her nose and making eyes at everybody.”
“We don’t?” Tristan interrupted, plainly puzzled.
“No, we don’t!” Siegfried rounded on him. “She’d be daydreaming about her boy friends half the time and just when we’d got her trained to our ways she’d be running off to get married.�
��
Tristan still looked unconvinced and it seemed to exasperate his brother. Siegfried’s face reddened. “And there’s another thing. How could we have an attractive young girl in here with somebody like you in the house? You’d never leave her alone.”
Tristan was nettled. “How about you?”
“I’m talking about you, not me!” Siegfried roared. I closed my eyes. The peace hadn’t lasted long. I decided to cut in. “All right, tell us about the new secretary.”
With an effort, he mastered his emotion. “Well, she’s in her fifties and she has retired after thirty years with Green and Moulton in Bradford. She was company secretary there and I’ve had the most wonderful reference from the firm. They say she is a model of efficiency and that’s what we want in this practice—efficiency. We’re far too slack. It’s just a stroke of luck for us that she decided to come and live in Darrowby. Anyway, you’ll be able to meet her in a few minutes—she’s coming at ten o’clock this morning.”
The church clock was chiming when the door bell rang. Siegfried hastened out to answer it and led his great discovery into the room in triumph. “Gentlemen, I want you to meet Miss Harbottle.”
She was a big, high-bosomed woman with a round healthy face and gold-rimmed spectacles. A mass of curls, incongruous and very dark, peeped from under her hat; they looked as if they might be dyed and they didn’t go with her severe clothes and brogue shoes.
It occurred to me that we wouldn’t have to worry about her rushing off to get married. It wasn’t that she was ugly, but she had a jutting chin and an air of effortless command that would send any man running for his life.
I shook hands and was astonished at the power of Miss Harbottle’s grip. We looked into each other’s eyes and had a friendly trial of strength for a few seconds, then she seemed happy to call it a draw and turned away. Tristan was entirely unprepared and a look of alarm spread over his face as his hand was engulfed; he was released only when his knees started to buckle.
All Creatures Great and Small Page 10