“Yes, very nice, too.”
She laughed. “But who would have thought it? A Chinese restaurant in a little place like Darrowby—it’s amazing!”
“Very unexpected, I agree. But this last year or two they have been popping up all over Britain.”
“Yes, but what I want to discuss with you is that this has affected Tricki.”
“What!”
“Yes, he has been most upset over the whole business.”
“How on earth…?”
“Well, Mr. Herriot…” She frowned and gazed at me, solemn-faced. “I told you many years ago and you have always known that Tricki is descended from a long line of Chinese emperors.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Well, I think I can explain the whole problem if I start at the beginning.”
I took a long swallow at my sherry with the pleasant sensation that I was floating away in a dream world. “Please do.”
“When the restaurant first opened,” she went on, “there was a surprising amount of resentment among some of the local people. They criticised the food and the very nice little Chinese man and his wife and put it about that there was no place for such a restaurant in Darrowby and that it should not be patronised. Now it happened that when Tricki and I were out on our little walks he overheard these remarks in the street, and he was furious.”
“Really?”
“Yes, quite affronted. I can tell when he feels like this. He stalks about with an insulted expression and it is so difficult to placate him.”
“Dear me, I’m sorry.”
“And after all, one can finally understand how he felt when he heard his own people being denigrated.”
“Quite, quite, absolutely—only natural.”
“However…however, Mr. Herriot.” She raised a finger again and gave me a knowing smile. “The clever darling suggested the cure himself.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he told me that we ourselves should start to frequent the restaurant and sample their food.”
“Ah.”
“And that is what we did. I had Crowther drive us there for lunch and we did enjoy it so much. Also, we found we could take the food home all nice and hot in little boxes—what fun! Now that we have started, Crowther often pops out in the evening and brings us our supper and you know, the restaurant seems quite busy now. I feel we have really helped.”
“I’m sure you have,” I said, and I meant it. The Lotus Garden, tucked in a corner of the market-place, wasn’t much more than a shop front with four small tables inside, and the sight of the gleaming black length of the limousine and liveried chauffeur parked frequently at its door must have given it a tremendous lift. I was struggling unsuccessfully to picture the locals peering through the shop window at Mrs. Pumphrey and Tricki eating at one of those tiny tables when she went on.
“I’m so glad you think so. And we have enjoyed it all so much. Tricki adores the char sui and my favourite is the chow mein. The little Chinese man is teaching us how to use the chopsticks, too.”
I put down my empty glass and dusted the tasty crumbs from my jacket. I hated to interrupt these sessions and return to reality, but I looked at my watch. “I’m so glad things turned out so nicely, Mrs. Pumphrey, but I think I’d better give the little chap his check-up.”
I lifted Tricki onto a settee and palpated his abdomen thoroughly. Nothing wrong there. Then I fished out my stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. There was the heart murmur I knew about and some faint bronchitic sounds, which I expected. In fact I was totally familiar with all my old friend’s internal workings after treating him over the years. Teeth now—maybe could do with another scale next time. Eyes with the beginnings of the lens opacity of the old dog, but not too bad at all.
I turned to Mrs. Pumphrey. Tricki was on prednoleucotropin for his arthritis and oxytetracycline for the bronchitis but I never elaborated on his ailments to her—too many medical terms upset her. “He’s really wonderful for his age, Mrs. Pumphrey. You have his tablets to use when necessary and you know where I am if ever you need me. Just one thing. You have been very good with his diet lately so don’t give him too many titbits—not even extra char sui!”
She giggled and gave me a roguish look. “Oh, please don’t scold me, Mr. Herriot. I promise I’ll be good.” She paused for a moment. “I must mention one more thing with regard to Tricki’s arthritis. You know that Hodgkin has been throwing rings for him for years?”
“Yes, I do.” Her words raised an image of the dour old gardener under duress casting the rubber rings on the lawn while the little dog, barking in delight, brought them back to him again. Hodgkin, who clearly didn’t like dogs, invariably looked utterly fed up and his lips always seemed to be moving as he muttered either to himself or Tricki.
“Well, I thought in view of Tricki’s condition that Hodgkin was throwing the rings too far and I told him to throw them for just a few feet. The little darling would have just as much fun with much less exertion.”
“I see.”
“Unfortunately,” here her expression became disapproving, “Hodgkin has been rather mean about it.”
“In what way?”
“I wouldn’t have known anything about it,” she said, lowering her voice, “but Tricki confided in me.”
“Did he really?”
“Yes, he told me that Hodgkin had complained bitterly that it meant he had to bend down a lot more often to pick up the rings and that he had arthritis, too. I wouldn’t have minded,” her voice sank to a whisper, “but Tricki was deeply shocked; he said Hodgkin used the word ‘bloody’ several times.”
“Oh, dear, dear, yes, I see the difficulty.”
“It has made the whole thing so embarrassing for Tricki. What do you think I should do?”
I nodded sagely and after some cogitation gave my opinion. “I do think, Mrs. Pumphrey, that it would be a good idea to have the throwing sessions less often and for a shorter time. After all, both Tricki and Hodgkin are no longer young.”
She gazed at me for a few moments, then smiled fondly. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Herriot, I’m sure you are right, as always. I shall follow your advice.”
I was about to make my farewells when Mrs. Pumphrey put a hand on my arm. “Before you go, Mr. Herriot, I would like you to see something.”
She led the way to a room off the hall and opened the doors of a massive wardrobe. I looked at a long row of opulent suits—I had never seen so many outside a shop.
“These,” she said, running her hand slowly along jackets of all kinds, dark and dressy, light and tweed, “belonged to my late husband.” For a few moments she was silent as she fingered one sleeve after another, then she became suddenly brisk and turned to me with a bright smile. “He did love good clothes and went to London for all his suits. Now this one.” She reached up and lifted down a jacket and trousers of Lovat tweed. “This one was made by one of the best tailors in Savile Row. Ooh, it’s so heavy, will you hold it, please?” She gasped as she laid it on my outstretched arm and I, too, was amazed at its weight.
“Yes,” she went on, “it is the most beautiful country suit and, do you know, he never wore it.” She shook her head and her eyes softened as she stroked the lapels. “No, he never did. He died a few days after it was made and he was so looking forward to it. He was such an outdoor man, but he did like to be smartly dressed.”
Then she said somewhat abruptly, looking up at me with a resolute expression, “Now, Mr. Herriot, would you like to have this suit?”
“Eh?”
“I wish you would have it. I’m sure it would be of great use to you and it is being wasted just hanging here in this wardrobe.”
I didn’t know what to say, but my mind went back to various pauses in our conversation by the fire when I had noticed her eyes lingering briefly on the fringe of material on my frayed cuff as I raised my glass, and at my threadbare knees.
As I stood silent she looked suddenly worried. “Perhaps I am emba
rrassing you?”
“Oh, no, no, no, not at all. It’s very kind of you. I’m sure I’d love to have it.”
“Oh, I am glad.” She clapped her hands. “It will be just right for you, quite the correct thing for a country vet. I’d so much like to think of you wearing it.”
“Right …right…” I said, still a little bemused. “Thank you very much.” I laughed. “Such a nice surprise.”
“Good, good,” she said, laughing too. Then she called across the hall. “Ruth, Ruth, will you bring one of those big sheets of brown paper to put round this suit, there’s a dear.”
As the maid hurried off, Mrs. Pumphrey put her head on one side. “There’s just one thing, Mr. Herriot. My husband was rather a large man. Some alterations will be necessary.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I can see to that.”
As I walked over the gravel to my car weighed down with my parcel, I mused on the upturn in my day. A couple of hours ago I had slunk away like a pariah from a farm after a visit steeped in censure and dislike and with a final tongue-lashing thrown in, and look at me now. Mrs. Pumphrey and Ruth were smiling and waving from the doorway. Tricki was back at his window, laughing his head off as he barked his farewell, the curtains moving with the wagging of his tail, my stomach glowed with sherry and savoury biscuits and I had a handsome free suit in my arms.
Not for the first time I thanked providence for the infinite variety of veterinary practice.
Chapter 5
“LOOK AT THIS, HELEN!” I cried as I pulled off the brown paper back in Skeldale House. “Mrs. Pumphrey’s given me a suit!”
My wife gasped as my new acquisition was unveiled. “It’s beautiful, Jim. So expensive-looking!”
“Isn’t it just. I could never afford one like this.”
We looked down at the sumptuous tweed with its faint, scarcely discernible pattern of brownish threads among the Lovat green and Helen held up the jacket to examine it more closely.
“Gosh, it’s so thick and heavy, I can hardly lift it! I’ve never seen such cloth—you’ll never feel cold wearing this. Aren’t you going to try it on? There’s time before lunch—I’ll just pop through to the kitchen and see that nothing’s boiling over.”
I hurried to our bedroom and, bubbling with anticipation, removed my trousers and pulled on the new ones, then I donned the jacket and looked in the mirror. I really didn’t have to look—I realised from the start that my hopes were dashed. The trousers rested in concertina-like folds round my ankles while the jacket sleeves hung several inches below my hands. The late Mr. Pumphrey hadn’t just been large, he must have been a giant.
I was observing myself sadly when I heard muffled sounds from the doorway. Helen was leaning against the wall laughing helplessly as she pointed a shaking finger in my direction. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. “I’m sorry, but oh, ha-ha-ha!”
“Okay,” I said. “I know, I know, it’s a washout.” Then I caught sight of myself again in the mirror and couldn’t fight back a wry smile. “You’re right, I do look funny, but what a disappointment. It’s such a marvellous suit—I thought I was going to be Darrowby’s best-dressed man. What the heck are we going to do with the thing?”
Helen dried her eyes and came over to me. “Oh, it’s such a shame, but wait a minute.” She tucked the sleeves up till my hands were revealed, then knelt and rolled up a few folds of trousers. She stood back to view the result. “Do you know, I really think it could be altered to fit you.”
“Oh, come on, it’s unthinkable. I’m drowned in it.” I glowered again at my reflection.
My wife shook her head vigorously. “I’m not so sure. Looking at you now, I can just imagine how splendid it could be. Anyway, I’m going to take it round to Mr. Bendelow and see if I can sweetheart him into doing it quickly.”
I grinned at the thought of our local tailor stirring himself. “That would be a miracle.”
“You never know,” Helen said. “I’m going to try, anyway.”
Later that day she came to me with the news that Mr. Bendelow had been so dazzled by the quality of the material and the cut that he had promised a rush job.
The excitement over the suit was forgotten as I had an urgent call immediately after lunch.
Ted Newcombe’s voice on the phone was strained and shaking. “It’s Clover—she’s on calvin’ and there’s just a head and nowt else. I’ve had a go, but I can’t reach the legs—it’s ? whopper of a calf. And it’s the one I badly want—you remember?”
“Yes, I do remember, of course.”
“Can you get ’ere quick, Mr. Herriot?”
“I’m leaving now.”
Clover was his best heifer and had been served by a premium bull. To a hill-farmer like Ted it would be a disaster if he lost the calf. I shouted to Helen and ran out to the car.
Ted’s smallholding was a grey smudge high on a hillside near the top of the dale. There was no road to it and my car bumped its way up the grassy slope with my drugs and instruments rattling and clinking behind me. The flagged yard and thick-walled buildings were hundreds of years old; in fact, coupled with its inaccessibility it was the sort of place where only hard-up people like Ted would dream of trying to make a living. The rent was low and it was all he could afford. He was coming out of the byre as I drew up. Ted was tall and thin, about my own age, the father of a boy and girl who walked down that hill every day and then the two miles to the village school. He looked worried, but managed a grin.
“Nice car, Mr. Herriot.” He gave the gleaming bonnet a mock polish with his sleeve, but, as was typical of him, that was as far as the mickey-taking went.
I followed him into the little byre and I realised why he didn’t feel much like joking. The smile was wiped off my own face immediately as I looked at the beautiful heifer groaning and heaving, with an enormous muzzle just peeping from her vulva as she strained.
No vet likes to see that. It wasn’t just a case of sorting out a malpresentation, it meant that a huge calf was finding it impossible to find a way out.
“I’ve ’ad a go,” Ted said as I stripped off and began to wash my arms in the steaming bucket. “But there’s no legs—feet are miles away. I remember you tellin’ me once to push back the head to reach the feet but I’ve tried and she’s ower strong for me.”
I nodded. He hadn’t much flesh on his bones, but he had a stringy power in his arms and I knew what he meant. “Nobody’s as strong as a big beast like that, Ted.”
“And all the time I’m wonderin’ if t’calf’s still alive. He’s been squeezed in there for a hell of a long time.”
That was my worry, too. I soaped my arm and pushed a hand into the vulva alongside the massive head, but as I reached for the shoulder Clover gave another heave and my arm was trapped agonisingly for a few seconds.
“That’s no good,” I gasped. “There’s not an inch of room in there. I’ll try my luck with the head.”
I put my hand against the muzzle and pushed steadily, leaning hard as the head went back a few inches. That was as far as I got. Another mighty expulsive effort from the heifer sent me back where I started.
I began to wash my hands and arms again. “It’s impossible, Ted. That calf won’t come out till we bring the feet round and there’s simply no way of reaching those feet. She’s a big, powerful heifer and we can’t win pushing against her.”
“Oh, ’ell!” He looked at me wide-eyed. “What do we do, then? Caesarean? That’s a big job!”
“Maybe not,” I said. “I’ve got another trick up my sleeve.”
I was out to the car and back again in a few moments with a syringe and local anaesthetic. “Grab the tail, Ted,” I said, “and move it up and down like a pump handle. That’s the way.” I felt for the epidural space between the vertebrae and injected 10 c.c.’s, then I stood back and watched.
I hadn’t long to wait. In less than a minute Clover began to relax as though her troubles were over. Ted pointed at her. “Look at that, she’s stopped
strainin’!”
“She can’t strain, now,” I said. “She’s had a spinal anaesthetic and she can’t feel a thing back there. In fact she really doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“So if she can’t push against us we can maybe get the head back inside?”
“That’s the idea.” Another soaping of my arm and I pressed my palm against the broad muzzle, and oh, it was lovely to feel the head and neck and the whole calf moving away from me with no sign of resistance. There was room then to pass a noose inside and snare a foot and then another till I had two cloven hooves showing at the vulva. I grasped one in each hand and as I leaned back, the calf’s muzzle reappeared and to my great relief I saw a twitching of the nostrils.
I laughed. “This calf’s alive, Ted.”
“Oh, thank God for that,” Ted said, blowing out his cheeks. “We can get on wi’ the job now, can’t we?”
“Yes, but there’s just one snag. Because she’s unable to strain she can’t help us. We’ll have to do everything ourselves.”
It was still a very tight squeeze and we had half an hour of careful pulling on the legs and head and frequent application of lubricating jelly. We soon began to sweat but Clover was totally unconcerned and paid no attention as she picked away happily at the hay in the rack. My big fear was that the calf might stick at the hips but with a final heave from us the little creature slid out into the world and I caught the slippery body as it fell.
Ted lifted a hind leg. “It’s a bull. Reckon it had to be when it was as big as that.” He smiled happily. “Most times I want heifers, but this ’un will sell well for breedin’. He’s got a fine pedigree on both sides.”
He began to rub ribs and head with straw and the calf responded by raising his head and snuffling. Clover looked round quickly at the sound and gave a soft moo of delight and, it seemed to me, surprise, because she had known nothing of the operation and clearly was a little mystified as to how this enchanting newcomer had arrived. We pulled him up to her head and she commenced an enthusiastic end-to-end licking of the little body.
I smiled. I never got tired of this—the most rewarding thing in my veterinary life. “Nice to see, isn’t it, Ted. I wish all calvings finished up like this.”
Every Living Thing Page 4