I pointed to a cardboard box loosely tied with string. “Ah, good, you’ve got her in there, have you?”
“Nay, bless you, she’s in t’garden. She allus has a bit of play out there of an afternoon.”
“In the garden, eh?” I said nervously. “Well, please get her in, we’re in rather a hurry.”
We went through a tiled kitchen to the back door. Most of these cottages had a surprising amount of land behind them and Mrs. Beck’s patch was in very nice order. Flower beds bordered a smooth stretch of lawn and the sunshine drew glittering colours from the apples and pears among the branches of the trees.
“Georgina,” carolled Mrs. Beck. “Where are you, my pet?”
No cat appeared and she turned to me with a roguish smile. “I think the little imp’s playin’ a game with us. She does that, you know.”
“Really?” I said without enthusiasm. “Well, I wish she’d show herself. I really don’t have much …”
At that moment a very fat tabby darted from a patch of chrysanthemums and flitted across the grass into a clump of rhododendrons with Tristan in close pursuit. The young man dived among the greenery and the cat emerged from the other end at top speed, did a couple of laps of the lawn then shot up a gnarled tree.
Tristan, eyes gleaming in anticipation, lifted a couple of windfall apples from the turf. “I’ll soon shift the bugger from there, Jim,” he whispered and took aim.
I grabbed his arm. “For heaven’s sake, Triss!” I hissed. “You can’t do that. Put those things down.”
“Oh … all right.” He dropped the apples and made for the tree. “I’ll get hold of her for you, anyway.”
“Wait a minute.” I seized his coat as he passed. “I’ll do it. You stay down here and try to catch her if she jumps.”
Tristan looked disappointed but I gave him a warning look. The way the cat had moved, it struck me that it only needed a bit of my colleague’s ebullience to send the animal winging into the next county. I began to climb the tree.
I like cats, I’ve always liked them, and since I feel that animals recognise this in a person I have usually been able to approach and handle the most difficult types. It is not too much to say that I prided myself on my cat technique; I didn’t foresee any trouble here.
Puffing slightly, I reached the top branch and extended a hand to the crouching animal.
“Pooss-pooss,” I cooed, using my irresistible cat tone.
Georgina eyed me coldly and gave no answering sign other than a higher arching of the back.
I leaned further along the branch. “Pooss-pooss, pooss-pooss.” My voice was like molten honey, my finger near her face. I would rub her cheek ever so gently and she would be mine. It never failed.
“Pah!” replied Georgina warningly but I took no heed and touched the fur under her chin.
“Pah-pah!” Georgina spat and followed with a lightning left hook which opened a bloody track across the back of my hand.
Muttering fervently, I retreated and nursed my wounds. From below Mrs. Beck gave a tinkling laugh.
“Oh, isn’t she a little monkey! She’s that playful, bless her.”
I snorted and began to ease my way along the branch again. This time, I thought grimly, I would dispense with finesse. The quick grab was indicated here.
As though reading my thoughts the little creature tripped to the end of the branch and as it bent low under her weight she dropped lightly to the grass.
Tristan was on her in a flash, throwing himself full length and seizing her by the hind leg. Georgina whipped round and unhesitatingly sank her teeth into his thumb but Tristan’s core of resilience showed. After a single howl of agony he changed his grip at lightning speed to the scruff of the neck.
A moment later he was standing upright holding a dangling fighting fury high in the air.
“Right, Jim,” he called happily. “I have her.”
“Good lad! Hang on!” I said breathlessly and slithered down the tree as quickly as I could. Too quickly, in fact, as an ominous ripping sound announced the removal of a triangular piece of my jacket elbow.
But I couldn’t bother with trifles. Ushering Tristan at a gallop into the house I opened the cardboard box. There were no sophisticated cat containers in those days and it was a tricky job to enclose Georgina, who was lashing out in all directions and complaining bitterly in a bad-tempered wail.
It took a panting ten minutes to imprison the cat but even with several yards of rough twine round the floppy cardboard I still didn’t feel very secure as I bore it to the car.
Mrs. Beck raised a finger as we were about to drive away. I carefully explored my lacerated hand and Tristan sucked his thumb as we waited for her to speak.
“Mr. Herriot, I ’ope you’ll be gentle with ’er,” she said anxiously. “She’s very timid, you know.”
We had covered barely half a mile before sounds of strife arose from the back.
“Get back! Get in there. Get back, you bugger!”
I glanced behind me. Tristan was having trouble. Georgina clearly didn’t care for the motion of the car and from the slits in the box clawed feet issued repeatedly; on one occasion an enraged spitting face got free as far as the neck. Tristan kept pushing everything back with great resolution but I could tell from the rising desperation of his cries that he was fighting a losing battle.
I heard the final shout with a feeling of inevitability.
“She’s out, Jim! The bugger’s out!”
Well this was great. Anybody who has driven a car with a hysterical cat hurtling around the interior will appreciate my situation. I crouched low over the wheel as the furry creature streaked round the sides or leaped clawing at the roof or windscreen with Tristan lunging vainly after her.
But cruel fate had not finished with us yet. My colleague’s gasps and grunts from the rear ceased for a moment to be replaced by a horrified shriek.
“The bloody thing’s shitting, Jim! She’s shitting everywhere!”
The cat was obviously using every weapon at her disposal and he didn’t have to tell me. My nose was way ahead of him, and I frantically wound down the window. But I closed it just as quickly at the rising image of Georgina escaping and disappearing into the unknown.
I don’t like to think of the rest of that journey. I tried to breathe through my mouth and Tristan puffed out dense clouds of Woodbine smoke but it was still pretty terrible. Just outside Darrowby I stopped the car and we made a concerted onslaught on the animal; at the cost of a few more wounds, including a particularly painful scratch on my nose, we cornered her and fastened her once more in the box.
Even on the operating table Georgina had a few tricks left. We were using ether and oxygen as anaesthetic and she was particularly adept at holding her breath while the mask was on her face then returning suddenly to violent life when we thought she was asleep. We were both sweating when she finally went under.
I suppose it was inevitable, too, that she should be a difficult case. Ovaro-hysterectomy in the cat is a fairly straightforward procedure and nowadays we do innumerable cases uneventfully, but in the thirties, particularly in country practice, it was infrequently done and consequently a much larger undertaking.
I personally had my own preferences and aversions in this field. For instance, I found thin cats easy to do and fat cats difficult. Georgina was extremely fat.
When I opened her abdomen an ocean of fat welled up at me, obscuring everything, and I spent a long nerve-racking period lifting out portions of bowel or omentum with my forceps, surveying them gloomily and stuffing them back in again. A great weariness had begun to creep over me by the time I at last managed to grip the pink ovary between the metallic jaws and drew forth the slender string of uterus. After that it was routine, but I still felt a strange sense of exhaustion as I inserted the last stitch.
I put the sleeping cat into the box and beckoned to Tristan. “Come on, let’s get her home before she comes round.” I was starting along the passage when he put
his hand on my arm.
“Jim,” he said gravely. “You know I’m your friend.”
“Yes, Triss, of course.”
“I’d do anything for you, Jim.”
“I’m sure you would.”
He took a deep breath. “Except one thing. I’m not going back in that bloody car.”
I nodded dully. I really couldn’t blame him. “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll be off then.” Before leaving I sprinkled the interior with pine-smelling disinfectant but it didn’t make much difference. In any case my main emotion was the hope that Georgina wouldn’t wake up before I got to Rayton, and that was shattered before I had crossed Darrowby market place. The hair prickled on the back of my neck as an ominous droning issued from the box on the rear seat. It was like the sound of a distant swarm of bees but I knew what it meant; the anaesthetic was wearing off.
Once clear of the town I put my foot on the boards. This was something I rarely did because whenever I pushed my vehicle above forty miles an hour there was such a clamour of protest from engine and body that I always feared the thing would disintegrate around me. But at this moment I didn’t care. Teeth clenched, eyes staring. I hurtled forward, but I didn’t see the lonely strip of tarmac or the stone walls flitting past; all my attention was focused behind me, where the swarm of bees was getting nearer and the tone angrier.
When it developed into a bad-tempered yowling and was accompanied by the sound of strong claws tearing at cardboard I began to tremble. As I thundered into Rayton village I glanced behind me. Georgina was half out of the box. I reached back and grasped her scruff and when I stopped at the gate of Jasmine Cottage I pulled on the brake with one hand and lifted her on to my lap with the other.
I sagged in the seat, my breath escaping in a great explosion of relief; and my stiff features almost bent into a smile as I saw Mrs. Beck pottering in her garden.
She took Georgina from me with a cry of joy but gasped in horror when she saw the shaven area and the two stitches on the cat’s flank.
“Oooh, my darlin’! What ’ave those nasty men been doin’ to you?” She hugged the animal to her and glared at me.
“She’s all right, Mrs. Beck, she’s fine,” I said. “You can give her a little milk tonight and some solid food tomorrow. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She pouted. “Oh, very well. And now …” She gave me a sidelong glance. “I suppose you’ll want your money?”
“Well, er …”
“Wait there, then. I’ll get it.” She turned and went into the house.
Standing there, leaning against the reeking car, feeling the sting of the scratches on my hands and nose and examining the long tear on my jacket elbow I felt physically and emotionally spent. All I had done this afternoon was spay a cat but I had nothing more to offer.
Apathetically I watched the lady coming down the path. She was carrying a purse. At the gate she stopped and faced me.
“Ten shillin’s, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
She rummaged in the purse for some time before pulling out a ten-shilling note which was regarded sadly.
“Oh Georgina, Georgina, you are an expensive pussy,” she soliloquised.
Tentatively I began to extend my hand but she pulled the note away. “Just a minute, I’m forgettin’. You ’ave to take the stitches out, don’t you?”
“Yes, in ten days.”
She set her lips firmly. “Well there’s plenty of time to pay ye then—ye’ll be here again.”
“Here again …? But you can’t expect …”
“I allus think it’s unlucky to pay afore a job’s finished,” she said. “Summat terrible might happen to Georgina.”
“But … but …”
“Nay, ah’ve made up me mind,” she said. She replaced the money and snapped the purse shut with an air of finality before turning towards the house. Halfway up the path she looked over her shoulder and smiled.
“Aye, that’ll be the best way. Ye can collect your full fee on your final visit.”
CHAPTER 18
WE WERE READY TO march away from Scarborough. And it was ironical that we were leaving just when the place was beginning to smile on us.
In the May sunshine we stood on parade outside the Grand at 7 a.m. as we had done throughout the Yorkshire winter, mostly in darkness, often with the icy rain blowing in our faces. But now I felt a pang of regret as I looked over the heads at the wide beautiful bay stretching beneath its cliffs to the far headland, the sand clean-washed and inviting, the great blue expanse of sea shimmering and glittering and over everything the delicious sea-smell of salt and seaweed, raising memories of holidays and happy things lost in the war.
“Atten-shun!” Flight Sergeant Blackett’s bellow rolled over us as we stiffened in our ranks, every man carrying full kit, our packs braced with sheets of cardboard to give the sharp, rectangular look, hair cut short, boots gleaming, buttons shining like gold. Without our knowing, No. 10 ITW had moulded us into a smart, disciplined unit, very different from the shambling, half-baked crew of six months ago. We had all passed our exams and were no longer AC2s but Leading Aircraftsmen, and as LAC Herriot my wage had rocketed from three shillings to a dizzying seven and threepence a day.
“Right turn!” Again the roar. “By the left qui-ick march!”
Arms high, moving as one, we swung past the front of the Grand for the last time. I shot a parting glance at the great building—like a dignified Victorian lady stripped of her finery—and I made a resolve. I would come back some day, when the war was over, and see the Grand Hotel as it should be.
And I did, too. Years later, Helen and I sat in deep armchairs in the lounge where the SPs had barked. Waiters padded over the thick carpets with tea and muffins while a string orchestra played selections from Rose Marie.
And in the evening we dined in the elegant room with its long unbroken line of window looking down on the sea. This room had been the cold open terrace where I learned to read the Aldis lamp flickering from the lighthouse, but now we sat in luxurious warmth eating grilled sole and watching the lights of the harbour and town beginning to wink in the gathering dusk.
But that was very much in the future as the tramping feet echoed along Huntriss Row on the way to the station and the long lines of blue left the emptying square. We didn’t know where we were going, everything was uncertain.
Black’s Veterinary Dictionary dug into my back through the layer of cardboard. It was an unwieldy article but it reminded me of good days and gave me hope of more to come.
CHAPTER 19
“IT’S THE SAME THE whole world over, it’s the poor wot gets the blame. It’s the rich wot gets the pleasure …”
We were on a “toughening course,” living under canvas in the depths of Shropshire, and this was one of the occasions when we were all gathered together—hundreds of sunburned men—in a huge marquee waiting to be addressed by a visiting air commodore.
Before the great man arrived the platform was occupied by a lascivious sergeant who was whittling away the time by leading us in a succession of bawdy ditties accompanied by gestures. “It’s the rich wot gets the …,” but instead of “pleasure” he made a series of violent pumping movements with his forearm.
I was intrigued by the reaction of the airman on my right. He was a slim, pink-faced lad of about nineteen and his lank fair hair fell over his face as he jumped up and down. He was really throwing himself into it, bawling out the indelicate words, duplicating the sergeant’s gesticulations with maniacal glee. He was, I had recently learned, the son of a bishop.
We had been joined on this course by the Oxford University Air Squadron. They were a group of superior and delicately nurtured young men and since I had spent three full days peeling potatoes with them I had come to know most of them very well. “Spud bashing” is an unequalled method of becoming familiar with one’s fellow men and as, hour after hour, we filled countless bins with our produce, the barriers crumbled steadily
until at the end of three days we didn’t have many secrets from each other.
The bishop’s son had found something hilarious in the idea of a qualified veterinary surgeon leaving his practice to succour his country by removing the skins from thousands of tubers. And I, on the other hand, derived some reward from watching his antics. He was a charming and likeable lad but he seized avidly on anything with the faintest salacious slant. They say parsons’ sons are a bit wild when let off the leash, and I suppose an escapee from a bishop’s palace is even more susceptible to the blandishments of the big world.
I looked at him again. All around him men were yelling their heads off, but his voice, mouthing the four-letter words with relish, rang above the rest and he followed the actions of the conducting sergeant like a devoted acolyte.
It was all so different from Darrowby. My early days in the RAF with all the swearing and uninhibited conversation made me realise, perhaps for the first time, what kind of community I had left behind me. Because I often think that one of the least permissive societies in the history of mankind was the agricultural community of rural Yorkshire in the thirties. Among the farmers anything to do with sex or the natural functions was unmentionable.
It made my work more difficult because if the animal’s ailment had the slightest sexual connotation its owner would refuse to go into details if Helen or our secretary Miss Harbottle answered the ’phone. “I want the vet to come and see a cow,” was as far as they would go.
Today’s case was typical and I looked at Mr. Hopps with some irritation.
“Why didn’t you say your cow wasn’t coming into season? There’s a new injection for that now but I haven’t got it with me. I can’t carry everything in my car, you know.”
The farmer studied his feet. “Well, it was a lady on t’phone and I didn’t like to tell ’er that Snowdrop wasn’t bullin’.” He looked up at me sheepishly. “Can’t you do owt about it, then?”
I sighed. “Maybe I can. Bring me a bucket of hot water and some soap.”
James Herriot Page 17