James Herriot

by All Things Wise;Wonderful

  The last event of my stay in Hensfield was a visit to the local greyhound track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to inspect the dogs.

  The Hensfield stadium was not prepossessing from the outside. It had been built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and was surrounded by ramshackle hoardings.

  It was a cool night and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear the tinny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Formby 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 “flapping” 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, looking 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 Darrowby. There seemed to be a large proportion of fat men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-looking 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. “When I’m cleanin’ winders!” bawled George Formby 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, looking 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 a 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. And here, in the long, brightly lit bar I could see people nudging each other and looking 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. “Naw, naw, I don’t want you messin’ 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 loudspeaker 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. 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 you trying to ruin this meeting?”

  “No,” I replied. “I’ve just taken out another dog which was unfit to run. That’s 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. Mr. Brannan goes off on holiday and leaves us at the mercy of a young clever clogs like you, throwing your weight about and spoiling people’s pleasure. Wait till 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.

  “But I’ll tell you this, I’ve had enough! So get it straight, once and for all—no more of this nonsense. Cut it out!”

  I felt my heart thudding as I went down to see the dogs for the next race. As I examined the five animals the owners and kennel lads fixed me with a hypnotic stare as though I were some strange freak. My pulse began to slow down when I found there were no full stomachs this time and I glanced back in relief along the line. I was about to walk away when I noticed t
hat number one looked a little unusual. I went back and bent over him, trying to decide what it was about him that had caught my attention. Then I realised what it was—he looked sleepy. The head was hanging slightly and he had an air of apathy.

  I lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. The pupils were dilated and every now and then there was a faint twitch of nystagmus. There was absolutely no doubt about it—he had received some kind of sedative. He had been doped.

  The men in the paddock were very still as I stood upright. For a few moments I gazed through the wire netting at the brightly lit green oval, feeling the night air cold on my cheeks. George was still at it on the loudspeakers.

  “Oh Mr. Wu,” he trilled. “What can I do?”

  Well I knew what I had to do, anyway. I tapped the dog on the back.

  “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, the women loud and overdressed. There was something sinister about them and I remembered thinking that in different clothes the men could have passed without question as a group of bandits.

  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 bandits 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 bandits, 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.”