If Only They Could Talk

by James Herriot

  'Oh, I realise that, but, you see, this death could have been caused by so many things.'

  'What sort o' things?'

  'Well, Anthrax for a start, magnesium deficiency, heart trouble there's quite a list. I really think we ought to do a post mortem to make sure.'

  'Now see here, are you saying I'm trying to do summat I shouldn't?'

  'Not at all. I'm only saying we should make sure before I write a certificate. We can go and see her opened at Mallock's and, believe me, if there's no other obvious cause of death you'll get the benefit of the doubt. The insurance people are pretty good about it.'

  Mr. Cranford's predatory features sank lower into his coat collar. He dug his hands viciously into his pockets. 'I've had vitneries at these jobs afore. Proper, experienced vitneries, too.' The little eyes flashed in the direction of my left ear. 'They've never messed about like this. What's the use of going to all that trouble? Why do you have to be so damn particular?'

  Why indeed, I thought. Why make an enemy of this man? He wielded a lot of power in the district. Prominent in the local Farmers' Union, a member of every agricultural committee for miles around. He was a wealthy, successful man and, if people didn't like him they respected his knowledge and listened to him. He could do a young vet a lot of harm. Why not write the certificate and go home? This is to certify that I have examined that above mentioned animal and, in my opinion, lightning stroke was the cause of death. It would be easy and Cranford would be mollified. It would be the end of the whole thing. Why antagonise this dangerous character for nothing? Maybe it really was lightning, anyway.

  I turned to face Mr. Cranford, trying in vain to look into the eyes that always veered away at the last moment. 'I'm sorry, but I feel we ought to have a look inside this cow. I'll ring Mallock and ask him to pick her up and we can see her in the morning. I'll meet you there at ten o'clock. Will that be all right?'

  'Reckon it'll have to be,' Cranford spat out. 'It's a piece o' nonsense, but I suppose I've got to humour you. But just let me remind you - this was a good cow, worth all of eighty pounds. I can't afford to lose that amount of money. I want my rights.'

  'I'm sure you'll get them, Mr. Cranford. And before I have her moved I'd better take a blood film to eliminate Anthrax.'

  The farmer had been under a mounting load of pressure. As a pillar of the methodist chapel his range of language was restricted, so he vented his pent up feelings by kicking out savagely at the carcass. His toe made contact with the unyielding backbone and he hopped around on one leg for a few seconds. Then he limped off towards the house.

  I was alone as I nicked the dead ear with my knife and drew a film of blood across a couple of glass slides. It hadn't been a happy session and the one tomorrow didn't hold out much more promise. I enclosed the blood films carefully in a cardboard box and set off for Skeldale House to examine them under the microscope.

  So it wasn't a particularly cheerful group which assembled at the knacker yard the following morning. Even Jeff, though he preserved his usual Buddha-like expression, was, in fact, deeply offended. The account he had given me when I first arrived at the yard was fragmentary, but I could piece the scene together. Jeff, leaping from his lorry at Cranford's, sweeping the carcass with a piercing glance and making his brilliant spot diagnosis. 'Stagnation o't'lungs. I can allus tell by the look in their eyes and the way their hair lies along ''back.' Waiting confidently for the wondering gasps, the congratulatory speeches which always followed his tour de force.

  Then Mr. Cranford, almost dancing with rage. 'Shut your big, stupid mouth, Mallock, the knows nowt about it. This cow was struck by lightning and you'd better remember that.'

  And now, bending my head over the carcass, I couldn't find a clue anyway. No sign of bruising when the skin was removed. The internal organs clean and normal.

  I straightened up and pushed my fingers through my hair. The boiler bubbled softly, puffing out odoriferous wisps into the already highly charged atmosphere. Two dogs licked busily at a pile of meat meal.

  Then a chill of horror struck through me. The dogs had competition. A little boy with golden curls was pushing a forefinger into the heap, inserting it in his mouth and sucking with rapt enjoyment.

  'Look at that!' I quavered.

  The knacker man's face lit up with paternal pride. 'Aye,' he said happily, 'It isn't only the four legged 'uns wot likes my meal. Wonderful stuff - full of nourishment!

  His good humour completely restored, he struck a match and began to puff appreciatively at a short pipe which was thickly encrusted with evidence of his grisly trade.

  I dragged my attention back to the job in hand. 'Cut into the heart, will you, Jeff,' I said.

  Jeff deftly sliced the big organ from top to bottom and I knew immediately my search was over. The auricles and ventricles were almost completely occluded by a cauliflower-like mass growing from the valves. Verrucose endocarditis, common in pigs but seldom seen in cattle.

  'There's what killed your cow, Mr. Cranford.' I said.

  Cranford aimed his nose at the heart. 'Fiddlesticks! You're not telling me them little things could kill a great beast like that.'

  'They're not so little. Big enough to stop the flow of blood. I'm sorry, but there's no doubt about it - your cow died of heart failure.'

  'And how about lightning?'

  'No sign of it, I'm afraid. You can see for yourself.'

  'And what about my eighty pounds?'

  'I'm truly sorry about that, but it doesn't alter the facts.'

  'Facts! What facts? I've come along this morning and you've shown me nowt to make me change my opinion.'

  'Well, there's nothing more I can say. It's a clear cut case.' Mr. Cranford stiffened in his perching stance. He held his hands against the front of his coat and the fingers and thumbs rubbed together unceasingly as though fondling the beloved bank notes which were slipping away from him. His face, sunk deeper in his collar, appeared still sharper in outline.

  Then he turned to me and made a ghastly attempt to smile. And his eyes, trained on my lapels, tried valiantly to inch their way upwards. There was a Reeting instance when they met my gaze before flickering away in alarm.

  He drew me to one side and addressed himself to my larynx. There was a wheedling note in the hoarse whisper.

  'Now look here, Mr. Herriot, we're both men of the world. You know as well as I do that the insurance company can afford this loss a lot better nor me. So why can't you just say it is lightning?'

  'Even though I think it isn't?'

  'Well, what the hangmen' does it matter? You can say it is, can't you? Nobody's going to know.'

  I scratched my head. 'But what would bother me, Mr. Cranford, is that I would know.'

  'You would know?' The farmer was mystified.

  'That's right. And it's no good - I can't give you a certificate for this cow and that's the end of it.'

  Dismay, disbelief, frustration chased across Mr. Cranford's features. 'Well, I'll tell you this. I'm not leaving the matter here. I'm going to see your boss about you.' He swung round and pointed at the cow. 'There's no sign of disease there. Trying to tell me it's due to little things in the heart. You don't know your job - you don't even know what them things are!'

  Jeff Mallock removed his unspeakable pipe from his mouth. 'But ah know. It's what ah said. Stagnation o' t'lungs is caused by milk from milk vein getting back into the body. Finally it gets to t'heart and then it's over wi't. Them's milk clots you're looking at.'

  Cranford rounded on him. 'Shut up, you great gumph! You're as bad as this feller here. It was lightning killed my good cow. Lightning!' He was almost screaming. Then he controlled himself and spoke quietly to me. 'You'll hear more of this, Mr. Knowledge, and I'll just tell you one thing. You'll never walk on to my farm again.' He turned and hurried away with his quick-stepping gait.

  I said good morning to Jeff and climbed wearily into my car. Well, everything had worked out just great. If only vetting just consisted of treating si
ck animals. But it didn't. There were so many other things. I started the engine and drove away.

  Chapter Twenty-nine.

  It didn't take Mr. Cranford long to make good his threat. He called at the surgery shortly after lunch the following day and Siegfried and I, enjoying a post prandial cigarette in the sitting-room, heard the jangle of the door bell. We didn't get up, because most of the farmers walked in after ringing.

  The dogs, however, went into their usual routine. They had had a long run on the high moor that morning and had just finished licking out their dinner bowls. Tired and distended, they had collapsed in a snoring heap around Siegfried's feet. There was nothing they wanted more than ten minutes' peace but, dedicated as they were to their self appointed role of fierce guardians of the house, they did not hesitate. They leaped, baying, from the rug and hurled themselves into the passage.

  People often wondered why Siegfried kept five dogs. Not only kept them but took them everywhere with him. Driving on his rounds it was difficult to see him at all among the shaggy heads and waving tails; and anybody approaching the car would recoil in terror from the savage barking and the bared fangs and glaring eyes framed in the windows.

  'I cannot for the life of me understand,' Siegfried would declare, thumping his fist on his knee, 'why people keep dogs as pets. A dog should have a useful function. Let it be used for farm work, for shooting, for guiding; but why anybody should keep the things just hanging around the place beats me.'

  It was a pronouncement he was continually making, often through a screen of flapping ears and lolling tongues as he sat in his car. His listener would look wonderingly from the huge greyhound to the tiny terrier, from the spaniel to the whippet to the Scottie; but nobody ever asked Siegfried why he kept his own dogs.

  I judged that the pack fell upon Mr. Cranford about the bend of the passage and many a lesser man would have fled; but I could hear him fighting his way doggedly forward. When he came through the sitting-room door he had removed his hat and was beating the dogs off with it. It wasn't a wise move and the barking rose to a higher pitch. The man's eyes stared and his lips moved continuously, but nothing came through.

  Siegfried, courteous as ever, rose and indicated a chair. His lips, too, were moving, no doubt in a few gracious words of welcome. Mr. Cranford flapped his black coat, swooped across the carpet and perched. The dogs sat in a ring round him and yelled up into his face. Usually they collapsed after their exhausting performance but there was something in the look or smell of Mr. Cranford that they didn't like.

  Siegfried leaned back in his arm chair, put his fingers together and assumed a judicial expression. Now and again he nodded understandingly or narrowed his eyes as if taking an interesting point. Practically nothing could be heard from Mr. Cranford but occasionally a word or phrase penetrated.

  '... have a serious complaint to make...'

  '... doesn't know his job...'

  '... can't afford... not a rich man...'

  '... these clanged dogs...'

  '... won't have 'im again...'

  '... down dog, get by...'

  '... nowt but robbery...'

  Siegfried, completely relaxed and apparently oblivious of the din, listened attentively but as the minutes passed I could see the strain beginning to tell on Mr. Cranford. His eyes began to start from their sockets and the veins corded on his scrawny neck as he tried to get his message across. Finally it was too much for him; he jumped up and a leaping brown tide bore him to the door. He gave a last defiant cry, lashed out again with his hat and was gone.

  Pushing open the dispensary door a few weeks later, I found my boss mixing an ointment. He was working with great care, turning and returning the glutinous mass on a marble slab.

  'What's this you're doing?' I asked.

  Siegfried threw down his spatula and straightened his back. 'Ointment for a boar.' He looked past me at Tristan who had just come in. 'And I don't know why the hell I'm doing it when some people are sitting around on their backsides.' He indicated the spatula. 'Right, Tristan, you can have a go. When you've finished your cigarette, that is.'

  His expression softened as Tristan hastily nipped out his Woodbine and began to work away on the slab. 'Pretty stiff concoction, that. Takes a bit of mixing,' Siegfried said with satisfaction, looking at his brother's bent head. 'The back of my neck was beginning to ache with it.'

  He turned to me. 'By the way, you'll be interested to hear it's for your old friend Cranford. For that prize boar of his. It's got a nasty sore across its back and he's worried to death about it. Wins him a lot of money at the shows and a blemish there would be disastrous.'

  'Cranford's still with us, then.'

  'Yes, it's a funny thing, but we can't get rid of him. I don't like losing clients but I'd gladly make an exception of this chap. He won't have you near the place after that lightning job and he makes it very clear he doesn't think much of me either. Tells me I never do his beasts any good - says it would have been a lot better if he'd never called me. And moans like hell when he gets his bill. He's more bother than he's worth and on top of everything he gives me the creeps. But he won't leave - he damn well won't leave.'

  'He knows which side his bread's buttered,' I said. 'He gets first rate service and the moaning is part of the system to keep the bills down.'

  'Maybe you're right, but I wish there was a simple way to get rid of him.' He tapped Tristan on the shoulder. 'All right, don't strain yourself. That'll do. Put it into this ointment box and label it: 'Apply liberally to the boar's back three times daily, working it well in with the fingers.' And post it to Mr. Cranford. And while you're on, will you post this faeces sample to the laboratory at Leeds to test for Johne's disease.' He held out a treacle tin brimming with foul-smelling, liquid diarrhoea.

  It was a common thing to collect such samples and send them away for Johne's tests, worm counts, etc., and there was always one thing all the samples had in common - they were very large. All that was needed for the tests was a couple of teaspoonfuls but the farmers were lavish in their quantities. They seemed pleasantly surprised that all the vet wanted was a bit of muck from the dung channel; they threw aside their natural caution and shovelled the stuff up cheerfully into the biggest container they could find. They brushed aside all protests; 'take plenty, we've lots of it' was their attitude.

  Tristan took hold of the tin gingerly and began to look along the shelves. 'We don't seem to have any of those little glass sample jars.'

  'That's right, we're out of them,' said Siegfried. 'I meant to order some more. But never mind - shove the lid on that tin and press it down tight, then parcel it up well in brown paper. It'll travel to the lab all right.'

  It took only three days for Mr. Cranford's name to come up again. Siegfried was opening the morning mail, throwing the circulars to one side and making a pile of the bills and receipts when he became suddenly very still. He had frozen over a letter on blue notepaper and he sat like a statue till he read it through. At length he raised his head; his face was expressionless. 'James, this is just about the most vitriolic letter I have ever read. It's from Cranford. He's finished with us for good and all and is considering taking legal action against us.'

  'What have we done this time?' I asked.

  'He accuses us of grossly insulting him and endangering the health of his boar. He says we sent him a treacle tin full of cow shit with instructions to rub it on the boar's back three times daily.'

  Tristan, who had been sitting with his eyes half closed, became fully awake. He rose unhurriedly and began to make his way towards the door. His hand was on the knob when his brother's voice thundered out.

  'Tristan! Come back here! Sit down - I think we have something to talk about.'

  Tristan looked up resolutely, waiting for the storm to break, but Siegfried was unexpectedly calm. His voice was gentle.

  'So you've done it again. When will I ever learn that I can't trust you to carry out the simplest task. It wasn't much to ask, was it? Two
little parcels to post - hardly a tough assignment. But you managed to botch it. You got the labels wrong, didn't you?'

  Tristan wriggled in his chair. 'I'm sorry, I can't think how...'

  Siegfried held up his hand. 'Oh, don't worry. Your usual luck has come to your aid. With anybody else this bloomer would be catastrophic but with Cranford - it's like divine providence.' He paused for a moment and a dreamy expression crept into his eyes. 'The label said to work it well in with the fingers, I seem to recall. And Mr. Cranford says he opened the package at the breakfast table .. Yes, Tristan, I think you have found the way. This, I do believe, has done It.'

  I said, 'But how about the legal action?'

  'Oh, I think we can forget about that. Mr. Cranford has a great sense of his own dignity. Just think how it would sound in court.' He crumpled the letter and dropped it into the waste paper basket. 'Well, let's get on with some work.'

  He led the way out and stopped abruptly in the passage. He turned to face us. 'There's another thing, of course. I wonder how the lab is making out, testing that ointment for Johne's disease?'

  Chapter Thirty.

  I was really worried about Tricki this time. I had pulled up my car when I saw him in the street with his mistress and I was shocked at his appearance. He had become hugely fat, like a bloated sausage with a leg at each corner. His eyes, bloodshot and rheumy, stared straight ahead and his tongue lolled from his jaws.

  Mrs. Pumphrey hastened to explain. 'He was so listless, Mr. Herriot. He seemed to have no energy. I thought he must be suffering from malnutrition, so I have been giving him some little extras between meals to build him up. Some calf's foot jelly and malt and cod liver oil and a bowl of Horlick's at night to make him sleep - nothing much really.'

  'And did you cut down on the sweet things as I told you?'

  'Oh, I did for a bit, but he seemed to be so weak. I had to relent. He does love cream cakes and chocolates so. I can't bear to refuse him.'