All Creatures Great and Small (12 page)

The carpet round our feet was hidden by the dogs, all five of them, draped over each other in heavy-breathing layers and adding to the atmosphere of camaraderie and content.

It seemed to me that a chill breath struck through the comfort of the room as Siegfried spoke. “Market day tomorrow and the bills have just gone out. They’ll be queuing up to give us their money so I want you, Tristan, to devote the entire day to taking it from them. James and I are going to be busy, so you’ll be in sole charge. All you have to do is take their cheques, give them a receipt and enter their names in the receipt book. Now do you think you can manage that without making a bloody hash of it?”

I winced. It was the first discordant note for a long time and it struck deep.

“I think I might just about cope with that,” Tristan replied haughtily.

“Good. Let’s get to bed then.”

But, next day, it was easy to see that the assignment was right up Tristan’s street. Stationed behind the desk, he took in the money in handfuls; and all the time he talked. But he did not talk at random; each character got a personal approach.

With the upright methodist, it was the weather, the price of cows and the activities of the village institute. The raffish type with his cap on one side, exhaling fumes of market ale, got the latest stories which Tristan kept on the backs of envelopes. But with the ladies he rose to his greatest heights: They were on his side from the first because of his innocent, boyish face, and when he turned the full blast of his charm on them their surrender was complete.

I was amazed at the giggles which came from behind the door. I was pleased the lad was doing well. Nothing was going wrong this time.

Tristan was smug at lunch time and cock-a-hoop at tea. Siegfried, too, was satisfied with the day’s takings which his brother presented in the form of a column of neat figures accurately totalled at the bottom. “Thank you, Tristan, very efficient.” All was sweetness.

At the end of the day I was in the yard, throwing the used bottles from the boot of my car into a bin. It had been a busy day and I had accumulated a bigger than usual load of empties.

Tristan came panting in from the garden. “Jim, I’ve lost the receipt book!”

“Always trying to pull my leg, always joking,” I said. “Why don’t you give your sense of humour a rest some time?” I laughed heartily and sent a liniment bottle crashing among the others.

He plucked at my sleeve. “I’m not joking, Jim, believe me. I really have lost the bloody thing.” For once, his sang-froid had deserted him. His eyes were wide, his face pale.

“But it can’t just have disappeared,” I said. “It’s bound to turn up.”

“It’ll never turn up.” Tristan wrung his hands and did a bit of pacing on the cobbles. “Do you know I’ve spent about two hours searching for it. I’ve ransacked the house. It’s gone, I tell you.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll have transferred all the names into the ledger.”

“That’s just it. I haven’t. I was going to do it tonight.”

“So that means that all the farmers who have been handing you money today are going to get the same bill next month?”

“Looks like it. I can’t remember the names of more than two or three of them.”

I sat down heavily on the stone trough. “Then God help us all, especially you. These Yorkshire lads don’t like parting with their brass once, but when you ask them to do it twice—oh, brother!”

Another thought struck me and I said with a touch of cruelty: “And how about Siegfried. Have you told him yet?”

A spasm crossed Tristan’s face. “No, he’s just come in. I’m going to do it now.” He squared his shoulders and strode from the yard.

I decided not to follow him to the house. I didn’t feel strong enough for the scene which was bound to follow. Instead, I went out into the back lane and round behind the house to the market place where the lighted entrance of the Drovers’ Arms beckoned in the dusk.

I was sitting behind a pint when Tristan came in looking as though somebody had just drained half a gallon of blood from him.

“How did it go?” I asked.

“Oh, the usual, you know. Bit worse this time, maybe. But I can tell you this, Jim. I’m not looking forward to a month from today.”

The receipt book was never found and, a month later, all the bills were sent out again, timed, as usual, to arrive on market day morning.

The practice was quiet that particular day and I had finished my round by mid morning. I didn’t go into the house, because through the waiting-room window I could see rows of farmers sitting round the walls; they all wore the same offended, self-righteous expression.

I stole away to the market place. When I had time, I enjoyed moving among the stalls which crowded the ancient square. You could buy fruit, fish, second-hand books, cheeses, clothes, in fact nearly everything; but the china stall was my favourite.

It was run by a Jewish gentleman from Leeds—fat, confident, sweating, and with a hypnotic selling technique. I never got tired of watching him. He fascinated me. He was in his best form today, standing in a little clearing surrounded on all sides by heaps of crockery, while beyond, the farmers’ wives listened open-mouthed to his oratory.

“Ah’m not good-lookin’,” he was saying. “Ah’m not clever, but by God ah can talk. Ah can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Now look ’ere.” He lifted a cheap cup and held it aloft, but tenderly, gripping it between his thick thumb and forefinger, his little finger daintily outspread. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Now isn’t that lovely?” Then he placed it reverently on the palm of his hand and displayed it to the audience. “Now I tell you ladies, you can buy this selfsame tea-set in Conners in Bradford for three pound fifteen. I’m not jokin’ nor jestin’, it’s there and that’s the price. But my price, ladies?” and here he fished out an old walking stick with a splintered handle. “My price for this beautiful tea-set?” He held the stick by its end and brought it crashing down on an empty tea-chest. “Never mind three pound fifteen.” Crash! “Never mind three pound.” Crash! “Never mind two pound.” Crash! “Never mind thirty bob.” Crash! “ ’ere, ’ere, come on, who’ll give me a quid?” Not a soul moved. “All right, all right, I can see ah’ve met me match today. Go on, seventeen and a tanner the lot.” A final devastating crash and the ladies began to make signals and fumble in their handbags. A little man emerged from the back of the stall and started to hand out the tea-sets. The ritual had been observed and everybody was happy.

I was waiting, deeply content, for the next item from the virtuoso when I saw a burly figure in a check cap waving wildly at me from the edge of the crowd. He had his hand inside his jacket and I knew what he was feeling for. I didn’t hesitate but dodged quickly behind a stall laden with pig troughs and wire netting. I had gone only a few steps before another farmer hailed me purposefully. He was brandishing an envelope.

I felt trapped, then I saw a way of escape. Rapidly skirting a counter displaying cheap jewellery, I plunged into the doorway of the Drovers’ Arms and, avoiding the bar which was full of farmers, slipped into the manager’s office. I was safe; this was one place where I was always welcome.

The manager looked up from his desk, but he did not smile. “Look here,” he said sharply, “I brought my dog in to see you some time ago and in due course I received an account from you.” I cringed inwardly. “I paid by return and was extremely surprised this morning to find that another account had been rendered. I have here a receipt signed by …”

I couldn’t stand any more. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Brooke, but there’s been a mistake. I’ll put it right. Please accept our apologies.”

This became a familiar refrain over the next few days, but it was Siegfried who had the most unfortunate experience. It was in the bar of his favourite pub, the Black Swan. He was approached by Billy Breckenridge, a friendly, jocular little character, one of Darrowby’s worthies. “Hey, remember that three and six I paid at your surgery? I’ve had another bill for it.”

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.

A
S 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.”