All Creatures Great and Small (15 page)

“Oh God, you should have seen it.” Tristan fell back wearily into his chair. “Women and kids screaming. The stallholders, police and everybody else cursing me. There was a terrific traffic jam too—miles of cars tooting like hell while the policeman on point duty concentrated on browbeating me.” He wiped his brow. “You know that fast-talking merchant on the china stall—well, today I saw him at a loss for words. He was balancing a cup on his palm and in full cry when one of the pigs got its forefeet on his stall and stared him straight in the face. He stopped as if he’d been shot. Any other time it would have been funny but I thought the perishing animal was going to wreck the stall. The counter was beginning to rock when the pig changed its mind and made off.”

“What’s the position now?” I asked. “Have you got them back?”

“I’ve got nine of them back,” Tristan replied, leaning back and closing his eyes. “With the help of almost the entire male population of the district I’ve got nine of them back. The tenth was last seen heading north at a good pace. God knows where it is now. Oh, I didn’t tell you—one of them got into the post office. Spent quite some time in there.” He put his hands over his face. “I’m for it this time, Jim. I’ll be in the hands of the law after this lot. There’s no doubt about it.”

I leaned over and slapped his leg. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry. I don’t suppose there’s been any serious damage done.”

Tristan replied with a groan. “But there’s something else. When I finally closed the door after getting the pigs back in their sty I was on the verge of collapse. I was leaning against the wall gasping for breath when I saw the mare had gone. Yes, gone. I’d gone straight out after the pigs and forgot to close her box. I don’t know where she is. Boardman said he’d look around—I haven’t the strength.”

Tristan lit a trembling Woodbine. “This is the end, Jim. Siegfried will have no mercy this time.”

As he spoke, the door flew open and his brother rushed in. “What the hell is going on?” he roared. “I’ve just been speaking to the vicar and he says my mare is in his garden eating his wallflowers. He’s hopping mad and I don’t blame him. Go on, you lazy young scoundrel. Don’t lie there, get over to the vicarage this instant and bring her back!”

Tristan did not stir. He lay inert, looking up at his brother. His lips moved feebly.

“No,” he said.

“What’s that?” Siegfried shouted incredulously. “Get out of that chair immediately. Go and get that mare!”

“No,” replied Tristan.

I felt a chill of horror. This sort of mutiny was unprecedented. Siegfried had gone very red in the face and I steeled myself for an eruption; but it was Tristan who spoke.

“If you want your mare you can get her yourself.” His voice was quiet with no note of defiance. He had the air of a man to whom the future is of no account.

Even Siegfried could see that this was one time when Tristan had had enough. After glaring down at his brother for a few seconds he turned and walked. He got the mare himself.

Nothing more was said about the incident but the pigs were moved hurriedly to the bacon factory and were never replaced. The stock-keeping project was at an end.

W
HEN
I
CAME IN
, Miss Harbottle was sitting, head bowed, over the empty cash box; she looked bereaved. It was a new, shiny, black box with the words “Petty Cash” printed on top in white letters. Inside was a red book with the incomings and outgoings recorded in neat columns. But there was no money.

Miss Harbottle’s sturdy shoulders sagged. She listlessly took up the red book between finger and thumb and a lonely sixpence rolled from between its pages and tinkled into the box. “He’s been at it again,” she whispered.

A stealthy footstep sounded in the passage. “Mr. Farnon!” she called out. And to me: “It’s really absurd the way the man always tries to slink past the door.”

Siegfried shuffled in. He was carrying a stomach tube and pump, calcium bottles bulged from his jacket pockets and a bloodless castrator dangled from the other hand.

He smiled cheerfully but I could see he was uncomfortable, not only because of the load he carried, but because of his poor tactical position. Miss Harbottle had arranged her desk across the corner diagonally opposite the door and he had to walk across a long stretch of carpet to reach her. From her point of view it was strategically perfect. From her corner she could see every inch of the big room, into the passage when the door was open and out on to the front street from the window on her left. Nothing escaped her—it was a position of power.

Siegfried looked down at the square figure behind the desk. “Good morning, Miss Harbottle, can I do anything for you?”

The grey eyes glinted behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. “You can, indeed, Mr. Farnon. You can explain why you have once more emptied my petty cash box.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I had to rush through to Brawton last night and I found myself a bit short. There was really nowhere else to turn to.”

“But Mr. Farnon, in the two months I have been here, we must have been over this a dozen times. What is the good of my trying to keep an accurate record of the money in the practice if you keep stealing it and spending it?”

“Well, I suppose I got into the habit in the old pint pot days. It wasn’t a bad system, really.”

“It wasn’t a system at all. It was anarchy. You cannot run a business that way. But I’ve told you this so many times and each time you have promised to alter your ways. I feel almost at my wits’ end.”

“Oh, never mind, Miss Harbottle. Get some more out of the bank and put it in your box. That’ll put it right.” Siegfried gathered up the loose coils of the stomach tube from the floor and turned to go, but Miss Harbottle cleared her throat wamingly.

“There are one or two other matters. Will you please try to keep your other promise to enter your visits in the book every day and to price them as you do so? Nearly a week has gone by since you wrote anything in. How can I possibly get the bills out on the first of the month? This is most important, but how do you expect me to do it when you impede me like this?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, but I have a string of calls waiting. I really must go.” He was half way across the floor and the tube was uncoiling itself again when he heard the ominous throat clearing behind him.

“And one more thing, Mr. Farnon. I still can’t decipher your writing. These medical terms are difficult enough, so please take a little care and don’t scribble.”

“Very well, Miss Harbottle.” He quickened his pace through the door and into the passage where, it seemed, was safety and peace. He was clattering thankfully over the tiles when the familiar rumbling reached him. She could project that sound a surprising distance by giving it a bit of extra pressure, and it was a summons which had to be obeyed. I could hear him wearily putting the tube and pump on the floor; the calcium bottles must have been digging into his ribs because I heard them go down too.

He presented himself again before the desk. Miss Harbottle wagged a finger at him. “While I have you here I’d like to mention another point which troubles me. Look at this day book. You see all these slips sticking out of the pages? They are all queries—there must be scores of them—and I am at a standstill until you clear them for me. When I ask you you never have the time. Can you go over them with me now?”

Siegfried backed away hurriedly. “No, no, not just now. As I said, I have some urgent calls waiting. I’m very sorry but it will have to be some other time. First chance I get I’ll come in and see you.” He felt the door behind him and with a last glance at the massive, disapproving figure behind the desk, he turned and fled.

I
COULD LOOK BACK
now on six months of hard practical experience. I had treated cows, horses, pigs, dogs and cats seven days a week; in the morning, afternoon, evening and through the hours when the world was asleep. I had calved cows and farrowed sows till my arms ached and the skin peeled off. I had been knocked down, trampled on and sprayed liberally with every kind of muck. I had seen a fair cross-section of the diseases of animals. And yet a little voice had begun to niggle at the back of my mind; it said I knew nothing, nothing at all.

This was strange, because those six months had been built upon five years of theory; a slow, painful assimilation of thousands of facts and a careful storage of fragments of knowledge like a squirrel with its nuts. Beginning with the study of plants and the lowest forms of life, working up to dissection in the anatomy lab and physiology and the vast, soulless territory of materia medica. Then pathology which tore down the curtain of ignorance and let me look for the first time into the deep secrets. And parasitology, the teeming other world of the worms and fleas and mange mites. Finally, medicine and surgery, the crystallisation of my learning and its application to the everyday troubles of animals.

And there were many others, like physics, chemistry, hygiene; they didn’t seem to have missed a thing. Why then should I feel I knew nothing? Why had I begun to feel like an astronomer looking through a telescope at an unknown galaxy? This sensation that I was only groping about on the fringes of limitless space was depressing. It was a funny thing, because everybody else seemed to know all about sick animals. The chap who held the cow’s tail, the neighbour from the next farm, men in pubs, jobbing gardeners; they all knew and were free and confident with their advice.

I tried to think back over my life. Was there any time when I had felt this supreme faith in my own knowledge? And then I remembered.

I was back in Scotland, I was seventeen and I was walking under the arch of the Veterinary College into Montrose Street. I had been a student for three days but not until this afternoon had I felt the thrill of fulfilment. Messing about with botany and zoology was all right but this afternoon had been the real thing; I had had my first lecture in animal husbandry.

The subject had been the points of the horse. Professor Grant had hung up a life size picture of a horse and gone over it from nose to tail, indicating the withers, the stifle, the hock, the poll and all the other rich, equine terms. And the professor had been wise; to make his lecture more interesting he kept throwing in little practical points like “This is where we find curb,” or “Here is the site for windgalls.” He talked of thoroughpins and sidebones, splints and quittor; things the students wouldn’t learn about for another four years, but it brought it all to life.

The words were still spinning in my head as I walked slowly down the sloping street. This was what I had come for. I felt as though I had undergone an initiation and become a member of an exclusive club. I really knew about horses. And I was wearing a brand new riding mac with all sorts of extra straps and buckles which slapped against my legs as I turned the corner of the hill into busy Newton Road.

I could hardly believe my luck when I saw the horse. It was standing outside the library below Queen’s Cross like something left over from another age. It drooped dispiritedly between the shafts of a coal cart which stood like an island in an eddying stream of cars and buses. Pedestrians hurried by, uncaring, but I had the feeling that fortune was smiling on me.

A horse. Not just a picture but a real, genuine horse. Stray words from the lecture floated up into my mind; the pastern, cannon bone, coronet and all those markings—snip, blaze, white sock near hind. I stood on the pavement and examined the animal critically.

I thought it must be obvious to every passer-by that here was a true expert. Not just an inquisitive onlooker but a man who knew and understood all. I felt clothed in a visible aura of horsiness.

I took a few steps up and down, hands deep in the pockets of the new riding mac, eyes probing for possible shoeing faults or curbs or bog spavins. So thorough was my inspection that I worked round to the off side of the horse and stood perilously among the racing traffic.

I glanced around at the people hurrying past. Nobody seemed to care, not even the horse. He was a large one, at least seventeen hands, and he gazed apathetically down the street, easing his hind legs alternately in a bored manner. I hated to leave him but I had completed my examination and it was time I was on my way. But I felt that I ought to make a gesture before I left; something to communicate to the horse that I understood his problems and that we belonged to the same brotherhood. I stepped briskly forward and patted him on the neck.

Quick as a striking snake, the horse whipped downwards and seized my shoulder in his great strong teeth. He laid back his ears, rolled his eyes wickedly and hoisted me up, almost off my feet. I hung there helplessly, suspended like a lopsided puppet. I wriggled and kicked but the teeth were clamped immovably in the material of my coat.

There was no doubt about the interest of the passers-by now. The grotesque sight of a man hanging from a horse’s mouth brought them to a sudden halt and a crowd formed with people looking over each other’s shoulders and others fighting at the back to see what was going on.

A horrified old lady was crying: “Oh, poor boy! Help him, somebody!” Some of the braver characters tried pulling at me but the horse whickered ominously and hung on tighter. Conflicting advice was shouted from all sides. With deep shame I saw two attractive girls in the front row giggling helplessly.

Appalled at the absurdity of my position, I began to thrash about wildly; my shirt collar tightened round my throat; a stream of the horse’s saliva trickled down the front of my mac. I could feel myself choking and was giving up hope when a man pushed his way through the crowd.

He was very small. Angry eyes glared from a face blackened by coal dust. Two empty sacks were draped over an arm.

“Whit the hell’s this?” he shouted. A dozen replies babbled in the air.

“Can ye no leave the bloody hoarse alone?” he yelled into my face. I made no reply, being pop-eyed, half throttled and in no mood for conversation.

The coalman turned his fury on the horse. “Drop him, ya big bastard! Go on, let go, drop him!”