Every Living Thing (11 page)

Still bristling, the little man stuck out his chin. “And how about the bloody laminitis, what’re you going to do about that, eh, eh?”

“Well, as you saw, she’s had an injection for that, too.” John gave him a serene smile. “And if you’ll keep her on bran for a few days and stand her in your pond to cool the feet as I directed, I’m sure she’ll soon be back to normal.”

“And d’you think she’s had it before?”

“No, no, no.”

“How the hell d’ye know that?”

“Well, now, she’s got no lines round her hooves, and look here.” He lifted one of the mare’s forefeet. “A lovely concave sole. She’s never had laminitis before.”

“And it won’t come back, eh?”

“No likelihood of a recurrence.”

“Just hope you’re right,” the Major grunted.

“I’m sure I am. You’ll see. You worry too much, you know.” I shuddered and closed my eyes as John reached out and gave the little man a comforting pat on the shoulder. For a moment I thought the Major would erupt, then, to my amazement, his face broke into something like a shy smile. “You think so, eh?”

“I do indeed. You really oughtn’t to let things upset you so much.”

This was something new in the little man’s experience and for a few seconds he looked up into John’s face, then he took off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re right, young man. Heh-heh-heh!”

I couldn’t believe it. He was laughing. John threw back his head and laughed, too. It was like a reunion between two old college chums. And suddenly I realised that that wasn’t little John Crooks, our student, in there, it was a tall, good-looking, self-assured veterinary surgeon with a fine big voice that lent authority to everything he said. I slunk away to my car and drove off with a resolution already formed in my mind. I wasn’t going to worry about John any more.

He had been with us for a few weeks when I answered the phone one morning. “Hello, is that Mr. Herriot?” a cheerful voice enquired. I recognised one of our farmer clients.

“Yes, Mr. Gates,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Nay, it’s awright. Ah want to speak to t’yoong man.”

A pang, unexpectedly deep and piercing, shot through me. What was this? I was the “yoong man,” always had been. That was how the clients had invariably referred to me even though I was only six years younger than Siegfried. There was some mistake here.

“Whom did you say you wanted?” I asked.

“T’yoong man—Mr. Crooks.”

Ah, well, there it was. I hadn’t realised that I had become attached to my title and, walking along the passage to fetch John, I felt strangely wistful as I faced the fact that, although I was still in my early thirties, I wasn’t the young man any more.

From then on, I had to live with an ever-increasing flood of requests for the services of a young man who wasn’t me. However, it was only depressing for a short time, because the compensations were enormous. As John settled in to the practice I found a miraculous easing of my life. It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o’clock in the morning and was able to pass it on to him and turn over and go to sleep, I could feel the liking deepening into a warm affection.

He had his own ideas about treatment and wasn’t afraid to express them. One day Siegfried found the two of us in the operating room.

“I’ve been reading about this Inductotherm. Revolutionary new treatment for strained tendons in horses. You just wrap this electric cable round the leg for a certain time every day and the heat clears up the strain.”

I gave a non-committal grunt. I seldom had any ideas and, in fact, was constitutionally opposed to any change, any innovation. This trait, I knew, irritated my partner intensely, so I remained silent.

John, however, spoke up. “I’ve read about it, too, but I don’t fancy it.”

“Why not?” Siegfried’s eyebrows went up.

“Smacks of witchcraft to me,” John said.

“Oh, rubbish.” Siegfried frowned at him. “I think it sounds perfectly rational. Anyway, I’ve ordered one of the things and I’d like to bet it’ll be a big help to us.”

Siegfried was the horse specialist, so I didn’t argue, but I was very interested to see how the thing worked, and we soon had the opportunity to find out. The Lord of the Manor of Darrowby, usually called the Squire, kept his horses in some stables at the foot of our street, a mere hundred yards away, and it seemed like fate when he reported a case of strained tendons.

Siegfried rubbed his hands. “Just what we wanted. I’ve got to go over to Whitby to inspect a stallion, so I’ll leave it to you to handle this case, John. I’ve got a feeling you’ll think the treatment is a great advance.”

I know my partner was looking forward to saying “I told you so” to the young man, but after a week of the treatment, John still wasn’t impressed.

“I’ve been winding this thing round the horse’s leg every day and hanging about, but I can’t see any difference. I’m having another session this afternoon, but if it still isn’t any better I’m going to suggest a return to the old treatment.”

Around five o’clock that afternoon, with heavy rain sweeping along on the wind, I was drawing up outside the surgery when I froze in my seat. I was looking out at something terrible. Several of the Squire’s men were carrying a body down the street. It was John. As I got out of the car they bore him into the house and deposited him at the foot of the stairs. He seemed to be unconscious.

“What on earth’s happened?” I gasped, looking down in horror at the prone form of my colleague draped over the lower steps.

“T’yoong man’s electrocuted ’isself,” one of the men said.

“What!”

“Aye, it’s right. He were soaked wi’ rain and when ’e went to connect up the machine to the plug ’e must have got his fingers on the live metal. He started to yell, but ’e couldn’t let go. He went on yellin’, but I were hangin’ on to the horse’s head and I couldn’t help ’im. He sort of staggered about, like, and at t’finish he fell over the horse’s hind leg and that broke ’is grip on the thing or I think he’d have been a goner!”

“My God! What can we do?” I turned to Helen, who had appeared from the kitchen. “Could you phone the doctor,” I cried. “But wait a minute. I think he’s coming round.”

John, stretched out on the stairs, had begun to stir, and as he peered up at us through half-closed eyes an amazing flow of colourful language began to pour from him. He went on and on and on.

Helen stared at me, open-mouthed. “Just listen to that! And he’s such a nice young man, too!”

I could understand her astonishment, because John was an upright, very correct lad who, unlike most vets, did not swear. However, he had a wonderful store within him, because some of the words were new even to me, which was surprising, considering that I grew up in Glasgow.

After a while the torrent slowed down to an unintelligible mumble, and Siegfried, who had just come in from his rounds, began to ply him with neat gin, which, I believe, is contra-indicated in these cases.

There is no doubt that John could have lost his life, but, mercifully, as the minutes passed he recovered steadily till he was able to sit up on the stairs. At last, we adjured him to take it easy and stay where he was, he shook himself, got up, drew himself up to his considerable height and faced Siegfried.

“Mr. Farnon,” he said with great dignity. “If you ask me to operate that bloody apparatus again I shall tender my resignation.”

That was the end of the short career of the Inductotherm.

It was a few days later and as always I felt a little wary when I saw the formidable figure of Sep Craggs bearing down on me in the passage at Skeldale House.

“Hey, Herriot,” he barked, “I want a word wi’ you!”

He was a rude man and I was used to his mode of address, but I put up with it, because he was a valuable client with a large farm that he ran with four grown sons whom he bullied and terrorised.

“Well, Mr. Craggs, what’s the trouble?” I asked peaceably.

He glared down at me from his six-foot-four bulk and pushed his face close to mine. “Ah’ll tell ye what the trouble is! You’ve been wastin’ ma time!”

“Oh, really? In what way?”

“Remember them mastitis powders you were goin’ to put out for me?”

Oh, God, those sulphanilamide powders. I’d forgotten about them. “I’m terribly sorry, I—”

“You forgot ’em, didn’t you! ‘Come down this afternoon,’ you said. ‘They’ll be in the box at the door for you.’ Well, I came down at three o’clock, but there was nowt in the box and nobody knew a thing about it. Ah’m bloody cross, I tell ye!”

“Well, as I say, Mr. Craggs, I’m very sorry…”

“Aye, it’s awright, bein’ sorry, but that doesn’t help me. It’s a bloody long way to Darrowby from ma place and I had to leave me haymakin’. And all for nowt. I’m a busy feller, tha knows, and I can’t afford to have ma time wasted like this!”

Oh, hell, he was rubbing it in, but he had me cold. I picked up the powders from the dispensary and handed them to him.

He was still grumbling. “I don’t want any more of this in the future, so think on. If ye ask me to come here for anything just think on and ’ave it ready for me.”

I nodded dumbly, but he wasn’t finished yet.

“It’s you that needs powders,” he grunted. “Thinkin’ on powders!” He gave me a final glare and left.

I took a few deep breaths and hoped fervently that I would never transgress again in that quarter.

The incident was still fresh in my mind the following week when I again found Sep Craggs waiting for me at the surgery as I returned from a round.

His face was inscrutable but I felt a twinge of apprehension as he towered over me.

“Ah came this mornin’ to pick up a bottle of liniment, but it wasn’t in the box,” he muttered.

Oh no! Please not again! Was I losing my mind? I dug my nails into my palms. “I’m so sorry… I…I really can’t remember arranging this.”

But there was no outburst this time. The man was strangely subdued. “It wasn’t you, it was t’yoong man.”

So it was poor John’s turn to fall under the lash. How could I divert the wrath from him? I gave a light laugh. “Oh…I see…Well, Mr. Crooks is a splendid chap but he hasn’t the best of memories.”

“Nay, nay—don’t criticise t’yoong man! He’s got enough on ’is mind without botherin’ about a little thing like a bottle of liniment.”

“Eh?”

“Aye, don’t start blamin’ him! I’m not havin’ that!” He gave me a disapproving scowl. “With all he’s got to think about, you can’t expect ’im to remember everything.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

I had never seen Mr. Craggs smile, but his granite features relaxed a little and an almost dreamy look came into his eyes. “By gaw, he does know a lot, does that lad— ah’ve never met anybody with such learnin’. Ah’ll tell tha summat, ’erriot. He came to a bullock wi’ foul in the foot and ’e didn’t mess about wi’ tar and salt for a week like you do. Never touched the flippin’ foot. All ’e did was inject into the
shoulder,
and t’beast was better in two days. What d’ye make of that, eh?” He tapped me on the chest.

I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I told him that I, too, was using the new sulphadimidine injection now, so I didn’t say anything.

“And ah’ll tell tha summat else,” he went on. “It was the
right
leg that was lame, but ’e injected into the
left
shoulder.” His eyes widened. “It was like magic!”

“Good…good…” I croaked. “Well, I’ll get you that liniment.”

I brought the bottle from the dispensary and handed it to him. “Well, here it is, Mr. Craggs. I’m sorry you’ve had an extra journey.”

The big man shook his head. “Nay, that makes no matter. It only takes a few minutes to get ’ere.”

As if in a dream, I saw him out of the door, and as I watched him walk down the street, one thought was uppermost. If John could touch the heart of Sep Craggs his future was assured.

In fact, I think it was then that I realised that John was destined for something big. I had from the start begun to detect the seeds of greatness in him because of his uncanny ability to get through to people of all stations in life. It wasn’t just his appearance, his confident approach, his rich voice, there was something else, and I couldn’t quite identify it, but whatever it was, everything about him stamped him as the “young man most likely to succeed.”

J
OHN’S HOMETOWN WAS
B
EVERLEY
, with its glorious Minster, fifty miles from Darrowby, and on his half-days he usually went home for a few hours. Over the next year as he talked to me about these visits a girl’s name began to crop up more and more frequently. She was called Heather, and whenever he mentioned her his eyes were inclined to take on a faraway look and his features to fall into an ethereal smile. These symptoms became more and more marked over the months until one day he confided to me that he was engaged and that Heather and he hoped to marry soon.

One wintry day I was kicking the snow off my boots in the porch at Skeldale House when John appeared in the doorway.

“Heather’s inside,” he said a little breathlessly. “She’s in the office—I’d like you to meet her.”

I wanted to meet her, too. In fact I was agog after all I had heard about her. I straightened my tie, flattened down my hair, and strode with seignorial briskness into the room. Unfortunately I had a ball of snow stuck on my heel and as I came through the door I took off on the smooth linoleum, soared through the air and landed with a sickening crash on my back on the other side of the room. When I opened my eyes I found I was looking up at a very attractive dark girl who was making valiant efforts to keep her face straight.

That was how I met Heather—looking up at her—and I have looked up to her and admired her ever since. There are all sorts of words to describe her in her future marriage to John—cherished partner through life, staunch helpmeet, happy companion—she was all those things and the mother of three splendid children to boot.

After that first meeting, John’s wooing proceeded apace and I could see that his impending marriage was more and more on his mind. The previous symptoms became more and more acute and he confessed to short bouts of amnesia when he had to stop his car in the middle of the country on his rounds and try to remember where he was going and what he had to do. Occasionally I caught him smiling to himself and it was clear that his thoughts were on something rather wonderful ahead.