Lord God Made Them All (3 page)

As I turned back, a pair of double doors at the end of the yard burst open and an enormous black animal galloped out and stood looking around him warily in the bright sunshine, pawing the ground and swishing his tail bad-temperedly. I stared at the spreading horns, the great hump of muscle on the shoulder and the coldly glittering eyes. It only needed a blast on a trumpet and sand instead of cobbles and I was in the Plaza de Toros in Madrid.

“Is that the calf?” I asked.

The farmer nodded cheerfully. “Aye, that’s ’im. I thowt I’d better run ’im over to the cow house so we could tie ’im up by the neck.”

A wave of rage swept over me and for a moment I thought I was going to start shouting at the man, then, strangely, I felt only a great weariness.

I walked over to him, put my face close to his and spoke quietly. “Mr. Ripley, it’s a long time since we met, and you’ve had plenty of opportunities to keep the promise you made me then. Remember? About getting your calves nipped when they were little and about replacing that gate? Now look at that great bull and see what your gate has done to my clothes.”

The farmer gazed with genuine concern at the snags and tears in my trousers and reached out to touch a gaping rent in my sleeve.

“Eee, I’m right sorry about that.” He glanced at the bull. “And I reckon ’e is a bit big.”

I didn’t say anything and after a few moments the farmer threw up his head and looked me in the eye, a picture of resolution.

“Aye, it’s not right,” he said. “But ah’ll tell ye summat. Just nip this ’un today, and I’ll see nowt of this ever happens again.”

I wagged a finger at him. “But you’ve said that before. Do you really mean it this time?”

He nodded vigorously. “Ah’ll guarantee it.”

Strangely, the familiar hollow promise did not irk me as I might have expected. Perhaps it was because I’d been away from Yorkshire so long, seeing a world changing faster than I sometimes liked, but this homely sign of immutability tickled me. I chuckled. And then I began to laugh. “A-ha,” I bubbled, “a-ha-ha-ha!” Soon Mrs. Ripley got caught up with it. “Hee!” she agreed. “Hee-hee! Hee-hee!” And Mr. Ripley took his pipe from his mouth with great deliberation and said, “Heh. Heh-heh. Hehheh-heh.” And the three of us stood there, bawling away a Sunday afternoon together.

Just then the bull snorted derisively.

“Aye, it’s true,” Mr. Ripley stammered through his laughter, wiping his eyes. “If ah was in your place, I wouldn’t be laughing either.”

“O
OOH
…
OOH-HOO-HOOO!”
T
HE BROKEN-HEARTED
sobbing jerked me into full wakefulness. It was 1
A.M.
, and after the familiar jangling of the bedside phone I expected the gruff voice of a farmer with a calving cow. Instead, there was this terrible sound.

“Who is this?” I asked a little breathlessly. “What on earth is the trouble?”

I heard a gulping at the other end and then a man’s voice pleading between sobs, “It’s Humphrey Cobb. For God’s sake, come out and see Myrtle. I think she’s dyin’.”

“Myrtle?”

“Aye, me poor little dog. She’s in a ’ell of a state! Oooh-hooo!”

The receiver trembled in my grasp. “What is she doing?”

“Oh, pantin’ and gaspin’. I think it’s nearly all over with ’er. Come quick!”

“Where do you live?”

“Cedar House. End of Hill Street.”

“I know it. I’ll be there very soon.”

“Oh, thank ye, thank ye. Myrtle hasn’t got long. Hurry, hurry!”

I leaped from the bed and rushed at my clothes, draped over a chair against the wall. In my haste, in the darkness, I got both feet down one leg of my working corduroys and crashed full length on the floor.

Helen was used to nocturnal calls and often she only half awoke. For my part, I always tried to avoid disturbing her by dressing without switching on the light, using the glow from the night light we kept burning on the landing for young Jimmy.

However, the system broke down this time. The thud of my falling body brought her into a sitting position.

“What is it, Jim? What’s happening?”

I struggled to my feet. “It’s all right, Helen, I just tripped over.” I snatched my shirt from the chair back.

“But what are you dashing about for?”

“Desperately urgent case. I have to hurry.”

“All right, Jim, but you won’t get there any sooner by going on like this. Just calm down.”

My wife was right, of course. I have always envied those vets who can stay relaxed under pressure. But I wasn’t made that way.

I galloped down the stairs and through the long back garden to the garage. Cedar House was only a mile away and I didn’t have much time to think about the case, but by the time I arrived I had pretty well decided that an acute dyspnoea like this would probably be caused by a heart attack or some sudden allergy.

In answer to my ring the porch light flashed on, and Humphrey Cobb stood before me. He was a little round man in his sixties, and his humpty-dumpty appearance was accentuated by his gleaming bald head.

“Oh, Mr. Herriot, come in, come in,” he cried brokenly as the tears streamed down his cheeks. “Thank ye for gettin’ out of your bed to help me poor little Myrtle.”

As he spoke, the blast of whisky fumes almost made my head spin and I noticed that as he preceded me across the hall he staggered slightly.

My patient was lying in a basket by the side of an Aga cooker in a large, well-appointed kitchen. I felt a warm surge when I saw that she was a beagle like my own dog, Sam. I knelt down and looked at her closely. Her mouth was open and her tongue lolled, but she did not seem to be in acute distress. In fact, as I patted her head her tail flapped against the blanket.

A heart-rending wail sounded in my ear. “What d’ye make of her, Mr. Herriot? It’s her heart, isn’t it? Oh, Myrtle, Myrtle!” The little man crouched over his pet, and the tears flowed unchecked.

“You know, Mr. Cobb,” I said. “She doesn’t seem all that bad to me, so don’t upset yourself too much. Just give me a chance to examine her.”

I placed my stethoscope over the ribs and listened to the steady thudding of a superbly strong heart. The temperature was normal, and I was palpating the abdomen when Mr. Cobb broke in again.

“The trouble is,” he gasped, “I neglect this poor little animal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ah’ve been all day at Catterick at the races, gamblin’ and drinkin’, with never a thought for me dog.”

“You left her alone all that time in the house?”

“Nay, nay, t’missus has been with her.”

“Well, then.” I felt I was getting out of my depth. “She would feed Myrtle and let her out in the garden?”

“Oh aye,” he said, wringing his hands. “But I shouldn’t leave ’er. She thinks such a lot about me.”

As he spoke, I could feel one side of my face tingling with heat. My problem was suddenly solved.

“You’ve got her too near the Aga,” I said. “She’s panting because she’s uncomfortably hot.”

He looked at me doubtfully. “We just shifted ’er basket today. We’ve been gettin’ some new tiles put down on the floor.”

“Right,” I said. “Shift it back again and she’ll be fine.”

“But Mr. Herriot.” His lips began to tremble again. “It’s more than that. She’s sufferin’. Look at her eyes.”

Myrtle had the lovely big liquid eyes of her breed and she knew how to use them. Many people think the spaniel is number one when it comes to looking soulful, but I personally plump for the beagle. And Myrtle was an expert.

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Cobb,” I said. “Believe me, she’ll be all right.”

He still seemed unhappy. “But aren’t ye going to do something?”

It was one of the great questions in veterinary practice. If you didn’t “do something,” they were not satisfied. And in this case, Mr. Cobb was in greater need of treatment than his pet. Still, I wasn’t going to stick a needle into Myrtle just to please him so I produced a vitamin tablet from my bag and pushed it over the back of the little animal’s tongue.

“There you are,” I said. “I’m sure that will do her good.” And after all, I thought, I wasn’t a complete charlatan—it wouldn’t do her any harm.

Mr. Cobb relaxed visibly. “Eee, that’s champion. You’ve set me mind at rest.” He led the way into a luxurious drawing room and tacked unsteadily towards a cocktail cabinet. “You’ll ’ave a drink before you go?”

“No, really, thanks,” I said. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ll ’ave a drop. Just to steady me nerves. I was that upset.” He tipped a lavish measure of whisky into a glass and waved me to a chair.

My bed was calling me, but I sat down and watched as he drank. He told me that he was a retired bookmaker from the West Riding and that he had come to Darrowby only a month ago. Although no longer directly connected with horse racing, he still loved the sport and never missed a meeting in the north of England.

“I allus get a taxi to take me and I have a right good day.” His face was radiant as he recalled the happy times, then for a moment his cheeks quivered and his woebegone expression returned. “But I neglect me dog. I leave her at home.”

“Oh nonsense,” I said. “I’ve seen you out in the fields with Myrtle. You give her plenty of exercise, don’t you?”

“Oh aye, lots of walks every day.”

“Well, then she really has a good life. This is just a silly little notion you’ve got.”

He beamed at me and sloshed out another few fingers of whisky. “Eee, you’re a good lad. Come on, you’ll just have one before you go.”

“Oh, all right, just a small one, then.”

As we drank he became more and more benign until he was gazing at me with something like devotion.

“James Herriot,” he slurred. “I suppose it’ll be Jim, eh?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’ll call you Jim, then, and you can call me Humphrey.”

“Okay, Humphrey,” I said, and swallowed the last of my whisky. “But I really must go now.”

Out in the street he put a hand on my arm and his face became serious again. “Thank ye, Jim. Myrtle was right bad tonight and I’m grateful.”

Driving away, I realised that I had failed to convince him that there was nothing wrong with his dog. He was sure I had saved her life. It had been an unusual visit and as my 2
A.M.
whisky burned in my stomach I decided that Humphrey Cobb was a very funny little man. But I liked him.

After that night I saw him quite frequently, exercising Myrtle in the fields. With his almost spherical build he seemed to bounce over the grass, but his manner was always self-contained and rational, except that he kept thanking me for pulling his dog back from the jaws of death.

Then quite suddenly I was back at the beginning again. It was shortly after midnight and as I lifted the bedside phone, I could hear the distraught weeping before the receiver touched my ear.

“Oooh … oooh … Jim, Jim. Myrtle’s in a terrible bad way. Will ye come?”

“What … what is it this time?”

“She’s twitchin’.”

“Twitching?”

“Aye, twitchin’ summat terrible. Oh, come on, Jim, lad, don’t keep me waiting. I’m worried to death. I’m sure she’s got distemper.” He broke down again.

My head began to reel. “She can’t have distemper, Humphrey. Not in a flash, like that.”

“I’m beggin’ you, Jim,” he went on as though he hadn’t heard. “Be a pal. Come and see Myrtle.”

“All right,” I said wearily. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Oh, you’re a good lad, Jim, you’re a good lad. …” The voice trailed away as I replaced the phone.

I dressed at normal speed with none of the panic of the first time. It sounded like a repetition, but why after midnight again? On my way to Cedar House I decided it must be another false alarm—but you never knew.

The same dizzying wave of whisky fumes enveloped me in the porch. Humphrey, sniffling and moaning, fell against me once or twice as he ushered me into the kitchen. He pointed to the basket in the corner.

“There she is,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve just got back from Ripon and found ’er like this.”

“Racing again, eh?”

“Aye, gamblin’ on them ’osses and drinkin’ and leavin’ me poor dog pinin’ at home. I’m a rotter, Jim, that’s what I am.”

“Rubbish, Humphrey! I’ve told you before. You’re not doing her any harm by having a day out. Anyway, how about this twitching? She looks all right now.”

“Yes, she’s stopped doing it, but when I came in her back leg was goin’ like this.” He made a jerking movement with his hand.

I groaned inwardly. “But she could have been scratching or flicking away a fly.”

“Nay, there’s summat more than that. I can tell she’s sufferin’. Just look at them eyes.”

I could see what he meant. Myrtle’s beagle eyes were pools of emotion, and it was easy to read melting reproach in their depths.

With a feeling of futility I examined her. I knew what I would find—nothing. But when I tried to explain to the little man that his pet was normal, he wouldn’t have it.

“Oh, you’ll give her one of them wonderful tablets,” he pleaded. “It cured her last time.”

I felt I had to pacify him, so Myrtle received another installment of vitamins.

Humphrey was immensely relieved and weaved his way to the drawing room and the whisky bottle.

“I need a little pick-me-up after that shock,” he said. “You’ll ’ave one, too, won’t you, Jim, lad?”

This pantomime was enacted frequently over the next few months, always after race meetings and always between midnight and 1
A.M.
I had ample opportunity to analyse the situation, and I came to a fairly obvious conclusion.

Most of the time Humphrey was a normal conscientious pet owner, but after a large intake of alcohol his affectionate feelings degenerated into glutinous sentimentality and guilt. I invariably went out when he called me because I knew that he would be deeply distressed if I refused. I was treating Humphrey, not Myrtle.

It amused me that not once did he accept my protestations that my visit was unnecessary. Each time he was sure that my magic tablets had saved his dog’s life.

Mind you, I did not discount the possibility that Myrtle was deliberately working on him with those eyes. The canine mind is quite capable of disapproval. I took my own dog almost everywhere with me, but if I left him at home to take Helen to the cinema he would lie under our bed, sulking, and, when he emerged, would studiously ignore us for an hour or two.