“Yes…yes…” he murmured without changing expression, then he turned to the young man. “Would you slip into the house now and get us a bucket of hot water, soap and a towel. I want to do a rectal.”
As Lumsden hurried out, Siegfried swung round. “By God, I don’t like this, James. Lousy, weak pulse—can hardly detect it—brick-red conjunctiva and temperature one hundred three. I don’t want to put the wind up this young chap, but I think we’re on a loser here.” His eyes widened. “And Mottram again! Is there such a thing as a jinx?”
I didn’t say anything as I hung on to the struggling animal. A weak pulse is a particularly ominous finding in a horse and the other things pointed to a complicating bowel inflammation.
When the young man came back, Siegfried rolled up a sleeve and pushed his arm deep into the rectum. “Yes…yes…bad impaction, as you say.” He whistled softly for a few moments. “Well, first, we’ve got to relieve his pain.”
He injected the sedative into the jugular vein, speaking gently to the horse all the time, “That’ll make you feel better, old lad. Poor old chap,” and followed this with a long saline infusion intravenously to combat the shock, and antibiotic for the enteritis. “Now we’ll get a gallon of liquid paraffin into him to try to lubricate that lot in there.” Quickly he pushed a stomach tube up the nostril and into the stomach and held it there as I pumped in the oil.
“Next, a muscular relaxant.” Again he gave an intravenous injection.
By the time he had cleaned and rolled up the stomach tube the horse looked a lot happier. Colic is a frightful agony and I always felt that horses seemed to suffer pain more deeply than any other animal, a suffering at times almost unbearable to watch. It was a relief to see the big animal calming down, stopping his repeated attempts to collapse, clearly finding a blessed release.
“Well,” said Siegfried quietly. “Now we wait.”
Lumsden looked at him questioningly. “Are you sure? I feel very guilty about you losing your sleep. It’s after two o’clock—maybe I could manage now.”
My partner gave him a wan smile. “With respect, laddie, it’s going to need a combined operation. That horse is only doped for now, and I don’t have to tell you that he is in very serious condition. If we can’t get his bowels moving I’m afraid he’ll die. He’s going to need more of everything, including the stomach tube. We’ll all see it through, one way or another.”
The young man sat down on a pile of hay and gazed dully at his boots. “Oh, God, I hope it’s not the other. Mr. Mottram’s last words to me were, ‘Now you’ll look after Match.’ ?
“Match?”
“Match Box. That’s the horse’s name. My boss is devoted to him.”
“I’m sorry,” Siegfried said. “You’re in an awkward position. I shouldn’t think Mottram would be the easiest man to explain things to.”
Lumsden ran his hands through his hair. “No…no…” He looked up at us. “Mind you, he’s not a bad bloke. He’s always treated me right. It’s just his personality…When he gives me one of his looks I feel about six inches high.”
“I know the feeling,” I said.
Siegfried gazed at the young man for a moment. “What’s your name? What does your mother call you?”
“Harry.”
“Well, Harry. You’re probably right. And I like your loyalty. Maybe it’s just his way, but James and I both seem to have caught him at the wrong time. Anyway, can you fetch us a pot of coffee? It could be a long night.”
It was indeed a long night. We took turns at walking the horse when he showed signs of going down. Siegfried repeated his injections, varying the treatment between sedatives and muscular relaxants with another cautious shot of arecoline, and at five o’clock he used the stomach tube again to give magnesium sulphate. And all the time as we dosed and yawned, slumped on the hay, we looked for a genuine easing of the pain, a raising of the animal’s depression and most of all for a movement of the bowels.
For my part as I watched Match Box’s lolling head and trailing steps my dominating worry was the knowledge that horses die so easily. Cattle and most other species could survive things so much better, and the old saying among the farmers mat “ ’Osses don’t stand much” was so true. As the night wore on and my metabolism slowed down, my spirits drooped with it. At any moment I expected the horse to halt in his painful circling of the box, pitch forward onto his side and groan his last few breaths away. Then we would drive miserably back to Darrowby.
Over the half-door of the box I could see the gradual disappearance of the stars and a lightening of the eastern sky. At around six o’clock, as the birds began to sing in the chestnut trees and the grey light of dawn crept into the box, Siegfried stood up and stretched.
“The big world has started to turn again out there, chaps, so what are we going to do? We’ve got to see to both our practices so who’s going to stay with Match Box? We can’t leave him.”
We were looking at each other, bleary-eyed, when the horse suddenly cocked his tail and deposited a small heap of steaming faeces on the floor.
“Oh, what a lovely sight!” cried Siegfried as our weary faces broke into smiles of relief. “That makes me feel a lot better, but we mustn’t get too cocky yet. He’s still got a touch of enteritis, so I’ll give him another shot of antibiotic before we go. Harry, I think it’s safe to leave him now, so we’ll be on our way, but don’t hesitate to ring us if he doesn’t go on right.”
Out in the yard we shook hands. The young man was blinking with tiredness but he looked happy. “I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled. “I’m so grateful to both of you. You’ve got me out of a terrible fix and I can’t thank you enough.”
“Not at all, my boy,” Siegfried sang out. “Only too glad to be able to help. Get in touch with us any time—but not about colicky horses for the next day or two, if you don’t mind.”
We all laughed and waved as Siegfried started the engine and drove out of the yard.
There was no word from Lumsden until the following day when I answered the phone. “Match Box is absolutely fine. Bowels normal, nibbling hay, just great,” he said. “Thanks—thanks again!”
Three weeks passed and in the rush of work the Scanton episode began to recede into all the other memories, but one morning Siegfried looked up from his perusal of the day-book.
“You know, James, I do think Mottram might have made some acknowledgement of our bit of assistance with his horse. I’m not looking for fulsome thanks, but I think he might have said something.”
With an irritable gesture, he scribbled something in the book. “I expect the toffee-nosed bugger can’t unbend even as far as that.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Siegfried. Maybe he’s still on holiday. We don’t know that.”
“Hmm.” My partner looked at me doubtfully. “Possibly. Could be I’m doing him an injustice, but anyway, we’ve got the satisfaction of helping to pull that grand horse round.” His face softened. “Lovely sort.”
Next day I came in from my morning round and found my partner bending over an open crate, from whose depths a row of gold-topped bottles protruded.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Champagne. A dozen.” He pulled out a bottle and looked at the label. “Bollinger, no less!”
“Gosh, where’s that come from?”
“No idea. Delivered this morning while we were out, and there’s no message inside. But don’t worry, it’s for us, all right. Look. Messrs. Farnon and Herriot, Skeldale House.”
“Wonderful. I wonder…”
As I spoke, there was a knock on the office door and Mottram walked in.
We didn’t say anything—just stared at him.
He glanced at the crate. “Ah, I see you got the champagne.”
We both spoke in unison. “You sent it?”
“Yes…yes…a small gesture of thanks. I returned from holiday only last night and…er…Lumsden told me what you did for Match.”
“Oh, really, there’s
no need…only too pleased… ” Siegfried for once was almost stammering.
Mottram, too, was finding things difficult. Tall and dignified as always, he was nevertheless acutely uncomfortable, unsmiling, searching desperately for words. “There is indeed a need…a need to express my gratitude, which…which is deeper than I can…can truly say. And there is a need, also…to apologise to you gentlemen for my stupid and unforgiveable remarks when last we met.”
“My dear chap, not another word,” Siegfried burst out. “We never really—”
Mottram raised a hand. “Please let me say…I am profoundly sorry and ashamed. Why I said such things I do not know…I’ve done it before…I just seem to be much too…prickly. I’m afraid I can’t help it.”
As he spoke, he still had his chin out, looking down his nose at us. Maybe he couldn’t help that either. But it was obvious that his confession was costing the man dear, and I could feel the tension in the room rising.
Siegfried, it was clear, felt the situation needed defusing. He threw his arms wide in an all-embracing bonhomie.
“Mottram, Mottram, my dear fellow. What is all this? Just a simple misunderstanding immediately forgotten. Say no more, I beg of you. I assure you that the only concern of James and myself is that your beautiful horse has fully recovered.”
The big man’s face softened. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”
“I tell you this,” Siegfried said softly, “I wish I had one like him. I do envy you.”
I could see the flash of rapport as the two horse lovers faced each other.
Mottram nodded. “Ah well, so glad, so glad,” he murmured.
“And by the way, I have something for you from Lumsden. He, too, is immensely grateful.” He handed Siegfried a small parcel.
My partner unwrapped it quickly and gave a shout of pleasure. “A bottle of malt whisky! Good old Harry! This is our lucky day. And I think we ought to celebrate Match Box’s recovery, among other things. We have all the ingredients right here.” He lifted a bottle of champagne from the crate. “What do you say, Mottram, old chap? We have a little time to spare before lunch.”
“You’re very kind, Farnon. I’d like that.”
“Splendid, splendid, do sit down and make yourself comfortable. Get the glasses, James!”
Within minutes the champagne had popped and we were seated round the table. Siegfried raised his glass and looked appreciatively at the sparkling contents. “Here’s to Match Box, may he never have bellyache again!”
He drank, and Mottram cleared his throat. “There is just one more thing I want to say. I wish we had come to know each other socially long ago. I wonder if both of you would come to dinner next Friday?”
Chapter 9
I WAS ALWAYS APPREHENSIVE and ill at ease when I had Mrs. Featherstone’s problem dog on the table, but this time I felt relaxed and full of confidence. But then I was always like that when I was delirious.
Delirium was only one of the countless peculiar manifestations of brucellosis. This disease, which causes contagious abortion in cattle, ruined thousands of good farmers of my generation and was also a constant menace to the veterinary surgeons who had to deliver the premature calves and remove the afterbirths.
Thank heaven, the brucellosis scheme has now just about eradicated the disease but in the fifties such a thing hadn’t been dreamed of, and I and my contemporaries wallowed almost daily in the horrible infection.
I remember standing stripped to the waist in cow byres—parturition gowns were still uncommon and the long plastic protective gloves unknown in those days—working away inside infected cows for hours and looking with wry recognition at the leathery placenta and the light-coloured, necrotic cotyledons that told me that I was in contact with millions of the bacteria. And as I swilled myself with disinfectant afterwards the place was filled with the distinctive acrid odour of abortion.
The effects on many of my fellow vets were wide and varied. One big fat chap faded away to a skeleton with undulant fever and was ill for years, others developed crippling arthritis and some went down with psychiatric conditions. One man wrote in The Veterinary Record that as part of his own syndrome he came home one night and decided it would be a good idea to murder his wife. He never got round actually to doing it, but recorded the impulse as an interesting example of what Brucella abortus could do to a man.
I used to pat myself on the back and thank God that I was immune. I had been bathing in the infection for years and had never experienced the slightest reaction, and as I looked around at some of my suffering friends I was so thankful that I had been spared their ordeal. And after all this time I just knew that such a thing would never happen to me.
That was before I started my funny turns.
This was my family’s term for a series of mysterious attacks that came unheralded and then passed off just as quickly. At first I diagnosed them as repeated chills—I was always stripping off in open fields, often in the middle of the night—then I thought I must have a type of ’flu of short duration. The symptoms were always the same—a reeling of depression, then an ice-cold shiveriness that drove me to my bed, where within an hour I shot up to a temperature of 105° or 106° F. Once I had developed this massive fever I felt great—warm and happy, laughing heartily, chattering to myself and finally breaking into song. I couldn’t help the singing—I felt so good.
This was a source of great amusement to my children. When I was at the singing stage I could always hear them giggling outside the bedroom door, but I didn’t mind—I didn’t mind anything.
However, I finally had to find out what was happening to me and a blood test by Dr. Allinson dispelled all doubts by showing a nice positive titre to Brucella abortus. Reluctantly I had to admit that I had joined the club.
This particular attack when Mrs. Featherstone’s dog arrived was on a Saturday. I was driving back from a football match in Sunderland with some of my pals. Our team had won and we were all in high spirits, laughing and joking, and I hardly noticed just when I stopped being the life of the party and went quiet. I did know that when I got to Skeldale House and huddled miserably over the fire, shaking like a man with malaria, that another funny turn was on the way.
Helen took one look, chased me upstairs and began to fill the hot water bottles. Feeling like death, I crawled between the sheets and lay, cuddling one bottle, feet on another, while the bed vibrated with my terrific rigor. Helen piled another eiderdown on top of me, turned out the light and left me to it. We both knew what was going to happen.
It wasn’t long before the familiar pattern started to set in. Quite soon I began to feel a bit better—warmer, more cheerful—then the warmth mounted and increased and spread through every corner of my being till I was floating along in a delicious languor, utterly at peace, all my troubles dissolved and gone. This, I felt, was heaven. I could stay like this forever, but the warmth developed to a fiery heat when I felt even better; no longer languorous, but powerful, dominant, foolishly and riotously happy.
This was the time when I usually extended a burning arm to pick up my bedside thermometer and stick it under my arm. Ah, yes, there it was, 106 as I thought. I chuckled with satisfaction. Everything was just fine.
Lying there I was so full of the joy of life that I began to talk aloud, discussing interesting matters with myself, and then my bursting high spirits had to find some further outlet and singing was the natural thing. “Maxwelltown braes are bonny, where early fa’s the dew, and ’twas there that Annie Laurie gie’d me her promise true.” I let rip at full volume; never had my voice sounded as rich and rounded.
A few hee-hee’s sounded from behind the door followed by Jimmy’s whisper, “There he goes,” and a muffled laugh from Rosie. The little beggars were there again, but what the hell? “Gie’d me her promise true, that ne’er forget shall be!” I hit the high notes without a trace of self-consciousness, ignoring the further outburst from beyond the door.
I had a further chat with myself, agreeing who
le-heartedly with everything I said, then I thought I’d try my John McCormack impression of “The Rose of Tralee.” I took a long breath. “The pale moon was shining above the green mountain.”
“Ha-ha-ha-haaa.” My children were having a great time out there. Then I heard the ringing of the front doorbell, feet on the stairs, then a knock on the bedroom door.
Jimmy’s head poked into the room. “Hello, Dad.” His face worked in his effort to stifle his laughter. “Mrs. Featherstone’s downstairs with her dog. She says it’s urgent and Mum’s had to go out for a few minutes.”
“Right-oh, old lad.” I swung my legs from the bed. “I’ll be down immediately.”
My son’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be down in two ticks. Put her in the consulting room.”
With a final startled glance, Jimmy closed the door and left.
As I pulled on shirt and trousers, the blood thundered in my ears and my face was afire. Normally the very mention of Mrs. Featherstone made me shrink. Rich, middle-aged, imperious, she had plagued me for years with the imaginary ailments of her little poodle, Rollo.
Rollo was an outstandingly healthy little dog. In fact, like many poodles, he was a tough little animal with the characteristic of leaping six feet in the air from a standing position as though he were operated by springs, but where he was concerned Mrs. Featherstone was a raving hypochondriac. From a commercial point of view it may seem ideal to have a rich client willing to pay for regular visits with her perfectly healthy dog, but I found it increasingly wearing. Endless sessions of “Really, Mrs. Featherstone, the thing you are pointing out is quite normal,” or “I assure you, Mrs. Featherstone, you are worrying needlessly,” resulting in the lady drawing herself up and sticking out her chin. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Herriot, that I am dreaming these things? That I cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes? My poor Rollo is suffering and I expect you to do something about it.”