Back at the surgery, I decided to wait up for my boss and I sat there trying to rid myself of the feeling that I had blasted my career before it had got started. Yet, looking back, I knew I couldn’t have done anything else. No matter how many times I went over the ground, the conclusion was always the same.
It was 1 a.m. before Farnon got back. His evening with his mother had stimulated him. His thin cheeks were flushed and he smelt pleasantly of gin. I was surprised to see that he was wearing evening dress and though the dinner jacket was of old-fashioned cut and hung in loose folds on his bony frame, he still managed to look like an ambassador.
He listened in silence as I told him about the horse. He was about to comment when the phone rang. “A late one,” he whispered, then “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Soames.” He nodded at me and settled down in his chair. He was a long time saying “Yes” and “No” and “I see,” then he sat up decisively and began to speak.
“Thank you for ringing, Mr. Soames, and it seems as though Mr. Herriot did the only possible thing in the circumstances. No, I cannot agree. It would have been cruel to leave him. One of our duties is to prevent suffering. Well, I’m sorry you feel like that, but I consider Mr. Herriot to be a highly capable veterinary surgeon. If I had been there I have no doubt I’d have done the same thing. Good night, Mr. Soames, I’ll see you in the morning.”
I felt so much better that I almost launched into a speech of gratitude, but in the end, all I said was “Thanks.”
Farnon reached up into the glass-fronted cupboard above the mantelpiece and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He carelessly slopped out half a tumblerful and pushed it at me. He gave himself a similar measure and fell back into the armchair.
He took a deep swallow, stared for a few seconds at the amber fluid in the glass then looked up with a smile. “Well, you certainly got chucked in at the deep end tonight, my boy. Your first case! And it had to be Soames, too.”
“Do you know him very well?”
“Oh, I know all about him. A nasty piece of work and enough to put anybody off their stroke. Believe me, he’s no friend of mine. In fact, rumour has it that he’s a bit of a crook. They say he’s been feathering his nest for a long time at his lordship’s expense. He’ll slip up one day, I expect.”
The neat whisky burned a fiery path down to my stomach but I felt I needed it. “I wouldn’t like too many sessions like tonight’s, but I don’t suppose veterinary practice is like that all the time.”
“Well, not quite,” Farnon replied, “but you never know what’s in store for you. It’s a funny profession, ours, you know. It offers unparalleled opportunities for making a chump of yourself.”
“But I expect a lot depends on your ability.”
“To a certain extent. It helps to be good at the job, of course, but even if you’re a positive genius humiliation and ridicule are lurking just round the corner. I once got an eminent horse specialist along here to do a rig operation and the horse stopped breathing half way through. The sight of that man dancing frantically on his patient’s ribs taught me a great truth—that I was going to look just as big a fool at fairly regular intervals throughout my career.”
I laughed. “Then I might as well resign myself to it right at the beginning.”
“That’s the idea. Animals are unpredictable things so our whole life is unpredictable. It’s a long tale of little triumphs and disasters and you’ve got to really like it to stick it. Tonight it was Soames, but another night it’ll be something else. One thing, you never get bored. Here, have some more whisky.”
I drank the whisky and then some more and we talked. It seemed no time at all before the dark bulk of the acacia tree began to emerge from the grey light beyond the french window, a blackbird tried a few tentative pipes and Farnon was regretfully shaking the last drops from the bottle into his glass.
He yawned, jerked the knot out of his black tie and looked at his watch. “Well, five o’clock. Who would have thought it? But I’m glad we had a drink together—only right to celebrate your first case. It was a right one, wasn’t it?”
SIX
TWO AND A HALF hours’ sleep was a meagre ration but I made a point of being up by seven thirty and downstairs, shaved and scrubbed, by eight.
But I breakfasted alone. Mrs. Hall, impassively placing scrambled eggs before me, told me that my employer had left some time ago to do the P.M. on Lord Hulton’s horse. I wondered if he had bothered to go to bed at all.
I was busy with the last of the toast when Farnon burst into the room. I was getting used to his entrances and hardly jumped at all as he wrenched at the door handle and almost leaped into the middle of the carpet. He looked rosy and in excellent spirits.
“Anything left in that coffee pot? I’ll join you for a cup.” He crashed down on a protesting chair. “Well, you’ve nothing to worry about. The P.M. showed a classical torsion. Several loops of bowel involved—black and tympanitic. I’m glad you put the poor beggar down straight away.”
“Did you see my friend Soames?”
“Oh, he was there, of course. He tried to get in a few digs about you but I quietened him. I just pointed out that he had delayed far too long in sending for us and that Lord Hulton wasn’t going to be too pleased when he heard how his horse had suffered. I left him chewing over that.”
The news did a lot to lighten my outlook. I went over to the desk and got the day book. “Here are this morning’s calls. What would you like me to do?”
Farnon picked out a round of visits, scribbled the list on a scrap of paper and handed it over. “Here you are,” he said, “a few nice, trouble-free cases to get yourself worked in.”
I was turning to leave when he called me back. “Oh, there’s one other thing I’d like you to do. My young brother is hitching from Edinburgh today. He’s at the Veterinary College there and the term finished yesterday. When he gets within striking distance he’ll probably give us a ring. I wonder if you’d slip out and pick him up?”
“Certainly. Glad to.”
“His name is Tristan, by the way.”
“Tristan?”
“Yes. Oh, I should have told you. You must have wondered about my own queer name. It was my father. Great Wagnerian. It nearly ruled his life. It was music all the time—mainly Wagner.”
“I’m a bit partial myself.”
“Ah well, yes, but you didn’t get it morning, noon and night like we did. And then to be stuck with a name like Siegfried. Anyway, it could have been worse—Wotan, for instance.”
“Or Pogner.”
Farnon looked startled. “By golly, you’re right. I’d forgotten about old Pogner. I suppose I’ve a lot to be thankful for.”
It was late afternoon before the expected call came. The voice at the other end was uncannily familiar.
“This is Tristan Farnon.”
“Gosh, you sound just like your brother.”
A pleasant laugh answered me. “Everybody says that—oh, that’s very good of you. I’d be glad of a lift. I’m at the Holly Tree Café on the Great North Road.”
After the voice I had been expecting to find a younger edition of my employer but the small, boyish-faced figure sitting on a rucksack could hardly have been less like him. He got up, pushed back the dark hair from his forehead and held out his hand. The smile was charming.
“Had much walking to do?” I asked.
“Oh, a fair bit, but I needed the exercise. We had a roughish end of term party last night.” He opened the car door and threw the rucksack into the back. As I started the engine he settled himself in the passenger seat as though it were a luxurious armchair, pulled out a paper packet of Woodbines, lit one with tender concentration and gulped the smoke down blissfully. He produced the Daily Mirror from a side pocket and shook it open with a sigh of utter content. The smoke, which had been gone a long time, began to wisp from his nose and mouth.
I turned west off the great highway and the rumble of traffic faded rapidly behind us. I glanced round at Tristan. ?
??You’ll have just finished exams?” I said.
“Yes, pathology and parasitology.”
I almost broke one of my steadfast rules by asking him if he had passed, but stopped myself in time. It is a chancy business. But in any case, there was no shortage of conversation. Tristan had something to say about most of the news items and now and then he read out an extract and discussed it with me. I felt a growing conviction that I was in the presence of a quicker and livelier mind than my own. It seemed no time at all before we pulled up outside Skeldale House.
Siegfried was out when we arrived and it was early evening when he returned. He came in through the french window, gave me a friendly greeting and threw himself into an armchair. He had begun to talk about one of his cases when Tristan walked in.
The atmosphere in the room changed as though somebody had clicked a switch. Siegfried’s smile became sardonic and he gave his brother a long, appraising look. He grunted a “hello,” then reached up and began to run his finger along the titles of the books in the alcove. He seemed absorbed in this for a few minutes and I could feel the tension building up. Tristan’s expression had changed remarkably; his face had gone completely deadpan but his eyes were wary.
Siegfried finally located the book he was looking for, took it down from the shelf and began to leaf through it unhurriedly. Then, without looking up, he said quietly: “Well, how did the exams go?”
Tristan swallowed carefully and took a deep breath. “Did all right in parasitology,” he replied in a flat monotone.
Siegfried didn’t appear to have heard. He had found something interesting in his book and settled back to read. He took his time over it, then put the book back on the shelf. He began again the business of going along the titles; still with his back to his brother, he spoke again in the same soft voice.
“How about pathology?”
Tristan was on the edge of his chair now, as if ready to make a run for it. His eyes darted from his brother to the book shelves and back again. “Didn’t get it,” he said tonelessly.
There was no reaction from Siegfried. He kept up his patient search for his book, occasionally pulling a volume out, glancing at it and replacing it carefully. Then he gave up the hunt, lay back in the chair with his arms dangling almost to the floor and looked at Tristan. “So you failed pathology,” he said conversationally.
I was surprised to hear myself babbling with an edge of hysteria in my voice. “Well now that’s pretty good you know. It puts him in the final year and he’ll be able to sit path. at Christmas. He won’t lose any time that way and, after all, it’s a tough subject.”
Siegfried turned a cold eye on me. “So you think it’s pretty good, do you?” There was a pause and a long silence which was broken by a totally unexpected bellow as he rounded on his brother. “Well, I don’t! I think it is bloody awful! It’s a damned disgrace, that’s what it is. What the hell have you been doing all this term, anyway? Boozing, I should think, chasing women, spending my money, anything but working. And now you’ve got the bloody nerve to walk in here and tell me you’ve failed pathology. You’re lazy, that’s your trouble, isn’t it? You’re bloody bone idle!”
He was almost unrecognisable. His face was darkly flushed and his eyes glared. He yelled wildly again at his brother. “But I’ve had enough this time. I’m sick of you. I’m not going to work my fingers to the bloody bone to keep you up there idling your time away. This is the end. You’re sacked, do you hear me? Sacked once and for all. So get out of here—I don’t want to see you around any more. Go on, get out!”
Tristan, who had preserved an air of injured dignity throughout, withdrew quietly.
Writhing with embarrassment, I looked at Siegfried. He was showing the strain of the interview. His complexion had gone blotchy; he muttered to himself and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.
I was aghast at having to witness this break-up and I was grateful when Siegfried sent me on a call and I was able to get out of the room.
It was nearly dark when I got back and I drove round to the back lane and into the yard at the foot of the garden. The creaking of the garage doors disturbed the rooks in the great elms which overhung the buildings. Far up in the darkness there was a faint fluttering, a muffled cawing then silence. As I stood listening, I became aware of a figure in the gloom, standing by the yard door, looking down the garden. As the face turned towards me I saw it was Tristan.
Again, I felt embarrassed. It was an unfortunate intrusion when the poor fellow had come up here to brood alone. “Sorry about the way things turned out,” I said awkwardly.
The tip of the cigarette glowed brightly as Tristan took a long pull. “No, no, that’s all right. Could have been a lot worse, you know.”
“Worse? Well, it’s bad enough, isn’t it? What are you going to do?”
“Do? What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve been kicked out, haven’t you? Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
“I can see you don’t understand,” Tristan said. He took his cigarette from his mouth and I saw the gleam of very white teeth as he smiled. “You needn’t worry, I’m sleeping here and I’ll be down to breakfast in the morning.”
“But how about your brother?”
“Siegfried? Oh, he’ll have forgotten all about it by then.”
“Are you sure?”
“Dead sure. He’s always sacking me and he always forgets. Anyway, things turned out very well. The only tricky bit back there was getting him to swallow that bit about the parasitology.”
I stared at the shadowy form by my side. Again, there was a rustling as the rooks stirred in the tall trees then settled into silence.
“The parasitology?”
“Yes. If you think back, all I said was that I had done all right. I wasn’t any more specific than that.”
“Then you mean …?”
Tristan laughed softly and thumped my shoulder.
“That’s right, I didn’t get parasitology. I failed in both. But don’t worry, I’ll pass them at Christmas.”
SEVEN
I HUDDLED DEEPER IN the blankets as the strident brreeng-brreeng, brreeng-brreeng of the telephone echoed through the old house.
It was three weeks since Tristan’s arrival and life at Skeldale House had settled into a fairly regular pattern. Every day began much the same with the phone ringing between seven and eight o’clock after the farmers had had the first look at their stock.
There was only one phone in the house. It rested on a ledge in the tiled passage downstairs. Siegfried had impressed on me that I shouldn’t get out of bed for these early calls. He had delegated the job to Tristan; the responsibility would be good for him. Siegfried had been emphatic about it.
I listened to the ringing. It went on and on—it seemed to get louder. There was neither sound nor movement from Tristan’s room and I waited for the next move in the daily drama. It came, as always, with a door crashing back on its hinges, then Siegfried rushed out on to the landing and bounded down the stairs three at a time.
A long silence followed and I could picture him shivering in the draughty passage, his bare feet freezing on the tiles as he listened to the farmer’s leisurely account of the animal’s symptoms. Then the ting of the phone in its rest and the mad pounding of feet on the stairs as Siegfried made a dash for his brother’s room.
Next a wrenching sound as the door was flung open, then a yell of rage. I detected a note of triumph; it meant Tristan had been caught in bed—a definite victory for Siegfried and he didn’t have many victories. Usually, Tristan exploited his quick-dressing technique and confronted his brother fully dressed. It gave him a psychological advantage to be knotting his tie when Siegfried was still in pyjamas.
But this morning Tristan had overplayed his hand; trying to snatch the extra few seconds he was caught between the sheets. I listened to the shouts. “Why didn’t you answer the bloody phone like I told you? Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well as idle! Come on, out of it,
out, out!”
But I knew Tristan would make a quick come-back. When he was caught in bed he usually scored a few points by being half way through his breakfast before his brother came in.
Later, I watched Siegfried’s face as he entered the dining-room and saw Tristan munching his toast happily, his Daily Mirror balanced against the coffee pot. It was as if he had felt a sudden twinge of toothache.
It all made for a strained atmosphere and I was relieved when I was able to escape to collect my things for the morning round. Down the narrow passage with its familiar, exciting smell of ether and carbolic and out into the high-walled garden which led to the yard where the cars were kept.
It was the same every morning but, to me, there was always the feeling of surprise. When I stepped out into the sunshine and the scent of the flowers it was as though I was doing it for the first time. The clear air held a breath of the nearby moorland; after being buried in a city for five years it was difficult to take it all in.
I never hurried over this part. There could be an urgent case waiting but I still took my time. Along the narrow part between the ivy-covered wall and the long offshoot of the house where the wistaria climbed, pushing its tendrils and its withered blooms into the very rooms. Then past the rockery where the garden widened to the lawn, unkempt and lost-looking but lending coolness and softness to the weathered brick. Around its borders flowers blazed in untidy profusion, battling with a jungle of weeds.
And so to the rose garden, then an asparagus bed whose fleshy fingers had grown into tall fronds. Further on were strawberries and raspberries. Fruit trees were everywhere, their branches dangling low over the path. Peaches, pears, cherries and plums were trained against the south wall where they fought for a place with wild-growing rambler roses.