The family regarded him happily, pleased that he was coming with them and content in the knowledge that it would be good for him. Ruth watched his splashings with the light of love in her eyes. She kept looking over at me as if to say “Isn’t this grand?”
For my part, I was only just stopping myself from tearing out my hair in great handfuls. A compulsion to leap up and pace the floor, to scream at the top of my voice showed that I was nearing the end of my tether. I fought this feeling by closing my eyes and I must have kept them closed for a long time because, when I opened them, Bob was standing by my side in a suit exactly like his father’s.
I could never remember much about that ride to Darrowby. I had only a vague recollection of the car hurtling down the stony track at forty miles an hour. Of myself staring straight ahead with protruding eyes and the family, tightly packed but cheerful, thoroughly enjoying the ride.
Even the imperturbable Mrs. Hall was a little tight lipped as I shot into the house at ten to two and out again at two after bolting her good food.
I was late for the Messiah. The music had started as I crept into the church and I ran a gauntlet of disapproving stares. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Bellerbys sitting very upright, all in a row. It seemed to me that they looked disapproving, too.
ELEVEN
I LOOKED AGAIN AT the slip of paper where I had written my visits. “Dean, 3, Thompson’s Yard. Old dog ill.”
There were a lot of these “yards” in Darrowby. They were, in fact, tiny streets, like pictures from a Dickens novel. Some of them opened off the market place and many more were scattered behind the main thoroughfares in the old part of the town. From the outside you could see only an archway and it was always a surprise to me to go down a narrow passage and come suddenly upon the uneven rows of little houses with no two alike, looking into each other’s windows across eight feet of cobbles.
In front of some of the houses a strip of garden had been dug out and marigolds and nasturtiums straggled over the rough stones; but at the far end the houses were in a tumbledown condition and some were abandoned with their windows boarded up.
Number three was down at this end and looked as though it wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.
The flakes of paint quivered on the rotten wood of the door as I knocked; above, the outer wall bulged dangerously on either side of a long crack in the masonry.
A small, white-haired man answered. His face, pinched and lined, was enlivened by a pair of cheerful eyes; he wore a much-darned woollen cardigan, patched trousers and slippers.
“I’ve come to see your dog,” I said, and the old man smiled.
“Oh, I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” he said. “I’m getting a bit worried about the old chap. Come inside, please.”
He led me into the tiny living-room. “I’m alone now, sir. Lost my missus over a year ago. She used to think the world of the old dog.”
The grim evidence of poverty was everywhere. In the worn out lino, the fireless hearth, the dank, musty smell of the place. The wallpaper hung away from the damp patches and on the table the old man’s solitary dinner was laid; a fragment of bacon, a few fried potatoes and a cup of tea. This was life on the old age pension.
In the corner, on a blanket, lay my patient, a cross-bred labrador; He must have been a big, powerful dog in his time, but the signs of age showed in the white hairs round his muzzle and the pale opacity in the depth of his eyes. He lay quietly and looked at me without hostility.
“Getting on a bit, isn’t he, Mr. Dean?”
“Aye he is that. Nearly fourteen, but he’s been like a pup galloping about until these last few weeks. Wonderful dog for his age, is old Bob and he’s never offered to bite anybody in his life. Children can do anything with him. He’s my only friend now—I hope you’ll soon be able to put him right.”
“Is he off his food, Mr. Dean?”
“Yes, clean off, and that’s a strange thing because, by gum, he could eat. He always sat by me and put his head on my knee at meal times, but he hasn’t been doing it lately.”
I looked at the dog with growing uneasiness. The abdomen was grossly distended and I could read the tell-tale symptoms of pain; the catch in the respirations, the retracted commissures of the lips, the anxious, preoccupied expression in the eyes.
When his master spoke, the tail thumped twice on the blankets and a momentary interest showed in the white old eyes; but it quickly disappeared and the blank, inward look returned.
I passed my hand carefully over the dog’s abdomen. Ascites was pronounced and the dropsical fluid had gathered till the pressure was intense. “Come on, old chap,” I said, “let’s see if we can roll you over.” The dog made no resistance as I eased him slowly on to his other side, but, just as the movement was completed, he whimpered and looked round. The cause of the trouble was now only too easy to find.
I palpated gently. Through the thin muscle of the flank I could feel a hard, corrugated mass; certainly a splenic or hepatic carcinoma, enormous and completely inoperable. I stroked the old dog’s head as I tried to collect my thoughts. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Is he going to be ill for long?” the old man asked, and again came the thump, thump of the tail at the sound of the loved voice.
“It’s miserable when Bob isn’t following me round the house when I’m doing my little jobs.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dean, but I’m afraid this is something very serious. You see this large swelling. It is caused by an internal growth.”
“You mean … cancer?” the little man said faintly.
“I’m afraid so, and it has progressed too far for anything to be done. I wish there was something I could do to help him, but there isn’t.”
The old man looked bewildered and his lips trembled. “Then he’s going to die?”
I swallowed hard. “We really can’t just leave him to die, can we? He’s in some distress now, but it will soon be an awful lot worse. Don’t you think it would be kindest to put him to sleep? After all, he’s had a good, long innings.” I always aimed at a brisk, matter-of-fact approach, but the old clichés had an empty ring.
The old man was silent, then he said, “Just a minute,” and slowly and painfully knelt down by the side of the dog. He did not speak, but ran his hand again and again over the grey old muzzle and the ears, while the tail thump, thump, thumped on the floor.
He knelt there a long time while I stood in the cheerless room, my eyes taking in the faded pictures on the walls, the frayed, grimy curtains, the broken-springed armchair.
At length the old man struggled to his feet and gulped once or twice. Without looking at me, he said huskily, “All right, will you do it now?”
I filled the syringe and said the things I always said. “You needn’t worry, this is absolutely painless. Just an overdose of an anaesthetic. It is really an easy way out for the old fellow.”
The dog did not move as the needle was inserted, and, as the barbiturate began to flow into the vein, the anxious expression left his face and the muscles began to relax. By the time the injection was finished, the breathing had stopped.
“Is that it?” the old man whispered.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “He is out of his pain now.”
The old man stood motionless except for the clasping and unclasping of his hands. When he turned to face me his eyes were bright. “That’s right, we couldn’t let him suffer, and I’m grateful for what you’ve done. And now, what do I owe you for your services, sir?”
“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Dean,” I said quickly. “It’s nothing—nothing at all. I was passing right by here—it was no trouble.”
The old man was astonished. “But you can’t do that for nothing.”
“Now please say no more about it, Mr. Dean. As I told you, I was passing right by your door.” I said goodbye and went out of the house, through the passage and into the street. In the bustle of people and the bright sunshine, I could still see only the stark, little
room, the old man and his dead dog.
As I walked towards my car, I heard a shout behind me. The old man was shuffling excitedly towards me in his slippers. His cheeks were streaked and wet, but he was smiling. In his hand he held a small, brown object.
“You’ve been very kind, sir. I’ve got something for you.” He held out the object and I looked at it. It was tattered but just recognisable as a precious relic of a bygone celebration.
“Go on, it’s for you,” said the old man. “Have a cigar.”
TWELVE
IT WAS UNFORTUNATE THAT Siegfried ever had the idea of delegating the book-keeping to his brother, because Skeldale House had been passing through a period of peace and I found it soothing.
For nearly a fortnight there had been hardly a raised voice or an angry word except for one unpleasant interlude when Siegfried had come in and found his brother cycling along the passage. Tristan found all the rage and shouting quite incomprehensible—he had been given the job of setting the table and it was a long way from kitchen to dining-room; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to bring his bike in.
Autumn had come with a sharpness in the air and at nights the log fire burned bright in the big room, sending shadows flickering over the graceful alcoves and up to the high, carved ceiling. It was always a good time when the work of the day was through and the three of us lay back in the shabby armchairs and stretched our feet out to the blaze.
Tristan was occupied with the Daily Telegraph crossword which he did every night. Siegfried was reading and I was dosing. It embarrassed me to be drawn into the crossword; Siegfried could usually make a contribution after a minute’s thought but Tristan could have the whole thing worked out while I wrestled with the first clue.
The carpet round our feet was hidden by the dogs, all five of them, draped over each other in heavy-breathing layers and adding to the atmosphere of camaraderie and content.
It seemed to me that a chill breath struck through the comfort of the room as Siegfried spoke. “Market day tomorrow and the bills have just gone out. They’ll be queuing up to give us their money so I want you, Tristan, to devote the entire day to taking it from them. James and I are going to be busy, so you’ll be in sole charge. All you have to do is take their cheques, give them a receipt and enter their names in the receipt book. Now do you think you can manage that without making a bloody hash of it?”
I winced. It was the first discordant note for a long time and it struck deep.
“I think I might just about cope with that,” Tristan replied haughtily.
“Good. Let’s get to bed then.”
But, next day, it was easy to see that the assignment was right up Tristan’s street. Stationed behind the desk, he took in the money in handfuls; and all the time he talked. But he did not talk at random; each character got a personal approach.
With the upright methodist, it was the weather, the price of cows and the activities of the village institute. The raffish type with his cap on one side, exhaling fumes of market ale, got the latest stories which Tristan kept on the backs of envelopes. But with the ladies he rose to his greatest heights: They were on his side from the first because of his innocent, boyish face, and when he turned the full blast of his charm on them their surrender was complete.
I was amazed at the giggles which came from behind the door. I was pleased the lad was doing well. Nothing was going wrong this time.
Tristan was smug at lunch time and cock-a-hoop at tea. Siegfried, too, was satisfied with the day’s takings which his brother presented in the form of a column of neat figures accurately totalled at the bottom. “Thank you, Tristan, very efficient.” All was sweetness.
At the end of the day I was in the yard, throwing the used bottles from the boot of my car into a bin. It had been a busy day and I had accumulated a bigger than usual load of empties.
Tristan came panting in from the garden. “Jim, I’ve lost the receipt book!”
“Always trying to pull my leg, always joking,” I said. “Why don’t you give your sense of humour a rest some time?” I laughed heartily and sent a liniment bottle crashing among the others.
He plucked at my sleeve. “I’m not joking, Jim, believe me. I really have lost the bloody thing.” For once, his sang-froid had deserted him. His eyes were wide, his face pale.
“But it can’t just have disappeared,” I said. “It’s bound to turn up.”
“It’ll never turn up.” Tristan wrung his hands and did a bit of pacing on the cobbles. “Do you know I’ve spent about two hours searching for it. I’ve ransacked the house. It’s gone, I tell you.”
“But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll have transferred all the names into the ledger.”
“That’s just it. I haven’t. I was going to do it tonight.”
“So that means that all the farmers who have been handing you money today are going to get the same bill next month?”
“Looks like it. I can’t remember the names of more than two or three of them.”
I sat down heavily on the stone trough. “Then God help us all, especially you. These Yorkshire lads don’t like parting with their brass once, but when you ask them to do it twice—oh, brother!”
Another thought struck me and I said with a touch of cruelty: “And how about Siegfried. Have you told him yet?”
A spasm crossed Tristan’s face. “No, he’s just come in. I’m going to do it now.” He squared his shoulders and strode from the yard.
I decided not to follow him to the house. I didn’t feel strong enough for the scene which was bound to follow. Instead, I went out into the back lane and round behind the house to the market place where the lighted entrance of the Drovers’ Arms beckoned in the dusk.
I was sitting behind a pint when Tristan came in looking as though somebody had just drained half a gallon of blood from him.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual, you know. Bit worse this time, maybe. But I can tell you this, Jim. I’m not looking forward to a month from today.”
The receipt book was never found and, a month later, all the bills were sent out again, timed, as usual, to arrive on market day morning.
The practice was quiet that particular day and I had finished my round by mid morning. I didn’t go into the house, because through the waiting-room window I could see rows of farmers sitting round the walls; they all wore the same offended, self-righteous expression.
I stole away to the market place. When I had time, I enjoyed moving among the stalls which crowded the ancient square. You could buy fruit, fish, second-hand books, cheeses, clothes, in fact nearly everything; but the china stall was my favourite.
It was run by a Jewish gentleman from Leeds—fat, confident, sweating, and with a hypnotic selling technique. I never got tired of watching him. He fascinated me. He was in his best form today, standing in a little clearing surrounded on all sides by heaps of crockery, while beyond, the farmers’ wives listened open-mouthed to his oratory.
“Ah’m not good-lookin’,” he was saying. “Ah’m not clever, but by God ah can talk. Ah can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Now look ’ere.” He lifted a cheap cup and held it aloft, but tenderly, gripping it between his thick thumb and forefinger, his little finger daintily outspread. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Now isn’t that lovely?” Then he placed it reverently on the palm of his hand and displayed it to the audience. “Now I tell you ladies, you can buy this selfsame tea-set in Conners in Bradford for three pound fifteen. I’m not jokin’ nor jestin’, it’s there and that’s the price. But my price, ladies?” and here he fished out an old walking stick with a splintered handle. “My price for this beautiful tea-set?” He held the stick by its end and brought it crashing down on an empty tea-chest. “Never mind three pound fifteen.” Crash! “Never mind three pound.” Crash! “Never mind two pound.” Crash! “Never mind thirty bob.” Crash! “ ’ere, ’ere, come on, who’ll give me a quid?” Not a soul moved. “All right, all right, I can see ah’ve met
me match today. Go on, seventeen and a tanner the lot.” A final devastating crash and the ladies began to make signals and fumble in their handbags. A little man emerged from the back of the stall and started to hand out the tea-sets. The ritual had been observed and everybody was happy.
I was waiting, deeply content, for the next item from the virtuoso when I saw a burly figure in a check cap waving wildly at me from the edge of the crowd. He had his hand inside his jacket and I knew what he was feeling for. I didn’t hesitate but dodged quickly behind a stall laden with pig troughs and wire netting. I had gone only a few steps before another farmer hailed me purposefully. He was brandishing an envelope.
I felt trapped, then I saw a way of escape. Rapidly skirting a counter displaying cheap jewellery, I plunged into the doorway of the Drovers’ Arms and, avoiding the bar which was full of farmers, slipped into the manager’s office. I was safe; this was one place where I was always welcome.
The manager looked up from his desk, but he did not smile. “Look here,” he said sharply, “I brought my dog in to see you some time ago and in due course I received an account from you.” I cringed inwardly. “I paid by return and was extremely surprised this morning to find that another account had been rendered. I have here a receipt signed by …”
I couldn’t stand any more. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Brooke, but there’s been a mistake. I’ll put it right. Please accept our apologies.”
This became a familiar refrain over the next few days, but it was Siegfried who had the most unfortunate experience. It was in the bar of his favourite pub, the Black Swan. He was approached by Billy Breckenridge, a friendly, jocular little character, one of Darrowby’s worthies. “Hey, remember that three and six I paid at your surgery? I’ve had another bill for it.”