he was trying to find something good to say.
"Well, I reckon she's about "'same."
"But dammit," I shouted, 'she should be much better! Let's have a look
at her."
The cow wasn't just the same, she was worse. And on top of all the other
symptoms she had a horribly sunken eye - the sign, usually, of
approaching death in the bovine.
We both stood looking at the grim wreck of the once beautiful cow, then
Dick broke the silence, speaking gently. "Well, what do you think? Is it
Mallock for The sound of the knacker man's name added the final note of
despair. And indeed, Strawberry looked just like any of the other broken
down animals that man came to collect.
I shuffled my feet miserably. "I don't know what to say, Dick. There's
nothing more I can do." I took another look at the gasping staring head,
the mass of bubbling foam around the lips and nostrils. "You don't want
her to suffer any more and neither do I. But don't get Mallock yet she's
distressed but not actually in pain, and I want to give her another day.
If she's just the same tomorrow, send her in." The very words sounded
futile - every instinct told me the thing was hopeless. I turned to go,
bowed down by a sense of failure heavier than I had ever known. As I
went out into the yard, Dick called after me.
"Don't worry, lad, these things happen. Thank ye for all you've done."
The words were like a whip across my back. If he had cursed me
thoroughly I'd have felt a lot better. What had he to thank me for with
his cow dying back -there, the only good cow he'd ever owned? This
disaster would just about floor Dick Rudd and he was telling me not to
worry.
When I opened the car door I saw a cabbage on the seat. Mrs. Rudd, too,
was still at it. I leaned my elbow on the roof of the car and the words
flowed from l me. It was as if the sight of the cabbage had tapped the
deep well of my frustration and I directed a soliloquy at the unheeding
vegetable in which I ranged far over my many inadequacies. I pointed out
the injustice of a situation where kindly people like the Rudds, in dire
need of skilled veterinary assistance, had called on Mr. Herriot who had
responded by falling flat on his face. I drew attention to the fact that
the Rudds, instead of hounding me off the place as I deserved, had
thanked me sincerely and started to give me cabbages.
I went on for quite a long time and when I had finally finished I felt a
little better. But not much, because, as I drove home I could not detect
a glimmer of hope. If the walls of that abscess had been going to
collapse they would have done so by now. I should have sent her in - she
would be dead in the morning anyway.
I was so convinced of this that I didn't hurry to Birch Tree next day. I
took it in with the round and it was almost midday when I drove through
the gates. I knew what I would find - the usual grim signs of a vet's
failure; the box door open and the drag marks where Mallock had winched
the carcass across the yard on to his lorry. But everything was as usual
and as I walked over to the silent box I steeled myself. The knacker man
hadn't arrived yet but there was nothing surer than that my patient was
Lying dead in there. She couldn't possibly have hung on till now. My
fingers fumbled at the catch as though something in me didn't want to
look inside, but with a final wrench I threw the door wide.
Strawberry was standing there, eating hay from the rack; and not just
eating it but jerking it through the bars almost playfully as cows do
when they are really enjoying their food. It looked as though she
couldn't get it down fast enough, pulling down great fragrant tufts and
dragging them into her mouth with her rasp-like tongue. As I stared at
her an organ began to play somewhere in the back of my mind; not just a
little organ but a mighty instrument with gleaming pipes climbing high
into the shadows of the cathedral roof. I went into the box, closed the
door behind me and sat down in the straw in a corner. I had waited a
long time for this. I was going to enjoy it.
The cow was almost a walking skeleton with her beautiful dark roan skin
stretched tightly over the jutting bones. The once proud udder was a
shrivelled purse dangling uselessly above her hocks. As she stood, she
trembled from sheer weakness, but there was a light in her eye, a calm
intensity in the way she ate which made me certain she would soon fight
her way back to her old glory.
There was just the two of us in the box and occasionally Strawberry
would turn her head towards me and regard me steadily, her jaws moving
rhythmically. It seemed like a friendly look to me - in fact I wouldn't
have been surprised if she had winked at me.
I don't know just how long I sat in there but I savoured every minute.
It took some time for it to sink in that what I was watching was really
happening; the swallowing was effortless, there was no salivation, no
noise from her breathing. When I finally went out and closed the door
behind me the cathedral organ was really blasting with all stops out,
the exultant peals echoing back from the vaulted roof.
The cow made an amazing recovery. I saw her three weeks later and her
bones were magically clothed with flesh, her skin shone and, most
important, the magnificent udder bulged turgid beneath her, a neat
little teat proudly erect at each corner.
I was pretty pleased with myself but of course a cold assessment of the
case would show only one thing - that I had done hardly anything right
from start to finish. At the very beginning I should have been down that
cow's throat with a knife, but at that time I just didn't know how. In
later years I have opened many a score of these abscesses by going in
through a mouth gag with a scalpel tied to my fingers. It ~was a fairly
heroic undertaking as the cow or bullock didn't enjoy it and was
inclined to throw itself down with me inside it almost to the shoulder.
It was simply asking for a broken arm.
When I talk about this to the present-day young vets they are inclined
to look at me blankly because most of these abscesses undoubtedly had a
tuberculous origin and since attestation they are rarely seen. But I can
imagine it might bring a wry smile to the faces of my contemporaries as
their memories are stirred.
The post-pharyngeal operation had the attraction that recovery was
spectacular and rapid and I have had my own share of these little
triumphs. But none of them gave me as much satisfaction as the one I did
the wrong way.
It was a few weeks after the Strawberry episode and I was back in my old
position in the Rudds' kitchen with the family around me. This time I
was in no position to drop my usual pearls of wisdom because I was
trying to cope with a piece of Mrs. Rudd's apple tart. Mrs. Rudd, I
knew, could make delicious apple tarts but this was a special kind she
produced for "lowance' time - for taking out to Dick and the family when
they were working in the fields. I had chewed at the two-inch pastry
till
my mouth had dried out. Somewhere inside there was no doubt a
sliver of apple but as yet I had been unable to find it. I didn't dare
try to speak in case I blew out a shower of crumbs and in the silence
which followed I wondered if anybody would help me out. It was Mrs. Rudd
who spoke up.
"Mr. Herriot," she said in her quiet matter-of-fact way, "Dick has
something to say to you."
Dick cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. I turned
towards him expectantly, my cheeks still distended by the obdurate mass.
He looked unusually serious and I felt a twinge of apprehension.
"What I want to say is this," he said. "It'll soon be our silver wedding
anniversary and we're going to 'ave a bit of a do. We want you to be our
guest."
I almost choked. "Dick, Mrs. Rudd, that's very kind of you. I'd love
that - I'd be honoured to come."
Dick inclined his head gravely. He still looked portentous as though
there was something big to follow. "Good, I think you'll enjoy it,
because it's going' to be a right do. We've got a room booked at ""King's
Head at Carsley."
"Gosh, sounds great."
"Aye, t'missus and me have worked it all out." He squared his thin
shoulders and lifted his chin proudly.
"We're having a 'ot dinner and entertainers."
Chapter Twenty-four.
As time passed and I painfully clothed the bare bones of my theoretical
knowledge with practical experience I began to realise there was another
side to veterinary practice they didn't mention in the books. It had to
do with money. Money has always formed a barrier between the farmer and
the vet. I think this is because there is a deeply embedded, maybe
subconscious conviction in many farmer."
;
minds that they know more about their stock than any outsider and it is
an admission of defeat to pay somebody else to doctor them.
The wall was bad enough in those early days when they had to pay the
medical practitioners for treating their own ailments and when there was
no free agricultural advisory service. But it is worse now when there is
the Health Service and NAAS and the veterinary surgeon stands pitilessly
exposed as the only man who has to be paid.
Most farmers, of course, swallow the pill and get out their cheque
books, but there is a proportion - maybe about ten per cent - who do
their best to opt out of the whole business.
We had our own ten per cent in Darrowby and it was a small but constant
irritation As an assistant I was not financially involved and it didn't
seem to bother Siegfried unduly except when the quarterly bills were
sent out. Then it really got through to him.
Miss Harbottle used to type out the accounts and present them to him in
a neat pile and that was when it started. He would go through them one
by one and it was a harrowing experience to watch his blood pressure
gradually rising.
I found him crouched over his desk one night. It was about eleven
o'clock and he had had a hard day. His resistance was right down. He was
scrutinising each bill before placing it face down on a pile to his
left. On his right there was a smaller pile and whenever he placed one
there it was to the accompaniment of a peevish muttering or occasionally
a violent outburst.
"Would you believe it?" he grunted as I came in. "Henry Bransom - more
than two years since we saw a penny of his money, yet he lives like a
sultan. Never misses a market for miles around, gets as tight as an owl
several nights a week and I saw him putting ten pounds on a horse at the
races last month."
He banged the piece of paper down and went on with his job, breathing
deeply. Then he froze over another account. "And look at this one! Old
Summers of Low Ness. I bet he's got thousands of pounds hidden under his
bed but by God he won't part with any of it to me."
He was silent for a few moments as he transferred several sheets to the
main pile then he swung round on me with a loud cry, waving a paper in
my face.
"Oh no! Oh Christ, James, this is too much! Bert Mason here owes me
twenty-seven and sixpence. I must have spent more than that sending him
bills year in year out and do you know I saw him driving past the
surgery yesterday in a brand new car. The bloody scoundrel."
He hurled the bill down and started his scrutiny again. I noticed he was
using only one hand while the other churned among his hair. I hoped
fervently that he might hit upon a seam of good payers because I didn't
think his nervous system could take much more. And it seemed that my
hopes were answered because several minutes went by with only the quiet
lifting and laying of the paper sheets. Then Siegfried stiffened
suddenly in his chair and sat quite motionless as he stared down at his
desk. He lifted an account and held it for several seconds at eye level.
I steeled myself. This must be a beauty.
But to my surprise Siegfried began to giggle softly then he threw back
his head and gave a great bellow of laughter. He laughed until he seemed
to have no strength to laugh any more, then he turned to me.
"It's the Major, James," he said weakly. "The dear old gallant Major.
You know, you can't help admiring the man. He owed my predecessor a fair
bit when I bought the practice and he still owes it. And I've never had
a sou for all the work I've done for him. The thing is he's the same
with everybody and yet he gets away with it. He's a genuine artist these
other fellows are just fumbling amateurs by comparison ~
He got up, reached up into the glass-fronted cupboard above the
mantelpiece and pulled out the whisky bottle and two glasses. He
carelessly tipped a prodigal measure into each glass and handed one to
me, then he sank back into his chair, still grinning. The Major had
magically restored his good humour.
Sipping my drink, I reflected that there was no doubt Major Bullivant's
character had a rich, compelling quality. He presented an elegant,
patrician front to the world, beautiful Shakespearean actor voice,
impeccable manners and an abundance of sheer presence. Whenever he
unbent sufficiently to throw me a friendly word I felt honoured even
though I knew I was doing his work for nothing.
He had a small, cosy farm, a tweed-clad wife and several daughters who
had ponies and were active helpers for the local hunt. Everything in his
entire menage was right and fitting. But he never paid anybody.
He had been in the district about three years and on his arrival the
local tradesmen, dazzled by his facade, had fallen over each other to
win his custom. After all, he appeared to be just their type because
they preferred inherited wealth in Darrowby. In contrast to what I had
always found in Scotland, the self-made man was regarded with deep
suspicion and there was nothing so damning among the townsfolk as the
darkly muttered comment: "He had nowt when he first came 'ere."
Of course, when the scales had fallen from their eyes they fought back,
but ineffectually. The local garage impounded the M
ajor's ancient Rolls
Royce and hung on to it fiercely for a while but he managed to charm it
back. His one failure was that his telephone was always being cut off;
it seemed that the Postmaster General was one of the few who were immune
to his blandishments.
But time runs out for even the most dedicated expert. I was driving one
day through Hollerton, a neighbouring market town about ten miles away,
and I noticed the Bullivant girls moving purposefully among the shops
armed with large baskets. The Major, it seemed, was having to cast his
net a little wider and I wondered at the time if perhaps he was ready to
move on. He did, in fact, disappear from the district a few weeks later
leaving a lot of people licking their wounds. I don't know if he ever
paid anybody before he left but Siegfried didn't get anything.
Even after his departure Siegfried wasn't at all bitter, preferring to
regard the Major as a unique phenomenon, a master of his chosen craft.
"After all, James," he said to me once, 'putting ethical considerations
to one side, you must admit that anybody who can run up a bill of fifty
pounds for shaves and haircuts at the Darrowby barber's shop must
command a certain amount of respect."
Siegfried's attitude to his debtors was remarkably ambivalent. At times
he would fly into a fury at the mention of their names, at others he
would regard them with a kind of wry benevolence. He often said that if
ever he threw a cocktail party for the clients he'd have to invite the
non-payers first because they were all such charming fellows.
Nevertheless he waged an inexorable war against them by means of a
series of letters graduated according to severity which he called his
PNS. system (Polite, Nasty, Solicitor's) and in which he had great
faith. It was a sad fact, however, that the system seldom worked with
the real hard cases who were accustomed to receiving threatening letters
with their morning mail. These people yawned over the polite and nasty
ones and were unimpressed by the solicitor's because they knew from
experience that Siegfried always shrank from following through to the
limit of the law.
When the PNS system failed Siegfried was inclined to come up with some
unorthodox ideas to collect his hard-earned fees. Like the scheme he
devised for Dennis Pratt. Dennis was a tubby, bouncy little man and his
high opinion of himself showed in the way he always carried his entire
five feet three inches proudly erect. He always seemed to be straining
upwards, his chest thrust forward, his fat little bottom stuck out
behind him at an extraordinary angle.
Dennis owed the practice a substantial amount and about eighteen months
ago had been subjected to the full rigour of the PNS system. This had
induced him to part with five pounds 'on account' but since then nothing
more had been forthcoming Siegfried was in a quandary because he didn't
like getting tough with such a cheerful, hospitable man.
Dennis was always either laughing or about to laugh. I remember when we
had to anaesthetise a cow on his farm to remove a growth from between
its cleats Siegfried and I went to the case together and on the way we
were talking about something which had amused us. As we got out of the
car we were both laughing helplessly and just then the farmhouse door
opened and Dennis emerged.
We were at the far end of the yard and we must have been all of thirty
yards away. He couldn't possibly have heard anything of our conversation
but when he saw us laughing he threw back his head immediately and
joined in at the top of his voice. He shook so much on his way across
the yard that I thought he would fall over. When he arrived he was
wiping the tears from his eyes.