sorry."
He nodded grimly and continued to regard me with a peculiar intensity as
though he expected me to say more. Then with apparent reluctance he
turned away and settled in his seat.
I looked helplessly at the rigid back, at the square, narrow shoulders
muffled in a heavy overcoat. Who in God's name was this? And what was he
talking about? I knew the face from somewhere - must be a client. And
what was dead? Cow? Ewe? Sow? My mind began to race over the cases I had
seen during the past week but that face didn't seem to fit in anywhere.
Helen was looking at me questioningly and I managed a wan smile. But the
spell was shattered. I started to say something to her when the little
man began to turn again with menacing deliberation.
He fixed me once more with a hostile glare. "Ah don't think there was
ever owl wrong with her stomach," he declared.
"You don't, eh."
"No, young man, ah don't." He dragged his eyes unwillingly from my face
and turned towards the screen again.
The effect of this second attack was heightened because the lights went
off suddenly and an incredible explosion of noise blasted my ear drums.
It was the Gaumont News. The sound machine, like the heating system, had
apparently been designed for something like the Albert Hall and for a
moment I cowered back under the assault. As a voice bellowed details of
fortnight-old events I closed my eyes and tried again to place the man
in front of me.
I often had trouble identifying people outside their usual environment
and had once discussed the problem with Siegfried.
He had been airy. "There's an easy way, James. Just ask them how they
spell their names. You'll have no trouble at all.
I had tried this on one occasion and the farmer had looked at me
strangely replied "S-M-I-T-H' and hurried away. So there seemed nothing
to do now but sit sweating with my eyes on the disapproving back and
search through my memory. When the news finished with a raucous burst of
music I had got back about three weeks without result There was a
blessed respite of a few seconds before the uproar broke out again. This
was the main feature - the film about Scotland was on later - and was
described outside as a tender love story. I can't remember the title but
there was a lot of embracing which would have been all right except that
every kiss i ::
_ .
was accompanied by a chorus of long-drawn sucking noises from the little
boys downstairs. The less romantic blew raspberries.
And all the time it got hotter. I opened my jacket wide and unbuttoned
my shirt collar but I was beginning to feel decidedly light-headed. The
little man in front, still huddled in his heavy coat, seemed
unperturbed. Twice the projector broke down and we stared for several
minutes at a blank screen while a storm of whistling and stamping came
up from the stalls.
Maggie Robinson, standing in the dim light by the curtain, still
appeared to be fascinated by the sight of Helen and me. Whenever I
looked up I found her eyes fixed upon us with a knowing leer. About
half-way through the film, however, her concentration was disturbed by a
commotion on the other side of the curtain and she was suddenly brushed
aside as a large form burst through.
With a feeling of disbelief I recognised Gobber Newhouse. I had had
previous experience of his disregard of the licensing laws and it was
clear he had been at it again. He spent most afternoons in the back
rooms of the local pubs and here he was, come to relax after a rough
session.
He reeled up the aisle, turned, to my dismay, into our row, rested
briefly on Helen's lap, trod on my toe and finally spread his enormous
carcass over the seat on my left. Fortunately it was another courting
seat with no central arm to get in his way but for all that he had great
difficulty in finding a comfortable position. He heaved and squirmed
about and the wheezing and snuffing and grunting in the darkness might
have come from a pen of bacon he found a spot and with a final cavernous
belch rr~
The tender love story never A;~ its death kr.-ll ~ ~ ~
pigs. But at last elf for slumber.
obber sounded 'se pall of stale ate nuances.
ghts went up. -e on that her w her brows ~ie appeared Bering while = C ~
C ; C ~C 0 ~ ~ D ~ due t~ ~ c ~t ~ 3 ~ c ~,~ c O ~D ~ 5 " -oat in front
with the gl 3~ 0 0 3 c 0 ~g from the key in the IOCH ~ C~ ~ ~ '5 ~ c c
u, :~ 3 ~ ~ and a single neor: ~ ~ c ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ D X this a few times
an~ c c CC ~-5 :g c~ ~ c~ c into submission with a~ ~ - s ~ O ~ C~ CJO 5
C mackintosh revealing faul` O co `- ~ a ~ ~ ~ ~
4, c ~ 3 ~ o~ ~i ' - . 2 ~u ~ I O ~3
While this was going on av'~herself into the pay box. The sic " We all
began to shuffle inside. '1$ punched each other as they passed th~ ~ ~
v: rest of us proceeded decorously upstairs~ ~ c~ ~ halconv The mana~er.
his white shirt fror,= ~-".~
J ; 1 1
;
r track."
I like that It he was ast wi' a _ _ , (, , _ ~ _ ~ . _ , and bowed with
great courtesy as we passed. ~. ~ ~ `, -~0 ~ ~ O3
We paused at a row of pegs at the top of the s~. ~ c ~ _ ~ ~c ~ up their
coats. I was surprised to see Maggie Robinsof;` c ,.. {i w ~ c there,
taking the tickets, and she appeared to be intriguec ~ w c ~ 3 simpered
and giggled, darted glances at Helen and did e~ =- c ~ ~ in the ribs.
Finally she parted the curtains and we went insi~ ~ ~ ~
It struck me immediately that the management were determ' ~ D patrons
wouldn't feel cold because if it hadn't been for the all-perv. =of old
sofas we might have been plunging into a tropical jungle. hiaggr~
It - just d been again. g was ~n the "It's supposed to be." Helen paused
and looked at me with a half-smile. "But I'm afraid it isn't going to
be. The thing is they often change the supporting film without warning.
Nobody seems to mind."
I slumped wearily in my seat. Well I'd done it again. No dance at the
Reniston, wrong picture tonight. I was a genius in my own way.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I hope you don't mind too much."
She shook her head. "Not a bit. Anyway, let's give this one a chance. It
may be all right."
But as the ancient horse opera crackled out its cliche-ridden message I
gave up hope. This was going to be another of those evenings. I watched
apathetically as the posse galloped for the fourth time past the same
piece of rock and I was totally unprepared for the deafening fusillade
of shots which rang out. It made me jump and it even roused Gobber from
his sleep.
"Ellow! 'ellow! 'ellow!" he bawled jerking upright and thrashing around
him with his arms. A backhander on the side of the head drove me
violently against Helen's shoulder and I was beginning to apologise when
I saw that her twitching and frowning had come on again. But this time
it spread and her whole face seemed to break up. She began to laugh,
silently and helplessly.
I had never seen a girl laugh like this. It was as though it was
something she had wanted to do for a long time. She abandoned herself
utterly to it, Lying back with her head on the back of the seat, legs
stretched out in front of her, arms dangling by her side. She took her
time and waited until she had got it all out of her system before she
turned to me.
She put her hand on my arm. "Look," she said faintly. "Next time, why
don't we just go for a walk."
I settled down. Gobber was asleep again and his snores, louder than ever
competed with the bangs and howls from the screen. I still hadn't the
slightest idea who that little man in front could be and I had the
feeling he wasn't finished with me yet. The clock still stood at
twenty-past four. Maggie was still staring at us and a steady strickle
of sweat ran down my back.
The environment wasn't all I could have desired, but never mind. There
was going to be a next time.
Chapter Thirty-two.
Siegfried had a habit of pulling at the lobe of his ear and staring
blankly ahead when preoccupied. He was doing it now, his other hand,
outstretched, crumbling a crust of bread on his plate.
I didn't usually pry into my boss's meditations and anyway, I wanted to
be off on the morning round, but there was something portentous in his
face which made me speak.
"What's the matter? Something on your mind."
Siegfried turned his head slowly and his eyes glared sightlessly for a
few moments until recognition dawned. He stopped his lobe-pulling, got
to his feet, walked over to the window and looked out at the empty
street.
"There is, James, there is indeed. In fact, I was just about to ask your
advice. It's about this letter I got this morning." He ransacked his
pockets impatiently, pulling out handkerchiefs, thermometers, crumpled
bank-notes, lists of calls, till he found a long blue envelope. "Here,
read it."
I opened the envelope and quickly scanned the single sheet. I looked up,
puzzled. "Sorry, I don't get it. All it says here is that H. W. St. J.
Ransom, Maj. Gen., would like the pleasure of your company at Brawton
races on Saturday. No problem there, is there? You like racing."
"Ah, but it's not so simple as that," Siegfried said, starting again on
the lobe. "This is in the nature of a trial. General Ransom is one of
the big boys in the North West Racing Circuit and he's bringing one of
his pals along on Saturday to vet me. They're going to examine me for
soundness."
I must have looked alarmed because he grinned. "Look, I'd better start
at the beginning. And I'll cut it short. The officials of the North West
Circuit are looking for a veterinary surgeon to supervise all meetings.
You know the local man attends if there's a racecourse in his town and
he is on call in case of injury to the horses, but this would be
different. This supervisory vet would deal with cases of suspected
doping and the like - in fact he'd have to be a bit of a specialist.
Well I've had a whisper that they think I might be the man for the job
and that's what Saturday's about. I know old Ransom but I haven't met
his colleague. The idea is to have a day at the races with me and size
me up."
"If you got the job would it mean giving up general practice?" I asked.
And a chill wind seemed to creep around me at the idea.
"No, no, but it would mean spending something like three days a week on
racecourses and I'm wondering if that wouldn't be just a bit much."
"Well, I don't know," I finished my coffee and pushed back my chair.
"I'm not really the one to advise you on this. I haven't had a lot of
experience with racehorses and I'm not interested in racing. You'll have
to make up your own mind. But you've often talked of specialising in
horse work and you love the atmosphere of a racecourse."
"You're right there, James, I do. And there's no doubt the extra money
would come in very useful. It's what every practice needs - a contract
of some sort, a regular income from somewhere to make you less dependent
on the farmers paying their bills." He turned away from the window.
"Anyway, I'll go to Brawton races with them on Saturday and we'll see
how it turns out. And you must come too."
"Me! Why."
"Well it says in the letter "and partner"."
"That means some woman. They'll have their wives with them, no doubt."
"Doesn't matter what it means, James, you're coming with me. A day out
and a bit of free food and booze will do you good. Tristan can hold the
fort for a few hours.
It was nearly noon on Saturday when I answered the door bell. As I
walked along the passage it was easy to identify the people beyond the
glass door.
General Ransom was short and square with a mustache of surprising
blackness thrusting aggressively from his upper lip. Colonel Tremayne
was tall, hawk-nosed and stooping but he shared with his companion the
almost tangible aura of authority which comes from a lifetime of
command. Two tweedy women stood behind them on the lower step.
I opened the door, feeling my shoulders squaring and my heels coming
together under the battery of fierce, unsmiling glares.
"Mr. Farnon!" barked the general. "Expectin' us, I think."
I retreated a pace and opened the door. "Oh yes, certainly, please come
in."
The two women swept in first, Mrs. Ransom as squat and chunky and even
tougher-looking than her husband, then Mrs. Tremayne, much younger and
:`
.:
:~
:
A 1
attractive in a hard-boiled fashion. All of them completely ignored me
except the colonel who brought up the rear and fixed me for a moment
with a fishy eye.
I had been instructed to dispense sherry, and once inside the
sitting-room I began to pour from a decanter. I was half-way up the
second glass when Siegfried walked in. I spilt some of the sherry. My
boss had really spruced up for the occasion. His lean frame was draped
in cavalry twill of flawless cut; the long, strong-boned face was
freshly shaven, the small sandy mustache neatly clipped. He swept off a
brand-new bowler as he came in and I put down my decanter and gazed at
him with proprietary pride. Maybe there had been a few dukes or the odd
earl in Siegfried's family tree but be that as it may, the two army men
seemed in an instant to have become low bred and a trifle scruffy.
There was something almost ingratiating in the way the general went up
to Siegfried. "Farnon, me dear feller, how are you? Good to see you
again. Let me introduce you to me wife, Mrs. Tremayne, Colonel
Tremayne."
The colonel astonishingly dug up a twisted smile, but my main interest
was in the reaction of the ladies. Mrs. Ransom, looking up at Siegfried
as he bent over her, just went to pieces. It was unbelievable that this
formidable fortress should crumble at the first shot, but there it was;
the tough lines melted from her face and she was left with a big sloppy
smile looking like anybody's dear old mum.
Mrs. Tremayne's response was differe
nt but no less dramatic. As the
steady grey eyes swept her she seemed to wither and it was as if a spasm
of exquisite pain twisted her cheeks. She controlled herself with an
effort but looked after Siegfried with wistful hunger as he turned back
to the men.
I began to slosh the sherry violently into the glasses. Damn it, there
it was again. The same old thing. And yet he didn't do anything. Just
looked at them. Hell, it wasn't fair.
Sherry over, we moved outside and installed ourselves in Siegfried's
Rover on which an immaculate coach-building job had been done since the
disaster of last summer. It was an impressive turnout. The car, after a
morning's forced labour by Tristan with hose and leather, shone like a
mirror. Siegfried, in the driver's seat, extended an elegant arm to his
brother as we drove away. I couldn't help feeling that the only
superfluous object was myself, squatting uncomfortably on a little
let-down seat, facing the two army men who sat to attention in the back
seat, their bowlers pointing rigidly to the front. Between them Mrs.
Tremayne stared wonderingly at the back of Siegfried's head.
We lunched on the course, Siegfried comfortably at home with the smoked
salmon, the cold chicken and the champagne. There was no doubt he had
scored a tremendous success during the meal, discussing racing
knowledgeably with the men and dispensing charm equally to their wives.
The tough Mrs. Ransom positively simpered as he marked her card for her.
It was quite certain that if the new appointment hung upon his behaviour
today, a vote at this time would have seen him home and dry.
After lunch we went down to the paddock and had a look at the horses
parading for the first race. I could see Siegfried expanding as he took
in the scene; the jostling crowds, the shouting bookies, the beautiful
animals pacing round, the jockeys, tiny, colourful, durable, chatting to
the trainers out in the middle He had got through enough champagne at
lunch to sharpen his appreciation and he was the very picture of a man
who just knew he was going to have a successful day.
Merryweather' the course vet, joined us to watch the first race.
Siegfried knew him slightly and they were chatting after the race when
the 'vet wanted' sign went up. A man hurried up to Merryweather. "That
horse that slipped at the last bend is still down and doesn't look like
getting up."
The vet started for his car which was parked in readiness near the
rails. He turned towards us "You two want to come?" Siegfried looked
enquiringly at his party and received gracious nods of assent. We
hurried after our colleague.
Within seconds we were racing down the course towards the last bend.
Merryweather, hanging on to the wheel as we sped over the grass, grunted
half to himself: "Hell, I hope this thing hasn't got a fracture - if
there's one thing I mortally hate it's shooting horses."
It didn't look good when we got to the spot. The sleek animal lay Hat on
its side showing no movement apart from the laboured rise and fall of
its ribs. The jockey, blood streaming from a cut brow, knelt by its
head. "What do you think, sir? Has he broken a leg."
"Let's have a look." Merryweather began to palpate the extended limbs,
running strong fingers over one bone then another, carefully flexing the
joints of fetlock, knee, shoulder, hock. "Nothing wrong there. Certainly
no fracture." Then he pointed suddenly at the head. "Look at his eyes."
We looked; they were glazed and there was a slight but unmistakable
nystagmus.
"Concussion?" Siegfried said.
"That's it, he's just had a bang on the head." Merryweather got off his
knees, looking happier. "Come on, we'll push him on to his chest. I
think he ought to be able to get up with a bit of help."