I sighed. “Maybe I can. Bring me a bucket of hot water and some soap.”
As I lathered my arm I felt a twinge of disappointment. I’d have liked to try that new Prolan injection. But on the other hand there was a certain interest in these rectal examinations.
“Hold her tail, please,” I said, and began to work my hand carefully past the anal ring.
We were doing a lot of this lately. The profession had awakened quite suddenly to the fact that bovine infertility was no longer an impenetrable mystery. We were carrying out more and more of these examinations, and as I say, they had a strange fascination.
Siegfried put it with his usual succinctness one morning.
“James,” he said. “There is more to be learned up a cow’s arse than in many an encyclopedia.”
And, groping my way into this animal, I could see what he meant. Through the rectal wall I gripped the uterine cervix, then I worked along the right horn. It felt perfectly normal, as did the fallopian tube when I reached it. In another moment the ovary rested between my fingers like a walnut; but it was a walnut with a significant bulge and I smiled to myself. That swelling was the corpus luteum, the “yellow body” which was exerting its influence on the ovary and preventing the initiation of the normal oestral cycle.
I squeezed gently on the base of the bulge and felt it part from the ovary and swim off into space. That was lovely—just what was required—and I looked happily along the cow’s back at the farmer.
“I think I’ve put things right, Mr. Hopps. She should come on within the next day or two and you can get her served right away.”
I withdrew my arm, smeared with filth almost to the shoulder, and began to swill it with the warm water. This was the moment when young people with dewy-eyed ambitions to be veterinary surgeons usually decided to be lawyers or nurses instead. A lot of teenagers came round with me to see practice and it seemed to me that the sooner they witnessed the realities of the job the better it would be for them. A morning’s pregnancy diagnoses or something similar had a salutary effect in sorting out the sheep from the goats.
As I left the farm I had the satisfied feeling that I had really done something, and a sensation of relief that Mr. Hopps’ delicacy hadn’t resulted in an abortive visit.
And when little Mr. Gilby crashed moaning on the cobbles of his byre floor, my first thought was that it was unfair that it should happen to him of all people.
Because the natural delicacy and reticence of the times were embodied in him to an extreme degree. Even his physical make-up had something ethereal about it; nine stones or tiny bones, taut skin with no fat and a gentle, innocent face, almost child-like despite his fifty years. Nobody had ever heard Mr. Gilby swear or use a vulgar expression; in fact he was the only farmer I have ever known who talked about cow’s “manure.”
Besides, as a strict methodist he didn’t drink or indulge in worldly pleasures and had never been known to tell a lie. Altogether he was so good that I would have regarded him with deep suspicion if he had been anybody else. But I had come to know Mr. Gilby. He was a nice little man, he was as honest as the day. I would have trusted him with my life.
That was why I was so sad to see him lying there. It had happened so quickly. We had only just come into the byre and he had pointed to a black Angus Cross cow almost opposite the door.
“That’s ’er. Got a touch o’cold, I think.” He knew I would want to take the temperature and grasped the tail before putting one foot across the channel so that he could slide between the cow and her neighbour. That was when it happened; when his legs were wide apart in the worst possible position.
In a way I wasn’t surprised because that tail had been swishing bad-temperedly as we came in, and I am always a bit wary of black cows anyway. She didn’t seem to like our sudden entry and lashed out with her right hind foot with the speed of light, catching him with her flinty hoof full in the crutch as his legs were splayed. He was wearing only frayed, much-washed overall trousers and the protection was nil.
I winced as the foot went home with an appalling thud, but Mr. Gilby showed no emotion at all. He dropped as though on the receiving end of a firing squad and lay motionless on the hard stones, his hands clutched between his legs. It was only after several seconds that he began to moan softly.
As I hurried to his aid I felt it was wrong that I should be witnessing this disintegration of his modest facade. The little farmer, I was sure, would rather have died than be caught in this inelegant position, grovelling on the floor gripping frantically at an unmentionable area. I kneeled on the cobbles and patted his shoulder while he fought his inner battle with his agony.
After a while he felt well enough to sit up and I put my arm around him and supported him while perspiration bedewed the greenish pallor of his face. That was when the embarrassment began to creep in, because though he had removed his hands from their compromising position he was clearly deeply ashamed at being caught in a coarse attitude.
I felt strangely helpless. The little man couldn’t relieve his feelings in the usual way by cursing the animal and fate in general, nor could I help him to laugh the thing off with a few earthy remarks. This sort of thing happens now and then in the present day and usually gives rise to a certain amount of ripe comment, often embracing the possible effect on the victim’s future sex life. It all helps.
But here in Mr. Gilby’s byre there was only an uncomfortable silence. After a time the colour began to return to his cheeks and the little man struggled slowly to his feet. He took a couple of deep breaths then looked at me unhappily. Obviously he thought he owed me some explanation, even apology, for his tasteless behaviour.
As the minutes passed the tension rose. Mr. Gilby’s mouth twitched once or twice as though he were about to speak but he seemed unable to find the words. At length he appeared to come to a decision. He cleared his throat, looked around him carefully then put his lips close to my ear. He clarified the whole situation by one hoarsely whispered, deeply confidential sentence.
“Right in the privates, Mr. Herriot.”
CHAPTER 20
LITTLE PICTURES KEPT FLOATING up into my mind. Memories from the very early days at Skeldale House. Before the RAF, before Helen. …
Siegfried and I were at breakfast in the big dining room. My colleague looked up from a letter he was reading.
“James, do you remember Stewie Brannan?”
I smiled. “I could hardly forget. That was quite a day at Brawton races.” I would always carry a vivid recollection of Siegfried’s amiable college chum with me.
“Yes … yes, it was.” Siegfried nodded briefly. “Well I’ve got a letter from him here. He’s got six kids now, and though he doesn’t complain, I don’t think life is exactly a picnic working in a dump like Hensfield. Especially when he knocks a bare living out of it.” He pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his ear. “You know, James, it would be rather nice if he could have a break. Would you be willing to go through there and run his practice for a couple of weeks so that he could take his family on holiday?’’
“Certainly. Glad to. But you’ll be a bit pushed here on your own, won’t you?”
Siegfried waved a hand. “It’ll do me good. Anyway it’s the quiet time for us. I’ll write back today.”
Stewie grasped the opportunity eagerly and within a few days I was on the road to Hensfield. Yorkshire is the biggest county in England and it must be the most varied. I could hardly believe it when, less than two hours after leaving the clean grassy fells and crystal air of Darrowby, I saw the forest of factory chimneys sprouting from the brown pall of grime.
This was the industrial West Riding and I drove past mills as dark and satanic as any I had dreamed of, past long rows of dreary featureless houses where the workers lived. Everything was black; houses, mills, walls, trees, even the surrounding hillsides, smeared and soiled from the smoke which drifted across the town from a hundred belching stacks.
Stewie’s surgery was tight in the heart o
f it, a gloomy edifice in a terrace of sooty stone. As I rang the bell I read the painted board: “Stewart Brannan MRCVS, Veterinary Surgeon and Canine Specialist.” I was wondering what the Royal College would think about the last part when the door opened and my colleague stood before me.
He seemed to fill the entrance. If anything he was fatter than before, but that was the only difference. Since it was August I couldn’t expect him to be wearing his navy nap overcoat; but otherwise he was as I remembered him in Darrowby; the big, meaty, good-natured face, the greasy black hair slicked across the brow which always seemed to carry a gentle dew of perspiration.
He reached out, grabbed my hand and pulled me delightedly through the doorway.
“Jim! Great to see you!” He put an arm round my shoulders as we crossed a dark hallway. It’s good of you to help me out like this. The family are thrilled—they’re all in the town shopping for the holiday. We’ve got fixed up in a flat at Blackpool.” His permanent smile widened.
We went into a room at the back where a rickety kitchen-type table stood on brown linoleum. I saw a sink in one corner, a few shelves with bottles and a white-painted cupboard. The atmosphere held a faint redolence of carbolic and cat’s urine.
“This is where I see the animals,” Stewie said contentedly. He looked at his watch. Twenty past five—I have a surgery at five thirty. I’ll show you round till then.”
It didn’t take long because there wasn’t much to see. I knew there was a more fashionable veterinary firm in Hensfleld and that Stewie made his living from the poor people of the town; the whole set-up was an illustration of practice on a shoestring. There didn’t seem to be more than one of anything—one straight suture needle, one curved needle, one pair of scissors, one syringe. There was a sparse selection of drugs and an extraordinary array of dispensing bottles and jars. These bottles were of many strange shapes—weird things which I had never seen in a dispensary before.
Stewie seemed to read my thoughts. “It’s nothing great, Jim. I haven’t a smart practice and I don’t make a lot, but we manage to clear the housekeeping and that’s the main thing.”
The phrase was familiar. “Clear the housekeeping”—that was how he had put it when I first met him at Brawton races. It seemed to be the lodestar of his life.
The end of the room was cut off by a curtain which my colleague drew to one side.
“This is what you might call the waiting room.” He smiled as I looked in some surprise at half a dozen wooden chairs arranged round the three walls. “No high-powered stuff, Jim, no queues into the streets, but we get by.”
Some of Stewie’s clients were already filing in; two little girls with a black dog, a cloth-capped old man with a terrier on a string, a teenage boy carrying a rabbit in a basket.
“Right,” the big man said. “We’ll get started.” He pulled on a white coat, opened the curtain and said, “First, please.”
The little girls put their dog on the table. He was a long-tailed mixture of breeds and he stood trembling with fear, rolling his eyes apprehensively at the white coat.
“All right lad,” Stewie murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He stroked and patted the quivering head before turning to the girls. “What’s the trouble, then?”
“It’s ’is leg, ’e’s lame,” one of them replied.
As if in confirmation the little dog raised a fore leg and held it up with a pitiful expression. Stewie engulfed the limb with his great hand and palpated it with the utmost care. And it struck me immediately—the gentleness of this shambling bear of a man.
“There’s nothing broken,” he said. “He’s just sprained his shoulder. Try to rest it for a few days and rub this in night and morning.”
He poured some whitish liniment from a winchester bottle into one of the odd-shaped bottles and handed it over.
One of the little girls held out her hand and unclasped her fingers to reveal a shilling in her palm.
“Thanks,” said Stewie without surprise. “Goodbye.”
He saw several other cases, then as he was on his way to the curtain two grubby urchins appeared through the door at the other end of the room. They carried a clothes basket containing a widely varied assortment of glassware.
Stewie bent over the basket, lifting out HP sauce bottles, pickle jars, ketchup containers and examining them with the air of a connoisseur. At length he appeared to come to a decision.
“Threepence,” he said.
“Sixpence,” said the urchins in unison.
“Fourpence,” grunted Stewie.
“Sixpence,” chorused the urchins.
“Fivepence,” my colleague muttered doggedly.
“Sixpence!” There was a hint of triumph in the cry.
Stewie sighed. “Go on then.” He passed over the coin and began to stack the bottles under the sink.
“I just scrape off the labels and give them a good boil up, Jim.”
“I see.”
“It’s a big saving.”
“Yes, of course.” The mystery of the strangely shaped dispensing bottles was suddenly resolved.
It was six thirty when the last client came through the curtain. I had watched Stewie examining each animal carefully, taking his time and treating their conditions ably within the confines of his limited resources. His charges were all around a shilling or two shillings and it was easy to see why he only just cleared the housekeeping.
One other thing I noticed; the people all seemed to like him. He had no “front” but he was kind and concerned. I felt there was a lesson there.
The last arrival was a stout lady with a prim manner and a very correct manner of speech.
“My dog was bit last week,” she announced, “and I’m afraid the wound is goin’ antiseptic.”
“Ah yes.” Stewie nodded gravely. The banana fingers explored the tumefied area on the animal’s neck with a gossamer touch. “It’s quite nasty, really. He could have an abscess there if we’re not careful.”
He took a long time over clipping the hair away, swabbing out the deep puncture with peroxide of hydrogen. Then he puffed in some dusting powder, applied a pad of cotton wool and secured it with a bandage. He followed with an antistaphylococcal injection and finally handed over a sauce bottle filled to the rim with acriflavine solution.
“Use as directed on the label,” he said, then stood back as the lady opened her purse expectantly.
A long inward struggle showed in the occasional twitches of his cheeks and flickerings of his eyelids but finally he squared his shoulders.
“That,” he said resolutely, “will be three and sixpence.”
It was a vast fee by Stewie’s standards, but probably the minimum in other veterinary establishments, and I couldn’t see how he could make any profit from the transaction.
As the lady left, a sudden uproar broke out within the house. Stewie gave me a seraphic smile.
“That’ll be Meg and the kids. Come and meet them.”
We went out to the hall and into an incredible hub-bub. Children shouted, screamed and laughed, spades and pails clattered, a large ball thumped from wall to wall and above it all a baby bawled relentlessly.
Stewie moved into the mob and extracted a small woman.
‘This,” he murmured with quiet pride, “is my wife.” He gazed at her like a small boy admiring a film star.
“How do you do,” I said.
Meg Brannan took my hand and smiled. Any glamour about her existed only in her husband’s eye. A ravaged prettiness still remained but her face bore the traces of some tough years. I could imagine her life of mother, housewife, cook, secretary, receptionist and animal nurse.
“Oh, Mr. Herriot, it is good of you and Mr. Farnon to help us out like this. We’re so looking forward to going away.” Her eyes held a faintly desperate gleam but they were kind.
I shrugged. “Oh it’s a pleasure, Mrs. Brannan. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it and I hope you all have a marvellous holiday.” I really meant it—she looked as though s
he needed one.
I was introduced to the children but I never really got them sorted out. Apart from the baby, who yelled indefatigably from leather lungs, I think there were three little boys and two little girls, but I couldn’t be sure—they moved around too quickly.
The only time they were silent was for a brief period at supper when Meg fed them and us from a kind of cauldron in which floated chunks of mutton, potatoes and carrots. It was very good, too, and was followed by a vast blancmange with jam on top.
The tumult broke out again very soon as the youngsters raced through their meal and began to play in the room. One thing I found disconcerting was that the two biggest boys kept throwing a large, new, painted ball from one to the other across the table as we ate. The parents said nothing about it—Meg, I felt, because she had stopped caring, and Stewie because he never had cared.
Only once when the ball whizzed past my nose and almost carried away a poised spoonful of blancmange did their father remonstrate.
“Now then, now then,” he murmured absently, and the throwing was re-sited more towards the middle of the table.
Next morning I saw the family off. Stewie had changed his dilapidated Austin Seven for a large rust-encrusted Ford V Eight Seated at the wheel he waved and beamed through the cracked side windows with serene contentment. Meg, by his side, managed a harassed smile and at the other windows an assortment of dogs and children fought for a vantage point. As the car moved away a pram, several suitcases and a cot swayed perilously on the roof, the children yelled, the dogs barked, the baby bawled, then they were gone.
As I re-entered the house the unaccustomed silence settled around me, and with the silence came a faint unease. I had to look after this practice for two weeks and the memory of the thinly furnished surgery was not reassuring. I just didn’t have the tools to tackle any major problem.
But it was easy to comfort myself. From what I had seen this wasn’t the sort of place where dramatic things happened. Stewie had once said he made most of his living by castrating torn cats and I supposed if you threw in a few ear cankers and minor ailments that would be about it.