All Things Wise and Wonderful

  I nodded and got slowly to my feet and as I swayed he put his arm round me and assisted me to the door. Outside, the fog had cleared and a bright pattern of stars overhung the village, but the clean cold air only made me feel worse and I stumbled through the darkness like a sleepwalker. When I reached the car a long griping spasm drove through me, reminding me horribly of the sausages, the gin and the rest. I groaned and leaned on the roof.

  “Maybe you’d better drive, Helen,” my colleague said. He was about to open the door when, with a dreadful feeling of helplessness, I began to slide along the metal.

  Granville caught my shoulders. “He’d be better in the back,” he gasped and began to lug me on to the seat. “Zoe, sweetheart, Helen, love, grab a leg each, will you? Fine, now I’ll get round the other side and pull him in.”

  He trotted round to the far side, opened the door and hauled at my shoulders.

  “Down a bit your side, Helen, dear. Now to me a little. Up a trifle your side, Zoe, pet. Now back to you a bit. Lovely, lovely.”

  Clearly he was happy at his work. He sounded like an expert furniture remover and through the mists I wondered bitterly how many inert forms he had stuffed into their cars after an evening with him.

  Finally they got me in, half lying across the back seat. My face was pressed against the side window and from the outside it must have been a grotesque sight with the nose squashed sideways and a solitary dead-mackerel eye staring sightlessly into the night.

  With an effort I managed to focus and saw Zoe looking down at me anxiously. She gave a tentative wave of goodbye but I could produce only a slight twitch of the cheek in reply.

  Granville kissed Helen fondly then slammed the car door. Moving back, he peered in at me and brandished his arms.

  “See you soon, I hope, Jim. It’s been a lovely evening!” His big face was wreathed in a happy smile and as I drove away my final impression was that he was thoroughly satisfied.

  CHAPTER 25

  BEING AWAY FROM DARROWBY and living a different life I was able to stand back and assess certain things objectively. I asked myself many questions. Why, for instance, was my partnership with Siegfried so successful?

  Even now, as we still jog along happily after thirty-five years, I wonder about it. I know I liked him instinctively when I first saw him in the garden at Skeldale House on that very first afternoon, but I feel there is another reason why we get on together.

  Maybe it is because we are opposites. Siegfried’s restless energy impels him constantly to try to alter things while I abhor change of any kind. A lot of people would call him brilliant, while not even my best friends would apply that description to me. His mind relentlessly churns out ideas of all grades—excellent, doubtful and very strange indeed. I, on the other hand, rarely have an idea of any sort. He likes hunting, shooting and fishing; I prefer football, cricket and tennis. I could go on and on—we are even opposite physical types—and yet as I say, we get along.

  This of course doesn’t mean that we have never had our differences. Over the years there have been minor clashes on various points.

  One, I recall, was over the plastic calcium injectors. They were something new so Siegfried liked them, and by the same token I regarded them with deep suspicion.

  My doubts were nourished by my difficulties with them. Their early troubles have now been ironed out but at the beginning I found the things so temperamental that I abandoned them.

  My colleague pulled me up about it when he saw me washing out my flutter valve by running the surgery tap through it.

  “For God’s sake, James, you’re not still using that old thing, are you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

  “But haven’t you tried the new plastics?”

  “I have.”

  “Well … ?”

  “Can’t get away with them, Siegfried.”

  “Can’t … what on earth do you mean?”

  I trickled the last drop of water through the tube, rolled it small and slipped it into its case. “Well, the last time I used one the calcium squirted all over the place. And it’s messy, sticky stuff. I had great white streaks down my coat.”

  “But James!” He laughed incredulously. “That’s crazy! They’re childishly simple to use. I haven’t had the slightest trouble.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “But you know me. I haven’t got a mechanical mind.”

  “For heaven’s sake, you don’t need a mechanical mind. They’re foolproof.”

  “Not to me, they aren’t. I’ve had enough of them.”

  My colleague put his hand on my shoulder and his patient look began to creep across his face. “James, James, you must persevere.” He raised a finger. “There is another point at issue here, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The matter of asepsis. How do you know that length of rubber you have there is clean?”

  “Well, I wash it through after use, I use a boiled needle, and …”

  “But don’t you see, my boy, you’re only trying to achieve what already exists in the plastic pack. Each one is self-contained and sterilised.”

  “Oh I know all about that but what’s the good of it if I can’t get the stuff into the cow?” I said querulously.

  “Oh piffle, James!” Siegfried assumed a grave expression. “It only needs a little application on your part, and I must stress that you are behaving in a reactionary manner by being stubborn. I put it to you seriously that we have to move with the times and every time you use that antiquated outfit of yours it is a retrograde step.”

  We stood, as we often did, eyeball to eyeball, in mutual disagreement till he smiled suddenly. “Look, you’re going out now, aren’t you, to see that milk-fever cow I treated at John Tillot’s. I understand it’s not up yet.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, as a favour to me, will you give one of the new packs a try?”

  I thought for a moment. “All right Siegfried, I’ll have one more go.”

  When I reached the farm I found the cow comfortably ensconced in a field, in the middle of a rolling yellow ocean of buttercups.

  “She’s had a few tries to get on ’er feet,” the farmer said. “But she can’t quite make it.”

  “Probably just wants another shot.” I went to my car which I had driven, rocking and bumping, over the rig and furrow of the field, and took one of the plastic packs from the boot.

  Mr. Tillot raised his eyebrows when he saw me coming back. “Is that one o’ them new things?”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Tillot the very latest invention. All completely sterilised.”

  “Ah don’t care what it is, ah don’t like it!”

  “You don’t?”

  “Naw!”

  “Well … why not?”

  “Ah’ll tell ye. Mr. Farnon used one this mornin’. Some of the stuff went in me eye, some went in ’is ear ’ole and the rest went down ’is trousers. Ah don’t think t’bloody cow got any!”

  There was another time Siegfried had to take me to task. An old-age pensioner was leading a small mongrel dog along the passage on the other end of a piece of string. I patted the consulting room table.

  “Put him up here, will you?” I said.

  The old man bent over slowly, groaning and puffing.

  “Wait a minute.” I tapped his shoulder. “Let me do it.” I hoisted the little animal on to the smooth surface.

  “Thank ye, sir.” The man straightened up and rubbed his back and leg. “I ’ave arthritis bad and I’m not much good at liftin’. My name’s Bailey and I live at t’council houses.”

  “Right, Mr. Bailey, what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s this cough. He’s allus at it. And ’e kind of retches at t’end of it”

  “I see. How old is he?”

  “He were ten last month.”

  “Yes …” I took the temperature and carefully auscultated the chest. As I moved the stethoscope over the ribs Siegfried came in and began to rummage in t
he cupboard.

  “It’s a chronic bronchitis, Mr. Bailey,” I said. “Many older dogs suffer from it just like old folks.”

  He laughed, “Aye, ah’m a bit wheezy meself sometimes.”

  “That’s right but you’re not so bad, really, are you?”

  “Naw, naw.”

  “Well neither is your little dog. I’m going to give him an injection and a course of tablets and it will help him quite a bit. I’m afraid he’ll never quite get rid of this cough, but bring him in again if it gets very bad.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Very good, sir. Thank ye kindly, sir.”

  As Siegfried banged about in the cupboard I gave the injection and counted out twenty of the new M&B 693 tablets.

  The old man gazed at them with interest then put them in his pocket. “Now what do ah owe ye, Mr. Herriot?”

  I looked at the ragged tie knotted carefully over the frayed shirt collar, at the threadbare antiquity of the jacket. His trouser knees had been darned but on one side. I caught a pink glimpse of the flesh through the material.

  “No, that’s all right Mr. Bailey. Just see how he goes on.”

  “Eh?”

  “There’s no charge.”

  “But …”

  “Now don’t worry about it—it’s nothing, really. Just see he gets his tablets regularly.”

  “I will, sir, and it’s very kind of you. I never expected …”

  “I know you didn’t, Mr. Bailey. Goodbye for now and bring him back if he’s not a lot better in a few days.”

  The sound of the old man’s footsteps had hardly died away when Siegfried emerged from the cupboard. “God, I’ve been ages hunting these down. I’m sure you deliberately hide things from me, James.”

  I smiled but made no reply and as I was replacing my syringe on the trolley my colleague spoke again.

  “James, I don’t like to mention this, but aren’t you rather rash, doing work for nothing?”

  I looked at him in surprise. “He was an old-age pensioner. Pretty hard up I should think.”

  “Maybe so, but really, you know, you just cannot give your services free.”

  “Oh but surely occasionally, Siegfried—in a case like this …”

  “No, James, not even occasionally. It’s just not practical.”

  “But I’ve seen you do it—time and time again!”

  “Me?” His eyes widened in astonishment “Never! I’m too aware of the harsh realities of life for that. Everything has become so frightfully expensive. For instance, weren’t those M&B 693 tablets you were dishing out? Heaven help us, do you know those things are threepence each? It’s no good—you must never work without charging.”

  “But dammit you’re always doing it!” I burst out. “Only last week there was that …”

  Siegfried held up a restraining hand, “Please, James, please. You imagine things, that’s your trouble.”

  I must have given him one of my most exasperated stares because he reached out and patted my shoulder.

  “Believe me, my boy, I do understand. You acted from the highest possible motives and I have often been tempted to do the same. But you must be firm. These are hard times and one must be hard to survive. So remember in future—no more Robin Hood stuff, we can’t afford it.”

  I nodded and went on my way somewhat bemusedly, but I soon forgot the incident and would have thought no more about it had I not seen Mr. Bailey about a week later.

  His dog was once more on the consulting room table and Siegfried was giving it an injection. I didn’t want to interfere so I went back along the passage to the front office and sat down to write in the day book. It was a summer afternoon, the window was open and through a parting in the curtain I could see the front steps.

  As I wrote I heard Siegfried and the old man passing on their way to the front door. They stopped on the steps. The little dog, still on the end of its string, looked much as it did before.

  “All right, Mr. Bailey,” my colleague said. “I can only tell you the same as Mr. Herriot. I’m afraid he’s got that cough for life, but when it gets bad you must come and see us.”

  “Very good, sir,” the old man put his hand in his pocket. “And what is the charge, please?”

  “The charge, oh yes … the charge …” Siegfried cleared his throat a few times but seemed unable to articulate. He kept looking from the mongrel dog to the old man’s tattered clothing and back again. Then he glanced furtively into the house and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  “It’s nothing, Mr. Bailey.”

  “But Mr. Farnon, I can’t let ye …”

  “Shh! Shh!” Siegfried waved a hand agitatedly in the old man’s face. “Not a word now! I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  Having silenced Mr. Bailey he produced a large bag.

  “There’s about a hundred M&B tablets in here,” he said, throwing an anxious glance over his shoulder. “He’s going to keep needing them, so I’ve given you a good supply.”

  I could see my colleague had spotted the hole in the trouser knee because he gazed down at it for a long time before putting his hand in his jacket pocket.

  “Hang on a minute.” He extracted a handful of assorted chattels. A few coins fell and rolled down the steps as he prodded in his palm among scissors, thermometers, pieces of string, bottle openers. Finally his search was rewarded and he pulled out a bank note.

  “Here’s a quid,” he whispered and again nervously shushed the man’s attempts to speak.

  Mr. Bailey, realising the futility of argument, pocketed the money.

  “Well, thank ye, Mr. Farnon. Ah’ll take t’missus to Scarborough wi’ that.”

  “Good lad, good lad,” muttered Siegfried, still looking around him guiltily. “Now off you go.”

  The old man solemnly raised his cap and began to shuffle painfully down the street.

  “Hey, hold on, there,” my colleague called after him. “What’s the matter? You’re not going very well.”

  “It’s this dang arthritis. Ah go a long way in a long time.”

  “And you’ve got to walk all the way to the council houses?” Siegfried rubbed his chin irresolutely. “It’s a fair step.” He took a last wary peep down the passage then beckoned with his hand.

  “Look, my car’s right here,” he whispered. “Nip in and I’ll run you home.”

  Some of our disagreements were sharp and short.

  I was sitting at the lunch table, rubbing and flexing my elbow. Siegfried, carving enthusiastically at a joint of roast mutton, looked up from his work.

  “What’s the trouble, James—rheumatism?”

  “No, a cow belted me with her horn this morning. Right on the funny bone.”

  “Oh, bad luck. Were you trying to get hold of her nose?”

  “No, giving her an injection.”

  My colleague, transporting a slice of mutton to my plate, paused in mid-air. “Injecting her? Up there?”

  “Yes, in the neck.”

  “Is that where you do it?”

  “Yes, always have done. Why?”

  “Because if I may say so, it’s rather a daft place. I always use the rump.”

  “Is that so?” I helped myself to mashed potatoes. “And what’s wrong with the neck?”

  “Well, you’ve illustrated it yourself, haven’t you? It’s too damn near the horns for a start.”

  “Okay, well the rump is too damn near the hind feet.”

  “Oh, come now, James, you know very well a cow very seldom kicks after a rump injection.”

  “Maybe so, but once is enough.”

  “And once is enough with a bloody horn, isn’t it?”

  I made no reply, Siegfried plied the gravy boat over both our plates and we started to eat. But he had hardly swallowed the first mouthful when he returned to the attack.

  “Another thing, the rump is so handy. Your way you have to squeeze up between the cows.”

  “Well, so what?”

  “Simply that you get your ribs squas
hed and your toes stood on, that’s all.”

  “All right.” I spooned some green beans from the tureen. “But your way you stand an excellent chance of receiving a faceful of cow shit.”

  “Oh rubbish, James, you’re just making excuses!” He hacked violently at his mutton.

  “Not at all,” I said. “It’s what I believe. And anyway, you haven’t made out a case against the neck.”

  “Made out a case? I haven’t started yet. I could go on indefinitely. For instance, the neck is more painful.”

  “The rump is more subject to contamination,” I countered.

  “The neck is often thinly muscled,” snapped Siegfried. “You haven’t got a nice pad there to stick your needle into.”

  “No, and you haven’t got a tail either,” I growled.

  “Tail? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the bloody tail! It’s all right if you have somebody holding it but otherwise it’s a menace, lashing about.”

  Siegfried gave a few rapid chews and swallowed quickly. “Lashing about? What in God’s name has that got to do with it?”

  “Quite a lot,” I replied. “I don’t like a whack across the face from a shitty tail, even if you do.”

  There was a heavy-breathing lull then my colleague spoke in an ominously quiet voice. “Anything else about the tail?”

  “Yes, there is. Some cows can whip a syringe out of your hand with their tails. The other day one caught my big fifty cc and smashed it against a wall. Broken glass everywhere.”

  Siegfried flushed slightly and put down his knife and fork. “James, I don’t like to speak to you in these terms, but I am bound to tell you that you are talking the most unmitigated balls, bullshit and poppycock.”

  I gave him a sullen glare. “That’s your opinion, is it?”

  “It is indeed, James.”’

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay.”

  “Very well.”

  We continued our meal in silence.

  But over the next few days my mind kept returning to the conversation. Siegfried has always had a persuasive way with him and the thought kept recurring that there might be a lot in what he said.

  It was a week later that I paused, syringe in hand, before pushing between two cows. The animals, divining my intent as they usually did, swung their craggy hind ends together and blocked my way. Yes, by God, Siegfried had a point. Why should I fight my way in there when the other end was ready and waiting?