All Creatures Great and Small (18 page)

Tristan flinched as if he had been struck. “Oh not another session with that bloody animal! He’s driving me mad!”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. James or I could have taken over tonight but we have to show up at this meeting. It would look bad if we missed it.”

Tristan stumbled back into the room and I put on my coat. As I went out into the street I paused for a moment and listened. The dog was still howling.

The meeting was a success. It was held in one of Brawton’s lush hotels and, as usual, the best part was the get together of the vets in the bar afterwards. It was infinitely soothing to hear the other man’s problems and mistakes—especially the mistakes.

It amused me to look round the crowded room and try to guess what the little knots of men were talking about. That man over there, bent double and slashing away at the air with one hand—he was castrating a colt in the standing position. And the one with his arm out at full stretch, his fingers working busily at nothing—almost certainly foaling a mare; probably correcting a carpal flexion. And doing it effortlessly too. Veterinary surgery was a childishly simple matter in a warm bar with a few drinks inside you.

It was eleven o’clock before we all got into our cars and headed for our own particular niche in Yorkshire—some to the big industrial towns of the West Riding, others to the seaside places of the east coast and Siegfried and I hurrying thankfully back on the narrow road which twisted between its stone walls into the Northern Pennines.

I thought guiltily that for the last few hours I had completely forgotten about Tristan and his vigil. Still, it must have been better tonight. The dog would surely have quietened down by now. But, jumping from the car in Darrowby, I froze in mid stride as a thin wail came out faintly from Skeldale House. This was incredible; it was after midnight and the dog was still at it. And what of Tristan? I hated to think what kind of shape he’d be in. Almost fearfully I turned the knob on the sitting-room door.

Tristan’s chair made a little island in a sea of empty beer bottles. An upturned crate lay against the wall and Tristan was sitting very upright and looking solemn. I picked my way over the debris.

“Well, has it been rough, Triss? How do you feel now?”

“Could be worse, old lad, could be worse. Soon as you’d gone I slipped over to the Drovers for a crate of pint Magnets. Made all the difference. After three or four the dog stopped worrying me—matter of fact, I’ve been yowling back at him for hours now. We’ve had quite an interesting evening. Anyway, he’s coming out now. Look at him.”

The big dog had his head up and there was recognition in his eyes. The howling had stopped. I went over and patted him and the long black tail jerked in a fair attempt at a wag.

“That’s better, old boy,” I said. “But you’d better behave yourself now. You’ve given your Uncle Tristan one hell of a day.”

The labrador responded immediately by struggling to his feet. He took a few swaying steps and collapsed among the bottles.

Siegfried appeared in the doorway and looked distastefully at Tristan, still very upright and wearing a judicial expression, and at the dog scrabbling among the bottles. “What an infernal mess! Surely you can do a little job without making an orgy out of it.”

At the sound of his voice the labrador staggered up and, in a flush of over-confidence, tried to run towards him, wagging his tail unsteadily. He didn’t get very far and went down in a heap, sending a Magnet empty rolling gently up to Siegfried’s feet.

Siegfried bent over and stroked the shining black head. “Nice friendly animal that. I should think he’s a grand dog when he’s got his senses about him. He’ll be normal in the morning, but the problem is what to do with him now. We can’t leave him staggering about down here—he could break a leg.” He glanced at Tristan who had not moved a muscle. He was sitting up straighter than ever; stiff and motionless like a Prussian general. “You know, I think the best thing would be for you to take him up to your room tonight. Now we’ve got him so far, we don’t want him to hurt himself. Yes, that’s it, he can spend the night with you.”

“Thank you, thank you very much indeed,” Tristan said in a flat voice, still looking straight to his front.

Siegfried looked at him narrowly for a moment, then turned away. “Right then, clear away this rubbish and let’s get to bed.”

My bedroom and Tristan’s were connected by a door. Mine was the main room, huge, square, with a high ceiling, pillared fireplace and graceful alcoves like the ones downstairs. I always felt a little like a duke lying there.

Tristan’s had been the old dressing-room and was long and narrow with his small bed crouching at one end as if trying to hide. There were no carpets on the smooth, varnished boards so I laid the dog on a heap of blankets and talked down soothingly at Tristan’s wan face on the pillow.

“He’s quiet now—sleeping like a baby and looks as though he’s going to stay that way. You’ll be able to have a well-earned rest now.”

I went back to my own room, undressed quickly and got into bed. I went to sleep immediately and I couldn’t tell just when the noises started next door, but I came suddenly wide awake with an angry yell ringing in my ears. Then there was a slithering and a bump followed by another distracted cry from Tristan.

I quailed at the idea of going into the dressing-room—there was nothing I could do, anyway—so I huddled closer into the sheets and listened. I kept sliding into a half sleep then starting into wakefulness as more bumping and shouting came through the wall.

After about two hours the noises began to change. The labrador seemed to have gained mastery over his legs and was marching up and down the room, his claws making a regular tck-a-tck, tck-a-tck, tck-a-tck on the wooden floor. It went on and on, interminably. At intervals, Tristan’s voice, hoarse now, burst out. “Stop it, for Christ’s sake! Sit down, you bloody dog!”

I must have fallen into a deeper sleep because when I awoke the room was grey with the cold light of morning. I rolled on to my back and listened. I could still hear the tck-a-tck of the claws but it had become irregular as though the labrador was strolling about instead of blundering blindly from one end of the room to the other. There was no sound from Tristan.

I got out of bed, shivering as the icy air of the room gripped me, and pulled on my shirt and trousers. Tiptoeing across the floor, I opened the connecting door and was almost floored as two large feet were planted on my chest. The labrador was delighted to see me and appeared to be thoroughly at home. His fine brown eyes shone with intelligence and well-being and he showed rows of glittering teeth and a flawlessly pink tongue in a wide, panting grin. Far below, the tail lashed ecstatically.

“Well, you’re all right, chum,” I said. “Let’s have a look at that wound.” I removed the horny paws from my chest and explored the line of stitches over the ribs. No swelling, no pain, no reaction at all.

“Lovely!” I cried. “Beautiful. You’re as good as new again.” I gave the dog a playful slap on the rump which sent him into a transport of joy. He leaped all over me, clawing and licking.

I was fighting him off when I heard a dismal groan from the bed. In the dim light Tristan looked ghastly. He was lying on his back, both hands clutching the quilt and there was a wild look in his eyes. “Not a wink of sleep, Jim,” he whispered. “Not a bloody wink. He’s got a wonderful sense of humour, my brother, making me spend the night with this animal. It’ll really make his day when he hears what I’ve been through. Just watch him—I’ll bet you anything you like he’ll look pleased.”

Later, over breakfast, Siegfried heard the details of his brother’s harrowing night and was very sympathetic. He condoled with him at length and apologised for all the trouble the dog had given him. But Tristan was right. He did look pleased.

TWENTY-TWO

A
S
I
CAME INTO
the operating room I saw that Siegfried had a patient on the table. He was thoughtfully stroking the head of an elderly and rather woebegone border terrier.

“James,” he said, “I want you to take this little dog through to Grier.”

“Grier?”

“Vet at Brawton. He was treating the case before the owner moved into our district. I’ve seen it a couple of times—stones in the bladder. It needs an immediate operation and I think I’d better let Grier do it. He’s a touchy devil and I don’t want to stand on his toes.”

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of him,” I said.

“Probably you have. A cantankerous Aberdonian. Since he practises in a fashionable town he gets quite a few students and he gives them hell. That sort of thing gets around.” He lifted the terrier from the table and handed him to me. “The sooner you get through there the better. You can see the op and bring the dog back here afterwards. But watch yourself—don’t rub Grier the wrong way or he’ll take it out of you somehow.”

At my first sight of Angus Grier I thought immediately of whisky. He was about fifty and something had to be responsible for the fleshy, mottled cheeks, the swimmy eyes and the pattern of purple veins which chased each other over his prominent nose. He wore a permanently insulted expression.

He didn’t waste any charm on me; a nod and a grunt and he grabbed the dog from my arms. Then he stabbed a finger at a slight, fairish youth in a white coat. “That’s Clinton—final-year student. Do ye no’ think there’s some pansy-lookin’ buggers coming in to this profession?”

During the operation he niggled constantly at the young man and, in an attempt to create a diversion, I asked when he was going back to college.

“Beginning of next week,” he replied.

“Aye, but he’s awa hame tomorrow,” Grier rasped. “Wasting his time when he could be gettin’ good experience here.”

The student blushed. “Well, I’ve been seeing practice for over a month and I felt I ought to spend a couple of days with my mother before the term starts.”

“Oh, I ken, I ken. You’re all the same—canna stay away from the titty.”

The operation was uneventful and as Grier inserted the last stitch he looked up at me. “You’ll no’ want to take the dog back till he’s out of the anaesthetic. I’ve got a case to visit—you can come with me to pass the time.”

We didn’t have what you could call a conversation in the car. It was a monologue; a long recital of wrongs suffered at the hands of wicked clients and predatory colleagues. The story I liked best was about a retired admiral who had asked Grier to examine his horse for soundness. Grier said the animal had a bad heart and was not fit to ride, whereupon the admiral flew into a fury and got another vet to examine the horse. The second vet said there was nothing the matter with the heart and passed the animal sound.

The admiral wrote Grier a letter and told him what he thought of him in fairly ripe quarter-deck language. Having got this out of his system he felt refreshed and went out for a ride during which, in the middle of a full gallop, the horse fell down dead and rolled on the admiral who sustained a compound fracture of the leg and a crushed pelvis.

“Man,” said Grier with deep sincerity, “man, I was awfu’ glad.”

We drew up in a particularly dirty farmyard and Grier turned to me. “I’ve got a cow tae cleanse here.”

“Right,” I said, “fine.” I settled down in my seat and took out my pipe. Grier paused, half way out of the car. “Are you no’ coming to give me a hand?”

I couldn’t understand him. “Cleansing” of cows is simply the removal of retained afterbirth and is a one-man job.

“Well, there isn’t much I can do, is there?” I said. “And my Wellingtons and coat are back in my car. I didn’t realise it was a farm visit—I’d probably get messed up for nothing.”

I knew immediately that I’d said the wrong thing. The toad-skin jowls flushed darker and he gave me a malevolent glance before turning away; but half way across the yard he stopped and stood for a few moments in thought before coming back to the car. “I’ve just remembered. I’ve got something here you can put on. You might as well come in with me—you’ll be able to pass me a pessary when I want one.”

It sounded nutty to me, but I got out of the car and went round to the back. Grier was fishing out a large wooden box from his boot.

“Here, ye can put this on. It’s a calving outfit I got a bit ago. I haven’t used it much because I found it a mite heavy, but it’ll keep ye grand and clean.”

I looked in the box and saw a suit of thick, black, shining rubber.

I lifted out the jacket; it bristled with zip fasteners and press studs and felt as heavy as lead. The trousers were even more weighty, with many clips and fasteners. The whole thing was a most imposing creation, obviously designed by somebody who had never seen a cow calved and having the disadvantage that anybody wearing it would be pretty well immobilised.

I studied Grier’s face for a moment but the watery eyes told me nothing. I began to take off my jacket—it was crazy but I didn’t want to offend the man.

And, in truth, Grier seemed anxious to get me into the suit because he was holding it up in a helpful manner. It was a two-man operation. First the gleaming trousers were pulled on and zipped up fore and aft, then it was the turn of the jacket, a wonderful piece of work, fitting tightly round the waist and possessing short sleeves about six inches long with powerful elastic gripping my biceps.

Before I could get it on I had to roll my shirt sleeves to the shoulder, then Grier, heaving and straining, worked me into it. I could hear the zips squeaking into place, the final one being at the back of my neck to close a high, stiff collar which held my head in an attitude of supplication, my chin pointing at the sky.

Grier’s heart really seemed to be in his work and, for the final touch, he produced a black rubber skull cap. I shrank away from the thing and began to mouth such objections as the collar would allow, but Grier insisted. “Stand still a wee minute longer. We might as well do the job right.”

When he had finished he stood back admiringly. I must have been a grotesque sight, sheathed from head to foot in gleaming black, my arms, bare to the shoulders, sticking out almost at right angles. Grier appeared well satisfied. “Well, come on, it’s time we got on wi’ the job.” He turned and hurried towards the byre; I plodded ponderously after him like an automaton.