Vet in Harness Page 6

two thirds full of neat whisky. I couldn't say anything because I had

  taken the plunge and put the onion in my mouth; and as I bit boldly into

  it the fumes rolled in a volatile wave into my nasal passages, making me

  splutter. I took a gulp at the whisky and looked up at Granville with

  watering eyes.

  He was holding out the onion bowl again and when I declined he regarded

  it for a moment with hurt in his eyes. "It's funny you don't like them,

  I always thought Zoe did them marvellously.'

  "Oh you're wrong, Granville, they're delicious. I just haven't finished

  this one.'

  He didn't reply but continued to look at the bowl with gentle sorrow. I

  realised there was nothing else for it; I took another onion.

  Immensely gratified, Granville hurried through to the kitchen again.

  This time when he came back he bore a tray with an enormous cold roast,

  a loaf of bread, butter and mustard.

  "I think a beef sandwich would go down rather nicely, Jim,' he murmured,

  as he stropped his carving knife on a steel. Then he noticed my glass of

  whisky still half full.

  "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!' he said with some asperity. "You're not touching

  your drink.' He watched me benevolently as I drained the glass then he

  refilled it to its old level. "That's better. And have another onion.'

  I stretched my legs out and rested my head on the back of the chair in

  an attempt to ease my internal turmoil. My stomach was a lake of

  volcanic lava bubbling and popping fiercely in its crater with each

  additional piece of onion, every sip of whisky setting up a fresh

  violent reaction. Watching Granville at work, a great wave of nausea

  swept over me. He was sawing busily at the roast, carving off slices

  which looked to be an inch thick, slapping mustard on them and enclosing

  them in the bread. He hummed with contentment as the pile grew. Every

  now and then he had another onion.

  "Now then, laddie,' he cried at length, putting a heaped plate at my

  elbow. "Get yourself round that lot.' He took his own supply and

  collapsed with a sigh into another chair.

  He took a gargantuan bite and spoke as he chewed. "You know, Jim, this

  is something I enjoy - a nice little snack. Zoe always leaves me plenty

  to go at when she pops out.' He engulfed a further few inches of

  sandwich. "And I'll tell you something, though I say it myself, these

  are bloody good, don't you think so?'

  "Yes indeed.' Squaring my shoulders I bit, swallowed and held my breath

  as another unwanted foreign body slid down to the ferment below.

  Just then I heard the front door open.

  "Ah, that'll be Zoe,' Granville said, and was about to rise when a

  disgracefully fat Staffordshire Bull Terrier burst into the room,

  waddled across the carpet and leapt into his lap.

  "Phoebles, my dear, come to daddykins!' he shouted. "Have you had nice

  walkies with mummy?'

  The Staffordshire was closely followed by a Yorkshire Terrier which was

  also enthusiastically greeted by Granville.

  Yoo-hoo, Victoria, Yoo-hoo!'

  The Yorkie, an obvious smiler, did not jump up but contented herself

  with Sitting at her master's feet, baring her teeth ingratiatingly every

  few seconds.

  I smiled through my pain. Another myth exploded; the one about these ~

  t~6 `~1 I JU/ 16~3

  specialist small animal vets not being fond of dogs themselves. The big

  man crooned over the two little animals. The fact that he called Phoebe

  "Phoebles' was symptomatic.

  I heard light footsteps in the hall and looked up expectantly. I had

  Granville's wife taped neatly in my mind; domesticated, devoted, homely;

  many of these dynamic types had wives like that, willing slaves content

  to lurk in the background. I waited confidently for the entrance of a

  plain little hauserau.

  When the door opened I almost let my vast sandwich fall. Zoe Bennett was

  a glowing warm beauty who would make any man alive stop for another

  look. A lot of soft brown hair, large grey-green friendly eyes, a tweed

  suit sitting sweetly on a slim but not too slim figure; and something

  else, a wholesomeness, an inner light which made me wish suddenly that I

  was a better man or at least that I looked better than I did.

  In an instant I was acutely conscious of the fact that my shoes were

  dirty, that my old jacket and corduroy trousers were out of place here.

  I hadn't troubled to change but had rushed straight out in my working

  clothes, and they were different from Granville's because I couldn't go

  round the farms in a suit like his.

  "My love, my love!' he carolled joyously as his wife bent over and

  kissed him fondly. "Let me introduce Jim Herriot from Darrowby.'

  The beautiful eyes turned on me.

  "How d'you do, Mr Herriot!' She looked as pleased to see me as her

  husband had done and again I had the desperate wish that I was more

  presentable; that my hair was combed, that I didn't have this mounting

  conviction that I was going to explode into a thousand pieces at any

  moment.

  "I'm going to have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot. Would you like one?'

  "No-no, no no, thank you very much but no, no, not at the moment.' I

  backed away slightly.

  "Ah well, I see you've got one of Granville's little sandwiches.' She

  giggled and went to get her tea.

  When she came back she handed a parcel to her husband. "I've been

  shopping today, darling. Picked up some of those shirts you like so

  much.'

  "My sweet! how kind of you!' He began to tear at the brown paper like a

  schoolboy and produced three elegant shirts in cellophane covers.

  "They're marvelous, my pet, you spoil me.' He looked Up? at me. "Jim!

  These are the most wonderful shirts, you must have one.' He flicked a

  shining package across the room on to my lap.

  I looked down at it in amazement. "No, really I can't .. .'

  "Of course you can. You keep it.'

  "But Granville, not a shirt .. . it's too .. .'

  "It's a very good shirt.' He was beginning to look hurt again.

  I subsided.

  They were both so kind. Zoe sat right by me with her tea cup, chatting

  pleasantly, while Granville beamed at me from his chair as he finished

  the last of the sandwiches and started again on the onions.

  The proximity of the attractive woman was agreeable but embarrassing. My

  corduroys in the warmth of the room had begun to give off the

  unmistakable bouquet of the farmyard where they spent most of their

  time. And though it was one of my favourite scents there was no doubt it

  didn't go with these elegant surroundings.

  And worse still, I had started a series of internal rumblings and

  musical tinklings which resounded only too audibly during every lull in

  the conversation. The only other time I have heard such sounds was in a

  cow with an advanced case of displacement of the abomasum. My companions

  delicately feign:,]

  ~L deafness even when I produced a shameful, explosive belch which made

  the little fat dog start up in alarm, but when another of these mighty

  borborygmi escaped me and almost made the windows rattle I thought it
/>
  time to go.

  In any case I wasn't contributing much else. The alcohol had taken hold

  and I was increasingly conscious that I was just sitting there with a

  stupid leer on my face. In striking contrast to Granville who looked

  just the same as when I first met him back at the surgery. He was cool

  and possessed, his massive urbanity unimpaired. It was a little hard.

  So, with the tin of tobacco bumping against my hip and the shirt tucked

  under my arm I took my leave.

  Back at the hospital I looked down at Dinah. The old dog had come

  through wonderfully well and she lifted her head and gazed at me

  sleepily. Her colour was good and her pulse strong. The operative shock

  had been dramatically minimised by my colleague's skilful speedy

  technique and by the intravenous drip.

  I knelt down and stroked her ears. "You know, I'm sure she's going to

  make it, Granville.'

  Above me the great pipe nodded with majestic confidence.

  "Of course, laddie, of course.'

  And he was right. Dinah was rejuvenated by her hysterectomy and lived to

  delight her mistress for many more years.

  On the way home that night she lay by my side on the passenger seat, her

  nose poking from a blanket. Now and then she rested her chin on my hand

  as it gripped the gear lever and occasionally she licked me lazily.

  I could see she felt better than I did.

  Chapter Eight.

  As I looked at the group of sick young cattle on the hillside a mixture

  of apprehension and disbelief flooded through me. Surely not more

  trouble for the Dalbys.

  The old saw "It never rains but it pours' seems to apply with particular

  force to farming. The husk outbreak last year and now this. It had all

  started with the death of Billy Dalby; big, slow-smiling, slow-talking

  Billy. He was as strong and tough as any of the shaggy beasts which

  ranged his fields but he had just melted away in a few weeks. Cancer of

  the pancreas they said it was and Billy was gone before anybody could

  realise it and there was only his picture smiling down from the kitchen

  mantelpiece on his wife and three young children.

  The general opinion was that Mrs Dalby should sell up and get out. You

  needed a man to run this place and anyway Prospect House was a bad farm.

  Neighbouring farmers would stick out their lower lips and shake their

  heads when they looked at the boggy pastures on the low side of the

  house with the tufts of spiky grass sticking from the sour soil or at

  the rocky outcrops and scattered stones on the hillside fields. No, it

  was a poor place and a woman would never make a go of it.

  Everybody thought the same thing except Mrs Dalby herself. There wasn't

  much of her, in fact she must have been one of the smallest women I have

  ever seen - around five feet high - but there was a core of steel in

  her.

  She had her own mind and her own way of doing things.

  I remember when Billy was still alive I had been injecting some sheep up

  there and Mrs Dalby called me into the house.

  "You'll have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot?' She said it in a gracious way,

  not casually, her head slightly on one side and a dignified little smile

  on her face.

  And when I went into the kitchen I knew what I would find; the

  inevitable tray. It was always a tray with Mrs Dalby. The hospitable

  Dales people were continually asking me in for some kind of refreshment

  - a 'bit o' dinner' perhaps, but if it wasn't midday there was usually a

  mug of tea and a scone or a hunk of thick-crusted apple pie - but Mrs

  Dalby invariably set out a special tray. And there it was today with a

  clean cloth and the best china cup and saucer and side plates with

  sliced buttered scones and iced cakes and malt bread and biscuits. It

  was on its own table away from the big kitchen table.

  "Do sit down, Mr Herriot,' she said in her precise manner. "I hope that

  tea isn't too strong for you.'

  Her speech was what the farmers would call 'very proper' but it went

  with her personality which to me embodied a determination to do

  everything as correctly as possible.

  "Looks perfect to me, Mrs Dalby.' I sat down, feeling somewhat exposed,

  in the middle of the kitchen with Billy smiling comfortably from an old

  armchair by the fire and his wife standing by my side.

  She never sat down with us but stood there, very erect, hands clasped in

  front of her, head inclined, ceremoniously attending to my every wish.

  "Let me fill your cup, Mr Herriot,' or "Won't you try some of this

  custard tart?'

  She wasn't what you would call pretty; it was a rough-skinned red little

  face with tiny, very dark eyes but there was a sweet expression and a

  quiet dignity. And as I say, there was strength.

  Billy died in the spring and as everybody waited for Mrs Dalby to make

  arrangement for the sale she went right on with the running of the farm.

  She did it with the help of a big farm worker called Charlie who had

  helped Billy occasionally but now came full time. During the summer I

  was called out a few times for trivial ailments among the cattle and I

  could see that Mrs Dalby was managing to hang on; she looked a bit

  haggard because she was now helping in the fields and buildings as well

  as coping with her housework and young family, but she was still

  fighting. '

  It was half way through September when she asked me to call to see some

  young cattle - stirks of around nine months - which were coughing.

  "They were really fit when they were turned out in May,' she said, as we

  walked across the grass to the gate in the corner. "But they've gone

  down badly this last week or two.'

  I held the gate open, we walked through, and as I approached the group

  of animals I grew progressively uneasy. Even at this distance I could

  see that something was far wrong; they were not moving around or grazing

  as they should have been but were curiously immobile. There would be

  about thirty of them and many had their necks extended forward as if

  seeking air. And from the bunch a barking cough was carried to us on the

  soft breeze of late summer.

  By the time we reached the cattle my uneasiness had been replaced by a

  dry-mouthed dread. They didn't seem to care as I moved in among them and

  I had to shout and wave my arms to get them moving; and they had barely

  begun to stir before the coughing broke out throughout the group; not

  just an occasional bark but a hacking chorus which seemed almost to be

  tearing the little animals apart. And they weren't just coughing; most

  of them were panting, standing straddle-legged, ribs heaving in a

  desperate fight for breath. A few~v showed bubbles of saliva at their

  lips and from here and there among the pack groans of agony sounded as

  the lungs laboured.

  I turned as in a dream to Mrs Dalby.

  "They've got husk.' Even as I said it it sounded a grimly inadequate

  description of the tragedy I was witnessing. Because this was neglected

  husk, a terrible doom-laden thing.

  "Husk?' the little woman said brightly. "What causes it?'

  I looked at her f
or a moment then tried to make my voice casual.

  "Well it's a parasite. A tiny worm which infests the bronchial tubes and

  sets up bronchitis - in fact that's the proper name, parasitic

  bronchitis. The larvae climb up the blades of grass and the cattle eat

  them as they graze. Some pastures are badly affected with it.' I broke

  off. A lecture was out of place at a time like this.

  What I felt like saying was why in God's name hadn't I been called in

  weeks ago. Because this wasn't only bronchitis now; it was pneumonia,

  pleurisy, emphysema and any other lung condition you cared to name with

  not merely a few of the hair-like worms irritating the tubes, but great

  seething masses of them crawling everywhere, balling up and blocking the

  vital air passages. I had opened up a lot of calves like these and I

  knew how it looked.

  I took a deep breath. "They're pretty bad, Mrs Dalby. A mild attack

  isn't so bad if you can get them off the grass right away, but this has

  gone a long way beyond that. You can see for yourself, can't you they're

  like a lot of little skeletons. I wish I'd seen them sooner.'

  She looked up at me apprehensively and I decided not to belabour the

  point. It would be like rubbing it in; saying what her neighbours had

  said all along, that her inexperience would land her in trouble sooner

  or later. If Billy had been here he probably would never have turned his

  young cattle on to this marshy field; or he would have spotted the

  trouble right at the start and brought them inside. Charlie would be no

  help in a situation like this; he was a good willing chap but lived up

  to the Yorkshire saying, "Strong in t'arm and thick in "'head.' Farming

  is a skilful business and Billy, the planner, the stocksman, the

  experienced agriculturist who knew his own farm inside out, just wasn't

  there.

  Mrs Dalby drew herself up with that familiar gesture.

  "Well what can we do about it, Mr Herriot?'

  An honest reply in those days would have been, "Medicinally nothing.'

  But I didn't say that.

  "We've got to get them all inside immediately. Every mouthful of this

  grass is adding to the worm burden. Is Charlie around to give us a

  hand?'

  "Yes, he's in the next field, mending a wall.' She trotted across the

  turf and in a minute or two returned with the big man ambling by her

  side.

  "Aye, ah thought it were a touch of husk,' he said amiably, then with a

  hint of eagerness. "Are ye going' to give them the throat injection?'

  "Yes .. . yes .. . but let's get them up to the buildings.' As we drove

  the cattle slowly up the green slope I marvelled ruefully at this

  further example of faith in the intratracheal injection for husk. There

  was really no treatment for the condition and it would be another twenty

  years before one appeared in the shape of diethylcarbamazine' but the

  accepted procedure was to inject a mixture of chloroform, turpentine and

  creosote into the windpipe.

  Modern vets may raise their eyebrows at the idea of introducing this

  barbaric concoction directly into the delicate lung tissue and we old

  ones didn't think much of it either. But the farmers loved it.

  When we had finally got the stirks into the fold yard I looked round

  them with something like despair. The short journey had exacerbated

  their symptoms tremendously and I stood in the middle of a symphony of

  coughs, grunts and groans while the cattle, tongues protruding, ribs

  pumping, gasped for breath ~

  I got a bottle of the wonderful injection from the car, and with Charlie

  holding the head and little Mrs Dalby hanging on to the tail I began to

  go through the motions. Seizing the trachea in my left hand I inserted