Every Living Thing Part 2

His head fell on his chest and he studied the polished boards of the counter with fierce concentration. Then he looked up and pushed his face nearer to the lady's. "A pastille, possibly...?"

"Nay...nay."

"A truffle? A soft caramel? A peppermint cream?"

"No, nowt like that."

He straightened up. This was a tough one. He folded his arms across his chest and as he stared into s.p.a.ce and took the long inhalation I remembered so well, I could see that he was a big man again, his shoulders spreading wide, his face ruddy and well-fleshed.

Nothing having evolved from his cogitations, his jaw jutted and he turned his face upwards, seeking further inspiration from the ceiling. Alfred, I noticed, looked upwards, too.

There was a tense silence as Geoff held his pose, then a smile crept slowly over his n.o.ble features. He raised a finger. "Madam," he said, "I do fancy I have it. Whitish, you said...sometimes pink...rather squashy...May I suggest to you...marshmallow?"

Mrs. Hird thumped the counter. "Aye, that's it, Mr. Hatfield. I just couldn't think of t'name."

"Ha-ha, I thought so," boomed the proprietor, his organ tones rolling to the roof. He laughed, the ladies laughed, and I was positive that Alfred laughed, too.

All was well again. Everybody in the shop was happy- Geoff, Alfred, the ladies and, not least, James Herriot.

Chapter 4.

"YOU CALL YOURSELF A vet, but you're nowt but a robber!"

Mrs. Sidlow, her fierce little dark eyes crackling with fury, spat out the words and as I looked at her, taking in the lank black hair framing the haggard face with its pointed chin, I thought, not for the first time, how very much she resembled a witch. It was easy to imagine her throwing a leg over a broomstick and zooming off for a quick flip across the moon.

"All t'country's talkin' about you and your big bills," she continued. "I don't know how you get away with it, it's daylight robbery-robbin' the poor farmers and then you come out here bold as bra.s.s in your flash car."

That was what had started it. Since my old vehicle was dropping to bits I had lashed out on a second-hand Austin 10. It had done twenty thousand miles but had been well maintained and looked like new with its black bodywork shining in the sun, and the very sight of it had sparked off Mrs. Sidlow.

The purchase of a new car was invariably greeted with a bit of leg-pulling by most of the farmers. "Job must be payin' well," they would say with a grin. But it was all friendly, with never a hint of the venom that seemed to be part of the Sidlow menage.

The Sidlows hated vets. Not just me, but all of them, and that was quite a few because they had tried every practice for miles around and found them all wanting. The trouble was that Mr. Sidlow himself was quite simply the only man in the district who knew anything about doctoring sick animals-his wife and all his grown-up family knew this as an article of faith and whenever illness struck any of his cattle, it was natural that Father took over. It was only when he had exhausted his supply of secret remedies that the vet was called in. I personally had seen only dying animals on that farm and had been unable to bring them back to life, so the Sidlows were invariably confirmed in their opinion of me and all my profession.

Today I had been viewing with the old feeling of hopelessness an emaciated little beast huddled in a dark corner of the fold yard taking its last few breaths after a week of pneumonia while the family stood around breathing hostility, shooting the usual side glances at me from their glowering faces. I had been trailing wearily back to my car on the way out when Mrs. Sidlow had spotted me from the kitchen window and catapulted into the yard.

"Aye, it's awright for you," she went on. "We 'ave to work hard to make a livin' on this spot and then such as you come and take our money away from us without doin' anythin' for it. Ah know what it is, your idea is to get rich quick!"

Only my long training that the customer is always right stopped me from barking back. Instead I forced a smile.

"Mrs. Sidlow," I said, "I a.s.sure you that I'm anything but rich. In fact, if you could see my bank balance you would see what I mean."

"You're tellin' me you haven't much money?"

"That's right."

She waved towards the Austin and gave me another searing glare. "So this fancy car's just a lot o' show on nowt!"

I had no answer. She had me both ways-either I was a fat cat or a stuck-up poseur.

As I drove away up the rising road I looked back at the farm with its substantial house and wide sprawl of buildings. There were five hundred lush acres down there, lying in the low country at the foot of the dale. The Sidlows were big, prosperous farmers with none of the worries of the hill men who struggled to exist on the bleak smallholdings higher up, and it was difficult to understand why my imagined affluence should be such an affront to them.

It occurred to me, too, that this latest attack had come at a time when my finances were at their lowest ebb. As I changed gear I caught a glimpse of pink flesh through the knee of my old corduroys. Oh, h.e.l.l, these trousers had just about had it as indeed had a lot of my clothes, but the needs of two growing children came a long way before my own. Not that there was any point in going round my work looking like a male fashion plate-I had one of the roughest, dirtiest jobs in the world and could only aim at reasonable respectability-and I always had the comforting knowledge that I did have one "good suit," which had lasted for many years simply because it was hardly ever worn.

But it was indeed strange that I should be perpetually hard up. Siegfried and I had built up a good, successful practice. I worked nearly all the time, seven days a week, in the evenings and often during the night, and it was hard work, too-rolling about on cobbled floors fighting with tough calvings to the point of exhaustion, getting kicked, crushed, trodden on and sprayed with muck. Often, I spent days with every muscle in my body aching. But I still had only a niggling and immovable overdraft of 1,000 to show for it all.

Of course, most of my time was spent driving a car. You didn't get paid for that, and maybe it was the reason for my situation. Yet the driving, the work and the whole rich life was spent out in the open in this glorious countryside. I really loved it all and it was only when I was accused of being a kind of agricultural con man that the contradiction came home to me.

As the road climbed higher I began to see the church tower and roofs of Darrowby and, at last, on the edge of the town, the gates of Mrs. Pumphrey's beautiful home lay beckoning. I looked at my watch-twelve noon. Long practice had enabled me to time my visits here just before lunch when I could escape the rigours of country practice and wallow for a little while in the hospitality of the elderly widow who had brightened my life for so long.

As my tyres crunched on the gravel of the drive I smiled as Tricki Woo appeared at the window to greet me. He was old now, but he could still get up there to his vantage point and his Pekingese face was split as always by a panting grin of welcome.

Mounting the steps in the twin pillars of the doorway, I could see that he had left the window and I heard his joyous barking in the hall. Ruth, the long-serving maid, answered my ring, beaming with pleasure as Tricki flung himself at my knees.

"Eee, he's glad to see you, Mr. 'erriot," she said, and, laying a hand on my arm, "We all are!"

She ushered me into the gracious drawing room, where Mrs. Pumphrey was sitting in an armchair by the fire. She raised her white head from her book and cried out in delight, "Ah, Mr. Herriot. How very, very nice! And Tricki, isn't it wonderful to have Uncle Herriot visiting again!"

She waved me to the armchair opposite. "I have been expecting you for Tricki's check-up, but before you examine him you must sit down and warm yourself. It is so terribly cold. Ruth, my dear, will you bring Mr. Herriot a gla.s.s of sherry. You will say yes, won't you, Mr. Herriot?"

I murmured my thanks. I always said yes to the very special sherry, which came in enormous gla.s.ses and was deeply heartening at all times but on cold days in particular. I sank into the cushions and stretched my legs towards the flames that leaped in the fireplace, and as I took my first sip and Ruth deposited a plate of tiny biscuits by my side while the little dog climbed onto my knee, the last of the hostile Sidlow vibes slipped gently away from me.

"Tricki has been awfully well since your last visit, Mr. Herriot," Mrs. Pumphrey said. "I know he is always going to be a little stiff with his arthritis but he does get around so well, and his little heart cough is no worse. And best of all," she clasped her hands together and her eyes widened, "he hasn't gone flop-bott at all. Not once! So perhaps you won't have to squeeze the poor darling."

"Oh, no, I won't. Certainly not. I only do that if he really needs it." I had been squeezing Tricki Woo's bottom for many years because of his a.n.a.l gland trouble so graphically named by his mistress and the little animal had never resented it. I stroked his head as Mrs. Pumphrey went on.

"There is something very interesting I must tell you. As you know, Tricki has always been deeply knowledgeable about horse-racing, a wonderful judge of form, and wins nearly all his bets. Well, now," she raised a finger and spoke in a confidential murmur, "just recently he has become very interested in greyhound-racing!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes, indeed, he has begun to discuss the meetings at the Middlesbrough greyhound track and instructed me to place bets for him and, you know, he has won quite a lot of money already!"

"Gosh!"

"Yes, only this morning Crowther, my chauffeur, collected twelve pounds from the bookmaker after last evening's races."

"Well, well, how wonderful." My heart bled for Honest Joe Prendergast, the local turf accountant, who must be suffering after losing money on horse-racing to a dog for years and then having to pay out on the greyhounds, too. "Quite remarkable."

"Isn't it, isn't it!" Mrs. Pumphrey gave me a radiant smile, then she became serious. "But I do wonder, Mr. Herriot, just what is responsible for this new interest. What is your opinion?"

I shook my head gravely. "Difficult to say. Very difficult."

"However, I have a theory," she said. "Do you think perhaps that as he grows older he is more drawn to animals of his own species and prefers to bet on doggy runners like greyhounds?"

"Could be....could be..."

"And, after all, you would think with this affinity it would give him more insight and a better chance of winning."

"Well, yes, that's right. That's another point."

Tricki, well aware that we were talking about him, waved his fine tail and looked up at me with his wide grin and lolling tongue.

I settled deeper in the cushions as the sherry began to send warm tendrils through my system. This was a happily familiar situation, listening to Mrs. Pumphrey's recitals of Tricki Woo's activities. She was a kind, highly intelligent and cultivated lady, admired by all and a benefactress to innumerable charities. She sat on committees and her opinion was sought on many important matters, but where her dog was concerned her conversation never touched on weighty topics, but was filled with strange and wondrous things.

She leaned forward in her chair. "There is something else I would like to talk to you about, Mr. Herriot. You know that a Chinese restaurant has set up in Darrowby?"

"Yes, very nice, too."

She laughed. "But who would have thought it? A Chinese restaurant in a little place like Darrowby-it's amazing!"

"Very unexpected, I agree. But this last year or two they have been popping up all over Britain."

"Yes, but what I want to discuss with you is that this has affected Tricki."

"What!"

"Yes, he has been most upset over the whole business."

"How on earth...?"

"Well, Mr. Herriot..." She frowned and gazed at me, solemn-faced. "I told you many years ago and you have always known that Tricki is descended from a long line of Chinese emperors."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Well, I think I can explain the whole problem if I start at the beginning."

I took a long swallow at my sherry with the pleasant sensation that I was floating away in a dream world. "Please do."

"When the restaurant first opened," she went on, "there was a surprising amount of resentment among some of the local people. They criticised the food and the very nice little Chinese man and his wife and put it about that there was no place for such a restaurant in Darrowby and that it should not be patronised. Now it happened that when Tricki and I were out on our little walks he overheard these remarks in the street, and he was furious."

"Really?"

"Yes, quite affronted. I can tell when he feels like this. He stalks about with an insulted expression and it is so difficult to placate him."

"Dear me, I'm sorry."

"And after all, one can finally understand how he felt when he heard his own people being denigrated."

"Quite, quite, absolutely-only natural."

"However...however, Mr. Herriot." She raised a finger again and gave me a knowing smile. "The clever darling suggested the cure himself."

"He did?"

"Yes, he told me that we ourselves should start to frequent the restaurant and sample their food."

"Ah."

"And that is what we did. I had Crowther drive us there for lunch and we did enjoy it so much. Also, we found we could take the food home all nice and hot in little boxes-what fun! Now that we have started, Crowther often pops out in the evening and brings us our supper and you know, the restaurant seems quite busy now. I feel we have really helped."

"I'm sure you have," I said, and I meant it. The Lotus Garden, tucked in a corner of the market-place, wasn't much more than a shop front with four small tables inside, and the sight of the gleaming black length of the limousine and liveried chauffeur parked frequently at its door must have given it a tremendous lift. I was struggling unsuccessfully to picture the locals peering through the shop window at Mrs. Pumphrey and Tricki eating at one of those tiny tables when she went on.

"I'm so glad you think so. And we have enjoyed it all so much. Tricki adores the char sui and my favourite is the chow mein. The little Chinese man is teaching us how to use the chopsticks, too."

I put down my empty gla.s.s and dusted the tasty crumbs from my jacket. I hated to interrupt these sessions and return to reality, but I looked at my watch. "I'm so glad things turned out so nicely, Mrs. Pumphrey, but I think I'd better give the little chap his check-up."

I lifted Tricki onto a settee and palpated his abdomen thoroughly. Nothing wrong there. Then I fished out my stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. There was the heart murmur I knew about and some faint bronchitic sounds, which I expected. In fact I was totally familiar with all my old friend's internal workings after treating him over the years. Teeth now-maybe could do with another scale next time. Eyes with the beginnings of the lens opacity of the old dog, but not too bad at all.

I turned to Mrs. Pumphrey. Tricki was on prednoleucotropin for his arthritis and oxytetracycline for the bronchitis but I never elaborated on his ailments to her-too many medical terms upset her. "He's really wonderful for his age, Mrs. Pumphrey. You have his tablets to use when necessary and you know where I am if ever you need me. Just one thing. You have been very good with his diet lately so don't give him too many t.i.tbits-not even extra char sui!"

She giggled and gave me a roguish look. "Oh, please don't scold me, Mr. Herriot. I promise I'll be good." She paused for a moment. "I must mention one more thing with regard to Tricki's arthritis. You know that Hodgkin has been throwing rings for him for years?"

"Yes, I do." Her words raised an image of the dour old gardener under duress casting the rubber rings on the lawn while the little dog, barking in delight, brought them back to him again. Hodgkin, who clearly didn't like dogs, invariably looked utterly fed up and his lips always seemed to be moving as he muttered either to himself or Tricki.

"Well, I thought in view of Tricki's condition that Hodgkin was throwing the rings too far and I told him to throw them for just a few feet. The little darling would have just as much fun with much less exertion."

"I see."

"Unfortunately," here her expression became disapproving, "Hodgkin has been rather mean about it."

"In what way?"

"I wouldn't have known anything about it," she said, lowering her voice, "but Tricki confided in me."

"Did he really?"

"Yes, he told me that Hodgkin had complained bitterly that it meant he had to bend down a lot more often to pick up the rings and that he had arthritis, too. I wouldn't have minded," her voice sank to a whisper, "but Tricki was deeply shocked; he said Hodgkin used the word 'b.l.o.o.d.y' several times."

"Oh, dear, dear, yes, I see the difficulty."

"It has made the whole thing so embarra.s.sing for Tricki. What do you think I should do?"

I nodded sagely and after some cogitation gave my opinion. "I do think, Mrs. Pumphrey, that it would be a good idea to have the throwing sessions less often and for a shorter time. After all, both Tricki and Hodgkin are no longer young."

She gazed at me for a few moments, then smiled fondly. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Herriot, I'm sure you are right, as always. I shall follow your advice."

I was about to make my farewells when Mrs. Pumphrey put a hand on my arm. "Before you go, Mr. Herriot, I would like you to see something."

She led the way to a room off the hall and opened the doors of a ma.s.sive wardrobe. I looked at a long row of opulent suits-I had never seen so many outside a shop.

"These," she said, running her hand slowly along jackets of all kinds, dark and dressy, light and tweed, "belonged to my late husband." For a few moments she was silent as she fingered one sleeve after another, then she became suddenly brisk and turned to me with a bright smile. "He did love good clothes and went to London for all his suits. Now this one." She reached up and lifted down a jacket and trousers of Lovat tweed. "This one was made by one of the best tailors in Savile Row. Ooh, it's so heavy, will you hold it, please?" She gasped as she laid it on my outstretched arm and I, too, was amazed at its weight.