Part 7 (1/2)

But it wasn't like that at all. When Mrs. Featherstone came up to me she put a hand on my arm. ”Really, Mr. Herriot, you did me a service last night.”

”Eh?”

”Yes, you were so understanding. I realise now that I have been foolish about Rollo. I must have been such a nuisance to you.”

”Oh, no, no, no...”

”You are kind, but I know I have been unreasonable, troubling you over nothing at inconvenient times and here again I was at your door on a Sat.u.r.day night.”

”I a.s.sure you...”

”But instead of being upset, you laughed, and it was so wonderful how you made me see the funny side of my silliness. I feel so ashamed that I refused to listen to you when you so rightly tried to explain that I was worrying needlessly, and I do hope you can forgive me. From now on, I intend to be a sensible dog owner. And Rollo really is quite healthy, isn't he?”

Waves of relief rolled over me as I looked at the little dog, bright-eyed, laughing-faced, leaping almost head high at the sound of his name. ”Well, I'm not quite sure. He doesn't look very lively to me.”

”Oh, now you are trying to make me laugh again.” She put her hand over her mouth with the same embarra.s.sed gesture I remembered, then gave me a quizzical look. ”I feel I'm going to laugh a lot more in future.”

I haven't had a funny turn for thirty years. They just gradually disappeared from my life. But when I think of that Sat.u.r.day night with Mrs. Featherstone I still get an attack of the s.h.i.+vers.

Chapter 10.

I COULDN'T BELIEVE I was going to launch this boy on his own into the jungle of veterinary practice. Young John Crooks, so familiar a face after the months he had spent seeing practice with us during his university vacations, watching us work, picking up the practical hints and knowledge, doing the odd job himself, but always under our wings, was standing there by my desk, cheerful and smiling as always, but oh, so youthful. He looked about seventeen. It didn't seem fair to send him out there unprotected.

However, there was no doubt that it was J. L. Crooks Esq, MRCVS standing there, suitcase by his side, bright-eyed and eager to go, and I had to adjust to the fact.

I cleared my throat. ”Well, John,” I said, smiling up at him, ”congratulations on qualifying. You're a fully fledged veterinary surgeon now, all your examinations behind you, and it's good to see you here. And, you know, this is quite an occasion. You are the very first a.s.sistant to be employed in the practice of Farnon and Herriot.”

He laughed. ”Really? That makes me sound very important. But when I was here as a student you had people working for you?”

”Yes, that's right. Tristan, of course, but he's one of the family and we never thought of him as an a.s.sistant. And there were one or two temporary people, but you are the first official man.”

”Well, that's nice. And now I'm here I'd better start earning my keep.”

”Okay, we'll get your car kitted out and then you'd better report to your digs. You're lodging with Mrs. Barrier aren't you?”

As the young man filled the car boot with the drugs and instruments he was going to need I could see that he was keen to pitch into the unpredictable world of practice, but I wondered just how nervous he was at the prospect of confronting the tough Yorks.h.i.+re farmers on his own. Would he make the grade? Some new graduates just couldn't do it, and as he drove away in his Ford 8 with his bag of tricks rattling behind him I found myself crossing my fingers.

I have a big streak of old hen in me, as my family will testify, and throughout the day I was almost wringing my hands. How was the poor lad getting on? We were so busy that I didn't see him to talk to, and I kept hoping he hadn't come up against any awkward situations. Our farmers were nearly all no-nonsense but kindly men, but there was the odd very difficult client.

I recalled my session with Major Sykes a few days ago. The fierce little man barked at me as I treated his horse. ”Herriot, good G.o.d, man! Can't you do better than this? You don't seem to have much idea how to treat this blasted animal!” Then he shouted at his groom, ”No, don't put the bucket down there, you b.l.o.o.d.y fool!” He was impossible to please and verbally steamrollered people into the ground, treating everybody, especially, it seemed, vets, like the more dim-witted private soldiers of his army days. In fact, despite myself I often found my thumbs edging into line with the seams of my trousers, taking me back to the RAF.

It was late afternoon when I came into the surgery and looked at the day-book, and the words seemed to jump out at me. ”Major Sykes, Hunting horse, laminitis.” John had ticked it-he'd be there now.

My eyes popped. One of those adored and valuable hunters-and laminitis, a condition with so many nasty possibilities. No job for a newly qualified young chap. The Major would eat him alive. I had to check up and I hurried out to Roova Grange.

As I got out of the car I could hear the Major's aggressive tones coming from a loose box and I feared John was already going through it.

I peeped over the half-door of the box. A fine bay mare was standing there in the painful, crouching position of laminitis, her hind feet drawn under her body. A foal, obviously only a few days old, was close by her side. The Major, hands on hips, was almost shouting up into John's face.

”Now look here, er...er...what d'ye say your name is? Crooks, yes, now look here, dammit, Crooks, you say this mare has a bad laminitis. b.l.o.o.d.y great temperature, all crippled up, and you're trying to tell me that she'll be all right. Well, I bought her in foal and I bought her in good faith, is she always going to be subject to this, eh, eh? I've heard about horses that are always getting it. Have I been sold a pup, d'ye think? D'you know enough about the job to tell me that, eh, eh?”

The young man, however, did not seem at all put out. He spoke soothingly. ”Now, Major Sykes, I've told you the cause of the trouble. Your mare retained her afterbirth when she foaled and she developed metritis. Laminitis is a common complication of this, and what you have here is an isolated case. I've given her a shot of antibiotic and I'll repeat it over the next day or two. That will clear the metritis.”

Still bristling, the little man stuck out his chin. ”And how about the b.l.o.o.d.y laminitis, what're you going to do about that, eh, eh?”

”Well, as you saw, she's had an injection for that, too.” John gave him a serene smile. ”And if you'll keep her on bran for a few days and stand her in your pond to cool the feet as I directed, I'm sure she'll soon be back to normal.”

”And d'you think she's had it before?”

”No, no, no.”

”How the h.e.l.l d'ye know that?”

”Well, now, she's got no lines round her hooves, and look here.” He lifted one of the mare's forefeet. ”A lovely concave sole. She's never had laminitis before.”

”And it won't come back, eh?”

”No likelihood of a recurrence.”

”Just hope you're right,” the Major grunted.

”I'm sure I am. You'll see. You worry too much, you know.” I shuddered and closed my eyes as John reached out and gave the little man a comforting pat on the shoulder. For a moment I thought the Major would erupt, then, to my amazement, his face broke into something like a shy smile. ”You think so, eh?”

”I do indeed. You really oughtn't to let things upset you so much.”

This was something new in the little man's experience and for a few seconds he looked up into John's face, then he took off his cap and scratched his head. ”Well, maybe you're right. Maybe you're right, young man. Heh-heh-heh!”

I couldn't believe it. He was laughing. John threw back his head and laughed, too. It was like a reunion between two old college chums. And suddenly I realised that that wasn't little John Crooks, our student, in there, it was a tall, good-looking, self-a.s.sured veterinary surgeon with a fine big voice that lent authority to everything he said. I slunk away to my car and drove off with a resolution already formed in my mind. I wasn't going to worry about John any more.

He had been with us for a few weeks when I answered the phone one morning. ”h.e.l.lo, is that Mr. Herriot?” a cheerful voice enquired. I recognised one of our farmer clients.

”Yes, Mr. Gates,” I replied. ”What can I do for you?”

”Nay, it's awright. Ah want to speak to t'yoong man.”

A pang, unexpectedly deep and piercing, shot through me. What was this? I was the ”yoong man,” always had been. That was how the clients had invariably referred to me even though I was only six years younger than Siegfried. There was some mistake here.

”Whom did you say you wanted?” I asked.

”T'yoong man-Mr. Crooks.”

Ah, well, there it was. I hadn't realised that I had become attached to my t.i.tle and, walking along the pa.s.sage to fetch John, I felt strangely wistful as I faced the fact that, although I was still in my early thirties, I wasn't the young man any more.

From then on, I had to live with an ever-increasing flood of requests for the services of a young man who wasn't me. However, it was only depressing for a short time, because the compensations were enormous. As John settled in to the practice I found a miraculous easing of my life. It was rather wonderful to have an a.s.sistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o'clock in the morning and was able to pa.s.s it on to him and turn over and go to sleep, I could feel the liking deepening into a warm affection.

He had his own ideas about treatment and wasn't afraid to express them. One day Siegfried found the two of us in the operating room.