Part 18 (1/2)
”Yes, you can do that, can't you? After his morning meal. It'll soon be part of your daily programme.”
He gave me a doubtful look, but didn't say anything and I supplied him with all he would require.
Once Bouncer had turned the corner his recovery proceeded at a galloping pace, and Arnie after a few days brushed aside my doubts about his ability to carry out the injections. In fact it transpired that for some time he had been a sort of personal a.s.sistant to an army surgeon during the Balkans campaign and was very familiar with hypodermics.
My final happy memory of the diabetes episode was when I looked over the hedge into Arnie's garden and saw him wrestling with Bouncer on the gra.s.s.
”What are you up to, Arnie?” I cried.
”Doing a low tackle on Bouncer-teachin' 'im rugby,” came the reply.
As autumn stretched into winter, there was considerable excitement in Darrowby when it was announced that the important men's hockey match between the rural counties of Yorks.h.i.+re and Lancas.h.i.+re was to be played on the local ground. They were two of the top teams and contained several international players. Everybody was looking forward to seeing these famous men in action and on the Sat.u.r.day afternoon I got to the ground in what I hoped would be good time. However, people were already standing several deep round the touch-lines-I'd never seen such a crowd there-and I was wondering where I could find a vantage spot when I heard a voice calling.
”Hey, Jim, there's a spare seat over here.”
It was Arnie, comfortably settled in one of the seats in front of the clubhouse.
”Are you sure, Arnie?”
”Aye, ah've been keeping it for you. Sit down.”
Well, this was very nice. The game was just about to start and I had a perfect view. I felt something stirring against my trouser leg and saw that it was Bouncer's nose pus.h.i.+ng at me. He was in his usual place under his master's seat and he seemed to be telling me that he was in top form again.
I tickled his ears while I watched the match. The standard of play was very high with the four internationals s.h.i.+ning above the rest.
Arnie kept up a running commentary.
”There's Pip Chapman, Yorks.h.i.+re captain and England centre forward-old pal of mine. And Greg Holroyd, captain of Lancas.h.i.+re and England winger-another good old mate, and those two other internationals, Tim Mowbray and Johnnie Hart-I know 'em all well, known 'em for years.”
At half-time as the players gathered in the middle of the pitch, Arnie was in expansive mood. ”It's nice to see the winter games startin' again, but I keep thinkin' about that last cricket match of the season at Scarborough cricket festival. I was just sittin' there enjoying the suns.h.i.+ne when Fred Trueman spotted me. 'Arnie,' he said, 'I've been looking for you everywhere.' ?
This last remark attributed to another of cricket's immortals seemed to amuse a group of young men sitting behind us. After a few half-stifled giggles one of them spoke up.
”Fred Trueman, Arnie? The real Fred Trueman? Looking for you everywhere?” Arnie, grim-faced, nodded slightly with the dignity born of long practice, and this evoked another outburst of sn.i.g.g.e.rs with sotto voce repet.i.tions of ”looking for you everywhere,” a phrase that seemed to tickle them.
My friend ignored them, rigid in his seat, eyes gazing fixedly ahead, till another of the youths returned to the attack. ”I hear you've got some old pals out there on the field, too, Arnie? Those four top men-known 'em for years, eh?” Again Arnie nodded briefly and I felt a sharp twinge of apprehension. We were heading into deep water this time with the tangible evidence of his claims running around in front of us. Arnie was sitting on the end seat, right next to the aisle up which the teams would have to pa.s.s to get to the clubhouse; those men would be within touching distance of him. They couldn't fail to see him.
When the final whistle blew and the players began to make their way towards us, my throat tightened. Something awful was surely going to happen and I wished with all my heart that I was somewhere else.
Holroyd, the big, black-moustached Lancastrian, was the first to come clumping up the steps, face sweating, knees mud-spattered. He glanced at Arnie and brushed past him, then, as my stomach began to lurch, he stopped and took a step back. There was a pause as he looked down, then, ”It's Arnie Braithwaite!” he burst out. ”h.e.l.lo! How are you, old chap?” He began to pump my friend's hand and called out to his team-mates. ”Hey, Pip, Johnnie, Tim, look who's here. It's our old chum!” There was a jam of players in the aisle as the four men gathered round Arnie, thumping his back, laughing and shouting. Bouncer jumped from under the seat, and as dogs like to do, began to add a joyful barking to the general merriment.
Pip Chapman gazed down at Arnie with warm affection. ”Do you know, Arnie, we thought you might be here and we've been scanning the touch-line all through the match. We've been looking for you everywhere.”
Chapter 27.
MY CLIENTS' OPINIONS OF me varied widely, and although there was the odd one or two who thought I was brilliant, a large majority looked on me as a steady, reliable vet, while a few regarded me as of strictly limited ability. But I really think that only one family nourished the private conviction that I was not quite right in the head.
They were the Hardwicks, and it was a pity, because they were some of my favourite people.
This situation was due to a few unfortunate little accidents, and on this sharp and sunny January morning I had no inkling that I was going to sow the seeds of my image disintegration that very day. There had been just enough snow overnight to turn the world white and I could see the road to the Hardwick farm threading its way through a glittering frostiness under a sky of cloudless blue.
It was a long, long road, too, not much more than a rough track, trailing ever upwards for nearly a mile, disappearing from time to time behind bluffs or rocky outcrops until it reached the farm, whose faded red roofs were just visible as I drove up to the first gate.
These farms of many gates were places of dread on busy days, eating up the precious minutes with nothing to show for all the effort. But this morning as I got out of the car, the sun struck warm on my face and the crisp air tingled in my nostrils, and, pus.h.i.+ng back gate one, I looked around at the wide landscape, silent and peaceful under its white mantle, and blessed my good fortune. There were six of these gates, and I hopped out happily at each one, the snow crackling under my feet.
Seb and Josh Hardwick were attacking a mountain of turnips in the yard, forking them up onto a cart that stood in the farmyard. Despite the cold, their faces gleamed with sweat as they turned smilingly to me.
”Now then, Mr. Herriot, grand mornin'.” They were typical Dales farmers-quiet, polite, even-natured-and I had always got on well with them.
”How are the calves today?” I asked.
”Lot better,” Seb said. ”And thank 'eavens. We were a bit worried.”
I was relieved, too. Salmonella is a nasty thing-highly fatal to young animals and dangerous to humans-and when I had seen the calves a couple of days ago the whole picture had looked ominous.
I went into the fold yard with the brothers and over to the big pen at one end where my patients, twenty in all, were standing, and I felt a glow of satisfaction. Everything was different. Two days ago, there was an air of doom over that pen, with the little creatures, listless and dejected, hanging their heads as the diarrhoea trickled down their tails, but now they were brighter and livelier, looking at me with interest as I leaned over the rails.
Actually I was mentally patting myself on the back, because I felt I had done rather well. I could easily have treated this as an ordinary case of scour, but the high temperatures and a telltale soft cough had alerted me. The rectal swabs I had taken had confirmed my diagnosis. I had given them the usual combination of chloramphenicol injections and furazolidone by the mouth and it was clearly doing the job.
”Well, that's fine,” I said, climbing into the pen. ”So far, so good. I'll repeat the injections and you must carry on with the powders for another five days and I think all is going to be well. And don't forget to wash your hands well every time.”
Josh took off his cap and wiped his streaming face. ”That's what we like to hear, Mr. Herriot. It's a good job we got you in right away or we'd have 'ad some dead 'uns lyin' about.”
After the injections Seb waved me towards the house. ”We'll all want a wash, and it's time for our ten o'clocks, any road.”
Later, in the kitchen, as I sipped my tea and bit into a home-made scone, the two attractive young wives, one dark, the other a blazing redhead, chatted to me, and, as I sat in the warmth of the fire with a baby crawling round my feet and two toddlers wrestling happily on the stone flags, I felt that life was pretty good. I could have stayed there all day, but my other work was pressing. The brothers, too, who had joined me for the tea, had begun to fidget, no doubt thinking of all those turnips outside. It was no good-I had to go.
In the yard, we made our farewells, the two men lifted their forks and I put my hand on the car door, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn't move. I went round, trying the other doors, but the result was the same. I was locked out.
My little beagle, Dinah, was the culprit. While I was treating the calves I had heard her barking at the farm dogs, which was one of her hobbies, and in the process, as she threw herself at each window, her paws had pushed down the k.n.o.bs that locked the doors.
I called to the brothers. ”Look, I'm very sorry, but I can't get into my car.”
”Oh, aye, what's happened?” They came over and looked inside and Dinah, tongue lolling, tail las.h.i.+ng delightedly, looked out at them. Behind her, my keys hung in the ignition switch, just an arm's length away but maddeningly inaccessible.
I explained the situation and Josh looked at me in surprise. ”You alius carry that little dog with you, don't you?”
”Oh, yes.”
”But you don't take your keys out when ye leave the car?”
”No...no...I'm afraid not.”
”Funny thing it's never 'appened before, then.”
”Well, yes, it is, when you think about it. And it's a great pity it's happened way out here.”