Part 32 (2/2)
There didn't seem to be anything I could do or say. I went out, leaving the mystery behind me, and as I walked through the moonlit garden, sick with failure and frustration, I reflected that it was a mystery that would never be solved.
I was soon swept along in the rush of my everyday work, but I found it difficult to put Robbie out of my mind. Inevitably, some vets' patients die and with dogs, heartache is always round the corner; their lives are too short. I knew I would not survive if I suffered every time along with the bereaved owners, and I did my best to preserve a professional att.i.tude. But it didn't always work and it didn't work with Robbie.
The a.s.sociation had gone on too long and the memories of that little dog wouldn't go away. And it made it worse that I had to pa.s.s Molly's cottage every day of my life, seeing her white head bobbing about in her garden where she used to play with Robbie. She looked very alone.
I had withheld my usual advice to ”get another dog,” because the old lady's health was obviously failing and I knew she could not bring herself to start all over again.
Sadly, my fears were confirmed, and Molly died a few weeks after Robbie. That chapter was finally closed.
It was late afternoon some time later that I came into the surgery and found Siegfried making up some medicine in the dispensary.
”Siegfried,” I said, ”I've had a d.a.m.ned awful day.”
He put down the bottle he had filled. ”In what way, James?”
”Well, every d.a.m.n thing seems to have gone wrong. Every case I revisited had got worse-none had improved-and a few people more or less suggested that I was a b.l.o.o.d.y awful vet.”
”Surely not. You're imagining things.”
”I don't think so. It started first thing this morning when I was examining Mrs. Cowling's dog. It was a rather obscure case and I tried to spell out the various possibilities to her. She gave me a frosty look and said, 'Well, the long and short of it is that you simply have no idea what is wrong with the animal!' ”
”I shouldn't worry about that, James. She probably didn't mean anything.”
”You didn't see her face. But then I went out to see a ewe at George Grindley's. It was a pregnancy toxaemia and I was taking its temperature when, out of the blue, George said, 'You know, you've never cured a single animal on my place. I hope you'll do better with this 'un.'”
”But that's not true, James, I know it's not.”
”Maybe so, but he said it.” I ran my fingers through my hair. ”And after that I drove out to cleanse a cow at old Hawkin's. I'd just got out of the car when he looked at me under his brows and grunted, 'Oh, it's you. My wife says it's always fatal when Mr. Herriot comes.' I must have looked a bit shattered because he patted me on the shoulder and said, 'Mind you, she likes you as a man.' ”
”Oh dear. I'm sorry, James.”
”Thank you, Siegfried, I won't bore you any more, but it's been like that all day, and then right in the middle of it I had to go through my own village and past poor old Molly Minican's cottage. There was an auctioneer there, selling off her furniture and her bits and pieces. There were all sorts of things piled up in her garden and it hit me again that her dog had died without my having any idea what was wrong with him, though I treated him for two years. She knew I didn't know and she must have thought I was a dead loss. I think that was the peak point of my h.e.l.lish day.”
Siegfried spread his hands. ”Look, how many vets and doctors have lost patients without ever being sure of their diagnosis? You're not the only one. Anyway, we all have days like today, James, when nothing goes right. Every vet runs up against them now and then. You'll have a lot of good days to make up for it.”
I nodded good-bye and set off for home. My partner was trying to be kind, but I still felt low when I got to Hannerly, and as I sat down at the tea-table, Helen gave me a questioning look.
”What's the matter, Jim? You're very quiet.”
”Sorry, Helen, I know I'm not a barrel of laughs tonight.” I poured out my story.
”Oh, I thought it must be something to do with your work,” she said. ”But what's really getting you down is Molly Minican, isn't it?”
I nodded. ”That's right. She was a bit special. Seeing all her things lying in her garden brought everything back to me, and I don't like the thought that Molly died convinced I was a bit of a chump.”
”But she was always nice to you, Jim.”
”She was nice to everybody, me included. But I know that she must have felt that I had let her down. She's gone now, but I have this rotten feeling that in her heart she had a poor opinion of me and that's something I can never alter.”
Helen gave me a quizzical smile. ”I think I have something here that will make you feel better.” She left the room and I waited, mystified, till she came back with what looked like a framed picture under her arm.
”Peggy Ford in the village was at Molly's sale,” she said. ”She handed this on to me because it was hanging in the old lady's bedroom and she thought you'd be interested in it. Here, have a look.”
It wasn't a picture. It was a framed square of cardboard and across the top, in Molly's spidery writing, I read: ”My three favourite men.”
Underneath, gummed to the cardboard, were three photographs in a row. There was Sir Charles Armitage, John Wayne...and me.
Chapter 48.
IT WAS THE FIRST time I had ever seen a man coming out of a house and then removing bicycle clips from his trouser legs.
I had been called to this cottage by a Mr. Colwell to attend his dog, and as I got out of the car I was surprised to see this man emerge, then, after looking back carefully, bend down to take off the clips. There was no sign of a bike anywhere.
”Excuse me,” I said. ”I hope you don't mind my asking, but why the clips?”
The man looked back again, grinned and spoke quietly. ”Now then, Mr. Herriot, it's you, is it. I've just been in to read t'gas meter and I'm takin' precautions.”
”Precautions?”
”Aye, against the fleas.”
”Fleas!”
”Aye, that's right. They're canny folks, the Colwells, but the missus isn't ower particular and there's a lot of fleas in there.”
I stared at him. ”But... the clips...I still don't see...”
”Aye, well,” said the man, laughing. ”They're to stop the fleas goin' up me legs inside me trousers.” He pocketed the clips and strode off round the corner to his next visit.
I stood by my car, chuckling to myself. Fleas up his legs!
I'd never heard anything so daft. I had known that gasman for years and he'd always seemed perfectly normal, but clearly he suffered from an obsession. Like some people was.h.i.+ng their hands all the time. Probably he put the clips on at every house. I trotted to the corner and looked along the row of cottages but he had disappeared.
It was incredible, the strange notions people got into their heads, but such whimsies had always fascinated me and a flea complex was something new. I just hoped the poor chap wasn't unhappy with a delusion like this, but I had heard him whistling cheerfully as he rounded the corner so I supposed it didn't bother him too much. I was still smiling as I walked back to my car and it was an expansive smile, because it was Thursday and this was my last visit before starting my half-day.
Though veterinary surgery was my life and I wouldn't have wanted to do anything else, the snag was that it never stopped-except on Thursday afternoons. On that special day I invariably felt light-hearted as soon as I awoke, knowing that by midday Helen and I would be off to Brawton, free as birds. A leisurely lunch at one of the town's splendid cafes, then we would meet my pal Gordon Rae, the vet from Boroughbridge, and his wife, Jean, fellow escapees from the telephone and the wellington boots, and we would spend the day shopping, followed by tea and the cinema. It doesn't sound like much, but to us it was a blessed relief.
The evening would be different this time since Helen had been given tickets for a concert by the Halle Orchestra from the Miss Whitlings, pillars of the Darrowby Music Society. We would be returning home to change and then be making up a four with them for the concert. The conductor was my old hero, Sir John Barbirolli, and the programme was mouth-watering. Coriola.n.u.s, Elgar's Violin Concerto and Brahms's First Symphony. I took a long contented breath as I knocked on the Colwells' door-in about an hour's time we'd be off.
It was opened by the man of the house; sixtyish, collarless and unshaven, but with a welcoming smile.
”Come in, Mr. 'erriot,” he cried, waving a courtly arm. ”I'm sorry we had to call you out, but we 'aven't no transport and our awd dog needs attention.”
<script>