Part 33 (1/2)

”That's all right, Mr. Colwell. I understand he's had a b.u.mp with a car?”

”Aye, he ran out in front of the post office van this mornin' and it sent him flyin'.” The smile vanished from his face and his eyes widened with anxiety. ”We hope it's nowt serious. Poor awd Roopy-we call 'im that because he's got a funny bark.”

The front door opened directly into the living room and the atmosphere was stuffier and more odoriferous than a cow byre. Dust lay thickly on the furniture and a colourful miscellany of newspapers, articles of clothing and food sc.r.a.ps littered the table and floor. Mrs. Colwell was indeed not ower particular.

The lady herself appeared from the kitchen and greeted me with the same affability as her husband, but her eyes were red and swollen with weeping.

”Eee, Mr. Herriot,” she quavered, ”we're that worried about Roopy. He's never ailed a thing all 'is life, but we're frightened we might lose 'im now.”

I looked at the dog stretched in a basket against the wall. He seemed to be a spaniel cross and he gazed at me with terrified eyes.

”Did he manage to walk inside after the accident?” I asked.

”Nay,” replied Mr. Colwell. ”We had to carry 'im in.” He gulped. ”We think he might have a broken back.”

”Mmm.” I knelt by the basket and the Colwells knelt on either side of me. I pulled down Roopy's lower eyelid and saw a pink conjunctiva.

”He's a good colour. No sign there of internal injury.” I felt my way over all four legs, ribs and pelvis and found no fractures.

”Let's see if you can stand, old boy,” I said.

Gently I eased my hand underneath the dog's body and very carefully started to lift. He responded with a yowling protest, which brought exclamations of anguish from his owners. ”Aw, poor awd Roopy!” ”Never mind, lad!” ”Oh, he's such a good boy!” as they patted and caressed him.

I persevered and kept lifting until I had him standing shakily for a moment, then I let him down.

”Well, it seems he's got away with it,” I said. ”He's a bit bruised and you can see his pads are scuffed and sore, but I'm sure he's not seriously injured.”

Cries of joy went up from the Colwells and they redoubled their strokings and cooings while Roopy, his big spaniel eyes liquid and pathetic, gazed around him at each of us in turn. He was clearly milking the situation to its full.

The three of us got to our feet and I reached for my bag. ”I'm going to give him a couple of injections to relieve his discomfort and to help the sores on his pads.” I administered steroid and antibiotic and counted out some penicillin tablets. ”He's suffering from shock, too, but I think he's making the most of it.” I laughed and patted the s.h.a.ggy head. ”You're an old soldier, Roopy.”

The Colwells joined in happily. ”Aye, you're right, Mr. Herriot. He allus puts it on!” But again a tear stole down the lady's cheek. ”Eee, but it's such a relief to know we're not going to lose 'im.”

Then she quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand. ”We must celebrate with a cup o' tea. You've got time, Mr. Herriot?”

Brawton beckoned but I couldn't say no. ”Right, thank you very much, but it will have to be a quicky.”

The kettle was soon boiling and Mrs. Colwell used both arms to make a sort of clearing in the table-top jungle where she deposited the cups. As I sipped my tea and looked at the friendly people laughing and gazing with love at their dog, I knew that the gasman had been right again. They were canny folks.

My departure had a triumphant quality as they ushered me out with repeated thanks and wavings of arms.

I shouted back as I boarded my car, ”Give me a ring in a couple of days and let me know how he's going on. I'm sure he'll be fine.”

I had only just driven round the corner when I felt a p.r.i.c.kling round my ankles. Maybe those new socks were irritating me-I began to push them down. But the strange tingling and itching began to spread to my calves and I pulled into the roadside and rolled up a trouser leg. My flesh was sprinkled with little black dots, but they were dots that hopped and jumped and bit, and they were working their way rapidly up my thighs. Oh my G.o.d, that gasman hadn't been so daft!

I had to get home with all speed but I got behind a couple of farm tractors with wide loads and was unable to overtake. By the time I reached home, the invasion had reached my chest and back and the maddening itch was setting me afire, making me wriggle around in my seat.

Helen was changing in readiness for Brawton and she turned in surprise as I galloped into our bedroom.

”I have to get into the bath!” I shouted.

”Oh...had a dirty job?”

”No, I've got fleas!”

”What!”

”Fleas! Millions of them-they're all over me!”

”But...but...how...?”

”I'll tell you later. Please come and get my clothes and dump them in the washer. I'll need a complete change.”

In the bathroom I undressed and submerged myself, plunging my head repeatedly under the water. Helen came in and looked with horror at my heap of clothes with the agile insects leaping against the white of the s.h.i.+rt.

”Oooo...yuk-yuk-yuk!” she gasped as she grimaced and lifted each article by one corner and disappeared to the wash.

I felt as if I could have stayed in that bath for ever. The relief was enormous as I lay there, freed from the torture of the itch, watching in disbelief as the dark tormentors floated on the surface of the water. I wasn't going to take any chances. I emptied the bath and refilled it before having another long steep. I washed and scrubbed my hair again and again and when I finally climbed out and donned a completely new set of clothes I thanked heaven that my troubles were over. It was my first experience of such a thing and I hadn't realised how shattering it could be. I had read often about the suffering of people in foreign prisons lying in flea-ridden mattresses but I had never fully comprehended it until now.

When we at last set off for Brawton it was difficult to recapture the carefree feeling that always settled on us on a Thursday. The bizarre events of the morning were still too fresh in our minds. However, as we left the hills and began to bowl along the great plain of York with the familiar Thursday scenes rolling past the car windows, we began gradually to relax. Soon we would be at lunch, out of reach of our pressures, then, this evening, the particular joy of the Halle Orchestra.

As a schoolboy in Glasgow I had actually met the legendary Barbirolli-it was before he was Sir John-and in rather odd circ.u.mstances. I was attending a special schools concert by the Scottish Orchestra in the St. Andrew's Hall. I went to the toilet in the interval and became aware that a white-tie and tailed figure was standing in the next stall to me. I looked up and was amazed and delighted to see that it was the great man himself. It was a strange place to meet, but he asked me how I was enjoying the music, what I had liked best and about myself. He was indeed the gracious, kindly man who became such a beloved figure throughout the world.

Since my meeting I had followed his career through the years, from when he succeeded Toscanini as conductor of the New York Philharmonic, till now when he had been since 1942 in charge of the great Halle Orchestra. Over the years I had gone to his concerts whenever they were in reach and watched him shrinking in size. He had always been small but now he was tiny and frail-but totally inspiring on the rostrum.

I was sharing these thoughts with Helen as our half-day euphoria mounted, and we were within a mile of Brawton when I stiffened in my seat and fell silent.

After a minute or so my wife looked at me. ”What's wrong? You've gone very quiet.”

I s.h.i.+fted position carefully. ”Oh, it's probably nothing, but I have a daft feeling that I've still got some fleas on me.”

”What! You can't have-not after a bath and a complete change! It's impossible!”

”I know it's impossible, but I tell you-I've got that same feeling.”

”Oh, it's just the after-effects, Jim; remember you were bitten all over.”

”I know, I know,” I grunted, ”but I'm pretty sure there's some fresh activity going on.”

She took my hand and smiled encouragingly. ”It's all in your mind. Try to think of something else.”

I did my best, but I was still wriggling when I mounted the stairs to Brown's cafe. The mingled cooking smells, the clatter of cutlery, the cheerful bustle and the welcoming smiles of the waitresses we knew so well had always sent my spirits soaring as though a great gong was signalling the beginning of our happy few hours, but today was different.

As we took our places and read through the good old-fas.h.i.+oned Yorks.h.i.+re menu, which had always delighted me-roast beef with Yorks.h.i.+re pudding, plaice and chips, steak and kidney pie, steamed jam sponge, spotted d.i.c.k and custard, my mind was churning and my smile was a fixed mask as I ordered.

Sipping my way through the delicious soup and toying with the meal, I was like a man in a bad dream as I tried to ignore the torture under my s.h.i.+rt. Around the half-way stage a couple threaded their way between the crowded tables and the man approached us.