All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot
“I don’t suppose it makes much difference to me either way,” I grunted.
“Well don’t look so bloody mournful.” He took an effortless swallow which lowered the level in his glass by about six inches. “What do you expect an attractive girl to do? Sit at home waiting for you to call? If you’ve been pounding on her door every night you haven’t told me about it.”
“It’s all right you talking. I think old man Alderson would set his dogs on me if I showed up there. I know he doesn’t like me hanging around Helen and on top of that I’ve got the feeling he thinks I killed his cow on my last visit.”
“And did you?”
“No, I didn’t. But I walked up to a living animal, gave it an injection and it promptly died, so I can’t blame him.”
I took a sip at my beer and watched the Alderson party who had changed direction and were heading away from our retreat. Helen was wearing a pale blue dress and I was thinking how well the colour went with the deep brown of her hair and how I liked the way she walked with her legs swinging easily and her shoulders high and straight when the loudspeaker boomed across the show ground.
“Will Mr. Herriot, Veterinary Surgeon, please report to the stewards immediately.”
It made me jump but at the same time I felt a quick stab of pride. It was the first time I had heard myself and my profession publicly proclaimed. I turned to Tristan. He was supposed to be seeing practice and this could be something interesting. But he was immersed in a story which he was trying to tell to a little stocky man with a fat, shiny face, and he was having difficulty because the little man, determined to get his full measure of enjoyment, kept throwing himself into helpless convulsions at the end of every sentence, and the finish was a long way away. Tristan took his stories very seriously; I decided not to interrupt him.
A glow of importance filled me as I hurried over the grass, my official badge with “Veterinary Surgeon” in gold letters dangling from my lapel. A steward met me on the way.
“It’s one of the cattle. Had an accident, I think.” He pointed to a row of pens along the edge of the field.
A curious crowd had collected around my patient which had been entered in the in-calf heifers class. The owner a stranger from outside the Darrowby practice came up to me, his face glum.
“She tripped coming off the cattle wagon and went ’ead first into the wall. Knocked one of ’er horns clean off.”
The heifer, a bonny little light roan, was a pathetic sight. She had been washed, combed, powdered and primped for the big day and there she was with one horn dangling drunkenly down the side of her face and an ornamental fountain of bright arterial blood climbing gracefully in three jets from the broken surface high into the air.
I opened my bag. I had brought a selection of the things I might need and I fished out some artery forceps and suture material. The rational way to stop haemorrhage of this type is to grasp the bleeding vessel and ligate it, but it wasn’t always as easy as that. Especially when the patient won’t cooperate.
The broken horn was connected to the head only by a band of skin and I quickly snipped it away with scissors; then, with the farmer holding the heifer’s nose I began to probe with my forceps for the severed vessels. In the bright sunshine it was surprisingly difficult to see the spurting blood and as the little animal threw her head about I repeatedly felt the warm spray across my face and heard it spatter on my collar.
It was when I was beginning to lose heart with my ineffectual groping that I looked up and saw Helen and her boy friend watching me from the crowd. Young Edmundson looked mildly amused as he watched my unavailing efforts but Helen smiled encouragingly as she caught my eye. I did my best to smile back at her through my bloody mask but I don’t suppose it showed.
I gave it up when the heifer gave a particularly brisk toss which sent my forceps flying on to the grass. I did what I should probably have done at the beginning—clapped a pad of cotton wool and antiseptic powder on to the stump and secured it with a figure of eight bandage round the other horn.
“That’s it then,” I said to the farmer as I tried to blink the blood out of my eyes. “The bleeding’s stopped, anyway. I’d advise you to have her properly de-horned soon or she’s going to look a bit odd.”
Just then Tristan appeared from among the spectators.
“What’s got you out of the beer tent?” I enquired with a touch of bitterness.
“It’s lunch time, old lad,” Tristan replied equably. “But we’ll have to get you cleaned up a bit first. I can’t be seen with you in that condition. Hang on, I’ll get a bucket of water.”
The show luncheon was so excellent that it greatly restored me. Although it was taken in a marquee the committee men’s wives had somehow managed to conjure up a memorable cold spread. There was fresh salmon and home fed ham and slices of prime beef with mixed salads and apple pie and the big brimming jugs of cream you only see at farming functions. One of the ladies was a noted cheese maker and we finished with some delicious goat cheese and coffee. The liquid side was catered for too with a bottle of Magnet Pale Ale and a glass at every place.
I didn’t have the pleasure of Tristan’s company at lunch because he had strategically placed himself well down the table between two strict methodists so that his intake of Magnet was trebled.
I had hardly emerged into the sunshine when a man touched me on the shoulder.
“One of the dog show judges wants you to examine a dog. He doesn’t like the look of it.”
He led me to where a thin man of about forty with a small dark moustache was standing by his car. He held a wire-haired fox terrier on a leash and he met me with an ingratiating smile.
“There’s nothing whatever the matter with my dog,” he declared, “but the chap in there seems very fussy.”
I looked down at the terrier. “I see he has some matter in the corner of his eyes.”
The man shook his head vigorously. “Oh no, that’s not matter. I’ve been using some white powder on him and a bit’s got into his eyes, that’s all.”
“Hmm, well let’s see what his temperature says, shall we?”
The little animal stood uncomplaining as I inserted the thermometer. When I took the reading my eyebrows went up.
“It’s a hundred and four. I’m afraid he’s not fit to go into the show.”
“Wait a minute.” The man thrust out his jaw. “You’re talking like that chap in there. I’ve come a long way to show this dog and I’m going to show him.”
“I’m sorry but you can’t show him with a temperature of a hundred and four.”
“But he’s had a car journey. That could put up his temperature.”
I shook my head. “Not as high as that it couldn’t. Anyway he looks sick to me. Do you see how he’s half closing his eyes as though he’s frightened of the light? It’s possible he could have distemper.”
“What? That’s rubbish and you know it. He’s never been fitter!” The man’s mouth trembled with anger.
I looked down at the little dog. He was crouching on the grass miserably. Occasionally he shivered, he had a definite photophobia and there was that creamy blob of pus in the corner of each eye. “Has he been inoculated against distemper?”
“Well no, he hasn’t, but why do you keep on about it?”
“Because I think he’s got it now and for his sake and for the sake of the other dogs here you ought to take him straight home and see your own vet.”
He glared at me. “So you won’t let me take him into the show tent?”
“That’s right. I’m very sorry, but it’s out of the question.” I turned and walked away.
I had gone only a few yards when the loudspeaker boomed again. “Will Mr. Herriot please go to the measuring stand where the ponies are ready for him.”
I collected my stick and trotted over to a corner of the field where a group of ponies had assembled; Welsh, Dales, Exmoor, Dartmoor—all kinds of breeds were represented.
For the uninitiated, horses a
A smiling young woman led the first pony, a smart chestnut, on to the boards.
“Which class?” I asked.
“Thirteen hands.”
I tried the stick on him. He was well under.
“Fine, next please.”
A few more came through without incident then there was a lull before the next group came up. The ponies were arriving on the field all the time in their boxes and being led over to me, some by their young riders, others by the parents. It looked as though I could be here quite a long time.
During one of the lulls a little man who had been standing near me spoke up.
“No trouble yet?” he asked.
“No, everything’s in order,” I replied.
He nodded expressionlessly and as I took a closer look at him his slight body, dark, leathery features and high shoulders seemed to give him the appearance of a little brown gnome. At the same time there was something undeniably horsy about him.
“You’ll ’ave some awkward ’uns,” he grunted. “And they allus say the same thing. They allus tell you the vet at some other show passed their pony.” His swarthy cheeks crinkled in a wry smile.
“Is that so?”
“Aye, you’ll see.”
Another candidate, led by a beautiful blonde, was led on to the platform. She gave me the full blast of two big greenish eyes and flashed a mouthful of sparkling teeth at me.
“Twelve two,” she murmured seductively.
I tried the stick on the pony and worked it around, but try as I might I couldn’t get it down to that.
“I’m afraid he’s a bit big,” I said.
The blonde’s smile vanished. “Have you allowed half an inch for his shoes?”
“I have indeed, but you can see for yourself, he’s well over.”
“But he passed the vet without any trouble at Hickley,” she snapped and out of the corner of my eye I saw the gnome nodding sagely.
“I can’t help that,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put him into the next class.”
For a moment two green pebbles from the cold sea bed fixed me with a frigid glare then the blonde was gone taking her pony with her.
Next, a little bay animal was led on to the stand by a hard faced gentleman in a check suit and I must say I was baffled by its behaviour. Whenever the stick touched the withers it sank at the knees so that I couldn’t be sure whether I was getting the right reading or not. Finally I gave up and passed him through.
The gnome coughed. “I know that feller.”
“You do?”
“Aye, he’s pricked that pony’s withers with a pin so many times that it drops down whenever you try to measure ’im.”
“Never!”
“Sure as I’m standing here.”
I was staggered, but the arrival of another batch took up my attention for a few minutes. Some I passed, others I had to banish to another class and the owners took it in different ways—some philosophically, a few with obvious annoyance. One or two of the ponies just didn’t like the look of the stick at all and I had to dance around them as they backed away and reared.
The last pony in this group was a nice grey led by a bouncy man wearing a great big matey smile.
“How are you, all right?” he inquired courteously. “This ’un’s thirteen two.”
The animal went under the stick without trouble but after he had trotted away the gnome spoke up again.
“I know that feller, too.”
“Really?”
“Not ’alf. Weighs down ’is ponies before they’re measured. That grey’s been standing in ’is box for the last hour with a twelve stone sack of corn on ’is back. Knocks an inch off.”
“Good God! Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve seen ’im at it.”
My mind was beginning to reel just a little. Was the man making it all up or were there really those malign forces at work behind all this innocent fun?
“That same feller,” continued the gnome. “I’ve seen ’im bring a pony to a show and get half an inch knocked off for shoes when it never ’ad no shoes on.”
I wished he’d stop. And just then there was an interruption. It was the man with the moustache. He sidled up to me and whispered confidentially in my ear.
“Now I’ve just been thinking. My dog must have got over his journey by now and I expect his temperature will be normal. I wonder if you’d just try him again. I’ve still got time to show him.”
I turned wearily. “Honestly, it’ll be a waste of time. I’ve told you, he’s ill.”
“Please! Just as a favour.” He had a desperate look and a fanatical light flickered in his eye.
“All right.” I went over to the car with him and produced my thermometer. The temperature was still a hundred and four.
“Now I wish you’d take this poor little dog home,” I said. “He shouldn’t be here.”
For a moment I thought the man was going to strike me. “There’s nothing wrong with him!” he hissed, his whole face working with emotion.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and went back to the measuring stand.
A boy of about fifteen was waiting for me with his pony. It was supposed to be in the thirteen two class but was nearly one and a half inches over.
“Much too big, I’m afraid,” I said. “He can’t go in that class.”
The boy didn’t answer. He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a sheet of paper. “This is a veterinary certificate to say he’s under thirteen two.”
“No good, I’m sorry,” I replied. “The stewards have told me not to accept any certificates. I’ve turned down two others today. Everything has to go under the stick. It’s a pity, but there it is.”
His manner changed abruptly. “But you’ve GOT to accept it!” he shouted in my face. “There doesn’t have to be any measurements when you have a certificate.”
“You’d better see the stewards. Those are my instructions.”
“I’ll see my father about this, that’s what!” he shouted and led the animal away.
Father was quickly on the scene. Big, fat, prosperous-looking, confident. He obviously wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from me.
“Now look here, I don’t know what this is all about but you have no option in this matter. You have to accept the certificate.”
“I don’t, I assure you,” I answered. “And anyway, it’s not as though your pony was slightly over the mark. He’s miles over—nowhere near the height.”
Father flushed dark red. “Well let me tell you he was passed through by the vet at…”
“I know, I know,” I said, and I heard the gnome give a short laugh. “But he’s not going through here.”
There was a brief silence then both father and son began to scream at me. And as they continued to hurl abuse I felt a hand on my arm. It was the man with the moustache again.
“I’m going to ask you just once more to take my dog’s temperature,” he whispered with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be all right this time. Will you try him again?”
I’d had enough. “No, I bloody well won’t!” I barked. “Will you kindly stop bothering me and take that poor animal home.”
It’s funny how the most unlikely things motivate certain people. It didn’t seem a life and death matter whether a dog got into a show or not but it was to the man with the moustache. He started to rave at me.
“You don’t know your job, that’s the trouble with you! I’ve come all this way and you’ve played a dirty trick on me. I’ve got a friend who’s a vet, a proper vet, and I’m going to tell him
At the same time the father and son were still in full cry, snarling and mouthing at me and I became suddenly aware that I was in the centre of a hostile circle. The blonde was there too, and some of the others whose ponies I had outed and they were all staring at me belligerently, making angry gestures.
I felt very much alone because the gnome, who had seemed an ally, was nowhere to be seen. I was disappointed in the gnome; he was a big talker but had vanished at the first whiff of danger. As I surveyed the threatening crowd I moved my measuring stick round in front of me; it wasn’t much of a weapon but it might serve to fend them off if they rushed me.
And just at that moment, as the unkind words were thick upon the air, I saw Helen and Richard Edmundson on the fringe of the circle, taking it all in. I wasn’t worried about him but again it struck me as strange that it should be my destiny always to be looking a bit of a clown when Helen was around.
Anyway, the measuring was over and I felt in need of sustenance. I retreated and went to find Tristan.
11
THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE beer tent was just what I needed. The hot weather had made the place even more popular than usual and it was crowded; many of the inhabitants had been there since early morning and the air was thick with earthy witticisms, immoderate laughter, cries of joy; and the nice thing was that nobody in there cared a damn about the heights of ponies or the temperatures of dogs.
I had to fight my way through the crush to reach Tristan who was leaning across the counter in earnest conversation with a comely young barmaid. The other serving ladies were middle-aged but his practised eye had picked this one out; glossy red hair, a puckish face and an inviting smile. I had been hoping for a soothing chat with him but he was unable to give me his undivided attention, so after juggling with a glass among the throng for a few minutes I left.
Out on the field the sun still blazed, the scent of the trampled grass rose into the warm air, the band was playing a selection from Rose Marie and peace began to steal into my soul. Maybe I could begin to enjoy the show now the pinpricks were over; there was only the Family Pets to judge and I was looking forward to that.