All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot
“You’re not thinking of trying the Bowes Moor road, are you?” he said.
“No, no.” I was just looking. He nodded in satisfaction.
“I’m glad to hear that. It’s blocked you know. There hasn’t been a car over there for two days.”
25
YOU COULD HARDLY EXPECT to find a more unlikely character in Darrowby than Roland Partridge. The thought came to me for the hundredth time as I saw him peering through the window which looked on to Trengate just a little way up the other side of the street from our surgery.
He was tapping the glass and beckoning to me and the eyes behind the thick spectacles were wide with concern. I waited and when he opened the door I stepped straight from the street into his living room because these were tiny dwellings with only a kitchen in the rear and a single small bedroom overlooking the street above. But when I went in I had the familiar feeling of surprise. Because most of the other occupants of the row were farm workers and their furnishings were orthodox; but this place was a studio.
An easel stood in the light from the window and the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings. Unframed canvases were stacked everywhere and the few ornate chairs and the table with its load of painted china and other bric a brac added to the artistic atmosphere.
The simple explanation was, of course, that Mr. Partridge was in fact an artist. But the unlikely aspect came into it when you learned that this middle-aged velvet-jacketed aesthete was the son of a small farmer, a man whose forbears had been steeped in the soil for generations.
“I happened to see you passing there, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “Are you terribly busy?”
“Not too busy, Mr, Partridge. Can I help you?”
He nodded gravely. “I wondered whether you could spare a moment to look at Percy. I’d be most grateful.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Where is he?”
He was ushering me towards the kitchen when there was a bang on the outer door and Bert Hardisty the postman burst in. Bert was a rough-hewn character and he dumped a parcel unceremoniously on the table.
“There y’are, Rolie!” he shouted and turned to go.
Mr. Partridge gazed with unruffled dignity at the retreating back. “Thank you very much indeed, Bertram, good day to you.”
Here was another thing. The postman and the artist were both Darrowby born and bred, had the same social background, had gone to the same school, yet their voices were quite different. Roland Partridge, in fact, spoke with the precise, well-modulated syllables of a barrister at law.
We went into the kitchen. This was where he cooked for himself in his bachelor state. When his father died many years ago he had sold the farm immediately. Apparently his whole nature was appalled by the earthy farming scene and he could not get out quickly enough. At any rate he had got sufficient money from the sale to indulge his interests and he had taken up painting and lived ever since in this humble cottage, resolutely doing his own thing. This had all happened long before I came to Darrowby and the dangling lank hair was silver now. I always had the feeling that he was happy in his way because I couldn’t imagine that small, rather exquisite figure plodding around a muddy farmyard.
It was probably in keeping with his nature that he had never married. There was a touch of asceticism in the thin cheeks and pale blue eyes and it was possible that his self-contained imperturbable personality might denote a lack of warmth. But that didn’t hold good with regard to his dog, Percy.
He loved Percy with a fierce protective passion and as the little animal trotted towards him he bent over him, his face alight with tenderness.
“He looks pretty bright to me,” I said. “He’s not sick, is he?”
“No…no…” Mr. Partridge seemed strangely ill at ease. “He’s perfectly well in himself, but I want you to look at him and see if you notice anything.”
I looked. And I saw only what I had always seen, the snow-white, shaggy haired little object regarded by local dog breeders and other cognoscenti as a negligible mongrel but nevertheless one of my favourite patients. Mr. Partridge, looking through the window of a pet shop in Brawton about five years ago, had succumbed immediately to the charms of two soulful eyes gazing up at him from a six week old tangle of white hair and had put down his five bob and rushed the little creature home. Percy had been described in the shop somewhat vaguely as a “terrier” and Mr. Partridge had flirted fearfully with the idea of having his tail docked; but such was his infatuation that he couldn’t bring himself to cause such a mutilation and the tail had grown in a great fringed curve almost full circle over the back.
To me, the tail nicely balanced the head which was undoubtedly a little too big for the body but Mr. Partridge had been made to suffer for it. His old friends in Darrowby who, like all country folks, considered themselves experts with animals, were free with their comments. I had heard them at it. When Percy was young it was:
“Time ye had that tail off, Rolie. Ah’ll bite it off for ye if ye like.” And later, again and again. “Hey Rolie, you should’ve had that dog’s tail off when he were a pup. He looks bloody daft like that.”
When asked Percy’s breed Mr. Partridge always replied haughtily, “Sealyham Cross,” but it wasn’t as simple as that; the tiny body with its luxuriant bristling coat, the large, rather noble head with high, pricked ears, the short, knock-kneed legs and that tail made him a baffling mixture.
Mr. Partridge’s friends again were merciless, referring to Percy as a “tripe-’ound” or a “mouse-’ound” and though the little artist received these railleries with a thin smile I knew they bit deep. He had a high regard for me based simply on the fact that the first time I saw Percy I exclaimed quite spontaneously, “What a beautiful little dog!” And since I have never had much time for the points and fads of dog breeding I really meant it.
“Just what is wrong, Mr. Partridge?” I asked. “I can’t see anything unusual.”
Again the little man appeared to be uneasy. “Well now, watch as he walks across the floor. Come, Percy my dear.” He moved away from me and the dog followed him.
“N…no…I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
“Watch again.” He set off once more. “It’s at his…his er…back end.”
I crouched down. “Ah now, yes, wait a minute. Just hold him there, will you?”
I went over and had a close look. “I see it now. One of his testicles is slightly enlarged.”
“Yes…yes…quite.” Mr. Partridge’s face turned a shade pinker. “That is…er…what I thought.”
“Hang on to him a second while I examine it.” I lifted the scrotum and palpated gently. “Yes, the left one is definitely bigger and it is harder too.”
“Is it…anything serious?”
I paused. “No, I shouldn’t think so. Tumours of the testicles are not uncommon in dogs and fortunately they aren’t inclined to metastasise—spread through the body—very readily. So I shouldn’t worry too much.”
I added the last bit hastily because at the mention of the word “tumour” the colour had drained from his face alarmingly.
“That’s a growth, isn’t it?” he stammered.
“Yes, but there are all kinds and a lot of them are not malignant. So don’t worry but please keep an eye on him. It may not grow much but if it does you must let me know immediately.”
“I see…and if it does grow?”
“Well the only thing would be to remove the testicle.”
“An operation?” The little man stared at me and for a moment. I thought he would faint.
“Yes, but not a serious one. Quite straightforward, really.” I bent down and felt the enlargement again. It was very slight. From the front end, Percy kept up a continuous musical growling. I grinned. He always did that—when I took his temperature, cut his nails, anything; a nonstop grumble and it didn’t mean a thing. I knew him well enough to realise there was no viciousness in him; he was merely asserting his virility, reminding me what a tough fel
After I had left the house I looked back and saw Mr. Partridge standing there watching me. He was clasping and unclasping his hands.
And even when I was back in the surgery half of me was still in that odd little studio. I had to admire Mr. Partridge for doing exactly what he wanted to do because in Darrowby he would never get any credit for it. A good horseman or cricketer would be revered in the town but an artist…never. Not even if he became famous, and Mr. Partridge would never be famous. A few people bought his paintings but he could not have lived on the proceeds. I had one of them hanging in our bed-sitter and to my mind he had a definite gift. In fact I would have tried to afford more of them but for the fact that he obviously shrank from that aspect of the Yorkshire Dales which I loved most.
If I had been able to paint I would have wanted to show how the walls climbed everywhere over the stark fell-sides. I would have tried to capture the magic of the endless empty moors with the reeds trembling over the black bog pools. But Mr. Partridge went only for the cosy things; willows hanging by a rustic bridge, village churches, rose-covered cottages.
Since Percy was a near neighbour I saw him nearly every day, either from our bed-sitter at the top of the house or from the surgery below. His master exercised him with great zeal and regularity and it was a common sight to see the artist passing on the other side of the road with the little animal trotting proudly beside him. But from that distance it was impossible to see if the tumour was progressing, and since I heard nothing from Mr. Partridge I assumed that all was well. Maybe that thing had grown no more. Sometimes it happened that way.
Keeping a close watch on the little dog reminded me of other incidents connected with him, particularly the number of times he was involved in a fight. Not that Percy ever started a brawl—at ten inches high he wasn’t stupid enough for that—but somehow big dogs when they saw that dainty white figure prancing along were inclined to go for him on sight. I witnessed some of these attacks from our windows and the same thing happened every time; a quick flurry of limbs, a snarling and yelping and then the big dog retreated bleeding.
Percy never had a mark on him—that tremendous thick coat gave him complete protection—but he always got a nip in from underneath. I had stitched up several of the local street fighters after Percy had finished with them.
It must have been about six weeks later when Mr. Partridge came in again. He looked tense.
“I’d like you to have a look at Percy again, Mr. Herriot.”
I lifted the dog on to the surgery table and I didn’t need to examine him very closely.
“It’s quite a lot bigger, I’m afraid.” I looked across the table at the little man.
“Yes, I know.” He hesitated. “What do you suggest?”
“Oh there’s no doubt at all he’ll have to come in for an operation. That thing must come off.”
Horror and despair flickered behind the thick spectacles.
“An operation!” He leaned on the table with both hands.
“I hate the idea, I just can’t bear the thought of it!”
I smiled reassuringly. “I know how you feel, but honestly there’s nothing to worry about. As I told you before, it’s quite a simple procedure.”
“Oh I know, I know,” he moaned. “But I don’t want him to be…cut about, you understand…it’s just the idea of it.”
And I couldn’t persuade him. He remained adamant and marched resolutely from the surgery with his pet. I watched him crossing the road to his house and I knew he had let himself in for a load of worry, but I didn’t realise just how bad it was going to be.
It was to be a kind of martyrdom.
26
I DO NOT THINK martyrdom is too strong a word for what Mr. Partridge went through over the next few weeks, because with the passage of time that testicle became more and more massive and due to the way Percy carried his tail the thing was lamentably conspicuous.
People used to turn and stare as man and dog made their way down the street, Percy trotting bravely, his master, eyes rigidly to the front, putting up a magnificent pretence of being quite unaware of anything unusual. It really hurt me to see them and I found the sight of the smart little dog’s disfigurement particularly hard to bear.
Mr. Partridge’s superior facade had always made him a natural target for a certain amount of legpulling which he bore stoically; but the fact that it now involved his pet pierced him to the soul.
One afternoon he brought him over to the surgery and I could see that the little man was almost in tears. Gloomily I examined the offending organ which was now about six inches long; gross, pendulous, undeniably ludicrous.
“You know, Mr. Herriot,” the artist gasped. “Some boys chalked on my window. Roll up and see the famous Chinese dog, Wun Hung Lo. I’ve just been wiping it off.”
I rubbed my chin. “Well that’s an ancient joke Mr. Partridge. I shouldn’t worry about that.”
“But I do worry! I can’t sleep because of the thing!”
“For heaven’s sake, then, why don’t you let me operate? I could put the whole business right for you.”
“No! No! I can’t do that!” His head rolled on his shoulders; he was the very picture of misery as he stared at me. “I’m frightened, that’s what it is. I’m frightened he’ll die under the anaesthetic.”
“Oh come now! He’s a strong little animal. There’s no reason at all for such fears.”
“But there is a risk isn’t there?”
I looked at him helplessly. “Well there’s a slight risk in all operations if you come right down to it, but honestly in this case…”
“No! That’s enough. I won’t hear of it,” he burst out and seizing Percy’s lead he strode away.
Things went from bad to worse after that. The tumour grew steadily, easily visible now from my vantage point in the surgery window as the dog went by on the other side of the street, and I could see too that the stares and occasional ridicule were beginning to tell on Mr. Partridge. His cheeks had hollowed and he had lost some of his high colour.
But I didn’t have words with him till one market day several weeks later. It was early afternoon—the time the farmers often came in to pay their bills. I was showing one of them out when I saw Percy and his master coming out of the house. And I noticed immediately that the little animal now had to swing one hind leg slightly to clear the massive obstruction.
On an impulse I called out and beckoned to Mr. Partridge.
“Look,” I said as he came across to me. “You’ve just got to let me take that thing off. It’s interfering with his walking—making him lame. He can’t go on like this.”
The artist didn’t say anything but stared back at me with hunted eyes. We were standing there in silence when Bill Dalton came round the corner and marched up to the surgery steps, cheque book in hand. Bill was a large beefy farmer who spent most of market day in the bar of the Black Swan and he was preceded by an almost palpable wave of beer fumes.
“Nah then, Rolie lad, how ista?” he roared, slapping the little man violently on the back.
“I am quite well, William, thank you, and how are you?”
But Bill didn’t answer. His attention was all on Percy who had strolled a few paces along the pavement He watched him intently for a few moments then, repressing a giggle, he turned back to Mr. Partridge with a mock-serious expression.
“Tha knows, Rolie,” he said, “That blood ’ound of yours reminds me of the young man of Devizes, whose balls were of different sizes. The one was so small it was no ball at all, but the other one won several prizes.” He finished with a shout of laughter which went on and on till he collapsed weakly against the iron railings.
For a moment I thought Mr. Partridge was going to strike him. He glared up at the big man and his chin and mouth trembled with rage, then he seemed to gain control of himself and turned to
“Can I have a word with you, Mr. Herriot?”
“Certainly.” I walked a few yards with him down the street.
“You’re right,” he said. “Percy will have to have that operation. When can you do him?”
Tomorrow,” I replied. “Don’t give him any more food and bring him in at two in the afternoon.”
It was with a feeling of intense relief that I saw the little dog stretched on the table the next day. With Tristan as anaesthetist I quickly removed the huge testicle, going well up the spermatic cord to ensure the complete excision of all tumour tissue. The only thing which troubled me was that the scrotum itself had become involved due to the long delay in operating. This is the sort of thing that can lead to a recurrence and as I carefully cut away the affected parts of the scrotal wall I cursed Mr. Partridge’s procrastination. I put in the last stitch with my fingers crossed.
The little man was in such transports of joy at seeing his pet alive after my efforts and rid of that horrid excrescence that I didn’t want to spoil everything by voicing my doubts; but I wasn’t entirely happy. If the tumour did recur I wasn’t sure just what I could do about it.
But in the meantime I enjoyed my own share of pleasure at my patient’s return to normality. I felt a warm rush of satisfaction whenever I saw him tripping along, perky as ever and free from the disfigurement which had bulked so large in his master’s life. Occasionally I used to stroll casually behind him on the way down Trengate into the market place, saying nothing to Mr. Partridge but shooting some sharp glances at the region beneath Percy’s tail.
In the meantime I had sent the removed organ off to the pathology department at Glasgow Veterinary College and their report told me that it was a Sertoli Cell Tumour. They also added the comforting information that this type was usually benign and that metastasis into the internal organs occurred in only a very small proportion of cases. Maybe this lulled me into a deeper security than was warranted because I stopped following Percy around and in fact, in the nonstop rush of new cases, forgot all about his spell of trouble.