All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriot
“Is that so?”
“Yes indeed, my boy.” He thumped my shoulder then became very serious. “Of course I realise that I have an advantage right at the start—I have been blessed with a naturally even temperament while you are blown about in all directions by every little wind of circumstance. But I do think that this is something you could cultivate, so work at it, James, work at it. All this fretting and fuming is bad for you—your whole life would change if you could just acquire my own tranquil outlook.”
I swallowed hard. “Well thank you, Siegfried,” I said. “I’ll try.”
Walt Barnett was a bit of a mystery man in Darrowby. He wasn’t a farmer, he was a scrap merchant, a haulier, a dealer in everything from linoleum to second hand cars, and there was only one thing the local people could say for certain about him—he had brass, lots of brass. They said everything he touched turned to money.
He had bought a decaying mansion a few miles outside the town where he lived with a downtrodden little wife and where he kept a floating population of livestock; a few bullocks, some pigs and always a horse or two. He employed all the vets in the district in turn, probably because he didn’t think much of any of us; a feeling which, I may say, was mutual. He never seemed to do any physical work and could be seen most days of the week shambling around the streets of Darrowby, hands in pockets, cigarette dangling, his brown trilby on the back of his head, his huge body threatening to burst through that shiny navy suit.
After my meeting with him we had a busy few days and it was on the following Thursday that the phone rang in the surgery. Siegfried lifted it and immediately his expression changed. From across the floor I could clearly hear the loud hectoring tones coming through the receiver and as my colleague listened a slow flush spread over his cheeks and his mouth hardened. Several times he tried to put in a word but the torrent of sound from the far end was unceasing. Finally he raised his voice and broke in but instantly there was a click and he found himself speaking to a dead line.
Siegfried crashed the receiver into its rest and swung round. “That was Barnett—playing hell because we haven’t rung him.” He stood staring at me for a few moments, his face dark with anger.
“The bloody bastard!” he shouted. “Who the hell does he think he is? Abusing me like that, then hanging up on me when I try to speak!”
For a moment he was silent then he turned to me. “I’ll tell you this, James, he wouldn’t have spoken to me like that if he’d been in this room with me.” He came over to me and held out his hands, fingers crooked menacingly. “I’d have wrung his bloody neck, big as he is! I would have, I tell you, I’d have strangled the bugger!”
“But Siegfried,” I said. “What about your system?”
“System? What system?”
“Well, you know the trick you have when people are unpleasant—you put something on the bill, don’t you?”
Siegfried let his hands fall to his sides and stared at me for some time, his chest rising and falling with his emotion. Then he patted me on the shoulder and turned away towards the window where he stood looking out at the quiet street.
When he turned back to me he looked grim but calmer. “By God, James, you’re right. That’s the answer. I’ll cut Barnett’s horse for him but I’ll charge him a tenner.”
I laughed heartily. In those days the average charge for castrating a horse was a pound, or if you wanted to be more professional, a guinea.
“What are you laughing at?” my colleague enquired sourly.
“Well…at your joke. I mean, ten pounds…ha-ha-ha!”
“I’m not joking, I’m going to charge him a tenner.”
“Oh come on, Siegfried, you can’t do that.”
“You just watch me,” he said. “I’m going to sort that bugger.”
Two mornings later I was going through the familiar motions of preparing for a castration; boiling up the emasculator and laying it on the enamel tray along with the scalpel, the roll of cotton wool, the artery forceps, the tincture of iodine, the suture materials, the tetanus antitoxin and syringes. For the last five minutes Siegfried had been shouting at me to hurry.
“What the hell are you doing through there, James? Don’t forget to put in an extra bottle of chloroform. And bring the sidelines in case he doesn’t go down. Where have you hidden those spare scalpel blades, James?”
The sunshine streamed across the laden tray, filtering through the green tangle of the wistaria which fell untidily across the surgery window. Reminding me that it was May and that there was nowhere a May morning came with such golden magic as to the long garden at Skeldale House; the high brick walls with their crumbling mortar and ancient stone copings enfolding the sunlight in a warm clasp and spilling it over the untrimmed lawns, the banks of lupins and bluebells, the masses of fruit blossom. And right at the top the rooks cawing in the highest branches of the elms.
Siegfried, chloroform muzzle looped over one shoulder, made a final check of the items on the tray then we set off. In less than half an hour we were driving through the lodge gates of the old mansion then along a mossy avenue which wandered among pine and birch trees up to the house which looked out from its wooded background over the rolling miles of fell and moor.
Nobody could have asked for a more perfect place for the operation; a high-walled paddock deep in lush grass. The two-year-old, a magnificent chestnut, was led in by two characters who struck me as typical henchmen for Mr. Barnett. I don’t know where he had dug them up but you didn’t see faces like that among the citizens of Darrowby. One was a brown goblin who, as he conversed with his companion, repeatedly jerked his head and winked one eye as though they were sharing some disreputable secret. The other had a head covered with ginger stubble surmounting a countenance of a bright scrofulous red which looked as though a piece would fall off if you touched it; and deep in the livid flesh two tiny eyes darted.
The two of them regarded us unsmilingly and the dark one spat luxuriously as we approached.
“It’s a nice morning,” I said.
Ginger just stared at me while Winker nodded knowingly and closed one eye as if I had uttered some craftiness which appealed to him.
The vast hunched figure of Mr. Barnett hovered in the background, cigarette drooping, the bright sunshine striking brilliant shafts of light from the tight sheen of the navy suit.
I couldn’t help comparing the aspect of the trio of humans with the natural beauty and dignity of the horse. The big chestnut tossed his head then stood looking calmly across the paddock, the large fine eyes alight with intelligence, the noble lines of the face and neck blending gently into the grace and power of the body. Observations I had heard about the higher and lower animals floated about in my mind.
Siegfried walked around the horse, patting him and talking to him, his eyes shining with the delight of the fanatic.
“He’s a grand sort, Mr. Barnett,” he said.
The big man glowered at him. “Aye well, don’t spoil ’im, that’s all. I’ve paid a lot o’ money for that ’oss.”
Siegfried gave him a thoughtful look then turned to me.
“Well, let’s get on. We’ll drop him over there on that long grass. Are you ready, James?”
I was ready, but I’d be a lot more at ease if Siegfried would just leave me alone. In horse work I was the anaesthetist and my colleague was the surgeon. And he was good; quick, deft, successful. I had no quarrel with the arrangement; he could get on with his job and let me do mine. But there was the rub; he would keep butting into my territory and I found it wearing.
Anaesthesia in the large animals has a dual purpose; it abolishes pain and acts as a means of restraint. It is obvious that you can’t do much with these potentially dangerous creatures unless they are controlled.
That was my job. I had to produce a sleeping patient ready for the knife and very often I thought it was the most difficult part. Until the animal was properly under I always felt a certain tension and Siegfried didn’t help in this respect
Even now, thirty years later, when I am using such intravenous drugs as thiopentone he is still at it. Stamping around impatiently as I fill my syringe, poking over my shoulder with a long fore-finger into the jugular furrow. “I’d shove it in just there, James.”
I stood there irresolute, my partner by my side, the chloroform bottle in my pocket the muzzle dangling from my hand. It would be wonderful, I thought, if just once I could be on my own to get on with it. And, after all, I had worked for him for nearly three years—surely I knew him well enough to be able to put it to him.
I cleared my throat. “Siegfried, I was just wondering. Would you care to go and sit down over there for a few minutes till I get him down?”
“What’s that?”
“Well I thought it would be a good idea if you left me to it. There’s a bit of a crowd round the horse’s head—I don’t want him excited. So why don’t you relax for a while. I’ll give you a shout when he’s down.”
Siegfried raised a hand. “My dear chap, anything you say. I don’t know what I’m hanging around here for anyway. I never interfere with your end as you well know.” He turned about and, tray under arm, marched off to where he had parked his car on the grass about fifty yards away. He strode round behind the Rover and sat down on the turf, his back against the metal. He was out of sight.
Peace descended. I became suddenly aware of the soft warmth of the sun on my forehead, of the bird song echoing among the nearby trees. Unhurriedly I fastened on the muzzle under the head collar and produced my little glass measure.
This once I had plenty of time. I’d start him off with just a couple of drachms to get him used to the smell of it without frightening him. I poured the clear fluid on to the sponge.
“Walk him slowly round in a circle,” I said to Ginger and Winker. “I’m going to give him a little bit at a time, there’s no hurry. But keep a good hold of that halter shank in case he plays up.”
There was no need for my warning. The two-year-old paced round calmly and fearlessly and every minute or so I trickled a little extra on to the sponge. After a while his steps became laboured and he began to sway drunkenly as he walked. I watched him happily; this was the way I liked to do it. Another little dollop would just about do the trick. I measured out another half ounce and walked over to the big animal.
His head nodded sleepily as I gave it to him. “You’re just about ready aren’t you, old lad,” I was murmuring when the peace was suddenly shattered.
“He isn’t going to go down, you know, James!” It was a booming roar from the direction of the car and as I whipped round in consternation I saw a head just showing over the bonnet. There was another cry.
“Why don’t you strap up a…?”
At that moment the horse lurched and collapsed quietly on the grass and Siegfried came bounding knife in hand from his hiding place like a greyhound.
“Sit on his head!” he yelled. “What are you waiting for, he’ll be up in a minute! And get that rope round that hind leg! And bring my tray! And fetch the hot water!” He panted up to the horse then turned and bawled into Ginger’s face, “Come on, I’m talking to you. MOVE!”
Ginger went off at a bow-legged gallop and cannoned into Winker who was rushing forward with the bucket. Then they had a brief but frenzied tug of war with the rope before they got it round the pastern.
“Pull the leg forward,” cried my partner, bending over the operation site, then a full blooded bellow, “Get the bloody foot out of my eye, will you! What’s the matter with you, you wouldn’t pull a hen off its nest the way you’re going.”
I knelt quietly at the head, my knee on the neck. There was no need to hold him down; he was beautifully out, his eyes blissfully closed as Siegfried worked with his usual lightning expertise. There was a mere few seconds of silence broken only by the tinkling of instruments as they fell back on the tray, then my colleague glanced along the horse’s back. “Open the muzzle, James.”
The operation was over.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen an easier job. By the time we had washed our instruments in the bucket the two-year-old was on his feet, cropping gently at the grass.
“Splendid anaesthetic, James,” said Siegfried, drying off the emasculator. “Just right. And what a grand sort of horse.”
We had put our gear back in the boot and were ready to leave when Walt Barnett heaved his massive bulk over towards us. He faced Siegfried across the bonnet of the car.
“Well that were nowt of a job,” he grunted, slapping a cheque book down on the shining metal, “How much do you want?”
There was an arrogant challenge in the words and, faced with the dynamic force, the sheer brutal presence of the man, most people who were about to charge a guinea would have changed their minds and said a pound.
“Well, I’m askin’ yer,” he repeated. “How much do you want?”
“Ah yes,” said Siegfried lightly. “That’ll be a tenner.”
The big man put a meaty hand on the cheque book and stared at my colleague. “What?”
“That’ll be a tenner,” Siegfried said again.
“Ten pounds?” Mr. Barnett’s eyes opened wider.
“Yes,” said Siegfried, smiling pleasantly. “That’s right Ten pounds.”
There was a silence as the two men faced each other across the bonnet. The bird song and the noises from the wood seemed abnormally loud as the seconds ticked away and nobody moved. Mr. Barnett was glaring furiously and I looked from the huge fleshy face which seemed to have swollen even larger across to the lean, strong-jawed, high-cheek-boned profile of my partner. Siegfried still wore the remains of a lazy smile but down in the grey depths of his eye a dangerous light glinted.
Just when I was at screaming point the big man dropped his head suddenly and began to write. When he handed the cheque over he was shaking so much that the slip of paper fluttered as though in a high wind.
“Here y’are, then,” he said hoarsely.
“Thank you so much.” Siegfried read the cheque briefly then stuffed it carelessly into a side pocket. “Isn’t it grand to have some real May weather, Mr. Barnett. Does us all good, I’m sure.”
Walt Barnett mumbled something and turned away. As I got into the car I could see the great expanse of navy blue back moving ponderously towards the house.
“He won’t have us back, anyway,” I said.
Siegfried started the engine and we moved away. “No, James, I should think he’d get his twelve bore out if we ventured down this drive again. But that suits me—I think I can manage to get through the rest of my life without Mr. Barnett.”
Our road took us through the little village of Baldon and Siegfried slowed down outside the pub, a yellow-washed building standing a few yards back from the road with a wooden sign reading The Cross Keys and a large black dog sleeping on the sunny front step.
My partner looked at his watch. “Twelve fifteen—they’ll just have opened. A cool beer would be rather nice wouldn’t it. I don’t think I’ve been in this place before.”
After the brightness outside, the shaded interior was restful, with only stray splinters of sunshine filtering through the curtains on to the flagged floor, the fissured oak tables, the big fireplace with its high settle.
“Good morning to you, landlord,” boomed my partner, striding over to the bar. He was in his most ducal mood and I felt it was a pity he didn’t have a silver-knobbed stick to rap on the counter.
The man behind the counter smiled and knuckled a forelock in the approved manner. “Good morning to you, sir, and what can I get for you gentlemen?”
I half expected Siegfried to say, “Two stoups of your choicest brew, honest fellow,” but instead he just turned to me and murmured “I think two ha
The man began to draw the beer.
“Won’t you join us?” Siegfried enquired.
“Thank ye sir, I’ll ’ave a brown ale with you.”
“And possibly your good lady, too?” Siegfried smiled over at the landlord’s wife who was stacking glasses at the end of the counter.
“That’s very kind of you, I will.” She looked up, gulped, and an expression of wonder crept over her face. Siegfried hadn’t stared at her—it had only been a five second burst from the grey eyes—but the bottle rattled against the glass as she poured her small port and she spent the rest of the time gazing at him dreamily.
“That’ll be five and sixpence,” the landlord said.
“Right.” My partner plunged a hand into his bulging side pocket and crashed down on the counter an extraordinary mixture of crumpled bank notes, coins, veterinary instruments, thermometers, bits of string. He stirred the mass with a forefinger, flicking out a half crown and two florins across the woodwork.
“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t those my curved scissors? I lost them a few days…”
Siegfried swept the pile out of sight into his pocket.
“Nonsense! What makes you think that?”
“Well, they look exactly like mine. Unusual shape—lovely long, flat blades. I’ve been looking everywhere…”
“James!” He drew himself up and faced me with frozen hauteur. “I think you’ve said enough. I may be capable of stooping to some pretty low actions but I’d like to believe that certain things are beneath me. And stealing a colleague’s curved scissors is one of them.”
I relapsed into silence. I’d have to bide my time and take my chance later. I was fairly sure I’d recognised a pair of my dressing forceps in there too.
In any case, something else was occupying Siegfried’s mind. He narrowed his eyes in intense thought then delved into his other pocket and produced a similar collection which he proceeded to push around the counter anxiously.