Like a football match turning out, the mass of people surged along the passage and into the street and another Dimmock visit had come to an end.
I forgot the incident immediately because there was nothing unusual about it. The pot-bellied appearance of the puppy made my diagnosis a formality; I didn’t expect to see him again.
But I was wrong. A week later my surgery was once more overflowing and I had another squashed-in session with Toby in the little back room. My pill had evacuated a few worms but he was still vomiting, still distended.
“Are you giving him five very small meals a day as I told you?” I asked.
I received an emphatic affirmative and I believed them. The Dimmocks really took care of their animals. There was something else here, yet I couldn’t find it. Temperature normal, lungs clear, abdomen negative on palpation; I couldn’t make it out I dispensed a bottle of our antacid mixture with a feeling of defeat. A young puppy like this shouldn’t need such a thing.
This was the beginning of a frustrating period. There would be a span of two or three weeks when I would think the trouble had righted itself then without warning the place would be full of Dimmocks and Pounders and I’d be back where I started.
And all the time Toby was growing thinner.
I tried everything; gastric sedatives, variations of diet, quack remedies. I interrogated the Dimmocks repeatedly about the character of the vomiting—how long after eating, what were the intervals between, and I received varying replies. Sometimes he brought his food straight back, at others he retained it for several hours. I got nowhere.
It must have been over eight weeks later—Toby would be about four months old—when I again viewed the assembled Dimmocks with a sinking heart. Their visits had become depressing affairs and I could not foresee anything better today as I opened the waiting room door and allowed myself to be almost carried along the passage. This time it was Dad who was the last to wedge himself into the consulting room then Nellie placed the little dog on the table.
I felt an inward lurch of sheer misery. Toby had grown despite his disability and was now a grim caricature of a Cocker Spaniel, the long silky ears drooping from an almost fleshless skull, the spindly legs pathetically feathered. I had thought Nellie was thin but her pet had outdone her. And he wasn’t just thin, he was trembling slightly as he stood arch-backed on the smooth surface, and his face had the dull inward look of an animal which has lost interest.
The little girl ran her hand along the jutting ribs and the pale, squinting eyes looked up at me through the steel spectacles with that smile which pulled at me more painfully than ever before. She didn’t seem worried. Probably she had no idea how things were, but whether she had or not I knew I’d never be able to tell her that her dog was slowly dying.
I rubbed my eyes wearily. “What has he had to eat today?”
Nellie answered herself. “He’s ’ad some bread and milk.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked, but before anybody could reply the little dog vomited, sending the half digested stomach contents soaring in a graceful arc to land two feet away on the table.
I swung round on Mrs. Dimmock. “Does he always do it like that?”
“Aye he mostly does—sends it flying out, like.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
The poor lady looked flustered. “Well…I don’t know…I…”
I held up a hand. “That’s all right, Mrs. Dimmock, never mind.” It occurred to me that all the way through my totally ineffectual treatment of this dog not a single Dimmock or Pounder had uttered a word of criticism so why should I start to complain now?
But I knew what Toby’s trouble was now. At last, at long last I knew.
And in case my present day colleagues reading this may think I had been more than usually thick-headed in my handling of the case I would like to offer in my defence that such limited text books as there were in those days made only a cursory reference to pyloric stenosis (narrowing of the exit of the stomach where it joins the small intestine) and if they did they said nothing about treatment.
But surely, I thought, somebody in England was ahead of the books. There must be people who were actually doing this operation…and if there were I had a feeling one might not be too far away…
I worked my way through the crush and trotted along the passage to the phone.
“Is that you Granville?”
“JIM.” A bellow of pure unalloyed joy. “How are you laddie?”
“Very well, how are you?”
“Ab-so-lutely tip top, old son! Never better!”
“Granville, I’ve got a four month old spaniel pup I’d like to bring through to you. It’s got pyloric stenosis.”
“Oh lovely!”
“I’m afraid the little thing’s just about on its last legs—a bag of bones.”
“Splendid, splendid!”
“This is because I’ve been mucking about for weeks in ignorance.”
“Fine, just fine!”
“And the owners are a very poor family. They can’t pay anything I’m afraid.”
“Wonderful!”
I hesitated a moment. “Granville, you do…er…you have…operated on these cases before?”
“Did five yesterday.”
“What!”
A deep rumble of laughter. “I do but jest, old son, but you needn’t worry, I’ve done a few. And it isn’t such a bad job.”
“Well that’s great.” I looked at my watch. “It’s half past nine now, I’ll get Siegfried to take over my morning round and I’ll see you before eleven.”
37
GRANVILLE HAD BEEN CALLED out when I arrived and I hung around his surgery till I heard the expensive sound of the Bentley purring into the yard. Through the window I saw yet another magnificent pipe glinting behind the wheel then my colleague, in an impeccable pin-striped suit which made him look like the Director of the Bank of England, paced majestically towards the side door.
“Good to see you, Jim!” he exclaimed, wringing my hand warmly. Then before removing his jacket he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded it with a trace of anxiety for a second before giving it a polish with his yellow cloth and placing it tenderly in a drawer.
It wasn’t long before I was under the lamp in the operating room bending over Toby’s small outstretched form while Granville—the other Granville Bennett—worked with fierce concentration inside the abdomen of the little animal.
“You see the gross gastric dilatation,” he murmured. “Classical lesion.” He gripped the pylorus and poised his scalpel. “Now I’m going through the serous coat.” A quick deft incision. “A bit of blunt dissection here for the muscle fibers…down…down…a little more…ah there it is, can you see it—the mucosa bulging into the cleft. Yes…yes…just right. That’s what you’ve got to arrive at.”
I peered down at the tiny tube which had been the site of all Toby’s troubles. “Is that all, then?”
“That’s all, laddie.” He stepped back with a grin. “The obstruction is relieved now and you can take bets that this little chap will start to put weight on now.”
“That’s wonderful, Granville. I’m really grateful.”
“Nonsense, Jim, it was a pleasure. You can do the next one yourself now, eh?” He laughed, seized needle and sutures and sewed up the abdominal muscles and skin at an impossible pace.
A few minutes later he was in his office pulling on his jacket, then as he filled his pipe he turned to me.
“I’ve got a little plan for the rest of the morning, laddie.”
I shrank away from him and threw up a protective hand. “Well now, er…it’s kind of you, Granville, but I really…I honestly must get back…we’re very busy, you know…can’t leave Siegfried too long…work’ll be piling up…” I stopped because I felt I was beginning to gibber.
My colleague looked wounded. “All I meant, old son, was that we want you to come to lunch. Zoe is expecting you.”
“Oh…oh, I see. Well that’s very
kind. We’re not going…anywhere else, then?”
“Anywhere else?” He blew out his cheeks and spread his arms wide. “Of course not I just have to call in at my branch surgery on the way.”
“Branch surgery? I didn’t know you had one.”
“Oh yes, just a stone’s throw from my house.” He put an arm round my shoulders. “Well let’s go, shall we?”
As I lay back, cradled in the Bentley’s luxury, I dwelt happily on the thought that at last I was going to meet Zoe Bennett when I was my normal self. She would learn this time that I wasn’t a perpetually drunken oaf. In fact the next hour or two seemed full of rosy promise; an excellent lunch illumined by my witty conversation and polished manners, then back with Toby, magically resuscitated, to Darrowby.
I smiled to myself when I thought of Nellie’s face when I told her her pet was going to be able to eat and grow strong and playful like any other pup. I was still smiling when the car pulled up on the outskirts of Granville’s home village. I glanced idly through the window at a low stone building with leaded panes and a wooden sign dangling over the entrance. It read “Old Oak Tree Inn.” I turned quickly to my companion.
“I thought we were going to your branch surgery?”
Granville gave me a smile of childish innocence. “Oh that’s what I call this place. It’s so near home and I transact quite a lot of business here.” He patted my knee. “We’ll just pop in for an appetizer, eh?”
“Now wait a minute,” I stammered gripping the sides of my seat tightly. “I just can’t be late today. I’d much rather…”
Granville raised a hand. “Jim, laddie, we won’t be in for long.” He looked at his watch. “It’s exactly twelve thirty and I promised Zoe we’d be home by one o’clock. She’s cooking roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and it would take a braver man than me to let her pudding go flat. I guarantee we’ll be in that house at one o’clock on the dot—O.K.?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t come to much harm in half an hour. I climbed out of the car.
As we went into the pub, a large man who had been leaning on the counter turned and exchanged enthusiastic greetings with my colleague.
“Albert!” cried Granville. “Meet Jim Herriot from Darrowby. Jim, this is Albert Wainwright, the landlord of the Wagon and Horses over in Matherley. In fact he’s the president of the Licensed Victuallers’ Association this year, aren’t you, Albert?”
The big man grinned and nodded and for a moment I felt overwhelmed by the two figures on either side of me. It was difficult to describe the hard, bulky tissue of Granville’s construction but Mr. Wainwright was unequivocally fat. A checked jacket hung open to display an enormous expanse of striped shirted abdomen overflowing the waistband of his trousers. Above a gay bowtie cheerful eyes twinkled at me from a red face and when he spoke his tone was rich and fruity. He embodied the rich ambience of the term “Licensed Victualler.”
I began to sip at the half pint of beer I had ordered but when another appeared in two minutes I saw I was going to fall hopelessly behind and switched to the whiskies and sodas which the others were drinking. And my undoing was that both my companions appeared to have a standing account here; they downed their drinks, tapped softly on the counter and said “Yes please, Jack,” whereupon three more glasses appeared with magical speed. I never had a chance to buy a round. In fact no money ever changed hands.
It was a quiet, friendly little session with Albert and Granville carrying on a conversation of the utmost good humour punctuated by the almost soundless taps on the bar. And as I fought to keep up with the two virtuosos the taps came more and more frequently till I seemed to hear them every few seconds.
Granville was as good as his word. When it was nearly one o’clock he looked at his watch.
“Got to be off now, Albert. Zoe’s expecting us right now.”
And as the car rolled to a stop outside the house dead on time I realised with a dull despair that it had happened to me again. Within me a witch’s brew was beginning to bubble, sending choking fumes into my brain. I felt terrible and I knew for sure I would get rapidly worse.
Granville, fresh and debonnair as ever, leaped out and led me into the house.
“Zoe, my love!” he warbled, embracing his wife as she came through from the kitchen.
When she disengaged herself she came over to me. She was wearing a flowered apron which made her look if possible even more attractive.
“HelLO!” she cried and gave me that look which she shared with her husband as though meeting James Herriot was an unbelievable boon. “Lovely to see you again. I’ll get lunch now.” I replied with a foolish grin and she skipped away.
Flopping into an armchair I listened to Granville pouring steadily over at the sideboard. He put a glass in my hand and sat in another chair. Immediately the obese Staffordshire Terrier bounded on to his lap.
“Phoebles, my little pet!” he sang joyfully. “Daddykins is home again.” And he pointed playfully at the tiny Yorkie who was sitting at his feet, baring her teeth repeatedly in a series of ecstatic smiles. “And I see you, my little Victoria, I see you!”
By the time I was ushered to the table I was like a man in a dream, moving sluggishly, speaking with slurred deliberation. Granville poised himself over a vast sirloin, stropped his knife briskly then began to hack away ruthlessly. He was a prodigal server and piled about two pounds of meat on my plate then he started on the Yorkshire puddings. Instead of a single big one, Zoe had made a large number of little round ones as the farmers’ wives often did; delicious golden cups, crisply brown round the sides. Granville heaped about six of these by the side of the meat as I watched stupidly. Then Zoe passed me the gravy boat.
With an effort I took a careful grip on the handle, closed one eye and began to pour. For some reason I felt I had to fill up each of the little puddings with gravy and I owlishly directed the stream into one then another till they were all overflowing. Once I missed and spilled a few drops of the fragrant liquid on the table cloth. I looked up guiltily at Zoe and giggled.
Zoe giggled back, and I had the impression that she felt that though I was a peculiar individual there was no harm in me. I just had this terrible weakness that I was never sober day or night, but I wasn’t such a bad fellow at heart.
It usually took me a few days to recover from a visit to Granville and by the following Saturday I was convalescing nicely. It happened that I was in the market place and saw a large concourse of people crossing the cobbles. At first I thought from the mixture of children and adults that it must be a school outing but on closer inspection I realised it was only the Dimmocks and Pounders going shopping.
When they saw me they diverted their course and I was engulfed by a human wave.
“Look at ’im now, Mister!” “He’s eatin’ like a ’oss now!” “He’s goin’ to get fat soon, Mister!” The delighted cries rang around me.
Nellie had Toby on a lead and as I bent over the little animal I could hardly believe how a few days had altered him. He was still skinny but the hopeless look had gone; he was perky, ready to play. It was just a matter of time now.
His little mistress ran her hand again and again over the smooth brown coat.
“You are proud of your little dog, aren’t you Nellie,” I said, and the gentle squinting eyes turned on me.
“Yes, I am.” She smiled that smile again. “Because ’e’s mine.”
38
IT WAS ALMOST AS though I were looking at my own cows because as I stood in the little new byre and looked along the row of red and roan backs I felt a kind of pride.
“Frank,” I said, “they look marvellous. You wouldn’t think they were the same animals.”
Frank Metcalfe grinned. “Just what I was thinking meself. It’s wonderful what a change of setting’ll do for livestock.”
It was the cows’ first day in the new byre. Previously I had seen them only in the old place—a typical Dales cowhouse, centuries old with a broken cobbled floor and gaping holes w
here the muck and urine lay in pools, rotting wooden partitions between the stalls and slit windows as though the place had been built as a fortress. I could remember Frank sitting in it milking, almost invisible in the gloom, the cobwebs hanging in thick fronds from the low roof above him.
In there, the ten cows had looked what they were—a motley assortment of ordinary milkers—but today they had acquired a new dignity and style.
“You must feel it’s been worth all your hard work,” I said, and the young farmer nodded and smiled. There was a grim touch about the smile as though he was reliving for a moment the hours and weeks and months of back-breaking labour he had put in there. Because Frank Metcalfe had done it all himself. The rows of neat, concreted standings, the clean, level sweep of floor, the whitewashed, cement-rendered walls all bathed in light from the spacious windows had been put there by his own two hands.
“I’ll show you the dairy,” Frank said.
We went into a small room which he had built at one end and I looked admiringly at the gleaming milk cooler, the spotless sinks and buckets, the strainer with its neat pile of filter pads.
“You know,” I said. “This is how milk should be produced. All those mucky old places I see every day on my rounds—they nearly make my hair stand on end.”
Frank leaned over and drew a jet of water from one of the taps. “Aye, you’re right. It’ll all be like this and better one day and it’ll pay the farmers better too. I’ve got me T.T. licence now and the extra fourpence a gallon will make a hell of a difference. I feel I’m ready to start.”
And when he did start, I thought, he’d go places. He seemed to have all the things it took to succeed at the hard trade of farming—intelligence, physical toughness, a love of the land and animals and the ability to go slogging on endlessly when other people were enjoying their leisure. I felt these qualities would overcome his biggest handicap which was simply that he didn’t have any money.
Frank wasn’t a farmer at all to start with. He was a steel worker from Middlesbrough. When he had first arrived less than a year ago with his young wife to take over the isolated small holding at Bransett I had been surprised to learn that he hailed from the city because he had the dark, sinewy look of the typical Dalesman—and he was called Metcalfe.