Vet in Harness Read online

every step. Then he stopped abruptly and held the offending limb out,

  quivering, behind him .. . good heavens, maybe he was a shiverer, too!

  The farmer kept his eyes on me and seemed oblivious of the interest of

  the passers-by. There were quite a few people in the street, probably

  bound for the early show at the cinema, but for the moment they appeared

  to find Mr Grainger more entertaining.

  "And that's not all,' he cried. "There's summat wrang with his

  watterworks.'

  "Really? How do you mean?'

  "Why 'e can't stale properly. Has a 'ell of a job. Gets himself all

  wraxed up Mr Grainger went into another of his impersonations - that of

  a horse having difficulty in passing urine - and I had to admit it was

  probably his best yet. He planted his stick firmly on the pavement and

  holding the top with both hands he backed away from it till his body was

  parallel with the ground. Then he began to straddle his legs further and

  further apart. The knot of people on the other side of the road had

  increased to a fair-sized crowd and they stared, fascinated, at the

  extraordinary sight. Mr Grainger was indeed the very picture of equine

  suffering and as he hollowed his back and paddled his wide-spaced feet I

  could almost share the desperate battle for release. When he finally

  raised his head and groaned the effect was harrowing.

  When all was finished Mr Grainger did as he always did - gave me a cold

  nod and stumped off without a word. There was no need for him to say,

  "See you next Saturday'. I knew he'd be back.

  Then there was Mr Grimsdale. His attitude towards me was something I

  couldn't quite make out, but I did know that he always had a depressing

  effect on me. He did this by the simple expedient of telling me that I

  didn't look very well.

  I thought back to the visit to his farm yesterday when he had called me

  to a cow with a cut teat. He was a tall cadaverous man with sunken

  cheeks and a mournful expression - he would have made a wonderful

  undertaker - and he looked at me in his own particular way as I got out

  of the car.

  I wondered what it would be today. My own conviction is that you should

  never tell anybody they don't look well, no matter what you think. And

  Mr Grimsdale's little sallies bit especially deeply because he always

  referred to me in agricultural terms as though I were one of his

  bullocks.

  "You've lost a bit o' ground lately, young man,' he would say, directing

  a piercing glance from my face down to my feet and down again. "Aye,

  you're rosin' ground fast - it's plain to see.'

  Or another time it might be, "You've run off a bit, Mr Herriot. There's

  no doubt you've run off.' And his stick would twitch in his hand as if

  he would have liked to give me an exploratory poke.

  But today he didn't say anything until I had finished stitching the teat

  and was washing my hands in a bucket of water. Then as I straightened up

  he adopted his usual stance; throwing up his head and jutting his chin

  he appraised me gloomily.

  "You've failed since ah last saw you, young man. Soon as you walked

  across t'yard this morning ah thought to meself, aye that lad's failed

  over t'last week or two.'

  And as the sharp eyes bored into me from behind the long pointed nose

  his viewpoint was plain. He, at any rate, could contemplate the prospect

  of my early demise with some compassion but without going to pieces.

  I worked up a sickly smile as I always did.

  "Oh, I'm fine, Mr Grimsdale, never felt better.' But the voice had an

  uncertain quaver and I knew by my sinking stomach that his shaft had

  gone home again. And then there was the usual humiliating business when

  I had driven away. I always stopped the car just round the corner where

  a high curve of wall hid me from the farm.

  Staring into the car mirror I put out my tongue, pulled down my eyelids

  to have a look at my mucous membranes and muttered desperately as though

  Mr Grimsdale was still there.

  "I feel fine, really I do .. . fine .. . fine .. .'

  Talking of farmers' attitudes to their vets, I think it is fair to say

  that in Robert Hewison's cheerful household, though Siegfried's prowess

  as an animal doctor was highly regarded, his main claim to fame was as a

  judge of Christmas cake.

  Mrs Hewison was a baker of great repute and when she started long before

  the festive season to stir up vast quantities of fruit and candied peel

  and butter and all the other things that went into her peerless cakes it

  was a very serious business. Not that there was any question of a

  failure - her cakes varied from excellent to superb but once the long

  process had been completed and the last piece of marzipan and icing

  applied she dearly loved to have the accolade from an expert. And in her

  eyes Siegfried was number one.

  Robert Hewison confided in me once: "The knows, my missus is never

  content till your guvnor's had a taste.'

  I was privileged to be present on one of these occasions. It was a few

  days before Christmas and Siegfried and I had gone together to Robert's

  farm to lift a horse which had got cast in its stall. We did the job

  successfully with the aid of slings and a block and tackle and Robert,

  as always, asked us into the house.

  The farmer's wife, her dark, rather solemn face illumined by friendly

  eyes, ushered us to the two tall wooden chairs by the fireside.

  "Come and get warmed up, gentleman,' she said. "And you'll have a drink

  and a bit o' cake, won't you?'

  "You're very kind, Mrs Hewison,' replied Siegfried. "That would be

  lovely.'

  He sat down, but I went through to the offshoot of the kitchen to wash

  my hands at the sink. The farmer's wife was cutting at a large cake on a

  table nearby. She nudged me and whispered conspiratorially.

  "This isn't me own cake. It's one me sister baked, but I'm not telling

  Mr Farnon that. We'll just see what he says.'

  I stared at her. "But is that quite fair? Hadn't you better tell him?'

  "No, I want to have his true judgement, so I'm not sayin' a word.'

  I went back to the kitchen with some misgiving. It was unlike this lady

  to play jokes, but maybe after years of unqualified approbation she

  wanted to put my colleague's sincerity to the test. Anyway, I hoped

  nothing unfortunate would happen.

  As I took my place by the fire Robert and his three sons; came in and

  sat around in a circle. I was given a piece of cake, too, but nobody

  paid any attention to me; all eyes were on Siegfried.

  "I'd like to know what you think of t'cake this year, Mr Farnon,' our

  hostess said.

  My colleague toasted the family gracefully, sipped at his whisky then

  lifted the plate with its slice of cake. Silence fell upon the company.

  Holding the plate in the palm of his hand he studied the cake carefully

  from various angles before breaking off a fair-sized piece. This he

  massaged gently between thumb and forefinger for a few moments, his eyes

  half closed. Then after sniffing at it a couple of times he put it in

  his mouth.

  I could feel the ten