James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘We’ll just have one for the road, Jim,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Would you be so kind, Fred?’

  This was ridiculous but I didn’t want to appear a piker at our first meeting. With something akin to desperation I raised the third and began to suck feebly at it. When my glass was empty I almost collapsed against the counter, My stomach was agonisingly distended and a light perspiration had broken out on my brow. As I almost lay there I saw my colleague moving across the carpet towards the door.

  ‘Time we were off, Jim,’ he said. ‘Drink up.’

  It’s wonderful what the human frame can tolerate when put to the test. I would have taken bets that it was impossible for me to drink that fourth pint without at least half an hour’s rest, preferably in the prone position, but as Bennett’s shoe tapped impatiently I tipped the beer a little at a time into my mouth, feeling it wash around my back teeth before incredibly disappearing down my gullet. I believe the water torture was a favourite with the Spanish Inquisition and as the pressure inside me increased I knew just how their victims felt.

  When I at last blindly replaced my glass and splashed my way from the bar, the big man was holding the door open. Outside in the street he placed an arm across my shoulder.

  ‘The old Spaniel won’t be out of it yet,’ he said. ‘We’ll just slip to my house and have a bite – I’m a little peckish.’

  Sunk in the deep upholstery of the Bentley, cradling my swollen abdomen in my arms, I watched the shop fronts flicker past the windows and give, way to the darkness of the open countryside. We drew up outside a fine grey stone house in a typical Yorkshire village and Bennett ushered me inside.

  He pushed me towards a leather armchair. ‘Make yourself at home, laddie. Zoe’s out at the moment but I’ll get some grub.’ He bustled through to the kitchen and reappeared in seconds with a deep bowl which he placed on a table by my side.

  ‘You know, Jim,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘There’s nothing better after beer than a few pickled onions.’

  I cast a timorous glance into the bowl. Everything in this man’s life seemed to be larger than life, even the onions. They were bigger than golf balls, brownish-white, glistening.

  ‘Well thanks, Mr Ben . . . Granville.’ I took one of them, held it between finger and thumb and stared at it helplessly. The beer hadn’t even begun to sort itself out inside me; the idea of starting on this potent-looking vegetable was unthinkable.

  Granville reached into the bowl, popped an onion into his mouth, crunched it quickly, swallowed and sank his teeth into a second. ‘By God, that’s good. You know, my little wife’s a marvellous cook. She even makes pickled onions better than anyone.’

  Munching happily he moved over to the sideboard and clinked around for a few moments before placing in my hand a heavy cut-glass tumbler about two-thirds full of neat whisky. I couldn’t say anything because I had taken the plunge and put the onion in my mouth; and as I bit boldly into it the fumes rolled in a volatile wave into my nasal passages, making me splutter. I took a gulp at the whisky and looked up at Granville with watering eyes.

  He was holding out the onion bowl again and when I declined he regarded it for a moment with hurt in his eyes. ‘It’s funny you don’t like them, I always thought Zoe did them marvellously.’

  ‘Oh you’re wrong, Granville, they’re delicious. I just haven’t finished this one.’

  He didn’t reply but continued to look at the bowl with gentle sorrow. I realised there was nothing else for it; I took another onion.

  Immensely gratified, Granville hurried through to the kitchen again. This time when he came back he bore a tray with an enormous cold roast, a loaf of bread, butter and mustard.

  ‘I think a beef sandwich would go down rather nicely, Jim,’ he murmured, as he stropped his carving knife on a steel. Then he noticed my glass of whisky still half full.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!’ he said with some asperity. ‘You’re not touching your drink.’ He watched me benevolently as I drained the glass then he refilled it to its old level. ‘That’s better. And have another onion.’

  I stretched my legs out and rested my head on the back of the chair in an attempt to ease my internal turmoil. My stomach was a lake of volcanic lava bubbling and popping fiercely in its crater with each additional piece of onion, every sip of whisky setting up a fresh violent reaction. Watching Granville at work, a great wave of nausea swept over me. He was sawing busily at the roast, carving off slices which looked to be an inch thick, slapping mustard on them and enclosing them in the bread. He hammered with contentment as the pile grew. Every now and then he had another onion.

  ‘Now then, laddie,’ he cried at length, putting a heaped plate at my elbow. ‘Get yourself round that lot.’ He took his own supply and collapsed with a sigh into another chair.

  He took a gargantuan bite and spoke as he chewed. ‘You know, Jim, this is something I enjoy – a nice little snack. Zoe always leaves me plenty to go at when she pops out.’ He engulfed a further few inches of sandwich. ‘And I’ll tell you something, though I say it myself, these are bloody good, don’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Squaring my shoulders I bit, swallowed and held my breath as another unwanted foreign body slid down to the ferment below.

  Just then I heard the front door open.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be Zoe,’ Granville said, and was about to rise when a disgracefully fat Staffordshire Bull Terrier burst into the room, waddled across the carpet and leaped into his lap.

  ‘Phoebles, my dear, come to Daddykins!’ he shouted. ‘Have you had nice walkies with Mummy?’

  The Staffordshire was closely followed by a Yorkshire Terrier which was also enthusiastically greeted by Granville.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, Victoria, yoo-hoo!’

  The Yorkie, an obvious smiler, did not jump up but contented herself with sitting at her master’s feet, baring her teeth ingratiatingly every few seconds.

  I smiled through my pain. Another myth exploded; the one about these specialist small animal vets not being fond of dogs themselves. The big man crooned over the two little animals. The fact that he called Phoebe ‘Phoebles’ was symptomatic.

  I heard light footsteps in the hall and looked up expectantly. I had Granville’s wife taped neatly in my mind; domesticated, devoted, homely; many of these dynamic types had wives like that, willing slaves content to lurk in the background. I waited confidently for the entrance of a plain little hausfrau.

  When the door opened I almost let my vast sandwich fall. Zoe Bennett was a glowing warm beauty who would make any man alive stop for another look. A lot of soft brown hair, large grey-green friendly eyes, a tweed suit sitting sweetly on a slim but not too slim figure; and something else, a wholesomeness, an inner light which made me wish suddenly that I was a better man or at least that I looked better than I did.

  In an instant I was acutely conscious of the fact that my shoes were dirty, that my old jacket and corduroy trousers were out of place here. I hadn’t troubled to change but had rushed straight out in my working clothes, and they were different from Granville’s because I couldn’t go round the farms in a suit like his.

  ‘My love, my love!’ he carolled joyously as his wife bent over and kissed him fondly. ‘Let me introduce Jim Herriot from Darrowby.’

  The beautiful eyes turned on me.

  ‘How d’you do, Mr Herriot!’ She looked as pleased to see me as her husband had done, and again I had the desperate wish that I was more presentable; that my hair was combed, that I didn’t have this mounting conviction that I was going to explode into a thousand pieces at any moment.

  ‘I’m going to have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot. Would you like one?’

  ‘No-no, no no, thank you very much but no, no, not at the moment.’ I backed away slightly.

  ‘Ah well, I see you’ve got one of Granville’s little sandwiches.’ She giggled and went to get her tea.

  When she came back she handed a parcel to her husband. ‘I’ve been shopping today