It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

After a job he always asked us in to sample Mrs. Pratt's baking. In fact

  on cold days he used to keep a thermos of hot coffee ready for our

  arrival and he had an endearing habit of sloshing rum freely into each

  cup before pouring in the coffee.

  "You can't put a man like that in court," Siegfried said. "But we've got

  to find some way of parting him from his brass." He looked ruminatively

  at the ceiling for a few moments then thumped a fist into his palm.

  "I think I've got it, James! You know it's quite possible it just never

  occurs to Dennis to pay a bill. So I'm going to pitch him into an

  environment where it will really be brought home to him. The accounts

  have just gone out and I'll arrange to meet him in here at two o'clock

  next market day. I'll say I want to discuss his mastitis problem. He'll

  be right in the middle of all the other farmers paying their bills and

  I'll deliberately leave him with them for half an hour or so. I'm sure

  it will give him the notion."

  I couldn't help feeling dubious. I had known Siegfried long enough to

  realise that some of his ideas were brilliant and others barmy; and he

  had so many ~ideas and they came in such a constant torrent that I often

  had difficulty in deciding which was which. Clearly in this case he was

  working on the same lines as a doctor who turns on a water tap full

  force to induce a pent up patient to urinate into a bottle.

  The scheme may have merit - it was possible that the flutter of cheque

  books the chink of coins, the rustle of notes might tap the long-buried

  well of debt in Dennis and bring it gushing from him in a mighty flood;

  but I doubted it.

  My doubts must have shown on my face because Siegfried laughed and

  thumped me on the shoulder. "Don't look so worried - we can only try.

  And it'll work. Just you wait."

  After lunch on market day I was looking out of the window when l saw

  Dennis heading our way. The street was busy with the market bustle but

  he was easy to pick out. Chin in air, beaming around him happily, every

  springing step taking him high on tiptoe he was a distinctive figure. I

  let him in at the front door and he strutted past me along the passage,

  the back of his natty sports Jacket Lying in a neat fold over his

  protruding buttocks.

  Siegfried seated him strategically by Miss Harbottle's elbow, giving him

  an Unimpeded view of the desk. Then he excused himself, saying he had a

  dog to attend to in the operating room. I stayed behind to answer the

  clients' queries and to watch developments. I hadn't long to wait; the

  farmers began to come in, a steady stream of them, clutching their

  cheque books. Some of them stood patiently by the desk, others sat in

  the chairs along the walls waiting their turn It was a typical

  bill-paying day with the usual quota of moans. The most common

  expression was that Mr. Farnon had been 'ower heavy wi' t'pen' and many

  of them wanted a 'bit knockin' off. Miss Harbottle used her discretion

  in these matters and if the animal had died or the bill did seem unduly

  large she would make some reduction.

  There was one man who didn't get away with it. He had truculently

  demanded a 'bit of luck' on an account and Miss Harbottle fixed him with

  a cold eye.

  "Mr. Brewiss," she said. "This account has been owing for over a year.

  You should really be paying us interest. I can only allow discount when

  a bill is paid promptly. It's too bad of you to let it run on for this

  length of time."

  Dennis, sitting bolt upright, his hands resting on his knees, obviously

  agreed with every word. He pursed his lips in disapproval as he looked

  at the farmer and turned towards me with a positively scandalised

  expression.

  Among the complaints was an occasional bouquet. A stooping old man who

  had received one of the polite letters was full of apologies. "I'm sorry

  I've missed paying for a few months. The vets allus come out straight

  away when I send for them so I reckon it's not fair for me to keep them

  waiting for their money."

  I could see that Dennis concurred entirely with this sentiment. He

  nodded vigorously and smiled benevolently at the old man.

  Another farmer, a hard-looking character, was walking out without his

  receipt when Miss Harbottle called him back. "You'd better take this

  with you or we might ask you to pay again," she said with a heavy

  attempt at roguishness.

  The man paused with his hand on the door knob. "I'll tell you summat,

  missis, you're bloody lucky to get it once - you'd never get it twice."

  Dennis was right in the thick of it all. Watching closely as the farmers

  slapped their cheque books on the desk for Miss Harbottle to write (they

  never wrote their own cheques) then signed them slowly and

  painstakingly. He looked with open fascination at the neat bundles of

  notes being tucked away in the desk drawer and I kept making little

  provocative remarks like "It's nice to see the money coming in. We can't

  carry on without that, can we."

  The queue began to thin out and sometimes we were left alone in the

  room. On these occasions we conversed about many things - the weather,

  Dennis's stock, the political situation. Finally, Siegfried came in and

  I left to do a round.

  When I got back, Siegfried was at his evening meal. I was eager to hear

  how his scheme had worked out but he was strangely reticent. At length I

  could wait no longer.

  "Well, how did it go?" I asked.

  Siegfried speared a piece of steak with his fork and applied some

  mustard. "How did what go."

  "Well - Dennis. How did you make out with him."

  "Oh, fine. We went into his mastitis problem very thoroughly. I'm going

  out there on Tuesday morning to infuse every infected quarter in the

  herd with acriflavine solution. It's a new treatment - they say it's

  very good."

  "But you know what I mean. Did he show any sign of paying his bill."

  Siegfried chewed impassively for a few moments and swallowed. "No,

  never; a sign." He put down his knife and fork and a haggard look spread

  over his face.

  "It didn't work, did it."

  "Oh well, never mind. As you said, we could only try." I hesitated.

  "There's something else, Siegfried. I'm afraid you're going to be

  annoyed with me. I know you've told me never to dish out stuff- to

  people who don't pay, but he talked me into letting him have a couple of

  bottles of fever drink. I don't know what came over me."

  "He did, did he?" Siegfried stared into space for a second then gave a

  wintry smile. "Well, you can forget about that. He got six tins of

  stomach powder out of me."

  Chapter Twenty-five.

  There was one client who would not have been invited to the debtor."

  cocktail party. He was Mr. Horace Dumbleby, the butcher of Aldgrove. As

  an inveterate non-payer he fulfilled the main qualification for the

  function but he was singularly lacking in charm.

  His butcher shop in the main street of picturesque Aldgrove village was

  busy and prosperous but most of his trade was done in the neighbouring