All Creatures Great and Small Read online

  Siegfried leaned back in his armchair, put his fingers together and assumed a judicial expression. Now and again he nodded understandingly or narrowed his eyes as if taking an interesting point. Practically nothing could be heard from Mr. Cranford but occasionally a word or phrase penetrated.

  “… have a serious complaint to make …”

  “… doesn’t know his job …”

  “… can’t afford … not a rich man …”

  “… these danged dogs …”

  “… won’t have ’im again …”

  “… down dog, get bye …”

  “… nowt but robbery …”

  Siegfried, completely relaxed and apparently oblivious of the din, listened attentively but as the minutes passed I could see the strain beginning to tell on Mr. Cranford. His eyes began to start from their sockets and the veins corded on his scrawny neck as he tried to get his message across. Finally it was too much for him; he jumped up and a leaping brown tide bore him to the door. He gave a last defiant cry, lashed out again with his hat and was gone.

  Pushing open the dispensary door a few weeks later, I found my boss mixing an ointment. He was working with great care, turning and re-turning the glutinous mass on a marble slab.

  “What’s this you’re doing?” I asked.

  Siegfried threw down his spatula and straightened his back. “Ointment for a boar.” He looked past me at Tristan who had just come in. “And I don’t know why the hell I’m doing it when some people are sitting around on their backsides.” He indicated the spatula. “Right, Tristan, you can have a go. When you’ve finished your cigarette, that is.”

  His expression softened as Tristan hastily nipped out his Woodbine and began to work away on the slab. “Pretty stiff concoction, that. Takes a bit of mixing,” Siegfried said with satisfaction, looking at his brother’s bent head. “The back of my neck was beginning to ache with it.”

  He turned to me. “By the way, you’ll be interested to hear it’s for your old friend Cranford. For that prize boar of his. It’s got a nasty sore across its back and he’s worried to death about it. Wins him a lot of money at the shows and a blemish there would be disastrous.”

  “Cranford’s still with us, then.”

  “Yes, it’s a funny thing, but we can’t get rid of him. I don’t like losing clients but I’d gladly make an exception of this chap. He won’t have you near the place after that lightning job and he makes it very clear he doesn’t think much of me either. Tells me I never do his beasts any good—says it would have been a lot better if he’d never called me. And moans like hell when he gets his bill. He’s more bother than he’s worth and on top of everything he gives me the creeps. But he won’t leave—he damn well won’t leave.”

  “He knows which side his bread’s buttered,” I said. “He gets first-rate service and the moaning is part of the system to keep the bills down.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I wish there was a simple way to get rid of him.” He tapped Tristan on the shoulder. “All right, don’t strain yourself. That’ll do. Put it into this ointment box and label it: ‘Apply liberally to the boar’s back three times daily, working it well in with the fingers.’ And post it to Mr. Cranford. And while you’re on, will you post this faeces sample to the laboratory at Leeds to test for Johne’s disease?” He held out a treacle tin brimming with foul-smelling liquid diarrhoea.

  It was a common thing to collect such samples and send them away for Johne’s tests, worm counts, etc., and there was always one thing all the samples had in common—they were very large. All that was needed for the tests was a couple of teaspoonfuls but the farmers were lavish in their quantities. They seemed pleasantly surprised that all the vet wanted was a bit of muck from the dung channel; they threw aside their natural caution and shovelled the stuff up cheerfully into the biggest container they could find. They brushed aside all protests; “take plenty, we’ve lots of it” was their attitude.

  Tristan took hold of the tin gingerly and began to look along the shelves. “We don’t seem to have any of those little glass sample jars.”

  “That’s right, we’re out of them,” said Siegfried. “I meant to order some more. But never mind—shove the lid on that tin and press it down tight, then parcel it up well in brown paper. It’ll travel to the lab all right.”

  It took only three days for Mr. Cranford’s name to come up again. Siegfried was opening the morning mail, throwing the circulars to one side and making a pile of the bills and receipts when he became suddenly very still. He had frozen over a letter on blue notepaper and he sat like a statue till he read it through. At length he raised his head; his face was expressionless. “James, this is just about the most vitriolic letter I have ever read. It’s from Cranford. He’s finished with us for good and all and is considering taking legal action against us.”

  “What have we done this time?” I asked.

  “He accuses us of grossly insulting him and endangering the health of his boar. He says we sent him a treacle tin full of cow shit with instructions to rub it on the boar’s back three times daily.”

  Tristan, who had been sitting with his eyes half closed, became fully awake. He rose unhurriedly and began to make his way towards the door. His hand was on the knob when his brother’s voice thundered out.

  “Tristan! Come back here! Sit down—I think we have something to talk about.”

  Tristan looked up resolutely, waiting for the storm to break, but Siegfried was unexpectedly calm. His voice was gentle.

  “So you’ve done it again. When will I ever learn that I can’t trust you to carry out the simplest task? It wasn’t much to ask, was it? Two little parcels to post—hardly a tough assignment. But you managed to botch it. You got the labels wrong, didn’t you?”

  Tristan wriggled in his chair. “I’m sorry, I can’t think how …”

  Siegfried held up his hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Your usual luck has come to your aid. With anybody else this bloomer would be catastrophic but with Cranford—it’s like divine providence.” He paused for a moment and a dreamy expression crept into his eyes. “The label said to work it well in with the fingers, I seem to recall. And Mr. Cranford says he opened the package at the breakfast table … Yes, Tristan, I think you have found the way. This, I do believe, has done it.”

  I said, “But how about the legal action?”

  “Oh, I think we can forget about that. Mr. Cranford has a great sense of his own dignity. Just think how it would sound in court.” He crumpled the letter and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. “Well, let’s get on with some work.”

  He led the way out and stopped abruptly in the passage. He turned to face us. “There’s another thing, of course. I wonder how the lab is making out, testing that ointment for Johne’s disease?”

  THIRTY

  I WAS REALLY WORRIED about Tricki this time. I had pulled up my car when I saw him in the street with his mistress and I was shocked at his appearance. He had become hugely fat, like a bloated sausage with a leg at each corner. His eyes, bloodshot and rheumy, stared straight ahead and his tongue lolled from his jaws.

  Mrs. Pumphrey hastened to explain. “He was so listless, Mr. Herriot. He seemed to have no energy. I thought he must be suffering from malnutrition, so I have been giving him some little extras between meals to build him up. Some calf’s foot jelly and malt and cod liver oil and a bowl of Horlick’s at night to make him sleep—nothing much really.”

  “And did you cut down on the sweet things as I told you?”

  “Oh, I did for a bit, but he seemed to be so weak. I had to relent. He does love cream cakes and chocolates so. I can’t bear to refuse him.”

  I looked down again at the little dog. That was the trouble. Tricki’s only fault was greed. He had never been known to refuse food; he would tackle a meal at any hour of the day or night. And I wondered about all the things Mrs. Pumphrey hadn’t mentioned; the pâté on thin biscuits, the fudge, the rich trifles—Tricki loved them all.

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