All Things Wise and Wonderful Read online

  The last event of my stay in Hensfield was a visit to the local greyhound track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to inspect the dogs.

  The Hensfield stadium was not prepossessing from the outside. It had been built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and was surrounded by ramshackle hoardings.

  It was a cool night and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear the tinny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Formby singing “When I’m Cleaning Windows” and strumming on his famous ukelele.

  There are all kinds of greyhound tracks. My own experience had been as a student, accompanying vets who officiated under the auspices of the National Greyhound Racing Club, but this was an unlicensed or “flapping” track, and vastly different. I know there are many highly reputable flapping tracks but this one had a seedy air. It was, I thought wryly, just the sort of place that would be under the care of Stewie.

  First I had to go to the manager’s office. Mr. Coker was a hard-eyed man in a shiny pin-striped suit and he nodded briefly before giving me a calculating stare.

  “Your duties here are just a formality,” he said, twisting his features into a smile. “There’ll be nothing to trouble you.”

  I had the impression that he was assessing me with quiet satisfaction, looking me up and down, taking in my rumpled jacket and slacks, savouring my obvious youth and inexperience. He kept the smile going as he stubbed out his cigar. “Well, I hope you’ll have a pleasant evening.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, and left

  I met the judge, timekeeper and other officials then went down to a long glass-fronted bar overlooking the track. Quite suddenly I felt I was in an alien environment. The place was rapidly filling up and the faces around me were out of a different mould from the wholesome rural countenances of Darrowby. There seemed to be a large proportion of fat men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-looking characters studied race cards and glared intently at the flickering numbers on the tote board.

  I looked at my watch. It was time to inspect the dogs for the first race. “When I’m cleanin’ winders!” bawled George Formby as I made my way round the edge of the track to the paddock, a paved enclosure with a wire-netting surround. Five dogs were being led round the perimeter and I stood in the centre and watched them for a minute or two. Then I halted them and went from one to the other, looking at their eyes, examining their mouths for salivation and finally palpating their abdomens.

  They all appeared bright and normal except number four which seemed rather full in the stomach region. A greyhound should only have a light meal on the morning of a race and nothing thereafter and I turned to the man who was holding the animal.

  “Has this dog been fed within the last hour or two?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “He’s had nothing since breakfast.”

  As I passed my fingers over the abdomen again I had the feeling that several of the onlookers were watching me with unusual intentness. But I dismissed it as imagination and passed on to the next animal.

  Number four was second favourite but from the moment it left its trap it was flagging. It finished last and from the darkness on the far side of the track a storm of booing broke out. I was able to make out some of the remarks which came across on the night air. “Open your bloody eyes, vet!” was one of them. And here, in the long, brightly lit bar I could see people nudging each other and looking at me.

  I felt a thrill of anger. Maybe some of those gentlemen down there thought they could cash in on Stewie’s absence. I probably looked a soft touch to them.

  My next visit to the paddock was greeted with friendly nods and grins from all sides. In fact there was a strong atmosphere of joviality. When I went round the dogs all was well until I came to number five and this time I couldn’t be mistaken. Under my probing fingers the stomach bulged tensely and the animal gave a soft grunt as I squeezed.

  “You’ll have to take this dog out of the race,” I said. “He’s got a full stomach.”

  The owner was standing by the kennel lad.

  “Can’t ’ave!” he burst out. “He’s had nowt!”

  I straightened up and looked him full in the face but his eyes were reluctant to meet mine. I knew some of the tricks; a couple of pounds of steak before the race; a bowlful of bread crumbs and two pints of milk—the crumbs swelled beautifully within a short time.

  “Would you like me to vomit him?” I began to move away. “I’ve got some washing soda in my car—we’ll soon find out.”

  The man held up a hand. “Naw, naw, I don’t want you messin’ about with me dog.” He gave me a malevolent glare and trailed sulkily away.

  I had only just got back to the bar when I heard the announcement over the loudspeakers. “Will the vet please report to the manager’s office.”

  Mr. Coker looked up from his desk and glared at me through a haze of cigar smoke. “You’ve taken a dog out of the race!”

  “That’s right. I’m sorry, but his stomach was full.”

  “But damn it …!” He stabbed a finger at me then subsided and forced a tortured smile across his face. “Now, Mr. Herriot, we have to be reasonable in these matters. I’ve no doubt you know your job, but don’t you think there’s just a chance you could be wrong?” He waved his cigar expansively. “After all, anybody can make a mistake, so perhaps you would be kind enough to reconsider.” He stretched his smile wider.

  “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Coker, but that would be impossible.”

  There was a long pause. “That’s your last word, then?”

  “It is.”

  The smile vanished and he gave me a threatening stare.

  “Now look,” he said. “You’ve mucked up that race and it’s a serious matter. I don’t want any repetition, do you understand?” He ground his cigar out savagely and his jaw jutted. “So I hope we won’t have any more trouble like this.”

  “I hope so, too, Mr. Coker,” I said as I went out.

  It seemed a long way down to the paddock on my next visit. It was very dark now and I was conscious of the hum of the crowd, the shouts of the bookies and George and his ukelele still going full blast. “Oh, don’t the wind blow cold!” he roared.

  This time it was dog number two. I could feel the tension as I examined him and found the same turgid belly.

  “This one’s out,” I said, and apart from a few black looks there was no argument.

  They say bad news travels fast and I had hardly started my return journey when George was switched off and the loudspeaker asked me to report to the manager’s office.

  Mr. Coker was no longer at his desk. He was pacing up and down agitatedly and when he saw me he did another length of the room before coming to a halt. His expression was venomous and it was clear he had decided that the tough approach was best.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” he barked. “Are you trying to ruin this meeting?”

  “No,” I replied. “I’ve just taken out another dog which was unfit to run. That’s my job. That’s what I’m here for.”

  His face flushed deep red. “I don’t think you know what you’re here for. Mr. Brannan goes off on holiday and leaves us at the mercy of a young clever clogs like you, throwing your weight about and spoiling people’s pleasure. Wait till I see him!”

  “Mr. Brannan would have done just the same as I have. Any veterinary surgeon would.”

  “Rubbish! Don’t tell me what it’s all about—you’re still wet behind the ears.” He advanced slowly towards me.

  “But I’ll tell you this, I’ve had enough! So get it straight, once and for all—no more of this nonsense. Cut it out!”

  I felt my heart thudding as I went down to see the dogs for the next race. As I examined the five animals the owners and kennel lads fixed me with a hypnotic stare as though I were some strange freak. My pulse began to slow down when I found there were no full stomachs this time and I glanced back in relief along the line. I was about to walk away when I noticed t