All Things Bright and Beautiful Read online

  “You’re not thinking of trying the Bowes Moor road, are you?” he said.

  “No, no.” I was just looking. He nodded in satisfaction.

  “I’m glad to hear that. It’s blocked you know. There hasn’t been a car over there for two days.”

  25

  YOU COULD HARDLY EXPECT to find a more unlikely character in Darrowby than Roland Partridge. The thought came to me for the hundredth time as I saw him peering through the window which looked on to Trengate just a little way up the other side of the street from our surgery.

  He was tapping the glass and beckoning to me and the eyes behind the thick spectacles were wide with concern. I waited and when he opened the door I stepped straight from the street into his living room because these were tiny dwellings with only a kitchen in the rear and a single small bedroom overlooking the street above. But when I went in I had the familiar feeling of surprise. Because most of the other occupants of the row were farm workers and their furnishings were orthodox; but this place was a studio.

  An easel stood in the light from the window and the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings. Unframed canvases were stacked everywhere and the few ornate chairs and the table with its load of painted china and other bric a brac added to the artistic atmosphere.

  The simple explanation was, of course, that Mr. Partridge was in fact an artist. But the unlikely aspect came into it when you learned that this middle-aged velvet-jacketed aesthete was the son of a small farmer, a man whose forbears had been steeped in the soil for generations.

  “I happened to see you passing there, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “Are you terribly busy?”

  “Not too busy, Mr, Partridge. Can I help you?”

  He nodded gravely. “I wondered whether you could spare a moment to look at Percy. I’d be most grateful.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “Where is he?”

  He was ushering me towards the kitchen when there was a bang on the outer door and Bert Hardisty the postman burst in. Bert was a rough-hewn character and he dumped a parcel unceremoniously on the table.

  “There y’are, Rolie!” he shouted and turned to go.

  Mr. Partridge gazed with unruffled dignity at the retreating back. “Thank you very much indeed, Bertram, good day to you.”

  Here was another thing. The postman and the artist were both Darrowby born and bred, had the same social background, had gone to the same school, yet their voices were quite different. Roland Partridge, in fact, spoke with the precise, well-modulated syllables of a barrister at law.

  We went into the kitchen. This was where he cooked for himself in his bachelor state. When his father died many years ago he had sold the farm immediately. Apparently his whole nature was appalled by the earthy farming scene and he could not get out quickly enough. At any rate he had got sufficient money from the sale to indulge his interests and he had taken up painting and lived ever since in this humble cottage, resolutely doing his own thing. This had all happened long before I came to Darrowby and the dangling lank hair was silver now. I always had the feeling that he was happy in his way because I couldn’t imagine that small, rather exquisite figure plodding around a muddy farmyard.

  It was probably in keeping with his nature that he had never married. There was a touch of asceticism in the thin cheeks and pale blue eyes and it was possible that his self-contained imperturbable personality might denote a lack of warmth. But that didn’t hold good with regard to his dog, Percy.

  He loved Percy with a fierce protective passion and as the little animal trotted towards him he bent over him, his face alight with tenderness.

  “He looks pretty bright to me,” I said. “He’s not sick, is he?”

  “No…no…” Mr. Partridge seemed strangely ill at ease. “He’s perfectly well in himself, but I want you to look at him and see if you notice anything.”

  I looked. And I saw only what I had always seen, the snow-white, shaggy haired little object regarded by local dog breeders and other cognoscenti as a negligible mongrel but nevertheless one of my favourite patients. Mr. Partridge, looking through the window of a pet shop in Brawton about five years ago, had succumbed immediately to the charms of two soulful eyes gazing up at him from a six week old tangle of white hair and had put down his five bob and rushed the little creature home. Percy had been described in the shop somewhat vaguely as a “terrier” and Mr. Partridge had flirted fearfully with the idea of having his tail docked; but such was his infatuation that he couldn’t bring himself to cause such a mutilation and the tail had grown in a great fringed curve almost full circle over the back.

  To me, the tail nicely balanced the head which was undoubtedly a little too big for the body but Mr. Partridge had been made to suffer for it. His old friends in Darrowby who, like all country folks, considered themselves experts with animals, were free with their comments. I had heard them at it. When Percy was young it was:

  “Time ye had that tail off, Rolie. Ah’ll bite it off for ye if ye like.” And later, again and again. “Hey Rolie, you should’ve had that dog’s tail off when he were a pup. He looks bloody daft like that.”

  When asked Percy’s breed Mr. Partridge always replied haughtily, “Sealyham Cross,” but it wasn’t as simple as that; the tiny body with its luxuriant bristling coat, the large, rather noble head with high, pricked ears, the short, knock-kneed legs and that tail made him a baffling mixture.

  Mr. Partridge’s friends again were merciless, referring to Percy as a “tripe-’ound” or a “mouse-’ound” and though the little artist received these railleries with a thin smile I knew they bit deep. He had a high regard for me based simply on the fact that the first time I saw Percy I exclaimed quite spontaneously, “What a beautiful little dog!” And since I have never had much time for the points and fads of dog breeding I really meant it.

  “Just what is wrong, Mr. Partridge?” I asked. “I can’t see anything unusual.”

  Again the little man appeared to be uneasy. “Well now, watch as he walks across the floor. Come, Percy my dear.” He moved away from me and the dog followed him.

  “N…no…I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

  “Watch again.” He set off once more. “It’s at his…his er…back end.”

  I crouched down. “Ah now, yes, wait a minute. Just hold him there, will you?”

  I went over and had a close look. “I see it now. One of his testicles is slightly enlarged.”

  “Yes…yes…quite.” Mr. Partridge’s face turned a shade pinker. “That is…er…what I thought.”

  “Hang on to him a second while I examine it.” I lifted the scrotum and palpated gently. “Yes, the left one is definitely bigger and it is harder too.”

  “Is it…anything serious?”

  I paused. “No, I shouldn’t think so. Tumours of the testicles are not uncommon in dogs and fortunately they aren’t inclined to metastasise—spread through the body—very readily. So I shouldn’t worry too much.”

  I added the last bit hastily because at the mention of the word “tumour” the colour had drained from his face alarmingly.

  “That’s a growth, isn’t it?” he stammered.

  “Yes, but there are all kinds and a lot of them are not malignant. So don’t worry but please keep an eye on him. It may not grow much but if it does you must let me know immediately.”

  “I see…and if it does grow?”

  “Well the only thing would be to remove the testicle.”

  “An operation?” The little man stared at me and for a moment. I thought he would faint.

  “Yes, but not a serious one. Quite straightforward, really.” I bent down and felt the enlargement again. It was very slight. From the front end, Percy kept up a continuous musical growling. I grinned. He always did that—when I took his temperature, cut his nails, anything; a nonstop grumble and it didn’t mean a thing. I knew him well enough to realise there was no viciousness in him; he was merely asserting his virility, reminding me what a tough fel