All Creatures Great and Small Read online

  Herr Farrenen seized the phone in a pudgy hand. Even in my dream, I wondered how the man could use such a completely corny accent. I heard the thick voice saying “Hello, hello.”

  And I opened my eyes. Somebody was saying “Hello,” but it wasn’t Herr Farrenen. A tall, thin man was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. Something seemed to be amusing him. As I struggled to my feet, he heaved himself away from the wall and held out his hand. “Sorry you’ve had to wait. I’m Siegfried Farnon.”

  He was just about the most English-looking man I had ever seen. Long, humorous, strong-jawed face. Small, clipped moustache, untidy, sandy hair. He was wearing an old tweed jacket and shapeless flannel trousers. The collar of his check shirt was frayed and the tie carelessly knotted. He looked as though he didn’t spend much time in front of a mirror.

  Studying him, I began to feel better despite the ache in my neck where it had rested against the tree. I shook my head to get my eyes fully open and tufts of grass fell from my hair. “There was a Miss Brompton here,” I blurted out. “She came to tea. I explained you had been called away.”

  Farnon looked thoughtful, but not put out. He rubbed his chin slowly. “Mm, yes—well, never mind. But I do apologise for being out when you arrived. I have a shocking memory and I just forgot.”

  It was the most English voice, too.

  Farnon gave me a long, searching look, then he grinned. “Let’s go inside. I want to show you round the place.”

  THREE

  THE LONG OFFSHOOT BEHIND the house had been the servants’ quarters in grander days. Here, everything was dark and narrow and poky as if in deliberate contrast with the front.

  Farnon led me to the first of several doors which opened off a passage where the smell of ether and carbolic hung on the air. “This,” he said, with a secret gleam in his eye as though he were about to unveil the mysteries of Aladdin’s cave, “is the dispensary.”

  The dispensary was an important place in the days before penicillin and the sulphonamides. Rows of gleaming Winchester bottles lined the white walls from floor to ceiling. I savoured the familiar names: Sweet Spirits of Nitre, Tincture of Camphor, Chlorodyne, Formalin, Salammoniac, Hexamine, Sugar of Lead, Linimentum Album, Perchloride of Mercury, Red Blister. The lines of labels were comforting.

  I was an initiate among old friends. I had painfully accumulated their lore, ferreting out their secrets over the years. I knew their origins, actions and uses, and their maddeningly varied dosage. The examiner’s voice—“And what is the dose for the horse?—and the cow?—and the sheep?—and the pig?—and the dog?—and the cat?”

  These shelves held the vet’s entire armoury against disease and, on a bench under the window, I could see the instruments for compounding them; the graduated vessels and beakers, the mortars and pestles. And underneath, in an open cupboard, the medicine bottles, piles of corks of all sizes, pill boxes, powder papers.

  As we moved around, Farnon’s manner became more and more animated. His eyes glittered and he talked rapidly. Often, he reached up and caressed a Winchester on its shelf; or he would lift out a horse-ball or an electuary from its box, give it a friendly pat and replace it with tenderness.

  “Look at this stuff, Herriot,” he shouted without warning. “Adrevan! This is the remedy, par excellence, for red worms in horses. A bit expensive, mind you—ten bob a packet. And these gentian violet pessaries. If you shove one of these into a cow’s uterus after a dirty cleansing, it turns the discharges a very pretty colour. Really looks as though it’s doing something. And have you seen this trick?”

  He placed a few crystals of resublimated iodine on a glass dish and added a drop of turpentine. Nothing happened for a second then a dense cloud of purple smoke rolled heavily to the ceiling. He gave a great bellow of laughter at my startled face.

  “Like witchcraft, isn’t it? I use it for wounds in horses’ feet. The chemical reaction drives the iodine deep into the tissues.”

  “It does?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but that’s the theory, and anyway, you must admit it looks wonderful. Impresses the toughest client.”

  Some of the bottles on the shelves fell short of the ethical standards I had learned in college. Like the one labelled “Colic Drench” and featuring a floridly drawn picture of a horse rolling in agony. The animal’s face was turned outwards and wore an expression of very human anguish. Another bore the legend “Universal Cattle Medicine” in ornate script—“A sovereign Remedy for coughs, chills, scours, pneumonia, milk fever, gargett and all forms of indigestion.” At the bottom of the label, in flaring black capitals, was the assurance, “Never Fails to Give Relief.”

  Farnon had something to say about most of the drugs. Each one had its place in his five years’ experience of practice; they all had their fascination, their individual mystique. Many of the bottles were beautifully shaped, with heavy glass stoppers and their Latin names cut deeply into their sides; names familiar to physicians for centuries, gathering fables through the years.

  The two of us stood gazing at the gleaming rows without any idea that it was nearly all useless and that the days of the old medicines were nearly over. Soon they would be hustled into oblivion by the headlong rush of the new discoveries and they would never return.

  “This is where we keep the instruments.” Farnon showed me into another little room. The small animal equipment lay on green baize shelves, very neat and impressively clean. Hypodermic syringes, whelping forceps, tooth scalers, probes, searchers, and, in a place of prominence, an ophthalmoscope.

  Farnon lifted it lovingly from its black box. “My latest purchase,” he murmured, stroking its smooth shaft. “Wonderful thing. Here, have a peep at my retina.”

  I switched on the bulb and gazed with interest at the glistening, coloured tapestry in the depths of his eye. “Very pretty. I could write you a certificate of soundness.”

  He laughed and thumped my shoulder. “Good, I’m glad to hear it. I always fancied I had a touch of cataract in that one.”

  He began to show me the large animal instruments which hung from hooks on the walls. Docking and firing irons, bloodless castrators, emasculators, casting ropes and hobbles, calving ropes and hooks. A new, silvery embryotome hung in the place of honour, but many of the instruments, like the drugs, were museum pieces. Particularly the blood stick and fleam, a relic of medieval times, but still used to bring the rich blood spouting into a bucket.

  “You still can’t beat it for laminitis,” Farnon declared seriously.

  We finished up in the operating room with its bare white walls, high table, oxygen and ether anaesthetic outfit and a small steriliser.

  “Not much small animal work in this district.” Farnon smoothed the table with his palm. “But I’m trying to encourage it. It makes a pleasant change from lying on your belly in a cow house. The thing is, we’ve got to do the job right. The old castor oil and prussic acid doctrine is no good at all. You probably know that a lot of the old hands won’t look at a dog or a cat, but the profession has got to change its ideas.”

  He went over to a cupboard in the corner and opened the door. I could see glass shelves with a few scalpels, artery forceps, suture needles and bottles of catgut in spirit. He took out his handkerchief and flicked at an auroscope before closing the doors carefully.

  “Well, what do you think of it all?” he asked as he went out into the passage.

  “Great,” I replied. “You’ve got just about everything you need here. I’m really impressed.”

  He seemed to swell visibly, the thin cheeks flushed and he hummed softly to himself. Then he burst loudly into song in a shaky baritone, keeping time with our steps as we marched along.

  Back in the sitting-room, I told him about Bert Sharpe. “Something about boring out a cow which was going on three cylinders. He talked about her ewer and felon—I didn’t quite get it.”

  Farnon laughed. “I think I can translate. He wants a Hudson’s operation doing on a blocked te