Every Living Thing Read online

  Outside in the summer dusk, he went over to his bicycle, which was resting against the wall. I paused by my car. I had seen this ritual before and found it fascinating.

  He pulled the bike from the wall and took some time about lining it up to his satisfaction, then he made an attempt to throw a wellingtoned leg over the saddle. He didn’t make it the first time and stood for a few seconds apparently breathing deeply, then with great care he got the bike into position before jerking his leg up again. Once more he missed and I thought for a moment that he was going to finish up, bike and all, on the ground, but he regained his balance and stood with bowed head, communing with himself. Then he squared his shoulders decisively, peered along crossbar and handlebars, and this time with a convulsive leap he landed in the saddle.

  For a tense period he sat there, moving only a few inches forward, feet working on the pedals, hands pulling the handlebars from side to side in his struggle to stay upright. Then at last he took off and began to move an inch at a time, almost imperceptibly, along the road. After a few yards he stopped and was stationary for several seconds, keeping the bike vertical by some mystical means. I thought, not for the first time, that it was a pity that Bob had never entered for the annual slow bicycle race at Darrowby Gala. He would have carried the prize off every year.

  Leaning on my car, I watched his progress. Old Meg, obviously familiar with the routine, stepped along patiently by his side, dropping on her chest whenever he carried out one of his miraculously balanced pauses. Bob’s cottage was about a mile along the road and I wondered how long it would take him to get there. His erstwhile companions before the old pub was modernised were always adamant that he never ever fell off and I personally had never seen him come to grief. When man and dog finally disappeared in the growing darkness I got into my car and drove home.

  As I said, I seemed to spend half my life on the road through Welsby, and I dropped into the Lord Nelson several times over the next few months. As always, I spotted Bob’s flat cap perched incongruously among the modish jackets and dresses, but one night as I peered through the crush I noticed something different.

  I pushed my way to the corner of the bar. “Hello, Bob. I see you haven’t got Meg with you.”

  He glanced down to the space under his stool, then took a sip at his glass before looking at me with a doleful expression. “Nay…nay…” he murmured. “Couldn’t bring ’er.”

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t reply for a few moments and when he spoke his voice was husky, almost inaudible. “She’s got cancer.”

  “What!”

  “Cancer. Meg’s got cancer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s a big growth on ’er. It’s been comin’ on for a bit.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’d ’ave put her down. Ah don’t want her put down yet.”

  “But…but…you’re jumping to conclusions, Bob. All growths aren’t cancerous.”

  “This ’un must be. It’s a bloody great thing as big as a cricket ball.”

  “And where is it?”

  “Underneath ’er belly. Hangin’ right down nearly to t’ground. It’s awful.” He rubbed his eyes as though to blot out the memory. His face was a mask of misery.

  I grasped his arm. “Now, look, Bob, this sounds to me like a simple mammary tumour.”

  “A what?”

  “A growth on the bitch’s udder. These things are very common and they’re very often benign and quite harmless.”

  “Oh, not this ’un,” he quavered. “It’s a bloody big…” He demonstrated with his hands.

  “Size doesn’t matter. Come on, Bob, we’ll go along to your house and have a look at it.”

  “Nay…nay… ah know what you’ll do.” His eyes took on a hunted expression.

  “I’ll not do anything, I promise you.” I looked at my watch. “It’s nearly closing time. Let’s go.”

  He gave me a final despairing look, then got off his stool and made his careful way to the door.

  Outside I watched the usual ceremony with the bike, but this time, at the third attempt at mounting, man and bike crashed to the ground. A bad sign. And on the interminable journey to the cottage Bob went down several times and as I looked at him, sprawled face-down on top of his machine, I realised that the heart had gone out of him.

  At the cottage, Bob’s brother, Adam, looked up from his work on a hooked rug. Neither of the men had married and, though entirely different personalities, lived together in complete harmony. I hastened to Meg’s basket and gently rolled the old bitch onto her side. It was indeed a huge tumour, but it was rock hard, confined to the skin and not adherent to the mammary tissue.

  “Look, Bob,” I said. “I can get my fingers right behind it. I’m sure I can take it off with every chance of complete recovery.”

  He dropped into a chair and as Meg ambled across to greet him he slowly stroked her ears. There was something pathetic about the waving tail, the open, panting mouth and the monstrous growth dangling almost to the floor.

  There was no reply, and Adam broke in. “You can see what ’e’s like, Mr. Herriot. I’ve been telling ’im for weeks to come to you but he takes no notice. I’ve lost patience with him.”

  “How about it, Bob?” I said. “Will you bring her to the surgery as soon as possible? The quicker it’s done the better. You can’t let her go on like this.”

  He went on with his stroking for some time, then nodded his head. “All right.”

  “When?”

  “Ah’ll let ye know.”

  Adam came in again. “You see. He won’t say, because I can tell you now that ’e never will bring her in to you. He’s made up ’is mind that Meg’s going to die.”

  “That’s daft, Bob,” I said. “I tell you I’m pretty sure I can put her right. Will I take her away with me now? How about that?”

  Still looking down, he shook his head vigorously. I decided on shock tactics.

  “Well, let me do the operation now.”

  He shot me a startled glance. “What…right here?”

  “Why not? It’s not as big a job as you think. It doesn’t involve any vital organs, and I always carry an operating kit in my car.”

  “Good idea!” burst out Adam. “It’s the only way we’ll get it done!”

  “Just one thing,” I said. “When did she last eat?”

  “She had a few biscuits this morning,” Adam replied. “But that’s all. Bob always gives her her main meal last thing at night.”

  “Fine, fine. She’ll be just right for the anaesthetic.”

  Bob seemed stupefied and he didn’t say a word or make a move as Adam and I began to bustle about with our preparations. I had always been interested in the relationship between these two middle-aged brothers. They were opposites. Adam had never had an alcoholic drink in his life but seemed totally uncritical of Bob’s beer-orientated life-style, and when Bob was at the Lord Nelson Adam was usually attending night classes at the village school, rug-making being his latest interest. Adam wasn’t a farm worker; he was employed by the big dairy that collected the milk from the Dales farms. He was small and slightly built, finicky and fussy in his manner, unlike his burly, stolid brother.

  After I had boiled the instruments we got Meg on the table and a quick injection of intravenous barbiturate sent the old bitch into deep anaesthesia. I made her fast on her back with bandages to the table legs and then all three of us scrubbed up at the kitchen sink. Bob, still wearing his cap, displayed a growing lack of enthusiasm, and when I handed the brothers an artery forceps apiece and poised my scalpel he closed his eyes tightly.

  My system with these tumours was to cut out an ellipse on the skin, then proceed by blunt dissection with my fingers. It looked a bit crude, but greatly reduced the amount of haemorrhage. I had made my first incision and had started to peel back the skin, and it was just at the moment when I had taken the forceps from the brothers and was clamping a couple of spurting