Every Living Thing Read online

  “Yes, very nice, too.”

  She laughed. “But who would have thought it? A Chinese restaurant in a little place like Darrowby—it’s amazing!”

  “Very unexpected, I agree. But this last year or two they have been popping up all over Britain.”

  “Yes, but what I want to discuss with you is that this has affected Tricki.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, he has been most upset over the whole business.”

  “How on earth…?”

  “Well, Mr. Herriot…” She frowned and gazed at me, solemn-faced. “I told you many years ago and you have always known that Tricki is descended from a long line of Chinese emperors.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Well, I think I can explain the whole problem if I start at the beginning.”

  I took a long swallow at my sherry with the pleasant sensation that I was floating away in a dream world. “Please do.”

  “When the restaurant first opened,” she went on, “there was a surprising amount of resentment among some of the local people. They criticised the food and the very nice little Chinese man and his wife and put it about that there was no place for such a restaurant in Darrowby and that it should not be patronised. Now it happened that when Tricki and I were out on our little walks he overheard these remarks in the street, and he was furious.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, quite affronted. I can tell when he feels like this. He stalks about with an insulted expression and it is so difficult to placate him.”

  “Dear me, I’m sorry.”

  “And after all, one can finally understand how he felt when he heard his own people being denigrated.”

  “Quite, quite, absolutely—only natural.”

  “However…however, Mr. Herriot.” She raised a finger again and gave me a knowing smile. “The clever darling suggested the cure himself.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, he told me that we ourselves should start to frequent the restaurant and sample their food.”

  “Ah.”

  “And that is what we did. I had Crowther drive us there for lunch and we did enjoy it so much. Also, we found we could take the food home all nice and hot in little boxes—what fun! Now that we have started, Crowther often pops out in the evening and brings us our supper and you know, the restaurant seems quite busy now. I feel we have really helped.”

  “I’m sure you have,” I said, and I meant it. The Lotus Garden, tucked in a corner of the market-place, wasn’t much more than a shop front with four small tables inside, and the sight of the gleaming black length of the limousine and liveried chauffeur parked frequently at its door must have given it a tremendous lift. I was struggling unsuccessfully to picture the locals peering through the shop window at Mrs. Pumphrey and Tricki eating at one of those tiny tables when she went on.

  “I’m so glad you think so. And we have enjoyed it all so much. Tricki adores the char sui and my favourite is the chow mein. The little Chinese man is teaching us how to use the chopsticks, too.”

  I put down my empty glass and dusted the tasty crumbs from my jacket. I hated to interrupt these sessions and return to reality, but I looked at my watch. “I’m so glad things turned out so nicely, Mrs. Pumphrey, but I think I’d better give the little chap his check-up.”

  I lifted Tricki onto a settee and palpated his abdomen thoroughly. Nothing wrong there. Then I fished out my stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. There was the heart murmur I knew about and some faint bronchitic sounds, which I expected. In fact I was totally familiar with all my old friend’s internal workings after treating him over the years. Teeth now—maybe could do with another scale next time. Eyes with the beginnings of the lens opacity of the old dog, but not too bad at all.

  I turned to Mrs. Pumphrey. Tricki was on prednoleucotropin for his arthritis and oxytetracycline for the bronchitis but I never elaborated on his ailments to her—too many medical terms upset her. “He’s really wonderful for his age, Mrs. Pumphrey. You have his tablets to use when necessary and you know where I am if ever you need me. Just one thing. You have been very good with his diet lately so don’t give him too many titbits—not even extra char sui!”

  She giggled and gave me a roguish look. “Oh, please don’t scold me, Mr. Herriot. I promise I’ll be good.” She paused for a moment. “I must mention one more thing with regard to Tricki’s arthritis. You know that Hodgkin has been throwing rings for him for years?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her words raised an image of the dour old gardener under duress casting the rubber rings on the lawn while the little dog, barking in delight, brought them back to him again. Hodgkin, who clearly didn’t like dogs, invariably looked utterly fed up and his lips always seemed to be moving as he muttered either to himself or Tricki.

  “Well, I thought in view of Tricki’s condition that Hodgkin was throwing the rings too far and I told him to throw them for just a few feet. The little darling would have just as much fun with much less exertion.”

  “I see.”

  “Unfortunately,” here her expression became disapproving, “Hodgkin has been rather mean about it.”

  “In what way?”

  “I wouldn’t have known anything about it,” she said, lowering her voice, “but Tricki confided in me.”

  “Did he really?”

  “Yes, he told me that Hodgkin had complained bitterly that it meant he had to bend down a lot more often to pick up the rings and that he had arthritis, too. I wouldn’t have minded,” her voice sank to a whisper, “but Tricki was deeply shocked; he said Hodgkin used the word ‘bloody’ several times.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, yes, I see the difficulty.”

  “It has made the whole thing so embarrassing for Tricki. What do you think I should do?”

  I nodded sagely and after some cogitation gave my opinion. “I do think, Mrs. Pumphrey, that it would be a good idea to have the throwing sessions less often and for a shorter time. After all, both Tricki and Hodgkin are no longer young.”

  She gazed at me for a few moments, then smiled fondly. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Herriot, I’m sure you are right, as always. I shall follow your advice.”

  I was about to make my farewells when Mrs. Pumphrey put a hand on my arm. “Before you go, Mr. Herriot, I would like you to see something.”

  She led the way to a room off the hall and opened the doors of a massive wardrobe. I looked at a long row of opulent suits—I had never seen so many outside a shop.

  “These,” she said, running her hand slowly along jackets of all kinds, dark and dressy, light and tweed, “belonged to my late husband.” For a few moments she was silent as she fingered one sleeve after another, then she became suddenly brisk and turned to me with a bright smile. “He did love good clothes and went to London for all his suits. Now this one.” She reached up and lifted down a jacket and trousers of Lovat tweed. “This one was made by one of the best tailors in Savile Row. Ooh, it’s so heavy, will you hold it, please?” She gasped as she laid it on my outstretched arm and I, too, was amazed at its weight.

  “Yes,” she went on, “it is the most beautiful country suit and, do you know, he never wore it.” She shook her head and her eyes softened as she stroked the lapels. “No, he never did. He died a few days after it was made and he was so looking forward to it. He was such an outdoor man, but he did like to be smartly dressed.”

  Then she said somewhat abruptly, looking up at me with a resolute expression, “Now, Mr. Herriot, would you like to have this suit?”

  “Eh?”

  “I wish you would have it. I’m sure it would be of great use to you and it is being wasted just hanging here in this wardrobe.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but my mind went back to various pauses in our conversation by the fire when I had noticed her eyes lingering briefly on the fringe of material on my frayed cuff as I raised my glass, and at my threadbare knees.

  As I stood silent she looked suddenly worried. “Perhaps I am emba