Anyway, he was part of the Darrowby scene, part of something I liked, and since I have always hated change it was in a sense reassuring to know that no matter what night you went into the Drovers’ you would find Paul Cotterell in the corner and Theo’s shaggy muzzle peeping from below.
I felt like that one night when I dropped in near closing time.
“D’you think he’s got worms?” The question was typically off-hand.
“I don’t know, Paul. Why do you ask?”
He drew on his pipe. “Oh I just thought he looked a bit thin lately. Come up, Theo!”
The little dog, perched on his master’s knee, looked as chirpy as ever and when I reached over and lifted him he licked my hand. But his ribs did feel rather prominent.
“Mmm, yes,” I said. “Maybe he has lost a bit of weight. Have you noticed him passing any worms?”
“I haven’t, actually.”
“Not even little bits—whitish segments sticking round his rear?”
“No, Jim.” He shook his head and smiled. “But I haven’t looked all that closely, old boy.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s worm him, just in case. I’ll bring in some tablets tomorrow night. You’ll be here …?”
The eyebrow went up. “I think that’s highly probable.”
Theo duly got his worm tablets and after that there was a space of several weeks when I was too busy to visit the Drovers’. When I finally did get in it was a Saturday night and the Athletic Club dance was in full spate. A rhythmic beat drifted from the ballroom, the little bar was packed, and the domino players were under pressure, squashed into a corner by the crush of dinner jackets and backless dresses.
In the noise and heat I struggled towards the bar, thinking that the place was unrecognisable. But there was one feature unchanged—Paul Cotterell on his stool at the far end of the counter.
I squeezed in next to him and saw he was wearing his usual tweed jacket. “Not dancing, Paul?”
He half closed his eyes, shook his head slowly and smiled at me over his bent little pipe. “Not for me, old boy,” he murmured. “Too much like work.”
I glanced down and saw that something else hadn’t changed. Theo was there, too, keeping his nose well clear of the milling feet. I ordered two beers and we tried to converse, but it was difficult to shout above the babel. Arms kept poking between us towards the counter, red faces pushed into ours and shouted greetings. Most of the time we just looked around us.
Then Paul leaned close and spoke into my ear. “I gave Theo those pills but he’s still getting thinner.”
“Really?” I shouted back. “That’s unusual.”
“Yes … perhaps you’d have a look at him?”
I nodded, he snapped his fingers and the little dog was on his knee in an instant. I reached and lifted him onto mine and I noticed immediately that he was lighter in my hands.
“You’re right” I said. “He’s still losing weight.”
Balancing the dog in my lap, I pulled down an eyelid and saw that the conjunctiva was pale.
I shouted again. “He’s anaemic.” I felt my way back over his face and behind the angle of the jaw I found that the post pharyngeal lymph glands were very enlarged. This was strange. Could he have some form of mouth or throat infection? I looked helplessly around me, wishing fervently that Paul wouldn’t invariably consult me about his dog in a pub. I wanted to examine the animal, but I couldn’t very well deposit him among the glasses on the bar.
I was trying to get a better grip with a view to looking down his throat when my hand slipped behind his fore leg and my heart gave a sudden thump as I encountered the axillary gland. It, too, was grossly enlarged. I whipped my fingers back into his groin and there was the inguinal gland, prominent as an egg. The prescapular was the same, and as I groped around feverishly I realised that every superficial lymph gland was several times its normal size.
Hodgkin’s disease. For a few moments I was oblivious of the shouting and laughter, the muffled blare of music. Then I looked at Paul who was regarding me calmly as he puffed his pipe. How could I tell him in these surroundings? He would ask me what Hodgkin’s disease was and I would have to explain that it was a cancer of the lymphatic system and that his dog was surely going to die.
As my thoughts raced I stroked the shaggy head and Theo’s comic whiskered face turned towards me. People jostled past, hands reached out and bore gins and whiskies and beers past my face; a fat man threw his arm round my neck.
I leaned across. “Paul,” I said.
“Yes, Jim?”
“Will you … will you bring Theo round to the surgery tomorrow morning. It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday.”
Momentarily the eyebrow twitched upwards, then he nodded.
“Right, old boy.”
I didn’t bother to finish my drink. I began to push my way towards the door and as the crush closed around me I glanced back. The little dog’s tail was just disappearing under the stool.
Next day I had one of those early waking mornings when I started tossing around at six o’clock and finished by staring at the ceiling.
Even after I had got my feet on the ground and brought Helen a cup of tea the waiting was interminable until the moment arrived which I had been dreading—when I faced Paul across the surgery table with Theo standing between us.
I told him straight away. I couldn’t think of any easy way to lead up to it.
His expression did not change, but he took his pipe out of his mouth and looked steadily at me, then at the dog and back again at me.
“Oh,” he said at last. “I see.”
I didn’t say anything and he slowly ran his hand along the little animal’s back. “Are you quite sure, Jim?”
“Absolutely. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Is there no treatment?”
“There are various palliatives, Paul, but I’ve never seen any of them do any good. The end result is always the same.”
“Yes …” He nodded slowly. “But he doesn’t look so bad. What will happen if we don’t do anything?”
I paused. “Well, as the internal glands enlarge, various things will happen. Ascites—dropsy—will develop in the abdomen. In fact you can see he’s a little bit pot-bellied now.”
“Yes … I do see, now you mention it. Anything else?”
“As the thoracic glands get bigger he’ll begin to pant.”
“I’ve noticed that already. He’s breathless after a short walk.”
“And all the time he’ll get thinner and thinner and more debilitated.”
Paul looked down at his feet for a few moments then faced me. “So what it amounts to is that he’s going to be pretty miserable for the rest of his life.” He swallowed. “And how long is that going to be?”
“A few weeks. It varies. Maybe up to three months.”
“Well, Jim.” He smoothed back his hair. “I can’t let that happen. It’s my responsibility. You must put him to sleep now, before he really starts to suffer. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Paul, it’s the kindest thing to do.”
“Will you do it immediately—as soon as I am out of that door?”
“I will,” I replied. “And I promise you he won’t know a thing.”
His face held a curious fixity of expression. He put his pipe in his mouth, but it had gone out so he stuffed it into his pocket. Then he leaned forward and patted his dog once on the head. The bushy face with the funny shock of hair round the muzzle turned to him and for a few seconds they looked at each other.
Then, “Goodbye, old chap,” he muttered and strode quickly from the room.
I kept my promise.
“Good lad, good old Theo,” I murmured, and stroked the face and ears again and again as the little creature slipped peacefully away. Like all vets I hated doing this, painless though it was, but to me there has always been a comfort in the knowledge that the last thing these helpless animals knew was the sound of a friendly voice and the touch of a gentle hand.
Sentimental, maybe. Not like Paul. He had been practical and utterly rational in the way he had acted. He had been able to do the right thing because he was not at the mercy of his emotions.
Later, over a Sunday lunch which I didn’t enjoy as much as usual I told Helen about Theo.
I had to say something because she had produced a delicious pot roast on the gas ring which was our only means of cooking and I wasn’t doing justice to her skill.
Sitting at our bench I looked down at her. It was my turn for the high stool.
“You know, Helen,” I said. “That was an object lesson for me. The way Paul acted, I mean. If I’d been in his position I’d have shilly-shallied—tried to put off something which was inevitable.”
She thought for a moment. “Well, a lot of people would.”
“Yes, but he didn’t” I put down my knife and fork and stared at the wall. “He behaved in a mature way. I suppose Paul has one of those personalities you read about. Well-adjusted, completely adequate.”
“Come on, Jim, eat your lunch. I know it was a sad thing but it had to be done and you mustn’t start criticising yourself. Paul is Paul and you are you.”
I started again on the meat but I couldn’t repress the rising sense of my own inadequacy. Then as I glanced to one side I saw that my wife was smiling up at me.
I felt suddenly reassured. It seemed that she at least didn’t seem to mind that I was me.
That was on the Sunday, and on Tuesday morning I was handing out some wart lotion to Mr. Sangster who kept a few dairy cows down by the station.
“Dab that on the udder night and morning after milking,” I said. “I think you’ll find that the warts will start to drop off after a week or two.”
“Thank ye.” He handed over half a crown and I was dropping it into the desk drawer when he spoke again.
“Bad job about Paul Cotterell, wasn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah thought you’d have heard,” he said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!” I stared at him stupidly. “How … what … ?”
“Found ’im this mornin’. He did away with ’isself.”
I leaned with both hands on the desk. “Do you mean … suicide?”
“Aye, that’s what they say. Took a lot o’ pills. It’s all ower t’town.”
I found myself hunching over the day book, sightlessly scanning the list of calls while the farmer’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“It’s a bad job, right enough. He were a nice feller. Reckon everybody liked ’im.”
Later that day I was passing Paul’s lodgings when I saw his landlady, Mrs. Clayton, in the doorway. I pulled up and got out of the car.
“Mrs. Clayton,” I said. “I still can’t believe this.”
“Nor can I, Mr. Herriot it’s terrible.” Her face was pale, her eyes red. “He was with me six years, you know—he was like a son.”
“But why on earth …?”
“Oh, it was losin’ his dog that did it. He just couldn’t stand it.”
A great wave of misery rose and engulfed me and she put her hand on my arm.
“Don’t look like that, Mr. Herriot. It wasn’t your fault. Paul told me all about it and nobody could have saved Theo. People die of that, never mind dogs.”
I nodded dumbly and she went on.
“But I’ll tell you something in confidence, Mr. Herriot. Paul wasn’t able to stand things like you or me. It was the way he was made—you see he suffered from depression.”
“Depression! Paul …?”
“Oh yes, he’s been under the doctor for a long time and takin’ pills regular. He allus put a brave face on, but he’s had nervous trouble off and on for years.”
“Nervous trouble … I’d never have dreamed …”
“No, nobody would, but that’s how it was. He had an unhappy childhood from what I made out. Maybe that’s why he was so fond of his dog. He got too attached to him, really.”
“Yes … yes …”
She took out a screwed up handkerchief and blew her nose. “Well, as I said, the poor lad had a rough time most of his life, but he was brave.”
There didn’t seem anything else to say. I drove away out of the town and the calm green hills offered a quiet contrast to the turmoil which can fill a man’s mind. So much for Herriot as a judge of character. I couldn’t have been more wrong, but Paul had fought his secret battle with a courage which had deceived everybody.
I thought of the object lesson which I thought he had given me, but in fact it was a lesson of another kind and one which I have never forgotten; that there are countless people like Paul who are not what they seem.
CHAPTER 38
THE SHOCK OF PAUL Cotterell’s death stayed with me for a long time, and in fact I know I have never quite got over it because even now when the company in the bar of the Drovers’ has changed and I am one of the few old faces left from thirty-five years ago I can still see the jaunty figure on the corner stool and the bushy face peeping from beneath.
It was the kind of experience I didn’t want repeated in my lifetime yet, uncannily, I ran into the same sort of thing almost immediately afterwards.
It couldn’t have been more than a week after Paul’s funeral that Andrew Vine brought his fox terrier to the surgery.
I put the little dog on the table and examined each of his eyes carefully in turn.
“I’m afraid he’s getting worse,” I said.
Without warning the man slumped across the table and buried his face in his hands.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Andrew? What on earth’s the matter?”
At first he did not answer but stayed there, huddled grotesquely by the side of his dog as great sobs shook his body.
When he spoke at last it was into his hands and his voice was hoarse and desperate. “I can’t stand it! If Digger goes blind I’ll kill myself!”
I looked down at the bowed head in horrified disbelief. It couldn’t be happening again. Not so soon after Paul. And yet there were similarities. Andrew was another bachelor in his thirties and the terrier was his constant companion. He lived in lodgings and appeared to have no worries though he was a shy, diffident man with a fragile look about his tall stooping frame and pallid face.
He had first consulted me about Digger several months ago.
“I call him that because he’s dug large holes in the garden ever since his puppy days,” he said with a half smile, looking at me almost apprehensively from large dark eyes.
I laughed. “I hope you haven’t brought him to me to cure that, because I’ve never read anything in the books about it.”
“No, no, it’s about something else—his eyes. And he’s had that trouble since he was a pup, too.”
“Really? Tell me.”
“Well, when I first got him he had sort of mattery eyes, but the breeder said he’d probably just got some irritant in them and it would soon clear up. And in fact it did. But he’s never been quite right. He always seems to have a little discomfort in his eyes.”
“How do you mean?”
“He rubs the side of his face along the carpet and he blinks in bright light.”
“I see.” I pulled the little animal’s face around towards me and looked intently at the eyelids. My mind had been busy as he spoke and I was fairly sure I should find either entropion (inversion of the eyelids) or distichiasis (an extra row of lashes rubbing against the eyeball) but there was no sign of either. The surface of the cornea, too, looked normal, except perhaps that the deeper structures of lens and iris were not as easy to define as usual.
I moved over to a cupboard for the ophthalmoscope. “How old is he now?”
“About a year.”
“So he’s had this for about ten months?”
“Yes, about that. But it varies a lot. Most of the time he seems normal then there are days when he goes and lies in his basket with his eyes half closed and you can tell there’s something wrong. N
ot pain, really. More like discomfort as I said.”
I nodded and hoped I was looking wise but none of this added up to anything familiar. I switched on the little light on the ophthalmoscope and peered into the depths of that most magical and delicate of all organs, down through the lens to the brilliant tapestry of the retina with its optic papilla and branching blood vessels. I couldn’t find a thing wrong.
“Does he still dig holes?” I asked. When baffled I often snatch at straws and I wondered if the dog was suffering from a soil irritation.
Andrew shook his head. “No, very seldom now, and anyway, his bad days are never associated with his digging.”
“Is that so?” I rubbed my chin. The man was obviously ahead of me with his thinking and I had an uncomfortable feeling of bewilderment. People were always bringing their dogs in with “bad eyes” and there was invariably something to be seen, some cause to be found. “And would you say that this was one of his bad days?”
“Well I thought so this morning, but he seems a bit better now. Still, he’s a bit blinky, don’t you think?”
“Yes … maybe so.” Digger did appear to be reluctant to open his eyes fully to the sunshine streaming through the surgery window. And occasionally he kept them closed for a second or two as though he wasn’t very happy. But damn it, nothing gave me the slightest clue.
I didn’t tell the owner that I hadn’t the faintest idea what was wrong with his dog. Such remarks do not inspire confidence. Instead, I took refuge in businesslike activity.
“I’m going to give you some lotion,” I said briskly. “Put a few drops into his eyes three times daily. And let me know how he goes on. It’s possible he has some long-standing infection in there.”
I handed over a bottle of 2% boric acid solution and patted Digger’s head. “I hope that will clear things up for you, lad,” I said, and the stumpy tail wagged in reply. He was a sharp looking little animal, attractive and good-natured and a fine specimen of the smooth-haired breed with his long head and neck, pointed nose and beautifully straight limbs.
He jumped from the table and leaped excitedly around his master’s legs.
James Herriot Page 36
