If Only They Could Talk

by James Herriot

  This is most important, but how do you expect me to do it when you impede me like this?'

  'Yes, yes, I'm sorry, but I have a string of calls waiting. I really must go.' He was halfway across the floor and the tube was uncoiling itself again when he heard the ominous throat clearing behind him.

  'And one more thing, Mr. Farnon. I still can't decipher your writing. These medical terms are difficult enough, so please take a little care and don't scribble.'

  'Very wel! Miss Harbottle.' He quickened his pace through the door and into the passage where, it seemed, was safety and peace. He was clattering thankfully over the tiles when the familiar rumbling reached him. She could project that sound a surprising distance by giving it a bit of extra pressure, and it was a summons which had to be obeyed. I could hear him wearily putting the tube and pump on the floor; the calcium bottles must have been digging into his ribs because I heard them go down too.

  He presented himself again before the desk. Miss Harbottle wagged a finger at him. 'While I have you here I'd like to mention another point which troubles me. Look at this day book. You see all these slips sticking out of the pages? They are all queries - there must be scores of them - and I am at a standstill until you clear them for me. When I ask you you never have the time. Can you go over them with me now?'

  Siegfried backed away hurriedly. 'No, no, not just now. As I said, I have some urgent calls waiting. I'm very sorry but it will have to be some other time. First chance I get I'll come in and see you'. He felt the door behind him and with a last glance at the massive, disapproving figure behind the desk, he turned and fled.

  Chapter Eighteen.

  I could look back now on six months of hard practical experience. I had treated cows, horses, pigs, dogs and cats seven days a week; in the morning, afternoon, evening and through the hours when the world was asleep. I had calved cows and farrowed sows till my arms ached and the skin peeled off, I had been knocked down, trampled on and sprayed liberally with every kind of muck. I had seen a fair cross section of the diseases of animals. And yet a little voice had begun to niggle at the back of my mind; it said I knew nothing, nothing at all.

  This was strange, because those six months had been built upon five years of theory; a slow, painful assimilation of thousands of facts and a careful storage of fragments of knowledge like a squirrel with its nuts. Beginning with the study of plants and the lowest forms of life, working up to dissection in the anatomy lab and physiology and the vast, soulless territory of materia medica. Then pathology which tore down the curtain of ignorance and let me look for the first time into the deep secrets. And parasitology, the teeming other world of the worms and fleas and mange mites. Finally, medicine and surgery, the crystallisation of my learning and its application to the everyday troubles of animals.

  And there were many others, like physics, chemistry, hygiene; they didn't seem to have missed a thing. Why then should I feel I knew nothing? Why had I begun to feel like an astronomer looking through a telescope at an unknown galaxy? This sensation that I was only groping about on the fringes of limitless space was depressing. It was a funny thing, because everybody else seemed to know all about sick animals. The chap who held the cow's tail, the neighbour from the next farm, men in pubs, jobbing gardeners; they all knew and were free and confident with their advice.

  I tried to think back over my life. Was there any time when I had felt this supreme faith in my own knowledge. And then I remembered.

  I was back in Scotland, I was seventeen and I was walking under the arch of the Veterinary College into Montrose Street. I had been a student for three days but not until this afternoon had I felt the thrill of fulfilment. Messing about with botany and zoology was all right but this afternoon had been the real thing; I had had my first lecture in animal husbandry.

  The subject had been the points of the horse. Professor Grant had hung up a life size picture of a horse and gone over it from nose to tail, indicating the withers, the stifle, the hock, the poll and all the other rich, equine terms. And the professor had been wise; to make his lecture more interesting he kept throwing in little practical points like 'This is where we find curb,' or 'Here is the site for windgalls.' He talked of thoroughpins and sidebones, splints and quittor; things the students wouldn't learn about for another four years, but it brought it all to life.

  The words were still spinning in my head as I walked slowly down the sloping street. This was what I had come for. I felt as though I had undergone an initiation and become a member of an exclusive club. I really knew about horses. And I was wearing a brand new riding mac with all sorts of extra straps and buckles which slapped against my legs as I turned the corner of the hill into busy Newton Road.

  I could hardly believe my luck when I saw the horse. It was standing outside the library below Queen's Cross like something left over from another age. It drooped dispiritedly between the shafts of a coal cart which stood like an island in an eddying stream of cars and buses. Pedestrians hurried by, uncaring, but I had the feeling that fortune was smiling on me.

  A horse. Not just a picture but a real, genuine horse. Stray words from the lecture floated up into my mind; the pastern, cannon bone, coronet and all those markings - snip, blaze, white sock near hind. I stood on the pavement and examined the animal critically.

  I thought it must be obvious to every passer-by that here was a true expert. Not just an inquisitive onlooker but a man who knew and understood all. I felt clothed in a visible aura of horsiness.

  I took a few steps up and down, hands deep in the pockets of the new riding mac, eyes probing for possible shoeing faults or curbs or bog spavins. So thorough was my inspection that I worked round to the off side of the horse and stood perilously among the racing traffic.

  I glanced around at the people hurrying past. Nobody seemed to care, not even the horse. He was a large one. at least seventeen hands, and he gazed apathetically down the street, easing his hind legs alternatively in a bored manner. I hated to leave him but I had completed my examination and it was time I was on my way. But I felt that I ought to make a gesture before I left; something to communicate to the horse that I understood his problems and that we belonged to the same brotherhood. I stepped briskly forward and patted him on the neck.

  Quick as a striking snake, the horse whipped downwards and seized my shoulder in his great strong teeth. He laid back his ears, rolled his eyes wickedly and hoisted me up, almost off my feet. I hung there helplessly, suspended like a lopsided puppet. I wriggled and kicked but the teeth were clamped immovably in the material of my coat.

  There was no doubt about the interest of the passers by now. The grotesque sight of a man hanging from a horse's mouth brought them to a sudden halt and a crowd formed with people looking over each other's shoulders and others fighting at the back to see what was going on.

  A horrified old lady was crying: 'Oh, poor boy! Help him, somebody!'

  Some of the braver characters tried pulling at me but the horse whickered ominously and hung on tighter. Conflicting advice was shouted from all sides. With deep shame I saw two attractive girls in the front row giggling helplessly.

  Appalled at the absurdity of my position, I began to thrash about wildly; my shirt collar tightened round my throat; a stream of the horse's saliva trickled down the front of my mac. I could feel myself choking and was giving up hope when a man pushed his way through the crowd.

  He was very small. Angry eyes glared from a face blackened by coal dust. Two empty sacks were draped over an arm.

  'Whit the hell's this?' he shouted. A dozen replies babbled in the air.

  'Can ye no leave the bloody hoarse alone?' he yelled into my face. I made no reply, being pop-eyed, half throttled and in no mood for conversation.

  The coalman turned his fury on the horse. 'Drop him, ya big bastard! Go on, let go, drop him!'

  Getting no response he dug the animal viciously in the belly with his thumb. The horse took the point at once and released me like an obedient dog
dropping a bone. I fell on my knees and ruminated in the gutter for a while till I could breathe more easily. As from a great distance I could still hear the little man shouting at me.

  After some time I stood up. The coalman was still shouting and the crowd was listening appreciatively. 'Whit d'ye think you're playing at - keep yer hands off ma bloody hoarse - get the poliss tee ye.'

  I looked down at my new mac. The shoulder was chewed to a sodden mass. I felt I must escape and began to edge my way through the crowd. Some of the faces were concerned but most were grinning. Once clear I started to walk away rapidly and as I turned the corner the last faint cry from the coalman reached me.

  'Dinna meddle wi' things ye ken nuthin' aboot!'

  Chapter Nineteen.

  I flipped idly through the morning mail. The usual stack of bills, circulars, brightly coloured advertisements for new drugs; after a few months the novelty had worn off and I hardly bothered to read them. I had almost reached the bottom of the pile when I came on something different; an expensive looking envelope in heavy, deckle-edged paper addressed to me personally. I ripped it open and pulled out a gilt bordered card which I scanned quickly. I felt my face redden as I slipped the card into an inside pocket.

  Siegfried finished ticking off the visits and looked up. 'What are you looking so guilty about, James? Your past catching up with you? What is it, anyway - a letter from an outraged mother?'

  'Go on then,' I said sheepishly, pulling out the card and handing it to him, 'have a good laugh. I suppose you'd find out, anyway.'

  Siegfried's face was expressionless as he read the card aloud. 'Tricki requests the pleasure of Uncle Herriot's company on Friday February 5th. Drinks and dancing.' He looked up and spoke seriously. 'Now isn't that nice. You know, that must be one of the most generous Pekingeses in England. Sending you kippers and tomatoes and hampers isn't enough - he has to ask you to his home for a party.'

  I grabbed the card and slipped it out of sight. 'All right, all right, I know. But what am I supposed to do?'

  'Do? What you do is to sit down right away and get a letter off saying thank you very much, you'll be there on February the fifth. Mrs. Pumphrey's parties are famous. Mountains of exotic food, rivers of champagne. Don't miss it whatever you do.'

  'Will there be a lot of people there?' I asked, shuffling my feet.

  Siegfried struck himself on the forehead with his open hand. 'Of course there'll be a lot of people. What d'you think. Did you expect it would be just you and Tricki? You'd have a few beers together and then you'd dance a slow foxtrot with him? The cream of the county will be there in full regalia but my guess is that there will be no more honoured guest than Uncle Herriot. Why? Because Mrs. Pumphrey invited the others but Tricki invited you.'

  'OK, OK,' I groaned. 'I'll be on my own and I haven't got a proper evening suit. I don't fancy it.'

  Siegfried rose and put a hand on my shoulder. 'My dear chap, don't mess about. Sit down and accept the invitation and then go into Brawton and hire a suit for the night. You won't be on your own for long - the debs will be tramping over each other for a dance with you.' He gave the shoulder a final pat before walking to the door. Before leaving he turned round and his expression was grave. 'And remember for Pete's sake don't write to Mrs. Pumphrey. Address your letter to Tricki himself or you're sunk.'

  I had a lot of mixed feelings churning around in me when I presented myself at the Pumphrey home on the night of February 5th. A maid let me into the hall and I could see Mrs. Pumphrey at the entrance to the ballroom receiving her guests and beyond, an elegant throng standing around with drinks. There was a well bred clamour, a general atmosphere of wealth. I straightened the tie on my hired outfit, took a deep breath and waited.

  Mrs. Pumphrey was smiling sweetly as she shook hands with the couple in front of me but when she saw me her face became radiant. 'Oh Mr. Herriot, how nice of you to come. Tricki was so delighted to have your letter - in fact we really must go in and see him now.' She led me across the hall.

  'He's in the morning-room,' she whispered. 'Between ourselves he finds these affairs rather a bore, but he'll be simply furious if I don't take you in for a moment.'

  Tricki was curled up in an armchair by the side of a bright fire. When he saw me he jumped on the back of the chair barking in delight, his huge, laughing mouth bisecting his face. I was trying to fend off his attempts to lick my face when I caught sight of two large food bowls on the carpet. One contained about a pound of chopped chicken, the other a mass of crumbled cake.

  'Mrs. Pumphrey!' I thundered, pointing at the bowls. The poor woman put her hand to her mouth and shrank away from me.

  'Oh do forgive me,' she wailed, her face a picture of guilt. 'It's just a special treat because he's alone tonight. And the weather is so cold, too.' She clasped her hands and looked at me abjectly.

  'I'll forgive you,' I said sternly, 'If you will remove half the chicken and all the cake.'

  Fluttering, like a little girl caught in naughtiness, she did as I said.

  I parted regretfully from the little Peke. It had been a busy day and I was sleepy from the hours in the biting cold. This room with its fire and soft lighting looked more inviting than the noisy glitter of the ballroom and I would have preferred to curl up here with Tricki on my knee for an hour or two.

  Mrs. Pumphrey became brisk. 'Now you must come and meet some of my friends.' We went into the ballroom where light blazed down from three cut glass chandeliers and was reflected dazzlingly from the cream and gold, many-mirrored walls. We moved from group to group as Mrs. Pumphrey introduced me and I squirmed in embarrassment as I heard myself described as 'Tricki's dear kind uncle'. But either they were people of superb self control or they were familiar with their hostess's blind spot because the information was received with complete gravity.

  Along one wall a five piece orchestra was tuning up; whitejacketed waiters hurried among the guests with trays of food and drinks. Mrs. Pumphrey stopped one of the waiters. 'François, some champagne for this gentleman.'

  'Yes, Madame.' The waiter proffered his tray.

  'No, no, no, not those. One of the big glasses.'

  François hurried away and returned with something like a soup plate. With a stem. It was brimming with champagne.

  'François.'

  'Yes, Madame?'

  'This is Mr. Herriot. I want you to take a good look at him.'

  The waiter turned a pair of sad, spaniel eyes on me and drank me in for a few moments.

  'I want you to look after him. See that his glass is full and that he has plenty to eat.'

  'Certainly, Madame.' He bowed and moved away.

  I buried my face in the ice cold champagne and when I looked up, there was François holding out a tray of smoked salmon sandwiches.

  It was like that all the evening. François seemed always to be at my elbow, filling up the enormous glass or pushing dainties at me. I found it delightful; the salty snacks brought on a thirst which I quenched with deep draughts of champagne, then I had more snacks which made me thirsty again and François would unfailingly pop up with the magnum.

  It was the first time I had had the opportunity of drinking champagne by the pint and it was a rewarding experience. I was quickly aware of a glorious lightness, a heightening of the perceptions. I stopped being overawed by this new world and began to enjoy it. I danced with everybody in sight - sleek young beauties, elderly dowagers and twice with a giggling Mrs. Pumphrey.

  Or I just talked. And it was witty talk; I repeatedly amazed myself by my lightning shafts. Once I caught sight of myself in a mirror - a distinguished figure, glass in hand, the hired suit hanging on me with quiet grace. It took my breath away.

  Eating, drinking, talking, dancing, the evening winged past. When it was time to go and I had my coat on and was shaking hands with Mrs. Pumphrey in the hall, François appeared again with a bowl of hot soup. He seemed to be worried lest I grow faint on the journey home.

  After the soup, Mrs. Pumphrey
said: 'And now you must come and say good night to Tricki. He'll never forgive you if you don't.' We went into his room and the little dog yawned from the depths of the chair and wagged his tail. Mrs. Pumphrey put her hand on my sleeve. 'While you're here, I wonder if you would be so kind as to examine his claws. I've been so worried in case they might be growing too long.'

  I lifted up the paws one by one and scrutinised the claws while Tricki lazily licked my hands. 'No, you needn't worry, they're perfectly all right.'

  'Thank you so much, I'm so grateful to you. Now you must wash your hands.'

  In the familiar bathroom with the sea green basins and the enamelled fishes on the walls and the dressing-table and the bottles on the glass shelves, I looked around as the steaming water ran from the tap. There was my own towel by the basin and the usual new slab of soap soap that lathered in an instant and gave off an expensive scent. It was the final touch of balm on a gracious evening. It had been a few hours of luxury and light and I carried the memory back with me to Skeldale House.

  I got into bed, switched off the light and lay on my back looking up into the darkness. Snatches of music still tinkled about in my head and I was beginning to swim back to the ballroom when the phone rang.

  'This is Atkinson of Beck Cottage,' a far away voice said. 'I 'ave a sow 'ere what can't get pigged. She's been on all night. Will you come?'

  I looked at the clock as I put down the receiver. It was two a.m. I felt numbed. A farrowing right on top of the champagne and the smoked salmon and those little biscuits with the black heaps of caviare. And at Beck Cottage, one of the most primitive smallholdings in the district. It wasn't fair.

  Sleepily, I took off my pyjamas and pulled on my shirt. As I reached for the stiff, worn corduroys I used for work, I tried not to look at the hired suit hanging on a corner of the wardrobe.