Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

Miss Harbottle’s eyes widened incredulously. “But Mr. Farnon, you removed the entire contents to go to the hunt ball at …”

Siegfried held up a hand and his smile took on an unearthly quality. “Please hear me out. There is another very small thing I want to bring to your attention. It is now the tenth day of the month and the accounts have not gone out. Now this is a very undesirable state of affairs and there are several points to consider here.”

“But Mr. Farnon …!”

“Just one moment, Miss Harbottle, till I explain this to you. It is a known fact that farmers pay their bills more readily if they receive them on the first of the month. And there is another, even more important factor.” The beautiful smile left his face and was replaced by an expression of sorrowing gravity. “Have you ever stopped to work out just how much interest the practice is losing on all the money lying out there because you are late in sending out the accounts?”

“Mr. Farnon … !”

“I am almost finished, Miss Harbottle, and, believe me, it grieves me to have to speak like this. But the fact is, I can’t afford to lose money in this way.” He spread out his hands in a gesture of charming frankness. “So if you will just apply yourself to this little matter I’m sure all will be well.”

“But will you tell me how I can possibly send the accounts when you refuse to write up the …”

“In conclusion, Miss Harbottle, let me say this. I have been very satisfied with your progress since you joined us, and I am sure that with time you will tighten up on those little points I have just mentioned.” A certain roguishness crept into his smile and he put his head on one side. Miss Harbottle’s strong fingers closed tightly round a heavy ebony ruler.

“Efficiency,” he said, crinkling his eyes. “That’s what we must have—efficiency.”

TWENTY-ONE

I DROPPED THE SUTURE needle into the tray and stepped back to survey the finished job. “Well though I say it myself, that looks rather nice.”

Tristan leaned over the unconscious dog and examined the neat incision with its row of regular stitches. “Very pretty indeed, my boy. Couldn’t have done better myself.”

The big black labrador lay peacefully on the table, his tongue lolling, his eyes glazed and unseeing. He had been brought in with an ugly growth over his ribs and I had decided that it was a simple lipoma, quite benign and very suitable for surgery. And so it had turned out. The tumour had come away with almost ridiculous ease, round, intact and shining, like a hard-boiled egg from its shell. No haemorrhage, no fear of recurrence.

The unsightly swelling had been replaced by this tidy scar which would be invisible in a few weeks. I was pleased.

“We’d better keep him here till he comes round,” I said. “Give me a hand to get him on to these blankets.” We made the dog comfortable in front of an electric stove and I left to start my morning round.

It was during lunch that we first heard the strange sound. It was something between a moan and a howl, starting quite softly but rising to a piercing pitch before shuddering back down the scale to silence.

Siegfried looked up, startled, from his soup. “What in God’s name is that?”

“Must be that dog I operated on this morning,” I replied. “The odd one does that coming out of barbiturates. I expect he’ll stop soon.”

Siegfried looked at me doubtfully. “Well, I hope so—I could soon get tired of that. Gives me the creeps.”

We went through and looked at the dog. Pulse strong, respirations deep and regular, mucous membranes a good colour. He was still stretched out, immobile, and the only sign of returning consciousness was the howl which seemed to have settled down into a groove of one every ten seconds.

“Yes, he’s perfectly all right,” Siegfried said. “But what a bloody noise! Let’s get out of here.”

Lunch was finished hastily and in silence except for the ceaseless background wailing. Siegfried had scarcely swallowed his last mouthful before he was on his feet. “Well, I must fly. Got a lot on this afternoon. Tristan, I think it would be a good idea to bring that dog through to the sitting-room and put him by the fire. Then you could stay by him and keep an eye on him.”

Tristan was stunned. “You mean I have to stay in the same room as that noise all afternoon?”

“Yes, I mean just that. We can’t send him home as he is and I don’t want anything to happen to him. He needs care and attention.”

“Maybe you’d like me to hold his paw or perhaps wheel him round the market place?”

“Don’t give me any of your bloody cheek. You stay with the dog and that’s an order!”

Tristan and I stretchered the heavy animal along the passage on the blankets, then I had to leave for the afternoon round. I paused and looked back at the big black form by the fire and Tristan crouched miserably in his chair. The noise was overpowering. I closed the door hurriedly.

It was dark when I got back and the old house hung over me, black and silent against the frosty sky. Silent, that is, except for the howling which still echoed along the passage and filtered eerily into the deserted street.

I glanced at my watch as I slammed the car door. It was six o’clock, so Tristan had had four hours of it. I ran up the steps and along the passage and when I opened the sitting-room door the noise jarred in my head. Tristan was standing with his back to me, looking through the french window into the darkness of the garden. His hands were deep in his pockets; tufts of cotton wool drooped from his ears.

“Well, how is it going?” I asked.

There was no reply so I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. The effect was spectacular. Tristan leaped into the air and corkscrewed round. His face was ashen and he was trembling violently.

“God help us, Jim, you nearly killed me there. I can’t hear a damn thing through these ear plugs—except the dog, of course. Nothing keeps that out.”

I knelt by the labrador and examined him. The dog’s condition was excellent but, except for a faint eye reflex, there was no sign that he was regaining consciousness. And all the time there were the piercing, evenly spaced howls.

“He’s taking a hell of a time to come out of it,” I said. “Has he been like this all afternoon?”

“Yes, just like that. Not one bit different. And don’t waste any sympathy on him, the yowling devil. He’s as happy as a sandboy down by the fire—doesn’t know a thing about it. But how about me? My nerves are about shot to bits listening to him hour after hour. Much more of it and you’ll have to give me a shot too.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair and a twitching started in his cheek.

I took his arm. “Well, come through and eat. You’ll feel better after some food.” I led him unresisting into the dining-room.

Siegfried was in excellent form over the meal. He seemed to be in a mood of exhilaration and monopolised the conversation but he did not once refer to the shrill obbligato from the other room. There was no doubt, however, that it was still getting through to Tristan.

As they were leaving the room, Siegfried put his hand on my shoulder. “Remember we’ve got that meeting in Brawton tonight, James. Old Reeves on diseases of sheep—he’s usually very good. Pity you can’t come too, Tristan, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay with the dog till he comes round.”

Tristan flinched as if he had been struck. “Oh not another session with that bloody animal! He’s driving me mad!”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. James or I could have taken over tonight but we have to show up at this meeting. It would look bad if we missed it.”