Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

TWENTY-TWO

AS I CAME INTO the operating room I saw that Siegfried had a patient on the table. He was thoughtfully stroking the head of an elderly and rather woebegone border terrier.

“James,” he said, “I want you to take this little dog through to Grier.”

“Grier?”

“Vet at Brawton. He was treating the case before the owner moved into our district. I’ve seen it a couple of times—stones in the bladder. It needs an immediate operation and I think I’d better let Grier do it. He’s a touchy devil and I don’t want to stand on his toes.”

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of him,” I said.

“Probably you have. A cantankerous Aberdonian. Since he practises in a fashionable town he gets quite a few students and he gives them hell. That sort of thing gets around.” He lifted the terrier from the table and handed him to me. “The sooner you get through there the better. You can see the op and bring the dog back here afterwards. But watch yourself—don’t rub Grier the wrong way or he’ll take it out of you somehow.”

At my first sight of Angus Grier I thought immediately of whisky. He was about fifty and something had to be responsible for the fleshy, mottled cheeks, the swimmy eyes and the pattern of purple veins which chased each other over his prominent nose. He wore a permanently insulted expression.

He didn’t waste any charm on me; a nod and a grunt and he grabbed the dog from my arms. Then he stabbed a finger at a slight, fairish youth in a white coat. “That’s Clinton—final-year student. Do ye no’ think there’s some pansy-lookin’ buggers coming in to this profession?”

During the operation he niggled constantly at the young man and, in an attempt to create a diversion, I asked when he was going back to college.

“Beginning of next week,” he replied.

“Aye, but he’s awa hame tomorrow,” Grier rasped. “Wasting his time when he could be gettin’ good experience here.”

The student blushed. “Well, I’ve been seeing practice for over a month and I felt I ought to spend a couple of days with my mother before the term starts.”

“Oh, I ken, I ken. You’re all the same—canna stay away from the titty.”

The operation was uneventful and as Grier inserted the last stitch he looked up at me. “You’ll no’ want to take the dog back till he’s out of the anaesthetic. I’ve got a case to visit—you can come with me to pass the time.”

We didn’t have what you could call a conversation in the car. It was a monologue; a long recital of wrongs suffered at the hands of wicked clients and predatory colleagues. The story I liked best was about a retired admiral who had asked Grier to examine his horse for soundness. Grier said the animal had a bad heart and was not fit to ride, whereupon the admiral flew into a fury and got another vet to examine the horse. The second vet said there was nothing the matter with the heart and passed the animal sound.

The admiral wrote Grier a letter and told him what he thought of him in fairly ripe quarter-deck language. Having got this out of his system he felt refreshed and went out for a ride during which, in the middle of a full gallop, the horse fell down dead and rolled on the admiral who sustained a compound fracture of the leg and a crushed pelvis.

“Man,” said Grier with deep sincerity, “man, I was awfu’ glad.”

We drew up in a particularly dirty farmyard and Grier turned to me. “I’ve got a cow tae cleanse here.”

“Right,” I said, “fine.” I settled down in my seat and took out my pipe. Grier paused, half way out of the car. “Are you no’ coming to give me a hand?”

I couldn’t understand him. “Cleansing” of cows is simply the removal of retained afterbirth and is a one-man job.

“Well, there isn’t much I can do, is there?” I said. “And my Wellingtons and coat are back in my car. I didn’t realise it was a farm visit—I’d probably get messed up for nothing.”

I knew immediately that I’d said the wrong thing. The toad-skin jowls flushed darker and he gave me a malevolent glance before turning away; but half way across the yard he stopped and stood for a few moments in thought before coming back to the car. “I’ve just remembered. I’ve got something here you can put on. You might as well come in with me—you’ll be able to pass me a pessary when I want one.”

It sounded nutty to me, but I got out of the car and went round to the back. Grier was fishing out a large wooden box from his boot.

“Here, ye can put this on. It’s a calving outfit I got a bit ago. I haven’t used it much because I found it a mite heavy, but it’ll keep ye grand and clean.”

I looked in the box and saw a suit of thick, black, shining rubber.

I lifted out the jacket; it bristled with zip fasteners and press studs and felt as heavy as lead. The trousers were even more weighty, with many clips and fasteners. The whole thing was a most imposing creation, obviously designed by somebody who had never seen a cow calved and having the disadvantage that anybody wearing it would be pretty well immobilised.

I studied Grier’s face for a moment but the watery eyes told me nothing. I began to take off my jacket—it was crazy but I didn’t want to offend the man.

And, in truth, Grier seemed anxious to get me into the suit because he was holding it up in a helpful manner. It was a two-man operation. First the gleaming trousers were pulled on and zipped up fore and aft, then it was the turn of the jacket, a wonderful piece of work, fitting tightly round the waist and possessing short sleeves about six inches long with powerful elastic gripping my biceps.

Before I could get it on I had to roll my shirt sleeves to the shoulder, then Grier, heaving and straining, worked me into it. I could hear the zips squeaking into place, the final one being at the back of my neck to close a high, stiff collar which held my head in an attitude of supplication, my chin pointing at the sky.

Grier’s heart really seemed to be in his work and, for the final touch, he produced a black rubber skull cap. I shrank away from the thing and began to mouth such objections as the collar would allow, but Grier insisted. “Stand still a wee minute longer. We might as well do the job right.”

When he had finished he stood back admiringly. I must have been a grotesque sight, sheathed from head to foot in gleaming black, my arms, bare to the shoulders, sticking out almost at right angles. Grier appeared well satisfied. “Well, come on, it’s time we got on wi’ the job.” He turned and hurried towards the byre; I plodded ponderously after him like an automaton.

Our arrival in the byre caused a sensation. There were present the farmer, two cowmen and a little girl. The men’s cheerful greeting froze on their lips as the menacing figure paced slowly, deliberately in. The little girl burst into tears and ran outside.

“Cleansing” is a dirty, smelly job for the operator and a bore for the onlooker who may have to stand around for twenty minutes without being able to see anything. But this was one time the spectators were not bored. Grier was working away inside the cow and mumbling about the weather, but the men weren’t listening; they never took their eyes away from me as I stood rigid, like a suit of armour against the wall. They studied each part of the outfit in turn, wonderingly. I knew what they were thinking. Just what was going to happen when this formidable unknown finally went into action? Anybody dressed like that must have some tremendous task ahead of him.

The intense pressure of the collar against my larynx kept me entirely out of any conversation and this must have added to my air of mystery. I began to sweat inside the suit.

The little girl had plucked up courage and brought her brothers and sisters to look at me. I could see the row of little heads peeping round the door and, screwing my head round painfully, I tried to give them a reassuring smile; but the heads disappeared and I heard their feet clattering across the yard.