Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

I was familiar with her vocabulary of big jobs and little jobs. “You mean he can’t pass his urine?”

“Well … well …” she was obviously confused. “Not properly.”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Is he eating all right?”

“I think so, but …” then she suddenly blurted out: “Oh, Mr. Herriot, I’m so terribly worried! I’ve heard of men being dreadfully ill … just like this. It’s a gland, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. Pigs don’t have that trouble and anyway, I think four months is a bit young for hypertrophy of the prostate.”

“Oh, I’m so glad, but something is … stopping it. You will come, won’t you!”

“I’m leaving now.”

I had quite a long wait outside Nugent’s pen. He had grown into a chunky little porker and grunted amiably as he surveyed me through the netting. Clearly he expected some sort of game and, growing impatient, he performed a few stiff-legged little gallops up and down the run.

I had almost decided that my visit was fruitless when Mrs. Pumphrey, who had been pacing up and down, wringing her hands, stopped dead and pointed a shaking finger at the pig.

“Oh God,” she breathed. “There! There! There it is now!” All the colour had drained from her face leaving her deathly pale. “Oh, it’s awful! I can’t look any longer.” With a moan she turned away and buried her face in her hands.

I scrutinised Nugent closely. He had halted in mid gallop and was contentedly relieving himself by means of the intermittent spurting jets of the normal male pig.

I turned to Mrs. Pumphrey. “I really can’t see anything wrong there.”

“But he’s … he’s …” she still didn’t dare to look. “He’s doing it in … in fits and starts!”

I had had considerable practice at keeping a straight face in Mrs. Pumphrey’s presence and it stood me in good stead now.

“But they all do it that way, Mrs. Pumphrey.”

She half turned and looked tremblingly out of the corner of her eye at Nugent. “You mean … all boy pigs …?”

“Every single boy pig I have ever known has done it like that.”

“Oh … Oh … how odd, how very odd.” The poor lady fanned herself with her handkerchief. Her colour had come back in a positive flood.

To cover her confusion I became very business-like. “Yes, yes indeed. Lots of people make the same mistake, I assure you. Ah well, I suppose I’d better be on my way now—it’s been nice to see the little fellow looking so well and happy.”

Nugent enjoyed a long and happy life and more than fulfilled my expectations of him; he was every bit as generous as Tricki with his presents and, as with the little Peke, I was able to salve my conscience with the knowledge that I was really fond of him. As always, Siegfried’s sardonic attitude made things a little uncomfortable; I had suffered in the past when I got the signed photographs from the little dog—but I never dared let him see the one from the pig.

THIRTY-FOUR

ANGUS GRIER M.R.C.V.S. WAS never pretty to look at, but the sight of him propped up in bed, his mottled, pop-eyed face scowling above a pink quilted bed jacket was enough to daunt the bravest. Especially at eight in the morning when I usually had the first of my daily audiences with him.

“You’re late again,” he said, his voice grating. “Can ye no’ get out of your bed in the morning? I’ve told you till I’m tired that I want ye out on the road by eight o’clock.”

As I mumbled apologies he tugged fretfully at the counterpane and looked me up and down with deepening distaste. “And another thing, that’s a terrible pair o’ breeches you’re wearing. If you must wear breeches to your work, for heaven’s sake go and get a pair made at a proper tailor. There’s nae cut about those things at all—they’re not fit to be worn by a veterinary surgeon.”

The knife really went in then. I was attached to those breeches. I had paid thirty shillings for them at the Army and Navy Stores and cherished a private conviction that they gave me a certain air. And Grier’s attack on them was all the more wounding when I considered that the man was almost certainly getting my services free; Siegfried, I felt sure, would wave aside any offers of payment.

I had been here a week and it seemed like a lifetime. Somewhere, far back, I knew, there had been a brighter, happier existence but the memory was growing dim. Siegfried had been sincerely apologetic that morning back in Darrowby.

“James, I have a letter here from Grier of Brawton. It seems he was castrating a colt and the thing threw itself on top of him; he has a couple of cracked ribs. Apparently his assistant walked out on him recently, so there’s nobody to run his practice. He wants me to send you along there for a week or two.”

“Oh no! There’s a mistake somewhere. He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t like anybody. But there’s no mistake, it’s down here—and honestly, what can I do?”

“But the only time I met him he worked me into a horrible rubber suit and made me look a right chump.”

Siegfried smiled sadly. “I remember, James, I remember. He’s a mean old devil and I hate to do this to you, but I can’t turn him down, can I?”

At the time I couldn’t believe it. The whole idea was unreal. But it was real enough now as I stood at the foot of Grier’s bed listening to him ranting away. He was at me again.

“Another thing—my wife tells me you didna eat your porridge. Did you not like it?”

I shuffled my feet. “Oh yes, it was very nice. I just didn’t feel hungry this morning.” I had pushed the tasteless mass about with my spoon and done my best with it but it had defeated me in the end.

“There’s something wrong with a man that canna eat his good food.” Grier peered at me suspiciously then held out a slip of paper. “Here’s a list of your visits for this morning. There’s a good few so you’ll no’ have to waste your time getting round. This one here of Adamson’s of Grenton—a prolapse of the cervix in a cow. What would you do about that, think ye?”

I put my hand in my pocket, got hold of my pipe then dropped it back again. Grier didn’t like smoking.

“Well, I’d give her an epidural anaesthetic, replace the prolapse and fasten it in with retention sutures through the vulva.”

“Havers, man, havers!” snorted Grier. “What a lot of twaddle. There’s no need for a’ that. It’ll just be constipation that’s doing it. Push the thing back, build the cow up with some boards under her hind feet and put her on to linseed oil for a few days.”

“Surely it’ll come out again if I don’t stitch it in?” I said.

“Na, na, na, not at all,” Grier cried angrily. “Just you do as I tell you now. I ken more about this than you.”

He probably did. He should, anyway—he had been qualified for thirty years and I was starting my second. I looked at him glowering from his pillow and pondered for a moment on the strange fact of our uncomfortable relationship. A Yorkshire man listening to the two outlandish accents—Grier’s rasping Aberdeen, my glottal Clydeside—might have expected that some sort of rapport would exist between us, if only on national grounds. But there was none.

“Right, just as you say.” I left the room and went downstairs to gather up my equipment.

As I set off on the round I had the same feeling as every morning—relief at getting out of the house. I had had to go flat out all week to get through the work but I had enjoyed it. Farmers are nearly always prepared to make allowances for a young man’s inexperience and Grier’s clients had treated me kindly, but I still had to come back to that joyless establishment for meals and it was becoming more and more wearing.