Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

I flexed the hip joint once or twice. No resistance at all now. The femoral head was once more riding smoothly in its socket.

“Well that’s it,” I said. “Hope it stays put—we’ll have to keep our fingers crossed. The odd one does pop out again but I’ve got a feeling this is going to be all right.”

Helen ran her hand over the silky ears and neck of the sleeping dog. “Poor old Dan. He wouldn’t have jumped over that wall this morning if he’d known what was in store for him. How long will it be before he comes round?”

“Oh, he’ll be out for the rest of the day. When he starts to wake up tonight I want you to be around to steady him in case he falls and puts the thing out again. Perhaps you’d give me a ring. I’d like to know how things are.”

I gathered Dan up in my arms and was carrying him along the passage, staggering under his weight, when I met Mrs. Hall. She was carrying a tray with two cups.

“I was just having a drink of tea, Mr. Herriot,” she said. “I thought you and the young lady might fancy a cup.”

I looked at her narrowly. This was unusual. Was it possible she had joined Tristan in playing Cupid? But the broad, dark-skinned face was as unemotional as ever. It told me nothing.

“Well, thanks very much, Mrs. Hall. I’ll just put this dog outside first.” I went out and settled Dan on the back seat of Helen’s car; with only his eyes and nose sticking out from under a blanket he looked at peace with the world.

Helen was already sitting with a cup in her lap and I thought of the other time I had drunk tea in this room with a girl. On the day I had arrived in Darrowby. She had been one of Siegfried’s followers and surely the toughest of them all.

This was a lot different. During the struggle in the operating room I had been able to observe Helen at close range and I had discovered that her mouth turned up markedly at the corners as though she was just going to smile or had just been smiling; also that the deep warm blue of the eyes under the smoothly arching brows made a dizzying partnership with the rich black-brown of her hair.

And this time the conversation didn’t lag. Maybe it was because I was on my own ground—perhaps I never felt fully at ease unless there was a sick animal involved somewhere, but at any rate I found myself prattling effortlessly just as I had done up on that hill when we had first met.

Mrs. Hall’s teapot was empty and the last of the biscuits gone before I finally saw Helen off and started on my round.

The same feeling of easy confidence was on me that night when I heard her voice on the phone.

“Dan is up and walking about,” she said. “He’s still a bit wobbly but he’s perfectly sound on that leg.”

“Oh great, he’s got the first stage over. I think everything’s going to be fine.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line, then: “Thank you so much for what you’ve done. We were terribly worried about him, especially my young brother and sister. We’re very grateful.”

“Not at all, I’m delighted too. He’s a grand dog.” I hesitated for a moment—it had to be now. “Oh, you remember we were talking about Scotland today. Well, I was passing the Plaza this afternoon and I see they’re showing a film about the Hebrides. I thought maybe … I wondered if perhaps, er … you might like to come and see it with me.”

Another pause and my heart did a quick thud-thud.

“All right.” Helen said. “Yes, I’d like that. When? Friday night? Well, thank you—goodbye till then.”

I replaced the receiver with a trembling hand. Why did I make such heavy weather of these things? But it didn’t matter—I was back in business.

SIXTY-ONE

RHEUMATISM IS A TERRIBLE thing in a dog. It is painful enough in humans but an acute attack can reduce an otherwise healthy dog to terrified, screaming immobility.

Very muscular animals suffered most and I went carefully as my fingers explored the bulging triceps and gluteals of the little Staffordshire bull terrier. Normally a tough little fellow, afraid of nothing, friendly, leaping high in an attempt to lick people’s faces; but today, rigid, trembling, staring anxiously in front of him. Even to turn his head a little brought a shrill howl of agony.

Mercifully it was something you could put right and quickly too. I pulled the Novalgin into the syringe and injected it rapidly. The little dog, oblivious to everything but the knife-like stabbing of the rheumatism did not stir at the prick of the needle. I counted out some salicylate tablets into a box, wrote the directions on the lid and handed the box to the owner.

“Give him one of those as soon as the injection has eased him, Mr. Tavener. Then repeat in about four hours. I’m pretty sure he’ll be greatly improved by then.”

Mrs. Tavener snatched the box away as her husband began to read the directions. “Let me see it,” she snapped. “No doubt I’ll be the one who has the job to do.”

It had been like that all the time, ever since I had entered the beautiful house with the terraced gardens leading down to the river. She had been at him ceaselessly while he was holding the dog for me. When the animal had yelped she had cried: “Really, Henry, don’t grip the poor thing like that, you’re hurting him!” She had kept him scuttling about for this and that and when he was out of the room she said: “You know, this is all my husband’s fault. He will let the dog swim in the river. I knew this would happen.”

Half-way through, daughter Julia had come in and it was clear from the start that she was firmly on Mama’s side. She helped out with plenty of “How could you, Daddy!” and “For God’s sake, Daddy!” and generally managed to fill in the gaps when her mother wasn’t in full cry.

The Taveners were in their fifties. He was a big, floridly handsome man who had made millions in the Tyneside shipyards before pulling out of the smoke to this lovely place. I had taken an instant liking to him; I had expected a tough tycoon and had found a warm, friendly, curiously vulnerable man, obviously worried sick about his dog.

I had reservations about Mrs. Tavener despite her still considerable beauty. Her smile had a switched-on quality and there was a little too much steel in the blue of her eyes. She had seemed less concerned about the dog than with the necessity of taking it out on her husband.

Julia, a scaled-down model of her mother, drifted about the room with the aimless, bored look of the spoiled child; glancing blankly at the dog or me, staring without interest through the window at the smooth lawns, the tennis court, the dark band of river under the trees.

I gave the terrier a final reassuring pat on the head and got up from my knees. As I put away the syringe, Tavener took my arm. “Well, that’s fine, Mr. Herriot. We’re very grateful to you for relieving our minds. I must say I thought the old boy’s time had come when he started yelling. And now you’ll have a drink before you go.”

The man’s hand trembled on my arm as he spoke. It had been noticeable, too, when he had been holding the dog’s head and I had wondered; maybe Parkinson’s disease, or nerves, or just drink. Certainly he was pouring a generous measure of whisky into his glass, but as he tipped up the bottle his hand was seized by an even more violent tremor and he slopped the spirit on to the polished sideboard.

“Oh God! Oh God!” Mrs. Tavener burst out. There was a bitter note of oh no, not again, in her cry and Julia struck her forehead with her hand and raised her eyes to heaven. Tavener shot a single hunted look at the women then grinned as he handed me my glass.

“Come and sit down, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “I’m sure you have time to relax for a few minutes.”