All Things Bright and Beautiful (13 page)

I looked down at the little dog. He was crouching on the grass miserably. Occasionally he shivered, he had a definite photophobia and there was that creamy blob of pus in the corner of each eye. “Has he been inoculated against distemper?”

“Well no, he hasn’t, but why do you keep on about it?”

“Because I think he’s got it now and for his sake and for the sake of the other dogs here you ought to take him straight home and see your own vet.”

He glared at me. “So you won’t let me take him into the show tent?”

“That’s right. I’m very sorry, but it’s out of the question.” I turned and walked away.

I had gone only a few yards when the loudspeaker boomed again. “Will Mr. Herriot please go to the measuring stand where the ponies are ready for him.”

I collected my stick and trotted over to a corner of the field where a group of ponies had assembled; Welsh, Dales, Exmoor, Dartmoor—all kinds of breeds were represented.

For the uninitiated, horses are measured in hands which consist of four inches and a graduated stick is used with a cross piece and a spirit level which rests on the withers, the highest point of the shoulders. I had done a fair bit of it in individual animals but this was the first time I had done the job at a show. With my stick at the ready I stood by the two wide boards which had been placed on the turf to give the animals a reasonably level standing surface.

A smiling young woman led the first pony, a smart chestnut, on to the boards.

“Which class?” I asked.

“Thirteen hands.”

I tried the stick on him. He was well under.

“Fine, next please.”

A few more came through without incident then there was a lull before the next group came up. The ponies were arriving on the field all the time in their boxes and being led over to me, some by their young riders, others by the parents. It looked as though I could be here quite a long time.

During one of the lulls a little man who had been standing near me spoke up.

“No trouble yet?” he asked.

“No, everything’s in order,” I replied.

He nodded expressionlessly and as I took a closer look at him his slight body, dark, leathery features and high shoulders seemed to give him the appearance of a little brown gnome. At the same time there was something undeniably horsy about him.

“You’ll ’ave some awkward ’uns,” he grunted. “And they allus say the same thing. They allus tell you the vet at some other show passed their pony.” His swarthy cheeks crinkled in a wry smile.

“Is that so?”

“Aye, you’ll see.”

Another candidate, led by a beautiful blonde, was led on to the platform. She gave me the full blast of two big greenish eyes and flashed a mouthful of sparkling teeth at me.

“Twelve two,” she murmured seductively.

I tried the stick on the pony and worked it around, but try as I might I couldn’t get it down to that.

“I’m afraid he’s a bit big,” I said.

The blonde’s smile vanished. “Have you allowed half an inch for his shoes?”

“I have indeed, but you can see for yourself, he’s well over.”

“But he passed the vet without any trouble at Hickley,” she snapped and out of the corner of my eye I saw the gnome nodding sagely.

“I can’t help that,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put him into the next class.”

For a moment two green pebbles from the cold sea bed fixed me with a frigid glare then the blonde was gone taking her pony with her.

Next, a little bay animal was led on to the stand by a hard faced gentleman in a check suit and I must say I was baffled by its behaviour. Whenever the stick touched the withers it sank at the knees so that I couldn’t be sure whether I was getting the right reading or not. Finally I gave up and passed him through.

The gnome coughed. “I know that feller.”

“You do?”

“Aye, he’s pricked that pony’s withers with a pin so many times that it drops down whenever you try to measure ’im.”

“Never!”

“Sure as I’m standing here.”

I was staggered, but the arrival of another batch took up my attention for a few minutes. Some I passed, others I had to banish to another class and the owners took it in different ways—some philosophically, a few with obvious annoyance. One or two of the ponies just didn’t like the look of the stick at all and I had to dance around them as they backed away and reared.

The last pony in this group was a nice grey led by a bouncy man wearing a great big matey smile.

“How are you, all right?” he inquired courteously. “This ’un’s thirteen two.”

The animal went under the stick without trouble but after he had trotted away the gnome spoke up again.

“I know that feller, too.”

“Really?”

“Not ’alf. Weighs down ’is ponies before they’re measured. That grey’s been standing in ’is box for the last hour with a twelve stone sack of corn on ’is back. Knocks an inch off.”

“Good God! Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen ’im at it.”

My mind was beginning to reel just a little. Was the man making it all up or were there really those malign forces at work behind all this innocent fun?

“That same feller,” continued the gnome. “I’ve seen ’im bring a pony to a show and get half an inch knocked off for shoes when it never ’ad no shoes on.”

I wished he’d stop. And just then there was an interruption. It was the man with the moustache. He sidled up to me and whispered confidentially in my ear.

“Now I’ve just been thinking. My dog must have got over his journey by now and I expect his temperature will be normal. I wonder if you’d just try him again. I’ve still got time to show him.”

I turned wearily. “Honestly, it’ll be a waste of time. I’ve told you, he’s ill.”

“Please! Just as a favour.” He had a desperate look and a fanatical light flickered in his eye.

“All right.” I went over to the car with him and produced my thermometer. The temperature was still a hundred and four.

“Now I wish you’d take this poor little dog home,” I said. “He shouldn’t be here.”

For a moment I thought the man was going to strike me. “There’s nothing wrong with him!” he hissed, his whole face working with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and went back to the measuring stand.

A boy of about fifteen was waiting for me with his pony. It was supposed to be in the thirteen two class but was nearly one and a half inches over.

“Much too big, I’m afraid,” I said. “He can’t go in that class.”

The boy didn’t answer. He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a sheet of paper. “This is a veterinary certificate to say he’s under thirteen two.”

“No good, I’m sorry,” I replied. “The stewards have told me not to accept any certificates. I’ve turned down two others today. Everything has to go under the stick. It’s a pity, but there it is.”

His manner changed abruptly. “But you’ve GOT to accept it!” he shouted in my face. “There doesn’t have to be any measurements when you have a certificate.”

“You’d better see the stewards. Those are my instructions.”

“I’ll see my father about this, that’s what!” he shouted and led the animal away.

Father was quickly on the scene. Big, fat, prosperous-looking, confident. He obviously wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from me.

“Now look here, I don’t know what this is all about but you have no option in this matter. You have to accept the certificate.”

“I don’t, I assure you,” I answered. “And anyway, it’s not as though your pony was slightly over the mark. He’s miles over—nowhere near the height.”

Father flushed dark red. “Well let me tell you he was passed through by the vet at…”

“I know, I know,” I said, and I heard the gnome give a short laugh. “But he’s not going through here.”

There was a brief silence then both father and son began to scream at me. And as they continued to hurl abuse I felt a hand on my arm. It was the man with the moustache again.

“I’m going to ask you just once more to take my dog’s temperature,” he whispered with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be all right this time. Will you try him again?”

I’d had enough. “No, I bloody well won’t!” I barked. “Will you kindly stop bothering me and take that poor animal home.”

It’s funny how the most unlikely things motivate certain people. It didn’t seem a life and death matter whether a dog got into a show or not but it was to the man with the moustache. He started to rave at me.

“You don’t know your job, that’s the trouble with you! I’ve come all this way and you’ve played a dirty trick on me. I’ve got a friend who’s a vet, a proper vet, and I’m going to tell him about you, yes I am. I’m going to tell him about you!”

At the same time the father and son were still in full cry, snarling and mouthing at me and I became suddenly aware that I was in the centre of a hostile circle. The blonde was there too, and some of the others whose ponies I had outed and they were all staring at me belligerently, making angry gestures.

I felt very much alone because the gnome, who had seemed an ally, was nowhere to be seen. I was disappointed in the gnome; he was a big talker but had vanished at the first whiff of danger. As I surveyed the threatening crowd I moved my measuring stick round in front of me; it wasn’t much of a weapon but it might serve to fend them off if they rushed me.

And just at that moment, as the unkind words were thick upon the air, I saw Helen and Richard Edmundson on the fringe of the circle, taking it all in. I wasn’t worried about him but again it struck me as strange that it should be my destiny always to be looking a bit of a clown when Helen was around.

Anyway, the measuring was over and I felt in need of sustenance. I retreated and went to find Tristan.

T
HE ATMOSPHERE IN THE
beer tent was just what I needed. The hot weather had made the place even more popular than usual and it was crowded; many of the inhabitants had been there since early morning and the air was thick with earthy witticisms, immoderate laughter, cries of joy; and the nice thing was that nobody in there cared a damn about the heights of ponies or the temperatures of dogs.

I had to fight my way through the crush to reach Tristan who was leaning across the counter in earnest conversation with a comely young barmaid. The other serving ladies were middle-aged but his practised eye had picked this one out; glossy red hair, a puckish face and an inviting smile. I had been hoping for a soothing chat with him but he was unable to give me his undivided attention, so after juggling with a glass among the throng for a few minutes I left.

Out on the field the sun still blazed, the scent of the trampled grass rose into the warm air, the band was playing a selection from Rose Marie and peace began to steal into my soul. Maybe I could begin to enjoy the show now the pinpricks were over; there was only the Family Pets to judge and I was looking forward to that.

For about an hour I wandered among the pens of mountainous pigs and haughty sheep; the rows of Shorthorn cows with their classical wedge-shaped grace, their level udders and dainty feet.

I watched in fascination a contest which was new to me; shirt-sleeved young men sticking a fork into a straw bale and hurling it high over a bar with a jerk of their thick brown arms.

Old Steve Bramley, a local farmer, was judging the heavy horses and I envied him his massive authority as he stumped, bowler-hatted and glowering around each animal, leaning occasionally on his stick as he took stock of the points. I couldn’t imagine anyone daring to argue with him.

It was late in the afternoon when the loudspeaker called me to my final duty. The Family Pets contestants were arranged on wooden chairs drawn up in a wide circle on the turf. They were mainly children but behind them an interested ring of parents and friends watched me warily as I arrived.

The fashion of exotic pets was still in its infancy but I experienced a mild shock of surprise when I saw the variety of creatures on show. I suppose I must have had a vague mental picture of a few dogs and cats but I walked round the circle in growing bewilderment looking down at rabbits—innumerable rabbits of all sizes and colours—guinea pigs, white mice, several budgerigars, two tortoises, a canary, a kitten, a parrot, a Mynah bird, a box of puppies, a few dogs and cats and a goldfish in a bowl. The smaller pets rested on their owners’ knees, the others squatted on the ground.

How, I asked myself, was I going to come to a decision here? How did you choose between a parrot and a puppy, a budgie and a bulldog, a mouse and a Mynah? Then as I circled it came to me; it couldn’t be done. The only way was to question the children in charge and find which ones looked after their pets best, which of them knew most about their feeding and general husbandry. I rubbed my hands together and repressed a chuckle of satisfaction; I had something to work on now.

I don’t like to boast but I think I can say in all honesty that I carried out an exhaustive scientific survey of that varied group. From the outset I adopted an attitude of cold detachment, mercilessly banishing any ideas of personal preference. If I had been pleasing only myself I would have given first prize to a gleaming black Labrador sitting by a chair with massive composure and offering me a gracious paw every time I came near. And my second would have been a benevolent tabby—I have always had a thing about tabby cats—which rubbed its cheek against my hand as I talked to its owner. The pups, crawling over each other and grunting obesely, would probably have come third. But I put away these unworthy thoughts and pursued my chosen course.

I was distracted to some extent by the parrot which kept saying “Hellow” in a voice of devastating refinement like a butler answering a telephone and the Mynah which repeatedly adjured me to “Shut door as you go out,” in a booming Yorkshire baritone.

The only adult in the ring was a bosomy lady with glacial pop eyes and a white poodle on her knee. As I approached she gave me a challenging stare as though defying me to place her pet anywhere but first.

“Hello, little chap,” I said, extending my hand. The poodle responded by drawing its lips soundlessly back from its teeth and giving me much the same kind of look as its owner. I withdrew my hand hastily.