All Things Bright and Beautiful (37 page)

Thank heaven for the infinite variety of veterinary practice. After that bull I needed something small and weak and harmless and really you can’t ask for much better in that line than a budgie.

Number 14 was one of a row of small mean houses built of the cheap bricks so beloved of the jerry builders after the first world war. I armed myself with a pair of clippers and stepped on to the narrow strip of pavement which separated the door from the road. A pleasant looking red haired woman answered my knock.

“I’m Mrs. Dodds from next door,” she said. “I keep an eye on t’old lady. She’s over eighty and lives alone. I’ve just been out gettin’ her pension for her.”

She led me into the cramped little room. “Here y’are, love,” she said to the old woman who sat in a corner. She put the pension book and money on the mantelpiece. “And here’s Mr. Herriot come to see Peter for you.”

Mrs. Tompkin nodded and smiled. “Oh that’s good. Poor little feller can’t hardly eat with ’is long beak and I’m worried about him. He’s me only companion, you know.”

“Yes, I understand, Mrs. Tompkin.” I looked at the cage by the window with the green budgie perched inside. “These little birds can be wonderful company when they start chattering.”

She laughed. “Aye, but it’s a funny thing. Peter never has said owt much. I think he’s lazy! But I just like havin’ him with me.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “But he certainly needs attention now.”

The beak was greatly overgrown, curving away down till it touched the feathers of the breast. I would be able to revolutionise his life with one quick snip from my clippers. The way I was feeling this job was right up my street.

I opened the cage door and slowly inserted my hand.

“Come on, Peter,” I wheedled as the bird fluttered away from me. And I soon cornered him and enclosed him gently in my fingers. As I lifted him out I felt in my pocket with the other hand for the clippers, but as I poised them I stopped.

The tiny head was no longer poking cheekily from my fingers but had fallen loosely to one side. The eyes were closed. I stared at the bird uncomprehendingly for a moment then opened my hand. He lay quite motionless on my palm. He was dead.

Dry mouthed, I continued to stare; at the beautiful iridescence of the plumage, the long beak which I didn’t have to cut now, but mostly at the head dropping down over my forefinger. I hadn’t squeezed him or been rough with him in any way but he was dead. It must have been sheer fright.

Mrs. Dodds and I looked at each other in horror and I hardly dared turn my head towards Mrs. Tompkins. When I did, I was surprised to see that she was still nodding and smiling.

I drew her neighbour to one side. “Mrs. Dodds, how much does she see?”

“Oh she’s very short sighted but she’s right vain despite her age. Never would wear glasses. She’s hard of hearin’, too.”

“Well look,” I said. My heart was still pounding. “I just don’t know what to do. If I tell her about this the shock will be terrible. Anything could happen.”

Mrs. Dodds nodded, stricken-faced. “Aye, you’re right. She’s that attached to the little thing.”

“I can only think of one alternative,” I whispered. “Do you know where I can get another budgie?”

Mrs. Dodds thought for a moment. “You could try Jack Almond at t’town end. I think he keeps birds.”

I cleared my throat but even then my voice came out in a dry croak. “Mrs. Tompkin, I’m just going to take Peter along to the surgery to do this job. I won’t be long.”

I left her still nodding and smiling and, cage in hand, fled into the street. I was at the town end and knocking at Jack Almond’s door within three minutes.

“Mr. Almond?” I asked of the stout shirt-sleeved man who answered.

“That’s right young man.” He gave me a slow, placid smile.

“Do you keep birds?”

He drew himself up with dignity. “I do, and I’m t’president of the Darrowby and Houlton Cage Bird Society.”

“Fine,” I said breathlessly. “Have you got a green budgie?”

“Ah’ve got Canaries, Budgies, Parrots, Parraqueets. Cockatoos…”

“I just want a budgie.”

“Well ah’ve got Albinos, Blue-greens, Barreds, Lutinos…”

“I just want a green one.”

A slightly pained expression flitted across the man’s face as though he found my attitude of haste somewhat unseemly.

“Aye…well, well go and have a look,” he said.

I followed him as he paced unhurriedly through the house into the back yard which was largely given over to a long shed containing a bewildering variety of birds.

Mr. Almond gazed at them with gentle pride and his mouth opened as though he was about to launch into a dissertation then he seemed to remember that he had an impatient chap to deal with and dragged himself back to the job in hand.

“There’s a nice little green ’un here. But he’s a bit older than t’others. Matter of fact I’ve got ’im talkin’.”

“All the better, just the thing. How much do you want for him?”

“But…there’s some nice ’uns along here. Just let me show you…”

I put a hand on his arm. “I want that one. How much?”

He pursed his lips in frustration then shrugged his shoulders.

“Ten bob.”

“Right. Bung him in this cage.”

As I sped back up the road I looked in the driving mirror and could see the poor man regarding me sadly from his doorway.

Mrs. Dodds was waiting for me back at Jasmine Terrace.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” I asked her in a whisper.

“I’m sure you are,” she replied. “Poor awd thing, she hasn’t much to think about and I’m sure she’d fret over Peter.”

“That’s what I thought.” I made my way into the living room.

Mrs. Tompkin smiled at me as I went in. “That wasn’t a long job, Mr. Herriot.”

“No,” I said, hanging the cage with the new bird up in its place by the window. “I think you’ll find all is well now.”

It was months before I had the courage to put my hand into a budgie’s cage again. In fact to this day I prefer it if the owners will lift the birds out for me. People look at me strangely when I ask them to do this; I believe they think I am scared the little things might bite me.

It was a long time, too, before I dared go back to Mrs. Tompkin’s but I was driving down Jasmine Terrace one day and on an impulse I stopped outside Number 14.

The old lady herself came to the door.

“How…” I said, “How is…er…?”

She peered at me closely for a moment then laughed. “Oh I see who it is now. You mean Peter, don’t you, Mr. Herriot. Oh ’e’s just grand. Come in and see ’im.”

In the little room the cage still hung by the window and Peter the Second took a quick look at me then put on a little act for my benefit; he hopped around the bars of the cage, ran up and down his ladder and rang his little bell a couple of times before returning to his perch.

His mistress reached up, tapped the metal and looked lovingly at him.

“You know, you wouldn’t believe it,” she said. “He’s like a different bird.”

I swallowed. “Is that so? In what way?”

“Well he’s so active now. Lively as can be. You know ’e chatters to me all day long. It’s wonderful what cuttin’ a beak can do.”

T
HE NAME WAS ON
the garden gate—Lilac Cottage. I pulled out my list of visits and checked the entry again. “Cook, Lilac Cottage, Marston Hall. Bitch overdue for whelping.” This was the place all right, standing in the grounds of the Hall, a nineteenth century mansion house whose rounded turrets reared above the fringe of pine tree less than half a mile away.

The door was opened by a heavy featured dark woman of about sixty who regarded me unsmilingly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cook,” I said. “I’ve come to see your bitch.”

She still didn’t smile. “Oh, very well. You’d better come in.”

She led me into the small living room and as a little Yorkshire Terrier jumped down from an armchair her manner changed.

“Come here, Cindy my darlin’,” she cooed. “This gentleman’s come to make you better.” She bent down and stroked the little animal, her face radiant with affection.

I sat down in another armchair. “Well what’s the trouble, Mrs. Cook?”

“Oh I’m worried to death.” She clasped her hands anxiously. “She should have had her pups yesterday and there’s nothing happenin’. Ah couldn’t sleep all night—I’d die if anything happened to this dog.”

I looked at the terrier, tail wagging, gazing up, bright-eyed under her mistress’ caress. “She doesn’t seem distressed at all. Has she shown any signs of labour?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, has she been panting or uneasy in any way? Is there any discharge?”

“No, nothing like that.”

I beckoned to Cindy and spoke to her and she came timidly across the lino till I was able to lift her on to my lap. I palpated the distended abdomen; there were a lot of pups in there but everything appeared normal. I took her temperature—normal again.

“Bring me some warm water and soap, Mrs. Cook, will you please?” I said. The terrier was so small that I had to use my little finger, soaped and disinfected, to examine her, and as I felt carefully forward the walls of the vagina were dry and clinging and the cervix, when I reached it, tightly closed.

I washed and dried my hands. “This little bitch isn’t anywhere near whelping, Mrs. Cook. Are you sure you haven’t got your dates wrong?”

“No, I ’aven’t, it was sixty three days yesterday.” She paused in thought for a moment. “Now ah’d better tell you this, young man. Cindy’s had pups before and she did self and same thing—wouldn’t get on with t’job. That was two years ago when I was livin’ over in Listondale. I got Mr. Broomfield the vet to her and he just gave her an injection. It was wonderful—she had the pups half an hour after it.”

I smiled. “Yes, that would be pituitrin. She must have been actually whelping when Mr. Broomfield saw her.”

“Well whatever it was, young man, I wish you’d give her some now. Ah can’t stand all this suspense.”

“I’m sorry.” I lifted Cindy from my lap and stood up. “I can’t do that. It would be very harmful at this stage.”

She stared at me and it struck me that that dark face could look very forbidding. “So you’re not goin’ to do anything at all?”

“Well…” There are times when it is a soothing procedure to give a client something to do even if it is unnecessary. “Yes, I’ve got some tablets in the car. They’ll help to keep the little dog fit until she whelps.”

“But I’d far rather have that injection. It was just a little prick. Didn’t take Mr. Broomfield more than a second to do.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Cook, it can’t be done at the moment. I’ll get the tablets from the car.”

Her mouth tightened. I could see she was grievously disappointed in me. “Oh well if you won’t you won’t, so you’d better get them things.” She paused. “And me name isn’t Cook!”

“It isn’t?”

“No it isn’t, young man.” She didn’t seem disposed to offer further information so I left in some bewilderment.

Out in the road, a few yards from my car, a farm man was trying to start a tractor. I called over to him.

“Hey, the lady in there says her name isn’t Cook.”

“She’s right an’ all. She’s the cook over at the Hall. You’ve gotten a bit mixed up.” He laughed heartily.

It all became suddenly clear; the entry in the day book, everything. “What’s her right name, then?”

“Booby,” he shouted just as the tractor roared into life.

Funny name, I thought as I produced my harmless vitamin tablets from the boot and returned to the cottage. Once inside I did my best to put things right with plenty of “Yes, Mrs. Booby” and “No, Mrs. Booby” but the lady didn’t thaw. I told her not to worry and that I was sure nothing would happen for several days but I could tell I wasn’t impressing her.

I waved cheerfully as I went down the path.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Booby,” I cried. “Don’t hesitate to ring me if you’re in doubt about anything.”

She didn’t appear to have heard.

“Oh I wish you’d do as I say,” she wailed. “It was just a little prick.”

The good lady certainly didn’t hesitate to ring. She was at me again the next day and I had to rush out to her cottage. Her message was the same as before; she wanted the wonderful injection which would make those pups pop out and she wanted it right away. Mr. Broomfield hadn’t messed about and wasted time like I had. And on the third, fourth and fifth mornings she had me out at Marston examining the little bitch and reciting the same explanations. Things came to a head on the sixth day.

In the room at Lilac Cottage the dark eyes held a desperate light as they stared into mine. “I’m about at the end of my tether, young man. I tell you I’ll die if anything happens to this dog, I’ll die. Don’t you understand?”

“Of course I know how you feel about her, Mrs. Booby. Believe me, I fully understand.”

“Then why don’t you do something?” she snapped.

I dug my nails into my palms. “Look, I’ve told you. A pituitrin injection works by contracting the muscular walls of the uterus so it can only be given when labour has started and the cervix is open. If I find it is indicated I will do it, but if I gave this injection now it could cause rupture of the uterus. It could cause death.” I stopped because I fancied little bubbles were beginning to collect at the corners of my mouth.

But I don’t think she had listened to a word. She sunk her head in her hands. “All this time, I can’t stand it.”

I was wondering if I could stand much more of it myself. Bulging Yorkshire Terriers had begun to prance through my dreams at night and I greeted each new day with a silent prayer that the pups had arrived. I held out my hand to Cindy and she crept reluctantly towards me. She was heartily sick of this strange man who came every day and squeezed her and stuck fingers into her and she submitted again with trembling limbs and frightened eyes to the indignity.

“Mrs. Booby,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure that dog didn’t have access to Cindy after the service date you gave me?”

She sniffed. “You keep askin’ me that and ah’ve been thinking about it. Maybe he did come a week after, now I think on.”

“Well that’s it, then!” I spread my hands. “She’s held to the second mating, so she should be due tomorrow.”