All Things Bright and Beautiful (45 page)

“Aye well I’ve heard that afore and I’ve had some bloody balls-ups,” he said. He gave me a final truculent nod, turned and walked out, leaving the door open.

I was still standing in the middle of the room seething and muttering to myself when Siegfried walked in. I hardly saw him at first and when he finally came into focus I found I was glowering into his face.

“What’s the trouble, James?” he asked. “A little touch of indigestion, perhaps?”

“Indigestion? No…no…Why do you say that?”

“Well you seemed to be in some sort of pain, standing there on one leg with your face screwed up.”

“Did I look like that? Oh it was just our old friend Walt Barnett. He wants us to cut a horse for him and he made the request in his usual charming way—he really gets under my skin, that man.”

Tristan came in from the passage. “Yes, I was out there and I heard him. He’s a bloody big lout.”

Siegfried rounded on him. “That’s enough! I don’t want to hear that kind of talk in here.” Then he turned back to me. “And really, James, even if you were upset I don’t think it’s an excuse for profanity.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some of the expletives I heard you muttering there were unworthy of you.” He spread his hands in a gesture of disarming frankness. “Heaven knows I’m no prude but I don’t like to hear such language within these walls.” He paused and his features assumed an expression of deep gravity. “After all, the people who come in here provide us with our bread and butter and they should be referred to with respect.”

“Yes, but…”

“Oh I know some are not as nice as others but you must never let them irritate you. You’ve heard the old saying, ‘The customer is always right.’ Well I think it’s a good working axiom and I always abide by it myself.” He gazed solemnly at Tristan and me in turn. “So I hope I make myself clear. No swearing in the surgery—particularly when it concerns the clients.”

“It’s all right for you!” I burst out heatedly. “But you didn’t hear Barnett. I’ll stand so much, but…”

Siegfried put his head on one side and a smile of ethereal beauty crept over his face. “My dear old chap, there you go again, letting little things disturb you. I’ve had to speak to you about this before, haven’t I? I wish I could help you, I wish I could pass on my own gift of remaining calm at all times?”

“What’s that you said?”

“I said I wanted to help you, James, and I will.” He held up a forefinger. “You’ve probably often wondered why I never get angry or excited.”

“Eh?”

“Oh I know you have—you must have. Well I’ll let you into a little secret.” His smile took on a roguish quality. “If a client is rude to me I simply charge him a little more. Instead of getting all steamed up like you do I tell myself that I’m putting ten bob extra on the bill and it works like magic.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes indeed, my boy.” He thumped my shoulder then became very serious. “Of course I realise that I have an advantage right at the start—I have been blessed with a naturally even temperament while you are blown about in all directions by every little wind of circumstance. But I do think that this is something you could cultivate, so work at it, James, work at it. All this fretting and fuming is bad for you—your whole life would change if you could just acquire my own tranquil outlook.”

I swallowed hard. “Well thank you, Siegfried,” I said. “I’ll try.”

Walt Barnett was a bit of a mystery man in Darrowby. He wasn’t a farmer, he was a scrap merchant, a haulier, a dealer in everything from linoleum to second hand cars, and there was only one thing the local people could say for certain about him—he had brass, lots of brass. They said everything he touched turned to money.

He had bought a decaying mansion a few miles outside the town where he lived with a downtrodden little wife and where he kept a floating population of livestock; a few bullocks, some pigs and always a horse or two. He employed all the vets in the district in turn, probably because he didn’t think much of any of us; a feeling which, I may say, was mutual. He never seemed to do any physical work and could be seen most days of the week shambling around the streets of Darrowby, hands in pockets, cigarette dangling, his brown trilby on the back of his head, his huge body threatening to burst through that shiny navy suit.

After my meeting with him we had a busy few days and it was on the following Thursday that the phone rang in the surgery. Siegfried lifted it and immediately his expression changed. From across the floor I could clearly hear the loud hectoring tones coming through the receiver and as my colleague listened a slow flush spread over his cheeks and his mouth hardened. Several times he tried to put in a word but the torrent of sound from the far end was unceasing. Finally he raised his voice and broke in but instantly there was a click and he found himself speaking to a dead line.

Siegfried crashed the receiver into its rest and swung round. “That was Barnett—playing hell because we haven’t rung him.” He stood staring at me for a few moments, his face dark with anger.

“The bloody bastard!” he shouted. “Who the hell does he think he is? Abusing me like that, then hanging up on me when I try to speak!”

For a moment he was silent then he turned to me. “I’ll tell you this, James, he wouldn’t have spoken to me like that if he’d been in this room with me.” He came over to me and held out his hands, fingers crooked menacingly. “I’d have wrung his bloody neck, big as he is! I would have, I tell you, I’d have strangled the bugger!”

“But Siegfried,” I said. “What about your system?”

“System? What system?”

“Well, you know the trick you have when people are unpleasant—you put something on the bill, don’t you?”

Siegfried let his hands fall to his sides and stared at me for some time, his chest rising and falling with his emotion. Then he patted me on the shoulder and turned away towards the window where he stood looking out at the quiet street.

When he turned back to me he looked grim but calmer. “By God, James, you’re right. That’s the answer. I’ll cut Barnett’s horse for him but I’ll charge him a tenner.”

I laughed heartily. In those days the average charge for castrating a horse was a pound, or if you wanted to be more professional, a guinea.

“What are you laughing at?” my colleague enquired sourly.

“Well…at your joke. I mean, ten pounds…ha-ha-ha!”

“I’m not joking, I’m going to charge him a tenner.”

“Oh come on, Siegfried, you can’t do that.”

“You just watch me,” he said. “I’m going to sort that bugger.”

Two mornings later I was going through the familiar motions of preparing for a castration; boiling up the emasculator and laying it on the enamel tray along with the scalpel, the roll of cotton wool, the artery forceps, the tincture of iodine, the suture materials, the tetanus antitoxin and syringes. For the last five minutes Siegfried had been shouting at me to hurry.

“What the hell are you doing through there, James? Don’t forget to put in an extra bottle of chloroform. And bring the sidelines in case he doesn’t go down. Where have you hidden those spare scalpel blades, James?”

The sunshine streamed across the laden tray, filtering through the green tangle of the wistaria which fell untidily across the surgery window. Reminding me that it was May and that there was nowhere a May morning came with such golden magic as to the long garden at Skeldale House; the high brick walls with their crumbling mortar and ancient stone copings enfolding the sunlight in a warm clasp and spilling it over the untrimmed lawns, the banks of lupins and bluebells, the masses of fruit blossom. And right at the top the rooks cawing in the highest branches of the elms.

Siegfried, chloroform muzzle looped over one shoulder, made a final check of the items on the tray then we set off. In less than half an hour we were driving through the lodge gates of the old mansion then along a mossy avenue which wandered among pine and birch trees up to the house which looked out from its wooded background over the rolling miles of fell and moor.

Nobody could have asked for a more perfect place for the operation; a high-walled paddock deep in lush grass. The two-year-old, a magnificent chestnut, was led in by two characters who struck me as typical henchmen for Mr. Barnett. I don’t know where he had dug them up but you didn’t see faces like that among the citizens of Darrowby. One was a brown goblin who, as he conversed with his companion, repeatedly jerked his head and winked one eye as though they were sharing some disreputable secret. The other had a head covered with ginger stubble surmounting a countenance of a bright scrofulous red which looked as though a piece would fall off if you touched it; and deep in the livid flesh two tiny eyes darted.

The two of them regarded us unsmilingly and the dark one spat luxuriously as we approached.

“It’s a nice morning,” I said.

Ginger just stared at me while Winker nodded knowingly and closed one eye as if I had uttered some craftiness which appealed to him.

The vast hunched figure of Mr. Barnett hovered in the background, cigarette drooping, the bright sunshine striking brilliant shafts of light from the tight sheen of the navy suit.

I couldn’t help comparing the aspect of the trio of humans with the natural beauty and dignity of the horse. The big chestnut tossed his head then stood looking calmly across the paddock, the large fine eyes alight with intelligence, the noble lines of the face and neck blending gently into the grace and power of the body. Observations I had heard about the higher and lower animals floated about in my mind.

Siegfried walked around the horse, patting him and talking to him, his eyes shining with the delight of the fanatic.

“He’s a grand sort, Mr. Barnett,” he said.

The big man glowered at him. “Aye well, don’t spoil ’im, that’s all. I’ve paid a lot o’ money for that ’oss.”

Siegfried gave him a thoughtful look then turned to me.

“Well, let’s get on. We’ll drop him over there on that long grass. Are you ready, James?”

I was ready, but I’d be a lot more at ease if Siegfried would just leave me alone. In horse work I was the anaesthetist and my colleague was the surgeon. And he was good; quick, deft, successful. I had no quarrel with the arrangement; he could get on with his job and let me do mine. But there was the rub; he would keep butting into my territory and I found it wearing.

Anaesthesia in the large animals has a dual purpose; it abolishes pain and acts as a means of restraint. It is obvious that you can’t do much with these potentially dangerous creatures unless they are controlled.

That was my job. I had to produce a sleeping patient ready for the knife and very often I thought it was the most difficult part. Until the animal was properly under I always felt a certain tension and Siegfried didn’t help in this respect. He would hover at my elbow, offering advice as to the quantity of chloroform and he could never bear to wait until the anaesthetic had taken effect. He invariably said, “He isn’t going to go down, James.” Then, “Don’t you think you should strap a fore leg up?”

Even now, thirty years later, when I am using such intravenous drugs as thiopentone he is still at it. Stamping around impatiently as I fill my syringe, poking over my shoulder with a long fore-finger into the jugular furrow. “I’d shove it in just there, James.”

I stood there irresolute, my partner by my side, the chloroform bottle in my pocket the muzzle dangling from my hand. It would be wonderful, I thought, if just once I could be on my own to get on with it. And, after all, I had worked for him for nearly three years—surely I knew him well enough to be able to put it to him.

I cleared my throat. “Siegfried, I was just wondering. Would you care to go and sit down over there for a few minutes till I get him down?”

“What’s that?”

“Well I thought it would be a good idea if you left me to it. There’s a bit of a crowd round the horse’s head—I don’t want him excited. So why don’t you relax for a while. I’ll give you a shout when he’s down.”

Siegfried raised a hand. “My dear chap, anything you say. I don’t know what I’m hanging around here for anyway. I never interfere with your end as you well know.” He turned about and, tray under arm, marched off to where he had parked his car on the grass about fifty yards away. He strode round behind the Rover and sat down on the turf, his back against the metal. He was out of sight.

Peace descended. I became suddenly aware of the soft warmth of the sun on my forehead, of the bird song echoing among the nearby trees. Unhurriedly I fastened on the muzzle under the head collar and produced my little glass measure.

This once I had plenty of time. I’d start him off with just a couple of drachms to get him used to the smell of it without frightening him. I poured the clear fluid on to the sponge.

“Walk him slowly round in a circle,” I said to Ginger and Winker. “I’m going to give him a little bit at a time, there’s no hurry. But keep a good hold of that halter shank in case he plays up.”

There was no need for my warning. The two-year-old paced round calmly and fearlessly and every minute or so I trickled a little extra on to the sponge. After a while his steps became laboured and he began to sway drunkenly as he walked. I watched him happily; this was the way I liked to do it. Another little dollop would just about do the trick. I measured out another half ounce and walked over to the big animal.

His head nodded sleepily as I gave it to him. “You’re just about ready aren’t you, old lad,” I was murmuring when the peace was suddenly shattered.

“He isn’t going to go down, you know, James!” It was a booming roar from the direction of the car and as I whipped round in consternation I saw a head just showing over the bonnet. There was another cry.

“Why don’t you strap up a…?”

At that moment the horse lurched and collapsed quietly on the grass and Siegfried came bounding knife in hand from his hiding place like a greyhound.

“Sit on his head!” he yelled. “What are you waiting for, he’ll be up in a minute! And get that rope round that hind leg! And bring my tray! And fetch the hot water!” He panted up to the horse then turned and bawled into Ginger’s face, “Come on, I’m talking to you. MOVE!”