All Things Bright and Beautiful (46 page)

Ginger went off at a bow-legged gallop and cannoned into Winker who was rushing forward with the bucket. Then they had a brief but frenzied tug of war with the rope before they got it round the pastern.

“Pull the leg forward,” cried my partner, bending over the operation site, then a full blooded bellow, “Get the bloody foot out of my eye, will you! What’s the matter with you, you wouldn’t pull a hen off its nest the way you’re going.”

I knelt quietly at the head, my knee on the neck. There was no need to hold him down; he was beautifully out, his eyes blissfully closed as Siegfried worked with his usual lightning expertise. There was a mere few seconds of silence broken only by the tinkling of instruments as they fell back on the tray, then my colleague glanced along the horse’s back. “Open the muzzle, James.”

The operation was over.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen an easier job. By the time we had washed our instruments in the bucket the two-year-old was on his feet, cropping gently at the grass.

“Splendid anaesthetic, James,” said Siegfried, drying off the emasculator. “Just right. And what a grand sort of horse.”

We had put our gear back in the boot and were ready to leave when Walt Barnett heaved his massive bulk over towards us. He faced Siegfried across the bonnet of the car.

“Well that were nowt of a job,” he grunted, slapping a cheque book down on the shining metal, “How much do you want?”

There was an arrogant challenge in the words and, faced with the dynamic force, the sheer brutal presence of the man, most people who were about to charge a guinea would have changed their minds and said a pound.

“Well, I’m askin’ yer,” he repeated. “How much do you want?”

“Ah yes,” said Siegfried lightly. “That’ll be a tenner.”

The big man put a meaty hand on the cheque book and stared at my colleague. “What?”

“That’ll be a tenner,” Siegfried said again.

“Ten pounds?” Mr. Barnett’s eyes opened wider.

“Yes,” said Siegfried, smiling pleasantly. “That’s right Ten pounds.”

There was a silence as the two men faced each other across the bonnet. The bird song and the noises from the wood seemed abnormally loud as the seconds ticked away and nobody moved. Mr. Barnett was glaring furiously and I looked from the huge fleshy face which seemed to have swollen even larger across to the lean, strong-jawed, high-cheek-boned profile of my partner. Siegfried still wore the remains of a lazy smile but down in the grey depths of his eye a dangerous light glinted.

Just when I was at screaming point the big man dropped his head suddenly and began to write. When he handed the cheque over he was shaking so much that the slip of paper fluttered as though in a high wind.

“Here y’are, then,” he said hoarsely.

“Thank you so much.” Siegfried read the cheque briefly then stuffed it carelessly into a side pocket. “Isn’t it grand to have some real May weather, Mr. Barnett. Does us all good, I’m sure.”

Walt Barnett mumbled something and turned away. As I got into the car I could see the great expanse of navy blue back moving ponderously towards the house.

“He won’t have us back, anyway,” I said.

Siegfried started the engine and we moved away. “No, James, I should think he’d get his twelve bore out if we ventured down this drive again. But that suits me—I think I can manage to get through the rest of my life without Mr. Barnett.”

Our road took us through the little village of Baldon and Siegfried slowed down outside the pub, a yellow-washed building standing a few yards back from the road with a wooden sign reading The Cross Keys and a large black dog sleeping on the sunny front step.

My partner looked at his watch. “Twelve fifteen—they’ll just have opened. A cool beer would be rather nice wouldn’t it. I don’t think I’ve been in this place before.”

After the brightness outside, the shaded interior was restful, with only stray splinters of sunshine filtering through the curtains on to the flagged floor, the fissured oak tables, the big fireplace with its high settle.

“Good morning to you, landlord,” boomed my partner, striding over to the bar. He was in his most ducal mood and I felt it was a pity he didn’t have a silver-knobbed stick to rap on the counter.

The man behind the counter smiled and knuckled a forelock in the approved manner. “Good morning to you, sir, and what can I get for you gentlemen?”

I half expected Siegfried to say, “Two stoups of your choicest brew, honest fellow,” but instead he just turned to me and murmured “I think two halves of bitter, eh James?”

The man began to draw the beer.

“Won’t you join us?” Siegfried enquired.

“Thank ye sir, I’ll ’ave a brown ale with you.”

“And possibly your good lady, too?” Siegfried smiled over at the landlord’s wife who was stacking glasses at the end of the counter.

“That’s very kind of you, I will.” She looked up, gulped, and an expression of wonder crept over her face. Siegfried hadn’t stared at her—it had only been a five second burst from the grey eyes—but the bottle rattled against the glass as she poured her small port and she spent the rest of the time gazing at him dreamily.

“That’ll be five and sixpence,” the landlord said.

“Right.” My partner plunged a hand into his bulging side pocket and crashed down on the counter an extraordinary mixture of crumpled bank notes, coins, veterinary instruments, thermometers, bits of string. He stirred the mass with a forefinger, flicking out a half crown and two florins across the woodwork.

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t those my curved scissors? I lost them a few days…”

Siegfried swept the pile out of sight into his pocket.

“Nonsense! What makes you think that?”

“Well, they look exactly like mine. Unusual shape—lovely long, flat blades. I’ve been looking everywhere…”

“James!” He drew himself up and faced me with frozen hauteur. “I think you’ve said enough. I may be capable of stooping to some pretty low actions but I’d like to believe that certain things are beneath me. And stealing a colleague’s curved scissors is one of them.”

I relapsed into silence. I’d have to bide my time and take my chance later. I was fairly sure I’d recognised a pair of my dressing forceps in there too.

In any case, something else was occupying Siegfried’s mind. He narrowed his eyes in intense thought then delved into his other pocket and produced a similar collection which he proceeded to push around the counter anxiously.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“That cheque I’ve just taken. Did I give it to you?”

“No, you put it in that pocket I saw you.”

“That’s what I thought. Well it’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“I’ve lost the bloody thing!”

I laughed. “Oh you can’t have. Go through your other pockets—it must be on you somewhere.”

Siegfried made a systematic search but it was in vain.

“Well James,” he said at length. “I really have lost it, but I’ve just thought of a simple solution. I will stay here and have one more beer while you slip back to Walt Barnett and ask him for another cheque.”

T
HERE IS PLENTY OF
time for thinking during the long hours of driving and now as I headed home from a late call my mind was idly assessing my abilities as a planner.

I had to admit that planning was not one of my strong points. Shortly after we were married I told Helen that I didn’t think we should have children just at present. I pointed out that I would soon be going away, we did not have a proper home, our financial state was precarious and it would be far better to wait till after the war.

I had propounded my opinions weightily, sitting back in my chair and puffing my pipe like a sage, but I don’t think I was really surprised when Helen’s pregnancy was positively confirmed.

From the warm darkness the grass smell of the Dales stole through the open window and as I drove through a silent village it was mingled briefly with the mysterious sweetness of wood smoke. Beyond the houses the road curved smooth and empty between the black enclosing fells. No…I hadn’t organised things very well. Leaving Darrowby and maybe England for an indefinite period, no home, no money and a pregnant wife. It was an untidy situation. But I was beginning to realise that life was not a tidy little parcel at any time.

The clock tower showed 11 p.m. as I rolled through the market place and, turning into Trengate, I saw that the light had been turned off in our room. Helen had gone to bed. I drove round to the yard at the back, put away the car and walked down the long garden. It was the end to every day, this walk; sometimes stumbling over frozen snow but tonight moving easily through the summer darkness under the branches of the apple trees to where the house stood tall and silent against the stars.

In the passage I almost bumped into Siegfried.

“Just getting back from Allenby’s, James?” he asked. “I saw on the book that you had a colic.”

I nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t a bad one. Just a bit of spasm. Their grey horse had been feasting on some of the hard pears lying around the orchard.”

Siegfried laughed. “Well I’ve just beaten you in by a few minutes. I’ve been round at old Mrs. Dewar’s for the last hour holding her cat’s paw while it had kittens.”

We reached the corner of the passage and he hesitated. “Care for a nightcap, James?”

“I would, thanks,” I replied, and we went into the sitting room. But there was a constraint between us because Siegfried was off to London early next morning to enter the Air Force—he’d be gone before I got up—and we both knew that this was a farewell drink.

I dropped into my usual armchair while Siegfried reached into the glass-fronted cupboard above the mantelpiece and fished out the whisky bottle and glasses. He carelessly tipped out two prodigal measures and sat down opposite.

We had done a lot of this over the years, often yarning till dawn, but naturally enough it had faded since my marriage. It was like turning back the clock to sip the whisky and look at him on the other side of the fireplace and to feel, as though it were a living presence, the charm of the beautiful room with its high ceiling, graceful alcoves and french window.

We didn’t talk about his departure but about the things we had always talked about and still do; the miraculous recovery of that cow, what old Mr. Jenks said yesterday, the patient that knocked us flat, leaped the fence and disappeared for good. Then Siegfried raised a finger.

“Oh, James, I nearly forgot. I was tidying up the books and I find I owe you some money.”

“You do?”

“Yes, and I feel rather bad about it. It goes back to your pre-partnership days when you used to get a cut from Ewan Ross’s testing. There was a slip-up somewhere and you were underpaid. Anyway, you’ve got fifty pounds to come.”

“Fifty pounds! Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, James, and I do apologise.”

“No need to apologise, Siegfried. It’ll come in very handy right now.”

“Good, good…anyway, the cheque’s in the top drawer of the desk if you’ll have a look tomorrow.” He waved a languid hand and started to talk about some sheep he had seen that afternoon.

But for a few minutes I hardly heard him. Fifty pounds! It was a lot of money in those days, especially when I would soon be earning three shillings a day as an A.C. 2 during my initial training. It didn’t solve my financial problem but it would be a nice little cushion to fall back on.

My nearest and dearest are pretty unanimous that I am a bit slow on the uptake and maybe they are right because it was many years later before it got through to me that there never was any fifty pounds owing. Siegfried knew I needed a bit of help at that time and when it all became clear long afterwards I realised that this was exactly how he would do it. No embarrassment to me. He hadn’t even handed me the cheque….

As the level in the bottle went down the conversation became more and more effortless. At one point some hours later my mind seemed to have taken on an uncanny clarity and it was as if I was disembodied and looking down at the pair of us. We had slid very low in our chairs, our heads well down the backs, legs extended far across the rug. My partner’s face seemed to stand out in relief and it struck me that though he was only in his early thirties he looked a lot older. It was an attractive face, lean, strong-boned with steady humorous eyes, but not young. In fact Siegfried in the time I had known him had never looked young, but he has the last laugh now because he has hardly altered with the years and is one of those who will never look old.

At that moment of the night when everything was warm and easy and I felt omniscient it seemed a pity that Tristan wasn’t there to make up the familiar threesome. As we talked, the memories marched through the room like a strip of bright pictures; of November days on the hillsides with the icy rain driving into our faces, of digging the cars out of snow drifts, of the spring sunshine warming the hard countryside. And the thought recurred that Tristan had been part of it all and that I was going to miss him as much as I would miss his brother.

I could hardly believe it when Siegfried rose, threw back the curtains and the grey light of morning streamed in. I got up and stood beside him as he looked at his watch.

“Five o’clock, James,” he said, and smiled. “We’ve done it again.”

He opened the french window and we stepped into the hushed stillness of the garden. I was taking grateful gulps of the sweet air when a single bird call broke the silence.

“Did you hear that blackbird?” I said.

He nodded and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as myself; that it sounded just like the same blackbird which had greeted the early daylight when we talked over my first case those years ago.

We went up the stairs together in silence. Siegfried stopped at his door.

“Well, James…” he held out his hand and his mouth twitched up at one corner.

I gripped the hand for a moment then he turned and went into his room. And as I trailed dumbly up the next flight it seemed strange that we had never said goodbye. We didn’t know when, if ever, we would see each other again yet neither of us had said a word. I don’t know if Siegfried wanted to say anything but there was a lot trying to burst from me.