seriously ill."
"Nay, nay, nob but a bit o' cough, but ah want 'im see in' to."
"Certainly, certainly, I'll be right out, Mr . . . er . . ."
"Pyre's ma name and ah live next to t'post office in Rolf village."
"Aye, two miles outside Hens field."
I sighed with relief.
"Very good, Mr Pyre, I'm on my way."
"Thank ye." The voice sounded mollified.
"Well, the knows me now, don't the - Pyre o' Rolf."
The light was blinding.
"Pyre o' Rolf!" Such a simple explanation.
A lot of Mrs Holroyd's messages were eccentric but I could usually
interpret them after some thought. However one bizarre entry jolted me
later in the we It read simply: "Johnson, 12, Back Lane, Smiling Harry
Syphilis."
I wrestled with this for a long time before making a diffident approach
Mrs Holroyd.
She was kneading dough for scones and didn't look up as I entered the
kitchen' "Ah, Mrs Holroyd." I rubbed my hands nervously.
"I see you have written down that I have to go to MrJohnson'ss."
"That's right, luv."
"Weller . . . fine, but I don't quite understand the other part the
Smiling Harry Syphilis."
She shot a sidelong glance at me.
"Well that'sow you spell that word, is it? Ah looked it up once in a
doctor's book in our 'ouse," she said defensively "Oh yes, of course,
yes, you've spelled it correctly. It's just the Smiling . .
. a the Harry." .
Her eyes glinted dangerously and she blew a puff of smoke at me.
"Wel that's what "'feller said. Repeated it three times. Couldn't
make no mistake' "I see. But did he mention any particular animal?"
"New, 'e didn't. That was what 'e said. That and no more." A grey
spicul of ash toppled into the basin and was immediately incorporated
in the scone "Ah do ma best, the knows!"
"Of course you do, Mrs Holroyd," I said hastily.
"I'll just pop round to Bx Lane now."
And Mr Johnson put everything right within seconds as he led me to a
she on his allotment.
"It's me pig, guvnor. (covered wi' big red spots. Reckon it's Swine
Erysipelas Only he pronounced it arrysipelas and he did have a slurring
mode of speech~ I really couldn't blame Mrs Holroyd.
Little things like that enlivened the week but the tension still
mounted as awaited the return of Kim. And even when the seventh day
came round I w.
still in suspense because the Gillards did not appear at the morning
surgery When they failed to. show up at the afternoon session I began
to conclude that they had had the good sense to return south to a more
sophisticated establishment But at five thirty they were there.
I knew it even before I pulled the curtains apart. The smell of doom
was everywhere, filling the premises, and when I went through the
curtains it h me; the sickening stink of putrefaction.
Gangrene. It was the fear which had haunted me all week and now it was
realised.
There were about half a dozen other people in the waiting room, all
keep in as far away as possible from the young couple who looked up at
me with strained smiles. Kim tried to rise when he saw me but I had
eyes only for the dangling useless hind limb where my once stone-hard
plaster hung in sodden folds.
Of course it had to happen that the Gillards were last in and I was
forced t see all the other animals first. I examined them and
prescribed treatment in a stupor of misery and shame. What had I done
to that beautiful dog out there I had been crazy to try that
experiment. A gangrenous leg meant that even amputation might be too
late to save his life. Death from septicaemia was likely now and what
the hell could I do for him in this ramshackle surgery?
When at last it was their turn the Gillards came in with Kim limping
handsome animal he we', I bent over the great golden head and for a
moment the friendly eyes looked into mine and the tail waved.
~ . .. .
' Right," I said to Peter Gillard, putting my arms under the chest.
"You take the back end and we'll lift him up."
As we hoisted the heavy dog on to the table the flimsy structure
disintegrated immediately' but this time the young people were ready
for it and thrust their legs under the struts like a well-trained team
till the surface was level again.
With Kim stretched on his side I fingered the bandage. It usually took
time and patience with a special saw to remove a plaster but this was
just a stinking pulp. My hand shook as I cut the bandage length ways
with scissors and removed I had steeled myself against the sight of the
cold dead limb;lb with its green flesh but though there was pus and
serous fluid everywhere the exposed flesh was a surprising, healthy
pink. I took the foot in my hand and my heart gave a great bound. It
was warm and so was the leg, right up to the hock. There was no
gangrene.
Feeling suddenly weak I leaned against the table.
"I'm sorry about the terrible smell. All the pus and discharge have
been decomposing under the bandage for a week but despite the mess it's
not as bad as I feared."
"Do you ... do you think you can save his leg?" Marjorie Gillard's
voice trembled.
"I don't know. I honestly don't know. So much has to happen. But I'd
say it was a case of so far so good."
I cleaned the area thoroughly with spirit, gave a dusting of iodoform
and applied fresh lint and two more plaster bandages.
"You'll feel a lot more comfortable now, Kim," I said, and the big dog
flapped his tail against the wood at the sound of his name.
I turned to his owners.
"I want him to have another week in plaster, so what would you like to
do?"
"Oh, we'll stay around Hens field," Peter Gillard replied.
"We've found a place for our caravan by the river it's not too bad."
"Very well, till next Saturday, then." I watched Kim hobble out,
holding his new white cast high, and as I went back into the house
relief flowed over me in a warm wave.
But at the back of my mind the voice of caution sounded. There was
still a long way to go . . .
Chapter Twenty-three The second week went by without incident. I had a
mildly indecent postcard from Stewie and a view of Black pool Tower
from his wife. The weather was scorching and they were having the best
holiday of their lives. I tried to picture them enjoying themselves
but I had to wait a few weeks for the evidence a snap taken by a beach
photographer. The whole family were standing in the sea, grinning
delightedly into the camera as the wavelets lapped round their ankles
The children brandished buckets and spades, the baby dangled bandy legs
towards the water, but it was Stewie who fascinated me. A smile of
blissful Contentment beamed from beneath a knotted handkerchief, sturdy
braces sup ported baggy flannel trousers rolled decorously calf high.
He w~c ~h~ ~r`~h~`,^ of the British father on holiday.
,r The last event of my st
ay in Hens field was a visit to the local
greyhoun track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to
inspect the dogs, The Hens field stadium was not prepossessing from the
outside. It had bee built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and
was surrounded by ramch~r~l hoardings.
It was a cool night and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear
the tinnny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Form by
singing
"When I'm Cleaning Windows' and strumming on his famous ukelele.
There are all kinds of greyhound tracks. My own experience had been as
a student, accompanying vets who officiated under the auspices of the
National Greyhound Racing Club, but this was an unlicensed or
"Rapping' track, and vastly different. I know there are many highly
reputable flapping tracks but this' one had a seedy air. It was, I
thought wryly, just the sort of place that would be under the care of
Stewie.
First I had to go to the manager's office. Mr Coker was a hard-eyed
man in a shiny pin-striped suit and he nodded briefly before giving me
a calculating stare.
"Your duties here are just a formality," he said, twisting his features
into a smile.
"There'll be nothing to trouble you."
I had the impression that he was assessing me with quiet satisfaction,
loo king me up and down, taking in my rumpled jacket and slacks,
savouring my obvious youth and inexperience. He kept the smile going
as he stubbed out his cigar.
"Well, I hope you'll have a pleasant evening"
"Thank you," I replied, and left.
I met the judge, timekeeper and other officials then went down to a
long glass-fronted bar overlooking the track. Quite suddenly I felt I
was in an alien environment. The place was rapidly filling up and the
faces around me were out of a different mould from the wholesome rural
countenances of Darrow by There seemed to be a large proportion of fat
men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-loo king
characters studied race cards and glared intently at the flickering
numbers on the tote board.
I looked at my watch. It was time to inspect the dogs for the first
race.
"Wines I'm clean in' winders!" bawled George Form by as I made my way
round the edge of the track to the paddock, a paved enclosure with a
wire-netting surround.
Five dogs were being led round the perimeter and I stood in the centre
and watched them for a minute or two. Then I halted them and went from
one to the other, loo king at their eyes, examining their mouths for
salivation and finally palpating their abdomens. ~ They all appeared
bright and normal except number four which seemed rather full in the
stomach region. A greyhound should only have a light meal on the
morning of a race and nothing thereafter and I turned to the man who'
was holding the animal.
"Has this dog been fed within the last hour or two?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
"He's had nothing since breakfast."
As I passed my fingers over the abdomen again I had the feeling that
several of the onlookers were watching me with unusual intentness. But
I dismissed it as imagination and passed on to the next animal.
Number four was second favourite but from the moment it left its trap
it was flagging. It finished last and from the darkness on the far
side of the track-S storm of booing broke out. I was able to make out
some of the remarks which came across on the night air.
"Open your bloody eyes, vet!" was one of them.
Ar~ here, in the long, brightly lit bar I could see people nudging each
other and loo king at me.
I felt a thrill of anger. Maybe some of those gentlemen down there
thought they could cash in on Stewie's absence. I probably looked a
soft touch to them.
My next visit to the paddock was greeted with friendly nods and grins
from all sides In fact there was a strong atmosphere of joviality. When
I went round the dogs all was well until I came to number five and this
time I couldn't be mistaken. Under my probing fingers the stomach
bulged tensely and the animal gave a soft grunt as I squeezed.
"You'll have to take this dog out of the race," I said.
"He's got a full stomach."
The owner was standing by the kennel lad.
"Can't 'ave?" he burst out.
"He's had nowt?"
I straightened up and looked him full in the face but his eyes were
reluctant to meet mine. I knew some of the tricks; a couple of pounds
of steak before the race, a bowlful of bread crumbs and two pints of
milk the crumbs swelled beautifully within a short time.
"Would you like me to vomit him?" I began to move away.
"I've got some washing soda in my car we'll soon find out."
The man held up a hand.
"New, new, I don't want you mess in' about with me dog." He gave me a
malevolent glare and trailed sulkily away.
I had only just got back to the bar when I heard the announcement over
the loudspeakers.
"Will the vet please report to the manager's office."
Mr Coker looked up from his desk and glared at me through a haze of
cigar smoke.
"You've taken a dog out of the race!"
"That's right. I'm sorry, but his stomach was full."
"But damn it ... !" He stabbed a finger at me then subsided and forced
a tortured smile across his face.
"Now, Mr Herriot, we have to be reasonable in these matters. I've no
doubt you know your job, but don't you think there's just a chance you
could be wrong?" He waved his cigar expansively.
"After all, anybody can make a mistake, so perhaps you would be kind
enough to reconsider."
He stretched his smile wider.
"No, I'm sorry, Mr Coker, but that would be impossible."
There was a long pause.
"That's your last word, then?"
"It is."
The smile vanished and he gave me a threatening stare.
"Now look," he said.
"You've mucked up that race and it's a serious matter.
I don't want any repetition, do you understand?" He ground his cigar
out savagely and his jaw jutted.
"So I hope we won't have any more trouble like this."
"I hope so, too, Mr Coker," I said as I went out.
It seemed a long way down to the paddock on my next visit. It was very
dark now and I was conscious of the hum of the crowd, the shouts of the
bookies and George and his ukelele still going full blast.
"Oh, don't the wind blow cold!"
he roared.
This time it was dog number two. I could feel the tension as I
examined him and found the same turgid belly.
"This one's out," I said, and apart from a few black looks there was no
argument.
They say bad news travels fast and I had hardly started my return
journey when George was switched off and the loud-speaker asked me to
report to the manager's office.
Mr Coker was no longer at his desk. He was pacing up and down
agitatedly and when he saw me he did another length of the room before
coming to a halt.
v ~,
1vlzgaz rzy .
His expression was venomous and it was clear he had decided that the
tough approach was best.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" he barked.
"Are trying to ruin this meeting?"
"No," I replied.
"I've just taken out another dog which was unfit to run. Th; my job.
That's what I'm here for."
His face flushed deep red.
"I don't think you know what you're here for. I Brannan goes off on
holiday and leaves us at the mercy of a young clever cO like you,
throwing your weight about and spoiling people's pleasure. Wait I see
him!"
"Mr Brannan would have done just the same as I have. Any veterinary
surgeon would."
"Rubbish! Don't tell me what it's all about you're still wet behind
the ears He advanced slowly towards me.