All Creatures Great and Small (57 page)

The vet started for his car which was parked in readiness near the rails. He turned towards us. “You two want to come?” Siegfried looked enquiringly at his party and received gracious nods of assent. We hurried after our colleague.

Within seconds we were racing down the course towards the last bend. Merryweather, hanging on to the wheel as we sped over the grass, grunted half to himself: “Hell, I hope this thing hasn’t got a fracture—if there’s one thing I mortally hate it’s shooting horses.”

It didn’t look good when we got to the spot. The sleek animal lay flat on its side showing no movement apart from the laboured rise and fall of its ribs. The jockey, blood streaming from a cut brow, knelt by its head. “What do you think, sir? Has he broken a leg?”

“Let’s have a look.” Merryweather began to palpate the extended limbs, running strong fingers over one bone then another, carefully flexing the joints of fetlock, knee, shoulder, hock. “Nothing wrong there. Certainly no fracture.” Then he pointed suddenly at the head. “Look at his eyes.”

We looked; they were glazed and there was a slight but unmistakable nystagmus.

“Concussion?” Siegfried said.

“That’s it, he’s just had a bang on the head.” Merryweather got off his knees, looking happier. “Come on, we’ll push him on to his chest. I think he ought to be able to get up with a bit of help.”

There were plenty of helpers from the crowd and the horse was rolled easily till he rested on his sternum, forelegs extended forward. After a couple of minutes in this position he struggled to his feet and stood swaying slightly. A stable lad walked him away.

Merryweather laughed. “Well, that wasn’t so bad. Good horse that. I think he’ll be all right after a rest.”

Siegfried had started to reply when we heard a “Psst, psst!” from beyond the rails. We looked up and saw a stout, red-faced figure gesturing at us eagerly. “Hey! Hey!” it was saying. “Come over here a minute.”

We went over. There was something about the face which Siegfried seemed to find intriguing. He looked closer at the grinning, pudgy features, the locks of oily black hair falling over the brow and cried out in delight.

“God help us! Stewie Brannon! Here, James, come and meet another colleague—we came through college together.”

Siegfried had told me a lot about Stewie Brannon. So much, in fact, that I seemed to be shaking hands with an old, well-remembered friend. Sometimes, when the mood was on us, Siegfried and I would sit up nearly till dawn over a bottle in the big room at Skeldale House chewing over old times and recalling the colourful characters we had known. I remembered he had told me he had overtaken Stewie about half way through the course and had qualified while Stewie was still battling in his third year. Siegfried had described him as totally unambitious, averse to study, disinclined to wash or shave; in fact, his idea of the young man least likely to succeed. But there had been something touching about him; the ingenuousness of a child, a huge, all-embracing affection for his fellow humans, an impregnable cheerfulness.

Siegfried called over to Merryweather. “Will you give my apologies to my friends when you go back? There’s a chap here I have to see—I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Merryweather waved, got into his car and drove back up the course as we ducked under the rails.

Siegfried seized the bulky figure by the arm. “Come on, Stewie, where can we get a drink?”

W
E WENT INTO A
long, low bar under the stand and I experienced a slight shock of surprise. This was the four and sixpenny end and the amenities were rather different from the paddock. The eating and drinking was done mainly in the vertical position and the cuisine seemed to consist largely of pies and sausage rolls.

Siegfried fought his way to the bar and collected three whiskies. We sat down at one of the few available tables—an unstable, metal-topped structure. At the next table a sharp faced character studied the
Pink ’Un
while he took great swigs at a pint and tore savagely at a pork pie.

“Now, my lad,” Siegfried said. “What have you been doing for the past six years?”

“Well, let’s see,” said Stewie, absently downing his whisky at a gulp. “I got into finals shortly after you left and I didn’t do so bad at all, really. Pipped them both first go, then I had a bit of bother with surgery a couple of times, but I was launched on the unsuspecting animal population four years ago. I’ve been around quite a lot since then. North, South, even six months in Ireland. I’ve been trying to find a place with a living wage. This three or four quid a week lark isn’t much cop when you have a family to keep.”

“Family? You’re married then?”

“Not half. You remember little Meg Hamilton—I used to bring her to the college dances. We got married when I got into final year. We’ve got five kids now and another on the way.”

Siegfried choked on his whisky. “Five kids! For God’s sake, Stewie!”

“Ah, it’s wonderful really, Siegfried. You probably wonder how we manage to exist. Well I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know myself. But we’ve kept one jump ahead of ruin and we’ve been happy, too. I think we’re going to be O.K. now. I stuck up my plate in Hensfield a few months ago and I’m doing all right. Been able to clear the housekeeping and that’s all that matters.”

“Hensfield, eh?” Siegfried said. I pictured the grim West Riding town. A wilderness of decaying brick bristling with factory chimneys. It was the other Yorkshire. “Mainly small animal, I suppose?”

“Oh yes. I earn my daily bread almost entirely by separating the local tom cats from their knackers. Thanks to me, the feline females of Hensfield can walk the streets unmolested.”

Siegfried laughed and caught the only waitress in the place lightly by the arm as she hurried by. She whipped round with a frown and an angry word but took another look and smiled. “Yes, sir?”

Siegfried looked into her face seriously for a few moments, still holding her arm. Then he spoke quietly. “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to bring us three large whiskies and keep repeating the order whenever you see our glasses are empty. Would you be able to do that?”

“Certainly, sir, of course.” The waitress was over forty but she was blushing like a young girl.

Stewie’s chins quivered with silent laugher. “You old bugger, Farnon. It does me good to see you haven’t changed.”

“Really? Well that’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

“And the funny thing is I don’t think you really try.”

“Try? Try what?”

“Ah, nothing. Forget it—here’s our whisky.”

As the drinks kept coming they talked and talked. I didn’t butt in—I sat listening, wrapped in a pleasant euphoria and pushing every other glassful unobtrusively round to Stewie who put it out of sight with a careless jerk of the wrist.

As Siegfried sketched out his own progress, I was struck by the big man’s total absence of envy. He was delighted to hear about the rising practice, the pleasant house, the assistant. Siegfried had described him as plump in the old days but he was fat now, despite his hard times. And I had heard about that overcoat; it was the “navy nap” which had been his only protection through the years at college. It couldn’t have looked so good then, but it was a sad thing now, the seams strained to bursting by the bulging flesh.

“Look, Stewie.” Siegfried fumbled uncomfortably with his glass. “I’m sure you’re going to do well at Hensfield but if by some mischance things got a bit rough, I hope you wouldn’t hesitate to turn to me. I’m not so far off in Darrowby, you know. In fact.” He paused and swallowed. “Are you all right now? If a few quid would help, I’ve got ’em here.”

Stewie tossed back what must have been the tenth double whisky and gazed at his old friend with gentle benevolence. “You’re a kind old bugger, Siegfried, but no thanks. As I said we’re clearing the housekeeping and we’ll be O.K. But I appreciate it—you always were kind. A strange old bugger, but kind.”

“Strange?” Siegfried was interested.

“No, not strange. Wrong word. Different. That’s it, you were as different as hell.”

“Different?” queried Siegfried, swallowing his whisky as if it had stopped tasting of anything a long time ago. “I’m sure you’re wrong there, Stewie.”

“Don’t worry your head about it,” Stewie said, and reached across the table to thump his friend on the shoulder. But his judgement was way out and instead he swept Siegfried’s bowler from his head. It rolled to the feet of the man at the next table.

During the conversation I had been aware of this gentleman rushing out and trailing slowly back to resume his study of the
Pink ’Un
and renew his attack on the food and drink. The man looked down at the hat. His face was a picture of misery and frustration born of too much beer, semi-masticated pork pies and unwise investment. Convulsively he lashed out with a foot at the bowler and looked better immediately.

The hat, deeply dented, soared back to Siegfried who caught it and replaced it on his head with unruffled aplomb. He didn’t seem in the least annoyed; apparently considered the man’s reaction perfectly normal.

We all stood up and I was mildly surprised by a slight swaying and blurring of my surroundings. When things came to rest I had another surprise; the big bar was nearly empty. The beer machines were hidden by white cloths. The barmaids were collecting the empty glasses.

“Stewie,” Siegfried said. “The meeting’s over. Do you realise we’ve been nattering here for over two hours?”

“And very nice, too. Far better than giving the hard-earned coppers to the bookies.” As Stewie rose to his feet he clutched at the table and stood blinking for a few seconds.

“There’s one thing, though,” Siegfried said. “My friends. I came here with a party and they must be wondering where I’ve got to. Tell you what, come and meet them. They’ll understand when they realise we haven’t seen each other for years.”

We worked our way round to the paddock. No sign of the general and company. We finally found them in the car park grouped unsmilingly around the Rover. Most of the other cars had gone. Siegfried strode up confidently, his dented bowler cocked at a jaunty angle.

“I’m sorry to have left you but a rather wonderful thing happened back there. I would like to present Mr. Stewart Brannon, a professional colleague and a very dear friend.”

Four blank stares turned on Stewie. His big, meaty face was redder than ever and he smiled sweetly through a faint dew of perspiration. I noticed that he had made a lopsided job of buttoning the navy nap overcoat; there was a spare button hole at the top and a lack of alignment at the bottom. It made the straining, tortured garment look even more grotesque.

The general nodded curtly, the colonel appeared to be grinding his teeth, the ladies froze visibly and looked away.

“Yes, yes, quite,” grunted the general. “But we’ve been waitin’ here some time and we want to be gettin’ home.” He stuck out his jaw and his moustache bristled.

Siegfried waved a hand. “Certainly, certainly, by all means. We’ll leave right away.” He turned to Stewie. “Well, goodbye for now, my lad. We’ll get together again soon. I’ll ring you.”

He began to feel through his pockets for his ignition key. He started quite slowly but gradually stepped up his pace. After he had explored the pockets about five times he stopped, closed his eyes and appeared to give himself over to intense thought. Then, as though he had decided to do the thing systematically, he commenced to lay out the contents of his pockets one by one, using the car bonnet as a table, and as the pile grew so did my conviction that doom was very near.

It wasn’t just the key that worried me. Siegfried had consumed a lot more whisky than I had and with its usual delayed action it had begun to creep up on him. He was swaying slightly, his dented bowler had slid forward over one eyebrow and he kept dropping things as he pulled them from his pocket and examined them owlishly.

A man with a long brush and a handcart was walking slowly across the car park when Siegfried grabbed his arm. “Look, I want you to do something for me. Here’s five bob.”

“Right, mister.” The man pocketed the money. “What d’you want me to do?”

“Find my car key.”

The man began to peer round Siegfried’s feet. “I’ll do me best. Dropped it round ’ere, did you?”

“No, no. I’ve no idea where I dropped it.” Siegfried waved vaguely. “It’s somewhere on the course.”

The man looked blank for a moment then he gazed out over the acres of littered ground, the carpet of discarded race cards, torn up tickets. He turned back to Siegfried and giggled suddenly then he walked away, still giggling.

I stole a glance at our companions. They had watched the search in stony silence and none of them seemed to be amused. The general was the first to explode.

“Great heavens, Farnon, have you got the blasted key or haven’t you? If the damn thing’s lost, then we’d better make other arrangements. Can’t keep the ladies standing around here.”

A gentle cough sounded in the background. Stewie was still there. He shambled forward and whispered in his friend’s ear and after a moment Siegfried wrung his hand fervently.

“By God, Stewie, that’s kind of you! You’ve saved the situation.” He turned back to the party. “There’s nothing to worry about—Mr. Brannon has kindly offered to provide us with transport. He’s gone to get his car from the other park.” He pointed triumphantly at the shiny back of the bulging navy overcoat navigating unsteadily through the gate.

Siegfried did his best to keep a conversation going but it was hard slogging. Nobody replied to any of his light sallies and he stopped abruptly when he saw a look of rage and disbelief spread over the general’s face. Stewie had come back.

The car was a tiny Austin Seven dwarfed even further by the massive form in the driver’s seat. I judged from the rusted maroon paintwork and cracked windows that it must be one of the very earliest models, a “tourer” whose hood had long since disintegrated and been replaced by a home-made canvas cover fastened to the twisted struts by innumerable loops of string.

Stewie struggled out, dragged open the passenger door and inclined his head with modest pride. He motioned towards a pile of sacks which lay on the bare boards where the passenger seat should have been; there were no seats in the back either, only a couple of rough wooden boxes bearing coloured labels with the legend “Finest American Apples.” From the boxes peeped a jumble of medicine bottles, stethoscopes, powders, syringe cases.