I couldn’t help feeling a bit responsible. ‘Don’t you think we might give him a drink?’

  But Mr Bennison had had enough. ‘Nay, nay, he’ll be right,’ he muttered testily. ‘Let’s get on with t’job.’ Evidently he felt he had pampered George too much already.

  The incident started me thinking about this question of people’s reactions to the sight of blood and other disturbing realities. Even though it was only my second year of practice I had already formulated rules about this and one was that it was always the biggest men who went down. (I had, by this time, worked out a few other, perhaps unscientific theories, e.g. big dogs were kept by people who lived in little houses and vice versa. Clients who said ‘spare no expense’ never paid their bills, ever. When I asked my way in the Dales and was told ‘you can’t miss it’, I knew I’d soon be hopelessly lost.)

  I had begun to wonder if perhaps country folk, despite their closer contact with fundamental things, were perhaps more susceptible than city people. Ever since Sid Blenkhorn had staggered into Skeldale House one evening. His face was ghastly white and he had obviously passed through a shattering experience. ‘Have you got a drop o’ whisky handy, Jim?’ he quavered, and when I had guided him to a chair and Siegfried had put a glass in his hand he told us he had been at a first aid lecture given by Dr Allinson, a few doors down the street. ‘He was talking about veins and arteries and things,’ groaned Sid, passing a hand across his forehead. ‘God, it was awful!’ Apparently Fred Ellison the fishmonger had been carried out unconscious after only ten minutes and Sid himself had only just made it to the door. It had been a shambles.

  I was interested because this sort of thing, I had found, was always just round the corner. I suppose we must have more trouble in this way than the doctors because in most cases when our medical colleagues have any cutting or carving to do they send their patients to hospital while the vets just have to get their jackets off and operate on the spot. It means that the owners and attendants of the animals are pulled in as helpers and are subjected to some unusual sights.

  A veterinary surgeon must also be paid and this sometimes proved a problem for Alf and Donald at the Thirsk practice. Most clients paid their bills on time but there were the stubborn few who racked up debt with the practice or resented having to pay veterinary bills, particularly when the National Health Service was launched in 1948 and doctors were no longer charging for their services. Bill-paying days were often accompanied with the usual grumbles, that the practice had been ‘ower heavy wi’ t’pen’ or they wanted a ‘bit knockin’ off’.

  Alf loved his work, but neither he nor Donald were businesspeople and often exclaimed: ‘Why can’t I just drive around, doing the job I love and receive a decent sum of money at the end of the week?’ James and Siegfried similarly must deal with the ‘ten per cent’ or so of clients who avoid paying their bills, as James muses upon in It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet.

  As time passed and I painfully clothed the bare bones of my theoretical knowledge with practical experience I began to realize there was another side to veterinary practice they didn’t mention in the books. It had to do with money. Money has always formed a barrier between the farmer and the vet. I think this is because there is a deeply embedded, maybe subconscious conviction in many farmers’ minds that they know more about their stock than any outsider and it is an admission of defeat to pay somebody else to doctor them.

  The wall was bad enough in those early days when they had to pay the medical practitioners for treating their own ailments and when there was no free agricultural advisory service. But it is worse now when there is the Health Service and NAAS [an advisory arm of the Ministry of Agriculture] and the veterinary surgeon stands pitilessly exposed as the only man who has to be paid.

  Most farmers, of course, swallow the pill and get out their cheque books, but there is a proportion – maybe about ten per cent – who do their best to opt out of the whole business.

  We had our own ten per cent in Darrowby and it was a small but constant irritation. As an assistant I was not financially involved and it didn’t seem to bother Siegfried unduly except when the quarterly bills were sent out. Then it really got through to him.

  Siegfried goes through the outstanding bills, muttering and occasionally raging about the non-payers, some of whom he’s seen betting at the races or driving around in brand-new cars. There are some debtors, however, that he can’t help but admire, including the very charming and erudite Major Bullivant who for years has got away without paying his vet bills or those of most of the tradesmen in Darrowby. He eventually leaves the area, still without paying what he owes, and yet Siegfried holds little bitterness towards the major.

  Siegfried’s attitude to his debtors was remarkably ambivalent. At times he would fly into a fury at the mention of their names, at others he would regard them with a kind of wry benevolence. He often said that if ever he threw a cocktail party for the clients he’d have to invite the non-payers first because they were all such charming fellows.

  Nevertheless he waged an inexorable war against them by means of a series of letters graduated according to severity which he called his PNS system (Polite, Nasty, Solicitor’s) and in which he had great faith. It was a sad fact, however, that the system seldom worked with the real hard cases who were accustomed to receiving threatening letters with their morning mail. These people yawned over the polite and nasty ones and were unimpressed by the solicitor’s because they knew from experience that Siegfried always shrank from following through to the limit of the law.

  Some clients resent having to call in a veterinary surgeon because they feel they know, or should know, more about caring for their own livestock than any vet. When examining animals on farms, James must frequently deal with farmers and their neighbours pontificating on the ailments of animals – rural folk are often experts when it comes to other people’s livestock – who swear by a range of home-spun remedies. James and veterinary surgeons like him must also contend with an army of unqualified practitioners, many of whom had built up thriving businesses and were trusted by local farmers.

  Marmaduke Skelton was an object of interest to me long before our paths crossed. For one thing I hadn’t thought people were ever called Marmaduke outside of books and for another he was a particularly well-known member of the honourable profession of unqualified animal doctors.

  Before the Veterinary Surgeons’ Act of 1948 anybody who fancied his chance at it could dabble in the treatment of animal disease. Veterinary students could quite legally be sent out to cases while they were seeing practice, certain members of the lay public did a bit of veterinary work as a sideline while others did it as a full-time job. These last were usually called ‘quacks’.

  The disparaging nature of the term was often unjust because, though some of them were a menace to the animal population, others were dedicated men who did their job with responsibility and humanity and after the Act were brought into the profession’s fold as Veterinary Practitioners.

  But long before all this there were all sorts and types among them. The one I knew best was Arthur Lumley, a charming little ex-plumber who ran a thriving small animal practice in Brawton, much to the chagrin of Mr Angus Grier MRCVS. Arthur used to drive around in a small van. He always wore a white coat and looked very clinical and efficient, and on the side of the van in foot-high letters which would have got a qualified man a severe dressing down from the Royal College was the legend, ‘Arthur Lumley MKC, Canine and Feline Specialist’. The lack of ‘letters’ after their name was the one thing which differentiated these men from qualified vets in the eyes of the general public and I was interested to see that Arthur did have an academic attainment. However the degree of MKC was unfamiliar to me and he was somewhat cagey when I asked him about it; I did find out eventually what it stood for; Member of the Kennel Club.

  Marmaduke Skelton was a vastly different breed. I had been working long enough round the Scarburn district to become familiar with some of the local history and it seemed that when Mr and Mrs Skelton were producing a family in the early 1900s they must have thought their offspring were destined for great things; they named their four sons Marmaduke, Sebastian, Cornelius and, incredibly, Alonzo. The two middle brothers drove lorries for the Express Dairy and Alonzo was a small farmer; one of my vivid memories is the shock of surprise when I was filling up the forms after his tuberculin test and asked him for his first name. The exotic appellation pronounced in gruff Yorkshire was so incongruous that I thought he was pulling my leg; in fact I was going to make a light comment but something in his eye prompted me to leave it alone.

  Marmaduke, or Duke as he was invariably called, was the colourful member of the family. I had heard a lot about him on my visits to the Scarburn farms; he was a ‘right good hand’ at calving, foaling and lambing, and ‘as good as any vitnery’ in the diagnosis and treatment of animals’ ailments. He was also an expert castrator, docker and pig-killer. He made a nice living at his trade and in Ewan Ross he had the ideal professional opposition; a veterinary surgeon who worked only when he felt like it and who didn’t bother to go to a case unless he was in the mood. Much as the farmers liked and in many cases revered Ewan, they were often forced to fall back on Duke’s services. Ewan was in his fifties and unable to cope with the growing volume of testing in his Scarburn practice. I used to help him out with it and in consequence saw a lot of Ewan and his wife, Ginny.

  The flamboyant names of Marmaduke and his brothers were inspired by one of the Thirsk practice clients, Alonzo Cornforth, whose farm Greendales was just a couple of miles outside the town. Alf couldn’t get over the fact that a Yorkshire farmer had the rather splendid, but unusual name of Alonzo, which clearly stayed in his mind when he wrote the James Herriot books.

  Alf used to help out the real Ewan Ross, who was based on the nearby veterinary surgeon and later great friend, Frank Bingham. Twenty years Alf’s senior, Frank was laidback in his approach but immensely experienced, with veterinary skills that frequently impressed Alf. In Let Sleeping Vets Lie Ewan Ross is called to a farm to deal with the prolapsed uterus of a cow and James comes with him. On arrival, the farmer Mr Thwaite guiltily tells them that Marmaduke Skelton is in with the cow and that despite having wrestled with the cow for an hour and a half, he is no further forward and ‘about buggered an’ all’. Ewan at first refuses to interfere until Mr Thwaite begs him to take over, fearing he’ll lose one of his best cows. They head to the byre and find an exhausted Duke Skelton stood next to a huge everted uterus, still dangling behind the cow: ‘Blood and filth streaked his face and covered his arms and as he stared at us from under his shaggy brows he looked like something from the jungle.’ Duke refuses to let the vet help, so Ewan squats on a milking stool, rests against a wall, rolls a cigarette and watches the sweaty, struggling figure a few feet from him.

  Duke had got the uterus about halfway back. Grunting and gasping, legs straddled, he had worked the engorged mass inch by inch inside the vulva till he had just about enough cradled in his arms for one last push; and as he stood there taking a breather with the great muscles of his shoulders and arms rigid his immense strength was formidably displayed. But he wasn’t as strong as that cow. No man is as strong as a cow and this cow was one of the biggest I had ever seen with a back like a table top and rolls of fat round her tail-head.

  I had been in this position myself and I knew what was coming next. I didn’t have to wait long. Duke took a long wheezing breath and made his assault, heaving desperately, pushing with arms and chest, and for a second or two he seemed to be winning as the mass disappeared steadily inside. Then the cow gave an almost casual strain and the whole thing welled out again till it hung down bumping against the animal’s hocks.

  As Duke almost collapsed against her pelvis in the same attitude as when we first came in I felt pity for the man. I found him uncharming but I felt for him. That could easily be me standing there; my jacket and shirt hanging on that nail, my strength ebbing, my sweat mingling with the blood. No man could do what he was trying to do. You could push back a calf bed with the aid of an epidural anaesthetic to stop the straining or you could sling the animal up to a beam with a block and tackle; you couldn’t just stand there and do it from scratch as this chap was trying to do.

  I was surprised Duke hadn’t learned that with all his experience; but apparently it still hadn’t dawned on him even now because he was going through all the motions of having another go. This time he got even further – a few more inches inside before the cow popped it out again. The animal appeared to have a sporting streak because there was something premeditated about the way she played her victim along before timing her thrust at the very last moment. Apart from that she seemed somewhat bored by the whole business; in fact with the possible exception of Ewan she was the calmest among us.

  Duke was trying again. As he bent over wearily and picked up the gory organ I wondered how often he had done this since he arrived nearly two hours ago. He had guts, there was no doubt. But the end was near. There was a frantic urgency about his movements as though he knew himself it was his last throw and as he yet again neared his goal his grunts changed to an agonized whimpering, an almost tearful sound as though he were appealing to the recalcitrant mass, beseeching it to go away inside and stay away, just this once.

  And when the inevitable happened and the poor fellow, panting and shaking, surveyed once more the ruin of his hopes I had the feeling that somebody had to do something.

  Mr Thwaite did it. ‘You’ve had enough, Duke,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake come in the house and get cleaned up. Missus’ll give you a bit o’ dinner and while you’re having it Mr Ross’ll see what he can do.’

  The big man, arms hanging limp by his sides, chest heaving, stared at the farmer for a few seconds then he turned abruptly and snatched his clothes from the wall.

  ‘Aw right,’ he said and began to walk slowly towards the door. He stopped opposite Ewan but didn’t look at him. ‘But ah’ll tell you summat, Maister Thwaite. If ah can’t put that calf bed back this awd bugger never will.’

  James watches in amazement as Ewan effortlessly replaces the uterus back into the cow, with the use of rope, a pig stool, a pound of sugar, a whisky bottle and a beer tray (complete with ‘John Smith’s Magnet Pale Ale’ emblazoned on the side). He loops the rope around the cow’s body and pulls, causing it to collapse on top of the stool with her rear end stuck high in the air. He first dusts sugar over the uterus, which causes it to shrink, and then hoists it onto the beer tray. Then, without even breaking a sweat, he pushes the uterus back in, before carefully passing the whisky bottle into the vagina the length of an arm and moving his shoulder vigorously so he can position the uterus correctly in place.

  He was drying his hands when the byre door opened and Duke Skelton slouched in. He was washed and dressed, with his red handkerchief knotted again round his neck and he glared fierce-eyed at the cow which, tidied up and unperturbed, looked now just like all the other cows in the row. His lips moved once or twice before he finally found his voice.

  ‘Aye, it’s all right for some people,’ he snarled. ‘Some people with their bloody fancy injections and instruments! It’s bloody easy that way, isn’t it!’ Then he swung round and was gone.

  Alf had similarly seen Frank Bingham perform the difficult procedure with the same rudimentary items and with similar finesse.

  To keep their dispensary stocked up, James and Siegfried also receive visits from various company representatives who carry weighty catalogues of liquids and remedies, each one peculiar to their own firm. One such representative is Mr Barge, based on a real company representative, Mr Collinson, known to the family as ‘Collie’, who was a regular visitor to the Thirsk practice. Mr Barge’s dignified presence elicits deference even from Siegfried.

  Nowadays the young men from the pharmaceutical companies who call on veterinary surgeons are referred to as ‘reps’, but nobody would have dreamed of applying such a term to Mr Barge. He was definitely a ‘representative’ of Cargill and Sons, Manufacturers of Fine Chemicals since 1850, and he was so old that he might have been in on the beginning.

  After lunch, Siegfried and James browse though Mr Barge’s catalogue of exotic remedies and Siegfried orders fever drinks, castration clamps and a variety of now obsolete items, Mr Barge responding gravely to each order ‘I do thank you’ or ‘Thank you indeed’.

  Finally Siegfried lay back in his chair. ‘Well now, Mr Barge, I think that’s it – unless you have anything new.’

  ‘As it happens, my dear Mr Farnon, we have.’ The eyes in the pink face twinkled. ‘I can offer you our latest product, “Soothitt”, an admirable sedative.’

  In an instant Siegfried and I were all attention. Every animal doctor is keenly interested in sedatives. Anything which makes our patients more amenable is a blessing. Mr Barge extolled the unique properties of Soothitt and we probed for further information.

  ‘How about unmaternal sows?’ I asked. ‘You know – the kind which savage their young. I don’t suppose it’s any good for that?’

  ‘My dear young sir,’ Mr Barge gave me the kind of sorrowing smile a bishop might bestow on an erring curate, ‘Soothitt is a specific for this condition. A single injection to a farrowing sow and you will have no problems.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘And does it have any effect on car sickness in dogs?’

  The noble old features lit up with quiet triumph. ‘Another classical indication, Mr Herriot. Soothitt comes in tablet form for that very purpose.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Siegfried drained his cup and stood up. ‘Better send us a good supply then. And if you will excuse us, we must start the afternoon round, Mr Barge. Thank you so much for calling.’