during his university vacations, watching us work, picking up the practical hints and knowledge, doing the odd job himself, but always under our wings, was standing there by my desk, cheerful and smiling as always, but oh, so youthful. He looked about seventeen. It didn’t seem fair to send him out there unprotected.
However, there was no doubt that it was J. L. Crooks Esq, MRCVS standing there, suitcase by his side, bright-eyed and eager to go, and I had to adjust to the fact.
I cleared my throat. “Well, John,” I said, smiling up at him, “congratulations on qualifying. You’re a fully fledged veterinary surgeon now, all your examinations behind you, and it’s good to see you here. And, you know, this is quite an occasion. You are the very first assistant to be employed in the practice of Farnon and Herriot.”
He laughed. “Really? That makes me sound very important. But when I was here as a student you had people working for you?”
“Yes, that’s right. Tristan, of course, but he’s one of the family and we never thought of him as an assistant. And there were one or two temporary people, but you are the first official man.”
“Well, that’s nice. And now I’m here I’d better start earning my keep.”
“Okay, we’ll get your car kitted out and then you’d better report to your digs. You’re lodging with Mrs. Barrier aren’t you?”
As the young man filled the car boot with the drugs and instruments he was going to need I could see that he was keen to pitch into the unpredictable world of practice, but I wondered just how nervous he was at the prospect of confronting the tough Yorkshire farmers on his own. Would he make the grade? Some new graduates just couldn’t do it, and as he drove away in his Ford 8 with his bag of tricks rattling behind him I found myself crossing my fingers.
I have a big streak of old hen in me, as my family will testify, and throughout the day I was almost wringing my hands. How was the poor lad getting on? We were so busy that I didn’t see him to talk to, and I kept hoping he hadn’t come up against any awkward situations. Our farmers were nearly all no-nonsense but kindly men, but there was the odd very difficult client.
I recalled my session with Major Sykes a few days ago. The fierce little man barked at me as I treated his horse. “Herriot, good God, man! Can’t you do better than this? You don’t seem to have much idea how to treat this blasted animal!” Then he shouted at his groom, “No, don’t put the bucket down there, you bloody fool!” He was impossible to please and verbally steamrollered people into the ground, treating everybody, especially, it seemed, vets, like the more dim-witted private soldiers of his army days. In fact, despite myself I often found my thumbs edging into line with the seams of my trousers, taking me back to the RAF.
It was late afternoon when I came into the surgery and looked at the day-book, and the words seemed to jump out at me. “Major Sykes, Hunting horse, laminitis.” John had ticked it—he’d be there now.
My eyes popped. One of those adored and valuable hunters—and laminitis, a condition with so many nasty possibilities. No job for a newly qualified young chap. The Major would eat him alive. I had to check up and I hurried out to Roova Grange.
As I got out of the car I could hear the Major’s aggressive tones coming from a loose box and I feared John was already going through it.
I peeped over the half-door of the box. A fine bay mare was standing there in the painful, crouching position of laminitis, her hind feet drawn under her body. A foal, obviously only a few days old, was close by her side. The Major, hands on hips, was almost shouting up into John’s face.
“Now look here, er…er…what d’ye say your name is? Crooks, yes, now look here, dammit, Crooks, you say this mare has a bad laminitis. Bloody great temperature, all crippled up, and you’re trying to tell me that she’ll be all
However, there was no doubt that it was J. L. Crooks Esq, MRCVS standing there, suitcase by his side, bright-eyed and eager to go, and I had to adjust to the fact.
I cleared my throat. “Well, John,” I said, smiling up at him, “congratulations on qualifying. You’re a fully fledged veterinary surgeon now, all your examinations behind you, and it’s good to see you here. And, you know, this is quite an occasion. You are the very first assistant to be employed in the practice of Farnon and Herriot.”
He laughed. “Really? That makes me sound very important. But when I was here as a student you had people working for you?”
“Yes, that’s right. Tristan, of course, but he’s one of the family and we never thought of him as an assistant. And there were one or two temporary people, but you are the first official man.”
“Well, that’s nice. And now I’m here I’d better start earning my keep.”
“Okay, we’ll get your car kitted out and then you’d better report to your digs. You’re lodging with Mrs. Barrier aren’t you?”
As the young man filled the car boot with the drugs and instruments he was going to need I could see that he was keen to pitch into the unpredictable world of practice, but I wondered just how nervous he was at the prospect of confronting the tough Yorkshire farmers on his own. Would he make the grade? Some new graduates just couldn’t do it, and as he drove away in his Ford 8 with his bag of tricks rattling behind him I found myself crossing my fingers.
I have a big streak of old hen in me, as my family will testify, and throughout the day I was almost wringing my hands. How was the poor lad getting on? We were so busy that I didn’t see him to talk to, and I kept hoping he hadn’t come up against any awkward situations. Our farmers were nearly all no-nonsense but kindly men, but there was the odd very difficult client.
I recalled my session with Major Sykes a few days ago. The fierce little man barked at me as I treated his horse. “Herriot, good God, man! Can’t you do better than this? You don’t seem to have much idea how to treat this blasted animal!” Then he shouted at his groom, “No, don’t put the bucket down there, you bloody fool!” He was impossible to please and verbally steamrollered people into the ground, treating everybody, especially, it seemed, vets, like the more dim-witted private soldiers of his army days. In fact, despite myself I often found my thumbs edging into line with the seams of my trousers, taking me back to the RAF.
It was late afternoon when I came into the surgery and looked at the day-book, and the words seemed to jump out at me. “Major Sykes, Hunting horse, laminitis.” John had ticked it—he’d be there now.
My eyes popped. One of those adored and valuable hunters—and laminitis, a condition with so many nasty possibilities. No job for a newly qualified young chap. The Major would eat him alive. I had to check up and I hurried out to Roova Grange.
As I got out of the car I could hear the Major’s aggressive tones coming from a loose box and I feared John was already going through it.
I peeped over the half-door of the box. A fine bay mare was standing there in the painful, crouching position of laminitis, her hind feet drawn under her body. A foal, obviously only a few days old, was close by her side. The Major, hands on hips, was almost shouting up into John’s face.
“Now look here, er…er…what d’ye say your name is? Crooks, yes, now look here, dammit, Crooks, you say this mare has a bad laminitis. Bloody great temperature, all crippled up, and you’re trying to tell me that she’ll be all
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