For Lack Of A Shoe

“James, I insist you stay in today and nurse that foot. I need you back in working order as soon as possible.”

Siegfried was bustling about the surgery, stuffing odds and ends into his bag. I'd had the bad luck to be trod on the day before by a Shire I was examining; fortunately, my foot had sunk into a lot of muck under the giant hoof, otherwise I'd have had broken bones instead of a badly bruised foot. Early morning was the time for urgent calls, when farmers arose and fed the livestock, but so far there hadn't been any this morning. I was looking forward to a quiet morning, perusing the newspaper and catching up various paperwork from the week before.

The phone shrilled, and I hobbled out into the hallway. Siegfried hurtled past, nearly knocking me over.

“I'll get this one,” he called out. “Darrowby 385.”

A look of pain crossed his face. His left hand clutched the receiver, and his right hand gripped the edge of the table. His knuckles were white.

“No, Mr. Herriot is not available.” A pause. “I can assure you, I am sorry as well. What seems to be the trouble?” Another long pause. “Can you explain exactly what is wrong with the animal.” His tone had gone flat.

I thought I saw a sheen of sweat breaking out on my boss's forehead. Tristan, with an impeccable nose for trouble, was lurking in the doorway of the sitting room.

“Mr. Biggins, if I had a crystal ball with which to consult, I would diagnose your animal over the phone. As such is not the case, would you kindly tell me exactly what, if anything you wish me to do.... No, it is NOT my decision. It is not my animal. DO YOU, OR DO YOU NOT, WISH ME TO COME OUT?”

I could still hear Mr. Biggins' voice as Siegfried held the receiver away from his ear a moment, then slammed it down. He loosened his collar, and took a deep breath. Tristan had already disappeared from sight, knowing that his brother would be inclined to pass the job on to him.

“Day or night, we MUST attend,” I offered helpfully. Siegfried had often trotted that particular line out on me when I was coping with our more awkward clients.

He pressed his lips together. “Absolutely right, James,” he said, looking around. “Have you seen Tristan about?”

“Not a sign,” I lied instantly, and headed into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

A few minutes later, I saw Siegfried was still outside, looking at one of his tires. Tristan came up behind me and peered through the kitchen window as well.

“Looks like he's got a soft tire. God, James, I hope he doesn't get a flat today, He hasn't got a spare.”

“Of course he's got a spare,” I replied.

Tristan cleared his throat. “Well, he has got one, but it isn't quite up to snuff. You see, I had a puncture last week when I borrowed the Rover, and I put on the spare. Just my luck, I ran off the road a bit and punctured that one as well. And,” he added, “I certainly couldn't afford to pay for two tires. So I had the one repaired at the garage, and the spare....well, I mended it with a bit of Stockholm tar.”

Stockholm tar is a pine tar, used as a preservative for wooden ships, but also used for hoof care and other veterinary services. It was the equivalent of plugging the hole with chewing gum.

“Oh, no, Tristan, tell me you didn't.” But I could see by the look on his face that he had.

“In my defense, it doesn't look as though the repair garage did any better,” he replied. “At any rate, what are the chances he'll need it?”

I was torn between looking out for Siegfried, and protecting Tristan. In the end, I decided to try and stay out of it, as usual. Any time I interjected myself between the two, I seemed to come up as the loser.

I couldn't resist going outside, however.

“Tire's gone down a bit. Perhaps you should put a little air in. Or take mine.” My decrepit little Austen sat in a dejected heap in a corner. Siegfried gave it a long look, but evidently decided he wasn't all that desperate.

“Nonsense, James,” he said. “It's just a little soft. Once I get to driving, the friction between the road surface and the tire will generate enough heat to expand the air in the tire. Simple physics.” He got in and started the car.

Of course, Siegfried had famously told me that “A good driver doesn't need brakes” when I complained that I practically had to put both feet on the Austin's brake pedal and stand on it to get it to stop. I had to give him credit, though; unlike his brother, who consistently wrecked anything on wheels, Siegfried and his vehicles remained miraculously unscathed, despite the fact that he often drove at top speed, steering with his knees or elbows.

In a minute he was off, hurtling down Trengate at top speed. I silently wished him luck, and regarded my aching foot. Given a choice between bodily injury and Mr. Biggins, I just might choose the injury.

I heard the rest of the story from Bill Graybill, a local youth who had been earning a little spending money helping various farmers with odd jobs. Mr. Biggins was often forced to rely on such transient help, because no one could stand to work for him long term. He was miserly, surly, and suspicious of just about everyone and everything, and had been a particular 'stone in my shoe' since I'd joined the practice.

The tire on the Rover gave out as Siegfried was coming down the lane at Biggins' farm. He wrenched the steering wheel around, and the car slewed to a stop parallel to the cow barn. It was inches from the barn door. Siegfried emerged in his usual businesslike manner, as though he always arrived in such a manner. Biggins blinked in the cloud of dust.

“Now then, vitnery, no call for arrivin' like the house is afire.” Biggins was already examining the side of the barn, no doubt in hopes that some damage had been done.

“Where's the animal you'd like me to see?” Siegfried stood, bag in hand.

“Nay, I don't recollect asking for you to come.” He looked at the Rover. “Right lucky though, having the tire go, close by, like. Might've happened way out in the country. Since you're here, though, I was sayin' to missus just this morning that Bluebell might have summat amiss.”

“Mr. Biggins. I can assure you that I did not dream our conversation this morning. You rang the surgery.”

“Oh aye. Wanted your opinion on a matter.”

Siegfried sighed in exasperation. “We have a very busy practice, and we are not inclined to give advice over the phone without seeing the animal in question. So would you kindly direct me to whomever or whatever you wish me to see?”

“Well, I dunno.” Biggins looked as his feet, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Siegfried turned to go. “ 'Ere, now, don't be hasty. Seein' as how you're stuck here for a bit, might as well 'ave a look at ma cows.” He began to squeeze himself between the car and the doorway. “I reckon you'll find summat wrong with t'beast, seein' as how you've a new tire to pay for. Always puttin' yer hands in the pockets of poor folk like me, so's you can afford fancy vehicles.”

As Biggins was trying to force his bulk between the car and the doorway, Siegfried, in his typically unflappable manner, opened the driver's side door, slid across the seat and exited the passenger side, and into the barn. He waited until Biggins had managed to puff his way in.

“I'll need hot water, soap, and a towel, if you please,” he said, turning to hide a smile. Biggins would have a job squeezing back out, then returning the same way with a bucket.

Bluebell had a typical case of mastitis, let go too long of course, due to Biggins' endless dithering over whether to call one of us in or not. I'd seen several of his animals in bad straits myself, and when he lost one, there was always the unspoken accusation that it was my fault, and not his negligence.

Siegfried was through in a few minutes. “I've given her an injection. You'll need to massage this ointment on the udder, and strip that teat several times each day, the more, the better.”

Biggins sighed audibly.

Siegfried was looking at the tire. “For want of a shoe,” he said aloud.

“What's that, then?” asked Biggins.

“ 'For want of a shoe, the horse was lost'. Surely you've heard that before?”

“I know nowt about shoein', Mr. Farnon. Not a horse on t'place. You'll 'ave to look elsewhere for that job.”

“Never mind.” Siegfried leaned against the car and took out his pipe.

“Well, Mr. Farnon, I reckon there's nowt else for you to do here. I expect you'll be on your way. I'm behind as it is, tha knows, and this great bloody car is blockin' my barn.”

“Well, I dunno, Mr. Biggins,” replied, Siegfried, consciously imitating him. “There's things to be considered.” He slowly, and methodically, searched his various pockets for tobacco. “I could change the tire.” He tapped the pipe against his hand, seemingly deep in thought. “Then again, I have a particularly delicate operation to perform this afternoon. Wouldn't want to risk inadvertently damaging my hands.” He held them out and examined them. “Then again, I am blocking your door, aren't I. Of course, I don't recall you asking me to move it.” He continued the conversation with himself out loud. “I could call my brother to come out. He's probably at the Drover's, and it could take a while. But then, I'm not particularly pressed for time today.”

Biggins was practically hopping up and down in agitation. “Mr. Farnon! I've work to be done! How can I get in and out of ma barn with yer car settin' up against it?”

Siegfried drew on his pipe thoughtfully. He'd actually given up smoking, but often used the routine of filling it is a method of keeping his hands busy while deep in thought. It was also a convenient ruse for buying time, on occasion.

“Then again, it is a lovely day. I could walk into town and have Harmon's garage drive me back over. But, that would cost me extra. And it's a wise man who looks after his money, hey, Mr. Biggins?”

Mr. Biggins was practically apoplectic. “Nay, Mr. Farnon, tha canst leave that car where it is. I've work to do!”

“I see,” said Siegfried thoughtfully. “You're a busy man. You want me to provide a service, and in a timely manner. You certainly don't want to stand about while I take hours to make up my mind. Have I summarized the situation adequately?”

A light had begun to dawn on Mr. Biggins. “Aye,” he said shortly.

“In future, suppose you and I stick to a few simple rules. Number one, call us in when you suspect a problem, not when the animal is on its last legs. Number two, be perfectly clear in what you expect from me. Like you, I am a busy man, and I haven't the time to sit and listen to you argue with yourself about whether you need me or not. Number three, please continue to request Mr. Herriot. I wouldn't want him to think I was encroaching on his territory.” Humming tunelessly, he set about taking out the spare. After handling it, he wiped his hands on his trousers several times; the spare seemed a bit sticky for some reason.

In a few minutes, he had the Rover ready to go. “There is the small question of payment, Mr. Biggins. Even though the puncture occurred on your premises, I wouldn't think to charge you the cost of a new tire.” Biggins' face went purple. “I would, however, like a little something on your overdue account.”

Siegfried studied his fingernails as the farmer fought an internal battle with himself. He hated to part with money; however, Siegfried had every appearance of a man who would willingly spend the rest of the day waiting him out. Admitting defeat, he slowly withdrew a wallet and extracted a banknote.

The veterinary accepted it with equal solemnity, crammed it into his pocket, climbed into his car, and drove off.

I was relaxing in the sitting room, my leg propped comfortably on an ottoman. Tristan was splayed out on the sofa, peacefully snoring behind the newspaper. Siegfried appeared in the doorway; dusty, sweating, and with bits of hay all over him. He tiptoed over toward his brother.

Tristan, sensing someone looming over him, opened his eyes. “You look like you've had a roll in the hay,” he remarked casually.

Siegfried leaned over, his face inches from his brother's. “Funny thing, little brother. I got a puncture, so I had to put on the spare. But the spare had evidently been crudely patched by some idiot. I had to walk for two miles, before I got a lift in the back of a hay wagon.”

Tristan blinked. “Oh, that's a terrible spot to be in. However, you were just touting the benefits of exercise the other day. You must have been glad of the opportunity to enjoy a nice walk.”

Siegfried hesitated, then leaned back. “Yes, you're quite right. But I must go down to Harmon's right now and complain about the state of that spare. In fact, I might just pursue litigation.”

His brother sat up hurriedly. “Don't you think you're overreacting a bit? I mean, how can you hold them responsible? Perhaps it was the manufacturer. It could have been a faulty tire.”

“All the more reason to sue.” Siegfried went to pour himself a drink. Tristan looked at me in desperation. I shrugged; one way or another, Tristan was going to catch it. But it would be ten times worse if Siegfried caused an embarrassing row with the car repairmen, and then found out that Tristan was the culprit.

The younger Farnon swallowed hard. “Ummm, Siegfried...” he began.

“Yes,” replied Siegfried without turning around.

“You might not want to accuse Harmon's of anything.”

“Oh, I can assure you I do,” Siegfried replied. “Who else would have had reason or opportunity?”

“I needed to use your spare.”

“I see. Go on,” said Siegfried calmly.

“Well, you see, I had a puncture when I borrowed the Rover. So I put the spare on. Then I had a bit of a close call with something in the road, and picked up another puncture. And I was a little short of money, so I only had enough to pay for one tire. I meant to get around to the spare soon.”

“So you patched it with Stockholm tar from your bag. What an innovative idea.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Tristan, his face brightening. “I thought it was rather clever myself.”

“NO, I DO NOT THINK SO!” blasted Siegfried. He clutched his temples and stood still a moment, regaining his composure. He leaned over his brother again. “A close call with something in the road. What was that? A shadow? A leaf blowing in front you? A pretty girl walking past? Or one in your lap, perhaps? Short of cash. Well, you're always short, aren't you? That's because it all ends up in the tills of the local pubs! Do you realize I could have been stranded somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night? Are you trying to kill me?” He gulped the last of his drink and set the glass on the table by Tristan.

“You will never, ever, under any circumstances, drive any car of mine, for any reason, ever again. Is that perfectly clear?” He didn't wait for an answer, but whirled around an exited.

Tristan sighed. “Well, that wasn't bad,” he said, slouching down and resuming his former supine position.

“You can hardly blame him, Tris. You do have a rather long record of accidents in vehicles.”

“It's just jolly bad luck on my part, James. It's not fair. He drives like a maniac, but he always seems to emerge unscathed.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly. “By the way, could you spot me a pound or two till next week? There's something else I need to address.”

It was always hard for me to refuse him, even though I was never exactly flush with cash myself. “That's quite a bit for a few pints, Tris.”

He looked uncomfortable.

“Well, James, let's just say it's a good thing Siegfried didn't have a look under the hood as well.”