Vets Might Fly [112-3.0]

By: James Herriot

Synopsis:

In the midst of WW II, James is training for the Royal Air Force, while
going home to Yorkshire whenever possible to see his very pregnant wife,
Helen.  Musing on past adventures through the dales, visiting with old
friends, and introducing scores of new and amusing characters--animal and
human alike--Herriot enthralls readers once again with his uncanny
ability to spin a most engaging and heartfelt yarn.

To my dogs, HECTOR and DAN Faithful companions of the daily round.

The four lines from

"If I Only Had Wings' are reproduced b, permission of The Peter Maurice
Music Co.  Ltd."  138-140 Charing Cross Road, London WC2H OLD,
England.

with Helen.  And another part was still loo king out of the rear window
of the taxi at the green hills receding behind the tiled roofs into the
morning sunshine; still standing in the corridor of the train as the
flat terrain of southern England slid past and a great weight built up
steadily in my chest.

My first introduction to the RAF was at Lord's cricket ground.  Masses
of forms to fill, medicals, then the issue of an enormous pile of kit.
I was billeted in a block of flats in St John's Wood luxurious before
the lush fittings had been removed.  But they couldn't take away the
heavy bathroom ware and one of our blessings was the unlimited hot
water gushing at our touch into the expensive surroundings.

After that first crowded day I retired to one of those green-tiled
sanctuaries and lathered myself with a new bar of a famous toilet soap
which Helen had put in my bag.  I have never been able to use that soap
since.  Scents are too evocative and the merest whiff jerks me back to
that first night away from my wife, and to the feeling I had then.  It
was a dull, empty ache which never really went away.

On the second day we marched endlessly; lectures, meals, inoculations.
I was used to syringes but the very sight of them was too much for many
of my friends.

Especially when the doctor took the blood samples; one look at the dark
fluid flowing from their veins and the young men toppled quietly from
their chairs, often four or five in a row while the orderlies, grinning
cheerfully, bore them away.

We ate in the London Zoo and our meals were made interesting by the
chatter of monkeys and the roar of lions in the background.  But in
between it was march, march, march, with our new boots giving us
hell.

And on this third day the whole thing was still a blur.  We had been
wakened as on my first morning by the hideous 6 a.m. clattering of
dustbin lids; I hadn't really expected a bugle but I found this noise
intolerable.  However, at the moment my only concern was that we had
completed the circuit of the park.

The gates were only a few yards ahead and I staggered up to them and
halted among my groaning comrades.

"Round again, lads!"  the corporal yelled, and as we stared at him
aghast he smiled affectionately.

"You think this is tough?  Wait till they get hold of you at ITW.  I'm
just kinda break in' you in gently.  You'll thank me for this later.

Right, at the double!  One-two, one-two!"

Bitter thoughts assailed me as I lurched forward once more.  Another
round of the park would kill me there was not a shadow of a doubt about
that.  You left a loving wife and a happy home to serve king and
country and this was how they treated ned of Darrow by.  I was back in
old Mr blakin's "ut eyes in the long, drooping-moustached face ':
ooping height.

wi' awd Blossom, then," he said, and rested his -o ~\:k.  It was an
enormous, work-swollen hand.

Mr the flesh but the grossly thickened fingers bore iped it into the
metal box where I carried my yes.

"Well, it's up to you of course, Mr Dakin, to stitch her teats and I'm
afraid it's going to t\The farmer bent and examined the row of '-taw,
you wouldn't believe it could reek such ~it."

"A cow's hoof is sharp," I said.

"It's nearly like a knife coming down."

That was the worst of very old cows.  Their udders dropped and their
teats became larger and more pendulous so that when they lay down in
their stalls the vital milk-producing organ was pushed away to one side
into the path of the neighbouring animals.  If it wasn't Mabel on the
right standing on it, it was Buttercup on the other side.

There were only six cows in the little cobbled byre with its low roof
and wooden partitions and they all had names.  You don't find cows with
names any more and there aren't any farmers like Mr Dakin, who somehow
scratched a living from a herd of six milkers plus a few calves, pigs
and hens.

"Aye, well," he said.

"Ah reckon t'awd lass doesn't owe me any thin'.  Ah remember the night
she was born, twelve years ago.  She was out of awd Daisy and ah
carried her out of this very byre on a sack and the snow was com in'
down hard.  Sin' then ah wouldn't like to count how many thousand
gallons o' milk she's turned out she's still givin' four a day.  Naw,
she doesn't owe me a thing."

As if she knew she was the topic of conversation Blossom turned her
head and looked at him.  She was the classical picture of an ancient
bovine; as fleshless as her owner, with jutting pelvic bones, splayed,
overgrown feet and horns with a multitude of rings along their curving
length.  Beneath her, the udder, once high and tight, drooped forlornly
almost to the floor.

She resembled her owner, too, in her quiet, patient demeanour.  I had
infiltrated her teat with a local anaesthetic before stitching but I
don't think she would have moved if I hadn't used any.  Stitching teats
puts a vet in the ideal position to be kicked, with his head low down
in front of the hind feet, but there was no danger with Blossom.  She
had never kicked anybody in her life.

Mr Dakin blew out his cheeks.

"Well, there's nowt else for it.  She'll have to go.  I'll tell Jack
Dodson to picker up for the fat stock market on Thursday.

She'll be a bit tough for eat in' but ah reckon she'll make a few steak
pies."

He was trying to joke but he was unable to smile as he looked at the
old cow.

Behind him, beyond the open door, the green hillside ran down to the
river and the spring sunshine touched the broad sweep of the shallows
with a million dancing lights.  A beach of bleached stones gleamed
bone-white against the long stretch of grassy bank which rolled up to
the pastures lining the valley floor.

I had often felt that this small holding would be an ideal place to
live, only a mile outside Darrow by, but secluded, and with this
heart-lifting vista of river and fell.  I remarked on this once to Mr
Dakin and the old man turned to me with a wry smile.

"Aye, but the view's not very sustain in'," he said.

It happened that I was called back to the farm on the following
Thursday to 'cleanse' a cow and was in the byre when Dodson the drover
called to pick up Blossom.  He had collected a group of fat bullocks
and cows from other farms and they stood, watched by one of his men, on
the road high above.

"Nah then, Mr Dakin," he cried as he bustled in.

"It's easy to see which one you want me to tek.  It's that awd screw
over there."

He pointed at Blossom, and in truth the unkind description seemed to
fit the bony creature standing between her sleek neighbours.

The farmer did not reply for a moment, then he went up between the cows
and gently rubbed Blossom's forehead.

"Aye, this is the one, Jack."  He hesitated, then undid the chain round
her neck.

"Off ye go, awd lass," he murmured, and the old animal turned and made
her way placidly from the stall.

"Aye, come on with ye!"  shouted the dealer, poking his stick against
the cow's rump "Don't hit 'er!"  barked Mr Dakin.

"You'll thank me for this later, lads.  Take my word for it.  GET

YOURSELVES

OFF THE GROUND.  UP!  UP!

Through my pain I could see the corporal's laughing face.  The man was
clearly a sadist.  It was no good appealing to him.

And as, with the last of my strength, I launched myself into the air it
came to me suddenly why I had dreamed about Blossom last night.

I wanted to go home, too.

Chapter Two The fog swirled over the heads of the marching men; a
London fog, thick, yellow, metallic on the tongue.  I couldn't see the
head of the column, only the swinging lantern carried by the leader.

This 6.30 a.m. walk to breakfast was just about the worst part of the
day, when my morale was low and thoughts of home rose painfully.

We used to have fogs in Darrow by, but they were country fogs,
different from this.  One morning I drove out on my rounds with the
headlights blazing against the grey curtain ahead, seeing nothing from
my tight-shut box.  But I was heading up the Dale, climbing steadily
with the engine pulling against the rising ground, then quite suddenly
the fog thinned to a shimmering silvery mist and was gone.

And there, above the pall, the sun was dazzling and the long green line
of the fells rose before me, thrusting exultantly into a sky of summer
blue.

Spellbound, I drove upwards into the bright splendour, staring through
the windscreen as though I had never seen it all before; the bronze of
the dead bracken spilling down the grassy flanks of the hills, the dark
smudges of trees, the grey farmhouses and the endless pattern of walls
creeping to the heather above.

I was in a rush as usual but I had to stop.  I pulled up in a gateway,
Sam jumped out and we went through into a field; and as the beagle
scampered over the glittering turf I stood in the warm sunshine amid
the melting frost and looked back at the dark damp blanket which
blotted out the low country but left this jewelled world above it.

And, gulping the sweet air, I gazed about me gratefully at the clean
green land where I worked and made my living.

I could have stayed there, wandering round, watching Sam exploring with
waving tail, nosing into the shady corners where the sun had not
reached and the ground was iron hard and the rime thick and crisp on
the grass.  But I had an appointment to keep, and no ordinary one it
was with a peer of the realm.

Reluctantly I got back into the car.

I was due to start Lord Hulton's tuberculin test at 9.30 a.m. and as I
drove round the back of the Elizabethan mansion to the farm buildings
nearby I felt a pang of misgiving; there were no animals in sight.
There was only a man in tattered blue dungarees hammering busily at a
makeshift crush at the exit to the fold yard.

He turned round when he saw me and waved his hammer.  As I approached I
looked wonderingly at the slight figure with the soft fairish hair
falling over his brow, at the holed cardigan and muck-encrusted welling
tons.  You would have expected him to say,

"Nah then, Mr Herriot, how ista this morn in'?"

But he didn't, he said,

"Herriot, my dear chap, I'm most frightfully sorry, but I'm very much
afraid we're not quite ready for you."  And he began to fumble with his
tobacco pouch.

William George Henry Augustus, Eleventh Marquis of Hulton, always had a
pipe in his mouth and he was invariably either filling it, clean ing it
out with a metal reaming tool or trying to light it.  I had never seen
him actually smoking it.  And at times of stress he attempted to do
everything at once.  He was obviously embarrassed at his lack of
preparedness and when he saw me glance involuntarily at my watch he
grew more agitated, pulling his pipe from his mouth and putting it back
m again, tucking the hammer under his arm, rummaging in a large box of
matches.

I gazed across to the rising ground beyond the farm buildings.  Far off
on the horizon I could make out tiny figures: galloping beasts,
scurrying men; and faint sounds came down to me of barking dogs,
irritated bellowings and shrill cries of

"Haow, haow!"  "Gerraway by!"  "Sid down, dog!"

I sighed.  It was the old story.  Even the Yorkshire aristocracy seemed
to share this carefree attitude to time.

His lordship clearly sensed my feelings because his discomfort
increased.

"It's too bad of me, old chap," he said, spraying a few matchsticks
around and dropping flakes of tobacco on the stone flags.

"I did promise to be ready for nine thirty but those blasted animals
just won't cooperate."

I managed a smile.

"Oh never mind, Lord Hulton, they seem to be get ting them down the
hill now and I'm not in such a panic this morning anyway."

"Oh splendid, splendid!"  He attempted to ignite a towering mound of
dark Rake which spluttered feebly then toppled over the edge of his
pipe.

"And come and see this!  I've been rigging up a crush.  We'll drive
them in here and we'll really have 'em.  Remember we had a spot of
bother last time, what?"

I nodded.  I did remember.  Lord Hulton had only about thirty suckling
cows but it had taken a three-hour rodeo to test them.  I looked
doubtfully at the rickety structure of planks and corrugated iron.  It
would be interesting to see how it coped with the moorland cattle.

I didn't mean to rub it in, but again I glanced unthinkingly at my
watch and the little man winced as though he had received a blow.

"Dammit!"  he burst out.

"What are they doing over there?  Tell you what, I'll go and give them
a hand!"  Distractedly, he began to change hammer, pouch, pipe and
matches from hand to hand, dropping them and picking them up, before
finally deciding to put the hammer down and stuff the rest into his
pockets.  He went off at a steady trot and I thought as I had done so
often that there couldn't be many noblemen in England like him.

If I had been a marquis, I felt, I would still have been in bed or
perhaps just parting the curtains and peering out to see what kind of
day it was.  But Lord Hulton worked all the time, just about as hard as
any of his men.  One morning I arrived to find him at the supremely
mundane task of 'plugging muck', standing on a manure heap, hurling
steaming forkfuls on to a cart.  And he always dressed in rags.  I
suppose he must have had more orthodox items in his wardrobe but I
never saw them.  Even his tobacco was the great smoke of the ordinary
farmer - Redbreast Flake.

My musings were interrupted by the thunder of hooves and wild cries;
the Hulton herd was approaching.  Within minutes the fold yard was
filled with milling creatures, steam rising in rolling clouds from
their bodies.

The marquis appeared round the corner of the building at a gallop.

"Right, Charlie!"  he yelled.

"Let the first one into the crush!"

Panting with anticipation he stood by the nailed boards as the men
inside opened the yard gate.  He didn't have to wait long.  A shaggy
red monster catapulted from the interior, appeared briefly in the
narrow passage then emerged at about fifty miles an hour from the other
end with portions of his lordship's creation dangling from its horns
and neck.  The rest of the herd pounded close behind.

"Stop them!  Stop them!"  screamed the little peer, but it was of no
avail.  A hairy torrent flooded through the opening and in no time at
all the herd was legging it back to the high land in a wild stampede.
The men followed them and within a few moments Lord Hulton and I were
standing there just as before watching the tiny figures on the skyline,
listening to the distant

"Haow, haow!"

"Gerraway by!"

"I say," he murmured despondently.

"It didn't work terribly well, did it!"

But he was made of stern stuff.  Seizing his hammer he began to bang
away with undiminished enthusiasm and by the time the beasts returned
the crush was rebuilt and a stout iron bar pushed across the front to
prevent further break-outs.

It seemed to solve the problem because the first cow, confronted by the
bar, stood quietly and I was able to clip the hair on her neck through
an opening between the planks.  Lord Hulton, in high good humour,
settled down on an upturned oil drum with my testing book on his
knee.

"I'll do the writing for you," he cried.

"Fire away, old chap!"

I poised my calipers.

"Eight, eight."  He wrote it down and the next cow came in.

"Eight, eight," I said, and he bowed his head again.

The third cow arrived: "Eight, eight."  And the fourth,

"Eight, eight."

His lordship looked up from the book and passed a weary hand across his
forehead.

"Herriot, dear boy, can't you vary it a bit?  I'm beginning to lose
interest."

All went well until we saw the cow which had originally smashed the
crush.

She had sustained a slight scratch on her neck.

"I say, look at that!"  cried the peer.

"Will it be all right?"

"Oh yes, it's nothing.  Superficial."

"Ah, good, but don't you think we should have something to put on it?
Some of that .  . ."

I waited for it.  Lord Hulton was a devotee of May and Baker's
Propamidine Cream and used it for all minor cuts and grazes in his
cattle.  He loved the stuff.

But unfortunately he couldn't say

"Propamidine'.  In fact nobody on the entire establishment could say it
except Charlie the farm foreman and he only thought he could say it. He
called it

"Propopamide' but his lordship had the utmost faith in him.

"Charlie!"  he bawled.

"Are you there, Charlie?"

The foreman appeared from the pack in the yard and touched his cap.

"Yes, m'lord."

"Charlie, that wonderful stuff we get from Mr Herriot - you know, for
cut teats and things.  Pro .  .. Pero .  . . what the hell do you call
it again?"

Charlie paused.  It was one of his big moments.

"Propopamide, m'lord."

The marquis, intensely gratified, slapped the knee of his dungarees.

"That's it, Propopamide!  Damned if I can get my tongue round it.  Well
done, Charlie!"

Charlie inclined his head modestly.

The whole test was a vast improvement on last time and we were finished
within an hour and a half.  There was just one tragedy.  About half way
through, one of the cows dropped down dead with an attack of
hypomagnesaemia, a condition which often plagues sucklers.  It was a
sudden, painless collapse and I had no chance to do any thing Lord
Hulton looked down at the animal which had just stopped breathing.

"Do you think we could salvage her for meat if we bled her?"

"Well, it's typical hypomag.  Nothing to harm anybody .  . . you could
try.  It would depend on what the meat inspector says."

The cow was bled, pulled into a van and the peer drove off to the
abattoir.

He came back just as we were finishing the test.

"How did you get on?"  I asked him.

"Did they accept her?"

He hesitated.

"No .  . . no, old chap," he said sadly.

"I'm afraid they didn't."

"Why?  Did the meat inspector condemn the carcass?"

"Well .  . . I never got as far as the meat inspector, actually .  . .
just saw one of the slaughter men."

"And what did he say?"

"Just two words, Herriot."

"Two words .  . . ?"

"Yes .  . .

"Bugger off!"  ' I nodded.

"I see."  It was easy to imagine the scene.  The tough slaughter man
viewing the small, unimpressive figure and deciding that he wasn't
going to be put out of his routine by some ragged farm man.

"Well, never mind, sir," I said.

"You can only try."

"True .  . . true, old chap."  He dropped a few matches as he fumbled
disconsolately with his smoking equipment.

As I was get ting into the car I remembered about the Propamidine.

"Don't forget to call down for that cream, will you?"

"Ely Jove, yes!  I'll come down for it after lunch.  I have great faith
in that Prom .  . . Pram .  . . Charlie!  Damn and blast, what is
it?"

Charlie drew himself up proudly.

"Propopamide, m'lord."

"Ah yes, Propopamide!"  The little man laughed, his good humour quite
restored.

"Good lad, Charlie, you're a marvel!"

"Thank you, m'lord."  The foreman wore the smug expression of the
expert as he drove the cattle back into the field.

It's a funny thing, but when you see a client about something you very
often see him soon again about something else.  It was only a week
later, with the district still in the iron grip of winter, that my
bedside 'phone jangled me from slumber.

After that first palpitation of the heart which I feel does vets no
good at all I reached a sleepy hand from under the sheets.

"Yes?"  I grunted.

"Herriot ... I say, Herriot ... is that you, Herriot?"  The voice
was laden with tension.

"Yes, it is, Lord Hulton."

"Oh good .  . . good .  . . dash it, I do apologise.  Frightfully bad
show, waking you up like this .  . . but I've got something damn
peculiar here."  A soft pattering followed which I took to be matches
falling around the receiver.

"Really?"  I yawned and my eyes closed involuntarily.

"In what way, exactly?"

"Well, I've been sitting up with one of my best sows.  Been farrowing
and produced twelve nice piglets, but there's something very odd."

"How do you mean?"

"Difficult to describe, old chap .  . . but you know the .  . . er .  .
. bottom aperture .  . . there's a bloody great long red thing hanging
from it."

My eyes snapped open and my mouth gaped in a soundless scream.
Prolapsed uterus!  Hard labour in cows, a pleasant exercise in ewes,
impossible in sows.

"Long red .  . . !  When .  . . ?  How .  . . ?"  I was stammering
pointlessly.  I didn't have to ask.

"Just popped it out, dear boy.  I was waiting for another piglet and
whoops, there it was.  Gave me a nasty turn."

My toes curled tightly beneath the blankets.  It was no good telling
him that I had seen five prolapsed uteri in pigs in my limited
experience and had failed in every case.  I had come to the conclusion
that there was no way of putting them back.

But I had to try.

"I'll be right out," I muttered.

I looked at the alarm clock.  It was five thirty.  A horrible time,
truncating the night's slumber yet eliminating any chance of a soothing
return to bed for an hour before the day's work.  And I hated turning
out even more since my marriage.  Helen was lovely to come back to, but
by the same token it was a bigger wrench to leave her soft warm
presence and venture into the inhospitable world outside.

And the journey to the Hulton farm was not enlivened by my memories of
those five other sows.  I had tried everything; full anaesthesia,
lifting them upside down with pulleys, directing a jet from a hose on
the everted organ, and all the time pushing, straining, sweating over
the great mass of flesh which refused to go back through that absurdly
small hole.  The result in each case had been the conversion of my
patient into pork pies and a drastic plummeting of my self esteem.

There was no moon and the soft glow from the piggery door made the only
light among the black outlines of the buildings.  Lord Hulton was
waiting at the entrance and I thought I had better warn him.

"I have to tell you, sir, that this is a very serious condition.  It's
only fair that you should know that the sow very often has to be
slaughtered."

The little man's eyes widened and the corners of his mouth drooped.

"Oh, I say!  That's rather a bore .  . . one of my best animals.  I . .
. I'm rather attached to that pig."  He was wearing a polo-necked
sweater of such advanced dilapidation that the hem hung in long woollen
fronds almost to his knees, and as he tremblingly attempted to light
his pipe he looked very vulnerable.

"But I'll do my very best," I added hastily.

"There's always a chance."

"Oh, good man!"  In his relief, he dropped his pouch and as he stooped
the open box of matches spilled around his feet.  It was some time
before we retrieved them and went into the piggery.

The reality was as bad as my imaginings.  Under the single weak
electric bulb of the pen an unbelievable length of very solid-loo king
red tissue stretched from the rear end of a massive white sow lying
immobile on her side.  The twelve pink piglets fought and worried along
the row of teats; they didn't seem to be get ting much.

As I stripped off and dipped my arms into the steaming bucket I wished
with all my heart that the porcine uterus was a little short thing and
not this horrible awkward shape.  And it was a disquieting thought that
tonight I had no artificial aids.  People used all sorts of tricks and
various types of equipment but here in this silent building there was
just the pig, Lord Hulton and me.  His lordship, I knew, was willing
and eager, but he had helped me at jobs before and his usefulness was
impaired by the fact that his hands were always filled with his smoking
items and he kept dropping things.

I got down on my knees behind the animal with the feeling that I was on
my own.  And as soon as I cradled the mass in my arms the conviction
flooded through me that this was going to be the same as all the
others.  The very idea of this lot going back whence it came was
ridiculous and the impression was reinforced as I began to push.
Nothing happened.

I had sedated the sow heavily and she wasn't straining much against me;
it was just that the thing was so huge.  By a supreme effort I managed
to feed a few inches back into the vaginal opening but as soon as I
relaxed it popped quietly out again.  My strongest instinct was to call
the whole thing off without delay; the end result would be the same and
anyway I wasn't feeling very strong.

In fact my whole being was permeated by the leaden-armed pervading
weakness one feels when forced to work in the small hours.

I would try just once more.  Lying Rat, my naked chest against the cold
concrete I fought with the thing till my eyes popped and my breath gave
out, but it had not the slightest effect and it made my mind up; I had
to tell him.

Rolling over on my back I looked up at him, panting, waiting till I had
the wind to speak.  I would say,

"Lord Hulton, we are really wasting our time here.

This is an impossible case.  I am going back home now and I'll ring the
slaughterhouse first thing in the morning."  The prospect of escape was
beguiling; I might even be able to crawl in beside Helen for an hour.
But as my mouth framed the words the little man looked down at me
appealingly as though he knew what I was going to say.  He tried to
smile but darted anxious glances at me, at the pig and back again. From
the other end of the animal a soft uncomplaining grunt reminded me that
I wasn't the only one involved.

I didn't say any thing.  I turned back on to my chest, braced my feet
against the wall of the pen and began again.  I don't know how long I
lay there, pushing, relaxing, pushing again as I gasped and groaned and
the sweat ran steadily down my back.  The peer was silent but I knew he
was following my progress intently because every now and then I had to
brush matches from the surface of the uterus.

Then for no particular reason the heap of flesh in my arms felt
suddenly smaller.  I glared desperately at the thing.  There was no
doubt about it, it was only half the size.  I had to take a breather
and a hoarse croak escaped me.

"God!  I think it's going back!"

I must have startled Lord Hulton in mid fill because I heard a
stifled

"What .  . . what .  . . oh I say, how absolutely splendid!"  and a
fragrant shower of tobacco cascaded from above.

This was it, then.  Summoning the last of my energy for one big effort
I blew half an ounce or so of Redbreast Flake from the uterine mucosa
and heaved forward.  And, miraculously there was little resistance and
I stared in disbelief as the great organ disappeared gloriously and
wonderfully from sight.  I was right behind it with my arm, probing
frantically away up to the shoulder as I rotated my wrist again and
again till both uterine cornua were fully involuted.

When I was certain beyond doubt that everything was back in place I lay
there for a few moments, my arm still deep inside the sow, my forehead
resting on the floor.  Dimly, through the mist of exhaustion I heard
Lord Hulton's cries.

"Stout fella!  Dash it, how marvellous!  Oh stout fella!"  He was
almost dancing with joy.

One last terror assailed me.  What if it came out again?  Quickly I
seized needle and thread and began to insert a few sutures in the
vulva.

"Here, hold this!"  I barked, giving him the scissors.

Stitching with the help of Lord Hulton wasn't easy.  I kept pushing
needle or SCisSors into his hands then demanding them back
peremptorily, and it caused a certain amount of panic.  Twice he passed
me his pipe to cut the ends of my Suture and on one occasion I found
myself trying in the dim light to thread the silk through his reaming
tool.  His lordship suffered too, in his turn, because

I

heard the occasional stifled oath as he impaled a finger on the
needle.

But at last it was done.  I rose wearily to my feet and leaned against
the wall, my mouth hanging open, sweat trickling into my eyes.  The
little man's eyes were full of concern as they roved over my limply
hanging arms and the caked blood and filth on my chest.

"Herriot, my dear old chap, you're all in!  And you'll catch pneumonia
or something if you stand around half naked.  You need a hot drink.
Tell you what - get yourself cleaned up and dressed and I'll run down
to the house for something."  He scurried swiftly away.

My aching muscles were slow to obey as I soaped and towelled myself and
pulled on my shirt.  Fastening my watch round my wrist I saw that it
was after seven and I could hear the farm men clattering in the yard
outside as they began their morning tasks.

I was buttoning my jacket when the little peer returned.  He bore a
tray with a pint mug of steaming coffee and two thick slices of bread
and honey.  He placed it on a bale of straw and pulled up an upturned
bucket as a chair before hopping on to a meal bin where he sat like a
pixie on a toadstool with his arms around his knees, regarding me with
keen anticipation.

"The servants are still abed, old chap," he said.

"So I made this little bite for you myself."

I sank on to the bucket and took a long pull at the coffee.  It was
black and scalding with a kick like a Galloway bullock and it spread
like fire through my tired frame.  Then I bit into the first slice of
bread; home made, plastered thickly with farm butter and topped by a
lavish layer of heather honey from the long row of hives I had often
seen on the edge of the moor above.  I closed my eyes in reverence as I
chewed, then as I reached for the pint pot again I looked up at the
small figure on the bin.

"May I say, sir, that this isn't a bite, it's a feast.  It is all
absolutely delicious."

His face lit up with impish glee.

"Well, dash it .  . . do you really think so?

I'm so pleased.  And you've done nobly, dear boy.  Can't tell you how
grateful I am."

As I continued to eat ecstatically, feeling the strength ebbing back,
he glanced uneasily into the pen.

"Herriot .  . . those stitches.  Don't like the look of them much .  .
."

"Oh yes," I said.

"They're just a precaution.  You can nick them out in a couple of
days."

"Splendid!  But won't they leave a wound?  We'd better put something on
there."

I paused in mid chew.  Here it was again.  He only needed his
Propamidine to complete his happiness.

"Yes, old chap, we must apply some of that Prip ... Prom .  . . oh hell
and blast, it's no good!"  He threw back his head and bellowed,

"Charlie!"

The foreman appeared in the entrance, touching his cap.

"Morning, m'lord."

"Morning, Charlie.  See that this sow gets some of that wonderful cream
on her.  What the blazes d'you call it again?"

Charlie swallowed and squared his shoulders.

"Propopamide, m'lord."

The little man threw his arms high in delight.

"Of course, of course!

Propopamide!  I wonder if I'll ever be able to get that word out?"  He
looked admiringly at his foreman.

"Charlie, you never fail I don't know how you do it."

Charlie bowed gravely in acknowledgement.

Lord Hulton turned to me.  "You'll let us have some more Propopamide,
won't you, Herriot?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"I think I have some in the car."

Sitting there on the bucket amid the mixed aroma of pig and barley meal
and coffee I could almost feel the waves of pleasure beating on me. His
lordship was clearly enchanted by the whole business, Charlie was
wearing the superior smile l ..... .

which always accom panied his demonstrations of lingual dexterity, and
as for myself I was experiencing a mounting euphoria.

I could see into the pen and the sight was rewarding.  The little pigs
who had been sheltered in a large box during the operation were back
with their mother, side by side in a long pink row as their tiny mouths
enclosed the teats.  The sow seemed to be letting her milk down, too,
because there was no frantic scramble for position, just a rapt
concentration.

She was a fine pedigree pig and instead of Lying on the butcher's slab
today she would be star ting to bring up her family.  As though reading
my thoughts she gave a series of contented grunts and the old feeling
began to bubble in me, the deep sense of fulfilment and satisfaction
that comes from even the smallest triumph and makes our lives worth
while.

And there was something else.  A new thought stealing into my
consciousness with a delicious fresh tingle about it.  At this moment,
who else in the length and breadth of Britain was eating a breakfast
personally prepared and served by a marquis?

Chapter Three I am afraid of dentists.

I am particularly afraid of strange dentists, so before I went into the
RAF I made sure my teeth were in order.  Everybody told me they were
very strict about the air crews' teeth and I didn't want some unknown
prodding around in my mouth.  There had to be no holes anywhere or they
would start to ache away up there in the sky, so they said.

So before my call-up I went to old Mr Grover in Darrow by and he
painstakingly did all that was necessary.  He was good at his job and
was always gentle and careful and didn't strike the same terror into me
as other dentists.

All I felt when I went to his surgery was a dryness of the throat and a
quivering at the knees, and providing I kept my eyes tightly shut all
the time I managed to get through the visit fairly easily.

My fear of dentists dates back to my earliest experiences in the
twenties.  As a child I was taken to the dread Hector McDarroch in
Glasgow and he did my dental work right up to my teens.  Friends of my
youth tell me that he inspired a similar lasting fear in them, too, and
in fact there must be a whole generation of Glaswegians who feel the
same.

Of course you couldn't blame Hector entirely.  The equipment in those
days was primitive and a visit to any dental practitioner was an
ordeal.  But Hector with his booming laugh, was so large and
overpowering that he made it worse.

Actually he was a very nice man, cheerful and good-natured, but the
other side of him blotted it all out.

The electric drill had not yet been invented or if it had, it hadn't
reached Scotland, and Hector bored holes in teeth with a fearsome
foot-operated machine.

There was a great wheel driven by a leather belt and this powered the
drill, and as you lay in the chair two things dominated the outlook;
the wheel whirring by your ear and Hector's huge knee pistoning almost
into your face as he pedalled furiously.

He came from the far north and at the Highland games he used to array
himself in kilt and sporran and throw cabers around like matchsticks.
He was so big and strong that I always felt hopelessly trapped in that
chair with his bulk over me and the wheel grinding and the pedal
thumping.  He didn't exactly put his foot on my chest but he had me all
right.

And it didn't worry him when he got into the sensitive parts with his
drill; my strangled cries were of no avail and he carried on
remorselessly to the end.

I had the impression that Hector thought it was cissy to feel pain, or
maybe he was of the opinion that suffering was good for the soul.

Anyway, since those days I've had a marked preference for small frail
soft spoken dentists like Mr Grover.  I like to feel that if it came to
a stand-up fight I would have a good chance of victory and escape.
Also, Mr Grover understood that people were afraid, and that helped.  I
remember him chuckling when he told me about the big farm men who came
to have their teeth extracted.  Many a time, he said, he had gone
across the room for his instruments and turned back to find the chair
empty.

I still don't enjoy going to the dentist but I have to admit that the
modern men are wonderful.  I hardly see mine when I go.  Just a brief
glimpse of a white coat then all is done from behind.  Fingers come
round, things go in and out of my mouth but even when I venture to open
my eyes I see nothing.

Hector McDarroch, on the other hand, seemed to take a pleasure in
showing off his grisly implements, filling the long-needled syringe
right in front of my eyes and squirting the cocaine ceiling wards a few
times before he started on me.

And worse, before an extraction he used to clank about in a tin box,
producing a series of hideous forceps and examining them, whistling
softly, till he found the right one.

So with all this in mind, as I sat in a long queue of airmen for the
preliminary examination, I was thankful I had been to Mr Grover for a
complete check-up.

A dentist stood by a chair at the end of the long room and he examined
the young men in blue one by one before calling out his findings to an
orderly at a desk.

I derived considerable entertainment from watching the expressions on
the lads' faces when the call went out.

"Three fillings, two extractions!"  "Eight fillings!"  Most of them
looked stunned, some thunderstruck, others almost tearful.

Now and again one would try to expostulate with the man in white but it
was no good; nobody was listening.  At times I could have laughed out
loud.  Mind you, I felt a bit mean at being amused, but after all they
had only themselves to blame.  If only they had shown my foresight they
would have had nothing to worry about.

When my name was called I strolled across, humming a little tune, and
dropped nonchalantly into the chair.  It didn't take the man long.  He
poked his way swiftly along my teeth then rapped out,

"Five fillings and one extraction!"

I sat bolt upright and stared at him in amazement.

"But .  . . but .  . ."  I began to yammer,

"I had a check up by my own .  . ."

"Next, please," murmured the dentist.

"But Mr Grover said .  . ."

"Next man!  Move along!"  bawled the orderly, and as I shuffled away I
gazed appealingly at the white-coated figure.  But he was reciting a
list of my pre molars and incisors and showed no interest.

I was still trembling when I was handed the details of my fate.

"Report at Regent Lodge tomorrow morning for the extraction," the WAAF
girl said Tomorrow morning!  By God, they didn't mess about!  And what
the heck did it all mean, anyway?  My teeth were perfectly sound. There
was only that one with the bit of enamel chipped off.  Mr Grover had
pointed it out and said it wouldn't give any trouble.  It was the tooth
that held my pipe surely it couldn't be that one.

But there came the disquieting thought that my opinion didn't matter.
When my feeble protests were ignored back there it hit me for the first
time that I wasn't a civilian any more Next morning the din from the
dustbin lids had hardly subsided when the grim realisation drove into
my brain.  I was going to have a tooth out today!

And very soon, too.  I passed the intervening hours in growing
apprehension; morning parade, the march through the darkness to
breakfast.  The dried egg and fried bread were less attractive than
ever and the grey day had hardly got under way before I was approaching
the forbidding facade of Regent Lodge.

As I climbed the steps my palms began to sweat.  I didn't like having
my teeth drilled but extractions were infinitely worse.  Something in
me recoiled from the idea of having a part of myself torn away by
force, even if it didn't hurt.

But.

of course, I told myself as I walked along an echoing corridor, it
never did hurt nowadays.  Just a little prick, then nothing.

I was nurturing this comforting thought when I turned into a large
assembly room with numbered doors leading from it.  About thirty airmen
sat around wearing a variety of expressions from sickly smiles to tough
bravado.  A chilling smell of antiseptic hung on the air.  I chose a
chair and settled down to wait.

I

had been in the armed forces long enough to know that you waited a long
time for everything and I saw no reason why a dental appointment should
be any different.

As I sat down the man on my left gave me a brief nod.  He was fat, and
greasy black hair fell over his pimpled brow.  Though engrossed in
picking his teeth with a match he gave me a long appraising stare
before addressing me in rich cockney.

"What room you goin' in, mate?"

I looked at my card.

"Room four."

"Blimey, mate, you've 'ad it!"  He removed his matchstick and grinned
wolfishly.

"Had it .  . . ?  What do you mean?"

"Well, haven't you 'eard?  That's The Butcher in there."

"The .  . . The .  . . Butcher?"  I quavered.

"Yeh, that's what they call the dental officer in there."  He gave an
expansive smile.

"He's a right killer, that bloke, I'll tell yen' I swallowed.

"Butcher .  . . ?  Killer .  . . ?  Oh come on.  They'll all be the
same I'm sure."

"Don't you believe it, mate.  There's good an' there's bad, and that
bloke's pure murder.  It shouldn't be allowed."

"How do you know, anyway?"

He waved an airy hand.

"Oh I've been 'ere a few times and I've heard some bleed in, awful
screams com in' out of that room.  Spoken to some of the chaps
afterwards' too.  They all call 'im The Butcher."

I rubbed my hands on the rough blue of my trousers.

"Oh you hear these tales.  I'm sure they're exaggerated."

"Well, you'll find out, mate."  He resumed his tooth picking.

"But don't say I didn't tell you."

He went on about various things but I only half heard him.  His name,
it seemed, was Simkin, and he was not an air crew cadet like the rest
of us but a regular and a member of the ground staff, he worked in the
kitchens.  He spoke Scornfully of us raw recruits and pointed out that
we would have to 'get some Service in' before we were fit to associate
with the real members of the Royal Air Force.  I noticed, however, that
despite his own years of allegiance he was still an AC2 like myself.

Almost an hour passed with my heart thumping every time the door of
number four opened.  I had to admit that the young men leaving that
room all looked a bit shattered and one almost reeled out, holding his
mouth with both hands.

"Cor!  Look at that poor bugger!"  Simkin drawled with ill-concealed
satisfaction.

"Strike me!  He's been through it, poor bleeder.  I'm glad I'm not in
your shoes, mate."

I could feel the tension mounting in me.

"What room are you going into, anyway?"  I asked.

He did a bit of deep exploration with his match.

"Room two, mate.  I've been in there before.  He's a grand bloke, one
of the best.  Never 'urts you."

"Well you're lucky, aren't you?"

"Not lucky, mate."  He paused and stabbed his match at me.

"I know my way around, that's all.  There's ways and means."  He
allowed one eyelid to drop briefly.

The conversation was abruptly terminated as the dread door opened and a
WAAF came out.

"AC2 Herriot!"  she called.

I got up on shaking limbs and took a deep breath.  As I set off I had a
fleeting .t glimpse of the leer of pure delight on Simkin's face.  He
was really enjoying himself.

As I passed the portals my feeling of doom increased.  The Butcher was
another Hector McDarroch; about six feet two with rugby forward
shoulders bulging his white coat.  My flesh crept as he unleashed a
hearty laugh and motioned me towards the chair.

As I sat down I decided to have one last try.

"Is this the tooth?"  I asked, tapping the only possible suspect.

"It is indeed!"  boomed The Butcher.

"That's the one."

"Ah well," I said with a light laugh.

"I'm sure I can explain.  There's been some mistake .  . ."

"Yes .  . . yes .  . ."  he murmured, filling the syringe before my
eyes and sending a few playful spurts into the air.

"There's just a bit of enamel off it, and Mr Grover said .  . ."

The WAAF suddenly wound the chair back and I found myself in the
semi-prone position with the white bulk looming over me.

"You see," I gasped desperately.

"I need that tooth.  It's the one that holds my ' A strong finger was
on my gum and I felt the needle going in.  I resigned myself to my
fate.

When he had inserted the local the big man put the syringe down.

"We'll just give that a minute or two," he said, and left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him the WAAF tiptoed over to me.

"This feller's loopy!"  she whispered.

Half Lying, I stared at her.

"Loopy .  . . ?  What d'you mean?"

"Crackers!  Round the bend!  No idea how to pull teeth!"

"But .  . . but .  . . he's a dentist isn't he .  . . ?"

She pulled a wry face,

"Thinks he is!  But he hasn't a clue!"

I had no time to explore this cheering information further because the
door opened and the big man returned.  : He seized a horrible pair of
forceps and I closed my eyes as he started flexing his muscles.

I must admit I felt nothing.  I knew he was twisting and tugging away
up there but the local had mercifully done its job.  I was telling
myself that it would Soon be over when I heard a sharp crack.

I opened my eyes.  The Butcher was gazing disappointedly at my
broken-off tooth in his forceps The root was still in my gum.

Behind him the WAAF gave me a long

"I told you so' nod.  She was a pretty little thing, but I fear the
libido of the young men she encountered in here would be at a low
ebb.

' Oh!"  The Butcher grunted and began to rummage in a metal box.  It
took me right back to the McDarroch days as he fished out one forceps
after another, opened and shut them a few times then tried them on
me.

But it was of no avail, and as the time passed I was the unwilling
witness of the gradual transition from heartiness to silence, then to
something like panic.

The man was clearly whacked.  He had no idea how to shift that root.

He must have been gouging for half an hour when an idea seemed to
strike him.  Pushing all the forceps to one side he almost ran from the
room and reappeared shortly with a tray on which reposed a long chisel
and a metal mallet.

At a sign from him the WAAF wound the chair back till I was completely
horizontal.  Seemingly familiar with the routine, she cradled my head
in her arms in a practised manner and stood waiting.

This couldn't be true, I thought, as the man inserted the chisel into
my mouth and poised the mallet; but all doubts were erased as the metal
rod thudded against the remnants of my tooth and my head in turn shot
back into the little WAAF's bosom.  And that was how it went on.  I
lost count of time as The Butcher banged away and the girl hung on
grimly to my jerking skull.

The thought uppermost in my mind was that I had always wondered how
young horses felt when I knocked wolf teeth out of them.  Now I knew.

When it finally stopped I opened my eyes, and though by this time I was
prepared for any thing I still felt slightly surprised to see The
Butcher threading a needle with a length of suture silk.  He was
sweating and loo king just a little desperate as he bent over me yet
again.

"Just a couple of stitches," he muttered hoarsely, and I closed my eyes
again.

When I left the chair I felt very strange indeed.  The assault on my
cranium had made me dizzy and the sensation of the long ends of the
stitches tickling my tongue was distinctly odd.  I'm sure that when I
came out of the room I was staggering, and instinctively I pawed at my
mouth.

The first man I saw was Simkin.  He was there where I had left him but
he looked different as he beckoned excitedly to me.  I went over and he
caught at my tunic with one hand.

"What dyer think, mate?"  he gasped.

"They've changed me round and I've got to go into room four."  He
gulped.

"You looked bloody awful com in' out there.

What was it like?"

I looked at him.  Maybe there was going to be a gleam of light this
morning.

I sank into the chair next to him and groaned.

"By God, you weren't kidding!  I've never met anybody like that he's
half killed me.  They don't call him The Butcher for nothing!"

"Why .  . . what .  . . what did 'e do?"

"Nothing much.  Just knocked my tooth out with a hammer and chisel,
that's "Garn!  You're 'avin' me on!"  Simkin made a ghastly attempt to
smile "Word of honour," I said.

"Anyway, there's the tray coming out now.  Look for yourself.

He stared at the WAAF carrying the dreadful implements and turned very
pale.

"Oh blimey!  What .  . . what else did 'e do?"

I held my jaw for a moment.

"Well he did something I've never seen before.

He made such a great hole in my gum that he had to stitch me up
afterwards."

Simkin shook his head violently.

"Naow, I'm not 'avin' that!  I don't believe yer!"

"All right," I said.

"What do you think of this?"

I leaned forward, put my thumb under my lip and jerked it up to give
him a close-up view of the long gash and the trailing blood-stained
ends of the stitches.

He shrank away from me, lips trembling, eyes wide.

"Gawd!"  he moaned.

"Oh Gawd .  . . !"

It was unfortunate that the WAAF chose that particular moment to call
out "AC2 Simkin' piercingly from the doorway, because the poor fellow
leaped as though a powerful electric current had passed through him.
Then, head down, he trailed across the room.  At the door he turned and
gave me a last despairing look and I saw him no more.

This experience deepened my dread of the five fillings which awaited
me.  But I needn't have worried; they were trivial things and were
efficiently and painlessly dealt with by RAF dentists very different
from The Butcher.

And yet, many years after the war had ended, the man from room four
stretched out a long arm from the past and touched me on the shoulder.
I began to feel something sharp coming through the roof of my mouth and
went to Mr Grover, who X-rayed me and showed me a pretty picture of
that fateful root still there despite the hammer and chisel.  He
extracted it and the saga was ended.

The Butcher remained a vivid memory because, apart from my ordeal, I
was constantly reminded of him by the dangerous wobbling of my pipe at
the edge of that needless gap in my mouth.

But I did have a small solace.  I finished my visit to room four with a
parting shaft which gave me a little comfort.  As I tottered away I
paused and addressed the big man's back as he prepared for his next
victim.

"By the way," I said.

"I've knocked out a lot of teeth just like you did there."

He turned and stared at me.

"Really?  Are you a dentist?"

"No," I replied over my shoulder as I left.

"I'm a vet!"

Chapter Four My impression that I had been hurled into a coarser world
was heightened at the beginning of each day, particularly one morning
when I was on fire picket duty and had the sadistic pleasure of
rattling the dustbin lids and shouting 'wa key-wa key!"  along the
corridors.  It wasn't the cursing and the obscene remarks which struck
deepest, it was the extraordinary abdominal noises issuing from the
dark rooms.  They reminded me of my patient, Cedric, and in an instant
I was back in Darrow by answering the telephone.

The voice at the other end was oddly hesitant.

"Mr Herriot .  . . I should be grateful if you would come and see my
dog."  It was a woman, obviously upper class.

"Certainly.  What's the trouble?"

"Well .  . he .  . . er .  . . he seems to suffer from .  . .

"I beg your pardon?"

There was a long pause.

"He has .  . . excessive flatus."

"In what way, exactly?"

"Well .  . . I suppose you'd describe it as ..

to tremble.

I thought I could see a gleam of light.

"You mean his stomach .

"No, not his stomach.  He passes .  . . era considerable quantity of . 
. .

wind from his .  . . his .  . ."  A note of desperation had crept in.

"Ah, yes!"  All became suddenly clear.

"I quite understand.  But that doesn't sound very serious.  Is he
ill?"

"No, he's very fit in other ways."

"Well then, do you think it's necessary for me to see him?"

"Oh yes, indeed, Mr Herriot.  I wish you would come as soon as
possible.  It has become quite .  . . quite a problem."

"All right," I said.

"I'll look in this morning.  Can I have your name and address,
please?"

"It's Mrs Rumney, The Laurels."

certain amount of flatus."

.` windiness."  The voice had beau..

I like women better than men.

Mind you, I have nothing against men after all, I am one myself but in
the RAF there were too many of them.  Literally thousands, jostling,
shouting, swearing; you couldn't get away from them.  Some of them
became my friends and have remained so until the present day, but the
sheer earthy mass of them made me realise how my few months of married
life had changed me.

Women are gentler, softer, cleaner, altogether nicer things and I, who
always considered myself one of the boys, had come to the surprising
conclusion that the com panion I wanted most was a woman.

The Laurels was a very nice house on the edge of the town standing back
from the road in a large garden.  Mrs Rumney herself let me in and I
felt a shock of surprise at my first sight of her.  It wasn't just that
she was strikingly beautiful; there was an unworldly air about her. She
would be around forty but had the appearance of a heroine in a
Victorian novel tall, willowy, ethereal.  And I could understand
immediately her hesitation on the 'phone.  Everything about her
suggested fastidiousness and delicacy.

"Cedric is in the kitchen," she said.

"I'll take you through."

I had another surprise when I saw Cedric.  An enormous Boxer hurled
himself on me in delight, clawing at my chest with the biggest,
horniest feet I had seen for a long time.  I tried to fight him off but
he kept at me, panting ecstatically into my face and wagging his entire
rear end.

"Sit down, boy!"  the lady said sharply, then, as Cedric took
absolutely no notice, she turned to me nervously.

"He's so friendly."

"Yes," I said breathlessly,

"I can see that."  I finally managed to push the huge animal away and
backed into a corner for safety.

"How often does this ... excessive flatus occur?"

As if in reply an almost palpable sulphurous wave arose from the dog
and eddied around me.  It appeared that the excitement of seeing me had
activated Cedric's weakness.  I was up against the wall and unable to
obey my first instinct to run for cover so I held my hand over my face
for a few moments before speaking.

"Is that what you meant?"

Mrs Rumney waved a lace handkerchief under her nose and the faintest
flush crept into the pallor of her cheeks.

"Yes," she replied almost inaudibly

"Yes .  . . that is it."

"Oh well," I said briskly.

"There's nothing to worry about.  Let's go into the other room and
we'll have a word about his diet and a few other things."

It turned out that Cedric was get ting rather a lot of meat and I drew
up a little chart cutting down the protein and adding extra
carbohydrates.  I prescribed a kaolin antacid mixture to be given night
and morning and left the house in a confident frame of mind.

It was one of those trivial things and I had entirely forgotten it when
Mrs Rumney 'phoned again.

"I'm afraid Cedric is no better, Mr Herriot."

"Oh I'm sorry to hear that.  He's stiller .  . . still .  . . yes .  .
. yes .  ."  I spent a few moments in thought.

"I tell you what I don't think I can do any more by seeing him at the
moment, but I think you should cut out his meat completely for a week
or two.  Keep him on biscuits and brown bread rusked in the oven.

Try him with that and vegetables and I'll give you some powder to mix
in his food.  Perhaps you'd call round for it."

The powder was a pretty strong absorbent mixture and I felt sure it
would do the trick, but a week later Mrs Rumney was on the 'phone
again.

"There's absolutely no improvement, Mr Herriot."  The tremble was back
in her voice.

"I .  .. I do wish you'd come and see him again."  .

I couldn't see much point in viewing this perfectly healthy animal
again but .

I promised to call.  I had a busy day and it was after six o'clock
before I got round to The Laurels.  There were several cars in the
drive and when I went into the house I saw that Mrs Rumney had a few
people in for drinks; people like herself upper class and of obvious
refinement.  In fact I felt rather a lout in my working clothes among
the elegant gathering.

Mrs Rumney was about to lead me through to the kitchen when the door
burst open and Cedric bounded delightedly into the midst of the
company.

Within seconds an aesthetic-loo king gentleman was frantically beating
off the attack as the great feet ripped down his waistcoat.  He got
away at the cost of a couple of buttons and the Boxer turned his
attention to one of the ladies.

She was in imminent danger of losing her dress when I pulled the dog
off her.

Pandemonium broke out in the graceful room, The hostess's plaintive
appeals rang out above the cries of alarm as the big dog charged
around, but very soon

I

realised that a more insidious element had crept into the situation.
The atmosphere in the room became rapidly charged with an unmistakable
effluvium and it was clear that Cedric's unfortunate malady had
reasserted itself.

I did my best to shepherd the animal out of the room but he didn't seem
to know the meaning of obedience and I chased him in vain.  And as the
embarrassing.

minutes ticked away I began to realise for the first time the enormity
of the problem which confronted Mrs Rumney.  Most dogs break wind
occasionally but Cedric was different; he did it all the time.  And
while his silent emanationS were perhaps more treacherous there was no
doubt that the audible ones were painfully distressing in a company
like this.

Cedric made it worse, because at each rasping expulsion he would look
round, enquiringly at his back end then gambol about the room as though
the fugitive zephyr was clearly visible to him and he was determined to
corner it.

It seemed a year before I got him out of there.  Mrs Rumney held the
door wide as I finally managed to steer him towards it but the big dog
wasn't finished: yet.  On his way out he cocked a leg swiftly and
directed a powerful jet against!

an immaculate trouser leg.

After that night I threw myself into the struggle on Mrs Rumney's
behalf] I felt she desperately needed my help, and I made frequent
visits and tried innumerable remedies.  I consulted my colleague
Siegfried on the problem and he suggested a diet of charcoal biscuits.
Cedric ate them in vast quantities and with evident enjoyment but they,
like everything else, made not the slightest difference to his
condition And all the time I pondered upon the enigma of Mrs Rumney.
She had lived in Darrow by for several years but the townsfolk knew
little about her.  It was a matter of debate whether she was a widow or
separated from her husband.

But I was not interested in such things; the biggest mystery to me was
how she ever got involved with a dog like Cedric.

It was difficult to think of any animal less suited to her personality.
Apart from his regrettable affliction he was in every way the opposite
to herself; a great thick-headed rumbustious extrovert totally out of
place in her gracious menage.  I never did find out how they came
together but on my visits I found that Cedric had one admirer at
least.

He was Con Fen ton, a retired farm worker who did a bit of jobbing
gardening and spent an average of three days a week at The Laurels. The
Boxer romped down the drive after me as I was leaving and the old man
looked at him with undisguised admiration.

"By gaw," he said.

"He's a fine dog, is that!"

"Yes, he is, Con, he's a good chap really."  And I meant it.  You
couldn't help liking Cedric when you got to know him.  He was utterly
amiable and without vice and he gave off a constant aura not merely of
noxious va pours but of bonhomie.  When he tore off people's buttons or
sprinkled their trousers he did it in a spirit of the purest amity.

"Just look at them limbs!"  breathed Con, staring rapturously at the
dog's muscular thighs.

"By heck, 'e can jump ower that gate as if it weren't there.

He's what ah call a dog!"

As he spoke it struck me that Cedric would be likely to appeal to him
because he was very like the Boxer himself; not over-burdened with
brains, built like an ox with powerful shoulders and a big
constantly-grinning face they were two of a kind.

"Aye, ah all us likes it when t'missus lets him out in "'garden."  Con
went on.

He always spoke in a peculiar snuffling manner.

"He's grand company."

I looked at him narrowly.  No, he wouldn't be likely to notice Cedric's
complaint since he always saw him out of doors.

On my way back to the surgery I brooded on the fact that I was
achieving absolutely nothing with my treatment.  And though it seemed
ridiculous to worry about a case like this, there was no doubt the
thing had begun to prey on my mind.  In fact I began to transmit my
anxieties to Siegfried.  As I got out of the car he was coming down the
steps of Skeldale House and he put a hand on my arm.

"You've been to The Laurels, James?  Tell me," he enquired
solicitously, 'how is your farting Boxer today?"

"Still at it, I'm afraid," I replied, and my colleague shook his head
in commiseration.

We were both defeated.  Maybe if chlorophyll tablets had been available
in those days they might have helped but as it was I had tried
everything.  It seemed certain that nothing would alter the situation.
And it wouldn't have been so bad if the owner had been anybody else but
Mrs Rumney; I found that even discussing the thing with her had become
almost unbearable.

Siegfried's student brother Tristan didn't help, either.  When seeing
practice he was very selective in the cases he wished to observe, but
he was immediately attracted to Cedric's symptoms and insisted on
coming with me on one occasion.

I never took him again because as we went in the big dog bounded from
his mistress' side and produced a particularly sonorous blast as if in
greeting.

Tristan immediately threw out a hand in a dramatic gesture and
declaimed: "Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie!"  That was his
only visit.  I had enough trouble without that.

I didn't know it at the time but a greater blow awaited me.  A few days
later Mrs Rumney was on the 'phone again.

"Mr Herriot, a friend of mine has such a sweet little Boxer bitch. 
She wants to bring her along to be mated with Cedric."

"Eh ?"

"She wants to mate her bitch with my dog."

"With Cedric .  . . ?"  I clutched at the edge of the desk.  It
couldn't be true!

"And .  . . and are you agreeable?"

"Yes, of course."

I shook my head to dispel the feeling of unreality.  I found it
incomprehensible that anyone should want to reproduce Cedric, and as I
gaped into the receiver a frightening vision floated before me of eight
little Cedrics all with his complaint.

But of course such a thing wasn't hereditary.  I took a grip of myself
and cleared my throat.

"Very well, then, Mrs Rumney, you'd better go ahead."

There was a pause.

"But Mr Herriot, I want you to supervise the mating."

"Oh really, I don't think that's necessary."  I dug my nails into my
palm.

"I

think you'll be all right without me."

"Oh but I would be much happier if you were there.  Please come," she
said appealingly.

Instead of emitting a long-drawn groan I took a deep breath.

"Right," I said.

"I'll be along in the morning."

All that evening I was obsessed by a feeling of dread.  Another acutely
embarrassing session was in store with this exquisite woman.  Why was
it I always had to share things like this with her?  And I really
feared the worst.

Even the daftest dog, when confronted with a bitch in heat, knows
instinctively how to proceed, but with a really ivory-skulled animal
like Cedric I wondered .  . .

And next morning all my fears were realised.  The bitch, Trudy, was a
trim little creature and showed every sign of willingness to cooperate.
Cedric, on the other hand, though obviously delighted to meet her, gave
no hint of doing his part.  After sniffing her over, he danced around
her a few times, goofy-faced, tongue lolling.  Then he had a roll on
the lawn before charging at her and coming to a full stop, big feet out
splayed, head down, ready to play.  I sighed.  It was as I thought. 
The big chump didn't know what to do.

This pantomime went on for some time and, inevitably, the emotional
strain brought on a resurgence of his symptoms.  Frequently he paused
to inspect his tail as though he had never heard noises like that
before.

He varied his dancing routine with occasional headlong gallops round
the lawn and it was after he had done about ten successive laps that he
seemed to decide he ought to do something about the bitch.  I held my
breath as he approached her but unfortunately he chose the wrong end to
commence operations.

Trudy had put up with his nonsense with great patience but when she
found him busily working away in the region of her left ear it was too
much.

With a shrill yelp she nipped him in the hind leg and he shot away in
alarm.

After that whenever he came near she warned him off with bared teeth.

Clearly she was disenchanted with her bridegroom and I couldn't blame
her.

"I think she's had enough, Mrs Rumney," I said.

I certainly had had enough and so had the poor lady, judging by her
slight breathlessness, flushed cheeks and waving handkerchief.

"Yes .  . . yes .  . . I suppose you're right," she replied.

So Trudy was taken home and that was the end of Cedric's career as a
stud dog.

This last episode decided me.  I had to have a talk with Mrs Rumney and
a few days later I called in at The Laurels.

"Maybe you'll think it's none of my business," I said.

"But I honestly don't think Cedric is the dog for you.  In fact he's so
wrong for you that he is upsetting your life."

Mrs Rumney's eyes widened.

"Well .  . . he is a problem in some ways .  . . but what do you
suggest?"

"I think you should get another dog in his place.  Maybe a poodle or a
corgi - something smaller, something you could control."

"But Mr Herriot, I couldn't possibly have Cedric put down."  Her eyes
filled quickly with tears.

"I really am fond of him despite his .  . . despite everything."

"No, no, of course not!"  I said.

"I like him too.  He has no malice in him.  But I think I have a good
idea.  Why not let Con Fen ton have him?"

"Con .  . . ?"

"Yes, he admires Cedric tremendously and the big fellow would have a
good life with the old man.  He has a couple of fields behind his
cottage and keeps a few beasts.  Cedric could run to his heart's
content out there and Con would be able to bring him along when he does
the garden.  You'd still see him three times a week."

Mrs Rumney looked at me in silence for a few moments and I saw in her
face the dawning of relief and hope.

"You know, Mr Herriot, I think that could work very well.  But are you
sure Con would take him?"

"I'd like to bet on it.  An old bachelor like him must be lonely.
There's only one thing worries me.  Normally they only meet outside and
I wonder how it would be when they were indoors and Cedric started to .
. . when the old trouble "Oh, I think that would be all right," Mrs
Rumney broke in quickly.

"When I go on holiday Con always takes him for a week or two and he has
never mentioned any .  . . any thing unusual .  . . in that way."

I got up to go.

"Well, that's fine.  I should put it to the old man right away."

Mrs Rumney rang within a few days.  Con had jumped at the chance of
taking on Cedric and the pair had apparently settled in happily
together.  She had also taken my advice and acquired a poodle puppy.

I didn't see the new dog till it was nearly six months old and its
mistress asked me to call to treat it for a slight attack of eczema. As
I sat in the graceful room loo king at Mrs Rumney, cool, poised,
tranquil, with the little white creature resting on her knee I wouldn't
help feeling how right and fitting the whole scene was.  The lush
carpet, the trailing velvet curtains, the fragile tables with their
load of expensive china and framed miniatures.  It was no place for
Cedric.

Con Fen ton's cottage was less than half a mile away and on my way back
to the surgery, on an impulse I pulled up at the door.  The old man
answered my knock and his big face split into a delighted grin when he
saw me.

"Come in, young man!"  he cried in his strange snuffly voice.

"I'm right glad to see the!"

I had hardly stepped into the tiny living room when a hairy form hurled
itself upon me.  Cedric hadn't changed a bit and I had to battle my way
to the broken armchair by the fireside.  Con settled down opposite and
when the Boxer leaped i to lick his face he clumped him com panionably
on the head with his fist.

"Sid down, ye great daft bugger," he murmured with affection.  Cedric
sank happily on to the tattered hearth rug at his feet and gazed up
adoringly at his new master.

"Well, Mr Herriot," Con went on as he cut up some villainous-loo king
plug tobacco and began to stuff it into his pipe.

"I'm right grateful to ye for get tin' me this grand dog.  By yaw, he's
a topper and ah wouldn't sell 'im for any money.  No man could ask for
a better friend."

"Well that's great, Con," I said.

"And I can see that the big chap is really happy here."

The old man ignited his pipe and a cloud of acrid smoke rose to the
low, blackened beams.

"Aye, he's 'ardly ever inside.  A gurt strong dog like 'im wants to
work 'is energy off, like."

But just at that moment Cedric was obviously working something else off
because the familiar pungency rose from him even above the billowings
from the pipe.  Con seemed oblivious of it but in the enclosed space I
found it overpowering "Ah well," I gasped.

"I just looked in for a moment to see how you were get ting on
together. I must be on my way."  I rose hurriedly and stumbled towards
the door but the redolence followed me in a wave.  As I passed the
table with the remains of the old man's meal I saw what seemed to be
the only form of ornament in the cottage, a cracked vase holding a
magnificent bouquet of carnations.  It was a way of escape and I buried
my nose in their fragrance.

Con watched me approvingly.

"Aye, they're lovely flowers aren't they?

T'missus at Laurels lets me bring tome what I want and I reckon them
carnations is me favourite."

"Yes, they're a credit to you."  I still kept my nose among the
blooms.

"There's only one thing," the old man said pensively.

"Ah don't get t'full benefit of 'em."

how's that, Con?"

he pulled at his pipe a couple of times,

"Well, you can hear ah speak a bit funny, like?"

"No .  . . no .  . . not really."

"Oh aye, ye know ah do.  I've been like it since I were a lad.  I 'ad a
operation for adenoids and sum mat went wrong."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I said.

"Well, it's nowt serious, but it's left me lackin'in one way."

"You mean .  . .?"  A light was beginning to dawn in my mind, an
elucidation of how man and dog had found each other, of why their
relationship was so perfect, of the certainty of their happy future
together.  It seemed like fate.

"Aye," the old man went on sadly.

"I 'ave no sense of smell."

Chapter Five I think it was when I saw the London policeman wagging a
finger at a scowling urchin that I thought of Wesley Bin ks and the
time he put the firework through the surgery letter box.

It was what they used to call a 'banger' and it exploded at my feet as
I;< hurried along the dark passage in answer to the door bell's ring,
making me leap into the air in terror.

I threw open the front door and looked into the street.  It was empty,
but at the corner where the lamplight was reflected in Rob son's shop
window I had a brief impression of a fleeing form and a faint echo of
laughter.  I couldn't do any thing about it but I knew Wes was out
there somewhere.

Wearily I trailed back into the house.  Why did this lad persecute me?
What could a ten-year-old boy possibly have against me?  I had never
done him any harm, yet I seemed to be the object of a deliberate
campaign.

Or maybe it wasn't personal.  It could be that he felt I represented
authority or the establishment in some way, or perhaps I was just
convenient.

I was certainly the ideal subject for his little tricks of ringing the
door bell and running away, because I dared not ignore the summons in
case it might be a client, and also the consulting and operating rooms
were such a long way from the front of the house.  Sometimes I was
dragged down from our bed-sitter under the tiles.  Every trip to the
door was an expedition and it was acutely exasperating to arrive there
and see only a little figure in the distance dancing about and
grimacing at me.

He varied this routine by pushing rubbish through the letter box,
pulling the flowers from the tiny strip of garden we tried to cultivate
between the flagstones and chalking rude messages on my car.

I knew I wasn't the only victim because I had heard complaints from
others; the fruiterer who saw his apples disappear from the box in
front of the shop, the grocer who unwillingly supplied him with free
biscuits.

He was the town naughty boy all right, and it was incongruous that he
should have been named Wesley.  There was not the slightest sign in his
behaviour of any strict methodist upbringing.  In fact I knew nothing
of his family life only that he came from the poorest part of the town,
a row of 'yards' containing tumbledown cottages, some of them evacuated
because of their condition.

I often saw him wandering about in the fields and lanes or fishing in
quiet reaches of the river when he should have been in school.  When he
spotted me on these occasions he invariably called out some mocking
remark and if he happened to be with some of his cronies they all
joined in the laughter at my expense.  It was annoying but I used to
tell myself that there was nothing personal in it.  I was an adult and
that was enough to make me a target.

Wes's greatest triumph was undoubtedly the time he removed the grating
from the coal cellar outside Skeldale House.  It was on the left of the
front steps and underneath it was a steep ramp down which the coal men
tipped their bags.

I don't know whether it was inspired intuition but he pinched the
grating on the day of the Darrow by Gala.  The festivities started with
a parade through the town led by the Houlton Silver Band and as I
looked down from the windows of our bed-sitter I could see them all
gathering in the street below.

"Look, Helen," I said.

"They must be star ting the march from Trengate.

Everybody I know seems to be down there."

Helen leaned over my shoulder and gazed at the long lines of boy
scouts, girl guides, ex-servicemen, with half the population of the
town packed on the pavements, watching.

"Yes, it's quite a sight, isn't it?  Let's go down and see them move
off."

We trotted down the long flights of stairs and I followed her out
through the front door.  And as I appeared in the entrance I was
suddenly conscious that I was the centre of attention.  The citizens on
the pavements, waiting patiently for the parade to start, had something
else to look at now.  The little brownies and wolf cubs waved at me
from their ranks and there were nods and smiles from the people across
the road and on all sides.

I could divine their thoughts.

"There's ttyoung vitnery coming out of his house Not long married, too.
That's his missus next to him."

A feeling of well being rose in me.  I don't know whether other newly
married men feel the same, but in those early days I was aware of a
calm satisfaction and fulfilment.  And I was proud to be the 'vitnery'
and part of the life of the town.  There was my plate on the wall
beside me, a symbol of my solid importance.  I was a man of substance
now, I had arrived.

Looking around me, I acknowledged the greeting with a few dignified
little smiles, raising a gracious hand now and then rather like a royal
personage on view.  Then I noticed that Helen hadn't much room by my
side, so I stepped to the left to where the grating should have been
and slid gracefully down into the cellar.

It would be a dramatic touch to say I disappeared from view; in fact I
wish I had, because I would have stayed down there and avoided further
embarrassment.

But as it was I travelled only so far down the ramp and stuck there
with my head and shoulders protruding into the street.

My little exhibition caused a sensation among the spectators.  Nothing
in the Gala parade could compete with this.  One or two of the
surrounding faces expressed alarm but loud laughter was the general
response.  The adults were almost holding each other up but the little
brownies and wolf cubs made my most appreciative audience, breaking
their ranks and staggering about helplessly in the roadway while their
leaders tried to restore order.

I caused chaos, too, in the Houlton Silver Band, who were hoisting
their instruments prior to marching off.  If they had any ideas about
bursting into tune they had to abandon them temporarily because I don't
think any of them had breath to blow.

It was, in fact, two of the bandsmen who extricated me by linking their
hands under my armpits.  My wife was of no service at all in the crisis
and I could only look up at her reproachfully as she leaned against the
doorpost dabbing at her eyes.

It all became clear to me when I reached street level.  I was flicking
the coal dust from my trousers and trying to look unconcerned when I
saw Wesley Bin ks doubled up with mirth, pointing triumphantly at me
and at the hole over the cellar.  He was quite near, jostling among the
spectators, and I had my first close look at the wild-eyed little
goblin who had plagued me.  I may have made an unconscious movement
towards him because he gave me a last malevolent grin and disappeared
into the crowd.

Later I asked Helen about him.  She could only tell me that Wesley's
father had left home when he was about six years old, that his mother
had remarried and the boy now lived with her and his stepfather.

Strangely, I had another opportunity to study him quite soon
afterwards.  It was about a week later and my feathers were still a
little ruffled after the grating incident when I saw him sitting all
alone in the waiting room.  Alone, that is, except for a skinny black
dog in his lap.

I could hardly believe it.  I had often rehearsed the choice phrases
which I i would use on this very occasion but the sight of the animal
restrained me, if he had come to consult me professionally I could
hardly start pitching into him right away.  Maybe later.

I pulled on a white coat and went in.

"Well, what can I do for you?"  I asked coldly.

The boy stood up and his expression of mixed defiance and desperation
showed that it had cost him something to enter this house.

"Sum mat matter wi' me dog," he muttered.

"Right, bring him through."  I led the way along the passage to the
consulting room "Put him on the table please," I said, and as he lifted
the little animal I decided that I couldn't let this opportunity pass.
While I was carrying out my examination I would quite casually discuss
recent events.  Nothing nasty, no clever phrases, just a quiet probe
into the situation.  I was just about to say something like "What's the
idea of all those tricks you play on me?"  when I took my first look at
the dog and everything else fled from my mind.

He wasn't much more than a big puppy and an out-and-out mongrel.  His
shiny black coat could have come from a labrador and there was a
suggestion of terrier in the pointed nose and pricked ears, but the
long string-like tail and the knock-kneed fore limbs baffled me.  For
all that he was an attractive little creature with a sweetly expressive
face.

But the things that seized my whole attention were the yellow blobs of
pus in the corners of the eyes, the mucopurulent discharge from the
nostrils and the photophobia which made the dog blink painfully at the
light from the surgery window.

Classical canine distemper is so easy to diagnose but there is never
any satisfaction in doing so.

"I didn't know you had a dog," I said.

"How long have you had him?"

"A month.  Feller got 'im from t'dog and cat home at Hartington and
sold 'im to me."

"I see."  I took the temperature and was not surprised to find it was
tO4 F. "How old is he?"

"Nine months."

I nodded.  Just about the worst age.

I went ahead and asked all the usual questions but I knew the answers
already.

Yes, the dog had been slightly off colour for a week or two.  No, he
wasn't really ill, but listless and coughing occasionally.  And of
course it was not until the eyes and nose began to discharge that the
boy became worried and brought him to see me.  That was when we usually
saw these cases when it was too late.

Wesley imparted the information defensively, loo king at me under
lowered brows as though he expected me to clip his ear at any moment.
But as I studied him any aggressive feelings I may have harboured
evaporated quickly.  The imp of hell appeared on closer examination to
be a neglected child.  His elbows stuck out through holes in a filthy
jersey, his shorts were similarly ragged, but what appalled me most was
the sour smell of his unwashed little body.  I hadn't thought there
were children like this in Darrow by.

When he had answered my questions he made an effort and blurted out one
of his own.

"What's matter with 'im?"

I hesitated a moment.

"He's got distemper, Wes."

"What's that?"

"Well, it's a nasty infectious disease.  He must have got it from
another sick dog."

"Will 'e get better?"

"I hope so.  I'll do the best I can for him."  I couldn't bring myself
to tell a small boy of his age that his pet was probably going to
die.

I filled a syringe with a 'mixed macterin' which we used at that time
against the secondary invaders of distemper.  It never did much good
and even now with all Our antibiotics we cannot greatly influence the
final outcome.  If you can bb4 Vets Might FIy catch a case in the early
viral phase then a shot of hyper immune serum is curative, but people
rarely bring their dogs in until that phase is over.

As I gave the injection the dog whimpered a little and the boy
stretched out a hand and patted him.

"It's aw right, Duke," he said.

"That's what you call him, is it Duke?"  , "Aye."  He fondled the ears
and the dog turned, whipped his strange long tail about and licked the
hand quickly.  Wes smiled and looked up at me and for a moment the
tough mask dropped from the grubby features and in the dark wild eyes I
read sheer delight.  I swore under my breath.  This made it worse.

I tipped some boracic crystals into a box and handed it over.

"Use this dissolved in water to keep his eyes and nose clean.  See how
his nostrils are all caked and blocked up you can make him a lot more
comfortable."

He took the box without speaking and almost with the same movement
dropped three and sixpence on the table.  It was about our average
charge and resolved my doubts on that score.

"When'll ah bring 'im back?"  he asked.

I looked at him doubtfully for a moment.  All I could do was repeat the
injections, but was it going to make the slightest difference?

The boy misread my hesitation.

"Ah can pay!"  he burst out.

"Ah can get "'money!"

"Oh I didn't mean that, Wes.  I was just wondering when it would be
suitable.

How about bringing him in on Thursday?"

He nodded eagerly and left with his dog.

As I swabbed the table with disinfectant I had the old feeling of
helplessness.

The modern veterinary surgeon does not see nearly as many cases of
distemper as we used to, simply because most people immunise their
puppies at the earliest possible moment.  But back in the thirties it
was only the few fortunate dogs who were inoculated.  The disease is so
easy to prevent but almost impossible to cure.

The next three weeks saw an incredible change in Wesley Bin ks's
character.

He had built up a reputation as an idle scamp but now he was
transformed into a model of industry, delivering papers in the
mornings, digging people's gardens, helping to drive the beasts at the
auction mart.  I was perhaps the only one who knew he was doing it for
Duke.

He brought the dog in every two or three days and paid on the nail.  I
naturally charged him as little as possible but the money he earned
went on other things - fresh meat from the butcher, extra milk and
biscuits.

"Duke's loo king very smart today," I said on one of the visits.

"I see you've been get ting him a new collar and lead."

The boy nodded shyly then looked up at me, dark eyes intent.

"Is 'e any better ?"

"Well, he's about the same, Wes.  That's how it goes dragging on
without much change."

"When .  . . when will ye know?"

I thought for a moment.  Maybe he would worry less if he understood the
situation.

"The thing is this.  Duke will get better if he can avoid the nervous
complications of distemper."

"Wot's them?"

"Fits, paralysis and a thing called chorea which makes the muscles
twitch."

"Wot if he gets them?"

"It's a bad lookout in that case.  But not all dogs develop them."  I
tried to smile reassuringly.

"And there's one thing in Duke's favour he's not a pure bred.

Cross bred dogs have a thing called hybrid vigour which helps them to
fight disease After all, he's eating fairly well and he's quite lively,
isn't he?"

"Aye, not bad."

Well then, we'll carry on.  I'll give him another shot now."

The boy was back in three days and I knew by his face he had momentous
news.

"Duke's a lot better 'is eyes and nose 'ave dried up and he's eat in'
like a 'oss!"  He was panting with excitement.

I lifted the dog on to the table.  There was no doubt he was enormously
improved and I did my best to join in the rejoicing.

"That's great, Wes," I said, but a warning bell was tinkling in my
mind.  If nervous symptoms were going to supervene, this was the time
just when the dog was apparently recovering.

I forced myself to be optimistic.

"Well now, there's no need to come back any more but watch him
carefully and if you see any thing unusual bring him in."

The ragged little figure was overjoyed.  He almost pranced along the
passage with his pet and I hoped fervently that I would not see them in
there again.

That was on the Friday evening and by Monday I had put the whole thing
out of my head and into the category of satisfying memories when the
boy came in with Duke on the lead.

I looked up from the desk where I was writing in the day book.

"What is it, Wes ?"

"He's doth erin'."

I didn't bother going through to the consulting room but hastened from
behind the desk and crouched on the floor, studying the dog intently.
At first I saw nothing, then as I watched I could just discern a faint
nodding of the head.  I placed my hand on the top of the skull and
waited.  And it was there; the slight but regular twitching of the
temporal muscles which I had dreaded.

"I'm afraid he's got chorea, Wes."  I said.

"What's that?"

"It's one of the things I was telling you about.  Sometimes they call
it St Vitus' Dance.  I was hoping it wouldn't happen."

The boy looked suddenly small and forlorn and he stood there silent,
twisting the new leather lead between his fingers.  It was such an
effort for him to speak that he almost closed his eyes.

"Will'e die?"

"Some dogs do get over it, Wes."  I didn't tell him that I had seen it
happen only once.

"I've got some tablets which might help him.  I'll get you some."

I gave him a few of the arsenical tablets I had used in my only cure. I
didn't even know if they had been responsible but I had nothing more to
offer.

Duke's chorea pursued a text book course over the next two weeks.  All
the things which I had feared turned up in a relentless progression.
The twitching spread from his head to his limbs, then his hindquarters
began to sway as he walked.

His young master brought him in repeatedly and I went through the
motions, trying at the same time to make it clear that it was all
hopeless.  The boy persisted doggedly, rushing about meanwhile with his
paper deliveries and other jobs, insisting on paying though I didn't
want his money.  Then one afternoon he called in.

"Ah couldn't bring Duke," he muttered.

"Can't walk now.  Will you come and see 'im ?"

We got into my car.  It was a Sunday, about three o'clock and the
streets were quiet.  He led me up the cobbled yard and opened the door
of one of the houses.

The stink of the place hit me as I went in.  Country vets aren't easily
sickened but I felt my stomach turning.  Mrs Bin ks was very fat and a
filthy dress hung shapelessly on her as she slumped, cigarette in
mouth, over the kitchen table.

She was absorbed in a magazine which lay in a clearing among mounds of
dirty dishes and her curlers nodded as she looked up briefly at us.

On a couch under the window her husband sprawled asleep, open-mouthed,
snoring out the reek of beer.  The sink, which held a further supply of
greasy dishes, was covered in a revolting green scum.  Clothes,
newspapers and nameless rubbish littered the floor and over everything
a radio blasted away at full I strength.

The only clean new thing was the dog basket in the corner.  I went
across and bent over the little animal.  Duke was now prostrate and
helpless, his body emaciated and jerking uncontrollably.  The sunken
eyes had filled up again with pus and gazed apathetically ahead.

"Wes," I said.

"You've got to let me put him to sleep."

He didn't answer, and as I tried to explain, the blaring radio drowned
my words.  I looked over at his mother.

"Do you mind turning the radio down?"  I asked.

She jerked her head at the boy and he went over and turned the knob. in
the ensuing silence I spoke to him again.

"It's the only thing, believe me.  You can't let him die by inches like
this."

He didn't look at me.  All his attention was fixed desperately on his
dog.  Then he raised a hand and I heard his whisper.

"Aw right."

I hurried out to the car for the Nembutal.

"I promise you he'll feel no pain," I said as I filled the syringe. And
indeed the little creature merely sighed before Lying motionless, the
fateful twitching stilled at last.

I put the syringe in my pocket.

"Do you want me to take him away, Wes?"

He looked at me bewilderedly and his mother broke in.

"Aye, get 'im out.  Ah never wanted "'bloody thing 'ere in t'first
place."  She resumed her reading.

I quickly lifted the little body and went out.  Wes followed me and
watched as I opened the boot and laid Duke gently on top of my black
working coat.

As I closed the lid he screwed his knuckles into his eyes and his body
shook.

I put my arm across his shoulder, and as he leaned against me for a
moment and sobbed I wondered if he had ever been able to cry like this
like a little boy with somebody to comfort him.

But soon he stood back and smeared the tears across the dirt on his
cheeks.

"Are you going back into the house, Wes?"  I asked.

He blinked and looked at me with a return of his tough expression.

"Naw!"  he said and turned and walked away.  He didn't look back and I
watched him cross the road, climb a wall and trail away across the
fields towards the river.

And it has always seemed to me that at that moment Wes walked back into
his old life.  From then on there were no more odd jobs or useful
activities.  He never played any more tricks on me but in other ways he
progressed into more serious misdemeanours.  He set barns on fire, was
up before the magistrates for theft and by the time he was thirteen he
was stealing cars.

Finally he was sent to an approved school and then he disappeared from
the district.  Nobody knew where he went and most people forgot him.
One person who didn't was the police sergeant.

"That young Wesley Bin ks," he said to me ruminatively.

"He was a wrong 'un if ever I saw one.  You know, I don't think he ever
cared a damn for anybody or any living thing in his life."

"I know how you feel sergeant," I replied,

"But you're not entirely right.  There was one living thing.  .".

Chapter Six ~; Tristan would never have won any prizes as an exponent
of the haute cuisine.

We got better food in the RAF than most people in wartime Britain but
it didn't com pare with the Darrow by fare.  I suppose I had been
spoiled; first by Mrs hall, then by Helen.  There were only brief
occasions at Skeldale House when we did not eat like kings and one of
those was when Tristan was installed as temporary cook.

It began one morning at breakfast in the days when I was still a
bachelor and Tristan and I were taking our places at the mahogany
dining table.  Siegfried bustled in, muttered a greeting and began to
pour his coffee.  He was unusually distrait as he buttered a slice of
toast and cut into one of the rashers on his plate, then after a
minute's thoughtful chewing he brought down his hand on the table with
a suddenness that made me jump.

"I've got it!"  he exclaimed.

"Got what?"  I enquired.

Siegfried put down his knife and fork and wagged a finger at me.

"Silly, really, I've been sitting here puzzling about what to do and
it's suddenly clear."

"Why, what's the trouble?"

"It's Mrs Hall," he said.

"She's just told me her sister has been taken ill and she has to go and
look after her.  She thinks she'll be away for a week and I've been
wondering who I could get to look after the house."

"I see."

"Then it struck me."  He sliced a corner from a fried egg.

"Tristan can do it."

"Eh?"  His brother looked up, startled, from his Daily Mirror.

"Me?"

"Yes, you!  You spend a lot of time on your arse.  A bit of useful
activity would be good for you."

Tristan looked at him warily.

"What do you mean useful activity?"

"Well, keeping the place straight," Siegfried said.

"I wouldn't expect perfection but you could tidy up each day, and of
course prepare the meals."

"Meals ?"

"That's right."  Siegfried gave him a level stare.

"You can cook, can't you?"

"Weller yes .  . . I can cook sausage and mash."

Siegfried waved an expansive hand.

"There you are, you see, no problem.

Push over those fried tomatoes, will you, James?"

I passed the dish silently.  I had only half heard the conversation
because part of my mind was far away.  Just before breakfast I had had
a phone call from Ken Billings, one of our best farmers, and his words
were still echoing in my head.

"Mr Herriot, that calf you saw yesterday is dead.  That's the third
'un I've lost in a week and I'm flummoxed.  I want ye out here this
morn in' to have another look round."

I sipped my coffee absently.  He wasn't the only one who was
flummoxed.

Three fine calves had shown symptoms of acute gastric pain, I had
treated them and they had died.  That was bad enough but what made it
worse was that I hadn't the faintest idea what was wrong with them.

I wiped my lips and got Up quickly.

"Siegfried, I'd like to go to Billings' first' Then I've got the rest
of the round you gave me."

"Fine, James, by all means' My boss gave me a sweet and encouraging
smile balanced a mushroom on a piece of fried bread and conveyed it to
his mouth t': He wasn't a big eater but he did love his breakfast.  -"
On the way to the farm my mind beat about helplessly.  What more Could
I L do than I had already done?  In these obscure cases one was driven
to the] .

conclusion that the animal had eaten something harmful.  At times I had
spent; hours roaming around pastures loo king for poisonous plants but
that was pointless with Billings's calves because they had never been
out; they were babies of a month old.

I had carried out post mortem examinations of the dead animals but had
found only a non-specific gastro-enteritis.  I had sent kidneys to the
laboratory for lead estimation with negative result; like their owner,
I was flummoxed.

Mr Billings was waiting for me in his yard.  i "Good job I rang you!"
he said breathlessly.

"There's another 'un star tin'."

I rushed with him into the buildings and found what I expected and
dreaded;.

a small calf kicking at its stomach, get ting up and down, occasionally
rolling on its straw bed.  Typical abdominal pain.  But why?

I went over it as with the others.  Temperature normal, lungs clear,
only rumen al atony and extreme tenderness as I palpated the abdomen- :
As I was putting the thermometer back in its case the calf suddenly
toppled .

over and went into a frothing convulsion.  Hastily I injected
sedativeS' calcium, magnesium, but with a feeling of doom.  I had done
it all before.

"What the hell is it?"  the farmer asked, voicing my thoughts.

I shrugged.

"It's acute gastritis, Mr Billings, but I wish I knew the cause.  I
could swear this calf has eaten some irritant or corrosive poison."

"Well, dang it, they've nob but had milk and a few nuts."  The farmer
spread his hands.

"There's nothing they can get to hurt them."

Again, wearily, I went through the old routine; ferreting around in the
calf pen, trying to find some clue.  An old paint tin, a burst packet
of sheep dip.

It was amazing, the things you came across in the clutter of a farm
building.  :: , But not at Mr Billings's place.  He was meticulously
tidy, particularly with : his calves, and the window sills and shelves
were free from rubbish.  It was the.

same with the milk buckets, scoured to spotless cleanliness after every
feed.

Mr Billings had a thing about his calves.  His two teenage sons were
fanatically keen on farming and he encouraged them in all the
agricultural skills; but he fed the calves himself.

"Feeding them calves is t'most important job in stock rearing," he used
to say.

"Get 'em over that first month and you're half-way there."

And he knew what he was talking about.  His charges never suffered from
the normal ailments of the young; no scour, no joint ill, no pneumonia.
I had often marvelled at it, but it made the present disaster all the
more unbearable.

"All right," I said with false breeziness as I left.

"Maybe this one won't be bad.  Give me a ring in the morning."

I did the rest of my round in a state of gloom and at lunch I was still
preoccupied that I wondered what had happened when Tristan served the
meal.

I had entirely forgotten about Mrs Hall's absence However, the sausage
and mash wasn't at all bad and Tristan was lavish with his helpings.
The three of us cleaned our plates pretty thoroughly, because morning
is the busiest working time in practice and I was always famished by
midday.

My mind was still on Mr Billings's problem during the afternoon calls
and when we sat down to supper I was only mildly surprised to find
another offering of sausage and mash.

"Same again, eh?"  Siegfried grunted, but he got through his plateful
and left without further comment.

The next day started badly.  I came into the dining room to find the
table bare and Siegfried stamping around.

"Where the hell is our breakfast ?"  he burst out.

"And where the hell is He pounded along the passage and I heard his
shouts in the kitchen

"Tristan!

Tristan!"

I knew he was wasting his time.  His brother often slept in and it was
just a bit more noticeable this morning.

My boss returned along the passage at a furious gallop and I steeled
myself for some unpleasantness as the young man was rousted from his
bed.  But Tristan, as usual, was master of the situation.  Siegfried
had just begun to take the stairs three at a time when his brother
descended from the landing, knotting his tie with perfect composure. It
was uncanny.  He always got more than his share of sleeping time but
was rarely caught between the sheets.

"Sorry, chaps," he murmured.

"Afraid I overslept."

"Yes, that's all right!"  shouted Siegfried.

"But how about our bloody breakfast?

I gave you a job to do!"

Tristan was contrite.

"I really do apologise, but I was up late last night, peeling
potatoes."

His brother's face flushed.

"I know all about that!"  he barked.

"You didn't start till after closing time at the Drovers!"

"Well, that's right."  Tristan swallowed and his face assumed the
familiar expression of pained dignity.

"I did feel a bit dry last night.  Think it must have been all the
clean ing and dusting I did."

Siegfried did not reply.  He shot a single exasperated look at the
young man then turned to me.

"We'll have to make do with bread and marmalade this morning James.
Come through to the kitchen and we'll .  . ."

The jangling of the telephone cut off his words.  I lifted the receiver
and listened and it must have been the expression on my face which
stopped him in the doorway.

"What's the matter, James?"  he asked as I came away from the 'phone.

"You look as though you've had a kick in the belly."

I nodded.

"That's how I feel.  That calf is nearly dead at Billings's and there's
another one ill.  I wish you'd come out there with me, Siegfried."

My boss stood very still as he looked over the side of the pen at the
little animal.

It didn't seem to know where to put itself, rising and Lying down,
kicking at some inward pain, writhing its hindquarters from side to
side.  As he watched it fell on its side and began to thrash around
with all four limbs.

"James," he said quietly.

"That calf has been poisoned."

"That's what I thought, but how?"

Mr Billings broke in.

"It's no good talkie' like that, Mr Far non.  We've been over this
place time and time again and there's nowt for them to get."

"Well, we'll go over it again."  Siegfried stalked around the calf
house as I had done and when he returned his face was expressionless.

"Where do you get the nuts from?"  he grunted, crumbling one of the
cubes between his fingers.

Mr Billings threw his arms wide.

"From t'local mill.  Ryders' best.  You can't fault them, surely."

Siegfried said nothing.  Ryders were noted for their meticulous
preparation Of cattle food.  He went over the sick calf with
stethoscope and thermometer, digging his fingers into the hairy
abdominal wall, staring impassively at the calf's face to note its
reaction.  He did the same with my patient of yesterday whose glazing
eyes and cold extremities told their grim tale.  Then he gave the
calves almost the same treatment as I had and we left.

He was silent for the first half mile, then he beat the wheel suddenly
with one hand

"There's an irritant poison there, James!  As sure as God made little
apples there is But I'm damned if I know where it's coming from."

Our visit had taken a long time and we returned to Skeldale House for
lunch.

Like myself, his mind was still wrestling with Mr Billings's problem
and he hardly winced as Tristan placed a steaming plateful of sausage
and mash before him Then, as he prodded the mash with a fork, he
appeared to come to the surface.

"God almighty!"  he exclaimed.

"Have we got this again?"

Tristan smiled ingratiatingly.

"Yes, indeed.  Mr Johnson told me they were a particularly fine batch
of sausages today.  Definitely superior, he said."

"Is that so?"  His brother gave him a sour glance.

"Well, they look the bloody same to me.  Like supper yesterday and like
lunch."  His voice began to rise then he subsided.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, and began to toy listlessly with the
food.

Clearly those calves had drained him and I knew how he felt.

I got through my share without much difficulty I've always liked
sausage and mash But my boss is a resilient character and when we met
in the late afternoon he was bursting with his old spirit.

"That call to Billings's shook me, James, I can tell you."  he said.

"But I've revisited a few of my other cases since then and they're all
improving nicely.

Raises the morale tremendously.  Here, let me get you a drink."

He reached into the cupboard above the mantelpiece for the gin bottle
and after pouring a couple of measures he looked benignly at his
brother who was tidying the sitting room.

Tristan was making a big show, running a carpet-sweeper up and down,
straightening cushions, flicking a duster at everything in sight.  He
sighed and panted with effort as he bustled around, the very picture of
a harassed domestic.

He needed only a mob cap and frilly apron to complete the image.

We finished our drinks and Siegfried immersed himself in the Veterinary
Record as savoury smells began to issue from the kitchen.  It was about
seven o'clock when Tristan put his head round the door.

"Supper is on the table," he said.

my boss put down the Record, rose and stretched expansively.

"Good, I'm ready for it, too."

I followed him into the dining room and almost cannoned into his back
as he halted abruptly.  He was staring in disbelief at the tureen in
the middle of the table.

"Not bloody sausage and mash again!"  he bellowed.

Tristan shuffled his feet.

"Weller yes it's very nice really."

very nice!  I'm beginning to dream about the blasted stuff.  Can't you
cook any thing else?"

"Well, I told you."  Tristan looked wounded.

"I told you I could cook sausage and mash ' "Yes, you did!"  shouted
his brother.

"But you didn't say you couldn't cook any thing else BUT sausage and
bloody mash!"

Tristan made a non-committal gesture and his brother sank wearily down
at the table.

"Go on, then," he sighed.

"Dish it out and heaven help us."

He took a small mouthful from his plate then gripped at his stomach and
emitted a low moan.

"This stuff is kill ing me.  I don't think I'll ever be the same after
this week."

The following day opened in dramatic fashion.  I had just got out of
bed and was reaching for my dressing gown when an explosion shook the
house It was a great

"WHUFF' which rushed like a mighty wind through passages and rooms
rattling the windows and leaving an ominous silence in its wake.

I dashed out to the landing and ran into Siegfried, who stared
wide-eyed at me for a moment before galloping downstairs.

In the kitchen Tristan was Lying on his back amid a litter of pans and
dishes.

Several rashers of bacon and a few smashed eggs nestled on the Rags.

"What the hell's going on?  "Siegfried shouted.

His brother looked up at him with mild interest.

"I really don't know.  I was lighting the fire and there was a bang."

"Lighting the fire.  . .?"

"Yes, I've had a little difficulty these last two mornings.  The thing
wouldn't go.  I think the chimney needs sweeping These old houses .  .
."

"Yes, yes!"  Siegfried burst out.

"We know, but what the hell happened?"

Tristan sat up.  Even then, among the debris with smuts all over his
face, he still retained his poise.

"Well, I thought I'd hurry things along a bit," (His agile mind was
forever seeking new methods of conserving energy.) "I soaked a piece of
cotton wool in ether and chucked that in."

"Ether?"

"Well yes, it's inflammable, isn't it?"

"Inflammable!"  His brother was pop-eyed.

"It's bloody well explosive!  It's a wonder you didn't blow the whole
place up."

Tristan rose and dusted himself off.

"Ah well, never mind.  I'll soon have breakfast ready."

"You can forget that."  Siegfried took a long shuddering breath then
went over to the bread tin, extracted a loaf and began to saw at it.

"The breakfasts on the floor, and anyway, by the time you've cleared up
this mess we'll be gone.  Bread and marmalade all right for you,
James?"

We went out together again.  My boss had arranged that Ken Billings
should postpone his calf feeding till we got there so that we could
witness the process.

It wasn't a happy arrival.  Both the calves had died and the farmer's
eyes held a look of desperation.

Siegfried's jaw clenched tight for a moment then he motioned with his
hand.

"Please carry on, Mr Billings.  I want to see you feed them."

The nuts were always available for the little animals but we watched
intently as the farmer poured the milk into the buckets and the calves
started to drink.

The poor man had obviously given up hope and I could tell by his
apathetic manner that he hadn't much faith in this latest ploy.

Neither had I, but Siegfried prowled up and down like a caged panther
as though willing something to happen.  The calves raised
white-slobbered muzzles enquiringly as he hung over them but they could
offer no more explanation of the mystery than I could myself.

I looked across the long row of pens.  There were still more than
thirty calves left in the building and the terrible thought arose that
the disease might spread through all of them.  My mind was recoiling
when Siegfried stabbed a finger at one of the buckets.

"What's that?"  he snapped.

The farmer and I went over and gazed down at a circular black object
about half an inch across floating on the surface of the milk.

"Bit o' muck got in somehow," Mr Billings mumbled.

"I'll 'ave it out."  He put his hand into the bucket.

"No, let me!"  Siegfried carefully lifted the thing, shook the milk
from his fingers and studied it with interest.

"This isn't muck," he murmured.

"Look, it's concave like a little cup."  He rubbed a corner between
thumb and forefinger.

"I'll tell you what it is, it's a scab.  Where the heck has it come
from?"

He began to examine the neck and head of the calf, then became very
still as he handled one of the little horn buds.

"There's a raw surface here.  You can see where the scab belongs."  He
placed the dark cup over the bud and it fitted perfectly.

The farmer shrugged.

"Aye, well, I can understand that.  I disbudded all the calves about a
fortnight sin'."

"What did you use, Mr Billings?"  My colleague's voice was soft.

"Oh, some new stuff.  Feller came round sell in' it.  You just paint it
on it's a lot easier than t'awd caustic stick."

"Have you got the bottle?"

"Aye, it's in "'house.  I'll get it."

When the farmer returned Siegfried read the label and handed the bottle
to me.

"Butter of Antimony, Jim.  Now we know,"

"But .  . . what are you on about?  "asked the farmer bewilderedly.

Siegfried looked at him sympathetically.

"Antimony is a deadly poison, Mr Billings.  Oh, it'll burn your horn
buds off, all right, but if it gets in among the food, that's it."

The farmer's eyes widened.

"Yes, clang it, and when they put their heads down to drink that's just
when the scabs would fall off!"

"Exactly," Siegfried said.

"Or they maybe knocked the horn buds on the sides of the bucket.
Anyway, let's make sure the others are safe."

We went round all the calves, removing the lethal crusts and scrubbing
the buds clean, and when we finally drove away we knew that the brief
but painful episode of the Billings calves was over.

In the car, my colleague put his elbows on the wheel and drove with his
chin cupped in his hands.  He often did this when in contemplative mood
and it never failed to unnerve me.

"James," he said,

"I've never seen any thing like that before.  It really is one for the
book."

His words were prophetic, for as I write about it now I realise that it
has never been repeated in the thirty-five years that have passed since
then.

At Skeldale House we parted to go our different ways.  Tristan, no
doubt anxious to redeem himself after the morning's explosive
beginning, was plying mop and bucket and swabbing the passage with the
zeal of one of Nelson's sailors.

But when Siegfried drove away, the activity stopped abruptly and as I
was leaving with my pockets stuffed with the equipment for my round I
glanced into the sitting room and saw the young man stretched in his
favourite chair I went in and looked with some surprise at a pan of
sausages balanced on the coals.

"What's this?"  I asked.

Tristan lit a Woodbine, shook out his Daily Mirror and put his feet
up.

"Just prepared lunch, old lad."

"In here?"

"Yes, Jim, I've had enough of that hot stove there's no comfort through
there.  And anyway, the kitchen's such a bloody long way away."

I gazed down at the reclining form.

"No need to ask what's on the menu?"

"None at all, old son."  Tristan looked up from his paper with a
seraphic smile.

I was about to leave when a thought struck me.

"Where are the potatoes?"

"In the fire."

"In the fire!"

"Yes, I just popped them in there to roast for a while.  They're
delicious that way."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely, Jim.  I'll tell you you'll fall in love with my cooking
all over again."

I didn't get back till nearly one o'clock.  Tristan was not in the
sitting room but a haze of smoke hung on the air and a reek like a
garden bonfire prickled in my nostrils.

I found the young man in the kitchen.  His savoir faire had vanished
and he was prodding desperately at a pile of coal black spheres.

I stared at him.

"What are those?"

"The bloody potatoes, Jim!  I fell asleep for a bit and this
happened!"

He gingerly sawed through one of the objects.  In the centre of the
carbonaceous ball I could discern a small whitish marble which seemed
to be all that remained of the original vegetable.

"Hell's bells, Triss!  What are you going to do?"

He gave me a stricken glance.

"Hack out the cent res and mash 'em up together.

It's all I CAN do."

This was something I couldn't bear to watch.  I went upstairs, had a
wash then took my place at the dining table.  Siegfried was already
seated and I could see that the little triumph of the morning had
cheered him.  He greeted me jovially.

"James, wasn't that the damndest thing at Ken Billings'?  It's so
satisfying to get it cleared up."

But his smile froze as Tristan appeared and set down the tureens before
him.

From one peeped the inevitable sausages and the other contained an
amorphous dark grey mass liberally speckled with black foreign bodies
of varying size.

"What in the name of God," he enquired with ominous quiet, 'is this?"

His brother swallowed.

"Sausage and mesh," he said lightly.

Siegfried gave him a cold look.

"I am referring to this."  He poked warily at the dark mound.

"Weller it's the potatoes."  Tristan cleared his throat.

"Got a little burnt, I'm afraid."

My boss made no comment.  With dangerous calm he spooned some of the
material on to his plate, raised a forkful and began to chew slowly.
Once or twice he winced as a particularly tough fragment of carbon
cracked between his molars, then he closed his eyes and swallowed.

For a moment he was still, then he grasped his midriff with both hands,
groaned and jumped to his feet.

"No, that's enough!"  he cried.

"I don't mind investigating poison ings on the farms but I object to
being poisoned myself in my own home!"  He strode away from the table
and paused at the door.

"I'm going over to the Drovers for lunch."

As he left another spasm seized him.  He clutched his stomach again and
looked back.

"Now I know just how those poor bloody calves felt!"

Chapter Seven I suppose it was a little thoughtless of me to allow my
scalpel to flash and flicker quite so close to Rory O"Hagan's fly
buttons.

The incident came back to me as I sat in my room in St John's Wood
reading Black's Veterinary Dictionary.  It was a bulky volume to carry
around and my RAF friends used to rib me about my 'vest pocket
edition', but I had resolved to keep reading it in spare moments to
remind me of my real life.

I had reached the letter

"C' and as the word

"Castration' looked up at me from the page I was jerked back to Rory.

I was castrating pigs.  There were several litters to do and I was in a
hurry and failed to notice the Irish farm worker's mounting
apprehension.  His young boss was catching the little animals and
handing them to Rory who held them upside down, gripped between his
thighs with their legs apart, and as I quickly incised the scrotums and
drew out the testicles my blade almost touched the rough material of
his trouser crutch.

"For God's sake, have a care, Mr Herriot!"  he gasped at last.

I looked up from my work.

"What's wrong, Rory?"

"Watch what you're doin' with that bloody knife!  You're whip pin' it
round between me legs like a bloody Red Indian.  You'll do me a
mischief afore you've finished!"

"Aye, be careful, Mr Herriot," the young farmer cried.

"Don't geld Rory instead of the pig.  His missus ud never forgive ye."
He burst into a loud peal of laughter, the Irishman grinned sheepishly
and I giggled.

That was my undoing because the momentary inattention sent the blade
slicing across my left forefinger.  The razor-sharp edge went deep and
in an instant the entire neighbour hood seemed flooded with my blood. 
I thought I would never staunch the flow.  The red ooze continued,
despite a long session of self-doctoring from the car boot, and when I
finally drove away my finger was swathed in the biggest, clumsiest
dressing I have ever seen.  I had finally been forced to apply a large
pad of cotton wool held in place with an enormous length of three-inch
bandage.

It was dark when I left the farm.  About five o'clock on a late
December day, the light gone early and the stars beginning to show in a
frosty sky.  I drove slowly, the enormous finger jutting upwards from
the wheel, pointing the way between the headlights like a guiding
beacon.  I was within half a mile of Darrow by with the lights of the
little town beginning to wink between the bare roadside branches when a
car approached, went past, then I heard a squeal of brakes as it
stopped and began to double back.

It passed me again, drew into the side and I saw a frantically waving
arm.

I pulled up and a young man jumped from the driving seat and ran
towards me.

He pushed his head in at the window.

"Are you the vet?"  His voice was breathless, panic-stricken.

"Yes, I am."

"Oh thank God!  We're passing through on the way to Manchester and
we've been to your surgery .  . . they said you were out this way .  .
. described your car.

Please help us!"

"What's the trouble?"

"It's our dog .  . . in the back of the car.  He's got a ball stuck in
his throat.  I ... I think he might be dead."

I was out of my seat and running along the road before he had finished.
It was a big white saloon and in the darkness of the back seat a
wailing chorus issued from several little heads silhouetted against the
glass.

I tore open the door and the wailing took on words.

"Oh Benny, Benny, Benny...!"

I dimly discerned a large dog spread over the knees of four small
children.

"Oh Daddy, he's dead, he's dead!"

"Let's have him out," I gasped, and as the young man pulled on the
forelegs I supported the body, which slid and toppled on to the tarmac
with a horrible limpness.

I pawed at the hairy form.

"I can't see a bloody thing!  Help me pull him round."

We dragged the unresisting bulk into the headlights' glare and I could
see it all.  A huge, beautiful collie in his luxuriant prime, mouth
gaping, tongue lolling, eyes staring lifelessly at nothing.  He wasn't
breathing.

The young father took one look then gripped his head with both hands.

"Oh God, oh God...."  From within the car I heard the quiet sobbing of
his wife and the piercing cries from the back.

"Benny ... Benny...."

I grabbed the man's shoulder and shouted at him.

"What did you say about a ball?"

"It's in his throat .  . . I've had my fingers in his mouth for ages
but I couldn't move it."  The words came mumbling up from beneath the
bent head.

I pushed my hand into the mouth and I could feel it all right.  A
sphere of hard solid rubber not much bigger than a golf ball and jammed
like a cork in the pharynx, effectively blocking the trachea.  I
scrabbled feverishly at the wet smoothness but there was nothing to get
hold of.  It took me about three seconds to realise that no human
agency would ever get the ball out that way and without thinking I
withdrew my hands, braced both thumbs behind the angle of the lower jaw
and pushed.

The ball shot forth, bounced on the frosty road and rolled sadly on to
the grass verge.  I touched the corneal surface of the eye.  No reflex.
I slumped to my knees, burdened by the hopeless regret that I hadn't
had the chance to do this just a bit sooner.  The only function I could
perform now was to take the body back to Skeldale House for disposal. I
couldn't allow the family to drive to Manchester with a dead dog. But I
wished fervently that I had been able to do more, and as I passed my
hand along the richly coloured coat over the ribs the vast bandaged
finger stood out like a symbol of my helplessness.

It was when I was gazing dully at the finger, the heel of my hand
resting in an intercostal space, that I felt the faintest flutter from
below.

I jerked upright with a hoarse cry.

"His heart's still beating!  He's not gone yet!"  I began to work on
the dog with all I had.  And out there in the darkness of that lonely
country road it wasn't much.  No stimulant injections, no oxygen
cylinders or intratracheal tubes.  But I depressed his chest with my
palms every three seconds in the old-fashioned way, willing the dog to
breathe as the eyes still stared at nothing.  Every now and then I blew
desperately down the throat or probed between the ribs for that almost
imperceptible beat.

I don't know which I noticed first, the slight twitch of an eyelid or
the small lift of the ribs which pulled the icy Yorkshire air into his
lungs.  Maybe they both happened at once but from that moment
everything was dreamlike and wonderful.  I lost count of time as I sat
there while the breathing became deep and regular and the animal began
to be aware of his surroundings; and by the time he started to look
around him and twitch his tail tentatively I realised suddenly that I
was stiff jointed and almost frozen to the spot.

With some difficulty I got up and watched in disbelief as the collie
staggered to his feet.  The young father ushered him round to the back
where he was received with screams of delight.

The man seemed stunned.  Throughout the recovery he had kept muttering
"You just flicked that ball out .  . . just flicked it out.  Why didn't
I think of that .  . . ?"  And when he turned to me before leaving he
appeared to be still in a state of shock.

"I don't .  . . I don't know how to thank you," he said huskily.

"It's a miracle."

He leaned against the car for a second.

"And now what is your fee?  How much do I owe you?"

I rubbed my chin.  I had used no drugs.  The only expenditure had been
time.

"Five bob," I said.

"And never let him play with such a little ball again."

He handed the money over, shook my hand and drove away.  His wife, who
had never left her place, waved as she left, but my greatest reward was
in the last shadowy glimpse of the back seat where little arms twined
around the dog hugging him ecstatically, and in the cries, thankful and
joyous, fading into the night.

"Benny ... Benny ... Benny...."

Vets often wonder after a patient's recovery just how much credit they
might take.  Maybe it would have got better without treatment it
happened sometimes; it was difficult to be sure.

But when you know without a shadow of a doubt that, even without doing
any thing clever, you have pulled an animal back from the brink of
death into the living, breathing world, it is a satisfaction which
lingers, flowing like balm over the discomforts and frustrations of
veterinary practice, making everything right.

Yet, in the case of Benny the whole thing had an unreal quality.  I
never even glimpsed the faces of those happy children nor that of their
mother huddled in the front seat.  I had a vague impression of their
father but he had spent most of the time with his head in his hands.  I
wouldn't have known him if I met him in the street.  Even the dog, in
the unnatural glare of the headlights, was a blurred memory.

It seemed the family had the same feeling because a week later I had a
pleasant letter from the mother.  She apologised for skulking out of
the way so shamelessly, she thanked me for saving the life of their
beloved dog who was now prancing around with the children as though
nothing had happened, and she finished with the regret that she hadn't
even asked me my name.

Yes, it had been a strange episode, and not only were those people
unaware of my name but I'd like to bet they would fail to recognise me
if they saw me again.

In fact, loo king back at the affair, the only thing which stood out
unequivocal and substantial was my great white-bound digit which had
hovered constantly over the scene, almost taking on a personality and
significance of its own.  I am sure that is what the family remembered
best about me because of the way the mother's letter began.

"Dear Vet with the bandaged finger.  . ."

;5 Chapter Eight My stint in London was nearing its end.  Our
breaking-in weeks were nearly over and we waited for news of posting to
Initial Training Wing.

The air was thick with rum ours.  We were going to Aberystwyth in
Wales; too far away for me, I wanted the north.  Then we were going to
New quay in Cornwall; worse still.  I was aware that the impending
birth of AC2 Herriot's child did not influence the general war
strategy but I still wanted to be as near to Helen as possible at the
time.

The whole London phase is blurred in my memory.  Possibly because
everything was so new and different that the impressions could not be
fully absorbed, and also perhaps because I was tired most of the time.
I think we were all tired.

Few of us were used to being jerked from slumber at 6 a.m. every
morning and spending the day in continual physical activity.  If we
weren't being drilled we were being marched to meals, to classes, to
talks.  I had lived in a motor car for a few years and the rediscovery
of my legs was painful.

There were times, too, when I wondered what it was all about.  Like all
the other young men I had imagined that after a few brisk preliminaries
I would be sitting in an aeroplane, learning to fly, but it turned out
that this was so far in the future that it was hardly mentioned.  At
the ITW we would spend months learning navigation, principles of
flight, morse and many other things.

I was thankful for one blessing.  I had passed the mathematics exam.  I
have always counted on my fingers and still do and I had been so
nervous about this that I went to classes with the ATC in Darrow by
before my call-up, dredging from my school days horrific calculations
about trains passing each other at different speeds and water running
in and out of bath tubs.  But I had managed to scrape through and felt
ready to face any thing.

There were some unexpected shocks in London.  I didn't anticipate
spending days mucking out some of the dirtiest piggeries I had ever
seen.  Somebody must have had the idea of converting all the RAF waste
food into pork and bacon and of course there was plenty of labour at
hand.  I had a strong feeling of unreality as, with other aspiring
pilots, I threw muck and swill around hour after hour.

There was another time I had the same feeling.  One night three of us
decided to go to the cinema.  We took pains to get to the front of the
queue for the evening meal so that we would be in time for the start of
the picture.  When the doors of the huge dining room at the zoo were
thrown open we were first in, but a sergeant cook met us in the
entrance with: "I want three volunteers for dishwashing you, you and
you," and marched us away.

He probably had a kind heart because he patted our shoulders as we
climbed miserably into greasy dungarees.

"Never mind, lads," he said.

"I'll see you get a real good meal afterwards."

My friends were taken somewhere else and I found myself alone in a kind
of dungeon at the end of a metal chute.  Very soon dirty plates began
to cascade down the chute and my job was to knock the food remains off
them and transfer them to a mechanical washer.

The menu that night was cottage pie and chips, a combination which has
remained engraved on my memory.  For more than two hours I stood at bay
while a nonstop torrent of crockery poured down on me; thousands and
thousands of plates, every one bearing a smear of cottage pie, a blob
of cold gravy, a few adhering chips.

As I reeled around in the meaty steam a little tune tinkled
repetitively in my mind; it was the song Siegfried and I were forever
singing as we waited to enter the RAF, the popular jingle which in our
innocence we thought typified the new life ahead.

"If I only had wings Oh what a difference it would make to things, All
day long I'd be in the sky, up on high Talking to the birdies that pass
me by."

But in this reeking cavern with my hands, face, hair and every pore of
my skin impregnated with cottage pie and chips, those birdies seemed
far away.

At last, however, the plates began to slow down and finally stopped
coming.

The sergeant came in beaming and congratulated me on doing a fine job.
He led me back to the dining hall, vast and empty save for my two
friends.  They both wore bemused, slightly stunned expressions and I am
pretty sure I looked the same.

"Sit down here, lads," the sergeant said.  We took our places side by
side in a corner with the bare boards of the table stretching away into
the distance.

"I

told you you'd get a real good meal, didn't I?  Well, here it is."  He
slid three heaped platefuls in front of us.

"There yare,"he said.

"Cottage pie and chips, double help in's!"

The following day I might have felt more disenchanted than ever, but
news of the posting blotted out all other feelings.  It seemed too good
to be true I was going to Scar borough.  I had been there and I knew it
as a beautiful seaside resort, but that wasn't why I was so delighted.
It was because it was in Yorkshire.

Chapter Nine As we marched out of the station into the streets of Scar
borough I could hardly believe I was back in Yorkshire.  But if there
had been any doubt in my mind it would have been immediately resolved
by my first breath of the crisp, tangy air.  Even in winter there had
been no 'feel' to the soft London air and I half closed my eyes as I
followed the tingle all the way down to my lungs.

Mind you, it was cold.  Yorkshire is a cold place and I could remember
the sensation almost of shock at the start of my first winter in Darrow
by.

It was after the first snow and I followed the clanging ploughs up the
Dale bumping along between high white mounds till I reached old Mr
Stokill's gate With my fingers on the handle I looked through the glass
at the new world beneath me.  The white blanket rolled down the
hillside and lapped over the roofs of the dwelling and outbuildings of
the little farm.  Beyond, it smoothed out and concealed the familiar
features, the stone walls bordering the fields the stream on the valley
floor, turning the whole scene into something unknown and exciting.

But the thrill I felt at the strange beauty was swept away as I got out
and the wind struck me.  It was an Arctic blast screaming from the
east, picking up extra degrees of cold as it drove over the frozen
white surface.  I was wearing a heavy overcoat and woollen gloves but
the gust whipped its way right into my bones.

I gasped and leaned my back against the car while I buttoned the coat
up under my chin, then I struggled forward to where the gate shook and
rattled.  I fought it open and my feet crunched as I went through.

Coming round the corner of the byre I found Mr Stokill forking muck on
to a heap, making a churned brown trail across the whiteness.

"Now then," he muttered along the side of a half-smoked cigarette.  He
was over seventy but still ran the small holding single-handed.  He
told me once that he had worked as a farm hand for six shillings a day
for thirty years, yet still managed to save enough to buy his own
little place.  Maybe that was why he didn't want to share it.

"How are you, Mr Stokill?"  I said, but just then the wind tore through
the yard, clutching icily at my face, snatching my breath away so that
I turned involuntarily to one side with an explosive

"Aaahh!"

The old farmer looked at me in surprise, then glanced around as though
he had just noticed the weather.

"Aye, blows a bit thin this morn in', lad."  Sparks flew from the end
of his cigarette as he leaned for a moment on the fork.

He didn't seem to have much protection against the cold.  A light khaki
smock fluttered over a ragged navy waistcoat, clearly once part of his
best suit, and his shirt bore neither collar nor stud.  The white
stubble on his fleshless jaw was a reproach to my twenty-four years and
suddenly I felt an inadequate city-bred softie.

The old man dug his fork into the manure pile and turned towards the
buildings.

"Ah've got a nice few cases for ye to see today.  Fust 'un's in 'ere."
He opened a door and I staggered gratefully into a sweet bovine warmth
where a few shaggy little bullocks stood hock deep in straw.

"That's the youth we want."  He pointed to a dark roan standing with
one hind foot knuckled over.

"He's been on three legs for a couple o' days.  Ah reckon he's got
foul."

I walked up to the little animal but he took off at a speed which made
light of his infirmity.

"We'll have to run him into the passage.  Mr Stokill," I said.

"Just open the gate, will you?"

With the rough timbers pushed wide I got behind the bullock and sent
him on to the opening.  It seemed as though he was going straight
through but at the entrance he stopped, peeped into the passage and
broke away.  I galloped a few times round the yard after him, then had
another go.  The result was the same.

After half a dozen tries I wasn't cold any more.  I'll back chasing
young cattle against any thing else for working up a sweat, and I had
already forgotten the uncharitable world outside.  And I could see I
was going to get warmer still because the bullock was beginning to
enjoy the game, kicking up his heels and frisking around after each
attempt.

I put my hands on my hips, waited till I got my breath back then turned
to the farmer.

"This is hopeless.  He'll never go in there," I said.

"We'd maybe better try to get a rope on him."

"Nay, lad, there's no need for that.  We'll get him through t'gate
right enough."

The old man ambled to one end of the yard and returned with an armful
of clean straw.  He sprinkled it freely in the gate opening and beyond
in the passage, then turned to me.

"Now send 'im on."

I poked a finger into the animal's rump and he trotted forward,
proceeded unhesitatingly between the posts and into the passage.

Mr Stokill must have noticed my look of bewilderment.

"Aye, 'e just didn't like t'look of them cobbles.  Once they was
covered over he was aw right."

"Yes .  . . yes .  . . I see."  I followed the bullock slowly
through.

He was indeed suffering from foul of the foot, the mediaeval term given
because of the stink of the necrotic tissue between the cleats, and I
didn't have any antibiotics or sulphon amides to treat it.  It is so
nice and easy these days to give an injection, knowing that the beast
will be sound in a day or two.  But all I could do was wrestle with the
lunging hind foot, dressing the infected cleft with a crude mixture of
copper sulphate and Stockholm tar and finishing with a pad of cotton
wool held by a tight bandage.  When I had finished I took off my coat
and hung it on a nail.  I didn't need it any more.

Mr Stokill looked approvingly at the finished job.

"Capital, capital," he: murmured.

"Now there's some little pigs in this pen got a bit o' scour.  I want
you give 'em a jab wi' your needle."

We had various E cold vaccines which sometimes did a bit of good in
these cases and I entered the pen hopefully.  But I left in a hurry
because the piglets' mother didn't approve of a stranger wandering
among her brood and she came at me open-mouthed, barking explosively.
She looked as big as a donkey and when the cavernous jaws with the
great yellowed teeth brushed my thigh I knew it was time to go.  I
hopped rapidly into the yard and crashed the door behind me.

I peered back ruminatively into the pen.

"We'll have to get her out of there before I can do any thing, Mr
Stokill."

"Aye, you're right, young man, ahtll shifter."  He began to shuffle
away.

I held up a hand.

"No, it's all right, I'll do it."  I couldn't let this frail old man go
in there and maybe get knocked down and savaged, and I looked around
for a means of protection.  There was a battered shovel standing
against a wall and I seized it.

"Open the door, please," I said.

"I'll soon have her out."

Once more inside the pen I held the shovel in front of me and tried to
usher the huge sow towards the door.  But my efforts at poking her rear
end were fruitless; she faced me all the time, wide-mouthed and
growling as I circled.

When she got the blade of the shovel between her teeth and began to
worry it I called a halt.

As I left the pen I saw Mr Stokill dragging a large object over the
cobbles.

"What's that?"  I asked.

"Dustbin," the old man grunted in reply.

"Dustbin!  What on earth .  . .?"

He gave no further explanation but entered the pen.  As the sow came at
him he allowed her to run her head into the bin then, bent double, he
began to back her towards the open door.  The animal was clearly
baffled.  Suddenly finding herself in this strange dark place she
naturally tried to retreat from it and all the farmer did was guide
her.

Before she knew what was happening she was out in the yard.  The old
man calmly removed the bin and beckoned to me.

"Right you are, Mr Herriot, you can get on now."

It had taken about twenty seconds.

Well, that was a relief, and anyway I knew what to do next.  Lifting a
skier.  t of corrugated iron which the farmer had ready I rushed in
among the little pigs.

I Would pen them in a corner and the job would be over in no time.

But their mother's irritation had been communicated to the family.  It
was a big litter and there were sixteen of them hurtling around like
little pink racehorses I spent a long time diving frantically after
them, jamming the sheet at a bunch only to see half of them streaking
out the other end, and I might have gone on indefinitely had I not felt
a gentle touch on my arm.

"Haud on, young man, haud on."  The old farmer looked at me kindly.

"If you'll nob but stop runnin' after 'em they'll settle down.  Just
bide a minute."

Slightly breathless, I stood by his side and listened as he addressed
the little creatures.

"Giss-giss, giss-giss," murmured Mr Stokill without moving.

"Giss-giss, giss giss.

The piglets slowed their headlong gallop to a trot, then, as though
controlled by telepathy, they all stopped at once and stood in a pink
group in one corner.

"Giss-giss," said Mr Stokill approvingly, advancing almost
imperceptibly with the sheet.

"Giss-giss."

He unhurriedly placed the length of metal across the corner and jammed
his foot against the bottom.

"Now then, put the toe of your Wellington against tother end and we
'ave 'em," he said quietly.

After that the injection of the litter was a matter of a few minutes.
Mr Stokill didn't say,

"Well, I'm teaching you a thing or two today, am I not?"  There was no
hint of triumph or self-congratulation in the calm old eyes.  All he
said was, "I'm keep in' you busy this morn in', young man.  I want you
to look at a cow now.  She's got a pea in her tit."

"Peas' and other obstructions in the teats were very common in the days
of hand milking.  Some of them were floating milk calculi, others tiny
pedunculated tumours, injuries to the teat lining, all sorts of things.
It was a whole diverting little field in itself and I approached the
cow with interest.

But I didn't get very near before Mr Stokill put his hand on my
shoulder.

"Just a minute, Mr Herriot, don't toucher tit yet or she'll clout ye.
She's an awd bitch.  Wait a minute till ah rope'er."

"Oh right," I said.

"But I'll do it."

He hesitated.

"Ah reckon I ought to .  . ."

"No, no, Mr Stokill that's quite unnecessary, I know how to stop a cow
kicking."  I said primly.

"Kindly hand me that rope."

"But .  . . she's a bugger ... kicks like a 'oss.  She's a right good
milker but "Don't worry," I said, smiling.

"I'll stop her little games."

I began to unwind the rope.  It was good to be able to demonstrate that
I did know something about handling animals even though I had been
qualified for only a few months.  And it made a change to be told
before and not after the job that a cow was a kicker.  A cow once
kicked me nearly to the other end of the byre and as I picked myself up
the farmer said unemotionally,

"Aye, she's all us had a habit o' that."

Yes, it was nice to be warned, and I passed the rope round the animal's
body in front of the udder and pulled it tight in a slip knot.  Just
like they taught us at college She was a scrawny red short horn with a
woolly poll and she regarded me with a contemplative eye as I bent
down.

"All right, lass," I said soothingly, reaching under her and gently
grasping the teat I squirted a few jets of milk then something blocked
the end.  Ah yes, there it was, quite large and unattached.  I felt
sure I could work it through the orifice without cutting the
sphincter.

I took a firmer grip, squeezed tightly and immediately a cloven foot
shot out like a whip lash and smacked me solidly on the knee.  It is a
particularly painful spot to be kicked and I spent some time hopping
round the byre and cursing in a fervent whisper.

The farmer followed me anxiously.

"Ee, ah'm sorry, Mr Herriot, she's a right awd bugger.  Better let me.
. ."

I held up a hand.

"No, Mr Stokill.  I already have her roped.  I just didn't tie it tight
enough, that's all."  I hobbled back to the animal, loosened the knot
then retied it, pulling till my eyes popped.  When I had finished, her
abdomen was lifted high and nipped in like a wasp-waisted Victorian
lady of fashion.

"That'll fix you," I grunted, and bent to my work again.  A few spurts
of milk then the thing was at the teat end again, a pinkish-white
object peeping through the orifice.  A little extra pressure and I
would be able to fish it out with the hypodermic needle I had poised
ready.  I took a breath and gripped hard.

This time the hoof caught me half way up the shin bone.  She hadn't
been able to get so much height into it but it was just as painful.  I
sat down on a milking stool, rolled up my trouser leg and examined the
roll of skin which hung like a diploma at the end of a long graze where
the sharp hoof had dragged along.

"Now then, you've 'ad enough, young man."  Mr Stokill removed my rope
and gazed at me with commiseration.

"Ordinary methods don't work with this 'un.

I 'ave to milk her twice a day and ah knew."

He fetched a soiled length of plough cord which had obviously seen much
service and fastened it round the cow's hock.  The other end had a hook
which he fitted into a ring on the byre wall.  It was just the right
length to stretch taut.

pulling the leg slightly back.

The old man nodded.

"Now try."

With a feeling of fatalism I grasped the teat again.  And it was if the
cow knew she was beaten.  She never moved as I nipped hard and wink led
out the offending obstruction.  She couldn't do a thing about it.

"Ah, thank ye, lad," the farmer said.

"That's champion.  Been bothering me a bit has that.  Didn't know what
it was."  He held up a finger.

"One last job for ye.  A young heifer with a bit o' stomach trouble, ah
think.  Saw her last night and she was a bit blown.  She's in an
outside build in'."

I put on my coat and we went out to where the wind welcomed us with
savage glee.  As the knife-like blast hit me, whistling up my nose and
making my eyes water, I cowered in the lee of the stable.

"Where is this heifer?"  I gasped.

Mr Stokill did not reply immediately.  He was lighting another
cigarette, apparently oblivious of the elements.  He clamped the lid on
an ancient brass lighter and jerked his thumb.

"Across the road.  Up there."

I followed his gesture over the buried walls, across the narrow roadway
between the ploughed-out snow dunes to where the fell rose steeply in a
sweep of unbroken white to join the leaden sky.  Unbroken, that is,
except for a tiny barn, a grey stone speck just visible on the last
airy swell hundreds of feet up where the hillside joined the moorland
above.

"Sorry," I said, still crouching against the wall.

"I can't see any thing."

The old man, lounging in the teeth of the wind, looked at me in
surprise.

"You can't?  Why, "'barn's good enough to see, isn't it?"

"The bare?"  I pointed a shaking finger at the heights.

"You mean that building

The heifer's surely not in there!"

"Aye, she is.  Ah keep a lot o'me young beasts in them spots."

"But .  . . but .  . ."  I was gabbling now.

"We'll never get up there!  That snow's three feet deep!"

He blew smoke pleasurably from his nostrils.

"We will, don't the worry.  Just hang on a second."

He disappeared into the stable and after a few moments I peeped inside.
He was saddling a fat brown cob and I stared as he led the little
animal out, climbed stiffly on to a box and mounted.

Looking down at me he waved cheerfully.

"Well, let's be goin'.  Have you got your stuff?"

Bewilderedly I filled my pockets.  A bottle of bloat mixture, a trochar
and cannula, a packet of gentian and nux vomica.  I did it in the dull
knowledge that there was no way I could get up that hill.

On the other side of the road an opening had been dug and Mr.Stokill
rode through I slithered in his wake, loo king up hopelessly at the
great smooth wilderness rearing above us.

Mr Stokill turned in the saddle.

"Get haud on "'tail," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get a haud of 'is tail."

As in a dream I seized the bristly hairs.

"No, both 'ends," the farmer said patiently.

"Like this?"

"That's grand, lad.  Now 'ang on."

He clicked his tongue, the cob plodded resolutely forward and so did I.
And it was easy!  The whole world fell away beneath us as we soared
upwards and leaning back and enjoying it I watched the little valley
unfold along its twisting length until I could see away into the main
Dale with the great hills billowing round and white into the dark
clouds.

At the barn the farmer dismounted.

"All right, young man?"

"All right, Mr Stokill."  As I followed him into the little building I
smiled to myself.  This old man had once told me that he left school
when he was twelve, whereas I had spent most of the twenty-four years
of my life in study.  Yet when I looked back on the last hour or so I
could come to only one conclusion.

He knew a lot more than I did.

Chapter Ten I had plenty of company for Christmas that year.  We were
billeted in the Grand Hotel, the massive Victorian pile which dominated
Scar borough in turreted splendour from its eminence above the sea, and
the big dining room was packed with several hundred shouting airmen.
The iron discipline was relaxed for a few hours to let the Yuletide
spirit run free.

It was so different from other Christmases I had known that it ought to
have remained like a beacon in my mind, but I know that my strongest
memory of Christmas will always be bound up with a certain little
cat.

I first saw her when I was called to see one of Mrs Ainsworth's dogs,
and I looked in some surprise at the furry black creature sitting
before the fire.

"I didn't know you had a cat," I said.

The lady smiled.

"We haven't, this is Debbie."

"Debbie ?"

"Yes, at least that's what we call her.  She's a stray.  Comes here two
or three times a week and we give her some food.  I don't know where
she lives but I believe she spends a lot of her time around one of the
farms along the road."

"Do you ever get the feeling that she wants to stay with you?"

"No."  Mrs Ainsworth shook her head.

"She's a timid little thing.  Just creeps in, has some food then flits
away.  There's something so appealing about her but she doesn't seem to
want to let me or anybody into her life."

I looked again at the little cat.

"But she isn't just having food today."

"That's right.  It's a funny thing but every now and again she slips
through here into the lounge and sits by the fire for a few minutes.
It's as though she was giving herself a treat."

"Yes ... I see what you mean."  There was no doubt there was something
unusual in the attitude of the little animal.  She was sitting bolt
upright on the thick rug which lay before the fireplace in which the
coals glowed and flamed.

She made no effort to curl up or wash herself or do any thing other
than gaze quietly ahead.  And there was something in the dusty black of
her coat, the half-wild scrawny look of her, that gave me a clue.  This
was a special event in her life, a rare and wonderful thing; she was
lapping up a comfort undreamed of in her daily existence.

As I watched she turned, crept soundlessly from the room and was
gone.

"That's always the way with Debbie," Mrs Ainsworth laughed.

"She never stays more than ten minutes or so, then she's off."

She was a plumpish, pleasant-faced woman in her forties and the kind of
client veterinary surgeons dream of; well off, generous, and the owner
of three cosseted Basset hounds.  And it only needed the habitually
mournful expressions of one of the dogs to deepen a little and I was
round there post haste.  Today one of the Bassets had raised its paw
and scratched its ear a couple of times and that was enough to send its
mistress scurrying to the 'phone in great alarm.

So my visits to the Ainsworth home were frequent but undemanding, and I
had ample opportunity to look out for the little cat which had
intrigued me.  On one occasion I spotted her nibbling daintily from a
saucer at the kitchen door.

As I watched she turned and almost floated on light footsteps into the
hall then through the lounge door.

The three Bassets were already in residence, draped snoring on the
fireside rug, but they seemed to be used to Debbie because two of them
sniffed her in a bored manner and the third merely cocked a sleepy eye
at her before flopping back on the rich pile.

Debbie sat among them in her usual posture; upright, intent, gazing
absorbedly into the glowing coals.  This time I tried to make friends
with her.  I approached her carefully but she leaned away as I
stretched out my hand.  However, by patient wheedling and soft talk I
managed to touch her and gently stroked her cheek with one finger.
There was a moment when she responded by putting her head on one side
and rubbing back against my hand but soon she was ready to leave.  Once
outside the house she darted quickly along the road then through a gap
in a hedge and the last I saw was the little black figure flitting over
the rain-swept grass of a field.

"I wonder where she goes," I murmured half to myself.  ~] Mrs Ainsworth
appeared at my elbow.

"That's something we've never been able to find out."

It must have been nearly three months before I heard from Mrs
Ainsworth, and in fact I had begun to wonder at the Bassets' long
symptom less run when she came on the 'phone.

It was Christmas morning and she was apologetic.

"Mr Herriot, I'm so sorry to bother you today of all days.  I should
think you want a rest at Christmas like anybody else."  But her natural
politeness could not hide the distress in her voice.

"Please don't worry about that," I said.

"Which one is it this time?"

"It's not one of the dogs.  It's .  . . Debbie."

"Debbie?  She's at your house now?"

"Yes .  . . but there's something wrong.  Please come quickly."

Driving through the market place I thought again that Darrow by on
Christmas Day was like Dickens come to life; the empty square with the
snow thick on the cobbles and hanging from the eaves of the fretted
lines of roofs; the shops closed and the coloured lights of the
Christmas trees winking at the windows of the clustering houses, warmly
inviting against the cold white bulk of the fells behind.

Mrs Ainsworth's home was lavishly decorated with tinsel and holly, rows
of drinks stood on the sideboard and the rich aroma of turkey and sage
and onion stuffing wafted from the kitchen.  But her eyes were full of
pain as she led me through to the lounge.

Debbie was there all right, but this time everything was different. She
wasn't sitting upright in her usual position; she was stretched quite
motionless on her side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny black
kitten.

I looked down in bewilderment.

"What's happened here?"

"It's the strangest thing," Mrs Ainsworth replied.

"I haven't seen her for several weeks then she came in about two hours
ago sort of staggered into the kitchen, and she was carrying the kitten
in her mouth.  She took it through to the lounge and laid it on the rug
and at first I was amused.  But I could see all was not well because
she sat as she usually does, but for a long time over an hour then she
lay down like this and she hasn't moved."

I knelt on the rug and passed my hand over Debbie's neck and ribs.  She
was thinner than ever, her fur dirty and mud-caked.  She did not resist
as I gently opened her mouth.  The tongue and mucus membranes were
abnormally pale and the lips ice-cold against my fingers.  When I
pulled down her eyelid and saw the dead white conjunctive a knell
sounded in my mind.

I palpated the abdomen with a grim certainty as to what I would find
and there was no surprise, only a dull sadness as my fingers closed
around a hard lobulated mass deep among the viscera.  Massive
lymphosarcoma.  Terminal and hopeless.  I put my stethoscope on her
heart and listened to the increasingly faint, rapid beat then I
straightened up and sat on the rug loo king sightlessly into the
fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames on my face.

Mrs Ainsworth's voice seemed to come from afar.

"Is she ill, Mr Herriot?"

I hesitated.

"Yes .  . . yes, I'm afraid so.  She has a malignant growth."  I stood
up.

"There's absolutely nothing I can do.  I'm sorry."

"Oh!"  Her hand went to her mouth and she looked at me wide-eyed.  When
at last she spoke her voice trembled.

"Well, you must put her to sleep immediately.

It's the only thing to do.  We can't let her suffer."

"Mrs Ainsworth," I said.

"There's no need.  She's dying now in a coma far beyond suffering."

She turned quickly away from me and was very still as she fought with
her emotions.  Then she gave up the struggle and dropped on her knees
beside Debbie.

"Oh, poor little thing!"  she sobbed and stroked the cat's head again
and again as the tears fell unchecked on the matted fur.

"What she must have come through.

I feel I ought to have done more for her."

For a few moments I was silent, feeling her sorrow, so discordant among
the bright seasonal colours of this festive room.  Then I spoke
gently.

"Nobody could have done more than you," I said.

"Nobody could have been kinder."

"But I'd have kept her here in comfort.  It must have been terrible out
there in the cold when she was so desperately ill I daren't think about
it.  And having kittens, too I .  . . I wonder how many she did
have?"

I shrugged.

"I don't suppose we'll ever know.  Maybe just this one.  It happens
sometimes.  And she brought it to you, didn't she?"  : "Yes .  . .
that's right .  . . she did .  . . she did."  Mrs Ainsworth reached out
and lifted the bedraggled black morsel.  She smoothed her finger along
the muddy fur and the tiny mouth opened in a soundless miaow.

"Isn't it strange?  She was dying and she brought her kitten here.  And
on Christmas Day."

I bent and put my hand on Debbie's heart.  There was no beat.

I looked up.

"I'm afraid she's gone."  I lifted the small body, almost feather
light, wrapped it in the sheet which had been spread on the rug and
took it out to the car.

When I came back Mrs Ainsworth was still stroking the kitten.  The
tears had dried on her cheeks and she was bright-eyed as she looked at
me.

"I've never had a cat before," she said.

I smiled.

"Well it looks as though you've got one now."

And she certainly had.  That kitten grew rapidly into a sleek handsome
cat with a boisterous nature which earned him the name of Buster.  In
every way he was the opposite to his timid little mother.  Not for him
the privations of the secret outdoor life; he stalked the rich carpets
of the Ainsworth home like a king and the ornate collar he always wore
added something more to his presence.

On my visits I watched his development with delight but the occasion
which stays in my mind was the following Christmas Day, a year from his
arrival.

I was out on my rounds as usual.  I can't remember when I haven't had
to work on Christmas Day because the animals have never got round to
recognising it as a holiday; but with the passage of the years the
vague resentment I used to feel has been replaced by philosophical
acceptance.  After all, as I tramped around the hillside barns in the
frosty air I was working up a better appetite for my turkey than all
the millions lying in bed or slumped by the fire, and this was aided by
the innumerable aperitifs I received from the hospitable farmers.

I was on my way home, bathed in a rosy glow.  I had consumed several
whiskies the kind the inexpert Yorkshire men pour as though it was
ginger ale - and I had finished with a glass of old Mrs Earnshaw's
rhubarb wine which had seared its way straight to my toenails.  I heard
the cry as I was passing Mrs Ainsworth's house.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Herriot!"  She was letting a visitor out of the
front door; and she waved at me gaily.

"Come in and have a drink to warm you up."

I didn't need warming up but I pulled in to the kerb without
hesitation.  In the house there was all the festive cheer of last year
and the same glorious whiff of sage and onion which set my gastric
juices surging.  But there was not the sorrow; there was Buster.

He was darting up to each of the dogs in turn, ears pricked, eyes
blazing with devilment, dabbing a paw at them then streaking away.  :
Mrs Ainsworth laughed.

"You know, he plagues the life out of them.  Gives them no peace."

She was right.  To the Bassets, Buster's arrival was rather like the
intrusion of an irreverent outsider into an exclusive London club.  For
a long time they had led a life of measured grace; regular sedate walks
with their mistress, superb food in ample quantities and long snoring
sessions on the rugs and armchairs.

Their days followed one upon another in unruffled calm.  And then came
Buster.

He was dancing up to the youngest dog again, sideways this time, head
on ~ ari ~ ~ h ~ Wh~ bc scarred boxing with both paws it was too much]
even for the Basset.  He dropped his dignity and rolled over with the
cat in a brief wrestling match "I want to show you something."  Mrs
Ainsworth lifted a hard rubber ball from the sideboard and went out to
the garden, followed by Buster.  She threw the ball across the lawn and
the cat bounded after it over the frosted grass, the muscles rippling
under the black sheen of his coat.  He seized the ball in his teeth,
brought it back to his mistress, dropped it at her feet and waited
expectantly She threw it and he brought it back again.

I gasped incredulously.  A feline retriever!

The Bassets looked on disdainfully.  Nothing would ever have induced
them to chase a ball, but Buster did it again and again as though he
would never tire of it.

Mrs Ainsworth turned to me.

"Have you ever seen any thing like that?"

"No," I replied.

"I never have.  He is a most remarkable cat."

She snatched Buster from his play and we went back into the house where
she held him close to her face, laughing as the big cat purred and
arched himself ecstatically against her cheek.

Looking at him, a picture of health and contentment, my mind went back
to his mother.  Was it too much to think that that dying little
creature with the last of her strength had carried her kitten to the
only haven of comfort and warmth she had ever known in the hope that it
would be cared for there?  Maybe it was.

But it seemed I wasn't the only one with such fancies.  Mrs Ainsworth
turned to me and though she was smiling her eyes were wistful.

"Debbie would be pleased," she said.

I nodded.

"Yes, she would.... It was just a year ago today she brought him,
wasn't it?"

"That's right."  She hugged Buster to her again.

"The best Christmas present I ever had."

Chapter Eleven I stared in disbelief at the dial of the weighing
machine.  Nine stone seven pounds!  I had lost two stones since joining
the RAF.  I was cowering in my usual corner in Boots' Chemist's shop in
Scar borough, where I had developed the habit of a weekly weigh-in to
keep a morbid eye on my progressive emaciation.

It was incredible and it wasn't all due to the tough training.

On our arrival in Scar borough we had a talk from our Flight Commander,
Flt Lieut Barnes.  He looked us over with a contemplative eye and
said,

"You won't know yourselves when you leave here."  That man wasn't
kidding.

We were never at rest.  It was PT and Drill, PT and Drill, over and
over.

Hours of bending and stretching and twisting down on the prom in sing
lets and shorts while the wind whipped over us from the wintry sea.
Hours of marching under the bellowings of our sergeant; quick march,
slow march, about turn.  We even marched to our navigation classes,
bustling along at the RAF quick time, arms swinging shoulder high.

They marched us regularly to the top of Castle Hill where we fired off
every Conceivable type of weapon; twelve bores, .22 rifles, revolvers,
Browning machine oud guns.  We even stabbed at dummies with bayonets. 
In between they had us swimming, playing football or rugby or running
for miles along the beach and on the cliff tops towards Riley.

At first I was too busy to see any change in myself, but one morning
after a few weeks our flight was coming to the end of a five-mile run.
We dropped down from the Spa to a long stretch of empty beach and the
sergeant shouted, "Right, sprint to those rocks!  Let's see who gets
there first!"

We all took off on the last hundred yards' dash and I was mildly
surprised to find that the first man past the post was myself and I
wasn't really out of breath.  That was when the realisation hit me.  Mr
Barnes had been right.  I didn't know myself.

When I left Helen I was a cosseted young husband with a little double
chin and the beginnings of a spare tyre, and now I was a lithe,
tireless greyhound.

I was certainly fit, but there was something wrong.  I shouldn't have
been as thin as this.  Another factor was at work.

In Yorkshire when a man goes into a decline during his wife's pregnancy
they giggle behind their hands and say he is 'carrying' the baby.  I
never laugh at these remarks because I am convinced I 'carried' my
son.

I base this conclusion on a variety of symptoms.  It would be an
exaggeration to say I suffered from morning sickness, but my suspicions
were certainly aroused when I began to feel a little queasy in the
early part of the day.  This was followed by a growing uneasiness as
Helen's time drew near and a sensation, despite my physical condition,
of being drained and miserable.  With the onset in the later stages of
unmistakable labour pains in my lower abdomen all doubts were resolved
and I knew I had to do something about it.

I had to see Helen.  After all, she was just over that hill which I
could see from the top windows of the Grand.  Maybe that wasn't
strictly true, but at least I was in Yorkshire and a bus would take me
to her in three hours.  The snag was that there was no leave from ITW.
They left us in no doubt about that.

They said the discipline was as tough as a Guards regiment and the
restrictions just as rigid.  I would get com passionate leave when the
baby was born, but I couldn't wait till then.  The grim knowledge that
any attempt to dodge off unofficially would be like a minor desertion
and would be followed by serious consequences, even prison, didn't
weigh with me.

As one of my comrades put it: "One bloke, tried it and finished up in
the Glasshouse.  It isn't worth it, mate."

But it was no good.  I am normally a law-abiding citizen but I had not
a single scruple.  I had to see Helen.  A surreptitious study of the
timetables revealed that there was a bus at 2 p.m. which got to Darrow
by at five o'clock, and another leaving Darrow by at six which arrived
in Scar borough at nine.  Six hours travelling to have one hour with
Helen.  It was worth it.

At first I couldn't see a way of get ting to the bus station at two
o'clock in the afternoon because we were never free at that time, but
my chance came quite unexpectedly.  One Friday lunchtime we learned
that there were no more classes that day but we were confined to the
Grand till evening Most of my friends collapsed thankfully on to their
beds, but I slunk down the long flights of stone stairs and took up a
position in the foyer where I could watch the front door.

There was a glass-fronted office on one side of the entrance where the
SPs sat and kept an eye on all departures.  There was only one on duty
today and I waited till he turned and moved to the back of the room
then I walked quietly past him and out into the square.

That part had been almost too easy, but I felt naked and exposed as I
crossed the deserted space between the Grand and the hotels on the
opposite side.  It was] better once I had rounded the corner and I set
off at a brisk pace for the west.: All I needed was a little bit of
luck and as I pressed, dry-mouthed, along the empty street it seemed I
had found it.  The shock when I saw the two burly SPs Strolling towards
me was like a blow but was immediately followed by a strange calm They
would ask me for the pass I didn't have, then they would want to know
what I was doing there.  It wouldn't be much good telling them I had
just popped out for a breath of air this street led to both the bus and
railway stations and it wouldn't need a genius to rumble my little
game.  Anyway, there was no cover here, no escape, and I wondered idly
if there had ever been a veterinary surgeon in the Glasshouse.  Maybe I
was about to set up some kind of a record.

Then behind me I heard the rhythmic tramp of marching feet and the
shrill "eft 'ight, 'eft, 'ight," that usually went with it.  I turned
and saw a long blue column approaching with a corporal in charge.  As
they swung past me I looked again at the SPs and my heart gave a thud.
They were laughing into each other's faces at some private joke; they
hadn't seen me.  Without thinking I tagged on to the end of the
marching men and within a few seconds was past the SPs unnoticed.

With my mind working with the speed of desperation, it seemed I would
be safest where I was till I could break away in the direction of the
bus station.

For a while I had a glorious feeling of anonymity then the corporal,
still shouting, glanced back.  He faced to the front again then turned
back more slowly for another look.  He appeared to find something
interesting because he shortened his stride till he was marching
opposite me.

As he looked me up and down I examined him in turn from the corner of
my eye.  He was a shrivelled, runtish creature with fierce little eyes
glinting from a pallid, skull-like face.  It was some time before he
spoke.

"Who the hell are you?"  he enquired conversationally.  It was the
number one awkward question but I discerned the faintest gleam of hope;
he had spoken in the unmistakable harsh, glottal accent of my home
town.

"Herriot, corporal.  Two flight, four squadron," I replied in my
broadest Glasgow.

"Two flight, four .  . .!  This is one flight, three squadron.  What
the hell are ye daein' here?"

Arms swinging high, staring rigidly ahead, I took a deep breath.
Concealment was futile now.

"Try in' to get tee see ma wife, corp.  She's havin' a baby soon."

I glanced quickly at him.  His was not the kind of face to reveal
weakness by showing surprise but his eyes widened fractionally.

"Get tee see yer wife?  Are ye daft or whit?"

"It's no' far, corp.  She lives in Darrow by.  Three hours in the bus.
Ah wid be back tonight."

"Back tonight!  Ye want yer held examinin'!"

"I've got tee go!"

"Eyes from!"  he screamed suddenly at the men before us.
"eft'ight,"eft'ight!"

Then he turned and studied me as though I were an unbelievable
phenomenon.

He was interesting to me, too, as a typical product of the bad times in
Glasgow between the wars.  Stunted, undernourished, but as tough and
belligerent as a ferret.

"Dye no' ken," he said at length, 'that ye get leave when yer wife has
the wean ?"

"Aye, but a canna' wait that long.  Gimme a break, corp."

"Give ye a break!  Dye want tee get me shot?"

"No, corp, just want tee get to the bus station."

"Jesus!  Is that ai?"  He gave me a final incredulous look before
quickening h steps to the head of the column. When he returned he
surveyed me again.

"Whit part o' Glesca are ye free?"

"Scotstounhill," I replied.

"How about you?"

"Go van."

I turned my head slightly towards him.

"Ranger supporter, eh?"

He did not change expression, but an eyebrow flickered and I knew I ha
him.

"Whit a team!"  I murmured reverently.

"Many's the time I've stood on terraces at Ibrox."

He said nothing and I began to recite the names of the great Rangers
tea' of the thirties.

"Daw son, Gray, McDonald, Meiklejohn, Simpson, Brown."  H eyes took on
a dreamy expression and by the time I had intoned

"Archibald Marshall, English, McPhail and Morton," there was something
near to a wistful smile on his lips.

Then he appeared to shake himself back to normality.

"Eft'ight,"eft 'ight!"he bawled.

"C'mon, c'mon, pick it up!"  then he muttered to me from the corner of
his mouth.

"There's the bus station.  When we march past it run like !"

He took off again, shouting to the head of the flight, I saw the buses
and the windows of the waiting room on my left and dived across the
road and through the door.  I snatched off my cap and sat trembling
among a group of elderly farmers and their wives.  Through the glass I
could see the long lines of blue moving away down the street and I
could still hear the shouts of the corporal.

But he didn't turn round and I saw only his receding back, the narrow'
shoulders squared, the bent legs stepping it out in time with his men.
I never.

saw him again but to this day I wish I could take him to Ibrox and
watch the Rangers with him and maybe buy him a half and half pint at
one of the Gova pubs.  It wouldn't have mattered if he had turned out
to be a Celtic support.  at that decisive moment because I had the
Celtic team on my tongue all read to trot out, star ting with Kennaway,
Cook, McGonigle.  It is not the only tie my profound knowledge of
football has stood me in good stead.  ~.

Sitting on the bus, still with my cap on my lap to avoid attracting
attention' it struck me that the whole world changed within a mile or
two as we left the town.

Back there the war was everywhere, filling people's minds and eyes an
thoughts; the teeming thousands of uniformed men, the RAF and army
vehicle the almost palpable atmosphere of anticipation and suspense.
And suddenly we were both astonished, she because I was so skinny and I
because she was so fat Helen, with the baby only two weeks away, was
very large indeed, but not too large for me to get my arms around her,
and we stood there in the middle of the tagged floor clasped together
for a long time with neither of us say ing much She cooked me egg and
chips and sat by me while I ate.  We carried on a rather halting
conversation and it came to me with a bump that my mind had been forced
on to different tracks since I had left her.  In those few months my
brain had become saturated with the things of my new life even my mouth
was full of RAF slang and jargon.  In our bed-sitter we used to talk
about my cases, the funny things that happened on my rounds, but now, I
thought helplessly, there wasn't much point in telling her that AC2
Phillips was on jankers again, that vector triangles were the very
devil, that Don McGregor thought he had discovered the secret of
Sergeant Hynd's phenomenally shiny boots.

But it really didn't matter.  My worries melted as I looked at her.  I
had been wondering if she was well and there she was, bouncing with
energy, shining-eyed, rosy-checked and beautiful.  There was only one
jarring note and it was a strange one.  Helen was wearing a 'maternity
dress' which expanded with the passage of time by means of an opening
down one side.  Anyway, I hated it.

It was blue with a high red collar and I thought it cheap-loo king and
ugly.  I was aware that austerity had taken over in England and that a
lot of things were shoddy, but I desperately wished my wife had
something better to wear.  In all my life there have been very few
occasions when I badly wanted more money and that was one of them,
because on my wage of three shillings a day as an AC2 I was unable to
drape her with expensive clothes.

The hour winged past and it seemed no time at all before I was back on
the top road waiting in the gathering darkness for the Scar borough
bus. The journey back was a bit dreary as the black-out vehicle bumped
and rattled its way through the darkened villages and over the long
stretches of anonymous countryside.  It was cold, too, but I sat there
happily with the memory of Helen wrapped around me like a warm quilt.

The whole day had been a triumph.  I had got away by a lucky stroke and
there would be no problem get ting back into the Grand because one of
my pals would be on sentry duty and it would be a case of 'pass
friend'. Closing my eyes in the gloom I could still feel Helen in my
arms and I smiled to myself at the memory of her bounding healthiness. 
She looked marvellous, the egg and chips tasted wonderful, everything
was great.

Except that one discord which jangled still.  Oh, how I hated that
dress!

wide sweep of grey-blue sea fell beneath the rising ground as the bus
trundled westward I looked out on a landscape 'he long moist furrows of
the new-turned soil glittered sun, contrasting with the gold stubble
fields and the "p clustered around their feeding troughs.  There w~
rose straight from the farm chimneys and the ba' were still as they
stretched across the cold sky.

it pulled at me.  A man in breeches and leggings \of hay to some
outlying cattle; a group of far' the fragrance of the wood smoke
finding i' '`onger as the hours passed and the beginnin' 'o' jan to
appear beyond the windows.  Mayk past him and out into l~.  ~ ~.,\wby;
Helen's home was near the bus route That part had been almo~ on.

the deserted space between the ~ ~O \ turned her head as I walked into
it better once I had rounded the corntl ~ed with astonishment; in fact
I know."  Chapter Twelve Hey you!  Where the 'ell d'you think you're
goin'?"

Coming from the RAF Special Police it was a typical mode of address and
the man who barked it out wore the usual truculent expression.

Extra navigation class, corporal," I replied.

"Lemme see your pass!"

~ c`."  1~ll,grrr r~y He snatched it from my hand, read it and returned
it without loo king at me.

I slunk out into the street feeling like a prisoner on parole.

Not all the SPs were like that but I found most of them lacking in
charm And it brought home to me with a rush something which had been
slowly dawning on me ever since I joined the Air Force; that I had been
spoiled for quite a long time now.  Spoiled by the fact that I had
always been treated with respect because I was a veterinary surgeon, a
member of an honourable profession.  And I had taken it entirely for
granted.

Now I was an AC2, the lowest form of life in the RAF, and the

"Hey you!"

was a reflection of my status.  The Yorkshire farmers don't rush out
and kiss you, but their careful friendliness and politeness is
something which I have valued even more since my service days.  Because
that was when I stopped taking it for granted.

Mind you, you have to put up with a certain amount of cheek in most
jobs, and veterinary practice is no exception.  Even now I can recall
the glowering face of Ralph Beamish the racehorse trainer, as he
watched me get ting out of my car.

"Where's Mr Far non?"  he grunted.

My toes curled.  I had heard that often enough, especially among the
horse fraternity around Darrow by.

"I'm sorry, Mr Beamish, but he'll be away all day and I thought I'd
better come along rather than leave it till tomorrow."

He made no attempt to hide his disgust.  He blew out his fat, purpled
cheeks, dug his hands deep in his breeches pockets and looked at the
sky with a martyred air.

"Well come on, then."  He turned and stumped away on his short, thick
legs towards one of the boxes which bordered the yard.  I sighed
inwardly as 1; followed him.  Being an un horsey vet in Yorkshire was a
penance at times, especially in a racing stable like this which was an
equine shrine.  Siegfried, apart altogether from his intuitive skill,
was able to talk the horse language.

He could discuss effortlessly and at length the breeding and points of
his patients; he rode, he hunted, he even looked the part with his long
aristocratic face, The trainers loved him and some, like Beamish, took
it as a mortal insult when he failed to come in person to minister to
their valuable charges.

He called to one of the lads who opened a box door.

"He's in there," he muttered.

"Came in lame from exercise this morning."

The lad led out a bay gelding and there was no need to trot the animal
to diagnose the affected leg; he nodded down on his near fore in an
unmistakable way.

"I think he's lame in the shoulder," Beamish said.

I went round the other side of the horse and picked up the off fore.  I
cleaned out the frog and sole with a hoof knife; there was no sign of
bruising and no sensitivity when I tapped the handle of the knife
against the horn.

I felt my way up over the coronet to the fetlock and after some
palpation I located a spot near the distal end of the metacarpus which
was painful on 4, pressure.  t I looked up from my crouching
position.

"This seems to be the trouble, Mr Beamish.  I think he must have struck
into himself with his hind foot just there."

"Where?"  The trainer leaned over me and peered down at the le r.

"I can't see j any thing."

"No, the skin isn't broken, but he flinches if you press here."

Beamish prodded the place with a stubby forefinger.

clipped moustache and lean frame.

"I~L~ .  ~ _ _ ~ I.... ... ~..

~S"' "J

~Well, he does," he grunted.

"But he'd flinch anywhere if you squeeze him like you're doing."

My hackles began to rise at his tone but I kept my voice calm.

"I'm sure that's what it is.  I should apply a hot antiphlogistine
poultice just above the fetlock and alternate with a cold hose on it
twice a day."

Well, I'm just as sure you're wrong.  It's not down there at all.  The
way that horse carries his leg he's hurt his shoulder."  He gestured to
the lad.

"Harry, see that he gets some heat on that shoulder right away."

If the man had struck me I couldn't have felt worse.  I opened my mouth
to argue but he was walking away.

"There's another horse I want you to look at," he said.  He led the way
into a nearby box and pointed to a big brown animal with obvious signs
of blistering on the tendons of a fore limb.

"Mr Far non put a red blister on that leg six months ago.  He's been
resting in here ever since.  He's going sound now d'you think he's
ready to go out?"

I went over and ran my fingers over the length of the flexor tendons,
feeling for signs of thickening.  There was none.  Then I lifted the
foot and as I explored further I found a tender area in the superficial
flexor.

I straightened up.

"He's still a bit sore," I said: "I think it would be safer to keep him
in for a bit longer."

"Can't agree with you," Beamish snapped.  He turned to the lad.

"Turn him out, Harry."

I stared at him.  Was this a deliberate campaign to make me feel small?
Was he trying to rub in the fact that he didn't think much of me?
Anyway, he was beginning to get under my skin and I hoped my burning
face wasn't too obvious.

"One thing more," Beamish said.

"There's a horse through here been coughing.

Have a look at him before you go."

We went through a narrow passage into a smaller yard and Harry entered
a box and got hold of a horse's head collar.  I followed him, fishing
out my thermometer.

As I approached the animal's rear end he laid back his ears, whickered
and began to caper around.  I hesitated, then nodded to the lad.

"Lift his fore leg while I take his temperature, will you?"  I said.

The lad bent down and seized the foot but Beamish broke in.

"Don't bother, Harry, there's no need for that.  He's quiet as a
sheep."

I paused for a moment.  I felt I was right but my stock was low on this
establishment I shrugged, lifted the tail and pushed the thermometer
into the rectum.

The two hind feet hit me almost simultaneously but as I sailed
backwards through the door I remember thinking quite clearly that the
one on the chest had made contact fractionally before the one on the
abdomen.  But my thoughts were rapidly clouded by the fact that the
lower hoof had landed full on my solar plexus.

Stretched on the concrete of the yard I gasped and groaned in a frantic
search for breath.  There was a moment when I was convinced I was going
to die but at last a long wailing respiration came to my aid and I
struggled painfully into a Sitting position.  Through the open door I
could see Harry hanging on to the horse,5 head and staring at me with
frightened eyes.  Mr Beamish, on the other hand, showed no interest in
my plight; he was anxiously examining the horse's hind feet one after
the other.  Obviously he was worried lest they may have Sustained some
damage by coming into contact with my nasty hard ribs.

Slowly I got up and drew some long breaths.  I was shaken but not
really hurt And I suppose it was instinct that had made me hang on to
my thermometer; the delicate tube was still in my hand.

My only emotion as I went back into the box was cold rage.

"Lift that bloody foot like I told you!"  I shouted at the unfortunate
Harry.  ~ "Right, sir!  Sorry, sir!"  He bent, lifted the foot and held
it cupped firmly in:] his hands.

I turned to Beamish to see if he had any observation to make, but the
trainer.

was silent, gazing at the big animal expressionlessly.

This time I took the temperature without incident.  It was 101 F. I
moved to the head and opened the nostril with finger and thumb,
revealing a slight mucopurulent discharge.  Submaxillary and
post-pharyngeal glands were ~ normal.  .

"He's got a bit of cold," I said.

"I'll give him an injection and leave you some sulphon amide - that's
what Mr Far non uses in these cases' If my final sentence reassured him
in any way he gave no sign, watching dead-faced as I injected 10 cc of
Prontosil.

Before I left I took a half-pound packet of sulphon amide from the car
boot "Give him three ounces of this immediately in a pint of water,
then follow it with one and a half ounces night and morning and let us
know if he isn't a lot better in two days."

Mr Beamish received the medicine unsmilingly and as I opened the car
door I felt a gush of relief that the uncomfortable visit was at an
end.  It seemed to have lasted a long time and there had been no glory
for me in it.  I was star ting the engine when one of the little
apprentices panted up to the trainer.

"It's Almira, sir.  I think she's chokin'!"

"Choking!"  Beamish stared at the boy then whipped round to-me.

"Almira's the best filly I have.  You'd better come!"

It wasn't over yet, then.  With a feeling of doom I hurried after the
squat figure back into the yard where another lad stood by the side of
a beautiful chestnut filly.  And as I saw her a cold hand closed around
my heart.  I had been dealing with trivia but this was different.

She stood immobile, staring ahead with a peculiar intensity.  The rise
and fall of her ribs was accom panied by a rasping, bubbling wheeze and
at each intake her nostrils flared wildly.  I had never seen a horse
breathe like this.  And there were other things; saliva drooled from
her lips and every few seconds she gave a retching cough.

I turned to the apprentice.

"When did this start?"

not long ago, sir.  I saw her an hour since and she were as right as a
bobbin."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye, I was givin' 'er some hay.  There was nowt ail in' her then."

"What the devil's wrong with her?"  Beamish exclaimed Well, it was a
good question and I didn't have a clue to the answer.  As I walked
bemusedly round the animal, taking in the trembling limbs and
terrified:, eyes, a jumble of thoughts crowded my brain.  I had seen
'choking' horses the dry choke when the gullet becomes impacted with
food but they didn't look ~ like this.  I felt my way along the course
of the oesophagus and it was perfectly) clear.  And anyway the
respiration was quite different.  This filly looked as though she had
some obstruction in her airflow.  But what .  . .?  And how ...?

Could there be a foreign body in there?  Just possible, but that was
something else I had never seen.

"Well, damn it, I'm asking you!  What is it?  What d'you make of her?"
Mr.  Beamish was becoming impatient and I couldn't blame him.  , I was
aware that I was slightly breathless.

"Just a moment while I listen to" her lungs."

"Just a moment!"  the trainer burst out.

"Good God, man, we haven't got many.

moments!  This horse could die!"

i v~ ~ He didn't have to tell me.  I had seen that ominous trembling of
the limbs before and now the filly was beginning to sway a little. Time
was running out.

Dry mouthed, I auscultated the chest.  I knew there was nothing wrong
with her lungs the trouble seemed to be in the throat area but it gave
me a little more time to think.  Even with the stethoscope in my ears I
could still hear Beamish's voice "It would have to be this one!  Sir
Eric Horrocks gave five thousand pounds for her last year.  She's the
most valuable animal in my stables.  Why did this have to happen?"

Groping my way over the ribs, my heart thudding, I heartily agreed with
him Why in heaven's name did I have to walk into this nightmare?  And
with a man like Beamish who had no faith in me.

He stepped forward and clutched my arm.

"Are you sure Mr Far non isn't available ?"

"I'm sorry," I replied huskily.

"He's over thirty miles away."

The trainer seemed to shrivel within himself.

"That's it then.  We're finished.

She's dying."

And he was right.  The filly had begun to reel about, the breathing
louder and more stertorous than ever, and I had difficulty in keeping
the stethoscope on her chest wall.  It was when I was resting my hand
on her flank to steady her that I noticed the little swelling under the
skin.  It was a circular plaque, like a penny pushed under the tissue.
I glanced sharply at it.  Yes, it was clearly visible.

And there was another one higher up on the back .  . . and another and
another.  My heart gave a quick double thump .  . . so that was it.

"What am I going to tell Sir Eric?"  the trainer groaned.

"That his filly is dead and the vet didn't know what was wrong with
her?"  He glared desperately around him as though in the faint hope
that Siegfried might magically appear from nowhere.

I called over my shoulder as I trotted towards the car.

"I never said I didn't know.  I do know.  She's got urticaria."

He came shambling after me

"Uh .  . . what the blazes is that?"

"Nettle rash," I replied, fumbling among my bottles for the
adrenalin.

"Nettle rash!"  His eyes widened.

"But that couldn't cause all this!"

I drew 5 cc of the adrenalin into the syringe and started back.

"It's nothing to do with nettles.  It's an allergic condition, usually
pretty harmless, but in a very few cases it causes oedema of the larynx
that's what we've got here."

It was difficult to raise the vein as the filly staggered around, but
she came to rest for a few seconds and I dug my thumb into the jugular
furrow.  As the big vessel came up tense and turgid I thrust in the
needle and injected the adrenalin.  Then I stepped back and stood by
the trainer's side.

Neither of us said any thing.  The spectacle of the toiling animal and
the harrowing sound of the breathing absorbed us utterly.

The grim knowledge that she was on the verge of suffocation appalled me
and when she stumbled and almost fell the hand in my pocket gripped
more tightly on the scalpel which I had taken from my car along with
the adrenalin.  I knew only too well that tracheotomy was indicated
here but I didn't have a tube with me.  If the filly did go off her
legs I should have to start cutting into her windpipe, but I put the
thought away from me.  For the moment I had to depend on the
adrenalin.

Beamish stretched out a hand in a helpless gesture.

"It's hopeless, isn't it?"

he whispered.

I shrugged

"There's a small chance.  If the injection can reduce the fluid in the
larynx in time .  . . we'll just have to wait."

He nodded and I could read more than one emotion in his face; not just
the dread of breaking the news to the famous owner but the distress of
a horse-love-as he witnessed the plight of the beautiful animal.

. . ~ .  .

At first I thought it was imagination, but it seemed that the breathing
was becoming less stertorous.  Then as I hovered in an agony of
uncertainty I noticed that the salivation was diminishing; she was able
to swallow.

From that moment events moved with unbelievable rapidity.  The symptoms
of allergies appear with dramatic suddenness but mercifully they often
disappear as quickly following treatment.  Within fifteen minutes the
filly looked almost normal.  There was still a slight wheeze in her
respirations but she was loo king around her, quite free from
distress.

Beamish, who had been watching like a man in a daze, pulled a handful
of hay from a bale and held it out to her.  She snatched it eagerly
from his hand and began to eat with great relish.

"I can't believe it," the trainer muttered almost to himself.

"I've never seen any thing work as fast as that injection."

I felt as though I was riding on a pink cloud with all the tension and
misery flowing from me in a joyful torrent.  Thank God there were
moments like this among the traumas of veterinary work; the sudden
transition from despair to triumph, from shame to pride.

I almost floated to the car and as I settled in my seat Beamish put his
face to the open window.

"Mr Herriot .  . ."  He was not a man to whom gracious speech came
easily and his cheeks, roughened and weathered by years of riding on
the open moor, twitched as he sought for words.

"Mr Herriot, I've been thinking .  . . you don't have to be a horsey
man to cure horses, do you?"

There was something like an appeal in his eyes as we gazed at each
other.

I laughed suddenly and his expression relaxed.

"That's right," I said, and drove away.

Chapter Thirteen

L~

G B J~ ~4 ~/S.  ~

~ ~, Do dogs have a sense of humour?

I felt I needed all mine as I stood on guard outside the Grand.  It was
after midnight, with a biting wind swirling across the empty square,
and I was so cold and bored that it was a relief even to slap the butt
of my rifle in salute as a solitary officer went by.

Wryly I wondered how, after my romantic ideas of training to be a
pilot, I came to be defending the Grand Hotel at Scar borough against
all comers.  No doubt there was something comic in the situation and I
suppose that was what): set my mind wandering in the direction of
Farmer Bailes' dog, Shep.  .

Mr Bailes' little place was situated about half way along High burn
Village and to get into the farmyard you had to walk twenty yards or so
between five.g t walls.  On the left was the neighbouring house, on the
right the front garden ~l' s farm.  In this garden Shep lurked for most
of the day.  - ~4 was a huge dog, much larger than the average collie.
In fact I am convinced] part Alsatian because though he had a luxuriant
black and white coat] mo~ \something significant in the massive limbs
and in the noble brown] Shaded head with its upstanding ears.  He was
quite different from the stringy little animals I saw on my daily
round.

As I walked between the walls my mind was already in the byre, just
visible at the far end of the yard.  Because one of the Bailes cows,
Rose by name, had the kind of obscure digestive ailment which
interferes with veterinary surgeons' sleep.  They are so difficult to
diagnose.  This animal had begun to grunt and go off her milk two days
ago and when I had seen her yesterday I had flitted from one
possibility to the other.  Could be a wire.  But the fourth stomach was
contracting well and there were plenty of rumen al sounds.  Also she
was eating a little hay in a half-hearted way.

Could it be impaction .  ..?  Or a partial torsion of the gut ...?
There was abdominal pain without a doubt and that nagging temperature
of 102.5 - that was damn like a wire.  Of course I could settle the
whole thing by opening the cow up, but Mr Bailes was an old-fashioned
type and didn't like the idea of my diving into his animal unless I was
certain of my diagnosis.  And I wasn't there was no get ting away from
that.

Anyway, I had built her up at the front end so that she was standing
with her fore feet on a half door and had given her a strong oily
purgative.

"Keep the bowels open and trust in God," an elderly colleague had once
told me.  There was a lot in that.

I was half way down the alley between the walls with the hope bright
before me that my patient would be improved when from nowhere an
appalling explosion of sound blasted into my right ear.  It was Shep
again.

The wall was just the right height for the dog to make a leap and bark
into the ear of the passers by.  It was a favourite gambit of his and I
had been caught before; but never so successfully as now.  My attention
had been so far away and the dog had timed his jump to a split second
so that his bark came at the highest point, his teeth only inches from
my face.  And his voice befitted his size, a great bull bellow surging
from the depths of his powerful chest and booming from his gaping
jaws.

I rose several inches into the air and when I descended, heart
thumping, head singing, I glared over the wall.  But as usual all I saw
was the hairy form bounding away out of sight round the corner of the
house.

That was what puzzled me.  Why did he do it?  Was he a savage creature
with evil designs on me or was it his idea of a joke?  I never got near
enough to him to find out.

I wasn't in the best of shape to receive bad news and that was what
awaited me in the byre.  I had only to look at the farmer's face to
know that the cow was worse.

"Ah reckon she's got a stoppage," Mr Bailes muttered gloomily.

I gritted my teeth.  The entire spectrum of abdominal disorders were
lumped as 'stoppages' by the older race of farmers.

"The oil hasn't worked, then?"

"Nay, she's nob but pass in' little hard bits.  It's a proper stoppage,
ah tell you."

"Right, Mr Bailes," I said with a twisted smile.

"We'll have to try something stronger I brought in from my car the
gastric lavage outfit I loved so well and which has so sadly
disappeared from my life.  The long rubber stomach tube, the wooden gag
with its leather straps to buckle behind the horns.  As I pumped in the
two gallons of warm water rich in formalin and sodium chloride I felt
like Napoleon sending in the Old Guard at Waterloo.  If this didn't
work nothing would.

And yet I didn't feel my usual confidence.  There was something
different here But I had to try.  I had to do something to start this
cow's insides functioning because I did not like the look of her today.
The soft grunt was still there and her eyes had begun to retreat into
her head the worst sign of all in bovines And she had stopped eating
altogether.

Next morning I was driving down the single village street when I saw
Mrs Bailes coming out of the shop.  I drew up and pushed my head out of
the window' "How's Rose this morning Mrs Bailes?"

She rested her basket on the ground and looked down at me gravely.

"Oh,; she's bad, Mr Herriot.  Me husband thinks she's goin' down fast.
If you want to find him you'll have to go across the field there.  He's
men din' the door in the little barn."

A sudden misery enveloped me as I drove over to the gate leading into
the field.  I left the car in the road and lifted the latch.

"Damn!  Damn!  Damn!"  I muttered as I trailed across the green.  I had
a nasty feeling that a little tragedy was building up here.  If this
animal died it would be a sickening blow to a small farmer with ten
cows and a few pigs.  I should be able to do something about it and it
was a depressing thought that I was get ting nowhere.

And yet, despite it all, I felt peace stealing into my soul.  It was a
large field and I could see the barn at the far end as I walked with
the tall grass brushing my knees.  It was a meadow ready for cutting
and suddenly I realised that it was high summer, the sun was hot and
that every step brought the fragrance of clover and warm grass rising
about me into the crystal freshness of the air Somewhere nearby a field
of broad beans was in full flower and as the exotic scent drifted
across I found myself inhaling with half-closed eyes as though
straining to discern the ingredients of the glorious melange.

And then there was the silence; it was the most soothing thing of all.
That and the feeling of being alone.  I looked drowsily around at the
empty green miles sleeping under the sunshine.  Nothing stirred, there
was no sound.

Then without warning the ground at my feet erupted in an incredible
blast of noise.  For a dreadful moment the blue sky was obscured by an
enormous hairy form and a red mouth went

"WAAAHH!"  in my face.  Almost screaming, 1 staggered back and as I
glared wildly I saw Shep disappearing at top speed towards the gate.
Concealed in the deep herbage right in the middle of the field he had
waited till he saw the whites of my eyes before making his assault.

Whether he had been there by accident or whether he had spotted me
arriving and slunk into position I shall never know, but from his point
of view the result must have been eminently satisfactory because it was
certainly the worst fright I have ever had.  I live a life which is
well larded with scares and alarms, but this great dog rising bellowing
from that empty landscape was something on its own.  I have heard of
cases where sudden terror and stress has caused involuntary evacuation
of the bowels and I know without question that this was the occasion
when I came nearest to suffering that unhappy fate.  ' I was still
trembling when I reached the barn and hardly said a word as Mr Bailes
led me back across the road to the farm.

And it was like rubbing it in when I saw my patient.  The flesh had
melted; from her and she stared at the wall apathetically from sunken
eyes.  The.

doom-laden grunt was louder.

"She must have a wire!"  I muttered.

"Let her loose for a minute, will you?"  :' Mr Bailes undid the chain
and Rose walked along the byre.  At the end she A turned and almost
trotted back to her stall, jumping quite freely over the gutter.

My Bible in those days was Udall's Practice of Veterinary Medicine and
the.

great man stated therein that if a cow moved freely she was unlikely to
have foreign body in her reticulum.  I pinched her withers and she
didn't complain .  . it had to be something else.

~It's worst stoppage ah've seen for a bit," said Mr Bailes.

"Ah gave her a dose of some right powerful stuff this morn in' but it's
done no good."

I passed a weary hand over my brow.

"What was that, Mr Bailes?"  It was always a bad sign when the client
started using his own medicine.

The farmer reached to the cluttered windowsill and handed me a
bottle.

~DOctor Hornibrook's Stomach Elixir.  A sovereign remedy for all
diseases of castle."  The Doctor, in top hat and frock coat, looked
confidently out at me from the label as I pulled out the cork and took
a sniff.  I blinked and staggered back with watering eyes.  It smelt
like pure ammonia but I was in no position to be superior about it.

"That clang "runt!"  The farmer hunched his shoulders.

"What's cause of it?"

It was no good my say ing it sounded like a circumscribed area of
peritonitis because I didn't know what was behind it.

I decided to have one last go with the ravage.  It was still the
strongest weapon in my armoury but this time I added two pounds of
black treacle n' the mixture.

Nearly every farmer had a barrel of the stuff in his cow house in those
days and I had only to go into the corner and turn the tap.

I often mourn the passing of the treacle barrel.  because molasses was
a good medicine for cattle, but I had no great hopes this time.  The
clinical instinct

I

was beginning to develop told me that something inside this animal was
fundamentally awry.

It was not till the following afternoon that I drove into High burn.  I
left the car outside the farm and was about to walk between the walls
when I paused and stared at a cow in the field on the other side of the
road.  It was a pasture next to the hay field of yesterday and that cow
was Rose.  There could be no mistake she was a fine deep red with a
distinctive white mark like a football on her left flank.

I opened the gate and within seconds my cares dropped from me.  She was
wonderfully, miraculously improved, in fact she looked like a normal
animal.

I walked up to her and scratched the root of her tail.  She was a
docile creature and merely looked round at me as she cropped the grass;
and her eyes were no longer sunken but bright and full.

She seemed to take a fancy to a green patch further into the field and
began to amble slowly towards it.  I followed, entranced, as she moved
along, shaking her head impatiently against the flies, eager for more
of the delicious herbage.

The grunt had disappeared and her udder hung heavy and turgid between
her legs.  The difference since yesterday was incredible.

As the wave of relief flooded through me I saw Mr Bailes climbing over
the wall from the next field.  He would still be men ding that barn
door.

As he approached I felt a pang of commiseration.  I had to guard
against any display of triumph.  He must be feeling just a bit silly at
the moment after showing his lack of faith in me yesterday with his
home remedies and his general attitude.  But after all the poor chap
had been worried I couldn't blame him.

No, it wouldn't do to preen myself unduly.

"Ah, good morning to you, Mr Bailes," I said expansively.

"Rose looks fine today, doesn't she?"

The farmer took off his cap and wiped his brow.

"Aye, she's a different cow, all right."

"I don't think she needs any more treatment," I said.  I hesitated.
Perhaps one little dig would do no harm.

"But it's a good thing I gave her that extra ravage yesterday."

"Yon pump in' job?"  Mr Bailes raised his eyebrows.

"Oh that had nowt to do with it."

'that .  . . what do you mean?  It cured her, surely."

"Nay, lad, nay, Jim Oakley cured her."

"Jim .  . . what on earth .  . .?"

"Aye, Jim was round 'ere last night.  He often comes in of an even in'
end he took one look at the cow and told me what to do.  Ah'll tell you
she was like dyin' that pump in' job hadn't done no good at all.  He
told me to give her a bloody good gallop round t'field."

"What!"

"Aye, that's what he said.  He'd seen 'em like that afore and a good
gallop put 'em right.  So we got Rose out here and did as he said and
by gaw it did the trick.

She looked better right away."

I drew myself up.

"And who," I asked frigidly, 'is Jim Oakley?"

"He's "'postman, of course."

"The postman!"

"Aye, but he used to keep a few beasts years ago.  He's a very clever
man wi' stock, is Jim."

"No doubt, but I assure you, Mr Bailes.  . ."

The farmer raised a hand.

"Say no more, lad.  Jim put 'er right and there's no den yin' it.  I
wish you'd seen 'im chasin' 'er round.  He's as awd as me but by gaw 'e
did go.  He can run like 'elf, can Jim."  He chuckled reminiscently.

I had had about enough.  During the farmer's eulogy I had been
distractedly: scratching the cow's tail and had soiled my hand in the
process.  Mustering the remains of my dignity I nodded to Mr Bailes.

"Well, I must be on my way.  Do you mind if I go into the house to wash
my hands ?"

"You go right in," he replied.

"T'missus will get you some hot water."

Walking back down the field the cruel injustice of the thing bore down
on me increasingly.  I wandered as in a dream through the gate and
across the road.

Before entering the alley between the walls I glanced into the garden.
It was empty.  Shuffling beside the rough stones I sank deeper into my
misery.  There was no doubt I had emerged from that episode as a
complete Charlie.  No matter where I looked I couldn't see a gleam of
light.

It seemed to take a long time to reach the end of the wall and I was
about to turn right towards the door of the farm kitchen when from my
left I heard the sudden rattle of a chain then a roaring creature
launched itself at me, bayed once, mightily, into my face and was
gone.

This time I thought my heart would stop.  With my de fences at their
lowest I was in no state to withstand Shep.  I had quite forgotten that
Mrs Bailes occasionally tethered him in the kennel at the entrance to
discourage unwelcome visitors, and he half lay against the wall, the
blood thundering in my ears,

I

looked dd'`"long coil of chain on the cobbles.

I people who lose their temper with animals but something then.  All my
frustration burst from me in a torrent of grabbed the chain and began
to pull on it frenziedly.

~tured me was there in that kennel.  For once I knew this time I was
going to have the matter out with him.

\ten feet away and at first I saw nothing.  There was \end of the
chain.  Then as I hauled inexorably all of the big animal hanging
limply by his get up and greet me but I was merciless and \\he cobbles
till he was lying at my feet.

~cried, shook my fist under his nose and yelled me again I'll knock
your bloody head off!

gy head clean off!"

~ ~ 0 "Sh~ ~ e4 Mr Ba~t-, turned and air.": ~ My Bible in those <;
great man stated there'^ foreign body in her reticu..  :(, .  . . it
had to be something else-?

~ G~.~ ,5;~ ~

Shep rolled frightened eyes at me and his tail flickered apologetically
between his legs.  When I continued to scream at him he bared his upper
teeth in an ingratiating grin and finally rolled on his back where he
lay inert with half closed eyes.

So now I knew.  He was a softie.  All his ferocious attacks were just a
game.  I began to calm down but for all that I wanted him to get the
message.

wright, mate," I said in a menacing whisper.

"Remember what I've said!"  I let go the chain and gave a final
shout.

"Now get back in there!"

Shep, almost on his knees, tail tucked well in, shot back into his
kennel and I turned toward the farmhouse to wash my hands.

The memory of my discomfiture fermented in the back of my mind for some
time.  I had no doubt then that I had been unfairly judged, but I am
older and wiser now and in retrospect I think I was wrong.

The symptoms displayed by Mr Bailes' cow were typical of displacement
of the abomasum (when the fourth stomach slips round from the right to
the left side) and it was a condition that was just not recognized in
those early days.

At the present time we correct the condition by surgery pushing the
displaced organ back to the right side and tacking it there with
sutures.  But sometimes a similar result can be obtained by casting the
cow and rolling her over, so why not by making her run .  . .?1 freely
admit that I have many times adopted Jim Oakley's precept of a 'bloody
good gallop," often with spectacular results.  To this day I frequently
learn things from farmers, but that was one time when I learned from a
postman.

I was surprised when, about a month later, I received another call to
one of Mr Bailes' cows.  I felt that after my performance with Rose he
would have called on the services of Jim Oakley for any further
trouble.  But no, his voice on the 'phone was as polite and friendly as
ever, with not a hint that he had lost faith.  It was strange....
Leaving my car outside the farm I looked warily into the front garden
before venturing between the walls.  A faint tinkle of metal told me
that Shep was lurking there in his kennel and I slowed my steps; I
wasn't going to be caught again.

At the end of the alley I paused, waiting, but all I saw was the end of
a nose which quietly withdrew as I stood there.  So my outburst had got
through to the big dog he knew I wasn't going to stand any more
nonsense from him.

And yet, as I drove away after the visit I didn't feel good about it. A
victory over an animal is a hollow one and I had the uncomfortable
feeling that I had deprived him of his chief pleasure.  After all,
every creature is entitled to some form of recreation and though Shep's
hobby could result in the occasional heart failure it was, after all,
his thing and part of him.  The thought that I had crushed something
out of his life was a disquieting one.  I wasn't proud.

So that when, later that summer, I was driving through High burn I
paused in anticipation outside the Bailes farm.  The village street,
white and dusty slumbered under the afternoon sun.  In the blanketing
silence nothing moved except for one small man strolling towards the
opening between the walls.  He was fat and very dark one of the tinkers
from a camp outside the village and he carried an armful of pots and
pans.

From my vantage point I could see through the railings into the front
garden where Shep was slinking noiselessly into position beneath the
stones.

Fascinated I watched as the man turned unhurriedly into the opening and
the dog followed the course of the disembodied head along the top of
the wall.

As I expected it all happened half way along.  The perfectly timed
leap, the momentary pause at the summit then the tremendous 'wooF!"
into the unsuspecting ear.

aozz Vets Mzght [ly It had its usual effect.  I had a brief view of
flailing arms and flying pa lug followed by a prolonged metallic
clatter, then the little man reappeared like projectile, turned right
and sped away from me up the street.  Considering h almost round
physique he showed an astonishing turn of speed, his little legs'
pistoning, and he did not pause till he disappeared into the shop at
the far end of the village.

I don't know why he went in there because he wouldn't find any stronger
restorative than ginger pop.

Shep, apparently well satisfied, wandered back over the grass and
collapsed in a cool patch where an apple tree threw its shade over the
grass; head on paws he waited in comfort for his next victim.

I smiled to myself as I let in the clutch and moved off.  I would stop
at the shop and tell the little man that he could collect his pans
without the slightest fear of being torn limb from limb, but my
overriding emotion was one of relief that I had not cut the sparkle out
of the big dog's life.

Shep was still having his fun.

Chapter Fourteen I suppose once you embark on a life of crime it gets
easier all the time.

Making a start is the only hard bit.

At any rate that is how it seemed to me as I sat in the bus, playing
hookee again.  There had been absolutely no trouble about dodging out
of the Grand the streets of Scar borough had been empty of SPs and
nobody had given me second look as I strolled casually into the bus
station.  il It was Saturday, 13 February.  Helen was expecting our
baby this week-end.  It could happen any time and I just didn't see how
I could sit here these few' miles away and do nothing.  I had no
classes tod;`y or tomorrow so I would miss nothing and nobody would
miss me.  It was, I told myself, a mere technical offence, and anyway I
had no option.  Like the first time, I just had to see Helen And it
wouldn't be long now, I thought, as I hurried up to the familiar'
doorway of her home.  I went inside and gazed disappointedly at the
empty kitchen somehow I had been sure she would be standing there
waiting for me with her arms wide.  I shouted her name but nothing
stirred in the house.  I we.  still there, listening, when her father
came through from an inner room.

"You've got a son," he said.

I put my hand on the back of a chair.

"What.  . .?"

"You've got a son."  He was so calm.

"When .  . . ?"

"Few minutes ago.  Nurse Brown's just been on the 'phone.  Funny you
should walk in."

As I leaned on the chair he gave me a keen look.

"Would you like a droP d whisky ?"

"Whisky?  No why?"

"Well you've gone a bit white, lad, that's all.  Anyway, you'd better
have something to eat."

"No, no, no thanks, I've got to get out there."

He smiled.

"There's no hurry, lad.  Anyway, they won't want anybody there soon
Better eat something "Sorry, I couldn't.  Would you would you mind if I
borrowed your car?"

I was still trembling a little as I drove away.  If only Mr Alder son
had led up to it gradually he might have said,

"I've got some news for you," or something like that, but his direct
approach had shattered me.  When I pulled up outside Nurse Brown's it
still hadn't got through to me that I was a father.

Green side Nursing Home sounded impressive, but it was in fact Nurse
grown's dwelling house.  She was State Registered and usually had two
or three of the local women in at a time to have their babies.

She opened the door herself and threw up her hands.

"Mr Herriot!  It hasn't taken you long!  Where did you spring from?"
She was a cheerfully dynamic little woman with mischievous eyes.

I smiled sheepishly.

"Well, I just happened to drop in on Mr Alder son and got the news."

"You might have given us time to get the little fellow properly
washed," she said.

"But never mind, come up and see him.  He's a fine baby nine pounds."

Still in a dreamlike state I followed her up the stairs of the little
house into a small bedroom.  Helen was there, in the bed, loo king
flushed.

"Hello," she said.

I went over and kissed her.

"What was it like?"  I enquired nervously.

"Awful' Helen replied without enthusiasm.  Then she nodded towards the
cot beside her.

I took my first look at my son.  Little Jimmy was brick red in colour
and his face had a bloated, dissipated look.  As I hung over him he
twisted his tiny fists under his chin and appeared to be undergoing
some mighty internal struggle.  His face swelled and darkened as he
contorted his features then from deep among the puffy flesh his eyes
fixed me with a baleful glare and he stuck his tongue out of the corner
of his mouth.

"My God!"  I exclaimed.

The nurse looked at me, startled.

"What's the matter?"

"Well, he's a funny-loo king little thing isn't he?"

"What!"  She stared at me furiously.

"Mr Herriot, how can you say such a thing?

He's a beautiful baby!"

I peered into the cot again.  Jimmy greeted me with a lopsided leer,
turned purple and blew a few bubbles.

"Are you sure he's all right?"  I said.

There was a tired giggle from the bed but Nurse Brown was not amused.

"All right!  What exactly do you mean?"  She drew herself up stiffly.

I shuffled my feet.

"Weller - is there any thing wrong with him?"

I thought she was going to strike me

"Anything .  . . how dare you!  Whatever are you talking about?  I've
never heard such nonsense!"  She turned appealingly towards the bed,
but Helen, a weary smile on her face, had closed her eyes.

I drew the enraged little woman to one side.

"Look, Nurse, have you by chance got any others on the premises?"

"Any other what?"  she asked icily.

"Babies new babies.  I want to com pare Jimmy with another one."

Her eyes widened.

"Compare him!  Mr Herriot, I'm not going to listen to you any longer
I've lost patience with you!"

"I'm asking you, Nurse," I repeated.

"Have you any more around?"

There was a long pause as she looked at me as though I was something
new and incredible

"Well there's Mrs Dew burn in the next room.  Little Sidney was born
about the same time as Jimmy."

"Can I have a look at him?"  I gazed at her appealingly.

She hesitated then a pitying smile crept over her face.

"Oh you .  . . you .  ..

just a minute, then."

She went into the other room and I heard a mumble of voices.  She
reappeared and beckoned to me.

Mrs Dew burn was the butcher's wife and I knew her well.  The face on
the pillow was hot and tired like Helen's.

"Eee, Mr Herriot, I didn't expect to see you.  I thought you were in
the army."

"RAF, actually, Mrs Dew burn.  I'm on er - leave at the moment."

I looked in the cot.  Sidney was dark red and bloated, too, and he,
also, seemed to be wrestling with himself.  The inner battle showed in
a series of grotesque facial contortions culminating in a toothless
snarl.

I stepped back involuntarily.

"What a beautiful child," I said.

"Yes, isn't he lovely," said his mother fondly.

"He is indeed, gorgeous."  I took another disbelieving glance into the
cot.

"Well, thank you very much, Mrs Dew burn.  It was kind of you to let me
see him."

"Not at all, Mr Herriot, it's nice of you to take an interest."  :
Outside the door I took a long breath and wiped my brow.  The relief
was tremendous.  Sidney was even funnier than Jimmy.

When I returned to Helen's room Nurse Brown was sitting on the bed and
the two women were clearly laughing at me.  And of course, loo king
back, I must have appeared silly.  Sidney Dew burn and my son are now
two big, strong, remarkably good-loo king young men, so my fears were
groundless.

The little nurse looked at me quizzically.  I think she had forgiven
me.

"I suppose you think all your calves and foals are beautiful right from
the moment they are born?"

"Well yes," I replied.

"I have to admit it I think they are."

As I have said before, ideas do not come readily to me, but on the bus
journey back to Scar borough a devilish scheme began to hatch in my
brain.

~I was due for com passionate leave, but why should I take it now?
Helen .~:would be in the Nursing Home for a fortnight and there didn't
seem any sense in my mooning round Darrow by on my own.  The thing to
do would be to send myself a telegram a fortnight from now announcing
the birth, and we would be able to spend my leave together.  ~ It was
interesting how my moral scruples dissolved in the face of this
attraction, but anyway, I told myself, where was the harm?  I wasn't
scrounging any thing extra, I was just altering the time.  The RAF or
the war effort in general would suffer no mortal blow.  Long before the
darkened vehicle had rolled into the town I had Up my mind and on the
following day I wrote to a friend in Darro nged about the telegram.

a hardened criminal as I thought, because as the days creep in.  The
rules at ITW were rigidly strict.  I would found out.  But the prospect
of a holiday with Helen Nide rations.

rrived my room mates and I were stretched on our i O :) \,N`eat voice
boomed along the corridor.

walk c , ~ (j et's have you, Herriot!"

I hadn't reckoned on Flight Sergeant Blacken i whisky?"  ~O ~ Oo ~
maybe an LAC or a corporal, even one of the "Whisky?  No ~ ~ ~\not the
great man himself.

"Well you've gone t\an unsmiling martinet of immense nature I something
to eat."  'jvo inch frame, wide bony shoulders and a "No, no, no
thanks, I've got .  ~minish.  It was usually the junior NCOs Vets who
dealt with our misdemeanours, but if Flight Sergeant Blacken ever took
a hand it was a withering experience I heard it again.  The same bull
bellow which echoed over our heads on the square every morning "Her
riot!  Let's be having you, Herriot!"

I was on my way at a brisk trot out of the room and along the polished
surface of the corridor.  I came to a halt stiffly in front of the tall
figure.

"Yes, Flight Sergeant."

"You Herriot?"

"Yes, Flight Sergeant."

The telegram between his fingers scuffed softly against the blue serge
of his trousers as he swung his hand to and fro.  My pulse rate
accelerated painfully as I waited.

"Well now, lad, I'm pleased to tell you that your wife has had her baby
safely."

He raised the telegram to his eyes.

"It says 'ere,

"A boy, both well.  Nurse Brown " Let me be the first to congratulate
you."  He held out his hand and as I took it he smiled.  Suddenly he
looked very like Gary Cooper.

"Now you'll want to get off right away and see them both, eh?"

I nodded dumbly.  He must have thought I was an unemotional
character.

He put a hand on my shoulder and guided me into the orderly room.

"Come on, you lot, get movie'!"  The organ tones rolled over the heads
of the airmen seated at the tables.

"This is important.  Got a brand new father 'ere.

Leave pass, railway warrant, pay, double quick!"

"Right, Flight.  Very good, Flight."  The typewriters began to tap.

The big man went over to a railway timetable on the wall.

"You haven't far to go, anyway.  Let's see Darrow by, Darrow by .  . .
yes, there's a train out of here for York at three twenty."  He looked
at his watch.

"You ought to make that if you get your skates on."

A deepening sense of shame threatened to engulf me when he spoke
again.

"Double back to your room and get packed.  We'll have your documents
ready."

I changed into my best blue, filled my kit bag and threw it over my
shoulder, then hurried back to the orderly room.

The Flight Sergeant was waiting.  He handed me a long envelope.

"It's all there, son, and you've got plenty of time."  He looked me up
and down, walked round me and straightened the white flash in my cap.

"Yes, very smart.  We've got to have you loo kin' right for your
missus, haven't we?"  He gave me the Gary Cooper smile again.  He was a
handsome, kind-eyed man and I'd never noticed It.

He strolled with me along the corridor.

"This'll be your first 'un, of course?"

"Yes, Flight."

He nodded.

"Well, it's a great day for you.  I've got three of 'em, me self.

Getting big now but I miss 'em like hell with this ruddy war.  I really
envy you, walking in that door tonight and seeing your son for the very
first time,"

Guilt drove through me in a searing flood and as we halted at the top
of the stairs I was convinced my shifty eyes and furtive glances would
betray me.  But he wasn't really loo king at me.

"You know, lad," he said softly, gazing somewhere over my head.

"This is the best time of your life coming up."

We weren't allowed to use the main stairways and as I clattered down
the narrow stone service stairs I heard the big voice again.

"Give my regards to them both."

I had a wonderful time with Helen, walking for miles, discovering the
delights f pram pushing, with little Jimmy miraculously improved in
appearance.

Everything was so much better than if I had taken my leave at the
official time and there is no doubt my plan was a success.

But I was unable to gloat about it The triumph was dimmed and to this
day I have reservations about the whole thing Flight Sergeant Blacken
spoiled it for me Chapter Fifteen "You must have to be a bit of an
idiot to be a country vet' The young airman was laughing as he said it,
but I felt there was some truth in his words.  He had .

been telling me about his job in civil life and when I described my own
working hours and conditions he had been incredulous.  .

There was one time I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly.  It was
nine o'clock on a filthy wet night and I was still at work.  I gripped
the steering wheel more tightly and shifted in my seat, groaning softly
as my tired muscles complained.

Why had I entered this profession?  I could have gone in for something
easier and gentler like coal mining or lumber jacking.  I had started
feeling sorry for myself three hours ago, driving across Darrow by
market place on the way to a calving.  The shops were shut and even
through the wintry drizzle there was a suggestion of repose, of work
done, of firesides and books and drifting tobacco smoke.  I had all
those things, plus Helen, back there in our bed-sitter.

I think the iron really entered when I saw the carload of young people
setting off from the front of the Drovers; three girls and three young
fellows, all dressed up and laughing and obviously on their way to a
dance or party.  Everybody was set for comfort and a good time;
everybody except Herriot, rattling towards the cold wet hills and the
certain prospect of toil.

And the case th'hing to raise my spirits.^ skinny little heifer
stretched on her side i-skle open-fronted shed littered with old tin
cans, half bricks a'as difficult to see what I was stumbling over since
the only oil lamp whose flame flickered and dipped in the .

~-C:s ed, easing out the calf inch by inch.  It wasn't a \,but the
heifer never rose to her feet and I spent ~, ~ ng among the bricks and
tins, get ting up only sket while the rain hurled itself icily against
back.

, ;~ frozen-faced with my skin chafing under ~, ~ 4:oup of strong men
had been kicking me ~0 ~c, it of the evening I was almost drowninB
\village of Cop ton.  In the warm days of 'c'~\ys of a corner of
Perthshire, with a hillside and a dark drift of trees ~ -~P~ 'e.

\ai -c,"-'cv \,h the rain sweeping across the ~vo ttr' ~ ~ for a faint
glow right in the diminishing on the streaming roadw ~1 0 ~l ~0c; ~ ~
.~

.N ~,

.~ walk l, c .  . ~c ~ As I le~a ~; ~ c whisky?"  ~o ~ Oo "Whisky?  No
~ ~ ~ "Well you've gone-~t something to eat."  ' "No, no, no thanks,
I've got I Stopped the car under the swinging sign of the Fox and
Hounds and on an impulse opened the door.  A beer would do me good.

A pleasant warmth met me as I went into the pub.  There was no bar
counter, only high-backed settles and oak tables arranged under the
whitewashed walls of what was simply a converted farm kitchen.  At one
end a wood fire crackled in an old black cooking range and above it the
tick of a wall clock sounded above the murmur of voices.  It wasn't as
lively as the modern places but it was peaceful.

"Now then, Mr Herriot, you've been work in'," my neighbour said as I
sank into the settle.

"Yes, Ted, how did you know?"

The man glanced over my soiled mackintosh and the welling tons which I
hadn't bothered to change on the farm.

"Well, that's not your Sunday suit, there's blood on your nose end and
cow shit on your ear' Ted Dobson was a burly cowman in his thirties and
his white teeth showed suddenly in a wide grin I smiled too and plied
my handkerchief.

"It's funny how you always want to scratch your nose at times like
that."

I looked around the room.  There were about a dozen men drinking from
pint glasses, some of them playing dominoes.  They were all farm
workers, the people I saw when I was called from my bed in the darkness
before dawn; hunched figures they were then, shapeless in old
greatcoats, cycling out to the farms, heads down against the wind and
rain, accepting the facts of their hard existence.

I often thought at those times that this happened to me only
occasionally, but they did it every morning.

And they did it for thirty shillings a week; just seeing them here made
me feel a little ashamed.

Mr Waters, the landlord, whose name let him in for a certain amount of
ribbing, filled my glass, holding his tall jug high to produce the
professional froth.

"There yare, Mr Herriot, that'll be sixpence.  Cheap at 'elf the
price."

Every drop of beer was brought up in that jug from the wooden barrels
in the cellar.  It would have been totally impracticable in a busy
establishment, but the Fox and Hounds was seldom bustling and Mr Waters
would never get rich as a publican.  But he had four cows in the little
byre adjoining this room, fifty hens pecked around in his long back
garden and he reared a few litters of pigs every year from his two
sows.

"Thank you, Mr Waters."  I took a deep pull at the glass.  I had lost
some sweat despite the cold and my thirst welcomed the flow of rich
nutty ale.  I had been in here a few times before and the faces were
all familiar.  Especially old Albert Close, a retired shepherd who sat
in the same place every night at the end of the settle hard against the
fire.

He sat as always, his hands and chin resting on the tall crook which he
had carried through his working days, his eyes blank.  Stretched half
under the seat, half under the table lay his dog, Mick, old and retired
like his master.  The animal was clearly in the middle of a vivid
dream; his paws pedalled the air spasmodically, his lips and ears
twitched and now and then he emitted a stifled bark.

Ted Dobson nudged me and laughed.

"Ah reckon awd Mick's still rounding up them sheep."

I nodded.  There was little doubt the dog was reliving the great days,
crouching and darting, speeding in a wide arc round the perimeter of
the field at his master's whistle.  And Albert himself.  What lay
behind those empty eyes?  I could imagine him in his youth, striding
the windy uplands, covering endless miles over the moor and rock and
beck, digging that same crook into the turf at every (~2b Vets Mzght
[ly step.  There were no fitter men than the Dales shepherds, living in
the open i n all weathers, throwing a sack over their shoulders in snow
and rain.

And there was Albert now, a broken, arthritic old man gazing
apathetically from beneath the ragged peak of an ancient tweed cap.  I
noticed he had just drained his glass and I walked across the room.

"Good evening Mr Close," I said.

He cupped an ear with his hand and blinked up at me.

"Eh?"

I raised my voice to a shout.

"How are you, Mr Close?"

"Can't complain, young man," he murmured.

"Can't complain."

"Will you have a drink?"

"Aye, thank ye."  He directed a trembling finger at his glass.

"You can put a drop i' there, young man."

I knew a drop meant a pint and beckoned to the landlord who plied his
jug expertly.  The old shepherd lifted the re-charged glass and looked
up at me.

"Good 'earth," he grunted.

"All the best," I said and was about to return to my seat when the old
dog sat up.  My shouts at his master must have wakened him from his
dream because he stretched sleepily, shook his head a couple of times
and looked around him.

And as he turned and faced me I felt a sudden sense of shock.

His eyes were terrible.  In fact I could hardly see them as they winked
painfully at me through a sodden fringe of pus-caked lashes.  Rivulets
of discharge showed dark and ugly against the white hair on either side
of the nose.

I stretched my hand out to him and the dog wagged his tail briefly
before closing his eyes and keeping them closed.  It seemed he felt
better that way.

I put my hand on Albert's shoulder.

"Mr Close, how long has he been like this ?"

"Eh?"

I increased my volume.

"Mick's eyes.  They're in a bad state."

"Oh aye."  The old man nodded in comprehension.

"He's got a bit o' caud in 'em.  He's all us been subjeck to it ever
since 'e were a pup."

"No, it's more than cold, it's his eyelids'.

"Eh?"  ~ I took a deep breath and let go at the top of my voice.

"He's got turned-in eyelids.  It's rather a serious thing."

The old man r 1ded again.

"Aye, 'e lies a lot,~wi' his head at foot of t'door.

It's draughty ~wled.

"It's got nothing to do with that.  It's a thing called n operation to
put it right."

n."  He took a sip at his beer.

"Just a bit o'caud.  Ever en subjeck .  . ."

>~ ~l returned to my seat.  Ted Dobson looked at me ~s~ ~, >,trop ion
is when the eyelids are turned in and ~; ,0 ~uses a lot of pain,
sometimes ulceration or ': ~O ~O \mned uncomfortable for a dog."

~,"<i;; ~oticed awd Mick's had mucky eyes for ~,~ \:often it's
congenital.  I should think ~me reason it's suddenly developed: ~ ~ \,e
old dog, sitting patiently underYo it.  ~ \ ~iminis~it.\i~t's like if
you have a speck of dust in your eyes or even one lash turned in.  I
should say he feels pretty miserable.

moor awd beggar.  Ah never knew it was owt like that."  He drew on his
cigarette

"And could an operation cure it?"

yes, Ted, it's one of the most satisfying jobs a vet can do.  I always
feel I've done a dog a good turn when I've finished."

~Aye, ah bet you do.  It must be a nice feel in'.  But it'll be a
costly job, ah reckon ?"

I smiled wryly.

"It depends how you look at it.  It's a fiddly business and takes time
We usually charge about a pound for it."  A human surgeon would laugh
at a sum like that, but it would still be too much for old Albert.

For a few moments we were both silent, loo king across the room at the
old man, at the threadbare coat, the long tatter of trouser bottoms
falling over the broken boots.  A pound was two weeks of the old age
pension.  It was a fortune.

Ted got up suddenly.

"Any road, somebody ought to tell 'im.  Ah'll explain it to'im."

He crossed the room.

"Are ye ready for another, Albert?"

The old shepherd glanced at him absently then indicated his glass,
empty again.

"Aye, ye can put a drop i' there, Ted."

The cowman waved to Mr Waters then bent down.

"Did ye understand what Mr Herriot was tell in' ye, Albert?"  he
shouted.

"Aye .  . aye .  . . Mick's got a bit o'caud in 'is eyes."

"Nay, 'e hasn't!  it's nowt of t'soart!  It's a en .  . . a en .  . .
sum mat different."

"Keeps get tin' caud in 'em."  Albert mumbled, nose in glass.

Ted yelled in exasperation.

"Ye daft awd divil!  Listen to what ah'm say in' ye' ve got to take
care of 'im and .  . ."

But the old man was far away.

"Ever sin 'e were a pup .  . . all us been subjeck to it...."

Though Mick took my mind off my own troubles at the time, the memory of
those eyes haunted me for days.  I yearned to get my hands on them.  I
knew an hour's work would transport the old dog into a world he perhaps
had not known for years, and every instinct told me to rush back to Cop
ton, throw him in the car and bear him back to Darrow by for surgery. I
wasn't worried about the money but you just can't run a practice that
way.

I regularly saw lame dogs on farms, skinny cats on the streets and it
would have been lovely to descend on each and every one and minister to
them out of my knowledge.  In fact I had tried a bit of it and it
didn't work.

It was Ted Dobson who put me out of my pain.  He had come in to the
town to see his sister for the evening and he stood leaning on his
bicycle in the surgery doorway, his cheerful, scrubbed face gleaming as
if it would light up the street.

He came straight to the point.

"Will ye do that operation on awd Mick, Mr Herriot ?"

"Yes, of course, but .  . . how about .  . . ?"

"Oh that'll be right.  T'lads at Fox and Hounds are see in' to it.
We're takin' it out of the club money."

"Club money?"

"Aye, we put in a bit every week for an out in' in "'summer.  Trip to
"'seaside or sum mat like."

"Well it's extremely kind of you, Ted, but are you quite sure?  Won't
any of them mind?"

Ted laughed.

"Nay, it's nowt, we won't miss a quid.  We drink ower much on them do's
anyway."  He paused.

"All t'lads want this job done it's been get tin' on our bloody nerves
watch in' ttawd dog ever since you told us about "Im."

"Well, that's great," I said.

"How will you get him down?"

"Me boss is len din' me'is van.  Wednesday night be all right?"

"Fine."  I watched him ride away then turned back along the passage. It
may seem to modern eyes that a lot of fuss had been made over a pound
but in those days it was a very substantial sum, and some idea may be
gained from the fact that four pounds a week was my commencing salary
as a veterinary surgeon.

When Wednesday night arrived it was clear that Mick's operation had
become something of a gala occasion.  The little van was crammed with
regulars from the Fox and Hounds and others rolled up on their
bicycles.

The old dog slunk fearfully down the passage to the operating room,
nostrils twitching at the unfamiliar odours of ether and antiseptic.
Behind him trooped the noisy throng of farm men, their heavy boots
clattering on the tiles.

Tristan, who was doing the anaesthesia, hoisted the dog on the table
and I looked around at the unusual spectacle of rows of faces regarding
me with keen anticipation Normally I am not in favour of lay people
witnessing operations but since these men were sponsoring the whole
thing they would have to stay.

Under the lamp I got my first good look at Mick.  He was a handsome,
well-marked animal except for those dreadful eyes.  As he sat there he
opened them a fraction and peered at me for a painful moment before
closing them against the bright light; that, I felt, was how he spent
his life, squinting carefully and briefly at his surroundings.  Giving
him the intravenous barbiturate was like doing him a favour, ridding
him of his torment for a while.

And when he was stretched unconscious on his side I was able to carry
out my first examination.  I parted the lids, wincing at the matted
lashes, awash with tears and discharge; there was a long standing
keratitis and conjunctivitis but with a gush of relief I found that the
cornea was not ulcerated.

"You know," I said.

"This is a mess, but I don't think there's any permanent damage."

The farm men didn't exactly break into a cheer but they were enormously
pleased.  The carnival air was heightened as they chattered and laughed
and when I poised my scalpel it struck me that I had never operated in
such a noisy environment.

But I felt almost gleeful as I made the first incision; I had been loo
king forward so much to this moment.  Starting with the left eye I cut
along the full length parallel to the margin of the lid then made a
semicircular sweep of the knife to include half an inch of the tissue
above the eye.  Seizing the skin with forceps I stripped it away, and
as I drew the lips of the bleeding wound together with stitches I
noticed with intense gratification how the lashes were pulled high and
away from the corneal surface they had irritated, perhaps for years.

I cut away less skin from the lower lid you never need to take so much
there - then started on the right eye.  I was slicing away happily when
I realised that the noise had subsided; there were a few mutterings,
but the chaff and laughter had died.  I glanced up and saw big Ken
Appleton, the horseman from Laurel Grove; it was natural that he should
catch my eye, Because he was six feet four and built like the Shires he
cared for.

"By yaw, it'sot in 'ere," he whispered, and I could see he meant it
because sweat was streaming down his face.

I was engrossed in my work or I would have noticed that he wasn't only
sweating but deadly pale.  I was stripping the skin from the eyelid
when I heard Tristan's yell.

"Catch him!"

The big man's surrounding friends supported him as he slid gently to
the floor and he stayed there, sleeping peacefully, till I had inserted
the last stitch.

Then as Tristan and I cleaned up and put the instruments away he began
to look around him and his companions helped him to his feet.  Now that
the cutting vies over the life had returned to the party and Ken came
in for some leg pulling; but his was not the only white face.

"I think you could do with a drop of whisky, Ken," Tristan said.  He
left the room and returned with a bottle which, with typical
hospitality, he dispensed to all.  Beakers, measuring glasses and test
tubes were pressed into service and Soon there was a boisterous throng
around the sleeping dog.  When the van finally roared off into the
night the last thing I heard was the sound of singing from the packed
interior.

They brought Mick back in ten days for removal of the stitches.  The
wounds had healed well but the keratitis had still not cleared and the
old dog was still blinking painfully.  I didn't see the final result of
my work for another month.

It was when I was again driving home through Cop ton from an evening
call that the lighted doorway of the Fox and Hounds recalled me to the
little operation which had been almost forgotten in the rush of new
work.  I went in and sat down among the familiar faces.

Things were uncannily like before.  Old Albert Close in his usual
place, Mick stretched under the table, his twitching feet testifying to
another vivid dream.

I watched him closely until I could stand it no longer.  As if drawn by
a magnet I crossed the room and crouched by him.

"Mick!"  I said.

"Hey, wake up, boy!"

The quivering limbs stilled and there was a long moment when I held my
breath as the shaggy head turned towards me.  Then with a kind of
blissful disbelief I found myself gazing into the wide, clear, bright
eyes of a young dog.

Warm wine flowed richly through my veins as he faced me, mouth open in
a panting grin, tail swishing along the stone flags.  There was no
inflammation, no discharge, and the lashes, clean and dry, grew in a
soft arc well clear of the corneal surface which they had chafed and
rasped for so long.  I stroked his head and as he began to look around
him eagerly I felt a thrill of utter delight at the sight of the old
animal exulting in his freedom, savouring the new world which had
opened to him.  I could see Ted Dobson and the other men smiling
conspiratorially as I stood up.

"Mr Close," I shouted.

"Will you have a drink?"

"Aye, you can put a drop i' there, young man."

"Mick's eyes are a lot better."

The old man raised his glass.

"Good 'earth.  Aye, i' were nob but a bit o' caud."

"But Mr Close ...!"

"Nasty thing, is caud in t'eyes.  T'awd feller keeps lyin' in that
door' ole and ah reckon he'll get it again.  Ever since 'e were a pup
'e's been subjeck .  . ."

Chapter Sixteen As I bent over the wash basin in the 'ablutions' and
went into another violent paroxysm of coughing I had a growing and
uncomfortable conviction that I was a mere pawn.

The big difference between my present existence and my old life as a
vet was that I used to make up my own mind as to how I would do things,
whereas in the RAF all the decisions which affected me were made by
other people.  I didn't much like being a pawn because the lives of us
lowly airmen were ruled by a.

lot of notions and ideas dreamed up by individuals so exalted that we
never knew them.

And so many of these ideas seemed crazy to me.

For instance, who decided that all our bedroom windows should be nailed
open throughout a Yorkshire winter so that the healthy mist could swirl
straight from the black ocean and settle icily on our beds as we slept?
The result was an almost one hundred per cent incidence of bronchitis
in our flight, and in the mornings the Grand Hotel sounded like a chest
sanatorium with a harrowing chorus of barks and wheezes.

The cough seized me again, racking my body, threatening to dislodge my
eyeballs.  It was a temptation to report sick but I hadn't done it yet.
Most of the lads stuck it out till they had roaring fevers before going
sick and by now, at the end of February, nearly all of them had spent a
few days in hospital.  I was one of the few who hadn't.  Maybe there
was a bit of bravado in my stand because most of them were eighteen- or
nineteen-year-olds and I was a com paratively old man in my twenties
but there were two other reasons.  Firstly, it was very often after I
had got dressed and been unable to eat breakfast that I felt really
ill.  But by then it was too late.  You had to report sick before seven
o'clock or suffer till next day.

Another reason was that I didn't like the look of the sick parade.  As
I went out to the corridor with my towel round my shoulders a sergeant
was reading a list and inflating his lungs at the same time.

"Get on parade, the sick!"  he shouted.

"C'mon, c'mon, let's be 'avin' you!"

From various doors an unhappy group of invalids began to appear,
shuffling over the linoleum, each draped with his 'small kit',
haversack containing pyjamas, canvas shoes, knife, fork, spoon, etc.
The sergeant unleashed another bellow.

"Get into line, there!  Come on, you lot, hurry it up, look lively!"

I looked at the young men huddled there, white-faced and trembling.
Most of them were coughing and spluttering and one of them clutched his
abdomen as though he had a ruptured appendix.

"Parade!"  bawled the sergeant.

"Parade, at ten-shun!  Parade stan'-at ease!

At ten-shun!  Le-eft turn!  Qui-ick march!

"Eft-'ight,"eft-'ight, 'eft-'ight, 'eft-'ight!"

The hapless band trailed wearily off.  They had a march of nearly a
mile through the rain to the sick quarters in another hotel above the
Spa, and as I turned into my room it was with a renewed resolve to hang
on as long as possible.

Another thing that frightened us all for a spell was the suggestion,
drifting dOwn from somewhere on high, that it wasn't enough to go
jugging around scar borough on our training runs; we ought to stop
every now and then and do a bit of shadow boxing like fighters.  This
idea seemed too outrageous to be true but we had it from the sergeant
himself, who came with us on our runs.  Some VIP had passed it down,
claiming that it would instill belligerence in us.  We were thoroughly
alarmed for a while, including the sergeant, who had no desire to be
seen in charge of a bunch of apparent lunatics dancing around punching
at the air.  Mercifully, somebody had the strength to resist this one
and the whole thing fell through.

But of all these brilliant schemes the one I remember best was the one
that decided we had to scream at the end of our physical training
session.  Apart from running miles all over the place, we had long
periods of PT down on the rain-swept prom with the wind cutting in from
the sea on our goose-pimpled limbs We became so good at these exercises
that it was decided to put on a show for a visiting air marshal.  Not
only our flight but several squadrons all performing in unison in front
of the Grand.

We trained for months for the big day, doing the same movements over
and over again till we were perfect.  At first the barrel-chested PT
sergeant shouted instructions at us all the time, then as we got better
all he did was call out "Exercise three, commence'.  And finally it all
became so much a part of our being that he merely sounded a tiny peep
on his whistle at the beginning of each exercise.

By spring we were really impressive.  Hundreds of men in shorts and
sing lets swinging away as one out there on the square, with the PT
sergeant up on the balcony above the doorway where he would stand with
the air marshal on the day.  The thing that made it so dramatic was the
utter silence; the forest of waving limbs and swaying bodies with not a
sound but the peep of the whistle.

Everything was lovely till somebody had the idea of the screaming.  Up
till then we had marched silently from the square at the end of the
session, but that was apparently not good enough.  What we had to do
now was count up to five at the end of the last exercise, then leap
into the air, scream at the top of our voices and run off the square at
top speed.

And I had to admit that it seemed quite a brain wave.  We tried it a
few times then we began to put our hearts into it, jumping high,
yelling like dervishes then scuttling away into the various openings
among the hotels around the square.

It must have looked marvellous from the balcony.  The great mass of
white-clad men going through the long routine in a cathedral hush, a
few seconds of complete immobility at the end then the whole concourse
erupting with a wild yell and disappearing, leaving the empty square
echoing.  And this last touch had another desirable aspect; it was
further proof of our latent savagery.  The enemy would have quaked at
that chilling sound.

The sergeant had a little trouble with a lad in my flight, a tall
gangling red-haired youth called Cromarty who stood in the line in
front of me a few feet to my right.  Cromarty seemed unable to enter
into the spirit of the thing.

"Come on, lad," the sergeant said one day.

"Put a bit of devil into it!  You got to sound like a killer.  You're
floating up and down there like a ruddy fairy godmother."

Cromarty did try, but the thing seemed to embarrass him.  He gave a
little hop, an apologetic jerk of his arms and a feeble cry.

The sergeant ran his hand through his hair.

"No, no, lad!  You've got to let yourself go!"  He looked around him.

"Here, Devlin, come out and show 'im how it's done."

Devlin, a grinning Irishman, stepped forward.  The scream was the high
point of his day.  He stood relaxed for a moment then without warning
catapulted himself high in the air, legs and arms splayed, head back,
while a dreadful animal cry burst from his gaping mouth.

The sergeant took an involuntary step backwards.

"Thanks, Devlin, that's fine," he said a little shakily, then he turned
to Cromarty.

"Now you see how I want it, boy, just like that.  So work at it."

Cromarty nodded.  He had a long, serious face and you could see he
wanted to oblige.  After that I watched him each day and there was no
doubt he was improving.  His inhibitions were gradually being worn
down.

It seemed that nature was smiling on our efforts because the great day
dawned with blue skies and warm sunshine.  Every man among the hundreds
who marched out into the square had been individually prepared.  Newly
bathed, fresh haircut, spotless white shorts and singlet.  We waited in
our motionless lines before the newly painted door of the Grand while,
on the balcony above, gold braid glinted on the air marshal's cap.

He stood among a knot of the top RAF brass of Scar borough, while in
one corner I could see our sergeant, erect in long white flannels, his
great chest sticking out further than ever.  Beneath us the sea
shimmered and the golden bay curved away to the Riley cliffs.

The sergeant raised his hand.

"Peep' went the whistle and we were off.

There was something exhilarating about being part of this smooth
machine.

I had a wonderful sense of oneness with the arms and legs which moved
with mine all around.  It was effortless.  We had ten exercises to do
and at the end of the first we stood rigid for ten seconds, then the
whistle piped and we started again.

The time passed too quickly as I revelled in our perfection.  At the
end of exercise nine I came to attention waiting for the whistle,
counting under my breath.  Nothing stirred, the silence was profound.
Then, from the motionless ranks, as unexpected as an exploding bomb,
Cromarty in front of me launched himself upwards in a tangle of
flailing limbs and red hair and unleashed a long bubbling howl.  He had
put so much into his leap that he seemed to take a long time to come
down and even after his descent the shattering sound echoed on.

Cromarty had made it at last.  As fierce and warlike a scream, as high
a jump as ever the sergeant could desire.  The only snag was that he
was too soon.

When the whistle went for the last exercise,a lot of people didn't hear
it because of the noise and many others were in a state of shock and
came in late.

Anyway, it was a shambles and the final yell and scuttle a sad
anticlimax.  I myself, though managing to get a few inches off the
ground, was unable to make any sound at all.

Had Cromarty not been serving in the armed forces of a benign democracy
he would probably have been taken quietly away and shot.  As it was,
there was really nothing anybody could do to him.  NCOs weren't even
allowed to swear at the men.

I felt for the PT sergeant.  There must have been a lot he wanted to
say but he was grievously restricted.  I saw him with Cromarty later.
He put his face close to the young man's.

"You ... you .  .."  His features worked as he fought for words

"You THiNG you!"

He turned and walked away with bowed shoulders.  At that moment I'm
sure he felt like a pawn too.

Chapter Seventeen There is no doubt that when I looked back at my life
in Darrow by I was inclined to bathe the whole thing in a rosy glow,
but occasionally the unhappy things came to mind.

That man, distraught and gasping on the surgery steps.

"I's no good, I can't bring him in.  He's as stiff as a board!"

My stomach lurched.  It was another one.

"Jasper, you mean CVPC hP'c in the back of mv car.  right here."

I ran across the pavement and opened the car door.  It was as I feared,
a handsome Dalmatian stretched in a dreadful tetanic spasm, spine
arched, head craning desperately backward, legs like four wooden rods
groping at nothing.

I didn't wait to talk but dashed back into the house for syringe and
drugs.

I leaned into the car, tucked some papers under the dog's head,
injected the apomorphine and waited.

The man looked at me with anxious eyes.

"What is it?"

"Strychnine poison ing, Mr Bartle.  I've just given an emetic to make
him vomit."  As I spoke the animal brought up the contents of his
stomach on to the paper.

"Will that put him right?"

"It depends on how much of the poison has been absorbed."  I didn't
feel like telling him that it was almost invariably fatal, that in fact
I had treated six dogs in the last week with the same condition and
they had all died.

"We'll just have to hope."

He watched me as I filled another syringe with barbiturate.

"What are you doing now?"

"Anaesthetising him."  I slipped the needle into the radial vein and as
I slowly trickled the fluid into the dog's bloodstream the taut muscles
relaxed and he sank into a deep slumber.

"He looks better already," Mr Bartle said.

"Yes, but the trouble is when the injection wears off he may go back
into a spasm.  As I say, it all depends on how much of the strychnine
has got into his System.  Keep him in a quiet place with as little
noise as possible.  Any sound can bring on a spasm.  When he shows
signs of coming out of it give me a ring."

I went back into the house.  Seven cases in a week!  It was tragic and
scarcely believable, but there was no doubt left in my mind now.  This
was malicious.

Some psychopath in our little town was deliberately putting down poison
to kill dogs Strychnine poison ing was something that cropped up
occasionally.

Gamekeepers and other people used the deadly drug to kill vermin but
usually it was handled with great care and placed out of reach of
domestic pets.  Trouble started when a burrowing dog came across the
poison by accident.  But this was different.

I had to warn pet owners somehow.  I lifted the 'phone and spoke to one
of the reporters on the Darrow by and Houltorz Times.  He promised to
put the Story in the next edition, along with advice to keep dogs on
their leads and Otherwise supervise pets more carefully.

Then I rang the police.  The sergeant listened to my account.

"Right, Mr Herriot, I agree with you that there's some crackpot going
around and we'll certainly investigate this matter.  If you'll just
give me the names of the dog owners involved .  . . thank you .  . .
thank you.  We'll see these people and check round the local chemists
to see if anybody has been buying strychnine lately And of course we'll
keep our eyes open for anybody acting suspiciously."

I came away from the 'phone feeling that I might have done something to
halt the depressing series of events, but I couldn't rid myself of a
gloomy apprehension that more trouble was round the corner.  But my
mood lightened when I saw Johnny Clifford in the waiting room.

Johnny always made me feel better because he was invariably optimistic
and wore a cheerful grin which never altered, even though he was blind.
He was about my own age and he sat there in his habitual pose, one hand
on the head of his guide dog, Fergus.

"Is it inspection time again already, Johnny?"  I asked.

"Aye, it is that, Mr Herriot, it's come round again.  It's been a
quick six months."  He laughed and held out his card.

I squatted and looked into the face of the big Alsatian sitting
motionless and dignified by his master's side.

"Well, and how's Fergus these days?"

"Oh he's in grand fettle.  Eat in' well and full of life."  The hand on
the head moved round to the ears and at the other end the tail did a
bit of sweeping along the waiting-room floor.

As I looked at the young man, his face alight with pride and affection,
I realised afresh what this dog meant to him.  He had told me that when
his failing sight progressed to total blindness in his early twenties
he was filled with a despair which did not lessen until he was sent to
train with a guide dog and met Fergus; because he found something more
than another living creature to act as his eyes, he found a friend and
com panion to share every moment of his days.

"Well, we'd better get started," I said.

"Stand up a minute, old lad, while I take your temperature."  That was
normal and I went over the big animal's chest with a stethoscope,
listening to the reassuringly steady thud of the heart.  As

I

parted the hair along the neck and back to examine the skin I
laughed.

"I'm wasting my time here, Johnny.  You've got his coat in perfect
condition."

"Aye, never a day goes by but he gets a good groom in'."

I had seen him at it, brushing and combing tirelessly to bring extra
lustre to the sleek swathes of hair.  The nicest thing anybody could
say to Johnny was, "That's a beautiful dog you've got."  His pride in
that beauty was boundless even though he had never seen it himself.

Treating guide dogs for the blind has always seemed to me to be one of
a veterinary surgeon's most rewarding tasks.  To be in a position to
help and care for these magnificent animals is a privilege, not just
because they are highly!

trained and valuable but because they represent in the ultimate way
something which has always lain near the core and centre of my life:
the mutually' depending, trusting and loving association between man
and animal.

Meeting these blind people was a humbling experience which sent me
about.r 'v work with a new appreciation of my blessings.

opened the dog's mouth and peered at the huge gleaming teeth.  It was
dicing danger to do this with some Alsatians, but with Fergus you could
haul the -Nap part and nearly put your head in and he would only lick
your ear.

at it now.  My cheek was nicely within range and he gave it - his large
wet tongue.  ~ ~the, Fergus!"  I withdrew and plied my handkerchief.

"I've' had a wash this morning.  And anyway, only little dogs lick not
big tough Alsatians."

Johnny threw back his head and gave a great peal of laughter.

"There's nowt tough about him, he's the softest dog you could ever
meet."

~Well, that's the way I like them."  I said.  I reached for a tooth
scaler.

"There's just a bit of tartar on one of his back teeth.  I'll scrape it
off right now."

When I had finished I looked in the ears with an auroscope.  There was
no canker but I cleaned out a little wax.

Then I went round the feet, examining paws and claws.  They always
fascinated me, these feet; wide, enormous, with great spreading toes.
They had to be that size to support the big body and the massive bones
of the limbs.

"All correct except that one funny claw, Johnny."

"Aye, you all us have to trim that 'un don't you?  I could feel it was
grow in' long again."

"Yes, that toe seems to be slightly crooked or it would wear down like
the others with all the walking he does.  You have a great time going
walks all day, don't you, Fergus?"

I dodged another attempted lick and closed my clippers around the claw.
I had to squeeze till my eyes popped before the overgrown piece shot
away with a loud crack.

"By gosh, we'd go through some clippers if all dogs had claws like
that," I gasped.

"It just about does them in every time he calls."

Johnny laughed again and dropped his hand on the great head with a
gesture which said so much.

I took the card entered my report on the dog's health along with the
things I had done.  Then I dated it and handed it back.

"That's it for this time, Johnny.

He's in excellent order and there's nothing more I need do to him."

"Thank you, Mr Herriot.  See you next time round, then."  The young
man took hold of the harness and I followed the two of them along the
passage and out of the front door.  I watched as Fergus halted by the
kerb and waited till a car had passed before crossing the road.

They hadn't gone very far along the road when a woman with a shopping
bag stopped them.  She began to chatter animatedly, loo king down
repeatedly at the big dog.  She was talking about Fergus and Johnny
rested his hand on the noble head and nodded and smiled.  Fergus was
his favourite topic.

Shortly after midday Mr Bartle rang to say Jasper showed signs of
returning spasms and before sitting down to lunch I rushed round to his
house and repeated the barbiturate injection.  Mr Bartle owned one of
the local mills, producing cattle food for the district.  He was a very
bright man indeed.

"Mr Herriot," he said.

"Please don't misunderstand me.  I have every faith in you, but isn't
there any thing else you can do?  I am so very fond of this dog."

I shrugged helplessly.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do any more."

"But is there no antidote to this poison?"

"No, I'm afraid there isn't."

"Well...."  He looked down with drawn face at the unconscious animal.

'what's going on?  What's happening to Jasper when he goes stiff like
he did?

I'm only a layman but I like to understand things."

"I'll try to explain it," I said.

"Strychnine is absorbed into the nervous system and it increases the
conductivity of the spinal cord."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that the muscles become more sensitive to outside stimuli so
that the Slightest touch or sound throws them into violent
contractions."

"But why does a dog stretch out like that?"

"Because the extensor muscles are stronger than the flexors, causing
the back to be arched and the legs extended."

He nodded.

"I see, but .  .. I believe it is usually fatal.  What is it that .

kills them?"

"They die of asphyxia due to paralysis of the respiratory centre or
contract) of the diaphragm."

Maybe he wanted to ask more, but it was painful for him and he stay
silent.  .

"There's one thing I'd like you to know, Mr Bartle," I said.

"It is almost certainly not a painful condition."

"Thank you."  He bent and briefly stroked the sleeping dog.

"So nothing more can be done?"

I shook my head.

"The barbiturate keeps the spasms in abeyance and we'll go on hoping he
hasn't absorbed too much strychnine.  I'll call back later, or y can
ring me if he gets worse.  I can be here in a few minutes."

Driving away, I pondered on the irony that made Darrow by a paradise
for dog killers as well as dog lovers.  There were grassy tracks
everywhere; wandering by the river's edge, climbing the fell-sides and
coiling green and tempting among the heather on the high tops.  I often
felt sympathy for pet owners in the big' cities, trying to find places
to walk their dogs.  Here in Darrow by we could take our pick.  But so
could the poisoner.  He could drop his deadly bait unobserved in a
hundred different places.

I was finishing the afternoon surgery when the 'phone rang.  It was Mr
Bartle.

"Has he started the spasms again?"  I asked.

There was a pause.

"No, I'm afraid Jasper is dead.  He never regained consciousness."

"Oh .  . . I'm very sorry."  I felt a dull despair.  That was the
seventh death in a week.

"Well, thank you for your treatment, Mr Herriot.  I'm sure nothing
could have saved him."

I hung up the 'phone wearily.  He was right.  Nothing or nobody could
have done any good in this case, but it didn't help.  If you finish up
with a dead animal there is always the feeling of defeat.

Next day I was walking on to a farm when the farmer's wife called to
me.

"I have a message for you to ring back to the surgery."

I heard Helen's voice at the other end.

"Jack Brim ham has just come in with his dog.  I think it's another
strychnine case."  : I excused myself and drove back to Darrow by at
top speed.  Jack Brim ham was a builder.  He ran a one-man business and
whatever job he was on repairing roofs or walls or chimneys his little
white rough-haired terrier went with him, and you could usually see the
little animal nosing among the piles of bricks, exploring in the
surrounding fields.

Jack was a friend, too.  I often had a beer with him at the Drovers'
Arms and I recognised his van outside the surgery.  I trotted along the
passage and found him leaning over the table in the consulting room.
His dog was stretched there in that attitude which I dreaded.

"He's gone, Jim," he muttered.

I looked at the shaggy little body.  There was no movement, the eyes
stared silently.  The legs, even in death, strained across the smooth
surface of the table.

It was pointless, but I slipped my hand inside the thigh and felt for
the femoral artery.  There was no pulse.

"I'm sorry, Jack," I said.

He didn't answer for a moment.

"I've been read in' about this in the paper, Jim, but I never thought
it would happen to me.  It's a bugger, isn't it?"

I nodded He was a craggy-faced man, a tough Yorkshire man with a humour
and integrity which I liked and a soft place inside which his dog had
occupied.

I did not know what to say to him.

"Who's coin' this?"  he said, half to himself.

"I don't know, Jack.  Nobody knows."

"Well I wish I could have five minutes with him; that's all."  He
gathered the rigid little form into his arms and went out.

My troubles were not over for that day.  It was about 11 p.m. and I had
just got into bed when Helen nudged me.

"I think there's somebody knocking at the front door, Jim."

I opened the window and looked out.  Old Board man, the lame veteran of
the first war who did odd jobs for us, was standing on the steps.

"Mr Herriot," he called up to me.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but Patch is ill."

I leaned further out.

"What's he doing?"

"He's like a bit o' wood stiff like, and laid on 'is side."

i I didn't bother to dress, Just pulled my working corduroys over my
pyjamas and went down the stairs two at a time.  I grabbed what I
needed from the dispensary and opened the front door.  The old man, in
shirt sleeves, caught at my arm.

"Come quickly, Mr Herriot!"  He limped ahead of me to his little house
about twenty yards away in the lane round the corner.

Patch was like all the others.  The fat spaniel I had seen so often
waddling round the top yard with his master was in that nightmare
position on the kitchen floor, but he had vomited, which gave me hope.
I administered the intravenous injection but as I withdrew the needle
the breathing stopped.

Mrs Board man, in nightgown and slippers, dropped on her knees and
stretched a trembling hand towards the motionless animal.

"Patch...."  She turned and stared at me, wide-eyed.

"He's dead!"

I put my hand on the old woman's shoulder and said some sympathetic
words.  I thought grimly that I was get ting good at it.  As I left I
looked back at the two old people.  Board man was kneeling now by his
wife and even after I had closed the door I could hear their voices:
"Patch .  . . oh Patch."

I almost reeled over the few steps to Skeldale House and before going
in I stood in the empty street breathing the cool air and trying to
calm my racing thoughts.  With Patch gone, this thing was get ting very
near home.  I saw that dog every day.  In fact all the dogs that had
died were old friends in a little town like Darrow by you came to know
your patients personally.  Where was it going to end?

I didn't sleep much that night and over the next few days I was
obsessed with apprehension.  I expected another poison ing with every
'phone call and took care never to let my own dog, Sam, out of the car
in the region of the town.  Thanks to my job I was able to exercise him
miles away on the summits of the fells, but even there I kept him close
to me.

By the fourth day I was beginning to feel more relaxed.  Maybe the
nightmare was over.  I was driving home in the late afternoon past the
row of grey cottages at the end of the Houlton Road when a woman ran
waving into the road.

"Oh, Mr Herriot," she cried when I stopped.

"I was just goin' to t'phone box when I saw you."

I pulled up by the kerb.

"It's Mrs Clifford, isn't it?"

"Yes, Johnny's just come in and Fergus 'as gone queer.  Collapsed and
laid on t'floor."

"Oh no!"  An icy chill drove through me and for a moment I stared at
her, unable to move.  Then I threw open the car door and hurried after
Johnny's mother into the end cottage.  I halted abruptly in the little
room and stared down in horror.  The very sight of the splendid
dignified animal scrabbling helplessly on the linoleum was a
desecration, but strychnine is no respecter of such things.

"Oh God!"  I breathed.

"Has he vomited, Johnny?"

l "Aye, me mum said he was sick in t'back garden when we came in."  Th
young man was sitting very upright in a chair by the side of his dog.
Even now there was a half smile on his face, but he looked strained as
he put out his hand in the old gesture and failed to find the head that
should have been there.

The bottle of barbiturate wobbled in my shaking hand as I filled the
syringe I tried to put away the thought that I was doing what I had
done to all the others all the dead ones.  At my feet Fergus panted
desperately, then as I bent over him he suddenly became still and went
into the horrible distinctive spasm the great limbs I knew so well
straining frantically into space, the head pulled back grotesquely over
the spine.  : This was when they died, when the muscles were at full
contraction.  As the barbiturate flowed into the vein I waited for
signs of relaxation but saw none Fergus was about twice as heavy as any
of the other victims I had treated and the plunger went to the end of
the syringe without result.

Quickly I drew in another dose and began to inject it, my tension
building as I saw how much I was administering.  The recommended dose
was I cc per 5 lb body weight and beyond that you could kill the
animal.  I watched the gradations on the glass barrel of the syringe
and my mouth went dry when the dose crept far beyond the safety limit.
But I knew I had to relieve this spasm and continued to depress the
plunger relentlessly.

I did it in the grim knowledge that if he died now I would never know
whether to blame the strychnine or myself for his death.

The big dog had received more than a lethal amount before peace began
to return to the taut body and even then I sat back on my heels, almost
afraid to look in case I had brought about his end.  There was a long
agonising moment when he lay still and apparently lifeless then the rib
cage began to move almost imperceptibly as the breathing recommenced.

Even then I was in suspense.  The anaesthesia was so deep that he was
only just alive, yet I knew that the only hope was to keep him that
way.  I sent Mrs' Clifford out to phone Siegfried that I would be tied
up here for a while, then I pulled up a chair and settled down to
wait.

The hours passed as Johnny and I sat there, the dog stretched between
us; The young man discussed the case calmly and without self-pity.
There was no suggestion that this was any thing more than a pet animal
Lying at his feet-except for the tell-tale reaching for the head that
was no longer there.

Several times Fergus showed signs of going into another spasm and each
time: I sent him back into his deep, deep insensibility, pushing him
repeatedly to the, brink with a fateful certainty that it was the only
way.

It was well after midnight when I came sleepily out into the darkness.
I felt drained.  Watching the life of the friendly, clever,
face-licking animal flicker a$he lay inert and unheeding had been a
tremendous strain, but I had left him sleeping still anaesthetised but
breathing deeply and regularly.  Would he wake up and start the dread
sequence again?  I didn't know and I couldn't stay any longer.  There
was a practice with other animals to at tend to.

But my anxiety jerked me into early wakefulness next morning.  I tossed
around till seven thirty telling myself this wasn't the way to be a
veterinary surgeon, that you couldn't live like this.  But my worry was
stronger than the voice of reason and I slipped out before breakfast to
the roadside cottage.  .

My nerves were like a bowstring as I knocked on the door.  Mrs
Clifford] answered and I was about to blurt out my enquiries when
Fergus trotted from the inner room.

He was still a little groggy from the vast dosage of barbiturate but he
was relaxed and happy, the symptoms had gone, he was himself again.
With a gush Of pure joy I knelt and took the great head between my
hands.  He slobbered at me playfully with his wet tongue and I had to
fight him off.

He followed me into the living room where Johnny was seated at the
table, drinking tea.  He took up his usual position, sitting upright
and proud by his master's side.

"You'll have a cup, Mr Herriot?"  Mrs Clifford asked, poising the
teapot.

"Thanks, I'd love one, Mrs Clifford," I replied.

No tea ever tasted better and as I sipped I watched the young man's
smiling face.

"What a relief, Mr Herriot!  I sat up with him all night, listen in'
to the chimes of the church clock.  It was just after four when I knew
we'd won because I heard 'im get to his feet and sort o' stagger about.
I stopped worry in' then, just listened to 'is feet patterin'on the
linoleum.  It was lovely!"

He turned his head to me and I looked at the slightly upturned eyes in
the cheerful face.

"I'd have been lost without Fergus, "he said softly.

"I don't know how to thank you."

But as he unthinkingly rested his hand on the head of the big dog who
was his pride and delight I felt that the gesture alone was all the
thanks I wanted.

That was the end of the strychnine poison ing outbreak in Darrow by. 
The older people still talk about it, but nobody ever had the slightest
clue to the identity of the killer and it is a mystery to this day.

I feel that the vigilance of the police and the publicity in the press
frightened this twisted person off, but anyway it just stopped and the
only cases since then have been accidental ones.

To me it is a sad memory of failure and frustration.  Fergus was my
only cure and I'm not sure why he recovered.  Maybe the fact that I
pushed the injection to dangerous levels because I was desperate had
something to do with it, or maybe he just didn't pick up as much poison
as the others.  I'll never know.

But over the years when I saw the big dog striding majestically in his
harness, leading his master unerringly around the streets of Darrow by,
I always had the same feeling.

If there had to be just one saved, I'm glad it was him.

Chapter Eighteen A tender nerve twinged as the old lady passed me the
cup of tea.  She looked just like Mrs Beck.

One of the local churches was having a social evening to entertain us
lonely airmen and as I accepted the cup and sat down I could hardly
withdraw my eyes from the lady's face.

Mrs Beck!  I could see her now standing by the surgery window.

"Oooh, I never thought you were such a 'eartless man, Mr Herriot." 
Her chin trembled and she looked up at me reproachfully.

"But Mrs Beck," I said.

"I assure you I am not being in the least heartless.

just cannot carry out a major operation on your cat for ten
shillings."

"Well, I thought you would've done it for a poor widder woman like
me."

I regarded her thoughtfully, taking in the small com pact figure, the
heal' cheeks, the neat helmet of grey hair pulled tightly into a bun.
Was she real a poor widow?  There was cause for doubt.  Her next-door
neighbour in Rayt village was a confirmed sceptic.

"It's all a tale, Mr Herriot," he had said.

"She tries it on wi' everybody, I'll tell you this she's got a long
stock in'.  Owns property all over "'place."

I took a deep breath.

"Mrs Beck.  We often do work at reduced rates for people who can't
afford to pay, but this is what we call a luxury operation."

"Luxury!"  The lady was aghast.

"Eee, ah've been tell in' you how Georgi keeps havin' them kittens.
She's at it all the time and it's get tin' me down.

can't sleep for worry in' when t'next lot's com in'."  She dabbed her
eyes.

"I understand and I'm sorry.  I can only tell you again that the only
way prevent this trouble is to spay your cat and the charge IS one
pound."

"Nay, I can't afford that much!"

I spread my hands.

"But you are asking me to do it for half the price.  That's ridiculous.
This operation involves the removal of the uterus and ovaries under a
general anaesthetic.  You just can't do a job like that for ten
shillings."  : "Oh, you are cruel!"  She turned and looked out of the
window and h shoulders began to shake.

"You won't even take pity on a poor widder."

This had been going on for ten minutes and it began to dawn on me that
was in the presence of a stronger character than myself.  I glanced at
my wet, - I should have been on my round by now and it was becoming
increasingly' obvious that I wasn't going to win this argument.

I sighed.  Maybe she really was a poor widow.

"All right, Mrs Beck, I'll it for ten shillings, just this once.  Will
Tuesday afternoon be all right for you' She swung round from the
window, her face crinkling magically into a smile "That'll suit me
grand!  Eee, that's right kind of you."  She tripped past me al I
followed her along the passage.

"Just one thing," I said as I held the front door open for her.

"Don't give, Georgina any food from midday on Monday.  She must have an
empty stomach' when you bring her in."

"Bringer in?"  She was a picture of bewilderment.

"But I 'aven't got no car I thought you'd be collect in' her."

"Collecting!  But Ray ton's five miles away!"

"Yes, and bringer back afterwards, too.  I 'ave no transport."

"Collect .  . . operate on her .  . . take her back!  All for ten
shillings!"

She was still smiling but a touch of steel glinted in her eyes.

"Well, that's what you agreed to charge ten shillings."

"But ... but..."

"Oh now you're star tin' again."  The smile faded and she put her head
on o side.

"And I'm only a poor .  . ."

"Okay, okay," I said hastily.

"I'll call on Tuesday."

And when Tuesday afternoon came round I cursed my softness.  If that a
had been brought in I could have operated on her at two o'clock and
been on the road doing my farm calls by two thirty.  I didn't mind
working at a 1 for half an hour, but how long was this business going
to take?

On my way out I glanced through the open door of the sitting room.
Tristan was supposed to be studying but was sleeping soundly in his
favourite chair.` went in and looked down at him, marvelling at the
utter relaxation, seen only ; l i .

s in a dedicated sleeper.  His face was as smooth and untroubled as a
baby's, the DailY Mirror, open at the comic strips, had fallen across
his chest and a burnt-out Woodbine hung from one dangling hand.

I shook him gently.

"Like to come with me, Triss?  I've got to pick up a cat."

He came round slowly, stretching and grimacing, but his fundamental
good nature soon reasserted itself.

"Certainly' dim," he said with a final yawn.

"It will be a pleasure."

Mrs Beck lived half way down the left side of Ray ton village.  I
read

"Jasmine Cottage' on the brightly painted gate, and as we went up the
garden path the door opened and the little woman waved gaily.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, I'm right glad to see you both."  She
ushered us into the living-room among good, solid-loo king furniture
which showed no sign of poverty.  The open cupboard of a mahogany
sideboard gave me a glimpse of glasses and bottles.  I managed to
identify Scotch, cherry brandy and sherry before she nudged the door
shut with her knee.

I pointed to a cardboard box loosely tied with string.

"Ah, good, you've got her in there, have you?"

"Nay, bless you, she's in "'garden.  She all us has a bit of play out
there of an afternoon."

"In the garden, eh?"  I said nervously.

"Well, please get her in, we're in rather a hurry."

We went through a tiled kitchen to the back door.  Most of these
cottages had a surprising amount of land behind them and Mrs Beck's
patch was in very nice order.  Flower beds bordered a smooth stretch of
lawn and the sunshine drew glittering colours from the apples and pears
among the branches of the trees.

"Georgina," carolled Mrs Beck.

"Where are you, my pet?"

No cat appeared and she turned to me with a roguish smile.

"I think the little imp's pl ayin' a game with us.  She does that, you
know."

"Really?"  I said without enthusiasm.

"Well, I wish she'd show herself.  I really don't have much .  . ."

At that moment a very fat tabby darted from a patch of chrysanthemums
and flitted across the grass into a clump of rhododendrons with Tristan
in close pursuit.  The young man dived among the greenery and the cat
emerged from the other end at top speed, did a couple of laps of the
lawn then shot up a gnarled tree.

Tristan, eyes gleaming in anticipation, lifted a couple of windfall
apples from the turf.

"I'll soon shift the bugger from there, Jim," he whispered and took
aim.

I grabbed his arm.

"For heaven's sake, Triss!"  I hissed.

"You can't do that.

Put those things down."

"Oh .  . . all right."  He dropped the apples and made for the tree.

"I'll get hold of her for you, anyway."

"Wait a minute."  I seized his coat as he passed.

"I'll do it.  You stay down here and try to catch her if she jumps."

Tristan looked disappointed but I gave him a warning look.  The way the
cat had moved, it struck me that it only needed a bit of my colleague's
ebullience to send the animal winging into the next county.  I began to
climb the tree.

I like cats, I've always liked them, and since I feel that animals
recognise this in a person I have usually been able to approach and
handle the most difficult types.  It is not too much to say that I
prided myself on my cat technique; I didn't foresee any trouble here.

Puffing slightly, I reached the top branch and extended a hand to the
crouching animal.

"Pooss-pooss," I cooed, using my irresistible cat tone.

Georgina eyed me coldly and gave no answering sign other than a higher'
arching of the back.

I leaned further along the branch.

"Pooss-pooss, pooss-pooss."  My voice w like molten honey, my finger
near her face.  I would rub her cheek ever so gently and she would be
mine.  It never failed.

"Pah!"  replied Georgina warningly but I took no heed and touched the
fur under her chin.

"Pah-pah!"  Georgina spat and followed with a lightning left hook which
opened a bloody track across the back of my hand.

Muttering fervently, I retreated and nursed my wounds From below M Beck
gave a tinkling laugh.

"Oh, isn't she a little monkey!  She's that playful, bless her."

I snorted and began to ease my way along the branch again.  This time
thought grimly, I would dispense with finesse.  The quick grab was
indicated here.

As though reading my thoughts the little creature tripped to the end of
the branch and as it bent low under her weight she dropped lightly to
the grass.  .

Tristan was on her in a flash, throwing himself full length and seizing
her by the hind leg.  Georgina whipped round and unhesitatingly sank
her teeth in his thumb but Tristan's core of resilience showed.  After
a single howl of agony he changed his grip at lightning speed to the
scruff of the neck.

A moment later he was standing upright holding a dangling fighting fury
high in the air.

"Right, Jim," he called happily.

"I have her."

"Good lad!  Hang on!"  I said breathlessly and slithered down the tree
as quickly as I could.  Too quickly, in fact, as an ominous ripping
sound announced the removal of a triangular piece of my jacket elbow.

But I couldn't bother with trifles.  Ushering Tristan at a gallop into
the house I opened the cardboard box.  There were no sophisticated cat
containers in those days and it was a tricky job to enclose Georgina,
who was lashing out in all directions and complaining bitterly in a
bad-tempered wail.

It took a panting ten minutes to imprison the cat but even with several
yard.

of rough twine round the floppy cardboard I still didn't feel very
secure as I bor' Mrs Beck raised a finger as we were about to drive
away.  I carefully explored my lacerated hand and Tristan sucked his
thumb as we waited for her to speak.

"Mr Herriot, I 'ope you'll be gentle wither she said anxiously.

"She's very timid, you know."

We had covered barely half a mile before sounds of strife arose from
the back.

"Get back!  Get in there.  Get back, you bugger!"

I glanced behind me.  Tristan was having trouble.  Georgina clearly
didn't care for the motion of the car and from the slits in the box
clawed feet issued repeatedly; on one occasion an enraged spitting face
got free as far as the neck.

Tristan kept pushing everything back with great resolution but I could
tell from the rising desperation of his cries that he was fighting a
losing battle.

I heard the final shout with a feeling of inevitability.

"She's out, Jim!  The bugger's out!"

Well this was great.  Anybody who has driven a car with a hysterical:
hurtling around the interior will appreciate my situation.  I crouched
low over the wheel as the furry creature streaked round the sides or
leaped clawing at the roof or windscreen with Tristan lunging vainly
after her.

But cruel fate had not finished with us yet.  My colleague's gasps and
grunt from the rear ceased for a moment to be replaced by a horrified
shriek.

"The bloody thing's shitting, Jim!  She's shitting everywhere!"

The cat was obviously using every weapon at her disposal and he didn't
have to tell me.  My nose was away ahead of him, and I frantically
wound down the window.  But I closed it just as quickly at the rising
image of Georgina escaping and disappearing into the unknown I don't
like to think of the rest of that journey.  I tried to breathe through
my mouth and Tristan puffed out dense clouds of Woodbine smoke but it
was still pretty terrible.  Just outside Darrow by I stopped the car
and we made a concerted onslaught of the animal; at the cost of a few
more wounds, including a particularly painful scratch on my nose, we
cornered her and fastened her once more in the Even on the operating
table Georgina had a few tricks left.  We were using ether and oxygen
as anaesthetic and she was particularly adept at holding her breath
while the mask was on her face then returning suddenly to violent life
when we thought she was asleep.  We were both sweating when she finally
went under.

I suppose it was inevitable, too, that she should be a difficult
case.

Ovarohysterectomy in the cat is a fairly straightforward procedure and
nowadays we do innumerable cases uneventfully, but in the thirties'
particularly in country practice, it was infrequently done and
consequently a much larger undertaking.

I personally had my own preferences and aversions in this field.  For
instance, I found thin cats easy to do and fat cats difficult. Georgina
was extremely fat.

When I opened her abdomen an ocean of fat welled up at me, obscuring
everything, and I spent a long nerve-racking period lifting out
portions of bowel or omentum with my forceps, surveying them gloomily
and stuffing them back in again.  A great weariness had began to creep
over me by the time I at last managed to grip the pink ovary between
the metallic jaws and drew forth the slender string of uterus.  After
that it was routine, but I still felt a strange sense of exhaustion as
I inserted the last stitch.

I put the sleeping cat into the box and beckoned to Tristan.

"Come on, let's get her home before she comes round."  I was star ting
along the passage when he put his hand on my arm.

"Jim," he said gravely.

"You "Yes, Triss, of course."

"I'd do any thing for you, Jim.

' I'm sure you would."

He took a deep breath.

"Except one thing.  I'm not going back in that bloody car."

I nodded dully.  I really couldn't blame him.

"That's all right," I said.

"I'll be off, then."

Before leaving I sprinkled the interior with pine-smelling disinfectant
but it didn't make much difference.  In any case my main emotion was
the hope that Georgina wouldn't wake up before I got to Ray ton, and
that was shattered before I had crossed Darrow by market place.  The
hair prickled on the back of my neck as an ominous droning issued from
the box on the rear seat.  It was like the sound of a distant swarm of
bees but I knew what it meant; the anaesthetic was wearing off Once
clear of the town I put my foot on the boards.  This was something I
rarely did because whenever I pushed my vehicle above forty miles an
hour there was such a clamour of protest from engine and body that I
always feared the thing would disintegrate around me.  But at this
moment I didn't care.  Teeth clenched' eyes staring, I hurtled forward,
but I didn't see the lonely strip of tarmac or the stone walls flitting
past; all my attention was focused behind me, where the swarm of bees
was get ting nearer and the tone angrier.

When it developed into a bad-tempered yowling and was accom panied by
the sound of strong claws tearing at cardboard I began to tremble As I
thundered into Ray ton village I glanced behind me.  Georgina was half
out of the box reached back and grasped her scruff and when I stopped
at the gate of Jasmin Cottage I pulled on the brake with one hand and
lifted her on to my lap wit the other.

I sagged in the seat, my breath escaping in a great explosion of
relief; and my stiff features almost bent into a smile as I saw Mrs
Beck pottering in her garden She took Georgina from me with a cry of
joy but gasped in horror when she saw the shaven area and the two
stitches on the cat's flank.

"Oooh, my darlin'!  What 'ave those nasty men been coin' to you?"  She
hugged the animal to her and glared at me.

"She's all right, Mrs Beck, she's fine," I said.

"You can give her a little milk tonight and some solid food tomorrow.
There's nothing to worry about."

She pouted.

"Oh, very well.  And now .  . ."  She gave me a sidelong glance.

"I

suppose you'll want your money?"

"Weller ..."

"Wait there, then.  I'll get it."  She turned and went into the
house.

Standing there, leaning against the reeking car, feeling the sting of
the scratches on my hands and nose and examining the long tear on my
jacket elbow I felt physically and emotionally spent.  All I had done
this afternoon was spay a cat but I had nothing more to offer.

Apathetically I watched the lady coming down the path.  She was
carrying a purse.  At the gate she stopped and faced me.

"Ten shill in's, wasn't it?"

"That's right."

She rummaged in the purse for some time before pulling out a
ten-shilling note which was regarded sadly.

"Oh Georgina, Georgina, you are an expensive pussy," she
soliloquised.

Tentatively I began to extend my hand but she pulled the note away.

"Just a minute, I'm forget tin'.  You 'ave to take the stitches out,
don't you?"

"Yes, in ten days."

She set her lips firmly.

"Well there's plenty of time to pay ye then ye'll be here again."

"Here again .  . .?  But you can't expect .  . ."

"I all us think it's unlucky to pay afore a job's finished," she
said.

"Sum mat terrible might happen to Georgina."

"But... but..."

"Nay, ah've made up me mind," she said.  She replaced the money and
snapped her purse shut with an air of finality before turning towards
the house.

Halfway up the path she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

"Aye, that's what I'll do.  I'll pay ye when ye come back."

Chapter Nineteen ~_ We were ready to march away from Scar borough.  And
it was ironical that we were leaving just when the place was beginning
to smile on us.  `11 In the May sunshine we stood on parade outside the
Grand at 7 a.m. as ~ had done throughout the Yorkshire winter, mostly
in darkness, often with the.

know I'm your friend."

r ~ ~'l`,gl`` ~ ~y `,~, icy rain blowing in our faces.  But now I felt
a pang of regret as I looked over the heads at the wide beautiful bay
stretching beneath its cliffs to the far headland, the sand
clean-washed and inviting, the great blue expanse of sea Shimmering and
glittering and over everything the delicious sea-smell of salt and
seaweed, raising memories of holidays and happy things lost in the
war.

"At ten-shun!"  Flight Sergeant Blacken's bellow rolled over us as we
stiffened in our ranks, every man carrying full kit, our packs braced
with sheets of cardboard to give the sharp, rectangular look, hair cut
short, boots gleaming, buttons shining like gold.  Without our knowing,
No.  ten ITW had moulded us into a smart, disciplined unit, very
different from the shambling, half-baked crew of six months ago.  We
had all passed our exams and were no longer AC2s but Leading Aircraft
men, and as LAC Herriot my wage had rocketed from three shillings to a
dizzying seven and threepence a day.

"Right turn!"  Again the roar.

"By the left qui-ick march!"

Arms high, moving as one, we swung past the front of the Grand for the
last time.  I shot a parting glance at the great building like a
dignified Victorian lady stripped of her finery and I made a resolve. I
would come back some day, when the war was over, and see the Grand
Hotel as it should be.

And I did, too.  Years later, Helen and I sat in deep armchairs in the
lounge where the SPs had barked.  Waiters padded over the thick carpets
with tea and muffins while a string orchestra played selections from
Rose Marie.

And in the evening we dined in the elegant room with its long unbroken
line of window loo king down on the sea.  This room had been the cold
open terrace where I learned to read the Aldis lamp flickering from the
lighthouse, but now we sat in luxurious warmth eating grilled sole and
watching the lights of the harbour and town beginning to wink in the
gathering dusk.

But that was very much in the future as the tramping feet echoed along
Hunt riss Row on the way to the station and the long lines of blue left
the emptying square.  We didn't know where we were going, everything
was uncertain.

Black's Veterinary Dictionary' dug into my back through the layer of
cardboard.

It was an unwieldy article but it reminded me of good days and gave me
hope of more to come.

Chapter Twenty "It's the same the whole world over, it's the poor wot
gets the blame.  It's the rich wot gets the pleasure .  . ."

We were on a 'toughening course', living under canvas in the depths of
Shropshire, and this was one of the occasions when we were all gathered
together - hundreds of sunburned men in a huge marquee waiting to be
addressed by a visiting air commodore Before the great man arrived the
platform was occupied by a lascivious sergeant who was whittling away
the time by leading us in a succession of bawdy ditties accom panied by
gestures.

"It's the rich wot gets the .  . ."  but instead of pleasure, he made a
series of violent pumping movements with his forearm.

I was intrigued by the reaction of the airman on my right.  He was a
slim, pink-faced lad of about nineteen and his lank fair hair fell over
his face as jumped up and down.  He was really throwing himself into
it, bawling out indelicate words, duplicating the sergeant's
gesticulations with maniacal E He was, I had recently learned, the son
of a bishop.

We had been joined on this course by the Oxford University air Squad'
They were a group of superior and delicately nurtured young men and sin
had spent three full days peeling potatoes with them I had come to know
n of them very well.

"Spud bashing' is an unequalled method of becoming familiar with one's
fellow men and as, hour after hour, we filled countless bins with
produce, the barriers crumbled steadily until at the end of three days
we didn't' have many secrets from each other.

The bishop's son had found something hilarious in the idea of a
qualified veterinary surgeon leaving his practice to succour his
country by removing skins from thousands of tubers.  And I, on the
other hand, derived some reward from watching his antics.  He was a
charming and likeable lad but he sei avidly on any thing with the
faintest salacious slant.  They say persons' sons a bit wild when let
off the leash, and I suppose an escapee from a bish~ palace is even
more susceptible to the blandishments of the big world.

I looked at him again.  All round him men were yelling their heads off,
his voice, mouthing the four-letter words with relish, rang above the
rest he followed the actions of the conducting sergeant like a devoted
acolyte.

It was all so different from Darrow by.  My early days in the RAF with
the swearing and uninhibited conversation made me realise, perhaps for
the first time, what kind of a community I had left behind me.  Because
I often think t one of the least permissive societies in the history of
mankind was the agricultural community of rural Yorkshire in the
thirties.  Among the farmers any thing: do with sex or the natural
functions was unmentionable.  .i.

It made my work more difficult because if the animal's ailment had
slightest sexual connotation its owner would refuse to go into details
if Helen or our secretary Miss Harbottle answered the 'phone.

"I want the vet to to and see a cow," was as far as they would go.  _
Today's case was typical and I looked at Mr Hop ps with some
irritation.

Why didn't you say your cow wasn't coming into season?  There's a
injection for that now but I haven't got it with me.  I can't rArrv

my car, you know."  ~ the farmer studied his feet.

"Well, it was a lady on t'phone and I didn't like to teller that
Snowdrop wasn't bull in'."  He look eH lint m~ ~1~;~1~ `~^ you do owt
about it, then?"  - -~ -r ~ t~I~ItIy ~5

T ~ .  `."  .  _ _

I sighed.

"Maybe I can.  Bring me a bucket of hot water and some soap."  ~i As I
lathered my arm I felt a twinge of disappointment.  I'd have liked to t
that new Prolan injection.  But on the other hand there was a certain
interest these rectal examinations.

"Hold her tail, please," I said, and began to work my haorl r~r~r~ll.
~6 anal ring.

We were doing a lot of this lately.  The profession had awakened quite
suddenly to the fact that bovine infertility was no longer an
impenetrable mystery.  We were carrying out more and more of these
examinations, and I say, they had a strange fascination.

Siegfried put it with his usual succinctness one morning.

"James," he said.

"There is more to be learned up a cow's arse than in ma an
encyclopaedia."

And, groping my way into this animal, I could see what he meant.
Through.

the rectal wall I gripped the uterine cervix, then I worked along the
right horn.  It felt perfectly normal, as did the fallopian tube when I
reached it.  In another moment the ovary rested between my fingers like
a walnut; but it was a walnut with a significant bulge and I smiled to
myself.  That swelling was the corpus luteum, the 'yellow body' which
was exerting its influence on the ovary and preventing the initiation
of the normal oestral cycle.

I squeezed gently on the base of the bulge and felt it part from the
ovary and swim off into space.  That was lovely just what was required
and I looked happily along the cow's back at the farmer.

"I think I've put things right, Mr Hop ps.  She should come on within
the next day or two and you can get her served right away."

I withdrew my arm, smeared with filth almost to the shoulder, and began
to swill it with the warm water.  This was the moment when young people
with dewy-eyed ambitions to be veterinary surgeons usually decided to
be lawyers or nurses instead.  A lot of teenagers came round with me to
see practice and it seemed to me that the sooner they witnessed the
realities of the job the better it would be for them.  A morning's
pregnancy diagnoses or something similar had a salutary effect in
sorting out the sheep from the goats.

As I left the farm I had the satisfied feeling that I had really done
something, and a sensation of relief that Mr Hop ps' delicacy hadn't
resulted in an abortive visit.

.f It was strange, but when I returned to the surgery I immediately
encountered another example of the same thing.

Mr Pinker ton, a small holder, was sitting in the office next to Miss
Harbottle's desk.  By his side sat his farm collie.

"Well, what can I do for you, Mr Pinker ton?"  I asked as I closed the
door behind me.

The farmer hesitated.

"It's my dog 'e isn't right."

"What do you mean?  Is he ill?"  I bent down and stroked the shaggy
head and as the dog leaped up in delight his tail began to beat a
booming tom-tom rhythm against the side of the desk.

"Nay nay, he's right enough in 'imself."  The man was clearly ill as
ease.

"Well, what's the trouble?  He looks the picture of health to me."

"Aye, but ah'm a bit worried.  Ye see it's 'is .  . ."  He glanced
furtively towards Miss Harbottle.

"It's'is pencil."

"What d'you say?"

A faint flush mounted in Mr Pinker ton's thin cheeks.  Again he shot a
terrified glance at Miss Harbottle.

"It's 'is ... pencil.  There's sum mat matter with 'is pencil."  He
indicated by the merest twitch of his forefinger somewhere in the
direction of the animal's belly.

I looked.

"I'm sorry, but I can't see any thing unusual."

"Ah, but there is."  The farmer's face twisted in an agony of
embarrassment and he pushed his face close to mine.

"There's sum mat there," he said in a hoarse whisper

"Sum mat com in' from 'is .  . . 'is pencil."

I got down on my knees and had a closer look, and suddenly all became
clear.

"Is that what you mean?"  I pointed to a tiny blob of semen on the end
of the prepuce.

He nodded dumbly, his face a study in woe.

I laughed.

"Well you can stop worrying That's nothing abnormal.  You might call it
an overflow.  He's just a young dog, isn't he?"

"Aye, nob but eighteen months."

"Well, that's it.  He's just too full of the joys.  Plenty of good food
and maybe not a lot of work to do, eh?"

"Aye, he gets good grub.  Nowt but the best.  And you're right I
'aven't much work for him."

"Well, there you are."  I held out a hand.

"Just cut down his diet and see he gets more exercise and this thing
will sort itself out."

Mr Pinker ton stared at me.

"But aren't you goin' to do any thing to 'is .  . .

'is .  . ."  Again he cast an anguished glance at our secretary.

"No, no," I said.

"I assure you there's nothing wrong with his .  . . er .  . .

pencil No local trouble at all."

I could see he was totally unconvinced so I threw in another ploy.

"I tell you; what.  I'll give you some mild sedative tablets for him.
They'll help a bit."

I went through to the dispensary and counted the tablets into a box.
Back in the office I handed them to the farmer with a confident smile,
but his face registered only a deepening misery.  Obviously I hadn't
explained the thing clearly enough and as I led him along the passage
to the front door I talked incessantly, putting the whole business into
simple words which I was sure he would understand.

As he stood on the doorstep gave him a final comforting pat on the
shoulder and though I was almost breathless with my own babbling I
thought it best to sum up the entire oration before he left.

"So there you are," I said with a light laugh.

"Reduce his food, see that he gets plenty of work and exercise and give
him one of the tablets night and morning."

The farmer's mouth dropped until I thought he would burst into tears
then he turned and trailed down the steps into the street.  He took a
couple of indeterminate strides then swung round and his voice rose in
a plaintive wail.

"But Mr Herriot .  . . 'ow about 'is pencil?"

\ ~_ And when little Mr Gilby crashed moaning on the cobbles of his
byre floor, my first thought was that it was unfair that it should
happen to him of all people.

Because the natural delicacy and reticence of the times were embodied
in him to an extreme degree.  Even his physical makeup had something
ethereal about it; nine stones of tiny bones, taut skin with no fat and
a gentle, innocent face, almost child-like despite his fifty years.
Nobody had ever heard Mr Gilby swear or use a vulgar expression; in
fact he was the only farmer I have ever known who talked about cow's
'manure'.

Besides, as a strict methodist he didn't drink or indulge in worldly
pleasures and had never been known to tell a lie.  Altogether he was so
good that I would have regarded him with deep suspicion if he had been
anybody else.  But I had come to know Mr Gilby.  He was a nice little
man, he was as honest as the day.

I would have trusted him with my life.

That was why I was so sad to see him Lying there.  It had happened so
quickly.

We had only just come into the byre and he pointed to a black Angus
Cross cow almost opposite the door.

"That's 'en Got a touch o'cold, I think."  He knew I would want to take
the temperature and grasped the tail before putting one foot across the
channel so that he could slide between the cow and her neighbour.  That
was when it happened; when his legs were wide apart in the worst
possible position In a way I wasn't surprised because that tail had
been swishing bad-temperedly as we came in, and I am always a bit wary
of black cows anyway.  She didn't seem to like our sudden entry and
lashed out with her right hind foot with the speed of light, catching
him with her flinty hoof full in the crutch as his legs were splayed.
He was wearing only frayed, much-washed overall trousers and the
protection was nil.

I winced as the foot went home with an appalling thud, but Mr Gilby
showed no emotion at all.  He dropped as though on the receiving end of
a firing squad and lay motionless on the hard stones, his hands
clutched between his legs.  It was only after several seconds that he
began to moan softly.

As I hurried to his aid I felt it was wrong that I should be witnessing
this disintegration of his modest facade.  The little farmer, I was
sure, would rather have died than be caught in this inelegant position,
grovelling on the floor gripping frantically at an unmentionable area.
I kneeled on the cobbles and patted his shoulder while he fought his
inner battle with his agony.

After a while he felt well enough to sit up and I put my arm around him
and supported him while perspiration bedewed the greenish pallor of his
face.  That was when the embarrassment began to creep in, because
though he had removed his hands from their compromising position he was
clearly deeply ashamed at being caught in a coarse attitude.

I felt strangely helpless.  The little man couldn't relieve his
feelings in the usual way by cursing the animal and fate in general,
nor could I help him to laugh the thing off with a few earthly remarks.
This sort of thing happens now and then in the present day and usually
gives rise to a certain amount of ripe comment, often embracing the
possible effect on the victim's future sex life.

It all helps.

But here in Mr Gilby's byre there was only an uncomfortable silence.
After a time the colour began to return to his cheeks and the little
man struggled slowly to his feet.  He took a couple of deep breaths
then looked at me unhappily.

Obviously he thought he owed me some explanation, even apology, for his
tasteless behaviour.

As the minutes passed the tension rose.  Mr Gilby's mouth twitched once
or twice as though he were about to speak but he seemed unable to find
the words.

At length he appeared to come to a decision.  He cleared his throat,
looked around him carefully then put his lips close to my ear.  He
clarified the whole situation by one hoarsely whispered, deeply
confidential sentence.

"Right in the privates, Mr Herriot."

I referred earlier to the prevailing shyness about the natural
functions and this did indeed give rise to problems.

One slight difficulty which all country vets encounter is that there
comes a time on a long round when they have to urinate.  When I first
came to Yorkshire it seemed the most natural thing in the world for me
to retire to a corner of a cow byre to relieve myself and it was
utterly incomprehensible that anybody of my own sex should find this
embarrassing.  But it soon became obvious that the farmers were
shuffling their feet, loo king pointedly in the opposite direction or
showing other signs of unease.

My attempts to laugh the incident off met with no success.  Jocular
remarks thrown over my shoulder like

"Just wringing out a kidney' or

"This method gives instant relief', were greeted with serious nods and
mutterings of

"Aye .

. .

aye .  . . aye .  . . that's right."  I often had to resort to sneaking
into some deserted Outhouse as soon as I arrived, but very often the
farmer would burst in and catch me in the act and retreat bashfully.

The farmers themselves added to my difficulties by their hospitable
custom of pushing large mugs of tea into my hand at every opportunity.
At times I shrank from causing offence in the buildings and when under
stress took refuge in the open countryside.  But even this was fraught
with peril, because though I always selected a deserted road with the
moors stretching empty to the far horizon the landscape within seconds
invariably became black with cars, all driven by women and all bearing
down on me at high speed.

I recall with quaking shame one occasion when a carload of middle-aged
Spinsters stopped and questioned me at length about the quickest way to
Darrow by while a dark pool spread accusingly around my feet.

But I suppose there are exceptions to every rule, and there was one
time when the reaction.  to my predicament was different.  I had
consumed my usual quota of tea and on top of this one kind chap had
opened a couple of pint bottles of brown ale after a sweating session
castrating calves in a tin-roofed shed.  E the time I arrived at old Mr
Ainsley's I was in dire straits.

But there was nobody around.  I tiptoed into the byre, slunk into a
corner and blessedly opened the flood gates.  I was in mid flow when I
heard the clatter heavy boots on the cobbles behind me.  The old man,
shoulders hunched, hands

in pockets, was standing there watching me.

Oh dear, it had happened again, but I wasn't going to stop now.  With a
sick smile I looked over my shoulder at him.

"Sorry to make free with your cow house like this, Mr Ainsley," I said
in wh, I hoped was a light, bantering tone.

"But I had no option.  When I have to I just have to go.  Maybe I have
a weak bladder or something."

The old man regarded me impassively for a few moments then he nodded h
head several times.

"Aye, ah knew, ah knaw,"he said gloomily.

"You're like me, Mr Herriot.  Ah's all us pis sin'.

Chapter Twenty-one Little pictures kept floating up into my mind.
Memories from the very early days at Skeldale House.  Before the RAF,
before Helen.... Siegfried and I were at breakfast in the big
dining-room.  My colleague looked up from a letter he was reading. '.

"James, do you remember Stewie Brannan?"  .  .

I smiled.

"I could hardly forget.  That was quite a day at Braw ton races."  I
would always carry a vivid recollection of Siegfried's amiable college
chum with me "Yes .  . . yes, it was."  Siegfried nodded briefly.

"Well I've got a letter from him here.  He's got six kids now, and
though he doesn't complain, I don't think life is exactly a picnic
working in a dump like Hens field.  Especially when he knoc~ a bare
living out of it."  He pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his ear.

"You know, James, it would be rather nice if he could have a break.
Would you be willing to go through there and run his practice for a
couple of weeks so that he could take his family on holiday?"

"Certainly.  Glad to.  But you'll be a bit pushed here on your own,
won't you?"] Siegfried waved a hand.

"It'll do me good.  Anyway it's the quiet time for us: I'll write back
today."

Stewie grasped the opportunity eagerly and within a few days I was on
the road to Hens field.  Yorkshire is the biggest county in England and
it must be the.

most varied.  I could hardly believe it when, less than two hours after
leaving the clean grassy fells and crystal air of Darrow by, I saw the
forest of factory.

chimneys sprouting from the brown pall of grime.

This was the industrial West Riding and I drove past mills as dark and
satanic as any I had dreamed of, past long rows of dreary featureless
houses where the workers lived.  Everything was black; houses, mills,
walls, trees, eve."

: the surrounding hillsides, smeared and soiled from the smoke which
drifted across the town from a hundred belching stacks.

Stewie's surgery was right in the heart of it, a gloomy edifice in a
terrace of sooty Stone.  As I rang the bell I read the painted board:
"Stewart Brannan ~RCVS, Veterinary Surgeon and Canine Specialist."  I
was wondering what the Royal College would think about the last part
when the door opened and my colleague stood before me.

He seemed to fill the entrance.  If any thing he was fatter than
before, but that was the only difference.  Since it was August I
couldn't expect him to be wearing his navy nap overcoat, but otherwise
he was as I remembered him in Darrow by; the big, meaty, good-natured
face, the greasy black hair slicked across the brow which always seemed
to carry a gentle dew of perspiration.

He reached out, grabbed my hand and pulled me delightedly through the
doorway.

"Jim!  Great to see you!"  He put an arm round my shoulders as we
crossed a dark hallway.

"It's good of you to help me out like this.  The family are thrilled -
they're all in the town shopping for the holiday.  We've got fixed up
in a flat at Black pool."  His permanent smile widened.

We went into a room at the back where a rickety kitchen-type table
stood on brown linoleum.  I saw a sink in one corner, a few shelves
with bottles and a white-painted cupboard.  The atmosphere held a faint
redolence of carbolic and cat's urine.

"This is where I see the animals," Stewie said contentedly.  He looked
at his watch.

"Twenty past five I have a surgery at five thirty.  I'll show you round
till then."

It didn't take long because there wasn't much to see.  I knew there was
a more fashionable veterinary firm in Hens field and that Stewie made
his living from the poor people of the town; the whole set-up was an
illustration of practice on a shoestring.  There didn't seem to be more
than one of any thing one straight suture needle, one curved needle,
one pair of scissors, one syringe.  There was a sparse selection of
drugs and an extraordinary array of dispensing bottles and jars.  These
bottles were of many strange shapes weird things which I had never seen
in a dispensary before.

Stewie seemed to read my thoughts.

"It's nothing great, Jim.  I haven't a smart practice and I don't make
a lot, but we manage to clear the housekeeping and that's the main
thing."

The phrase was familiar.

"Clear the housekeeping'- that was how he had put it when I first met
him at Braw ton races.  It seemed to be the lodestar of his life.

The end of the room was cut off by a curtain which my colleague drew to
one side.

"This is what you might call the waiting room."  He smiled as I looked
in some surprise at half a dozen wooden chairs arranged round the three
walls.

"No high-powered stuff, Jim, no queues into the streets, but we get
by."

Some of Stewie's clients were already filing in; two little girls with
a black dog, a cloth-capped old man with a terrier on a string, a
teenage boy carrying a rabbit in a basket.

"Right," the big man said.

"We'll get started."  He pulled on a white coat, opened the curtain and
said,

"First, please."

The little girls put their dog on the table.  He was a long-tailed
mixture of breeds and he stood trembling with fear, rolling his eyes
apprehensively at the white coat.

"All right, lad," Stewie murmured;"I'm not going to hurt you."  He
stroked and patted the quivering head before turning to the girls.

"What's the trouble, then?"

"It's'is leg, 'e's fame," one of them replied.

As if in confirmation the little dog raised a fore leg and held it up
with pitiful expression.  Stewie engulfed the limb with his great hand
and palpatated it with the utmost care.  And it struck me immediately
the gentleness of the shambling bear of a man.

"There's nothing broken," he said.

"He's just sprained his shoulder.  Try to rest it for a few days and
rub this in night and morning."  5 He poured some whitish liniment from
a winchester bottle into one of odd-shaped bottles and handed it
over.

One of the little girls held out her hand and unclasped her fingers to
reveal.

a shilling in her palm.  ,] "Thanks," said Stewie without surprise.

"Goodbye."

He saw several other cases, then as he was on his way to the curtain t'
grubby urchins appeared through the door at the other end of the room.
Th, carried a clothes basket containing a widely varied assortment of
glassware.

~ Stewie bent over the basket, lifting out HP sauce bottles, pickle
jars, ketchup .

containers and examining them with the air of a connoisseur.  At length
appeared to come to a decision.

"Threepence," he said.

"Sixpence," said the urchins in unison.

"Fourpence," grunted Stewie.

"Sixpence," chorused the urchins.

"Five pence," my colleague muttered doggedly.

"Sixpence!"  There was a hint of triumph in the cry.

Stewie sighed.

"Go on then."  He passed over the coin and began to stack the bottles
under the sink.

"I just scrape off the labels and give them a good boil up, Jim."  ~<
"I see."

"It's a big saving."

"Yes, of course."  The mystery of the strangely shaped dispensing
bottles was suddenly resolved.  . r It was six thirty when the last
client came through the curtain.  I had watched .

Stewie examining each animal carefully, taking his time and treating
their :.j conditions ably within the confines of his limited resources.
His charges were all around a shilling to two shillings and it was easy
to see why he only just cleared the housekeeping.

One other thing I noticed; the people all seemed to like him.  He had
no 'from' but he was kind and concerned.  I felt there was a lesson
there The last arrival was a stout lady with a prim manner and a very
correct manner of speech "My dog was bit last week," she announced,
'and I'm afraid the wound is goin' antiseptic."  -~ "Ah yes."  Stewie
nodded gravely.  The banana fingers explored the tumefied area on the
animal's neck with a gossamer touch.

"It's quite nasty, really.  H. could have an abscess there if we're not
careful."  ; He took a long time over clipping the hair away, swabbing
out the deep puncture with peroxide of hydrogen.  Then he puffed in
some dusting powder applied a pad of cotton wool and secured it with a
bandage.  He followed with an antistaphylococcal injection and finally
handed over a sauce bottle filled the rim with acriRavine solution.

"Use as directed on the label," he said, then stood back as the lady
opened her .  , ~_ purse expectantly.

A long inward struggle showed in the occasional twitches of his cheeks
and flickerings of his eyelids but finally he squared his shoulders.

"That," he said resolutely, 'will be three and sixpence."

; ~j l & ~ ~ I ~ It was a vast fee by Stewie's standards, but probably
the minimum in other veterinary establishments, and I couldn't see how
he could make any profit from the transaction as the lady left, a
sudden uproar broke out within the house.  Stewie gave me a seraphic
smile.

"That'll be Meg and the kids.  Come and meet them."

We went out to the hall and into an incredible hubbub.  Children
shouted, screamed and laughed, spades and pails clattered, a large ball
thumped from wall to wall and above it all a baby bawled
relentlessly.

Stewie moved into the mob and extracted a small woman.

"This," he murmured with quiet pride, 'is my wife."  He gazed at her
like a small boy admiring a film star.

"How do you do," I said.

Meg Brannan took my hand and smiled.  Any glamour about her existed
only in her husband's eyes.  A ravaged prettiness still remained but
her face bore the traces of some tough years.  I could imagine her life
of mother, housewife, cook, secretary, receptionist and animal nurse.

"Oh, Mr Herriot, it is good of you and Mr Far non to help us out like
this.

We're so loo king forward to going away."  Her eyes held a faintly
desperate gleam but they were kind.

I shrugged.

"Oh it's a pleasure, Mrs Brannan.  I'm sure I'll enjoy it and I hope
you all have a marvellous holiday."  I really meant it she looked as
though she needed one.

I was introduced to the children but I never really got them sorted
out.  Apart from the baby, who yelled indefatigably from leather lungs,
I think there were three little boys and two little girls, but I
couldn't be sure they moved around too quickly.

The only time they were silent was for a brief period at supper when
Meg fed them and us from a kind of cauldron in which floated chunks of
mutton, potatoes and carrots.  It was very good, too, and was followed
by a vast blancmange with jam on top.

The tumult broke out again very soon as the youngsters raced through
their meal and began to play in the room.  One thing I found
disconcerting was that the two biggest boys kept throwing a large, new,
painted ball from one to the other across the table as we ate.  The
parents said nothing about it Meg, I felt, because she had stopped
caring, and Stewie because he never had cared.

Only once when the ball whizzed past my nose and almost carried away a
poised spoonful of blancmange did their father remonstrate.

"Now then, now then," he murmured absently, and the throwing was
re-sited more towards the middle of the table.

Next morning I saw the family off.  Stewie had changed his dilapidated
Austin Seven for a large rust-encrusted Ford V Eight.  Seated at the
wheel he waved and beamed through the cracked side windows with serene
contentment.  Meg, by his side, managed a harassed smile and at the
other windows an assortment of dogs and children fought for a vantage
point.  As the car moved away a pram, several suitcases and a cot
swayed perilously on the roof, the children yelled, the dogs barked,
the baby bawled, then they were gone.

As I re-entered the house the unaccustomed silence settled around me,
and with the silence came a faint unease.  I had to look after this
practice for two weeks and the memory of the thinly furnished surgery
was not reassuring.  I just didn't have the tools to tackle any major
problem.

But it was easy to comfort myself.  From what I had seen this wasn't
the sort of place where dramatic things happened.  Stewie had once said
he made most of his living by castrating tom cats and I supposed if you
threw in a few ear' cankers and minor ailments that would be about
it.

The morning surgery seemed to confirm this impression; a few humble fol
.

Ied in nondescript pets with mild conditions and I happily dispensed a
series ol Bovril bottles and meat paste jars containing Stewie's
limited drug store.

I had only one difficulty and that was with the table, which kept
collapsing when I lifted the animals on to it.  For some obscure reason
it had folding leg' held by metal struts underneath and these were apt
to disengage at crucial moments, causing the patient to slide abruptly
to the floor.  After a while I go the hang of the thing and kept one
leg jammed against the struts throughout the' examination.  ' It was
about 10.30a.m. when I finally parted the curtains and found the
waiting room empty and only the distinctive cat-dog smell lingering on
the air As I locked the door it struck me that I had very little to do
till the afternoon surgery.  At Darrow by I would have been dashing out
to start the long day" driving round the countryside, but here almost
all the work was done at the practice house.  .

I was wondering how I would put the time in after the single outside
visit on ~ the book when the door bell rang.  Then it rang again
followed by a frantic ~q pounding on the wood.  I hurried through the
curtain and turned the handle.  A well dressed young couple stood on
the step.  The man held a Golden Labrador in his arms and behind them a
caravan drawn by a large gleaming car stood by the kerb.

"Are you the vet?"  the girl gasped.  She was in her twenties, auburn
haired, I extremely attractive, but her eyes were terrified.

I nodded.

"Yes yes, I am.  What's the trouble?"

"It's our dog."  The young man's voice was hoarse, his face deathly
pale.

"A

car hit him."  .

I glanced over the motionless yellow form.

"Is he badly hurt?"

There were a few moments of silence then the girl spoke almost in a
whisper.

"Look at his hind leg."

I stepped forward and as I peered into the crook of the man's arm a
freezing:: wave drove through me.  The limb was hanging off at the
hock.  Not fractured but snapped through the joint and dangling from
what looked like a mere shred of skin.  In the bright morning sunshine
the white ends of ankle hon~ ~iitt~r-A with a sickening lustre.

It took me a long time before ~ came out of my first shock and found
myself staring stupidly at the animal.  And when I spoke the voice
didn't sound like my own.

"Bring him in," I muttered, and as I led the way back through the
odorous waiting room the realisation burst on me that I had been wrong
when I thought that nothing ever happened here.

\ .\ Chapter Twenty-two I held the curtains apart as the young man
staggered in and placed his burden on the table.

Now I could see the whole thing; the typical signs of a road accident;
the dirt driven savagely into the glossy gold of the coat, the multiple
abrasions.  But that mangled leg wasn't typical.  I had never seen any
thing like it before.

I dragged my eyes round to the girl.

"How did it happen?"

"Oh, just in a flash."  The tears welled in her eyes.

"We are on a caravanning holiday We had no intention of staying in Hens
field' - (I could understand that) - 'but we stopped for a newspaper,
Kim jumped out of the car and that was it."

I looked at the big dog stretched motionless on the table.  I reached
out a hand and gently ran my fingers over the noble outlines of the
head.

"Poor old lad," I murmured and for an instant the beautiful hazel eyes
turned to me and the tail thumped briefly against the wood.

"Where have you come from?"  I asked.

"Surrey," the young man replied.  He looked rather like the prosperous
young stockbroker that the name conjured up.

I rubbed my chin.

"I see...."  A way of escape shone for a moment in the tunnel.

"Perhaps if I patch him up you could get him back to your own vet
there."

He looked at his wife for a moment then back at me.

"And what would they do there?  Amputate his leg?"

I was silent.  If an animal in this condition arrived in one of those
high powered southern practices with plenty of skilled assistance and
full surgical equipment that's what they probably would do.  It would
be the only sensible thing.

The girl broke in on my thoughts.

"Anyway, if it's at all possible to save his leg something has to be
done right now.  Isn't that so?"  She gazed at me appealingly.

"Yes," I said huskily.

"That's right."  I began to examine the dog.  The abrasions on the skin
were trivial.  He was shocked but his mucous membranes were pink enough
to suggest that there was no internal haemorrhage.  He had escaped
serious injury except for that terrible leg.

I stared at it intently, appalled by the smooth glistening articular
surfaces of the tibio tarsal joint.  There was something obscene in its
exposure in a living animal It was as though the hock has been broken
open by brutal inquisitive hands.

I began a feverish search of the premises, pulling open drawers,
cupboards, Opening tins and boxes.  My heart leaped at each little
find; a jar of catgut in Spirit, a packet of lint, a sprinkler tin of
iodoform, and treasure trove indeed - a bottle of barbiturate
anaesthetic.

most of all I needed antibiotics, but it was pointless loo king for
those because they hadn't been discovered yet.  But I did hope
fervently for just an ounce or two of sulphanilamide, and there I was
disappointed, because Stewie's menage didn't stretch to that.  It was
when I came upon the box of plaster of paris bandages that something
seemed to click.

At that time in the late thirties the Spanish civil war was vivid in
people' minds.  In the chaos of the later stages there had been no
proper medicament to treat the terrible wounds.  They had often been
encased in plaster and left in the grim phrase, to 'stew in their own
juice'.  Sometimes the results we' surprisingly good.

I grabbed the bandages.  I knew what I was going to do.  Gripped by a
firm determination I inserted the needle into the radial vein and
slowly injected the anaesthetic.  Kim blinked, yawned lazily and went
to sleep.  I quickly laid out my meagre armoury then began to shift the
dog into a better position.  But I ha forgotten about the table and as
I lifted the hind quarters the whole thing gave, way and the dog
slithered helplessly towards the floor.

"Catch him!"  At my frantic shout the man grabbed the inert form, then
reinserted the slots in their holes and got the wooden surface back on
the level :~ "Put your leg under there," I gasped, then turned to the
girl.

"And would you :.] please do the same at the other end.  This table
mustn't fall over once I g ~ started."  3 Silently they complied and as
I looked at them, each with a leg jammed again the underside, I felt a
deep sense of shame.  What sort of place did they thin .~ this was? :~]
But for a long time after I forgot everything.  First I put the joint
back i place, slipping the ridges of the tibial-tarsal trochlea into
the grooves at t i distal end of the tibia as I had done so often in
the anatomy lab.  at college.

An I noticed with a flicker of hope that some of the ligaments were
still intact and most important.  that a few good blood vessels still
ran down to the lower Da of the limb.

I never said a word as I cleaned and disinfected the area, puffed
iodoform into every crevice and began to stitch.  I stitched
interminably, pulling together.

shattered tendons, torn joint capsule and fascia.  It was a warm
morning and.

the sun beat on the surgery window the sweat broke out on my forehead.
By the time I had sutured the skin a little river was flowing down my
nose and dripping from the tip.  Next, more iodoform, then the lint and
finally two of the plaster' bandages, making a firm cast above the hock
down over the foot.

I straightened up and faced the young couple.  They had never moved
from' their uncomfortable postures as they held the table upright but I
gazed at the' as though seeing them for the first time.  .

I mopped my brow and drew a long breath.

"Well, that's it.  I'd be incline to leave it as it is for a week, then
wherever you are let a vet have a look at il They were silent for a
moment then the girl spoke.

"I would rather you see' it yourself."  Her husband nodded agreement.
4; "Really?"  I was amazed.  I had thought they would never want to see
me, my smelly waiting room or my collapsible table again.

"Yes, of course we would," the man said.

"You have taken such pains over.

him.  Whatever happens we are deeply grateful to you, Mr Brannan."  i
"Oh, I'm not Mr Brannan, he's on holiday.  I'm his lo cum, my name, Her
riot."

He held out his hand.

"Well thank you again, Mr Herriot.  I am Peter Gilla' and this is my
wife.  Marjorie."  ~ We shook hands and he took the dog in his arms and
went out to the car.1 For the next few days I couldn't keep Kim's leg
out of my mind.  At timff -~It I was crazy trying to salvage a limb
that was joined to the dog only by ~ of skin.  I had never met any
thing remotely like it before and in unoccupi' >~ 5~s that hock joint
with all its imponderables would float across my vision' ~.

There were plenty of these moments because Stewie's was a restful
practice.

Apart from the three daily surgeries there was little activity, and in
particular the uncomfortable pre-breakfast call so common in Darrow by
was unknown The Brannans had left the house and me in the care of Mrs
Holroyd, an elderly widow of raddled appearance who slouched around in
a flowered overall dOwn which ash cascaded from a permanently dangling
cigarette.  She wasn't a good riser but she soon had me trained,
because after a few mornings when I couldn't find her I began to
prepare my own breakfast and that was how it stayed.

However, at other times she looked after me very well.  She was what
you might call a good rough cook and pushed large tasty meals at me
regularly with a 'there yare, luv," watching me impassively till I
started to eat.  The only thing that disturbed me was the long
trembling finger of ash which always hung over my food from the
cigarette that was part of her.

Mrs Holroyd also took telephone messages when I wasn't around There
weren't many outside visits but two have stuck in my memory.

The first was when I looked on the pad and read,

"Go to Mr Pimmarov to see bulldog," in Mrs Holroyd's careful back
sloped script.

"Pimmarov?"  I asked her.

"Was he a Russian gentleman?"

"Dunno, lov, never asked 'im."

"Well did he sound foreign?  I mean did he speak broken English?"

"Nay, luv, Yorkshire as me, 'e were."

"Ah well, never mind, Mrs Holroyd.  What's his address?"

She gave me a surprised look.

"How should ah know?  He never said."

"But ... but Mrs Holroyd.  How can I visit him when I don't know where
he lives?"

"Well you'll know best about that, luv."

I was baffled.

"But he must have told you."

"Now then, young man, Pimmarov was all 'e told me.  Said you would
know."

She stuck out her chin, her cigarette quivered and she regarded me
stonily.

Maybe she had had similar sessions with Stewie, but she left me in no
doubt that the interview was over.

During the day I tried to think about it but the knowledge that
somewhere in the neighbour hood there was an ailing bulldog that I
could not succour was worrying I just hoped it was nothing fatal.

A phone call at 7 p.m. resolved my fears.

"Is that t'vet?"  The voice was gruff and grumpy.

"Yes ... speaking.

"Well, ah've been wait in' all day for tha.  When are you com in' to
see ma flip pin' bulldog?"

A light glimmered.  But still .. . that accent .  . . no suggestion of
the Kremlin ... not a hint of the Steppes.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," I gabbled.

"I'm afraid there's been a little misunderstanding I'm doing Mr
Brannan's work and I don't know the district.  I do hope your dog isn't
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
between them, and it was an extra stab to realise afresh what a
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 stay 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.

"But I'll tell you this, I've had enough!  So it straight, once and for
all no more of this nonsense.  Cut it out!"

I felt my heart thudding as I went down to see the dogs for the next
race.

I examined the five animals the owners and kennel lads fixed me with a
flinty stare as though I were some strange freak.  My pulse began to
slow down when I found there were no full stomachs this time and I
glanced back in relief along the line.  I was about to walk away when I
noticed that number one looked: little unusual.  I went back and bent
over him, trying to decide what it was ate' him that had caught my
attention.  Then I realised what it was he fool sleepy.  The head was
hanging slightly and he had an air of apathy.

I lifted his chin and looked into his eyes.  The pupils were dilated
and every.

now and then there was a faint twitch of nystagmus.  There was
absolutely doubt about it he had received some kind of sedative.  He
had been doped.  .

The men in the paddock was very still as I stood upright.  For a few
moments I gazed through the wire netting at the brightly lit green
oval, feeling the nil air cold on my cheeks.  George was still at it on
the loudspeakers.

"Oh Mr Wu," he trilled.

"What can I do?"

Well I knew what I had to do, anyway.  I tapped the dog on the back.

"This one's out," I said.

I didn't wait for the announcement and was half way up the steps to
manager's office before I heard the request for my presence blared
across I stadium.

When I opened the door I half expected Mr Coker to rush at me and
attack me and I was surprised when I found him sitting at his desk, his
head burl in his hands.  I stood there on the carpet for some time
before he raised a ghastly countenance to me.

"Is it true?"  he whispered despairingly.

"Have you done it again?"

I nodded.

"Afraid so."

His lips trembled but he didn't say any thing, and after a brief.
disbelieving scrutiny he sank his head in his hands again.

I waited for a minute or two but when he stayed like that, quite
motionless I realised that the audience was at an end and took my
leave.

I found no fault with the dogs for the next race and as I left the
paddock unaccustomed peace settled around me.  I couldn't understand it
when I heard the loudspeaker again- "Will the vet please report .  . ."
But this time it was the paddock and I wondered if a dog had been
injured.  Anyway, it would b.

relief to do a bit of real vet ting for a change.  : But when I arrived
there were no animals to be seen; only two men cradling a fat com
panion in their arms.  : "What's this?"  I asked one of them.

"Ambrose 'ere fell down the steps in the stand and skinned 'is knee."

r I stared at him

"But I'm a vet, not a doctor."

"Ain't no doctor on the track," the man mumbled.

"We reckoned you could patch 'im up."

Ah well, it was a funny night.

"Put him over on that beech," I said.

I rolled up the trouser to reveal a rather revolting fat dimpled knee.
Ambrose emitted a hollow groan as I touched a very minor abrasion on
the patella.

"It's nothing much," I said.

"You've just knocked a bit of skin off."

Ambrose looked at me tremblingly.

"Aye, but it could go t'wrong way, couldn't it?  I don't want no blood
poison in'."

"All right, I'll put something on it."  I looked inside Stewie's
medical bag.

The selection was limited but I found some tincture of iodine and I
poured a little on a pad of cotton wool and dabbed the wound.

Ambrose gave a shrill yelp.

"Bloody 'elf, that 'urts!  What are you coin' to me?"  His foot jerked
up and rapped me sharply on the elbow.

Even my human patients kicked me, it seemed.  I smiled reassuringly.

"Don't worry, it won't sting for long.  I'll put a bandage on now."

I bound up the knee, rolled down the trouser and patted the fat man's
shoulder.

"There you are good as new."

He got off the bench, nodded, then grimacing painfully, prepared to
leave.

But an afterthought appeared to strike him and he pulled a handful of
change from his pocket.  He rummaged among it with a forefinger before
selecting a coin which he pressed into my palm.

"There yare," he said.

I looked at the coin.  It was a sixpence, the fee for my only piece of
doctoring of my own species.  I stared stupidly at it for a long time
and when I finally looked up with the half-formed idea of throwing
Ambrose's honorarium back at his head the man was limping into the
crowd and was soon lost to sight.

Back in the bar I was gazing apathetically through the glass at the
dogs parading round the track when I felt a hand on my arm.  I turned
and recognised a man I had spotted earlier in the evening He was one of
a group of three men and three women, the men dark, tight-suited,
foreign-loo king, the women loud and over-dressed.  There was something
sinister about them and I remembered thinking they could have passed
without question as members of the Mafia.

The man put his face close to mine and I had a brief impression of
black, darting eyes and a predatory smile.

"Is number three fit?"  he whispered.

I couldn't understand the question.  He seemed to know I was the vet
and surely it was obvious that if I had passed the dog I considered him
fit.

"Yes," I replied.

"Yes, he is."

The man nodded vigorously and gave me a knowing glance from hooded
eyes.

He returned and held a short, intimate conversation with his friends,
then they all turned and looked over at me approvingly.

I was bewildered, then it struck me that they may have thought I was
giving them an inside tip.  To this day I am not really sure but I
think that was it because when number three finished nowhere in the
race their attitude changed dramatically and they flashed me some black
glares which made them look more like the Mafia than ever.

Anyway I had no more trouble down at the paddock for the rest of the
evening No more dogs to take out, which was just as well, because I had
made enough enemies for one night.

After the last race I looked around the long bar.  Most of the tables
were occupied by people having a final drink, but I noticed an empty
one and sank wearily into a chair.  Stewie had asked me to stay for
half an hour after the finish to make sure all the dogs got away safely
and I would stick to my bargain even though what I wanted most in the
world was to get away from here an, never come back.

George was still in splendid voice on the loudspeakers,

"I always get to be by half past nine," he warbled, and I felt strongly
that he had a point there.

Along the bar counter were assembled most of the people with whom I ha,
clashed; Mr Coker and other officials and dog owners.  There was a lot
of nudging and whispering and I didn't have to be told the subject of
their discussion.  The Mafia, too, were doing their bit with fierce
side glances and could almost feel the waves of antagonism beating
against me.

My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a bookie and his
clerk The bookie dropped into a chair opposite me and tipped out a huge
leather bag on to the table.  I had never seen so much money in my
life.  I peered at the man over a mountain of fivers and pounds and
ten-shilling notes while little stream and tributaries of coins ran
down its flanks.

The two of them began a methodical stacking and counting of the loot
while I watched hypnotically.  They had eroded the mountain to about
half its height when the bookie caught my eye.  Maybe he thought I
looked envious or poverty-stricken or just miserable because he put his
finger behind a stray half crown and flicked it expertly across the
smooth surface in my direction.

"Get yourself a drink, son, "he said.

It was the second time I had been offered money during the last hour
and I was almost as much taken aback as the first time.  The bookie
looked at me expressionlessly for a moment then he grinned.  He had an
attractively ugly, good-natured face that I liked instinctively and
suddenly I felt grateful to him, not for the money but for the sight of
a friendly face.  It was the only one I had seen all evening

I smiled back.

"Thanks," I said.  I lifted the half crown and went over to the bar.

I awoke next morning with the knowledge that it was my last day at Hens
field.

Stewie was due back at lunch time.

When I parted the now familiar curtains at the morning surgery I still
felt a vague depression, a hangover from my unhappy night at the dog
track.

But when I looked into the waiting room my mood lightened
immediately.

There was only one animal among the odd assortment of chairs but that
animal was Kim, massive, golden and beautiful, sitting between his
owners, and when he saw me he sprang up with swishing tail and laughing
mouth.

There was none of the smell which had horrified me before but as I
looked at the dog I could sniff something else the sweet, sweet scent
of success.

Because he was touching the ground with that leg; not putting any
weight on it but definitely dotting it down as he capered around me.

In an instant I was back in my world again and Mr Coker and the events
of last night were but the dissolving mists of a bad dream.

I could hardly wait to get started.

"Get him on the table," I cried, then began to laugh as the Gillards
automatically pushed their legs against the collapsible struts.  They
knew the drill now.

I had to restrain myself from doing a dance of joy when I got the
plaster off.

There was a bit of discharge but when I cleaned it away I found
healthy.

granulation tissue everywhere.  Pink new flesh binding the shattered
joint together, smoothing over and hiding the original mutilation.

"Is his leg safe now?"  Marjorie Gillard asked softly.

I looked at her and smiled.

"Yes, it is.  There's no doubt about it now."

rubbed my hand under the big dog's chin and the tail beat ecstatically
on the wood.

"He'll probably have a stiff joint but that won't matter, will it?"

~ , I applied the last of Stewie's bandages then we hoisted Kim off the
table.

~Well, that's it," I said.

"Take him to your own vet in another fortnight.

After that I don't think he'll need a bandage at all."

The Gillards left on their journey back to the south and a couple of
hours later Stewie and his family returned.  The children were very
brown, even the baby.  still bawling resolutely, had a fine tan.  The
skin had peeled off Meg's nose but she looked wonderfully relaxed.
Stewie, in open necked shirt and with a face like a boiled lobster,
seemed to have put on weight.

~That holiday saved our lives, Jim," he said.

"I can't thank you enough, and please tell Siegfried how grateful we
are."  He looked fondly at his turbulent brood flooding through the
house, then as an afterthought he turned to me.

"Is everything all right in the practice?"

"Yes, Stewie, it is.  I had my ups and downs of course."

He laughed.

"Don't we all."

"We certainly do, but everything's fine now."

And everything did seem fine as I drove away from the smoke.  I watched
the houses thin and fall away behind me till the whole world opened out
clean and free and I saw the green line of the fells rising over Darrow
by.

I suppose we all tend to remember the good things but as it turned out
I had no option.  The following Christmas I had a letter from the
Gillards with a packet of snapshots showing a big golden dog clearing a
gate, leaping high for a ball, strutting proudly with a stick in his
mouth.  There was hardly any stiffness in the leg, they said; he was
perfectly sound.

So even now when I think of Hens field the thing I remember best is
Kim.

Chapter Twenty-four There was a lot of shouting in the RAF.  The NCOs
always seemed to be shouting at me or at somebody else and a lot of
them had impressively powerful voices But for sheer volume I don't
think any of them could beat Len Hamp son.

I was on the way to Len's farm and on an impulse I pulled up the car
and leaned for a moment on the wheel.  It was a hot still day in late
summer and this was one of the softer corners of the Dales, sheltered
by the enclosing fells from the harsh winds which shrivelled all but
the heather and the tough moorland grass.

Here, great trees, oak, elm and sycamore in full rich leaf, stood in
gentle majesty in the green dips and hollows, their branches quite
still in the windless air.

In all the grassy miles around me I could see no movement, nor could I
hear any thing except the fleeting hum of a bee and the distant
bleating of a sheep.

Through the open window drifted the scents of summer; warm grass,
clover and the sweetness of hidden Rowers.  But in the car they had to
compete with the all-pervading smell of cow.  I had spent the last hour
injecting fifty wild cattle and I sat there in soiled breeches and
sweat-soaked shirt loo king out sleepily at the tranquil landscape.

I opened the door and Sam jumped out and trotted into a nearby wood.  I
followed him into the cool shade, into the damp secret fragrance of
pine needles ooo vers Ivlten'r~y and fallen leaves which came from the
dark heart of the crowding boles.  From somewhere in the branches high
above I could hear that most soothing of sounds the cooing of a wood
pigeon.

Then, although the farm was two fields away, I heard Len Hamp son's
voice He wasn't calling the cattle home or any thing like that.  He was
just conversing; with his family as he always did in a long tireless
shout.

I drove on to the farm and he opened the gate to let me into the
yard.

"Good morning Mr Hamp son," I said.

NOW THEN, MR HER RIOT," he bawled.

"ITS A GRAND MORN IN .

The blast of sound drove me back a step but his three sons smiled
contented No doubt they were used to it.

I stayed at a safe distance.

"You want me to see a pig,"

AYE, A GOOD BACON PIG.  GONE RIGHT OFF.  IT HASN"T ATE NOWT FOR TWO

DAys We went into the pig pen and it was easy to pick out my patient.
Most of the big white occupants careered around at the sight of a
stranger, but one of them stood quietly in a corner.

O ,...

It isn't often a pig will stand unresisting as you take its temperature
but this one never stirred as I slipped the thermometer into its
rectum.  There was only a slight fever but the animal had the look of
doom about it; back slightly arch unwilling to move, eyes withdrawn and
anxious.

I looked up at Len Hamp son's red-faced bulk leaning over the wall of
pen.

"Did this start suddenly or gradually?"  I asked.

"RIGHT SUDDEN!"  In the confined space the full throated yell was
deafening HE WERE AS RICHT AS NINE PENCE ON MONDAY NIgHT AND LIKE THIS
ON TUEsday

MORN IN .

I felt my way over the pig's abdomen.  The musculature was tense a
board like and the abdominal contents were difficult to palpate because
of the but the whole area was tender to the touch.

"I've seen them like this before," I said.

"This pig has a ruptured bowel.  TIT do it when they are fighting or
jostling each other, especially when they are i after a meal."

WHAT"S COIN' TO APPEN THEN?"

"Well, the food material has leaked into the abdomen, causing
peritonitis.  I opened up pigs like this and they are a mass of
adhesions the abdominal organs all growing together.  I'm afraid the
chances of recovery are very small He took off his cap, scratched his
bald head and replaced the tattered headgear THAT"S A BUCKER.  COOD PIg
AN ALL.  IS IT OPELESS?  He still gave tongue at top of his voice
despite his disappointment.

"Yes, I'm afraid it's pretty hopeless.  They usually eat very little
and just waste away.  It would really be best-to slaughter him."

NAY AH DON T LIKE THAT MUCH!  AH ALL US LIKE TO AVE A gO.  ISN T
THeir

SUM MAT WE CAN DO?  WHERE THERE S LIFE THERE S OPE, THA KNAWS.

I smiled.

"I suppose there's always some hope, Mr Hamp son."

"WELL THEN, LETS gET ON.  LETS TRY!

"All right."  I shrugged.

"He's not really in acute pain more discomfort-I suppose there's no
harm in treating him.  I'll leave you a course of powder' As I pushed
my way from the pen I couldn't help noticing the superb sl~ condition
of the other pigs.

"My word," I said.

"These pigs are in grand fettle.  I've never seen a better I You must
feed them well."

It was a mistake.  Enthusiasm added many decibels to his volume.

Aye!  hP hr~llOWP~ YOT ~ VF ~OT TO ~TVF RTOCK A RTT ~ G.~n CrT IFF TO

MEK

DO RIGHT!

vets Mzght l~ly ~y head was still ringing when I reached the car and
opened the boot.  I handed over a packet of my faithful sulphon amide
powders.  They had done great things for me but I didn't expect much
here.

It was strange that I should go straight from the chief shouter of the
practice to the chief whisperer.  Elijah Wentworth made all his
communications sotto wee.

I found Mr Wentworth hosing down his cow byre and he turned and looked
at me with his habitual serious expression.  He was a tall thin man,
very precise in his speech and ways, and though he was a hard-working
farmer he didn't look like one.  This impression was heightened by his
clothes which were more suited to office work than his rough trade.

A fairly new trilby hat sat straight on his head as he came over to me.
I was able to examine it thoroughly because he came so close that we
were almost touching noses.

He took a quick look around him.

"Mr Herriot," he whispered,"I've got a real bad case."  He spoke
always as though every pronouncement was of the utmost gravity and
secrecy.

"Oh I'm sorry to hear that.  What's the trouble?"

"Fine big bullock, Mr Herriot.  Goin' down fast."  He moved in closer
till he could murmur directly into my ear.

"I suspect TB."  He backed away, face drawn.

"That doesn't sound so good," I said.

"Where is he?"

The farmer crooked a finger and I followed him into a loose box.  The
bullock was a Hereford Cross and should have weighed about ten
hundredweight, but was gaunt and emaciated.  I could understand Mr
Wentworth's fears, but I was beginning to develop a clinical sense and
it didn't look like TB to me.

"Is he coughing?"  I asked.

"No, never coughs, but he's a bit skittered."

I went over the animal carefully and there were a few things the
submaxillary oedema, the pot-bellied appearance, the pallor of the
mucous membranes which made diagnosis straightforward.

"I think he's got liver fluke, Mr Wentworth.  I'll take a dung sample
and have it examined for fluke eggs but I want to treat him right
away."

"Liver fluke?  Where would he pick that up?"

"Usually from a wet pasture.  Where has be been running lately?"

The farmer pointed through the door.

"Over yonder.  I'll show you."

I walked with him a few hundred yards and through a couple of gates
into a wide flat field Lying at the base of the fell.  The squelchy
feel of the turf and the scattered tufts of bog grass told the whole
story.

"This is just the place for it," I said.

"As you know, it's a parasite which infests the liver, but during its
life cycle it has to pass through a snail and that snail can only live
where there is water."

He nodded slowly and solemnly several times then began to look around
him and I knew he was going to say something.  Again he came very close
then Scanned the horizon anxiously.  In all directions the grassland
stretched empty and bare for miles but he still seemed worried he might
be overheard.

We were almost cheek to cheek as he breathed the words into my ear.

"Ah know who's to blame for this."

"Really?  Who is that?"

He made another swift check to ensure that nobody had sprung up through
the ground then I felt his hot breath again.

"It's me landlord."

"How do you mean?"

"Won't do any thing for me."  He brought his face round and looked at
me olU V t:L~ 1~1~116 I -Ly wide-eyed before taking up his old position
by my ear.

"Been goin' to drain t field for years but done nowt."

I moved back.

"Ah well, I can't help that, Mr Wentworth.  In any case the other
things you can do.  You can kill the snails with copper sulphate I'll t
you about that later but in the meantime I want to dose your
bullock."

I had some hexachlorethane with me in the car and I mixed it in a
bottle water and administered it to the animal.  Despite his bulk he
offered no resistance as I held his lower jaw and poured the medicine
down his throat.  ,"

"He's very weak, isn't he?"  I said.

The farmer gave me a haggard look.

"He is that.  I doubt he's a goner."

"Oh don't give up hope, Mr Wentworth.  I know he looks terrible but if
it Quke then the treatment will do a lot for him.  Let me know how he
goes o' It was about a month later, on a market day, and I was
strolling among stalls which packed the cobbles.  In front of the
entrance to the Drovers' A' the usual press of farmers stood chatting
among themselves, talking business with cattle dealers and corn
merchants, while the shouts of the stall holders sounded over
everything.

I was particularly fascinated by the man in charge of the sweet stall.
He h up a paper bag and stuffed into it handfuls of assorted sweetmeats
while he k up a nonstop brazen-voiced commentary.

"Lovely peppermint drops!  Delicious liquorice all sorts!  How about
some su candies!  A couple o' bars o' chocolate!  Let's 'ave some
butterscotch en' all!

Chin a beautiful slab o' Turkish Delight!"  Then holding the bulging
bag aloft triumph "ere!  'ere!  Who'll give me a tanner for the lot?"

Amazing, I thought as I moved on.  How did he do it?  I was passing the
d of the Drovers when a familiar voice hailed me.

HEY!  MR HER RIOT!  There was no mistaking Len Hamp son.  He hove in
front of me, red-faced and cheerful.  REMEMBER THAT P/G YE DOCTORED FOR
ME?

had clearly consumed a few market-day beers and his voice was louder
than ever.

The packed mass of farmers pricked up their ears.  There is nothing
intriguing as the ailments of another farmer's livestock.  3 "Yes, of
course, Mr Hamp son," I replied.

WELL

"E NEVER D/D NO GOOD!  bawled Len., I could see the farmers' faces
lighting up.  It is more interesting still when things go wrong.  is'
"Really?  Well I'm sorry."

NAW"ED/DN T.AH VE NEVER SEEN APtG GO DOWN AS FAST!"

"Is that so?"

AYE, FLESH JUST MELTED OFF IM!

"Oh, what a pity.  But if you recall I rather expected .  . ."

WENT DOWN TO SKIN AND BONE

"E DID!  The great bellow rolled over the mar place, drowning the puny
cries of the stall holders.  In fact the man with; sweets had suspended
operations and was listening with as much interest as others.

I looked around me uneasily.

"Well, Mr Hamp son, I did warn you at time .  . ."

"LIKE A WALK IN SKELETON E WERE!  NEVER SEEN SUCH An OBJECK!  ~ I
realised Len wasn't in the least complaining.  He was just telling me,
I for all that I wished he would stop.

"Well, thank you for letting me know," I said.

"Now I really must off .  . ."

AH DON T KNOW WHAT THEM POWDERS WERE YOU GAVE IM.

b/1 I cleared my throat.

"Actually they were .  . ."

"THEY DID IM NO BLOODY GOOD ANY RoAD!

"I see.  Well as I say, I have to run .  . ."

"AH COT MALLOCK TO KNOCK iM ON T HEAD LAST WEEK."

"Oh dear .  . ., "FINISHED UP AS DOG MEAT, POOR BUggER!

"Quite... quite..."

'wELL, gOOD DAY TO YE,MR HERR/OT.  He turned and walked away, leaving a
quivering silence behind him.

With an uncomfortable feeling that I was the centre of attention I was
about to retreat hastily when I felt a gentle hand on my arm.  I turned
and saw Elijah Wentworth.

"Mr Herriot," he whispered.

"About that bullock."

I stared at him, struck by the coincidence.  The farmers stared, too,
but expectantly.

"Yes, Mr Wentworth?"

"Well now, I'll tell you."  He came very near and breathed into my
ear.

"It was like a miracle.  He began to pick up straight away after you
treated him."

I stepped back.

"Oh marvellous!  But speak up, will you, I can't quite hear you."  I
looked around hopefully.

He came after me again and put his chin on my shoulder.

"Yes, I don't know what you gave 'im but it was wonderful stuff.  I
could hardly believe it.  Every day I looked at 'im he had put on a bit
more."

"Great!  But do speak a little louder," I said eagerly.

"He's as fat as butter now."  The almost inaudible murmur wafted on my
cheek.

"Ah'm sure he'll get top grade at the auction mart."

I backed away again.

"Yes .  . . yes .  . . what was that you said?"

"I was sure he was dyin', Mr Herriot, but you saved him by your
skill," he said, but every word was pianissimo, sighed against my
face.

The farmers had heard nothing and, their interest evaporating, they
began to talk among themselves.  Then as the man with the sweets
started to fill his bags and shout again Mr Wentworth moved in and
confided softly and secretly into my private ear.

"That was the most brilliant and marvellous cure I 'ave ever seen."

Chapter Twenty-five It must be unusual to feel senile in one's
twenties, but it was happening to me.

There were a few men of my own age among my RAF friends but for the
most part I was surrounded by eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds.

It seemed that the selection boards thought this the optimum age for
training pilots, navigators and air gunners and I often wondered how we
elderly gentlemen had managed to creep in.

These boys used to pull my leg.  The fact that I was not merely married
but a father put me in the dotage class, and the saddest part was that
I really did feel old in their company.  They were all having the most
marvellous time; chasing the local girls, drinking, going to dances and
parties, carried along on v l ~ the frothy insouciance which a war
engenders.  And I often thought that if it h all happened a few years
earlier I would have been doing the same.

But it was no good now.  Most of me was still back in Darrow by. 
During day there was enough pressure to keep my mind occupied but in
the evening when I was off the leash all I wanted to do were the simple
things I had done with Helen; the long games of bezique by the fireside
in our bed sitter, the' battles on the push-ha' penny board; we even
used to throw rings at hooks a board on the wall.  Kids' games after a
hard slog round the practice, but even now as I look down the years I
know I have never found a better way of living' It was when we were
Lying in bed one night that Helen brought up the subject of Granville
Bennett.

"Jim," she murmured sleepily.

"Mr Bennett 'phoned again today.  And I wife rang last week.  They keep
asking us to have a meal with them."

"Yes .  . . yes .  . ."  I didn't want to talk about any thing at that
moment.  T was always a good time.  The dying flames sent lights and
shadows dancing across the ceiling, Oscar Rabin's band was playing Deep
Purple on the bedside radio Ewan Ross gave us for a wedding present and
I had just pulled off unexpected victory at push-ha' penny.  Helen was
a dab hand at that game urging the coins expertly up the board with the
ball of her thumb, her lips pushed forward in a pout of concentration.
Of course she had a lifetime experience behind her while I was just
learning, and it was inevitable that seldom won.  But I had done it
tonight and I felt good.

My wife nudged me with her knee.

"Jim, I can't understand you.  You never, seem to do any thing about
it. And yet you say you like him."

"Oh, I do, he's a grand chap, one of the best."  Everybody liked
Granville, at the same time there were many strong men who dived down
alleys at ~ sight of him.  I didn't like to tell Helen that every time
I came into contact wi him I got my wings singed.  I fully realised
that he meant well, that the whole' thing was a natural extension of
his extreme generosity.  But it didn't help.

"And you said his wife was very nice, too."

Zoe?  Oh yes, she's lovely."  And she was, too, but thanks to her
husband s had never seen me in any other role than a drunken hulk.  My
toes curled under the blankets.  Zoe was beautiful, kind and
intelligent just the kind of woman you wanted to observe you staggering
and hiccuping all over the place.  In t darkness I could feel the hot
blush of shame on my cheeks.

"Well then," Helen continued, with the persistence that is part of even
t sweetest women.

"Why don't we accept their invitation?  I'd rather like to meet them
and it's a bit embarrassing when they keep 'phoning."

I turned on my side.

"Okay, we'll go one of these days, I promise."

But if it hadn't been for the little papilloma on Sam's lip I don't
think would ever have got there.  I noticed the thing a growth smaller
than a F - near the left commissure when I was giving our beagle an
illicit chocolate biscuit.  It was a typical benign tumour and on
anybody else's dog I should ha administered a quick local and whipped
it off in a minute.  But since it was S: I turned pale and phoned
Granville.

I have always been as soppy as any old lady over my pets and I suspect
ma of my colleagues are the same.  I listened apprehensively to the
buzz-buzz at t far end, then the big voice came on the line.

"Bennett here."

"Hello, Granville, it's .  . ."

"Jim!"  The boom of delight was flattering.

"Where have you been hiding yourself, laddie?"

He didn't know how near he was to the truth.  I told him about Sam.
-.~.

"Doesn't sound much, old son, but I'll have a look at him with
pleasure.  ~ you what We've been trying to get you over here for a meal
why not bring the little chap with you?"

"Well .  . ."A whole evening in Granville's hands it was a daunting
prospect.

~Now don't mess about, Jim.  You know, there's a wonderful Indian
restaurant in Newcastle Zoe and I would love to take you both out
there.  It's about time we met your wife, isn't it?"

"Yes .  . . of course it is .  . . Indian restaurant, eh?"

"Yes, laddie.  Superb curries mild, medium or blast your bloody head
off.

Onion bhajis, bhuna lamb, gorgeous nan bread."

My mind was working fast.

"Sounds marvellous, Granville."It did seem fairly Secure He was most
dangerous on his own territory and it would take forty-five minuteS,
driving each way to Newcastle.  Then maybe an hour and a half in the
restaurant I should be reasonably safe for most of the evening There
was just the bit at his house before we left that was the only worry.

It was uncanny how he seemed to read my thoughts.

"Before we leave, Jim, we'll have a little session in my garden."

"Your garden?"  It sounded strange in November.

"That's right, old lad."

Ah well, maybe he was proud of his late chrysanthemums, and I couldn't
see myself coming to much harm these.

"Well, fine, Granville.  Maybe Wednesday night ?"

"Lovely, lovely, lovely can't wait to meet Helen."

Wednesday was one of those bright frosty late autumn days which turn
misty in the afternoon and by six o'clock the countryside was blanketed
by one of the thickest fogs I had ever seen in Yorkshire.

Creeping along in our little car, my nose almost on the windscreen, I
muttered against the glass.

"God's truth, Helen, we'll never get to Newcastle tonight!  I know
Granville's some driver but you can't see ten yards out there."

Almost at walking pace we covered the twenty miles to the Bennett
residence and it was with a feeling of relief that I saw the brightly
lit doorway rising out of the mirk.

Granville, as vast and impressive as ever, was there in the hall with
arms outspread.  Bashfulness had never been one of his problems and he
folded my wife in a bear-like embrace.

"Helen, my pet," he said and kissed her fondly and lingeringly.  He
stopped to take a breath, regarded her for a moment with deep
appreciation then kissed her again.

I shook hands decorously with Zoe and the two girls were introduced.
They made quite a picture standing there.  An attractive woman is a
gift from heaven and it was a rare bonus to see two of them in close
proximity.  Helen very dark and blue-eyed, Zoe brown-haired with eyes
of greyish-green, but both of them warm and smiling.

Zoe had her usual effect on me.  That old feeling was welling up; the
desire to look my best, in fact better than my best.  I cast a furtive
glance at the hall mirror.  Immaculately suited, clean shirted, freshly
shaven, I was sure I projected the desired image of the clean-limbed
young veterinary surgeon, the newly married man of high principles and
impeccable behaviour.

I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that at last she was seeing me
stone cold sober and normal.  Tonight I would expunge all her squalid
memories of me from her mind.

"Zoe, my sweet," carolled Granville.

"Take Helen into the garden while I see Jim's dog."

I blinked.  The garden in this fog.  I just didn't get it, but I was
anxious about your dog ?"  | "Why do you call Phoebe Phoebles?"  I
countered swiftly.

`~.  I!  ~ TT_ I_~__~ ~:- 6~_A-f "T'll ~-t m`~ en~'inment Hang on Vets
Sam to give the thing much thought.  I opened the car door and the
beagle trots into the house.

My colleague greeted him with delight.

"Come inside, my little man."  Th he hollered at the top of his
voice.

"Phoebles!  Victoria!  Yoo-hoo!  Come and in cousin Sam!"

The obese Staffordshire bull terrier waddled in, closely followed by
the Yorki who bared her teeth in an ingratiating smile at all
present.

After the dogs had met and exchanged pleasantries Granville lifted Sam
in his arms.  .

"Is that what you mean, Jim?  Is that what you're worried about?"

I nodded dumbly.  .

"Good God, I could take a deep breath and blow the damn thing off!"

looked at me incredulously and smiled.

"Jim, old lad, why are you so daft aba -wn wen .  . . mc ClCdl CU l
tti' ~t 5~ ) ~'t"" minute."

He disappeared and came back with a syringe and scissors.  About half a
was enough to numb the part, then he snipped off the papilloma, applied
S01 styptic and put the beagle on the floor.  The operation took about
two minus but even in that brief spell his unique dexterity was
manifest.

"That'll be ten guineas, Mr Herriot," he murmured, then gave a shout
laughter.

"Come on, let's get into the garden.  Sam will be quite happy with r
dogs."  ~ .

He led me out of the back door and we stumbled through the fog by a
rockc and rose bushes.  I was just wondering how on earth he expected
to show I any thing in this weather when we came up against a stone
outhouse.  He tier' open the door and I stepped into a brightly lit,
sparkling Aladdin's cave.

It was quite simply a fully fitted bar.  At the far end a polished
counter wi beer handles and, behind, a long row of bottles of every
imaginable liquor.

fire crackled in the hearth and hunting prints, cartoons and bright
posters look down from the walls.  It was completely authentic.

Granville saw my astonished face and laughed.

"All right, eh, Jim?  I thou' it would be a nice idea to have my own
little pub in the garden.  Rather co isn't it?"

"Yes .  . . yes indeed .  . . charming."

"Good, good."  My colleague slipped behind the counter.

"Now what are y going to have?"

Helen and Zoe took sherry and I made a quick decision to stick to one
farely harmless drink.

"Gin and tonic, please, Granville."

The girls received a normal measure of sherry but when the big man took
i glass over to the gin bottle hanging on the wall his hand seemed to
be overcome by an uncontrollable trembling.  The bottle was upended
with one of those lit optic attachments you push up with the rim of the
glass to give a single measure But as I say, as Granville inserted the
neck of the bottle into the glass I whole arm jerked repeatedly as
though he were going into a convulsion.  It obvious that the result
would be about six gins instead of one and I was ate.

to remonstrate when he took the glass away and topped it up quickly
with more ice and sliced lemon.

I looked at it apprehensively.

"Rather a big one, isn't it?"

"Not at all, laddie, nearly all tonic.  Well, cheers, so nice to see
you both."

And it certainly was.  They were generous, warm people and veterinary
like ourselves.  I felt a gush of gratitude for the friendliness they
had always ShOwn me and as I sipped my drink, which was chokingly
strong, I felt as I had often done that these contacts were one of the
brightest rewards of my job.

Granville held out his hand.

"Have another, laddie."

~Well, hadn't we better be get ting on our way?  It's a terrible night
in fact I don't see us ever get ting to Newcastle in this fog."

"Nonsense, old son."  He took my glass, reached up to the gin bottle
and again was seized with a series of violent tremors of the forearm.

"No problem, Jim.

Straight along the north road half an hour or so know it like the back
of my hand.

The four of us stood around the fire.  The girls clearly had a lot to
say to each other and Granville and I, like all vets, talked shop.  It
is wonderful how easy veterinary practice is in a warm room with good
company and a dollop of alcohol in the stomach.

"One for the road, Jim," my colleague said.

"No really, Granville, I've had enough," I replied firmly.

"Let's be off."

"Jim, Jim."  The familiar hurt look was creeping over his face.

"There's no rush.  Look, we'll just have this last one while I tell you
about this gorgeous restaurant."

Once more he approached the gin bottle and this time the rigor lasted
so long I wondered if he had some history of malaria.

Glass in hand he expounded.

"It's not just the curry, the cooking in general is exquisite."  He put
his fingers to his lips and blew a reverent kiss into space "The
flavours are unbelievable.  All the spices of the orient, Jim."

He went on at length and I wished he would stop because he was making
me hungry.  I had had a hard day round the farms and had eaten very
little with the evening's feast in view, and as my colleague waved his
hand around and drew word pictures of how they blended the rare herbs
with the meat and fish then served it on a bed of saffron rice, I was
almost drooling.

I was relieved when I got through the third massive drink and Granville
squeezed round to the front of the bar as if ready to go.  We were on
our way out when a man's bulk loomed in the doorway.

"Raymond!"  cried Granville in delight.

"Come in, I've been wanting you to meet Jim Herriot.  Jim,-this is one
of my neighbours likes a bit of gardening, don't you Raymond?"

The man replied with a fat chuckle.

"Right, old boy!  Splendid garden, this!"

Granville seemed to know a lot of large, red-faced hearty men and this
was one more.

My friend was behind the counter again.

"We must just have one with Raymond."

I felt trapped as he again pressed my glass against the bottle and went
into another paroxysm, but the girls didn't seem to mind.  They were
still deep in conversation and seemed unaware of the passage of time or
the ravages of hunger.

Raymond was just leaving when Tubby Pinder dropped in.  He was another
enthusiastic horticulturist and I wasn't surprised to see that he was
large, red faced and hearty.

We had to have one with Tubby and I noticed with some alarm that after
another palsied replenishment of my glass he had to replace the empty
gin bottle with a fresh one.  If the first one had been full then I had
consumed nearly all of it.

I could hardly believe it when at last we were in the hall putting on
our coats.

Granville was almost purring with contentment.

"You two are going to love this place.  It will be a joy to lead you
through the menu.  Outside the fog was thicker than ever.  My colleague
backed his enormous Bentley from the garage and began to usher us
inside with great ceremony I installed Helen and Zoe in the back,
clucking solicitously over them, then ~ helped me into the passenger
seat in front as though I were a disabled old ma tucking my coat in,
adjusting the angle of the seat for maximum comfort showing me how the
cigar lighter worked, lighting up the glove com partment enquiring
which radio programme I desired.

At last he himself was in residence behind the wheel, massive and com
pa Beyond the windscreen the fog parted for a second to show a steep,
almost vertical grassy bank opposite the house, then it closed down
like a dirty yellow curtain cutting off everything.

"Granville," I said.

"We'll never get to Newcastle in this.  It's over thirty miles He
turned and gave me a gentle smile.

"Absolutely no problem, laddie.  ~ be there in half an hour, sampling
that wonderful food.  Tandoori chicken, the spices of the orient, old
son.  Don't worry about a thing I really know the roads.  No chance of
losing my way."

He started the engine and drove confidently off, but unfortunately
instead taking the orthodox route along the road he proceeded straight
up the grassy bank.  He didn't seem to notice as the nose of the great
car rose steadily trig but when we had achieved an angle of forty-five
degrees Zoe broke in gently from the back.

"Granville, dear, you're on the grass."

My colleague looked round in some surprise.

"Not at all, my love.  The ~ slopes a little here if you remember."  He
kept his foot on the throttle.  ;4 I said nothing as my feet rose and
my head went back.  There was a p when the Bentley was almost
perpendicular and I thought we were going ~ backwards, then I heard Zoe
again.  ~, "Granville, darling."  There was a hint of urgency in her
tone.

"You're going up the bank."

This time it seemed her husband was prepared to concede a little.

"Yes .  . . yes, my pet," he murmured as we hung there, all four of us
gazing up at the fog-shrouded sky.

"Possibly I have strayed a little on to the verge."

He took his foot off the brake and the car shot backwards at
frightening speed into the darkness.  We were brought up by a grinding
crunch from the rear.

Zoe again: "You've hit Mrs Thompson's wall, dear."

"Have I, sweetheart?  Ah, one moment.  We'll soon be on our way."

With undiminished aplomb he let in his clutch and we surged forward
powerfully.  But only for two seconds.  From the gloom ahead there
sound.

dull crash followed by a tinkling of glass and metal.

"Darling," Zoe piped.

"That was the thirty miles an hour sign.

"Was it really, my angel?"  Granville rubbed his hand on the window.  '
know, Jim, the visibility isn't too good."  He paused for a moment.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if we postponed our visit till another
time."

He manoeuvred the big car back into the garage and we got out.  We
covered, I should think, about five yards on our journey to
Newcastle.

Back in the garden bar, Granville was soon in full cry again.  And I
was for it because my earlier trepidation had vanished entirely.  I was
floating happy haze and I offered no resistance as my colleague jerked
and twit.

more samples from the gin bottle.

Suddenly he held up a hand.

"I'm sure we're all starving.  Let's have some ~Zoe, sweet," he said.

"We can use the big can of saveloy sausages if you would sHjhs wife
lePft for the kitchen and Helen touched my arm.

"Jim," she said.

"Saveloys ... ?"

I knew what she meant.  I have a pretty good digestion but there are
certain thingS I can't eat.  A single saveloy was enough to bring my
entire metabolism to a halt, but at that moment it seemed a
pettifogging detail.

~Oh don't worry, Helen," I whispered, putting my arm round her.

"They won't hurt me."

When Zoe came back with the food Granville was in his element, slicing
the juicy smoked sausages length ways, slapping mustard on them and
enclosing them in rolls.

As I bit into the first one I thought I had never tasted any thing so
delicious.

chewing happily I found it difficult to comprehend my previous
ridiculous preJudice.

"Ready for another, old son?"  Granville held up a loaded roll.

"Sure!  These are absolutely marvellous.  Best hot dogs I've ever
tasted!"  I munched it down quickly and reached for a third.

I think it was when I had downed five of them that my friend prodded me
in the ribs.

"Jim, lad," he said between chews.

"We want a drop of beer to wash these down, don't you agree?"

I waved an arm extravagantly.

"Of course we do!  Bloody gin's no good for this Job!

Granville pulled two pints of draught.  Powerful delicious ale which
flowed in a cooling wave over my inflamed mucous membranes, making me
feel I had been waiting for it all my life.  We each had three pints
and another hot dog or two while waves of euphoria billowed around
me.

The occasional anxious glance from Helen didn't worry me in the least.
She was making signs that it was time to go home, but the very idea was
unthinkable.

I was having the time of my life, the world was a wonderful place and
this little private pub was the finest corner of it.

Granville put down a half-eaten roll.

"Zoe, my precious, it would be nice to have something sweet to top this
off.  Why don't you bring out some of those little gooey things you
made yesterday?"

She produced a plateful of very rich-loo king cake lets.  I do not have
a sweet tooth and normally skip this part of the meal but I bit into
one of Zoe's creations with relish.  It was beautifully made and I
could detect chocolate, marzipan, caramel and other things.

It was when I was eating the third that matters began to deteriorate. I
found that my merry chatter had died and it was Granville doing all the
talking, and as I listened to him owlishly I was surprised to see his
face becoming two faces which floated apart and came together
repeatedly.  It was an astonishing phenomenon and it was happening with
everything else in the room.

And I wasn't feeling so healthy now.  That boundless vigour was no
longer Surging through my veins and I felt only a great weariness and a
rising nausea.

I lost count of time around then.  No doubt the conversation went on
among the four of us but I can't remember any of it and my next
recollection was of the party breaking up.  Granville was helping Helen
on with her coat and there was a general air of cheerful departure.

"Ready, Jim?"  my friend said briskly.

I nodded and got slowly to my feet and as I swayed he put his arm round
me and assiSted me to the door.  Outside, the fog had cleared and a
bright pattern f StarS overhung the village, but the clean cold air
only made me feel worse and do~s!"

"Hot dogs?"  I cried.

"Splendid idea!"  It was a long call from all the spies the orient but
I was ready for any thing.

I stumbled through the darkness like a sleepwalker.  When I reached the
car' long griping spasm drove through me, reminding me horribly of the
sausage' the gin and the rest.  I groaned and leaned on the roof.

"Maybe you'd better drive, Helen," my colleague said.  He was about to
open the door when, with a dreadful feeling of helplessness, I began to
slide along

I

metal.

Granville caught my shoulders.

"He'd be better in the back," he gasped a began to lug me on to the
seat.

"Zoe, sweetheart, Helen, love, grab a leg each' will you?  Fine, now
I'll get round the other side and pull him in."

He trotted round to the far side, opened the door and hauled at my
shoulders "Down a bit your side, Helen, dear.  Now to me a little.  Up
a trifle your si' Zoe, pet.  Now back to you a bit.  Lovely, lovely."

Clearly he was happy at his work.  He sounded like an expert furniture
remover and through the mists I wondered bitterly how many inert forms
had stuffed into their cars after an evening with him.

Finally they got me in, half Lying across the back seat.  My face was
pressed' against the side window and from the outside it must have been
a grotesque sight with the nose squashed sideways and a solitary
dead-mackerel eye start sightlessly into the night.

With an effort I managed to focus and saw Zoe loo king down at me
anxious She gave a tentative wave of goodbye but I could produce only a
slight twitch' of the cheek in reply.

Granville kissed Helen fondly then slammed the car door.  Moving back,
peered in at me and brandished his arms.

"See you soon, I hope, Jim.  It's been a lovely evening!"  His big face
v wreathed in a happy smile and as I drove away my final impression was
t he was thoroughly satisfied.

~i Chapter Twenty-six Being away from Darrow by and living a different
life I was able to stand back and assess certain things objectively.  I
asked myself many questions.  Why, ~ instance, was my partnership with
Siegfried so successful?  ; Even now, as we still jog along happily
after thirty-five years, I wonder ate' it.  I kr ~ liked him
instinctively when I first saw him in the garden at Skel" H- at very
first afternoon, but I feel there is another reason why ~ r. ~ because
we are opposites.  Siegfried's restless energy impels him \\o alter
things while I abhor change of any kind.  A lot of pe~ ,;% 'brilliant,
while not even my best friends would apply the \; \, 0~, \~s mind
relentlessly churns out ideas of all grades excell~ h ~ ~"O inge
indeed.  I, on the other hand, rarely have an idea al>` o ~ ~\,ing
shooting and fishing; I prefer football, cricket m SredSd;l' 1$ tn we
are even opposite physical types and dogs!"  ~ $."  gn that we have
never had our differences.  Over 4 "Hot dogs?"  I crie(l.^ \~ ;~ A;~,~
I~.~ wil val l~u~ ~111~.

the orient but was rectal One, I recall, was over the plastic calcium
injectors.  They were something new so Siegfried liked them, and by the
same token I regarded them with deep suspicion.

My doubts were nourished by my difficulties with them.  Their early
troubles have now been ironed out but at the beginning I found the
things so temperamental that I abandoned them.

My colleague pulled me up about it when he saw me washing out my
flutter valve by running the surgery tap through it.

"For God's sake, James, you're not still using that old thing, are
you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I am."

"But haven't you tried the new plastics?"

"I have."

"Well .  . . ?"

"Can't get away with them, Siegfried."

"Can't .  . . what on earth do you mean?"

I trickled the last drop of water through the tube, rolled it small and
slipped it into its case.

"Well, the last time I used one the calcium squirted all over the
place.  And it's messy, sticky stuff.  I had great white streaks down
my coat."

"But James!"  He laughed incredulously.

"That's crazy!  They're childishly simple to use.  I haven't had the
slightest trouble."

"I believe you," I said.

"But you know me.  I haven't got a mechanical mind."

"For heaven's sake, you don't need a mechanical mind.  They're
foolproof."

"Not to me, they aren't.  I've had enough of them."

My colleague put his hand on my shoulder and his patient look began to
creep across his face.

"James, James, you must persevere."  He raised a finger.

"There is another point at issue here, you know.

"What's that?"

"The matter of asepsis.  How do you know that length of rubber you have
there is clean?"

"Well, I wash it through after use, I use a boiled needle, and .  .
."

"But don't you see, my boy, you're only trying to achieve what already
exists in the plastic pack.  Each one is self-contained and
sterilised."

"Oh I know all about that, but what's the good of it if I can't get the
stuff into the cow?"  I said querulously.

"Oh piffle, James!"  Siegfried assumed a grave expression.

"It only needs a little application on your part, and I must stress
that you are behaving in a reactionary manner by being stubborn.  I put
it to you seriously that we have to move with the times and every time
you use that antiquated outfit of yours it is a retrograde step."

We stood, as we often did, eyeball to eyeball, in mutual disagreement
till he smiled suddenly.

"Look, you're going out now, aren't you, to see that milk-fever cow I
treated at John Tillot's.  I understand it's not up yet."

"That's right."

"Well, as a favour to me, will you give one of the new packs a try?"

I thought for a moment.

"All right, Siegfried, I'll have one more go."

When I reached the farm I found the cow comfortably ensconced in a
field, in the middle of a rolling yellow ocean of buttercups.

"She's had a few tries to get on 'er feet," the farmer said.

"But she can't quite make it."

"Probably just wants another shot."  I went to my car which I had
driven, rocking and bumping, over the rig and furrow of the field, and
took one of the plastic packs from the boot.

Mr Tillot raised his eyebrows when he saw me coming back.

"Is that one o' them new things?, o/~} "Yes, it is, Mr Tillot, the very
latest invention.  All completely sterilised "Ah don't care what it is,
ah don't like it!"

"You don't?"

"Naw!"

"Well .  . . why not?"

"Ah'll tell ye.  Mr Far non used one this morn in'.  Some of the stuff
went in eye, some went in 'is ear 'ole and the rest went down 'is
trousers.  Ah don't think the bloody cow got any!"

There was another time Siegfried had to take me to task.  An old-age
pensioner was leading a small mongrel dog along the passage on the end
of a piece string.  I patted the consulting room table.

"Put him up here, will you?"  I said.

The old man bent over slowly, groaning and puffing.

"Wait a minute."  I tapped his shoulder.

"Let me do it."  I hoisted the little animal on to the smooth
surface.

"Thank ye, sin' The man straightened up and rubbed his back and leg."l'
arthritis bad and I'm not much good at lift in'.  My name's Bailey and
I live "'council houses."

"Right, Mr Bailey, what's the trouble?"

"It's this cough He's all us at it.  And 'e kind of retches at tend of
it."

"I see.  How old is he?"

"He were ten last month."

"Yes .  . I took the temperature and carefully auscultated the chest.
As I moved' the stethoscope over the ribs Siegfried came in and began
to rummage in cupboard.

"It's a chronic bronchitis, Mr Bailey," I said.

"Many older dogs suffer from it just like old folks."

He laughed.

"Aye, ah'm a bit wheezy me self sometimes."

"That's right, but you're not so bad, really, are you?"

"New, new."

"Well neither is you little dog.  I'm going to give him an injection
and a couple of tablets and it will help him quite a bit.  I'm afraid
he'll never quite get of this cough, but bring him in again if it gets
very bad."  .

He nodded vigorously.

"Very good, sir.  Thank ye kindly, sir."

As Siegfried banged about in the cupboard I gave the injection and
counted out twenty of the new M&B 693 tablets.  ;: :~: ~.

~, _~ .

The old man gazed at them with interest then put them in his pocket.

"N.

what do ah owe ye, Mr Herriot?"

I looked at the ragged tie knotted carefully over the frayed shirt
collar, at threadbare antiquity of the jacket.  His trouser knees had
been darned but one side I caught a pink glimpse of the flesh through
the material.

"No, that's all right, Mr Bailey.  Just see how he goes on."

"Eh ?"  r "There's no charge."

"But .  . ."

"Now don't worry about it it's nothing, really.  Just see he gets his
tab' regularly."

"I will, sir, and it's very kind of you.  I never expected .  . ."

"I know you didn't, Mr Bailey.  Goodbye for now and bring him back if
not a lot better in a few days."

The sound of the old man's footsteps had hardly died away when
Siegfried emerged from the cupboard.  He brandished a pair of horse
tooth forceps in .  1 !

my face.  God, I've been ages hunting these down. I'm sure you
deliberately hide thingS from me, James."

I smiled but made no reply and as I was replacing my syringe on the
trolley my colleague spoke again.

~JameS, I don't like to mention this, but aren't you rather rash, doing
work for nothing?"

I looked at him in surprise.

"He was an old-age pensioner.  Pretty hard up I should think."

"Maybe so, but really, you know, you just cannot give your services
free."

"Oh but surely occasionally, Siegfried in a case.  like this .  . ."

"No, James, not even occasionally.  It's just not practical."

"But I've seen you do it time and time again!"

"Me?"  His eyes widened in astonishment.

"Never!  I'm too aware of the harsh realities of life for that.
Everything has become so frightfully expensive.  For instance' weren't
those M&B 693 tablets you were dishing out?  Heaven help us, do you
know those things are threepence each ?  It's no good you must never
work without charging."

"But dammit, you're always doing it!"  I burst out.

"Only last week there was that .  . ."

Siegfried held up a restraining hand.

"Please, James, please.  You imagine things, that's your trouble."

"I must have given him one of my most exasperated stares because he
reached out and patted my shoulder.

"Believe me, my boy, I do understand.  You acted from the highest
possible motives and I have often been tempted to do the same.  But you
must be firm.

These are hard times and one must be hard to survive.  So remember in
future - no more Robin Hood stuff, we can't afford it."

I nodded and went on my way somewhat bemusedly, but I soon forgot the
incident and would have thought no more about it had I not seen Mr
Bailey about a week later.

His dog was once more on the consulting room table and Siegfried was
giving it an injection.  I didn't want to interfere so I went back
along the passage to the front office and sat down to write in the day
book.  It was a summer afternoon, the window was open and through a
parting in the curtain I could see the front steps.

As I wrote I heard Siegfried and the old man passing on their way to
the front door.  They stopped on the steps.  The little dog, still on
the end of its string, looked much as it did before.

"All right, Mr Bailey," my colleague said.

"I can only tell you the same as Mr Herriot.  I'm afraid he's got that
cough for life, but when it gets bad you must come and see us."

"Very good, sir," the old man put his hand in his pocket.

"And what is the charge' please?"

"The charge, oh yes ... the charge ..."  Siegfried cleared his throat a
few times but seemed unable to articulate.  He kept loo king from the
mongrel dog to the old man's tattered clothing and back again.  Then he
glanced furtively into the house and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"It's nothing, Mr Bailey."

"But Mr Far non, I can't let ye .  . ."

'shin!  Shh!"  Siegfried waved a hand agitatedly in the old man's
face.

"Not a Word now!  I don't want to hear any more about it."

Having silenced Mr Bailey he produced a large bag.

There's about a hundred M&B tablets in here," he said, throwing an
anxious glance over his shoulder.

"He's going to keep needing them, so I've given y' a good supply."

I could see my colleague had spotted the hole in the trouser knee
because gazed down at it for a long time before putting his hand in his
jacket pocket.

"Hang on a minute."  He extracted a handful of assorted chattels.  A
few coins fell and rolled down the steps as he prodded in his palm
among scissOrs thermometers, pieces of string, bottle openers.  Finally
his search was reward and he pulled out a bank note.

"Here's a quid," he whispered and again nervously shushed the man's
attempts to speak.

Mr Bailey, realising the futility of argument, pocketed the money.

"Well, thank ye, Mr Far non.  Ahtll take t'missus to Scar borough wi'
that."

"Good lad, good lad," muttered Siegfried, still loo king around him
guiltily "Now off you go."

The old man solemnly raised his cap and began to shuffle painfully down
t street.  .

"Hey, hold on, there," my colleague called after him.

"What's the matter You're not going very well."

"It's this clang arthritis.  Ah go a long way in a long time."

"And you've got to walk all the way to the council houses?"  Siegfried
rubbed his chin irresolutely.

"It's a fair step."  He took a last wary peep down the passe then
beckoned with his hand.

"Look, my car's right here," he whispered.

"Nip in and I'll run you home."

Some of our disagreements were sharp and short.

I was sitting at the lunch table, rubbing and flexing my elbow.
Siegfried carving enthusiastically at a joint of roast mutton, looked
up from his work.

"What's the trouble, James rheumatism?"

"No, a cow belted me with her horn this morning.  Right on the funny
bone "Oh, bad luck.  Were you trying to get hold of her nose?"

"No, giving her an injection."

My colleague, transporting a slice of mutton to my plate, paused in
mid-a "Injecting her?  Up there?"

"Yes, in the neck."

"Is that where you do it?"

"Yes, always have done.  Why?"

l "Because if I may say so, it's rather a daft place.  I always use the
rump."

"Is that so?"  I helped myself to mashed potatoes.

"And what's wrong with neck ?"

"Well, you've illustrated it yourself, haven't you?  It's too damn near
the ho' for a start."

"Okay, well the rump is too damn near the hind feet."

"Oh, come now, James, you know very well a cow very seldom kicks aft ~
.

rump injection."  ~.

"Maybe so, but once is enough."  ;: "And once is enough with a bloody
horn, isn't it?"  : I made no reply, Siegfried plied the gravy boat
over both our plates and started to eat.  But he had hardly swallowed
the first mouthful when he returned' to the attack.

"Another thing, the rump is so handy.  Your way you have to squeeze
between the cows."

"Well, so what?"

"Simply that you get your ribs squashed and your toes stood on, that's
a.

~_ "All right."  I spooned some green beans from the tureen.

"But your way you stand an excellent chance of receiving a faceful of
cow shit."

Oh rubbish, James, you're just making excuses!"  He hacked violently at
his mutton.

"Not at all," I said.

"It's what I believe.  And anyway, you haven't made out a case against
the neck."

"Made out a case?  I haven't started yet.  I could go on indefinitely.
For instance.

the neck is more painful."

"The rump is more subject to contamination," I countered.

"The neck is often thinly muscled," snapped Siegfried.

"You haven't got a nice pad to stick your needle into."

"No, and you haven't got a tail either," I growled.

"Tail?  What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the bloody tail!  It's all right if you have
somebody holding it but otherwise it's a menace, lashing about."

Siegfried gave a few rapid chews and swallowed quickly.

"Lashing about?

What in God's name has that got to do with it?"

"Quite a lot," I replied.

"I don't like a whack across the face from a shitty tail even if you
do."

There was a heavy-breathing lull then my colleague spoke in an
ominously quiet voice.

"Anything else about the tail?"

"Yes, there is.  Some cows can whip a syringe out of your hand with
their tail.

The other day one caught my big fifty cc and smashed it against a wall.
Broken glass everywhere."

Siegfried flushed slightly and put down his knife and fork.

"James, I don't like to speak to you in these terms, but I am bound to
tell you that you are talking the most unmitigated balls, bullshit and
poppycock."

I gave him a sullen glare.

"That's your opinion, is it?"

"It is indeed, James."

"Right."

"Right."

"Okay."

"Very well."

We continued our meal in silence.

But over the next few days my mind kept returning to the
conversation.

Siegfried has always had a persuasive way with him and the thought kept
recurring that there might be a lot in what he said.

It was a week later that I paused, syringe in hand, before pushing
between two cows.  The animals, divining my intent as they usually did,
swung their craggy hind ends together and blocked my way.  Yes, by God,
Siegfried had a point.  Why should I fight my way in there when the
other end was ready and ~waiting ?

I came to a decision.

"Hold the tail, please," I said to the farmer and pushed my needle into
the rump.

The cow never moved and as I completed the injection and pulled the
needle out I was conscious of a faint sense of shame.  That lovely pad
of gluteal muscle the easy availability of the site my colleague had
been dead right and I had been a pig-headed fool.  I knew what to do in
future.

The farmer laughed as he stepped back across the dung channel.

"It's a funny thing how you fellers all have your different ways."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Mr Far non was 'ere yesterday, injecting that cow over there."

"He was?"  A sudden light flashed in my mind.  Could it be that
Siegfried we' not the only convincing talker in our practice .  . What
about it?"

"Just the 'e had a different system from you.  He injected into the
neck."

; ,..

Vels Msgnt {ly ~ .  , Chapter Twenty-sever' I leaned on the handle of
my spade, wiped away the sweat which had begun to run into my eyes and
gazed around me at the hundreds of men scattered over the dusty
green.

We were still on our toughening course.  At least that's what they told
us i was.  I had a private suspicion that they just didn't know what to
do with all the!9 air crews under training and that somebody had
devised this method of get ting us out of the way.

Anyway, we were building a reservoir near a charming little Shropshire
town).

and a whole village of tents had sprung up to house us.  Nobody was
quite sun about the reservoir but we were supposed to be building
something.  They issued us with denim suits and pick-axes and spades
and for hour after hour we pecked desultorily at a rocky hillside.  ~
But, hot as I was, I couldn't help thinking that things could be a lot
worse-' The weather was wonderful and it was a treat to be in the open
all day.  I looked down the slope and away across the sweetly rolling
countryside to where low hills rose in the blue distance; it was a
gentler landscape than the stark fells and moors I had left behind in
Yorkshire, but infinitely soothing.  ~i And the roofs of the town
showing above the trees held a rich promise.  During the hours under
the fierce sun, with the rock dust caking round our lips, we built up a
gargantuan thirst which we nurtured carefully till the evening wher we
were allowed out of camp.

There, in cool taverns in the company of country folk, we slaked it
with pints.

of glorious rough cider.  I don't suppose you would find any there now.
It is mostly factory-made cider which is drunk in the South of England
these day' but many of the pubs used to have their own presses where
they squeezed the juice from the local apples.

To me, there was something disturbing about sleeping in a tent.  Each
morning.

when I awoke with the early sun beating on the thin walls it was as if
I was back in the hills above the Firth of Clyde long before the war
was dreamed of There was something very evocative about the tent smell
of hot canvas ausl| rubber ground sheet and crushed grass and the dies
buzzing in a little cloud ~ the top of the pole.  I was jerked back in
an instant to Rosneath and when:' opened my eyes I half expected to
find Alex Taylor and Eddie Hutchison, the friends of my boyhood, Lying
there in their sleeping bags.  i The three of us went camping at
Rosneath every week-end from Easter ~ October, leaving the smoke and
dirt of Glasgow behind us; and here ii Shropshire, in the uncanny tent
smell, when I closed my eyes I could see the little pine-wood behind
the tent and the green hillside running down to the burn' and, far
below, the long blue mirror of the Gareloch glinting under the are.

mountains of Argyll.  They have desecrated Rosneath and the Gareloch
now.

but to me, as a boy, it was a fairyland which led me into the full
wonder and beauty of the world It was strange that I should dwell on
that period when I was in my teens because Alex was in the Middle East,
Eddie was in Burma and I was in another tent with a lot of different
young men.  And it was as though the time between had been rubbed away
and Darrow by and Helen and all my struggles in veterinary practice had
never happened.  Yet those years in Darrow by had been the most
important of my life.  I used to sit up and shake myself, wondering at
how my thoughts had been mixed up by the war.

But as I say, I quite enjoyed Shropshire.  The only snag was that
reservoir, or whatever it was that we were hacking out of the face of
the hill.  I could never get really involved with it.  So that I
pricked up my ears when our Flight Sergeant made an announcement one
morning.

"Some of the local farmers want help with their harvest," he called out
at the early parade.

"Are there any volunteers?"

My hand was the first up and after a few moments' hesitation others
followed, but none of my particular friends volunteered for the job.
When everything had been sorted out I found I had been allotted to a
farmer Edwards with three other airmen who were from a different flight
and strangers to me.

Mr Edwards arrived the following day and packed the four of us into a
typical big old-fashioned farmer's car.  I sat in the front with him
while the three others filled the back.  He asked our names but nothing
else, as though he felt that our station in civil life was none of his
concern.  He was about thirty-five with jet black hair above a sunburnt
face in which his white teeth and clear blue eyes shone startlingly.

He looked us over with a good-humoured grin as we rolled into his
farmyard.

"Well, here we are, lads," he said.

"This is where we're going to put you through it."

But I hardly heard.  him.  I was loo king around me at the scene which
had been part of my life a few months ago.  The cobbled yard, the rows
of doors leading to cow byre, barn, pigsties and loose boxes.  An old
man was mucking out the byre and as the rich bovine smell drifted
across, one of my companions wrinkled his nose.  But I inhaled it like
perfume.

The farmer led us all into the fields where a reaper and binder was at
work, leaving the sheaves of corn Lying in long golden swathes.

"Any of you ever done any stooking?"  he asked.

We shook our heads dumbly.

"Never mind, you'll soon learn.  You come with me, Jim."

We spaced ourselves out in the big field, each of my colleagues with an
old man while Mr Edwards took charge of me.  It didn't take me long to
realise that I had got the tough section.

The farmer grabbed a sheaf in each hand, tucked them under his arms,
walked a few steps and planted them on end, resting against each other.
I did the same till there were eight sheaves making up a stook.  He
showed me how to dig the stalks into the ground so that they stood
upright and sometimes he gave a nudge with his knee to keep them in the
right alignment.

I did my best but often my sheaves would fall over and I had to dart
back and replace them.  And I noticed with some alarm that Mr Edwards
was going about twice as fast as the three old men.  We had nearly
finished the row while they were barely half way along, and my aching
arms and back told me I was in for a testing time.

\we went on like that for about two hours; bending, lifting bending,
lifting and shuffling forward without an instant's respite.  One of the
strongest impressions I had gained when I first came into country
practice was that farming was the hardest way of all of making a
living, and now I was finding out for myself I was about ready to throw
myself down on the stubble when Mrs Edwards came over the field with
her young son and daughter.  They carried baskets withe ingredients for
our ten o'clock break; crusty apple tart and jugs of cider.

The farmer watched me quizzically as I sank gratefully down and began
drink like a parched traveller in the desert.  The cider, from his own
press, w superb, and I closed my eyes as I swallowed.  The right thing,
it seemed to me would be to lie here in the sunshine for the rest of
the day with about a galllon of this exquisite brew by my side, but Mr
Edwards had other ideas.  I was still chewing at the solid crust when
he grasped a fresh pair of sheaves.

"Right, lad, must get on," he grunted, and I was back on the
treadmill.

With a pause at lunchtime for bread, cheese and more cider we went on
breakneck speed all day.  I have always been grateful to the RAF for
what th.

did for my physical well-being.  When I was called up there was no
doubt I w going slightly to seed under Helen's beneficent regime.  Too
much good cooking and the discovery of the charms of an armchair; I was
get ting fat.  But the RAF changed all that and I don't think I have
ever slipped back.

After the six months at Scar borough I am certain I didn't carry a
surplus' pound.  Marching, drilling, PT, running I could trot five
miles along the bea.

and cliffs without trouble.  When I arrived in Shropshire I was really
fit.  But I wasn't as fit as Mr Edwards.

He was a com pact bundle of power.  Not very big but with the wiry
durability I remembered in the Yorkshire farmers.  He seemed tireless,
hardly break)' sweat as he moved along the rows, corded brown arms
bulging from the sleeves of a faded collarless shirt, slightly bowed
legs stumping effortlessly.

The sensible thing would have been to tell him straight that I couldn't
go his pace, but some demon of pride impelled me to keep up with him. I
am quite sure he didn't mean to rub it in.  Like any other farmer he
had a job to do a' was anxious to get on with it.  At the lunch break
he looked at me with son commiseration as I stood there, shirt sticking
to my back, mouth hanging open l

~ G&~ ~15& ~ ~

folk again.  Mrs Edwards in her undemonstrative way was obviously
anxious to show hospitality to these four rather bewildered city boys
far from home, and set us down to a splendid meal every evening She was
dark like her husband, with large eyes which joined in her quick smile
and a figure which managed to be thin and shapely at the same time. 
She hadn't much chance to get fat because she never stopped working. 
When she wasn't outside throwing the corn around like any man she was
cooking and baking, loo king after her children and Scouring her great
barn of a farmhouse.

Those evening meals were something to look forward to and remember.

Steaming rabbit pies with fresh Bilberry tarts and apple crumble lib.
Home-baked bread and farm green beans and potatoes from the garden.

and a massive jug of thick cream to pour ad cheese.

The four of us revelled in the change from the RAF fare.  It was said
the air crews got the best food in the services and I believed it, but
after a while it all began to taste the same.  Maybe it was the bulk
cooking but it palled in time.

Sitting at the farm table, loo king at Mrs Edwards serving us, at her
husband eating stolidly and at the two children, a girl of ten whose
dark eyes showed promise of her mother's attractiveness and a sturdy,
brown-limbed boy of eight, the thought recurred; they were good
stock.

The clever economists who tell us that we don't need British
agriculture and that our farms should be turned into national parks
seem to ignore the rather obvious snag that an unfriendly country could
starve us into submission in a week.  But to me a greater tragedy still
would be the loss of a whole community of people like the Edwards.

It was late one afternoon and I was feeling more of a weakling than
ever, with Mr Edwards throwing the sheaves around as though they were
weightless while I groaned and strained.  The farmer was called away to
at tend to a calving cow and as he hopped blithely from the stack he
patted my shoulder as I leaned ribs heaving.  -.

"You're coin' fine, Jim," he said, then, as if noticing my distress for
the fir time, he shifted his feet awkwardly.

"I know you city lads ain't used to this kir of work and .  . . well .
. . it's not a question of strength, it's just know in' ho to do it." 
, l.

When we drove back to camp that night I could hear my companions
groaning in the back of the car.  They, too, had suffered, but not as
badly as me.  ~ ..

After a few days I did begin to get the knack of the thing and though
it still tested me to the utmost I was never on the border of collapse
again.

Mr Edwards noticed the improvement and slapped me playfully on the
shoulder.

"What did I tell you?  It's just know in' how to do it!"

But a new purgatory awaited me when we started to load the corn on to
the stack.  Forking the sheaves up on to the cart, roping them there
then throw) them again, higher and higher as the stack grew in size.  I
realised with a ja that stooking had been easy.  .

Mrs Edwards joined in this part.  She stood on the top of the stack
with her husband, expertly turning the sheaves towards him while he
arranged them they should be.  I had the unskilled job way below,
toiling as never before, back' breaking, the handle of the fork
blistering my palms.  ~ I just couldn't go fast enough and Mr Edwards
had to hop down to help, grasping a fork and hurling the sheaves up
with easy flicks of the wrist.

He looked at me as before and spoke the encouraging words.

"You're comn along grand, Jim.  It's just know in' how to do it."  -;,
But there were many compensations.  The biggest was being among farming
food on my fork.  on "Never mind, Jim," he laughed.

"It's just know in' how to do it."

An hour later we were going into the kitchen for our meal when Mrs
Edwards said

"My husband's still on with that cow.  He must be having difficulty
with her."

I hesitated in the doorway.

"Do you mind if I go and see how he's get ting on?"

She smiled.

"All right, if you like.  I'll keep your food warm for you."

I crossed the yard and went into the byre.  One of the old men was
holding the tail of a big Red Poll and puffing his pipe placidly.  Mr
Edwards, stripped to the waist, had his arm in the cow up to the
shoulder.  But it was a different Mr Edwards.  His back and chest
glistened and droplets of sweat ran down his nose and dripped steadily
from the end.  His mouth gaped and he panted as he fought his private
battle somewhere inside.

He turned glazed eyes in my direction.  At first he didn't appear to
see me in his absorption, then recognition dawned.

"Ullo, Jim," he muttered breathlessly.

"I've got a right job on 'ere."

"Sorry to hear that.  What's the trouble?"

He began to reply then screwed up his face.

"Aaah!  The old bitch!  She's Squeezin' the life out of me arm again!
She'll break it afore she's finished!"

He paused, head hanging down, to recover, then he looked up at me.

"The calf's laid wrong, Jim.  There's just a tail com in' into the
passage and I can't get the hind legs round."

A breech My favourite presentation but one which always defeated
farmers.

I Couldn't blame them really because they had never had the opportunity
to read ~ranZ Benesch's classical work on Veterinary Obstetrics which
explains the ~" ~ mechanics of parturition so lucidly.  One phrase has
always stuck in my mind "The necessity for simultaneous application of
antagonistic forces'.

Benesch points out that in order to correct many mar-presentations it
necessary to apply traction and repulsion at the same time, and to do
that one hand in a straining cow is impossible.

As though to endorse my thoughts Mr Edwards burst out once more.

"D,

it, I've missed it again!  I keep push in' the hock away then grab bin'
for the f but the old bitch just shoves it all back at me.  I've been
coin' this for an ~ now and I'm about knackered."  .

I never thought I would hear such words from this tough little man, but
there was no doubt he had suffered.  The cow was a massive animal with
a back I a dining table and she was heaving the farmer back
effortlessly every time strained.  We didn't see many Red Polls in
Yorkshire but the ones I had were self-willed and strong as elephants;
the idea of pushing against one for hour made me quail.

Mr Edwards pulled his arm out and stood for a moment leaning against
hairy rump.  The animal was quite unperturbed by the interference of
this puny human but the farmer was a picture of exhaustion.  He worked
his dangling fingers gingerly then looked up at me.

"By God!"  he grunted.

"She's given me some stick.  I've got hardly any feel left in this
arm."

He didn't have to tell me.  I had known that sensation many a time.  E'
Benesch in the midst of his coldly scientific 'repositions',
'retropulsions', 'm positions' and 'counteracting pressures' so far
unbends as to-state that

"Great demands are made upon the strength of the operator'.  Mr Edwards
would agree with him.

The farmer took a long shuddering breath and moved over to the bucket
hot water on the floor.  He washed his arms then turned back to the cow
w something like dread on his face.

"Look," I said.

"Please let me help you."

He gave me a pallid smile.

"Thanks, Jim, but there's nuthin' till Those legs have got to come
round."

"That's what I mean.  I can do it."

"What .  . . ?"

"With a bit of help from you.  Have you got a piece of binder twine
handy "Aye, we've got yards of it, lad, but I'm tell in' you you need
experience this job.  You know nuthin' about .  . ."  .

He stopped because I was already pulling my shirt over my head.  He was
tired to argue in any case.

Hanging the shirt on a nail on the wall, bending over the bucket and
soap my arms with the scent of the antiseptic coming up to me brought a
rush memories which was almost overwhelming.  I held out my hand and Mr
Edwards' wordlessly passed me a length of twine.

I dipped it in the water, then quickly tied a slip knot at one end
inserted ~to the cow.  Ah yes, there was the tail, so familiar, hanging
between.

Nyic bones.  Oh, I did love a breech, and I ran my hand with elm 0,
\satisfaction along the hair of the limb till I reached the tiny foot
\, work to push the loop over the fetlock and tighten it while ~ ~ ~d
between the digits of the cloven foot.

- \, ~ ~ ~jd to the farmer, 'and pull it steadily when I tell you."  :~
He look~.~ ~ \~` the hock and began to push it away from me into I
along grand, ~"~'c ~f 11 D 't j k ~, Like a man in a dream he did as I
said and within seconds the foot popped out of the vulva.

"Hell!"  said Mr Edwards.

"Now for the other one," I murmured as I removed the loop.

I repeated the procedure, the farmer, slightly pop-eyed, pulling on the
twine.

The second little hoof, yellow and moist, joined its fellow on the
outside almost immediately.

"Bloody hell!"  said Mr Edwards.

"Right," I said.

"Grab a leg and we'll have him out in a couple of ticks."

We each took a hold and leaned back, but the big cow did the job for us
giving a great heave which deposited the calf wet and wriggling into my
arms.

I staggered back and dropped with it on to the straw.

"Grand bull calf, Mr Edwards," I said.

"Better give him a rub down."

The farmer shot me a disbelieving glance then twisted some hay into a
wisp and began to dry off the little creature.

"If you ever get stuck with a breech presentation again," I said,

"I'll show you what you ought to do.  You have to push and pull at the
same time and that's where the twine comes in.  As you repel the hock
with your hand somebody else pulls the foot round, but you'll notice I
have the twine between the calf's cleats and that's important.  That
way it lifts the sharp little foot up and prevents injury to the
vaginal wall."

The farmer nodded dumbly and went on with his rubbing.  When he had
finished he looked up at me in bewilderment and his lips moved
soundlessly a few times before he spoke.

"What the .  . . how .. . how the heck do you know all that?"

I told him.

There was a long pause then he exploded.

"You young bugger!  You kept that dark, didn't you?"

"Well .  . . you never asked me."

He scratched his head.

"Well, I don't want to be nosey with you lads that helps me.  Some
folks don't like it...."  His voice trailed away.

We dried our arms and donned our shirts in silence.  Before leaving he
looked over at the calf, already making strenuous efforts to rise as
its mother licked it.

"He's a lively little beggar," he said.

"And we might have lost 'im.  I'm right grateful to you."  He put an
arm round my shoulders.

"Anyway, come on, Mister Veterinary Surgeon, and we'll 'ave some
supper."

Half way across the yard he stopped and regarded me ruefully.

"You know I must have looked proper daft to you, fumblin' away inside
there for an hour and damn near kill in' myself, then you step up and
do it in a couple of minutes.

I feel as weak as a girl."

"Not in the least, Mr Edwards," I replied.

"It's.  . ."  I hesitated a moment.

"It's not a question of strength, it's just knowing how to do it."

He nodded, then became very still and the seconds stretched out as he
stared at me.  Suddenly his teeth shone as the brown face broke into an
ever-widening grin which developed into a great shout of laughter.

He was still laughing helplessly when we reached the house and as I
opened the kitchen door he leaned against the wall and wiped his
eyes.

"You young civil!"  he said.

"You really got a bit o' your own back there, didn't you ?"

I looked through the window at the wind sock blowing over the long flat
stretch of green, at the scattered aircraft, the fire tender, the
huddle of low wooden huts.  The playing was over now.  This was where
everything started.

Chapter Twenty-eight At last we were on our way to Flying School.  It
was et Windsor and that didn't' seem far on the map, but it was a
typical war-time journey of endless stops an changes and interminable
waits.  It went on all through the night and we too our sleep in
snatches.  I stole an hour's fitful slumber an the waiting-room tabl at
a tiny nameless station and despite my hard pillow less bed I drifted
delicious!

back to Darrow by.

I was bumping along the rutted track to Nether Lees Farm, hanging on
the jerking wheel.  I could see the house below me, its faded red tiles
showing above the sheltering trees, and behind the buildings the
scrubby hillside rose the moor.  i Up there the trees were stunted and
sparse and drifted widely over the stee .] flanks.  Higher still there
was only scree and cliff and right at the top, beckoning in the
sunshine, I saw the beginning of the moor Smooth, unbroken and bar.

A scar on the broad sweep of green showed where long ago they quarried
the stones to build the massive farmhouses and the enduring walls which
have stood against the unrelenting climate for hundreds of years Those
houses and those' endlessly marching walls would still be there when I
was gone and forgotten.

Helen was with me in the car.  I loved it when she came with me on m
rounds, and after the visit to the farm we climbed up the fell-side,
panting through the scent of the warm bracken, feeling the old
excitement as we nears the summit.

Then we were on the top, facing into the wide fret moorland and the
clean Yorkshire wind and the cloud shadows racing over the greens and
brown Helen's hand was warm in mine as we wandered among the heather
through green islets nibbled to a velvet sward by the sheep She raised
a finger ag curlew's lonely cry sounded across the wild tapestry and
the wonder in her eYes' shone through the dark flurry of hair blowing
across her face.

The gentle shaking at my shoulder pulled me back to wakefulness, to the
hiss of steam and the clatter of boots.  The table top was hard against
my hip at my neck was stiff where it had rested on my pack.

"Train's in, Jim."  An airman was loo king down at me.

"I hated to wake you - you were smiling."

Two hours later, sweaty, unshaven, half asleep, laden with kit, we
shuffled in the airfield at Windsor.  Sitting in the wooden building we
only half listened the corporal giving us our introductory address.
Then suddenly his words struck' home.

There's one other thing," he said.

"Remember to wear your identity discs all times.  We had two prangs
last week couple of fellers burned beyond recognition and neither of
'em was wearing his discs.  \we didn't know who they were."  He spread
his hands appealingly.

"This sort of thing makes a lot of work for us, so remember what I've
told you."

In a moment we were all wide awake and listening intently.  Probably
think)' as I was that we had only been playing at being airmen up till
now.