Vet in a Spin

by James Herriot

reeked of the stuff and I caused wrinkled noses when I entered a shop,

  the post office, the bank. ~j After nearly two weeks I had begun to

  feel reasonably safe but when I had a call from the famous Bailey farm

  I felt a twinge of apprehension It was Terence Bailey himself.

  "Will you come and see one of my cows, Mr Herriot. She's got blisters

  on one of her teats."

  "Blisters!" My heart went bump.

  "Is she slav ering, is she lame?"

  "Nay, nay, she just has these nasty blisters. Seem to have fluid in

  them."

  I was breathless as I put down the receiver. One nasty blister would

  be enough. It sometimes started like that in cows. I almost ran out

  to my car and on the journey my mind beat about like a trapped bird.

  Bailey's was the farm I had visited straight from Duggleby's. Could I

  possibly have carried it there? But the change of clothes, the bath,

  the fresh thermometer and instruments. What more could I do? How

  about my car wheels? Well, I had disinfected them, too I couldn't

  possibly be blamed, but . . . but . . .

  It was Mr Bailey's wife who met me.

  "I noticed this cow when I was milking this morning, Mr Herriot." The

  herd was still hand-milked and in the hard-working family tradition Mrs

  Bailey did her stint night and morning with her husband and the farm

  men.

  "As soon as I got hold of the teats I could see the cow was uneasy,"

  she continued.

  "Then I saw there was a lot of little blisters and one big one. I

  managed to milk her and most of the little blisters burst, but the big

  one's still there."

  I bent and peered anxiously at the udder. It was as she said lots of

  small ruptured vesicles and one large one, intact and fluctuating. It

  was all horribly evocative and without speaking I moved along, grasped

  the cow's nose and pulled her head round. I prised the mouth open and

  stared desperately at lips, cheek and dental pad. I think I would have

  fainted if I had found anything in there but it was all clean and

  normal. ~ I lifted each forefoot in turn and scrubbed out the clefts

  with soap and water - nothing. I tied a rope round the hind leg, threw

  it over a beam and with thc help of one of the men pulled the foot up.

  More scrubbing and searching without success then the same with the

  other hind foot. When I finished I was perspiring but no further

  forward.

  I took the temperature and found it slightly elevated, then I walked up

  and down the byre.

  "Is there any trouble among these other cows?" I asked.

  Mrs Bailey shook her head.

  "No, there's just this one." She was a good-loo kin8 woman in her

  thirties with the red, roughened complexion of the outdoor worker.

  "What do you think it is?"

  I didn't dare tell her. I had a cow with vesicles on the teats right

  in the middl.

  of a district under Foot and Mouth restrictions. I just couldn't take

  a chanoC .~ I had to bring the Ministry in. - s Even then I was unable

  to speak the dread words. All I could say was,"C~ I use your phone,

  please?"

  She Ir`nkerl c,~rnric'~ri hilt cmiled ouicklv

  "Yes. of course. Come into the.

  i l Vet in a Spin As I walked down the byre I looked again at the

  beautiful cows and then beyond, at the fold yard where I could see the

  young heifers and the tiny calves in their pens. All of them carrying

  the Bailey blood which had been produced and perfected by generations

  of careful breeding and selection. But a humane - killer is no

  respecter of such things and if my fears were realised a quick series

  Iof bang-bangs would wipe out all this in an hour or two.

  We went into the farm kitchen and Mrs Bailey pointed to the door at the

  far end.

  "The phone's through there in the front room," she said.

  I kicked oflf my welling tons and was padding across the floor in my

  stockinged feet when I almost fell over Giles, the lusty one-year-old

  baby of the family, as he waddled across my path. I bent to ease him

  out of the way and he looked up at me with an enormous cheesy grin.

  His mother laughed.

  "Just look at him. Full of the devil, and he's had such a painful arm

  since his smallpcx vaccination."

  "Poor lad," I said absently, patting his head as I opened the door, my

  mind already busy with the uncomfortable conversation ahead. I had

  taken a few strides over the carpet beyond, when I halted abruptly.

  I turned and looked back into the kitchen.

  "Did you say smallpox vaccination?"

  "Yes, all our other children have been done when they were his age but

  they've never reacted like this. I've had to change his dressing every

  day."

  "You changed his dressing . . . and you milked that cow . . . ?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  A great light beamed suddenly, spilling sunshine into my dark troubled

  world.

  I returned to the kitchen and closed the door behind me.

  Mrs Bailey looked at me for a moment in silence, then she spoke

  hesitantly.

  "Aren't you going to use the phone?"

  "No . . . no . . ." I replied.

  "I've changed my mind."

  "I see." She raised her eyebrows and seemed at a loss for words. Then

  she smiled and lifted the kettle.

  "Well maybe you'll have a cup of tea, then?"

  "Thank you, that would be lovely." I sank happily on to one of the

  hard wooden chairs.

  Mrs Bailey put the kettle on and turned to me.

  "By the way, you've never told me what's wrong with that cow."

  "Oh yes, of course, I'm sorry," I said airily as though I'd just

  forgotten to mention it.

  "She's got cow pox. In fact you gave it to her."

  "I gave it . . .? What do you mean?"

  "Well, the vaccine they use for babies is made from the cow pox virus.

  You carried it on your hands from the baby to the cow." I smiled,

  enjoying my big moment.

  Her mouth fell open slightly, then she began to giggle.

  "Oh dear, I don't know what my husband's going to say. I've never

  heard of anything like that." She wiggled her fingers in front of her

  eyes.

  "And I'm al ways so careful, too. But I've been a bit harassed with

  the poor little chap's arm."

  "Oh well, it isn't serious," I said.

  "I've got some ointment in the car which will cure it quite quickly."

  I sipped my tea and watched Giles's activities. In a short time he had

  spread chaos throughout the kitchen and at the moment was busily

  engaged in removing all the contents of a cupboard in the corner. Bent

  double, small bottom out thrust, he hurled pans, lids, brushes behind

  him with intense dedication till the cupboard was empty. Then, as he

  looked around for further employment, he spotted me and tacked towards

  me on straddled legs.

  My stocking-clad toes seemed to fascinate him and as I wiggled them at

  him he grasped at them with fat little hands. When he had finally

  trapped my big toe he looked up at me with his huge grin in which four

  tiny teeth glittered.

  I smiled back at him with si
ncere affection as the relief flowed

  through me.

  It wasn't just that I was grateful to him I really liked him. I still

  like Giles today. He is one of my clients, a burly farmer with a

  family of his own, a deep ;~ love and knowledge of pedigree cows and

  the same big grin, except that there ~-Eare a few more teeth in it. .

  But he'll never know how near his smallpox vaccination came to giving

  me heart failure.

  Chapter Nineteerz I looked around me at the heap of boots, the piled

  mounds of shirts, the rows of empty shelves and pigeon holes. I was

  employed in the stores at Heat on Park, living proof that the RAF was

  finding me something of a problem.

  The big war machine was rumbling along pretty smoothly by this time,

  turning out pilots, navigators, air-gunners in a steady stream

  and-slotting them into different jobs if they failed to make the grade.

  It ticked over like a well-oiled engine as long as nothing disturbed

  the rhythm.

  I was like a speck of sand in the works, and I could tell from various

  interviews that I had caused the administrators a cert ain amount of

  puzzlement. I don't suppose Mr Churchill was losing any sleep over me

  but since I wasn't allowed to fly and was ineligible for the~ ground

  staff I was obviously a bit of a nuisance.

  Nobody seemed to have come across a grounded vet before.

  Of course it was inevitable that I would be sent back to my practice,

  but I could see that it was going to take some time for the RAF to

  regurgitate me into civil life. Apparently I had to go through the

  motions even though some of them were meaningless. ~ One of the

  interviews was with three officers. They were very nice and they sat

  behind a table, beaming, friendly, reassuring. Their task, apparently,

  was to find out what ground staff job might suit me. I think they were

  probably psychologists and they asked me all kinds of questions,

  nodding and smiling kindly all the time.

  "Well now, Herriot," the middle officer said.

  "We are going to put you through a series of aptitude tests. It will

  last two days, star ting tomorrow, and by the end of it I think we'll

  know all about you." He laughed.

  "It's nothing to worry about.

  You might rather enjoy it."

  I did enjoy it, in fact. I filled up great long sheets with my

  answers, I drew diagrams, fitted odd-shaped pieces of wood into holes.

  It was fun.

  I had to wait another two days before I was called before the tribunal

  again.

  The three were if anything more charming than before and I seemed to

  sense an air of subdued excitement about them this time. They were all

  smiling broadly as the middle one spoke.

  "Herriot, we have really found out something about you," he said.

  "You have?"

  "Yes, indeed. We have found that you have an outstan ding mechanical

  aptitude."

  T7et in a Spin I stared at him. This was a facer, because if ever

  there was a mechanical idiot that man is J. Herriot. I have a

  loathing for engines, wheels, pistons, cylinders, cogs. I can't mend

  anything and if a garage mechanic tries to explain something to me I

  just can't take it in.

  I told the officers this and the three smiles became rather fixed.

  "But surely," said the one on the left. 'you drive a car in the course

  of your professional work?"

  "Yes, sir, I do. I've driven one for years, but I still don't know how

  it works and if I break down I have to scream for help."

  "I see, I sec." The smiles were very thin now and the three heads came

  together for a whispered consultation.

  Finally the middle one leaned across the table.

  "Tell you what, Herriot. How would you like to be a meteorologist?"

  "Fine," I replied.

  I sympathised with them, because they were obviously kind men, but I've

  never had any faith in aptitude tests since then.

  Of course there was never the slightest chance of my becoming a

  meteorologist and I suppose that's how I landed in the stores. It was

  one of the bizarre periods of my life, mercifully brief but vivid. They

  had told me to report to Corporal We ekes at the stores hut and I made

  my way through the maze of roads of a Heat on Park populated by st

  rangers.

  Corporal We ekes was fat and he gave me a quick look over with crafty

  eyes.

  "Herriot, eh? Well you can make yourself useful around 'ere. Not

  much to do, really. This ain't a main stores we deal mainly wiv

  laundry and boot repairs."

  As he spoke a fair-haired young man came in.

  "A.C.2 Morgan, Corporal," he said.

  "Come for my boots. They've been resoled."

  We ekes jerked his head and I had my first sight of the boot

  mountain.

  "They're in there. They'll be labelled."

  The young man looked surprised but he came round behind the counter and

  began to delve among the hundreds of identical black objects. It took

  him nearly an hour to find his own pair during which the corporal

  puffed at cigarettes with a total lack of interest. When the boots

  were finally unearthed he wordlessly ticked off the name on a long

  list.

  "This is the sort of thing you'll be doin'," he said to me.

  "No thin' to it."

  He wasn't exaggerating. There was nothing to life in those stores. It

  took me only a day or two to realise the sweet existence We ekes had

  carved out for himself. Store-bashing is an honourable trade but not

  the way he did it. The innumerable compartments, niches and alcoves

  around the big hut were all marked with letters or numbers and there is

  no doubt the incoming boots and shirts should have been tucked away in

  order for easy recovery. But that would have involved work and the

  corporal was clearly averse to that.

  When the boots came in they were tipped out in the middle of the fioor

  and the string-tied packages of laundry were stacked, shirts-uppermost

  where they formed a blue tumulus reaching almost to the roof.

  After three days I could stand it no longer.

  "Look," I said.

  "It would pass the time if I had something to do. Do you mind if I

  start put ting all this stuff on the shelves? It would be a lot easier

  to hand out."

  We ekes continued to study his magazine he was a big reader and at

  first I thought he hadn't heard me. Then he tongued his cigarette to

  the corner of his mouth and glanced at me through the smoke.

  "Now just get this through your 'ead, mate," he drawled.

  "If I want any _ thing doin"I"II well tell you. I'm the boss in 'ere

  and I give the orders, aw right?" He resumed his perusal of the

  magazine.

  I subsided in my chair. Clearly I had offended my overseer and I would

  have to leave things as they were. ,.~ But overseer is a misnomer for

  We ekes because on the following day, after ~a final brain-washing that

  the procedure must remain unchanged he disappeared and except for a few

  minutes each morning he left me on my own. I had nothing to do but sit

  there behind the wooden counter, ticking off the
comings and goings of

  the boots and shirts and I had the feeling that I was only one of many

  displaced persons who had fallen under his thrall.

  I found it acutely embarrassing to watch the lads scrabbling for their

  belongings and the strongest impression left with me was of the

  infinite tolerance of the British race. Since I was in charge they

  thought I was responsible for the whole system but despite the fact

  that I was of lowly rank nobody attacked me .

  physically. Most of them muttered and grumbled as they searched and

  one large chap came over to the counter and said,

  "You should be filing away these boots in their proper order instead of

  sit ting there on your arse, you lazy sod!" But he didn't punch me on

  the nose and I marvelled at it.

  But still, the knowledge that great numbers of decent young men shared

  his opinion was uncomfortable and I found I was developing a

  permanently ingratiating smile.

  The only time I came very near to being lynched was when a mob suddenly

  appeared one afternoon. An unexpected leave pass had been granted and

  there were hundreds of men milling around on the tarmac and grass

  outside the stores.

  They wanted their laundry and quick, because they had trains to

  catch.

  For a moment panic seized me. I couldn't let them all inside to fight

  for their shirts. Then inspiration came. I grabbed an armful of the

  flat packets from the table shouted the name on the label.

  "Walters!" And from somewhere among the surging heads an eager voice

  replied,

  "Here!"

  I located the source, held the packet between thumb and finger and with

  a back-hand flick sent it skimming over the crowd.

  "Re illy!" " "Here!"

  "McDonald!"

  "Here!"

  "Gibson!"

  "Here!"

  I was get ting quite skilful at it, propelling the blue oblongs

  unerringly towards their owners, but it was a slow method of

  distribution. Also, there were occasional disasters when the strings

  broke in mid-air, sending a shower of collars on the upturned faces.

  Sometimes the shirts themselves burst free from their wrappingS and

  plunged to earth.

  It wasn't long before the voices had turned from eager to angry. As my

  projectiles planed and glided, volleys of abuse came back at me.

  "You've made me miss my train, you useless bugger!"

  "Bloody skiver, you want locking up!"

  Much of it was in stronger language which I would rather not record

  herei -~ but I have a particularly vivid memory of one young man

  scraping up his laundry from the dusty ground and approaching me with

  rapid strides. H~ pushed his face to within inches of mine. Despite

  the rage which disfigured it, I could see it was a gentle; good-natured

  face. He looked a well-bred lad, type who didn't even swear, but as he

  stared into my eyes his lips trembled and his cheeks twitched.

  "This is a . . ." he stammered.

  "This is a . . . a bastard system!"

  He spat the words out and strode away.

  I agreed entirely with him, of course, but continued to hurl the

  packets doggedly while somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice

  kept enquiring how James Herriot, Member of the Royal College of

  Veterinary Surgeons and trainee pilot had ever got into this.

  After half an hour there was no appreciable dimunution in the size of

  the multitude and I began to be aware of an increasing restlessness

  among the medley of waiting faces.

  Suddenly there was a concerted movement and the packed mass of men

  surged at me in a great wave. I shrank back, clutching an armful of