Vets Might Fly

by James Herriot

  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 wishe
d 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