Few students were wholly unmoved by the unseen and mesmerizing natural worlds opened up to them, whether by taking the layers of skin off an animal in Senior Anatomy or by looking down a microscope in Histology. Whilst endlessly interesting to the brain, though, Senior Anatomy also required a stomach as strong as the galvanized bins in the lab into which used animal bits were dumped. Some novice always swiftly exited the carcase strewn lab, where the 41 hanging light bulbs threw expressionist shadows on to the walls, when their scalpel first entered the flesh of a dog. Strapped to metal-topped tables, dogs were dissected by two students so they could talk and discuss what they found (or should have found), while up to four students would work on a horse, which was made accessible despite its size by crude feats of engineering, involving ropes from a gantry.
Worse than flexing a scalpel was the dismembering of an animal; when the college insurers performed their audit, they listed among the Anatomy lab’s equipment: 1 large and 1 small pair of pruning shears, 3 saws, 7 butcher’s knives, 2 hammers, 1 set of pincers, 7 cold chisels and a fret saw. Veterinary Hygiene, which with Senior Anatomy and Pharmacology, comprised the triumvirate of Third Year subjects, was also a test for the faint-stomached because it involved visits to Glasgow’s meat market with its hundreds of hooked-up animal cadavers.
* * *
College hops were so popular at Glasgow that there was barely room to swing a cat, let alone a human partner to a jazz number. To ensure, however, he did not display ‘an ungainly shoe if called upon’, Alf had taken dancing lessons.
Dance nights followed a set pattern, which involved several rounds of beer with whiskey chasers at a nearby pub, maybe even one of the newly opened art deco pubs, with their chrome-edged bar-tops and peach mirrors. These bars welcomed women – when accompanied by men – and served fashionable cocktails such as Manhattan and Angel’s Kiss. (But better an Angel’s Kiss than a Glasgow Kiss.)
Alf left an immortal picture in words of ‘dance night’ at college in the unpublished novel The Art and the Science, in which he is once again ‘Walsh’. The evening commenced with some avantdance drinking at Danny Neal’s bar, from which the boisterous veterinary students were then unceremoniously evicted:
Outside, the rain was falling in a steady downpour and Walsh found it hard to focus on the lights of the trams as they swished through the wet streets. The students straggled along the pavement in an unsteady crocodile with Aly Gordon in front holding up a life-size, cardboard Johnny Walker figure which he had removed on his way out of the pub. The busy city square was alive with traffic but Aly headed confidently into the midst of it with the others following blindly. Brakes squealed, tram bells clanged, drivers yelled but the strange procession staggered on.
Walsh was at the back, holding Bernie firmly by his coat collar. It was the only way Bernie could stand up. His mouth hung open, his eyes were shut and he put one foot in front of the other like a robot.
They reached New Town Road on the other side of the square and started the long climb up Montrose Street. It was an ill-lit, seedy street and the rain streamed down the crumbling frontages of the houses into the gloomy basements beneath. Near the top was the college.
Bernie’s condition deteriorated rapidly on the way up and he had to make frequent stops to press his face against the wet iron railings till Walsh dragged him on again. This way they fell behind and only caught up when the main party halted under a street lamp. There had been a suggestion that they should save the price of admission by crashing past the officials at the entrance and the idea spread like a fire in dry grass.
There was a lot of shouting and arm waving. A general elation at the prospect of a little violence.
Fifty yards away, light streamed out through the college arch on to the pavements, and beyond, in the covered yard, there were signs of activity. Tables were being dragged across to form a barricade while the members of the dance committee kept an anxious watch. Soon there was an unbroken line of tables and behind, Walsh could recognise most of the rugby fifteen standing shoulder to shoulder, quietly waiting. They looked businesslike and disciplined in contrast with the mob outside.
Walsh got both hands on Bernie’s collar and shook him. ‘Look, Bernie we’re going to make a dash for it through the arch. Can you run?’
Bernie stared blearily at the entrance. ‘Run? Sure I can run. Run like hell. Faster than anybody.’ He looked sleepy but aggressive. Suddenly he bawled out ‘Come, on, let’s get in there!’ and started forward at an unsteady gallop.
Walsh grabbed his collar again. ‘No, no, you’ve got to keep to the middle of the bunch. Keep to the middle and you’ll be all right. They want the biggest in front – that means Ally and me – so I’ve got to leave you.’
There was a final consultation under the street lamp then the charge commenced. Aly Gordon was an inspiring figure pounding along in front, his Johnny Walker sign held high and a Highland war cry bubbling from his lips. Behind him the motley band puffed and reeled.
The big guards in the archway set themselves. Aly’s fifteen stones hit the tables and he went down with two committee men on top of him. Walsh jumped over the struggling bodies, one or two fists thumped him, but he was through the breach and running hard across the yard. He heard sounds of strife behind him but didn’t tarry. A minute later he was upstairs hanging his coat in the cloakroom and looking innocent.
He washed his hands and face, combed his hair and strolled downstairs into the yard. The battle had been brief and the combatants had dispersed except for a few wounded who were sitting propped against a wall and receiving first aid.
Tables and chairs were scattered around and a group of students were gathered round a still figure stretched on the concrete. Walsh quickened his steps – the figure had spectacles. It was Bernie all right, flat on his back, eyes closed and a red bruise on the side of his face.
‘What happened?’ Walsh said, shame flooding through him.
A large man turned towards him – Ian Clelland, the college’s number one rugby player, a second row forward on the international fringe. Off the field he was a gentle, slow-speaking character. He grinned apologetically. ‘Young Hill, here, came lolloping in at the rear of the raiding party and I grabbed him. I only wanted to get his entrance money but he belted me one in the eye. I was so bloody surprised that I tapped him on the jaw. I didn’t mean to hurt him.’ He scratched his head and looked down anxiously at the inert form.
Walsh knelt down and raised Bernie’s head. ‘He’s been here nearly five years and finally he comes to a dance. And now look at him – he isn’t going to see much of it, poor little beggar. Anyway, we can’t leave him lying here.’
He looked round the yard and saw several long wooden boxes filled with shavings. They were about seven feet long and had carried a supply of new microscopes and other laboratory equipment.
‘The very thing,’ Walsh said. ‘We can put him in one of those and I can keep an eye on him from the common room window. Come on, Ian, let’s get him over there.’
They carried Bernie’s frail body easily over to the first box. But there was a snag. Don Noyce was already there, deeply embedded in the shavings. He was still wearing his flat cap and his face had a ghastly bluish tinge.
Clelland peered down at the pinched nose and the motionless, sunken eyelids. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘Not him. He always goes that colour. Let’s try this other one.’
This, too, was occupied. Peter Napier was comfortably in residence, a peaceful half smile on his sleeping face.
‘Good God, he’s done it again,’ Walsh cried. ‘But how about his girlfriend?’
‘Over there, by the door,’ Clelland hissed between his teeth.
Walsh looked up and saw a girl with shining fair hair and a cross expression, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of a tweed coat. Hugh Mills was talking persuasively to her but didn’t seem to be making any headway. She was staring in disbelief at the unheeding face of her escort protruding
from the shavings.
But Bernie was beginning to get heavy and they bore him over to the third box. It was empty and they made him comfortable in it. Walsh was relieved to see that Bernie was coming round. He stirred, smiled at them and went to sleep again. The box was ideally situated directly under the windows of the common room where the dance was being held.
Walsh went across the yard, through the door and up the flight of stone steps. Ahead of him he could hear the muffled thud thud of the drums and the thin sound of a muted trumpet. He pushed open the swing doors at the top and stepped inside into the noise and heat.
He found he had to lean against a wall. In his concern over Bernie he had forgotten about the long succession of whiskies and beer he had drunk himself. The dance floor swayed and surged up at him. He put the palms of his hands against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. But this was worse. Everything stopped swaying and joined in a mad whirl. He opened his eyes quickly, edged his way along the wall and slid into a chair to think things out.
He was dimly aware of couples dancing past him and over to the left at the far end of the hall he could hear the band. He was, as yet, unable to see it. It was beyond his range. He decided to concentrate and found that, by closing one eye and staring fixedly with the other, the band would swim into focus for a few seconds at a time. He used this technique to explore the place, working his way with his one eye slowly along the walls. When he reached the spot dead opposite he realised that somebody was smiling over at him.
He recognised Drew Turner, one of the more respectable students. Drew hadn’t been with the drinking party at Danny Neal’s and had his steady girl with him. She wore her dark hair in a bun and had a sweet, innocent Sunday school face. Walsh gathered from Drew’s waves and the girl’s encouraging smiles that he was expected to go over and be introduced, but he didn’t feel up to attempting the journey across the floor.
After a bit, the couple came over. Walsh got up carefully and the introductions were made. They sat down with the girl between them and it was clear there was no escape. He would cause mortal offence if he didn’t ask her to dance. He took a deep breath and turned towards her.
‘Would you care to dance?’ he muttered.
‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ the girl said brightly, jumping up and smoothing down her dress.
Groaning inwardly, Walsh got slowly to his feet, clasped her and set out across the floor. He didn’t feel himself fall – he just changed his position effortlessly so that he was lying flat on the boards with the girl on top of him, her startled face pressed against his own.
Then he saw Drew. He was helping them up with a strained smile. They set off again and this time Walsh felt he was doing better. He actually gained enough confidence to attempt a twiddly bit and it was with genuine surprise that he realised they were once more on the floor, the girl underneath this time.
Drew was immediately with them again but he wasn’t smiling. He helped his girl up and dusted her off as he glared at Walsh. They left him sitting on the floor with the other dancers laughing down at him.
He made his way over to the window and looked down into the courtyard. It was a macabre scene. In the black, empty street beyond the archway the rain still slanted down while in the harsh light of the deserted yard the three coffin-like boxes lay side by side, each with its still occupant. There was no movement from Peter or Don but Bernie opened his eyes and Walsh waved encouragingly. Bernie gave a gentle smile and raised his hand.
Reassured, Walsh turned back into the hall. He was beginning to feel better, the world had stopped whirling and he could see with both eyes. Things were going with a bang. The cabaret, provided free by the chorus girls from the Victoria Theatre down in New Town Road, was getting under way. There was a long roll on the drums, the girls kicked off their shoes and lined up, arms around each other’s waists. When the music started, they moved sideways down the hall, high-kicking in unison. Many were unsteady on their feet so it was a ragged performance; but the students yelled like dervishes.
In the far corner Hugh Mills was sitting with Peter Napier’s girl. His arm was along the back of her chair, his face very close to hers. He was talking steadily and it seemed he was outlining some kind of proposition because she kept shaking her head. But she was smiling: it was only a matter of time and finally she shrugged and got up. Hugh Mills, calmly possessive, ushered her across the floor and out through the door. She had nice legs and an attractive, swinging walk. Walsh thought of Peter in his coffin in the silent yard below.
The cabaret concluded to a frenzy of cheering, the girls put on their shoes and dispersed throughout the hall. One of them sat near Walsh with her escort; he was a big, beefy man in his thirties and looked like one of the hard-eyed types who inhabited the sleazy apartment houses around the college.
He was lighting a cigarette for the girl and as she bent forward her dark eyes glanced quickly at Walsh. He was feeling good and he grinned at her. She looked away immediately but he kept up his level stare, quietly waiting. After a few elaborate puffs at her cigarette she turned her eyes casually towards him. He switched on the big grin and she looked away again.
Walsh was enjoying this. He put his elbow on the back of his chair, leaned his head on his hand and kept staring. Several times her eyes were drawn round to him then rapidly away but he noticed that a corner of her mouth was beginning to twitch. Her partner, too, had seen there was a distraction; he turned and gave Walsh a hard look. Walsh ignored him and maintained his big fixed grin at the girl.
At length the man got up. ‘What’s the bloody big idea?’ he asked, leaning over Walsh threateningly, big fists bunched. ‘You bloody well trying to start something?’
Walsh, showing no sign of having heard him, continued to stare past him at the girl.
The beefy man’s face flushed but he made no move. Walsh was a gaunt six foot two and his wide, bony shoulders almost gave the impression that he had forgotten to take the hanger out of his jacket. Black hair stuck out spicily above a pale, high-cheekboned face. He looked durable.
The man decided not to press the matter further and turned back to the girl; but by now she was laughing helplessly. Walsh went over to her, still ignoring her partner.
‘Like to dance?’ he asked and she came eagerly into his arms. They didn’t speak as they went round but she pressed close and looked up at him with steady eyes and a half smile. It came to Walsh that he was wasting time.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you round the building.’ She nodded without dropping her gaze and they went out into the passage and up the stairs to the top corridor. Students and girls were clasped tightly in every classroom doorway. Walsh tried a few of the handles.
‘No good, chum,’ murmured a shadowy figure closely entwined with a startling blonde. ‘They’re all locked.’
Right at the end was the anatomy lab. They’d probably be able to get in there. Unsuitable in many ways but perhaps [not] if he didn’t put the light on. Anyway, it was far too public here. They walked slowly along the corridor, her arm around his waist, her head rolling gently on his shoulder with each step. Her perfume came up to him and he could feel his heart knocking against his ribs.
‘In here,’ he said. He turned the knob, slipped inside and closed the door quickly behind them. In the darkness a breath of formalin prickled in his nostrils. He felt her body stiffen.
‘What’s this place?’ she asked.
Walsh squeezed her arm. ‘Just a classroom.’ He guided her from memory between the tables with specimens. Beyond, he knew were the tiers of forms where the lectures were given and soon his leg rapped against a polished wooden surface.
‘This is it.’ He pulled the girl down beside him and put his arm round her bare shoulders. But she sat bolt upright, turning her head this way and that, trying to pierce the blanketing darkness.
‘I don’t like it here. It smells queer. Where are we?’
‘Don’t be silly. I told you. It’s just a classroom. Come on,
relax.’ He pulled her gently towards him and feeling her hair soft against his face, began to kiss her cheek. He felt her slackening in his arms; she turned and raised her mouth to him. Happily, he gathered her up and kissed her on the lips with the greatest finesse. She moaned faintly and at that moment somebody switched on the lights.
A yard away, on a metal table, lay the half dissected head of a cow. One eye had been removed and the empty socket gleamed as though a monocle had been inserted. The other regarded them incuriously while the great white mandible with its jutting teeth was fixed in a vacant grin.
As if operated by strings, the girl rose slowly from the bench, her eyes starting from her head, her mouth gaping. She took three sleepwalking steps then turned and ran.
She crashed headlong into Charlie the horse skeleton and the pride of the lab. He had always been there and the students were deeply attached to him. There was an air of peace and permanence about Charlie and he took this assault on his dignity with unruffled calm, his huge rib cage vibrating like a harp, his leg bones rattling softly in their supporting wires. He looked down benignly on the girl and his skull gave a few reassuring nods.
She had made no sound when she saw the cow’s head but now she really found her voice and a dreadful terrified yell welled from her. She put both hands on top of her head and began to rush about among the tables filled with the specimens in readiness for tomorrow’s demonstrations. Grisly portions of dogs and cats lay everywhere and right in the centre a large pig rested on its back, its legs raised quietly towards the roof.
Young James Herriot Page 14