At the end of two weeks he walked out of the cottage, his private wake over. He buried the bottles in the hill behind, and locked the cottage door behind him. He walked away without a backward look, carrying in one hand a small suitcase, and dangling from the other the six plucked carcasses of the pullets. His best suit hung in folds on him, but the trousers had knife-edge creases, his shoes shone brilliantly; his face was freshly shaved and expressionless as stone. The six pullets he gave to their nearest neighbor, returning at the same time a pound of sugar that Margaret had borrowed, so that her kindly face was scarlet with shocked grief. The key he handed over to the vet, receiving in return his letter of the highest recommendation to a colleague, now director of the animal laboratory attached to a famous teaching hospital in London. He then walked to the station, arriving with his ticket on the platform at the precise moment as the southbound train drew in, and he left Morayshire five minutes later wheezing and struggling for breath as agonizingly as when he first came there as a boy.
It was not long before he became the head attendant in charge of the laboratory animals; and it was not long before the meticulous conditions in which they now lived became a byword among other laboratories. No post-operative patient ever received such undivided professional attention as did the animals in MacLean’s care, nor lived so long afterwards, to the gratification of those conducting the experiments. The luckless shaven-haired monkey or rat, guinea pig or dog bent on renouncing the laboratory world forever found itself opening its eyes on it once more from the antiseptically scrubbed floor of its cage, its drinking vessel freshly charged, its dressings ingeniously barred from investigation, its recovery a command — even, if necessary, its benefactor would minister long hours overtime to make sure it was carried out.
No animal ever bit his ministering hand, no animal cowered away from him; and no animal ever greeted him with pleasure, not even the long-term residents with whom almost every attendant had a friendly relationship which was returned by the animals themselves. His uncanny power, and his dispassionate material involvement could not have found a better outlet. He treated the inmates as machines to be kept in perfect working order. His attitude might seem inhuman to others, but his care was never other than humane; and he would not tolerate any unnecessarily painful or clumsy handling or any form of teasing of the animals from his assistants.
He volunteered the day after war broke out, and it was typical that, hating the sea, he should go straight to a naval recruiting office. He was undersized admittedly, but he was physically A.l. classification, and when his veterinary and hospital experience were revealed, the medical officer recommended him for training as a Sick Berth Attendant, and under his pen MacLean, Neil Roderick, D/JX 3427, (Presb.), grew an official inch in height.
This was the rigid complex little man, bitterly inturned, to whom fate had sent a small cherished extrovert of a dog; a man who set his highest stands of admiration by the historical giants of endurance, strength and self-control. A slight shivering dog who pranced on his hind legs, and allowed a doll-sized monkey all liberties, who could not even face his food — such a dog would not exactly enhance their heroic image. If he could have admired any dog enough to wish it for his own it would have been one like the great barrel-chested Barkis, that solid mass that stood foursquare and fearless to anything, that invincible muscled missile of the ladders. Certainly not a dog who still winced and shuddered to noise, who seemed to float down those ladders, light and graceful as a feather. (He was not to know that Ria could have demonstrated a performing verve on those ladders — such as jumping from rung to rung on hind legs alone — that for strength of muscle and control would have made Barkis’s headlong dive seem rudimentary. Fortunately this embarrassing accomplishment was never revealed to MacLean, and by the time Lessing and his messmates discovered it they had learned to hold their peace.)
If he had ever considered their mutual problems, he might have said that, like himself, this dog could not help being small — it could not even help being French, he might have added — but at least it could conform to a more normal dutiful canine mold, with all four feet planted firmly on the ground, and a healthy appetite to boot.
So Ria, who was only what he was, and what his forebears had always been, a dog to amuse and take the minds of men off other things, shivered and was increasingly bewildered by the disapproval and the denial of all that he knew, as MacLean strove daily to overcome the centuries and produce something that approached his idea of what a dog should be — if he were going to be stuck with one.
But the dog’s needs, or character, were too strong now to be subject to the man’s will. Time and time again, with infinite cunning, when he had learned the times that kept MacLean occupied with his duties, he would judge the moment; always soundless, he seemed to have acquired the ability to suddenly vanish. If tied, he slipped the collar or bit through the line, then straight to the lower deck and the haven of Number Five Mess, no fear or hesitancy now on the way, but a swift confident passage. Invariably he was retrieved, invariably he returned; and no appeal from Lessing or anyone could persuade MacLean to change his mind and permit the visits.
Number Five Mess found his unyielding attitude beyond their total comprehension; if their beloved Louis enjoyed the company of Ria, then it followed that this should be forthcoming, and they could not fathom this refusal to make both parties happy by a similar indulgence with Ria. It became quite an issue. “The flipping Führer’s on his way —” the groan would go around when they saw Ria’s ears flick apprehensively minutes before they heard the footsteps. “It’s back to concentration camp for you, Frogdog.”
Louis, as though aware of his kingdom’s disapproval, took an almost human delight in irritating Ria’s pursuer. The result was often cruelly humorous, as MacLean’s face when he was dourly set on retrieving his errant dog bore a startling resemblance to the monkey’s. The kissing sounds that Louis made when he was feeling affectionate were always soft and gentle; MacLean was invariably greeted with loud and vulgar smacking of lips, or went on his way to the accompaniment of Louis’s coarse version of a raspberry.
The strain was beginning to tell. He found himself dreading the trip to the lower deck, and disliking the monkey with a repulsion and animosity that he had never before felt for anyone, let alone singling out an animal for such distinction. Not just for its humiliating behavior, but for the disturbance to his mind, and the upsetting of routine and control, the distraction of always having to be on the alert to forestall the next vanishing act. His irritation and worry over Ria’s lack of appetite increased too, for now this disconcerting animal was beginning to show disinterest in his carefully fortified porridge mix, and seemed to have been living on water alone for the last few days. . . .
Inevitably came the time when he was confronted with the scene of Ria and Louis sharing a mess tin — worse still, the monkey was actually feeding the dog, his delicate little hands guddling around in the tin until they fished out a delicacy which was then tossed into the waiting eager mouth.
“He’s right hungry today,” said the innocent Lessing, looking up from his own plate. “Scoffed his own, and now he’s after something from Louis. Meat, potatoes, beans — the lot. Did you know he could sit up and salute? I thought I’d taught him, but he was so quick, I’m certain he knew it all before — just didn’t know the English for it, I suppose. He’s a sharp one —”
But his last words were directed to MacLean’s back; overcome with such a mixture of revulsion and mortification, he had said nothing — but so forcibly that for once Ria leaped with alacrity up the ladder before him and made straight for his proper obscurity under the desk, regardless of the fact that the doctor’s feet were already there. He looked very subdued, only too well aware that once again he had offended, and that the offense this time must be unusually grievous.
“You look very guilty, my lad,” said the doctor. “What have you been up to this time?”
He pressed against these frie
ndly legs as though seeking protection from he knew not what.
But it was Barkis who was to be his savior of the day. Barkis’s claws to be exact, for in the confinement of a destroyer they were not worn down normally, and when they reached the point of curving over his pads they had to be cut. All his wiles and strength went into his resistance to this painless operation; it took three men to hold him down, and a fourth to wield the clippers.
“You’re wanted on the bridge,” said the doctor as a set-faced MacLean appeared. (That his charge should occupy the same kneehole as an officer’s legs was yet another offense — this time in the unseemly category.) “Operation Toenails, you lucky chap. I told the Captain that with all your experience, you probably had some magical quick tricks up your sleeve. And God help you if you haven’t — I did the job last time and it took me nearly a week to recover.”
“Out you come,” the doctor said when MacLean had gone, and took a sugar lump from a cache in the drawer. Ria emerged and sat expectantly as the sugar was balanced on his nose, then with a professional flip, sent it high in the air, caught and swallowed it. The next lump was thrown and caught with the same expertise, despite several teasing feints in the opposite direction. “Clever dog!” said the doctor, and ruffled the silky ears, smiling down with a conspiratorial wink.
MacLean arrived at the day cabin off the bridge to find there the brawny Yeoman to whom Barkis was much attached and the Captain’s steward Smith. It was a sunny morning, Tertian steaming steadily, and the unsuspecting Barkis peacefully asleep on the bridge. The Captain whistled him in, and he came to the door with his powerful rushing roll, paused, sensed his impending doom and backed out hastily.
“Grab him, Yeoman,” shouted the Captain, and the Signalman leaped in a flying tackle. Barkis rolled over and waved his paws supplicatingly. Nothing would induce him to get to his feet again; he appeared to be able to ooze out of every attempt to lift him, like a sack of liquid lead.
MacLean, watching this performance and thinking that if he had Barkis to himself for five minutes he would have the claws clipped without further fuss, suggested that the patient be slid or dragged by the collar into the cabin and there hauled onto the chart table for the operation. Barkis had a neck like a tree trunk and could have been hauled for miles without feeling it, but: “Oh, I don’t think Barkis would like that,” said the Captain. “He’d be frightened to death, wouldn’t he then, poor boy?” he added tenderly to the inert white bulk, quivering at his feet.
MacLean was horrified; images were toppling off their pedestals all round. He had always respected both dog and man for size and dignity, calm authority, cool courage and discipline — yet one was groveling on the deck before the completely painless prospect of having his toenails cut, and the other was demoralized with maudlin sympathy.
“Softly, softly, catchee monkee,” said the Captain, and cooing persuasively with promises of chocolate, he managed to lure the trembling bulk onto his bunk and thence onto the chart table. “Now!” he said suddenly, and like a well-trained team, he, Smith and the Yoeman pounced. Barkis opened his mouth in a dreadful scream and fought like a tiger. MacLean hovered on the outskirts with the clippers, waiting to grab a paw; he got one for a second, held on grimly, but only got two claws clipped before Barkis had fought his way to the edge of the table and then onto the floor, where he collapsed on his back again. It was very hot. All wiped their brows and took time out before the next round.
MacLean had never witnessed such a scene in all his life. It was more than he could stand; they could be here the rest of the morning. “If I might be making a suggestion, sir,” he said at last. “It is that we knock him out and proceed with the operation while he is unconscious?”
The Captain looked at him in shocked surprise. “Apart from the fact that it would take a sledgehammer to knock Barkis out,” he said, “I don’t think he would like that.”
“I am not meaning a blow, sir,” said MacLean, his voice becoming more Highland by the moment with embarrassment both at having to stoop to this professional level, and meeting a suddenly defenseless hero upon it at the same time. “I was thinking that we could knock him out with a wee whiff of something —” He could see the Captain’s worried expression, and before there was time to be told that Barkis wouldn’t like that either, he hurried on to explain that it was the most merciful way; that the vet always employed it on strong sensitive dogs like Barkis — just a few drops of ether, and clip, clip, and it was all over before the patient realized what had happened. “And no nasty after-effects,” he added soothingly, almost choking on the words.
Still faintly dubious, the Captain sent for the doctor who agreed, straight-faced and solemn, with MacLean’s suggestion. A mask and ether were produced, and peacefully, quietly, and in orderly shipshape fashion Barkis parted with his excess nails.
Thanking MacLean afterwards, the Captain asked about Ria — he was a fine-looking little dog, he had thought on the few occasions he had seen him. Most intelligent, and — he had been about to say “amusing,” but for some unknown unconsidered reason he substituted “and full of guts too” — he would have said.
Astonished that the Captain had even been aware of Ria, taken aback by the obvious sincerity of this praise from a man he admired above all others, MacLean was speechless for a moment. Fine looking? Intelligent? Full of guts? Ria?
As he swept the last neat crescents of claw onto a piece of paper, speech returned: “I had not thought on it, sir,” he said politely, then added with considerably more conviction, “but, aye, he certainly is a determined wee b . . . beast.” He turned his attention to Barkis, still lying on the table with a slit of eye open and a silly pleased smile on his thin pink lips. He folded back one of the white ears, then suddenly bent over it so closely that it looked as though he were whispering into its depths.
He straightened up and sniffed disapprovingly. “Dirty ears,” he said. “I will be cleaning them out. Come with me, you —” Barkis slid off the table and laid the shameful ears back, a picture of abject apology.
“I will return him in fifteen minutes, sir,” said MacLean straightening smartly to attention before exiting with Barkis rolling obediently along behind, looking almost as bemused as the Captain. Whereas MacLean, for once, looked rather satisfied with himself.
Later that afternoon as he sat at the desk, Ria suddenly came to him and pushed a cold nose into his hand. Reminded of Barkis’s unsavory ears, he lifted one of the softly folded ones under his hand and inspected the delicate spotless convolutions within. Pleased with what he found, he let his hand lie for a moment on Ria’s head. “They’ll do,” he said. Ria’s tail was delighted at such praise; he grinned, turning his upper lip back over his teeth, and MacLean then inspected the shining teeth as grimly as if he expected to find signs of decay already from the illicit diet of Number Five Mess.
Suddenly he was very conscious of the difference between these jaws and the powerful shark-like ones of Barkis; the fragility of the skull beneath his hand and its almost weightlessness upon his knee; Ria’s round vulnerable eyes, Barkis’s protected slits. His mind went back to these same teeth gleaming from the black oil-slimed mass of the soldier: this same wee jessie of a dog had then endured over eight hours in the water, and heaven knew what else beforehand — yet still had fight in him. It occurred to him that the mighty Barkis’s build would not have stood up to those hours in the water. “Full of guts,” the Captain had said — maybe he wasn’t so far wrong. And intelligent — well, yes, he was no fool. As to “fine looking” — fine boned certainly, but he stood well nowadays, straight legs — and if he’d keep his head and ears up the way they were now, he wouldn’t be so bad looking at that. . . .
“You’ll do,” he said almost grudgingly. “Aye, you’ll do.”
Contact with the Captain and Barkis must have been catching; for the second time in his thirty-eight years of life he had spoken words that were neither commands nor refusals to an animal, words that assumed the com
prehension of human thought. Head to one side, ears cocked, Ria’s receptive eyes searched the face above as though expecting something further. But at that moment eight bells sounded, the change of watches; time for his routine inspection of his first aid packs stowed on every gun mounting throughout the ship. He secured Ria by a new length of stronger line and left.
He climbed the ladder to A gun first and, having reached the platform, found Ria immediately behind him, the collar slipped. Exasperated, he scowled down, but Ria, ears at a demure half-mast, gazed studiously into the distance. It was too late to return with him now — and at least this time he had not made for Number Five Mess. He continued his rounds, up and down ladders, the dog, cat-footed, close behind, yet never in the way.
They returned to the mess; time now, too, for his meal, and the defeating disinterest of Ria in his — the routine battle. He set the dish down, already more tense than usual, his mouth drawn down as he remembered the intimacy of the monkey’s fingers in another dish. Ria gave the unappetizing contents his usual perfunctory sniff and turned away. MacLean determinedly edged the bowl towards him again with the toes of his boot, then bent the dog’s head over it.
Reid, already eating, watched in silence for a moment, then, “For Christ’s sake, man,” he said in a sudden rare burst of irritation, “if you’d stop looking as though you had a mouth full of razor blades perhaps the dog would eat something — it’s enough to put anyone off their grub!”
MacLean looked up, startled. Then suddenly he smiled, almost shamefacedly. “Perhaps I am just a thing overanxious,” he admitted.
“And talk about a dog’s dinner —” said Reid, looking down at the bowl in disgust. “Who’d want to eat that grisly looking muck?” He ladled some of his own plate into the bowl, stirring it around with a finger.
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