Vets Might Fly

  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 step
ped 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 impressio
ns 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.