and walked up the path of number ten.
And there was Hamish in the porch, coiled up comfortably on the mat loo
king up at me with mild surprise as I hovered over him.
"Come on, lad," I said.
"You've got more sense than we had. Why didn't we think of this
before?"
I deposited him on the passenger seat and as I drove away he hoisted
his paws on to the dash and gazed out interestedly at the road
unfolding in the headlights.
Truly a phlegmatic little hound.
Outside Skeldale House I tucked him under my arm and was about to turn
the handle of the front door when I paused. Tristan had notched up a
long succession of successful pranks against me fake telephone calls,
the ghost in my bedroom and many others and in fact, good friends as we
were, he never neglected a chance to take the mickey out of me. In
this situation, with the positions reversed, he would be merciless. I
put my finger on the bell and leaned on it for several long seconds.
For some time there was neither sound nor movement from within and I
pictured the cowering figure mustering his courage before marching to
his doom.
Then the light came on in the passage and as I peered expectantly
through the glass a nose appeared round the far corner followed very
gingerly by a wary eye. By degrees the full face inched into view and
when Tristan recognised my grinning countenance he unleashed a cry of
rage and bounded along the passage with upraised fist.
I really think that in his distraught state he would have attacked me,
but the sight of Hamish banished all else. He grabbed the hairy
creature and began to fondle him.
"Good little dog, nice little dog," he crooned as he trotted through to
the sit ting room.
"What a beautiful thing you are." He laid him lovingly in the basket,
and Hamish, after a 'heigh-ho, here we are again' glance around him,
put his head along his side and promptly went to sleep.
Tristan fell limply into the armchair and gazed at me with glazed
eyes.
"Well, we're saved, Jim," he whispered.
"But I'll never be the same after tonight. I've run bloody miles and
I've nearly lost my voice with shouting. I tell you I'm about
knackered."
I too was vastly relieved, and the nearness of catastrophe was brought
home to us when Miss Wester man arrived within ten minutes.
"Oh, my darling!" she cried as Hamish leaped at her, mouth open, short
tail wagging furiously.
"I've been so worried about you all day."
She looked tentatively at the ear with its rows of buttons.
"Oh, it does look a lot better without that horrid swelling and what a
nice neat job you have made. Thank you, Mr Herriot, and thank you,
too, young man."
~Tristan, who had staggered to his feet, bowed slightly as I showed the
lady _ out.
Vet in a Spin ~1 "Bring him back in six weeks to have the stitches
out," I called to her as she
Y~
left, then I rushed back into the room.
"SiegEried's just pulled up outside! You'd better look as if you've
been working ~ He rushed to the bookshelves, pulled down Gaiger and
Davis's Bacteriology ' and a notebook and dived into a chair. When his
brother came in he was utterly , engrossed.
Siegfried moved over to the fire and warmed his hands. He looked pink
and' mellow. ' "I've just been speaking to Miss Wester man," he
said.
"She's really pleased.
i,if Well done, both of you."
"Thank you," I said, but Tristan was too busy to reply, scanning the
pages anxiously and scribbling repeatedly in the notebook.
Siegfried walked behind the young man's chair and looked down at the
open ~: volume.
"Ah yes, Clostridium septique," he murmured, smiling indulgently.
"That's a good one to study. Keeps coming up in exams." He rested a
hand briefly on his brother's shoulder.
"I'm glad to see you at work. You've been raking about too much lately
and it's get ting you down. A night at your books will have been good
for you."
He yawned, stretched, and made for the door.
"I'm off to bed. I'm rather sleepy." He paused with his hand on the
door.
"You know, Tristan, I quite envy you there's nothing like a nice
restful evening at home."
Chapter Eighteen When I was discharged from hospital I expected to be
posted straight overseas and I wondered if I would be able to catch up
with my old flight and my friends.
However, I learned with surprise that I had~ to go to a convalescent
home for a fortnight before any further action could be taken. This
was in Puddle stone, near Leo minster - a lovely mansion house in acres
of beautiful gardens. It was presided over by a delightful old matron
with whom we fortunate airmen played sedate games of croquet or walked
in the cool woods; it was easy to imagine there was no such thing as a
war. Two weeks of this treatment left me feeling revitalised. It
wouldn't be long, I felt, before I was back on the job.
From Puddle stone it was back to Manchester and Heat on Park again ant
this time it was st range to think that in all the great sprawl of huts
and thc crowding thousands of men in blue there wasn't a soul who knew
me.
Except, of course, the Wing Commander who had sent me to hospital in
thc first place. I had an interview with him on my arrival and he came
straight to the point.
"Herriot, "he said.
"I'm afraid you can't fly any more."
"But . . . I've had the operation . . . I'm a lot better." : ' I
know that, but you can no longer be classed as 100% fit. You have bceD
~ officially downgraded and I'm sure you realise that pilots have to be
grade o - ~i "Yes . . . of course." i^~4 He glanced at the file in
his hand.
"I see you are a veterinary-surgeon. Mn~ - this poses a problem.
Normally when an air crew man is grounded he remu~ Vet in a Spin !
on the ground staff, but yours is a reserved occupation. You really
can't serve in any capacity but air crew. Yes . . . yes . . . we'll
have to see."
It was all very impersonal and businesslike. Those few words coming
from a man like him left no room for argument and they obliterated at a
stroke every picture I had ever had of my future in the RAF.
I was fairly cert ain that if my flying days were over I would be
discharged from the service and as I left the Wing Commander's office
and walked slowly back to my hut at the other end of the park I
pondered on my contribution to the war effort.
I hadn't fired a shot in anger. I had peeled mountains of potatoes,
washed countless dishes, shovelled coke, mucked out pigs, marched for
miles, drilled interminably, finally and magically learned to fly and
now it was all for nothing.
I passed the big dining hall and the RAF march blared out at me from
the loudspeakers.
The familiar sound reminded me of so many experiences, so many friends,
and suddenly I felt intensely lonely. I want
ed somebody to talk to. It
was a new sensation for me, and there, in those unlikely surroundings,
I began to realise how much I used to enjoy chatting to the farmers
during my veterinary calls.
It is one of the nicest things about country practice, but you have to
keep your mind on the job at the same time or you could be in trouble.
And at Mr Duggleby's I nearly landed in the biggest trouble of all. He
was a small holder who kept a few sows and reared the litters to pork
weight in some ramshackle sheds behind the railway line outside Darrow
by.
He was also a cricket fanatic, steeped in the lore and history of the
game, and he would talk about it for hours on end. He never tired of
it.
I was a willing listener because cricket has al ways fascinated me,
even though I grew up in Scotland where it is little played. As I
moved among the pigs only part of my attention was focused on the
little animals most of me was out on the great green oval at Headingley
with the Yorkshire heroes.
"By yaw, you should've seen Len Hut ton on Saturday," he breathed
reverently.
"A hundred and eighty and never gave a chance. It was lovely to watch
'im." He gave a fair imitation of the great man's cover drive.
"Yes, I can imagine ft." I nodded and smiled.
"You said these pigs were lame, Mr Duggleby?"
"Aye, noticed a few of 'em hop pin' about with a leg up this morn in'.
And you know, Maurice Leyland was nearly as good. Not as classy as
Len, the knows, but by heck 'e can clump 'em."
"Yes, he's a lion-hearted little player is Maurice," I said. I reached
down grabbed a pig by the tail and thrust my thermometer into its
rectum.
"Remember him and Eddie Paynter in the test match against Australia?"
He gave a dreamy smile.
"Remember it? By yaw, that's sum mat I'll never forget. What a day
that was."
I withdrew the thermometer.
"This little chap's got a temperature of a hundred and five. Must be
some infection somewhere maybe a touch of joint ill." I felt my way
along the small pink limbs.
"And yet it's funny, the joints aren't swollen."
"Ah reckon Bill Bowes'll skittle Somerset out when they start their
innings today. This wicket's just to 'is liking."
"Yes, he's a great bowler, isn't he?" I said.
"I love watching a good fast bowler.
I suppose you'll have seen them all Larwood, Voce, GO. Allen and the
rest?"
"Aye, that I have. I could go on all day about those men."
I caught another of the lame pigs and examined it.
"This is rather st range, i~Mr Duggleby. About half the pigs in this
pen seem to be lame but there's nothing to see."
"Aye well, happen it's like you said joint ill. You can give 'em a jab
for that, :~ i : :~ : : : can't you? And while you're coin' it I'll
tell you of the time I saw Wilfred Rhodes take eight wickets in an
afternoon' I filled a syringe.
"Right, we'd better give them all a shot. Have you got a marking
pencil there?"
The farmer nodded and lifted one of the little animals which promptly
unleashed a protesting scream.
"There was never anybody like awd Wilfred," he shouted above the
noise.
"It was about half past two and the wicket had had a shower of rain on
it when "'skipper threw 'im the ball."
I smiled and raised my syringe. It passed the time so pleasantly
listening to these reminiscences. Well content, I was about to plunge
the needle into the pink thigh when one of the pigs began to nibble at
the heel of my wellington I looked down at a ring of the little
creatures all loo king up at me, alarmed by the shrill screeches of
their friend.
My mind was still with Wilfred Rhodes when I noticed what looked like a
small white knob on one of the up tilted snouts. And there was another
on that one and that one . . . I had been unable to see their faces
until now because they had been trying to run away from me, but a
warning bell clanged suddenly in my head.
I reached down and seized a pig, and as I squeezed the swelling on the
snout a cold wind blew through me, scattering the gentle vision of
cricket and sunshine and green grass. It wasn't a knob, it was a
vesicle, a delicate blister which ruptured easily on pressure.
I could feel my arms shaking as I turned the piglet up and began to
examine the tiny cloven feet. There were more vesicles there, flatter
and mQre diflfuse, but tell ing the same dread story.
Dry-mouthed, I lifted two other pigs. They were just the same. As I
turned to the farmer I felt bowed down by a crushing weight of pity,
almost of guilt.
He was still smiling eagerly, anxious to get on with his tale, and I
was about to give him the worst news a veterinary surgeon can give a
stocks man.
"Mr Duggleby," I said.
"I'm afraid I'll have to telephone the Ministry of Agriculture."
"The Ministry . . .? What for?"
"To tell them I have a case of suspected Foot and Mouth Disease."
"Foot and Mouth? Never!"
"Yes, I'm terribly sorry."
"Are you sure?"
"It's not up to me to be definite about it, Mr Duggleby. One of the
Minis by officers will have to do that I must phone them right away."
It was an unlikely place to find a telephone but Mr Duggleby ran a
little coal delivery round on the side. I was quickly through to the
Ministry and I spoke to Neville Craggs, one of the full time
officers.
He groaned.
"Sounds awful like it, Jim. Anyway, stay put till I see you."
In the farm kitchen Mr Duggleby looked at me enquiringly.
"What now?"
"You'll just have to put up with me for a bit," I said.
"I can't leave till I get the verdict."
He was silent for a moment.
"What happens if it's what you think?"
"I'm afraid your pigs will have to be slaughtered."
"Every one of 'em?"
"That is the law I'm sorry. But you'll get compensation He scratched
his head.
"But they can get better. Why do you have to kill 'em all?"
"You're quite right." I shrugged.
"Many animals do recover, but Foot and.
Mouth is fiercely infectious. While you were treating them it would
have spreat, to neighbouring farms, then all over the country." ~
"Aye, but look at the expense. Slaughtering must cost thousands o'
pounds~]
/ ~J
"I agree, but it would cost a lot more the other way. Apart from the
animals that die, just think of the loss of milk, loss of flesh in
cows, pigs and sheep. It would come to millions every year. It's
lucky Britain is an island."
"Reckon you'll be right." He felt for his pipe.
"And you're pretty sure I've got "Yes."
"Aye well," he murmured.
"These things 'appen."
The old Yorkshire words. I had heard them so often under circumstances
which would make most city folk, including myself, beat their heads
against a wall. Mr Duggleby's sm
all holding would soon be a silent
place of death, but he just chewed his pipe and said,
"These things 'appen."
It didn't take the Ministry long to make up their minds. The source of
the infection was almost certainly some imported meat which Mr Duggleby
hadn't boiled properly with his swill. The disease was confirmed and a
fifteen mile radius standstill order was imposed. I disinfected myself
and my car and went home. I undressed, my clothes were taken away for
fumigation and I climbed into a hot antiseptic bath.
Lying there in the steam, I pondered on what might have been. If I had
failed to spot the disease I would have gone merrily on my way,
spreading destruction and havoc. I al ways washed my boots before
leaving a farm, but how about those little pigs nibbling round the hem
of my long coat, how about my syringe, even my thermometer? My next
call was to have been to Terence Bailey's pedigree herd of dairy short
horns - two hundred peerless cows, a strain built up over generations.
Foreigners came from all over the world to buy them and I could have
been the cause of their annihilation.
And then there was Mr Duggleby himself. I could picture him rattling
around the farms in his coal wagon. He would have done his bit of
spreading, too. And like as not he would have taken a few store pigs
to the auction mart this week sending the deadly contagion all over
Yorkshire and beyond. It was easy to see how a major outbreak could
have started a disaster of national importance costing millions.
If I hadn't been sweating already I would have started now at the very
thought of it. I would have joined the unhappy band of practitioners
who had missed Foot and Mouth.
I knew of some of these people and my heart bled for them. It could
happen so easily. Busy men trying to examine kicking, struggling
animals in dark buildings with perhaps part of their mind on the list
of calls ahead. And the other hazards the total unexpectedness, the
atypical case, various distractions.
My distraction had been cricket and it had nearly caused my downfall.
But I had escaped and, huddling lower in the hot water, I said a silent
prayer of thanks.
Later, with a complete change of clothes and instruments, I continued
on my rounds and as I stood in Terence Bailey's long byre I realised my
luck again.
The long rows of beautiful animals, meticulously groomed, firm high
udders pushing between their hocks, delicate heads, fine legs deep in
straw; they were a picture of bovine perfection and quite
irreplaceable.
Once Foot and Mouth is confirmed in a district there is a tense period
of waiting.
Farmers, veterinary surgeons and most of all, Ministry officials are on
the rack, wondering if there has been any dissemination before
diagnosis, bracing themselves against the telephone message which could
herald the raging spread which they dreaded and which would tear their
lives apart.
To the city dwellers a big Foot and Mouth outbreak is something remote
which they read about in the newspapers. To the country folk it means
the : ~ : : id; : / 7U ~ G. 16 ~ - ~."- i transformation of the quiet
farms and fields into charnel houses and funeral ~ l pyres. It means
heartbreak and ruin.
We waited in Darrow by. And as the days passed and no frightening news
of ~ lame or salivating animals came over the wires it seemed that the
Duggleby :] episode was what we hoped an isolated case caused by a few
shreds of imported meat.
I almost bathed in disinfectant on every farm, sloshing a strong
solution of Iysol over my boots and protective clothing so that my car