James Herriot (13 page)

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 compassionate 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 Darrowby at five o’clock, and another leaving Darrowby at six which arrived in Scarborough at nine. Six hours travelling to have one hour with Helen. It was worth it.

At first I couldn’t see a way of getting 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, corpora! 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.

“Tryin’ to get tae 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 tae see yer wife? Are ye—daft or whit?”

“It’s no’ far, corp. She lives in Darrowby. Three hours in the bus. Ah wid be back tonight.”

“Back tonight! Ye want yer—heid examinin’!”

“I’ve got tae go!”

“Eyes front!” 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.

“D’ye 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! D’ye want tae get me—shot?”

“No, corp, just want tae get to the bus station.”

“Jesus! Is that a’?” He gave me a final incredulous look before quickening his steps to the head of the column. When he returned he surveyed me again.

“Whit part o’ Glesca are ye frae?”

“Scotstounhill,” I replied. “How about you?”

“Govan.”

I turned my head slightly towards him. “Ranger supporter, eh?”

He did not change expression, but an eyebrow flickered and I knew I had him.

“Whit a team!” I murmured reverently. “Many’s the time I’ve stood on the terraces at Ibrox.”

He said nothing and I began to recite the names of the great Rangers team of the thirties. “Dawson, Gray, McDonald, Meiklejohn, Simpson, Brown.” His 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, cmon, 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 Govan pubs. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had turned out to be a Celtic supporter at that decisive moment because I had the Celtic team on my tongue all ready to trot out, starting with Kennaway, Cook, McGonigle. It is not the only time 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 and thoughts; the teeming thousands of uniformed men, the RAF and army vehicles, the almost palpable atmosphere of anticipation and suspense. And suddenly it all just stopped.

It vanished as the wide sweep of grey-blue sea fell beneath the rising ground behind the town, and as the bus trundled westward I looked out on a landscape of untroubled peace. The long moist furrows of the new-turned soil glittered under the pale February sun, contrasting with the gold stubble fields and the grassy pastures where sheep clustered around their feeding troughs. There was no wind and the smoke rose straight from the farm chimneys and the bare branches of the roadside trees were still as they stretched across the cold sky.

There were many things that pulled at me. A man in breeches and leggings carrying on his shoulder a bale of hay to some outlying cattle; a group of farm men burning hedge clippings and the fragrance of the wood smoke finding its way into the bus. The pull was stronger as the hours passed and the beginnings of my own familiar countryside began to appear beyond the windows. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t see Darrowby; Helen’s home was near the bus route and I dropped off well short of the town.

She was alone in the house and she turned her head as I walked into the kitchen. The delight on her face was mixed with astonishment; in fact I know 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 flagged floor clasped together for a long time with neither of us saying much.

When I released her she looked at me, wide-eyed. “I hardly knew you when you walked in then.”

“I felt the same way about you.”

“I’m not surprised.” She laughed and rested her hand on her bulging abdomen. “He’s kicking like mad now. I’m sure it’s going to be a boy.” A fleeting concern showed in her eyes and she reached out a hand and touched my fleshless cheeks. “Don’t they feed you properly?”

“Oh, the food’s very good,” I replied. “But unfortunately they run it all off again.”

“Anyway, I’ll get you a good meal now.” She gazed at me thoughtfully. “Pity we’ve finished our meat ration, but how about some egg and chips?”

“Marvellous.”

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-cheeked 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-looking and ugly. I was aware that austerity had taken over in England and that a lot of things were shoddy, but I desperately wished 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 Scarborough 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 getting 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. What a tremendous relief to see her looking so wonderful, and though the simple repast of egg and chips had seemed like a banquet I realised that my greatest nourishment had been feasting my eyes on Helen. That dress still niggled at me as it has, for some reason, right down the years, but compared with the other elements of that magic hour it was a little thing.

“H
EY YOU!
W
HERE THE
’ell d’you think you’re goin’?”

Coming from the RAF Special Police it was a typical mode of address and the man who barked it out wore the usual truculent expression.

“Extra navigation class, corporal,” I replied.

“Lemme see your pass!”

He snatched it from my hand, read it and returned it without looking at me. I slunk out into the street feeling like a prisoner on parole.

Not all the SPs were like that but I found most of them lacking in charm. And it brought home to me with a rush something which had been slowly dawning on me ever since I joined the Air Force; that I had been spoiled for quite a long time now. Spoiled by the fact that I had always been treated with respect because I was a veterinary surgeon, a member of an honourable profession. And I had taken it entirely for granted.

Now I was an AC2, the lowest form of life in the RAF, and the “Hey you!” was a reflection of my status. The Yorkshire farmers don’t rush out and kiss you, but their careful friendliness and politeness is something which I have valued even more since my service days. Because that was when I stopped taking it for granted.

Mind you, you have to put up with a certain amount of cheek in most jobs, and veterinary practice is no exception. Even now I can recall the glowering face of Ralph Beamish, the racehorse trainer, as he watched me getting out of my car.