James Herriot (52 page)

I was fairly certain 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 and cut off. It was a new sensation for me, and there, in those unlikely surroundings, I began to think of old Mr. Potts from my veterinary days. He must have felt like that.

“How are you, Mr. Herriot?”

Ordinary words, but the eagerness, almost desperation in the old man’s voice made them urgent and meaningful.

I saw him nearly every day. In my unpredictable life it was difficult to do anything regularly but I did like a stroll by the river before lunch and so did my beagle, Sam. That was when we met Mr. Potts and Nip, his elderly sheepdog—they seemed to have the same habits as we did. His house backed on to the riverside fields and he spent a lot of time just walking around with his dog.

Many retired farmers kept a bit of land and a few stock to occupy their minds and ease the transition from their arduous existence to day-long leisure, but Mr. Potts had bought a little bungalow with a scrap of garden and it was obvious that time dragged.

Probably his health had dictated this. As he faced me he leaned on his stick and his bluish cheeks rose and fell with his breathing. He was a heart case if ever I saw one.

“I’m fine, Mr. Potts,” I replied. “And how are things with you?”

“Nobbut middlin’, lad. Ah soon get short o’ wind.” He coughed a couple of times then asked the inevitable question.

“And what have you been doin’ this mornin’?” That was when his eyes grew intent and wide. He really wanted to know.

I thought for a moment “Well now, let’s see.” I always tried to give him a detailed answer because I knew it meant a lot to him and brought back the life he missed so much. “I’ve done a couple of cleansings, seen a lame bullock, treated two cows with mastitis and another with milk fever.”

He nodded eagerly at every word.

“By gaw!” he exclaimed. “It’s a beggar, that milk fever. When I were a lad, good cows used to die like flies with it. Allus good milkers after their third or fourth calf. Couldn’t get to their feet and we used to dose ’em with all sorts, but they died, every one of ’em.”

“Yes,” I said. “It must have been heartbreaking in those days.”

“But then.” He smiled delightedly, digging a forefinger into my chest. “Then we started blowin’ up their udders wi’ a bicycle pump, and d’you know—they jumped up and walked away. Like magic it were.” His eyes sparkled at the memory.

“I know, Mr. Potts, I’ve blown up a few myself, only I didn’t use a bicycle pump—I had a special little inflation apparatus.”

That black box with its shining cylinders and filter is now in my personal museum, and it is the best place for it. It had got me out of some difficult situations but in the background there had always been the gnawing dread of transmitting tuberculosis. I had heard of it happening and was glad that calcium borogluconate had arrived.

As we spoke, Sam and Nip played on the grass beside us. I watched as the beagle frisked round the old animal while Nip pawed at him stiff-jointedly, his tail waving with pleasure. You could see that he enjoyed these meetings as much as his master and for a brief time the years fell away from him as he rolled on his back with Sam astride him, nibbling gently at his chest.

I walked with the old farmer as far as the little wooden bridge, then I had to turn for home. I watched the two of them pottering slowly over the narrow strip of timber to the other side of the river. Sam and I had our work pressing, but they had nothing else to do.

I used to see Mr. Potts at other times, too. Wandering aimlessly among the stalls on market days or standing on the fringe of the group of farmers who always gathered in front of the Drovers’ Arms to meet cattle dealers, cow feed merchants, or just to talk business among themselves.

Or I saw him at the auction mart, leaning on his stick, listening to the rapid-fire chanting of the auctioneer, watching listlessly as the beasts were bought and sold. And all the time I knew there was an emptiness in him, because there were none of his cattle in the stalls, none of his sheep in the long rows of pens. He was out of it all, old and done.

I saw him the day before he died. It was in the usual place and I was standing at the river’s edge watching a heron rising from a rush-lined island and flapping lazily away over the fields.

The old man stopped as he came abreast of me and the two dogs began their friendly wrestling.

“Well now, Mr. Herriot.” He paused and bowed his head over the stick which he had dug into the grass of his farm for half a century. “What have you been doin’ today?”

Perhaps his cheeks were a deeper shade of blue and the breath whistled through his pursed lips as he exhaled, but I can’t recall that he looked any worse than usual.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Potts,I said. “I’m feeling a bit weary. I ran into a real snorter of a foaling this morning—took me over two hours and I ache all over.”

“Foaling, eh? Foal would be laid wrong, I reckon?”

“Yes, cross-ways on, and I had a struggle to turn it.”

“By gaw, yes, it’s hard work is that.” He smiled reminiscently. “Doesta remember that Clydesdale mare you foaled at ma place? Must ’ave been one of your first jobs when you came to Darrowby.”

“Of course I do,” I replied. And I remembered, too, how kind the old man had been. Seeing I was young and green and unsure of myself he had taken pains, in his quiet way, to put me at my ease and give me confidence. “Yes,” I went on. “It was late on a Sunday night and we had a right tussle with it. There was just the two of us but we managed, didn’t we?”

He squared his shoulders and for a moment his eyes looked past me at something I couldn’t see. “Aye, that’s right We made a job of ’er, you and me. Ah could push and pull a bit then.”

“You certainly could. There’s no doubt about that.”

He sucked the air in with difficulty and blew it out again with that peculiar pursing of the lips. Then he turned to me with a strange dignity.

“They were good days, Mr. Herriot, weren’t they?”

“They were, Mr. Potts, they were indeed.”

“Aye, aye.” He nodded slowly. “Ah’ve had a lot o’ them days. Hard but good.” He looked down at his dog. “And awd Nip shared ’em with me, didn’t ye, lad?”

His words took me back to the very first time I had seen Mr. Potts. He was perched on a stool, milking one of his few cows, his cloth-capped head thrusting into the hairy flank, and as he pulled at the teats old Nip dropped a stone on the toe of his boot. The farmer reached down, lifted the stone between two fingers and flicked it out through the open door into the yard. Nip scurried delightedly after it and was back within seconds, dropping the stone on the boot and panting hopefully.

He wasn’t disappointed. His master repeated the throw automatically as if it was something he did all the time, and as I watched it happening again and again I realised that this was a daily ritual between the two. I bad a piercing impression of infinite patience and devotion.

“Right then, Mr. Herriot, we’ll be off,” Mr. Potts said, jerking me back to the present “Come on, Nip.” He waved his stick and I watched him till a low-hanging willow branch bid man and dog from my sight.

That was the last time I saw him. Next day the man at the petrol pumps mumbled casually, “See old Mr. Potts got his time in, eh?”

And that was it. There was no excitement and only a handful of his old friends turned up at the funeral.

For me it was a stab of sorrow. Another familiar face gone, and I should miss him as my busy life went on. I knew our daily conversations had cheered him but I felt with a sad finality that there was nothing else I could do for Mr. Potts.

It was about a fortnight later and as I opened the gate to let Sam into the riverside fields I glanced at my watch. Twelve thirty—plenty of time for our pre-lunch walk and the long stretch of green was empty. Then I noticed a single dog away on the left. It was Nip, and as I watched he got up, took a few indeterminate steps over the grass then turned and sat down again at the gate of his back garden.

Instead of taking my usual route I cut along behind the houses till I reached the old dog. He had been looking around him aimlessly but when we came up to him he seemed to come to life, sniffing Sam over and wagging his tail at me.

On the other side of the gate Mrs. Potts was doing a bit of weeding, bending painfully as she plied her trowel.

“How are you, Mrs. Potts?” I said.

With an effort she straightened up. “Oh, not too bad, thank you, Mr. Herriot.” She came over and leaned on the gate. “I see you’re lookin’ at the awd dog. My word, he’s missin’ his master.”

I didn’t say anything and she went on. “He’s eating all right and I can give him plenty of good food, but what I can’t do is take ’im for walks.” She rubbed her back. “I’m plagued with rheumatics, Mr. Herriot, and it takes me all my time to get around the house and garden.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “And I don’t suppose he’ll walk by himself.”

“Nay, he won’t. There’s the path he went along every day.” She pointed to the winding strip of beaten earth among the grass. “But he won’t go more’n a few yards.”

“Ah well, dogs like a bit of company just the same as we do.” I bent and ran my hand over the old animal’s head and ears. “How would you like to come with us, Nip?”

I set off along the path and he followed unhesitatingly, trotting alongside Sam with swinging tail.

“Eee, look!” the old lady cried. “Isn’t that grand to see!”

I followed his usual route down to the river where the water ran dark and silent under the branches of the gnarled willows. Then we went over the bridge and in front of us the river widened into pebbly shallows and murmured and chattered among the stones.

It was peaceful down there with only the endless water sound and the piping of birds in my ears and the long curtain of leaves parting here and there to give glimpses of the green flanks of the fells.

I watched the two dogs frisking ahead of me and the decision came to me quite naturally; I would do this regularly. From that day I altered my route and went along behind the houses first. Nip was happy again, Sam loved the whole idea, and for me there was a strange comfort in the knowledge that there was still something I could do for Mr. Potts.

I
LOOKED AROUND ME
at the heap of boots, the piled mounds of shirts, the rows of empty shelves and pigeon holes. I was employed in the stores at Heaton Park, living proof that the RAF was finding me something of a problem.

The big war machine was rumbling along pretty smoothly by this time, turning out pilots, navigators, air-gunners in a steady stream and slotting them into different jobs if they failed to make the grade. It ticked over like a well-oiled engine as long as nothing disturbed the rhythm.

I was like a speck of sand in the works, and I could tell from various interviews that I had caused the administrators a certain amount of puzzlement. I don’t suppose Mr. Churchill was losing any sleep over me but since I wasn’t allowed to fly and was ineligible for the ground staff I was obviously a bit of a nuisance. Nobody seemed to have come across a grounded vet before.

Of course it was inevitable that I would be sent back to my practice, but I could see that it was going to take some time for the RAF to regurgitate me into civil life. Apparently I had to go through the motions even though some of them were meaningless.

One of the interviews was with three officers. They were very nice and they sat behind a table, beaming, friendly, reassuring. Their task, apparently, was to find out what ground staff job might suit me. I think they were probably psychologists and they asked me all kinds of questions, nodding and smiling kindly all the time.

“Well now, Herriot,” the middle officer said. “We are going to put you through a series of aptitude tests. It will last two days, starting tomorrow, and by the end of it I think we’ll know all about you.” He laughed. “It’s nothing to worry about. You might rather enjoy it.”

I did enjoy it, in fact I filled up great long sheets with my answers, I drew diagrams, fitted odd-shaped pieces of wood into holes. It was fun.

I had to wait another two days before I was called before the tribunal again. The three were if anything more charming than before and I seemed to sense an air of subdued excitement about them this time. They were all smiling broadly as the middle one spoke.

“Herriot, we have really found out something about you,” he said.

“You have?”

“Yes, indeed. We have found that you have an outstanding mechanical aptitude.”

I stared at him. This was a facer, because if ever there was a mechanical idiot that man is J. Herriot. I have a loathing for engines, wheels, pistons, cylinders, cogs. I can’t mend anything and if a garage mechanic tries to explain something to me I just can’t take it in.

I told the officers this and the three smiles became rather fixed.

“But surely,” said the one on the left, “you drive a car in the course of your professional work?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ve driven one for years, but I still don’t know how it works and if I break down I have to scream for help.”

‘I see, I see.” The smiles were very thin now and the three heads came together for a whispered consultation.

Finally the middle one leaned across the table.

‘Tell you what, Herriot. How would you like to be a meteorologist?”

“Fine,” I replied.

I sympathised with them, because they were obviously kind men, but I’ve never had any faith in aptitude tests since then.

Of course there was never the slightest chance of my becoming a meteorologist and I suppose that’s how I landed in the stores. It was one of the bizarre periods of my life, mercifully brief but vivid. They had told me to report to corporal Weekes at the stores hut and I made my way through the maze of roads of a Heaton Park populated by strangers.