Vets Might Fly Read online

  the new-turned soil glittered sun, contrasting with the gold stubble

  fields and the "p clustered around their feeding troughs. There w~

  rose straight from the farm chimneys and the ba' were still as they

  stretched across the cold sky.

  it pulled at me. A man in breeches and leggings of hay to some

  outlying cattle; a group of far' the fragrance of the wood smoke

  finding i' '`onger as the hours passed and the beginnin' 'o' jan to

  appear beyond the windows. Mayk past him and out into l~. ~ ~.,wby;

  Helen's home was near the bus route That part had been almo~ on.

  the deserted space between the ~ ~O turned her head as I walked into

  it better once I had rounded the corntl ~ed with astonishment; in fact

  I know." Chapter Twelve Hey you! Where 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!"

  ~ c`." 1~ll,grrr r~y He snatched it from my hand, read it and returned

  it without loo king 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 get ting out of my car.

  "Where's Mr Far non?" he grunted.

  My toes curled. I had heard that often enough, especially among the

  horse fraternity around Darrow by.

  "I'm sorry, Mr Beamish, but he'll be away all day and I thought I'd

  better come along rather than leave it till tomorrow."

  He made no attempt to hide his disgust. He blew out his fat, purpled

  cheeks, dug his hands deep in his breeches pockets and looked at the

  sky with a martyred air.

  "Well come on, then." He turned and stumped away on his short, thick

  legs towards one of the boxes which bordered the yard. I sighed

  inwardly as 1; followed him. Being an un horsey vet in Yorkshire was a

  penance at times, especially in a racing stable like this which was an

  equine shrine. Siegfried, apart altogether from his intuitive skill,

  was able to talk the horse language.

  He could discuss effortlessly and at length the breeding and points of

  his patients; he rode, he hunted, he even looked the part with his long

  aristocratic face, The trainers loved him and some, like Beamish, took

  it as a mortal insult when he failed to come in person to minister to

  their valuable charges.

  He called to one of the lads who opened a box door.

  "He's in there," he muttered.

  "Came in lame from exercise this morning."

  The lad led out a bay gelding and there was no need to trot the animal

  to diagnose the affected leg; he nodded down on his near fore in an

  unmistakable way.

  "I think he's lame in the shoulder," Beamish said.

  I went round the other side of the horse and picked up the off fore. I

  cleaned out the frog and sole with a hoof knife; there was no sign of

  bruising and no sensitivity when I tapped the handle of the knife

  against the horn.

  I felt my way up over the coronet to the fetlock and after some

  palpation I located a spot near the distal end of the metacarpus which

  was painful on 4, pressure. t I looked up from my crouching

  position.

  "This seems to be the trouble, Mr Beamish. I think he must have struck

  into himself with his hind foot just there."

  "Where?" The trainer leaned over me and peered down at the le r.

  "I can't see j any thing."

  "No, the skin isn't broken, but he flinches if you press here."

  Beamish prodded the place with a stubby forefinger.

  clipped moustache and lean frame.

  "I~L~ . ~ _ _ ~ I.... ... ~..

  ~S"' "J

  ~Well, he does," he grunted.

  "But he'd flinch anywhere if you squeeze him like you're doing."

  My hackles began to rise at his tone but I kept my voice calm.

  "I'm sure that's what it is. I should apply a hot antiphlogistine

  poultice just above the fetlock and alternate with a cold hose on it

  twice a day."

  Well, I'm just as sure you're wrong. It's not down there at all. The

  way that horse carries his leg he's hurt his shoulder." He gestured to

  the lad.

  "Harry, see that he gets some heat on that shoulder right away."

  If the man had struck me I couldn't have felt worse. I opened my mouth

  to argue but he was walking away.

  "There's another horse I want you to look at," he said. He led the way

  into a nearby box and pointed to a big brown animal with obvious signs

  of blistering on the tendons of a fore limb.

  "Mr Far non put a red blister on that leg six months ago. He's been

  resting in here ever since. He's going sound now d'you think he's

  ready to go out?"

  I went over and ran my fingers over the length of the flexor tendons,

  feeling for signs of thickening. There was none. Then I lifted the

  foot and as I explored further I found a tender area in the superficial

  flexor.

  I straightened up.

  "He's still a bit sore," I said: "I think it would be safer to keep him

  in for a bit longer."

  "Can't agree with you," Beamish snapped. He turned to the lad.

  "Turn him out, Harry."

  I stared at him. Was this a deliberate campaign to make me feel small?

  Was he trying to rub in the fact that he didn't think much of me?

  Anyway, he was beginning to get under my skin and I hoped my burning

  face wasn't too obvious.

  "One thing more," Beamish said.

  "There's a horse through here been coughing.

  Have a look at him before you go."

  We went through a narrow passage into a smaller yard and Harry entered

  a box and got hold of a horse's head collar. I followed him, fishing

  out my thermometer.

  As I approached the animal's rear end he laid back his ears, whickered

  and began to caper around. I hesitated, then nodded to the lad.

  "Lift his fore leg while I take his temperature, will you?" I said.

  The lad bent down and seized the foot but Beamish broke in.

  "Don't bother, Harry, there's no need for that. He's quiet as a

  sheep."

  I paused for a moment. I