Vets Might Fly Read online

  tray with a pint mug of steaming coffee and two thick slices of bread

  and honey. He placed it on a bale of straw and pulled up an upturned

  bucket as a chair before hopping on to a meal bin where he sat like a

  pixie on a toadstool with his arms around his knees, regarding me with

  keen anticipation.

  "The servants are still abed, old chap," he said.

  "So I made this little bite for you myself."

  I sank on to the bucket and took a long pull at the coffee. It was

  black and scalding with a kick like a Galloway bullock and it spread

  like fire through my tired frame. Then I bit into the first slice of

  bread; home made, plastered thickly with farm butter and topped by a

  lavish layer of heather honey from the long row of hives I had often

  seen on the edge of the moor above. I closed my eyes in reverence as I

  chewed, then as I reached for the pint pot again I looked up at the

  small figure on the bin.

  "May I say, sir, that this isn't a bite, it's a feast. It is all

  absolutely delicious."

  His face lit up with impish glee.

  "Well, dash it . . . do you really think so?

  I'm so pleased. And you've done nobly, dear boy. Can't tell you how

  grateful I am."

  As I continued to eat ecstatically, feeling the strength ebbing back,

  he glanced uneasily into the pen.

  "Herriot . . . those stitches. Don't like the look of them much . .

  ."

  "Oh yes," I said.

  "They're just a precaution. You can nick them out in a couple of

  days."

  "Splendid! But won't they leave a wound? We'd better put something on

  there."

  I paused in mid chew. Here it was again. He only needed his

  Propamidine to complete his happiness.

  "Yes, old chap, we must apply some of that Prip ... Prom . . . oh hell

  and blast, it's no good!" He threw back his head and bellowed,

  "Charlie!"

  The foreman appeared in the entrance, touching his cap.

  "Morning, m'lord."

  "Morning, Charlie. See that this sow gets some of that wonderful cream

  on her. What the blazes d'you call it again?"

  Charlie swallowed and squared his shoulders.

  "Propopamide, m'lord."

  The little man threw his arms high in delight.

  "Of course, of course!

  Propopamide! I wonder if I'll ever be able to get that word out?" He

  looked admiringly at his foreman.

  "Charlie, you never fail I don't know how you do it."

  Charlie bowed gravely in acknowledgement.

  Lord Hulton turned to me. "You'll let us have some more Propopamide,

  won't you, Herriot?"

  "Certainly," I replied.

  "I think I have some in the car."

  Sitting there on the bucket amid the mixed aroma of pig and barley meal

  and coffee I could almost feel the waves of pleasure beating on me. His

  lordship was clearly enchanted by the whole business, Charlie was

  wearing the superior smile l ..... .

  which always accom panied his demonstrations of lingual dexterity, and

  as for myself I was experiencing a mounting euphoria.

  I could see into the pen and the sight was rewarding. The little pigs

  who had been sheltered in a large box during the operation were back

  with their mother, side by side in a long pink row as their tiny mouths

  enclosed the teats. The sow seemed to be letting her milk down, too,

  because there was no frantic scramble for position, just a rapt

  concentration.

  She was a fine pedigree pig and instead of Lying on the butcher's slab

  today she would be star ting to bring up her family. As though reading

  my thoughts she gave a series of contented grunts and the old feeling

  began to bubble in me, the deep sense of fulfilment and satisfaction

  that comes from even the smallest triumph and makes our lives worth

  while.

  And there was something else. A new thought stealing into my

  consciousness with a delicious fresh tingle about it. At this moment,

  who else in the length and breadth of Britain was eating a breakfast

  personally prepared and served by a marquis?

  Chapter Three I am afraid of dentists.

  I am particularly afraid of strange dentists, so before I went into the

  RAF I made sure my teeth were in order. Everybody told me they were

  very strict about the air crews' teeth and I didn't want some unknown

  prodding around in my mouth. There had to be no holes anywhere or they

  would start to ache away up there in the sky, so they said.

  So before my call-up I went to old Mr Grover in Darrow by and he

  painstakingly did all that was necessary. He was good at his job and

  was always gentle and careful and didn't strike the same terror into me

  as other dentists.

  All I felt when I went to his surgery was a dryness of the throat and a

  quivering at the knees, and providing I kept my eyes tightly shut all

  the time I managed to get through the visit fairly easily.

  My fear of dentists dates back to my earliest experiences in the

  twenties. As a child I was taken to the dread Hector McDarroch in

  Glasgow and he did my dental work right up to my teens. Friends of my

  youth tell me that he inspired a similar lasting fear in them, too, and

  in fact there must be a whole generation of Glaswegians who feel the

  same.

  Of course you couldn't blame Hector entirely. The equipment in those

  days was primitive and a visit to any dental practitioner was an

  ordeal. But Hector with his booming laugh, was so large and

  overpowering that he made it worse.

  Actually he was a very nice man, cheerful and good-natured, but the

  other side of him blotted it all out.

  The electric drill had not yet been invented or if it had, it hadn't

  reached Scotland, and Hector bored holes in teeth with a fearsome

  foot-operated machine.

  There was a great wheel driven by a leather belt and this powered the

  drill, and as you lay in the chair two things dominated the outlook;

  the wheel whirring by your ear and Hector's huge knee pistoning almost

  into your face as he pedalled furiously.

  He came from the far north and at the Highland games he used to array

  himself in kilt and sporran and throw cabers around like matchsticks.

  He was so big and strong that I always felt hopelessly trapped in that

  chair with his bulk over me and the wheel grinding and the pedal

  thumping. He didn't exactly put his foot on my chest but he had me all

  right.

  And it didn't worry him when he got into the sensitive parts with his

  drill; my strangled cries were of no avail and he carried on

  remorselessly to the end.

  I had the impression that Hector thought it was cissy to feel pain, or

  maybe he was of the opinion that suffering was good for the soul.

  Anyway, since those days I've had a marked preference for small frail

  soft spoken dentists like Mr Grover. I like to feel that if it came to

  a stand-up fight I would have a good chance of victory and escape.

  Also, Mr Grover understood that people were afraid, and that helped. I

  remember him chuckling when he told me about the big farm men who came

  to have their teeth extracted. Many