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  It was the “ket feller.” He had exactly the same type of wagon as Mallock and he went round a wide area of Yorkshire picking animals which even the knacker men didn’t want. It was a strange job and he was a strange-looking man. The oddly piercing eyes glittered uncannily from under a tattered army peaked cap.

  “Wot’s up, guvnor?” He removed a cigarette from his mouth and spat companionably into the roadway.

  My throat was tight “I—I’m sorry. I thought you were Jeff Mallock.”

  The eyes did not change expression, but the corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “If tha wants Jeff he’ll be back at his yard now, ah reckon.” He spat again and replaced his cigarette.

  I nodded dully. Jeff would be there now all right—long ago. I had been chasing the wrong wagon for about an hour and that cow would be dead and hanging up on hooks at this moment. The knacker man was a fast and skillful worker and wasted no time when he got back with his beasts.

  “Well, ah’m off ’ome now,” the ket feller said. “So long, boss.” He winked at me, started his engine and the big vehicle rumbled away.

  I trailed back to my car. There was no hurry now. And strangely, now that all was lost my mood relaxed. In fact, as I drove away, a great calm settled on me and I began to assess my future with cool objectivity. I would be drummed out of the Ministry’s service for sure, and idly I wondered if they had any special ceremony for the occasion—perhaps a ritual stripping of the Panel Certificates or something of the sort.

  I tried to put away the thought that more than the Ministry would be interested in my latest exploit. How about the Royal College? Did they strike you off for something like this? Well, it was possible, and in my serene state of mind I toyed with the possibilities of alternative avenues of employment. I had often thought it must be fun to run a second hand book shop and now that I began to consider it seriously I felt sure there was an opening for one in Darrowby. I experienced a comfortable glow at the vision of myself sitting under the rows of dusty volumes, pulling one down from the shelf when I felt like it or maybe just looking out into the street through the window from my safe little world where there were no forms or telephones or messages saying “Ring Min.”

  In Darrowby I drove round without haste to the knacker yard. I left my car outside the grim little building with the black smoke drifting from its chimney. I pulled back the sliding door and saw Jeff seated at his ease on a pile of cow hides, holding a slice of apple pie in blood-stained fingers. And, ah yes, there, Just behind him hung the two great sides of beef and on the floor, the lungs, bowels and other viscera—the sad remnants of Mr. Moverley’s pedigree Ayrshire.

  “Hello, Jeff,” I said.

  “Now then, Mr. Harriot.” He gave me the beatific smile which mirrored his personality so well. “Ah’m just havin’ a little snack. I allus like a bite about this time.” He sank his teeth into the pie and chewed appreciatively.

  “So I see.” I sorrowfully scanned the hanging carcase. Just dog meat and not even much of that Ayrshires were never very fat. I was wondering how to break the news to him when he spoke again.

  “Ah’m sorry you’ve caught me out this time, Mr. Herriot,” he said, reaching for a greasy mug of tea.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I allus reckon to have t’beast dressed and ready for you but you’ve come a bit early.”

  I stared at him. “ But … everything’s here, surely.” I waved a hand around me.

  “Nay, nay, that’s not ’er.”

  “You mean … that isn’t the cow from Moverley’s.”

  “That’s right.” He took a long draught from the mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I ’ad to do this ’un first. Moverley’s cow’s still in t’wagon out at the back.”

  “Alive?”

  He looked mildly surprised. “Aye, of course. She’s never had a finger on ’er. Nice cow for a screw, too.”

  I could have fainted with relief. “She’s no screw, Jeff. That’s the wrong cow you’ve got there!”

  “Wrong cow?” Nothing ever startled him but he obviously desired more information. I told him the whole story.

  When I had finished, his shoulders began to shake gently and the beautiful clear eyes twinkled in the pink face.

  “Well, that’s a licker,” he murmured, and continued to laugh gently. There was nothing immoderate in his mirth and indeed nothing I had said disturbed him in the least. The fact that he had wasted his journey or that the farmer might be annoyed was of no moment to him.

  Again, looking at Jeff Mallock, it struck me, as many times before, that there was nothing like a lifetime of dabbling among diseased carcases and lethal bacteria for breeding tranquillity of mind.

  “You’ll slip back and change the cow?” I said.

  “Aye, in a minute or two. There’s nowt spoilin’. Ah never likes to hurry me grub.” He belched contentedly. “And how about you, Mr. Herriot? You could do with summat to keep your strength up.” He produced another mug and broke off a generous wedge of pie which he offered to me.

  “No … no … er … no, thank you, Jeff. It’s kind of you, but no … no … not just now.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled as he stretched an arm for his pipe which was balanced on a sheep’s skull. Flicking away some shreds of stray tissue from the stem he applied a match and settled down blissfully on the hides.

  “I’ll see ye later, then,” he said. “Come round tonight and everything’ll be ready for you.” He closed his eyes and again his shoulders quivered. “Ah’d better get the right ’un this time.”

  It must be more than twenty years since I took a cow under the TB Order, because the clinical cases so rarely exist now. “Ring Min” no longer has the power to chill my blood, and the dread forms which scarred my soul lie unused and yellowing in the bottom of a drawer.

  All these things have gone from my life. Charles Harcourt has gone too, but I think of him every day when I look at the little barometer which still hangs on my wall.

  CHAPTER 35

  THE FOOD WAS SO good at the Winckfield flying school that it was said that those airmen whose homes were within visiting distance wouldn’t take a day’s leave because they might miss some culinary speciality. Difficult to believe, maybe, but I often think that few people in wartime Britain fared as well as the handful of young men in the scatter of wooden huts on that flat green stretch outside Windsor.

  It wasn’t as though we had a French chef, either. The cooking was done by two grizzled old men—civilians who wore cloth caps and smoked pipes and went about their business with unsmiling taciturnity.

  It was rumoured that they were two ex-army cooks from the first world war, but whatever their origins they were artists. In their hands, simple stews and pies assumed a new significance and it was possible to rhapsodise even over the perfect flouriness of their potatoes.

  So it was surprising when at lunch time my neighbour on the left threw down his spoon, pushed away his plate and groaned. We ate on trestle tables, sitting in rows on long forms, and I was right up against the young man.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “This apple dumpling is terrific.”

  “Ah, it’s not the grub.” He buried his face in his hands for a few seconds then looked at me with tortured eyes. “I’ve been doing circuits and bumps this morning with Routledge and he’s torn the knackers off me—all the time, it never stopped.”

  Suddenly my own meal lost some of its flavour. I knew just what he meant. F. O. Woodham did the same to me.

  He gave me another despairing glance then stared straight ahead.

  “I know one thing, Jim. I’ll never make a bloody pilot.”

  His words sent a chill through me. He was voicing the conviction which had been gradually growing in me. I never seemed to make any progress—whatever I did was wrong, and I was losing heart. Like all the others I was hoping to be graded pilot, but after every session with F. O. Woodham the idea of ever flying an aeroplane all on my own s