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  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.

  CHAPTER 43

  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.

  Corporal Weekes was fat and he gave me a quick look over with crafty eyes.

  “Herriot, eh? Well you can make yourself useful around ’ere. Not much to do, really. This ain’t a main stores—we deal mainly wiv laundry and boot repairs.”

  As he spoke a fair-haired young man came in.

  “AC2 Morgan, corporal,” he said. “Come for my boots. They’ve been re-soled.”

  Weekes jerked his head and I had my first sight of the boot mountain. “They’re in there. They’ll be labelled.”

  The young man looked surprised but he came round behind the counter and began to delve among the hundreds of identical black objects. It took him nearly an hour to find his own pair during which the corporal puffed at cigarettes with a total lack of interest. When the boots were finally unearthed he wordlessly ticked off the name on a long list.

  “This is the sort of thing you’ll be doin’,” he said to me. “Nothin’to it.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. There was nothing to life in those stores. It took me only a day or two to realise the sweet existence Weekes had carved out for himself. Store-bashing is an honourable trade but not the way he did it. The innumerable compartments, niches and alcoves around the big hut were all marked with letters or numbers and there is no doubt the incoming boots and shirts should have been tucked away in order for easy recovery. But that would have involved work and the corporal was clearly averse to that.

  When the boots came in they were tipped out in the middle of the floor and the string-tied packages of laundry were stacked, shirts uppermost where they formed a blue tumulus reaching almost to the roof.

  After three days I could stand it no longer.

  “Look,” I said. “It would pass the time if I had something to do. Do you mind if I start putting all this stuff on the shelves? It would be a lot easier to hand out.”

  Weekes continued to study his magazine—he was a big reader—and at first I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then he tongued his cigarette to the corner of his mouth and glanced at me through the smoke.

  “Now just get this through your ’ead, mate,” he drawled. “If I want anything done, I’ll well tell you. I’m the boss in ’ere and I give the orders, awright?” He resumed his perusal of the magazine.

  I subsided in my chair. Clearly I had offended my overseer and I would have to leave things as they were.

  But overseer is a misnomer for Weekes because on the following day, after a final brain-washing that the procedure must remain unchanged, he disappeared and except for a few minutes each morning he left me on my own. I had nothing to do but sit there behind the wooden counter, ticking off the comings and goings of the boots and shirts and I h