Lord God Made Them All (42 page)

In fact, I tried to forget Brandy and managed to do so fairly well until one afternoon in February. On the previous night I felt I had been through the fire. I had treated a colicky horse until 4
A.M.
and was crawling into bed, comforted by the knowledge that the animal was settled down and free from pain, when I was called to a calving. I had managed to produce a large live calf from a small heifer, but the effort had drained the last of my strength, and when I got home, it was too late to return to bed.

Ploughing through the morning round, I was so tired that I felt disembodied, and at lunch Helen watched me anxiously as my head nodded over my food.

There were a few dogs in the waiting room at two o’clock, and I dealt with them mechanically, peering through half-closed eyelids.

By the time I reached my last patient, I was almost asleep on my feet. In fact, I had the feeling that I wasn’t there at all.

“Next, please,” I mumbled as I pushed open the waiting-room door and stood back, expecting the usual sight of a dog being led out to the passage.

But this time there was a big difference. There was a man in the doorway all right, and he had a little poodle with him, but the thing that made my eyes snap wide open was that the dog was walking upright on his hind limbs.

I knew I was half-asleep, but surely I wasn’t seeing things. I stared down at the dog, but the picture hadn’t changed. The little creature strutted through the doorway, chest out, head up, as erect as a soldier.

“Follow me, please,” I said hoarsely and set off over the tiles to the consulting room. Halfway along, I just had to turn round to check the evidence of my eyes, and it was just the same—the poodle, still on his hind legs, marching along unconcernedly at his master’s side.

The man must have seen the bewilderment in my face because he burst suddenly into a roar of laughter.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “This little dog was cir-cus-trained before I got him as a pet. I like to show off his little tricks. This one really startles people.”

“You can say that again,” I said breathlessly. “It nearly gave me heart failure.”

The poodle wasn’t ill; he just wanted his nails clipped. I smiled as I hoisted him onto the table and began to ply the clippers.

“I suppose he won’t want his hind claws doing,” I said. “He’ll have worn them down himself.” I was glad to find I had recovered sufficiently to attempt a little joke.

However, by the time I had finished, the old lassitude had taken over again, and I felt ready to fall down as I showed man and dog to the front door.

I watched the little animal trotting away down the street— in the orthodox manner this time—and it came to me suddenly that it had been a long time since I had seen a dog doing something unusual and amusing. Like the things Brandy used to do.

A wave of gentle memories flowed through me as I leaned wearily against the doorpost and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw Brandy coming round the corner of the street with Mrs. Westby. His nose was entirely obscured by a large, red tomato-soup can, and he strained madly at the leash and whipped his tail when he saw me.

It was certainly a hallucination this time. I was looking into the past. I really ought to go to bed immediately. But I was still rooted to the doorpost when the Labrador bounded up the steps, made an attempt, aborted by the soup can, to lick my face and contented himself with cocking a convivial leg against the bottom step.

I stared into Mrs. Westby’s radiant face. “What … what… ?”

With her sparkling eyes and wide smile, she looked more attractive than ever. “Look, Mr. Herriot, look! He’s better, he’s better!”

In an instant I was wide awake. “And I … I suppose you’ll want me to get that can off him?”

“Oh, yes, yes, please!”

It took all my strength to lift him onto the table. He was heavier now than before his illness. I reached for the familiar forceps and began to turn the jagged edges of the can outwards from the nose and mouth. Tomato soup must have been one of his favourites because he was really deeply embedded, and it took some time before I was able to slide the can from his face.

I fought off his slobbering attack. “He’s back in the dustbins, I see.”

“Yes, he is, quite regularly. I’ve pulled several cans off him myself. And he goes sliding with the children, too.” She smiled happily.

Thoughtfully I took my stethoscope from the pocket of my white coat and listened to his lungs. They were wonderfully clear. A slight roughness here and there, but the old cacophony had gone.

I leaned on the table and looked at the great dog with a mixture of thankfulness and incredulity. He was as before, boisterous and full of the joy of living. His tongue lolled in a happy grin, and the sun glinted through the surgery window on his sleek golden coat.

“But Mr. Herriot,” Mrs. Westby’s eyes were wide, “how on earth has this happened? How has he got better?”

“Vis medicative naturae,
” I replied in tones of deep respect.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The healing power of nature. Something no veterinary surgeon can compete with when it decides to act.”

“I see. And you can never tell when this is going to happen?”

“No.”

For a few seconds we were silent as we stroked the dog’s head and ears and flanks.

“Oh, by the way,” I said, “has he shown any renewed interest in the blue jeans?”

“Oh, my word, yes! They’re in the washing machine at this very moment. Absolutely covered in mud. Isn’t it marvellous!”

August 10, 1963

M
Y SLEEP IN THAT
Bosporus hotel seemed to last only a short time, because apparently within minutes I was roused by one of the hotel staff and looked up to see the sunshine flooding into my room from the street above.

I washed and shaved and hurried to the dining room. Noel and Joe had suffered from the noisy party and were looking heavy-eyed, but the captain and the rest of the crew had been sleeping at the back of the hotel and had heard practically nothing. This was a good thing, because they were the ones who had a tough day ahead of them.

After breakfast the minibus whisked us along the glittering Bosporus and through the city, where I had my second fleeting glimpse of its wonders. It was frustrating. I had hoped to explore the treasures of Istanbul at my leisure—the Blue Mosque, Saint Sophia and so many others, but maybe another day …

At the airport there was the bustle of early-morning departures with aircraft taking off and climbing into the sunny sky, but I found something ominous in the sight of our Clobemaster standing on its own, vast, shabby, with the scorch marks on its useless engine. Dave, Ed and Karl didn’t seem to be worried as they went over to it, the little Dane whistling, the young Americans slouching, relaxed, hands as ever buried in the pockets of their white trousers.

I made straight for the B.E.A. desk, and it was a relief to see the fresh-faced Englishman in the familiar uniform.

“And what can I do for you, sir?” he asked, smiling.

I brandished my cheque book. “I want three tickets to London on the first flight, if possible.”

“You want to pay by cheque?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m sorry, but we cannot accept personal cheques.”

“What!”

“I’m afraid that is the rule, sir.” He was still smiling.

“But … we’re stuck here.” I gave him a brief outline of our plight.

He shook his head sadly. “I do wish I could help, but I have to abide by the rules.”

I kept at him for a few minutes longer, but it was no good. Then, when he wasn’t looking, I tried one of the other B.E.A. officials further along, but I got the same answer.

My heart was beating fast as I returned to my friends who were waiting for me in the airport lounge. They were speaking to the captain. I was beginning to feel like an expert in the bringing of evil tidings, and I hardly knew what to say to them. In fact, they took the news surprisingly well, and if they thought I was a hopeless organiser they disguised their feelings.

We all looked at the captain.

“If I were you,” he said, “I should go to the British Consul.”

I turned to the farmers. “Have you ever had anything to do with consuls?”

They shook their heads dumbly.

“Neither have I. I don’t know how they’d react in a situation like this. Would they be sure to fly us home?”

“Oh, yes.” The captain gave me a faint, reassuring smile. “I’m pretty certain you’d have no trouble.”

“Pretty certain, you say, but not absolutely?”

The big man stroked his beard. “Well, Mr. Herriot, like yourself, I have never had the need to approach them.”

“When do you take off?”

“In about half an hour.”

I had a nasty vision of the three of us trailing back into the city, being turned down by the Consul and coming back with hardly any money in our pockets to find the Globemaster gone.

“Look, Captain,” I said. “The way I see it, your aircraft is our only link with home. If you got us to Copenhagen, would you be able to arrange a flight to London from there?”

He gave me a long, appraising stare. “Oh, of course. Copenhagen is our headquarters. But you would be very silly to take the chance.”

“Well, I’m willing to take it. How about you chaps?”

The farmers both nodded immediately.

“Oi’m game,” Joe said. “Oi want to get Ome.”

The captain looked down at him. “But you do realise there is a very real danger.”

Joe grinned back. “Ah, you’ll get us there, Caap’n. I ain’t worried about that.”

He was voicing my own thoughts. Captain Birch inspired confidence.

“All right, then, if you’ve made up your minds,” the big man said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to sign a document which I must leave here in Istanbul. I’ll go and draw it up now.” He paused. “As I explained earlier, since the aircraft is in an unsafe condition you are, in effect, unauthorised personnel. Signing this document verifies that you are aware of this and that you relinquish all rights to compensation if the worst should happen.” He swept us again with his serious gaze. “I must point out that if you lose your lives today, your dependents will receive nothing, no insurance, nothing”

I think we all gulped a bit at this, and there was a longish silence. For once it was Noel who broke it, and he echoed his friend. “You’ll get us there, Caap’n.”

The document was drawn up and we signed it, and with hindsight I know without any doubt that we behaved like complete idiots, because the danger was not imaginary. We could have been killed that day.

The captain’s advice was right, of course. We should have gone to the British Consul. Over the years I have read frequently of football fans being flown home by the Consul after getting drunk and missing their charter planes, and when I think that we three were on legitimate business, it makes our decision all the more crazy. I, in particular, should have known better.

I suppose part of the reason was that we were not thinking straight. The three of us were tired out with lack of sleep and the series of niggling mishaps in strange surroundings. We were in the mood to clutch at straws.

In any case the thing was done now, and we walked over the hot concrete to the Globemaster. It seemed that a fair proportion of the population of Istanbul had heard about our aircraft and had turned out to spectate, because a large crowd of people watched us as we went. I had an uncomfortable feeling that they didn’t expect us to get off the ground.

When we climbed into the aircraft, I saw that the interior had been swept clean and that a large door had been removed from one side of the fuselage to allow aeration after the cattle had gone.

Joe elected to sit up front in the flight cabin, while Noel and I strapped ourselves into two drop-down seats at the very back. We felt very insignificant sitting there in the tail, looking at the yawning emptiness in front of us.

We couldn’t see what was happening, and it was a shock when the engines roared into life. With that big opening in the side the noise was intolerable, and we both instinctively pushed our fingers into our ears. Noel’s face worked, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he tried to talk to me. I knew we couldn’t stand this for long, and I reached for my bag. I pulled out some cotton wool and stuffed it into the farmer’s ears. I did the same for myself and there was no doubt it relieved the noise problem, but at the same time it gave me a strange, unreal feeling, as if I were in limbo.

From the jerkings and vibrations, I deduced that we were taxi-ing to the end of the runway prior to take-off. Then we stopped, and I knew we were in position.

The roar of the engines increased to a deep-throated bellow which penetrated the ear plugs and made my head spin. I looked at Noel, and he shaped his lips into,
“Taking off now?”
I nodded encouragingly. I don’t know what his emotions were, but I felt utterly fatalistic about the whole thing. I am not brave but I have always felt like that about flying and though this was a very special case, my attitude was the same.

For a long time we sat there, listening to the roar and feeling the great aircraft shaking under and around us. This went on and on until I began to wonder if we had, in fact, left the ground. Noel’s puzzled face and the spreading of his hands told me he was thinking the same thing. After another five minutes I decided we must be high in the air by now but I had to have a look to make sure. I unstrapped myself and crawled on hands and knees to the open side. I pushed my head out and looked down, and with a jolt of disappointment I saw the grey concrete of the runway a few feet below me.

I slithered back to my place and shook my head at Noel. What, I wondered, was going on? Could the captain not get up enough power, or was he just giving his three remaining engines a long test before making his attempt?

I think it must have been the latter, because suddenly we were under way. We couldn’t see anything, but the surge forward was unmistakable. There were a tense few seconds as the vibration rose to a crescendo, then a calm that told us we were airborne. I felt the impact of the undercarriage thudding into place, and I pictured Karl and his friends hauling it up over the last few inches. I leaned back in my seat. The first obstacle was behind us.