This sounded to me like canker, and, in fact, when I saw the cat sitting on the desk twisting his head around uneasily, I was sure that was it, but the ears were clean and painless.
This amiable cat seemed to like being examined, and the purring rose to a crescendo as I made a close inspection of his teeth, mouth, eyes and nostrils. Nothing. Yet something up there was causing a lot of discomfort.
I began to work my way through the black hair, and suddenly the purring was interrupted by a sharp “miaow” as my fingers came upon a painful spot on his neck.
“Something here,” I murmured. I took out my scissors and began to clip. And as the hair fell away and the skin showed through, a wave of disbelief swept through me. I was looking down at a neat little transverse slit, the identical twin of the one I had seen before.
My God, surely not on the neck. I went into the wound with probe and forceps, and within seconds I had brought the familiar brown band to the surface. A quick snip and I pulled it clear.
“More elastic,” I said dully.
“Round ‘is neck!”
“Afraid so. Somebody really meant business this time.”
He drew his enormous forefinger along the furry flank, and the cat rubbed delightedly against him. “Who’s doin’ this?”
I shrugged. “No way of telling. The police are always on the lookout for cruelty, but they would have to catch a person actually in the act.”
I knew he was wondering when the next attempt would come, and so was I, but there were no more elastic bands for Fred. The neck healed rapidly, and I didn’t see the cat for nearly a year till one morning Helen met me as I was coming in from my round.
“Mr. Barnett’s just been on the phone, Jim. Would you please go at once? He thinks his cat has been poisoned.”
Another attack on this nice little animal, and after all this time. It didn’t make sense, and my mind was a jumble as I hurried into Walt Barnett’s office.
I found a vastly different Fred this time. The cat was not in his old place on the desk but was crouched on the floor among a litter of newspapers. He did not look up, but as I went over to him, he retched and vomited a yellow fluid onto the paper. More vomit lay around among pools of diarrhea which had the same yellowish hue.
Walt Barnett, overflowing the chair behind the desk, spoke past the dangling cigarette. “He’s poisoned, isn’t ‘e? Somebody’s given ’im summat.”
“It’s possible. ” I watched the cat move slowly to a saucer of milk and sit over it in the same crouching attitude. He did not drink but sat looking down with a curious immobility. There was a sad familiarity in the little animal’s appearance. This could be something worse even than poison.
“Well, it is, isn’t it?” the big man went on. “Somebody’s tried to kill ’im again.”
“I’m not sure.” As I took the cat’s temperature, there was none of the purring or outgoing friendliness I had known before. He was sunk in a profound lethargy.
The temperature was 105°F. I palpated the abdomen, feeling the doughy consistency of the bowels, the lack of muscular tone.
“Well, if it’s not that, what is it?”
“It’s feline enteritis. I’m nearly certain.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Some people call it cat distemper,” I said. “There’s an outbreak in Darrowby just now. I’ve seen several cases lately, and Fred’s symptoms are typical.”
The big man heaved his bulk from behind the desk, went over to the cat and rubbed his forefinger along the unheeding back. “Well, if it’s that, can you cure ’im?”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Barnett, but the mortality rate is very high.”
“You mean, most of ’em die?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How can that be? I thought you fellers had all them wonderful new medicines now.”
“Yes, but this is a virus, and viruses are resistant to antibiotics.”
“Awright, then.” Wheezing, he drew himself upright and returned to his chair. “What are you goin’ to do?”
“I’m going to start right now,” I said. I injected electrolytic fluid to combat the dehydration. I gave antibiotics against the secondary bacteria and finished with a sedative to control the vomiting. But I knew that everything I had done was merely supportive. I had never had much luck with feline enteritis.
I visited Fred each morning, and the very sight of him made me unhappy. He was either hunched over the saucer or he was curled up on the desk in a little basket. He had no interest in the world around him.
He never moved when I gave him his injections. It was like pushing a needle into a lifeless animal, and on the fourth morning I could see that he was sinking rapidly.
“I’ll call in tomorrow,” I said, and Walt Barnett nodded without speaking. He had shown no emotion throughout the cat’s illness.
Next day, when I entered the office, I found the usual scene —the huge figure in his chair, brown trilby on the back of his head and cigarette hanging from his lips, the cat in the basket on the desk.
Fred was very still and as I approached, I saw with a dull feeling of inevitability that he was not breathing. I put my stethoscope over his heart for a few moments, then looked up.
“I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr. Barnett.”
The big man did not change expression. He reached slowly across and rubbed his forefinger against the dark fur in that familiar gesture. Then he put his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands.
I did not know what to say; I watched helplessly as his shoulders began to shake and tears welled between the thick fingers. He stayed like that for some time, then he spoke.
“He was my friend,” he said.
I still could find no words, and the silence was heavy in the room until he suddenly pulled his hands from his face.
He glared at me defiantly. “Aye, ah know what you’re thinkin’. This is that big, tough bugger, Walt Barnett, cryin’ his eyes out over a cat. What a joke! I reckon you’ll have a bloody good laugh later on.”
Evidently he was sure that what he considered a display of weakness would lower my opinion of him, and yet he was so wrong. I have liked him better ever since.
Chapter
32
August 9, 1963
THERE WAS A GENERAL chattering and lightening of spirits when we landed safely and taxied to a halt. With everybody else, I climbed out and looked around. We were standing on a wide, concreted airfield. Nearby there was a hangar; away on the other side a long stretch of coarse grass ran down to the sea, and over everything the beautiful hot sunshine washed in a comforting flood. The airport buildings were about a quarter of a mile away and far beyond in the shimmering heat haze I could make out the . high buildings of the city. It was just eight o’clock. We would unload the cattle, and then there would be most of the day to explore Istanbul. I felt a tinge of excitement at the prospect.
The two farmers were soon ready for action, jackets off, sleeves rolled up. Noel grinned at me as he flexed his muscles after the long night of inactivity. “Where are the wagons?” he asked.
It was a good question. Where indeed were they? They should have been awaiting our arrival, but I scanned the airfield in vain. Karl went over to the buildings to make enquiries but returned looking despondent.
“Nobody knows,” he said. “We wait.”
So we waited as the sun beat on the concrete and the sweat trickled inside our shirts. It was over an hour later when the wagons rolled up.
Just then, the captain’s tall form hovered over me. “Mr. Her-riot.” The grave eyes looked down, and he ran a finger over his beard. Again I felt the impact of a masterful personality. “Mr. Herriot, there are a few things I must do. I have to see about getting that engine repaired and there is the hotel accommodation to arrange. I am leaving now and I rely on you to supervise things here.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll see that the animals are all right.”
He nodded sl
owly. “Good, good.” Then he swept the two farmers with his unsmiling gaze. “And that goes for you chaps, too. I don’t want any of you to leave this spot until the last cow has been taken away. You do understand me?”
We mumbled our assent. I don’t suppose many people would have tried to argue with Captain Birch. Anyway, the mention of the hotel had lit a cheerful spark in me as I remembered John Crooks’s description of his five-star opulence. I am not attracted by continual luxury, but I do like a little bit now and again. Especially now. I was hot and sweaty and very hungry. The sandwiches at Catwick were only a hazy memory, and the thought of a bath and a good meal was idyllic. I wanted the unloading to be as quick as possible.
The farmers seemed to have the same idea because they already had the first batch of heifers on the hoist. Little Karl pulled a lever, there was a long, high-pitched whine, but nothing happened. He operated the lever again with the same result.
“The hoist, she is jammed,” he said and began to fiddle about with switches and other parts of the mechanism. Finally he dealt the shining metal a vicious kick. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at us. “Is no good. I have to get electrician.”
He ambled off to the airport buildings, and the three of us were left looking at each other in some dismay. It was getting hotter by the minute.
It was half-past ten before he returned with a man in white overalls who appeared determined to take the hoist to pieces. He muttered and exclaimed in Turkish all the time, and I just hoped he knew his business because he was taking an age to find the cause of the trouble. Finally, after an hour and a half, the hoist answered to the pull on the lever and began to move. But we had lost a lot of time.
Meanwhile, it was reassuring to see a party of mechanics working on the damaged engine. I hoped even more fervently that they knew their stuff.
As Noel and Joe leaped into action and commenced the unloading, a party of Turkish vets arrived to inspect the animals. They were a most impressive group—handsome, olive-skinned men in smart light-weight suits, much more prosperous-looking than the average British vet. Only one of them spoke English, but he did so almost without accent.
“Beautiful creatures, Mr. Herriot,” he murmured as the first cattle were ushered up the ramp into the wagons. The other vets, too, clucked their appreciation, and I felt personally proud that Britain could still lead the world in this field. So many countries had to turn to our green pastures to find livestock to improve their own strains.
The head man explained that they were all government vets from the Turkish Ministry of Agriculture, and their job was to examine the animals for health and to ensure that all the ear numbers were correct. We both laughed heartily at this because it seemed that in Turkey an ear number is as world-shakingly important and sacrosanct as in England.
The unloading was a painfully slow business. The electrician hadn’t done a perfect job because the hoist kept stopping in mid-air for tense periods while Karl tugged at the lever and swore, but it always restarted and the work went on.
Fortunately, the animals’ wagons were shaded by the hangar because the sun was truly fierce. Also, they had water and some hay, so they were comfortable.
The same could not be said of the farmers and myself. I was dirty, sweaty, unshaven and starving, and I was only popping up and down from aircraft to ground, supervising things. How Joe and Noel felt, wrestling with the cattle, I could not imagine. And all the time Istanbul lay tantalisingly out of reach.
As the hours wore on and the sun blazed, there was no sign of the captain, but the two young Americans, Ed and Dave, wandered over frequently to inspect the repairs on the engine. Occasionally they stopped and chatted to me about their life and job, and I found them most likable men. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world. They slouched around smilingly in their baggy suits, hands deep in their pockets. Those pockets, I was to find later, were filled with the currency of a dozen nations. Pesetas rubbed shoulders with drachmas, guilders, lira, dimes, kroner, shillings. They roamed the world in their old aircraft, free as birds, taking each day and new country as it came, and, though hardly more than boys, they must have seen almost everything. They have remained in my mind as true soldiers of fortune.
It was around four o’clock when the last heifer entered its wagon and the Turkish vets were completing their examination. Noel came up to me. His shirt was a wet rag clinging to his chest, and he wiped his streaming face with his forearm. “I tell you, Jim,” he said. “Moi stomach thinks moi throat’s cut.”
“Mine too, Noel,” I replied. “I’m ravenous. I’ve gone nearly round the clock since the sandwiches at Gatwick.”
“Oi could murder a pint, too,” Joe put in. “Can’t remember when oi’ve had such a bloody thirst on.”
It seemed that our troubles weren’t over yet. The vets were taking their time over the inspection, but at any rate there did not seem to be any complaints. They were clearly satisfied with what they saw.
Unfortunately, this did not last. From our place under the Globemaster’s wing where we were sheltering from the sun, we saw a sudden stillness fall on the group of men. They were looking in a cow’s ear and consulting a sheaf of papers again and again and even from a distance I sensed the tension. There followed a consultation, and then a lot of waving of arms.
Finally the head vet shouted across, “Mr. Herriot, come here, please!”
With the farmers I walked over to the wagon.
“Mr. Herriot,” the man went on, “we have found a wrong number.” His dark complexion had paled, and his lips trembled. The expressions on the faces of the other men in the group were uniformly distraught.
I groaned inwardly. The unthinkable had happened.
One of the vets, upright and set-faced, waved me towards the offending cow with a dramatic gesture of his arm. I climbed into the wagon and looked in the ear. It was number fifteen. With the same theatrical flourish, the vet handed me the sheaf of papers. They contained the descriptions, ages and numbers of the animals, and, sure enough, no number fifteen.
I smiled weakly. I wasn’t quite sure whether this was my responsibility or not. I had checked off all the numbers on our own sheet when we loaded at Catwick, and I had thought they all tallied. Had I made some awful boob? It made it worse being so far from home.
I turned to Joe. “You brought the list from Jersey, didn’t you?”
“Oi did,” Joe replied with an edge of belligerence in his voice. “And it’s correct. It’s in moi bag.”
“Slip over and get it, will you, Joe?” I said. “We’ll see if we can sort this out.”
The farmer strolled unhurriedly to the Globemaster, climbed inside and duly returned with the sheet.
Breathlessly I scanned the list. “There it is!” I said triumphantly. “Pedigree number, then number fifteen!” Relief flowed through me. We were saved.
The Turkish vet took Joe’s list and retired for a further consultation. For a long time there was an incomprehensible chattering and much brandishing of arms, then apparently there was a unanimous decision. All the men nodded firmly, and some of them folded their arms. The head man stepped forward, taut-faced.
“Mr. Herriot, we have concluded that there is only one thing to do. You will understand that we have to follow our own list. There is no guarantee that this is the animal which we purchased originally, so with regret I have to tell you that you must take her back.”
‘Take her back!” This was a bombshell. “But that’s impossible!” I cried. “This cow doesn’t just come from England, she is from the Island of Jersey. I can’t see any way of doing what you say.”
“I am sorry,” he said, “but nothing can change our decision. We cannot accept a wrong animal. How you do it is your concern, but you must take her back.”
“But… but… “I quavered. “How do you know it’s a wrong animal? The whole thing is probably a simple clerical error at your office.”
He drew himself up to his full height. He was a well-fleshed six
-footer, and he looked most impressive as he stared at me and held up his hand. “Mr. Herriot, I repeat, what I have said is irrevocable.”
“I… I… well, you see…” I was beginning to gabble when I felt Joe’s hand on my arm. He eased me gently to one side and stepped up in front of the head vet. He put his hands on his hips and pushed his craggy, sweat-streaked face close to the man’s moustache. His steady eyes held the imperious stare of the Turk for several seconds before he spoke.
“Oi ain’t takin’ ’er baack, mate,” he said in his slow drawl. “That’s moi job, and oi ain’t takin’ ’er baack.” The voice was soft, the words unhurried, but they held a wonderful note of finality, and the effect was dramatic. The big man’s facade collapsed with startling suddenness. His whole face seemed to crumble, and he looked at Joe with an almost pathetic appeal. His mouth opened and I thought he was going to say something, but instead he turned slowly and rejoined his friends.
There was a murmured consultation, punctuated by shrugging of shoulders and sorrowful glances in the farmer’s direction, then the head man gave the signal for the wagons to move away. The battle was over.
“Bless you, Joe,” I said. “I thought we’d had it that time.”
We obeyed the captain’s instructions and hung around till the cows had left the airfield. It pleased me to think they were heading for a good life. They were all going to top-class pedigree farms; in fact, they were animal VIP’s.
I was also pleased when my Turkish colleagues came up and bade us goodbye in the most cordial manner. I had an uncomfortable feeling that the incident might have spoiled their day, but they were all smiles and appeared to have recovered magically.
I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. We had been out on that oven of an airfield for nine hours. It was actually seven o’clock Turkish time, so the precious day was fast slipping away. I felt at the stubble on my chin. The first thing was a shave and a wash.
With the farmers, I made my way over to the airport terminal, and in the men’s room we stripped off, drank a lot of water and made our ablutions. I have a vivid memory of a little man who kept dabbing talc on my bare back all the time. I thought he was working for a tip, but all he wanted was one of my razor blades, which I gave him.