He handed the money over, shook my hand and drove away. His wife, who had never left her place, waved as she left, but my greatest reward was in the last shadowy glimpse of the back seat where little arms twined around the dog, hugging him ecstatically, and in the cries, thankful and joyous, fading into the night.

"Benny ... Benny ... Benny ..."

Vets often wonder after a patient's recovery just how much credit they might take. Maybe it would have got better without treatment-it happened sometimes; it was difficult to be sure.

But when you know without a shadow of a doubt that even without doing anything clever, you have pulled an animal back from the brink of death into the living, breathing world, it is a satisfaction which lingers, flowing like balm over the discomforts and frustrations of veterinary practice, making everything right.

Yet, in the case of Benny the whole thing had an unreal quality. I never even glimpsed the faces of those happy children nor that of their mother huddled in the front seat. I had a vague impression of their father but he had spent most of the time with his head in his hands. I wouldn't have known him if I met him in the street. Even the dog, in the unnatural glare of the headlights, was a blurred memory.

It seemed the family had the same feeling because a week later I had a pleasant letter from the mother. She apologised for skulking out of the way so shamelessly, she thanked me for saving the life of their beloved dog who was now prancing around with the children as though nothing had happened, and she finished with the regret that she hadn't even asked me my name.

Yes, it had been a strange episode, and not only were those people unaware of my name but I'd like to bet they would fail to recognise me if they saw me again.

In fact, looking back at the affair, the only thing which stood out unequivocal and substantial was my great white-bound digit which had hovered constantly over the scene, almost taking on a personality and significance of its own. I am sure that is what the family remembered best about me because of the way the mother's letter began.

"Dear Vet with the bandaged finger ..."

CHAPTER 8.

MY STINT IN LONDON was nearing its end. Our breaking-in weeks were nearly over and we waited for news of posting to Initial Training Wing.

The air was thick with rumours. We were going to Aberystwyth in Wales; too far away for me, I wanted the north. Then we were going to Newquay in Cornwall; worse still. I was aware that the impending birth of AC2 Herriot's child did not influence the general war strategy but I still wanted to be as near to Helen as possible at the time.

The whole London phase is blurred in my memory. Possibly because everything was so new and different that the impressions could not be fully absorbed, and also perhaps because I was tired most of the time. I think we were all tired. Few of us were used to being jerked from slumber at 6 a.m. every morning and spending the day in continual physical activity. If we weren't being drilled we were being marched to meals, to classes, to talks. I had lived in a motor car for a few years and the rediscovery of my legs was painful.

There were times, too, when I wondered what it was all about. Like all the other young men I had imagined that after a few brisk preliminaries I would be sitting in an aeroplane, learning to fly, but it turned out that this was so far in the future that it was hardly mentioned. At the ITW we would spend months learning navigation, principles of flight, morse and many other things.

I was thankful for one blessing. I had passed the mathematics exam. I have always counted on my fingers and still do and I had been so nervous about this that I went to classes with the ATC in Darrowby before my call-up, dredging from my schooldays horrific calculations about trains passing each other at different speeds and water running in and out of bath tubs. But I had managed to scrape through and felt ready to face anything.

There were some unexpected shocks in London. I didn't anticipate spending days mucking out some of the dirtiest piggeries I had ever seen. Somebody must have had the idea of converting all the RAF waste food into pork and bacon and of course there was plenty of labour at hand. I had a strong feeling of unreality as, with other aspiring pilots, I threw muck and swill around hour after hour.

My disenchantment was happily blotted from my mind the day we received news of the posting. It seemed too good to be true-I was going to Scarborough. I had been there and I knew it was a beautiful seaside resort, but that wasn't why I was so delighted. It was because it was in Yorkshire.

As we marched out of the station into the streets of Scarborough I could hardly believe I was back in my home county. But if there had been any doubt in my mind it would have been immediately resolved by my first breath of the crisp, tangy air. Even in winter there had been no "feel" to the soft London air and I half closed my eyes as I followed the tingle all the way down to my lungs.

Mind you, it was cold. Yorkshire is a cold place and I could remember the sensation almost of shock at the start of my first winter in Darrowby.

It was after the first snow and I followed the clanging ploughs up the Dale, bumping along between high white mounds till I reached old Mr. Stokill's gate. With my fingers on the handle I looked through the glass at the new world beneath me. The white blanket rolled down the hillside and lapped over the roofs of the dwelling and out-buildings of the little farm. Beyond, it smoothed out and concealed the familiar features, the stone walls bordering the fields, the stream on the valley floor, turning the whole scene into something unknown and exciting.

But the thrill I felt at the strange beauty was swept away as I got out and the wind struck me. It was an Arctic blast screaming from the east, picking up extra degrees of cold as it drove over the frozen white surface. I was wearing a heavy overcoat and woollen gloves but the gust whipped its way right into my bones. I gasped and leaned my back against the car while I buttoned the coat up under my chin, then I struggled forward to where the gate shook and rattled. I fought it open and my feet crunched as I went through.

Coming round the corner of the byre I found Mr. Stokill forking muck on to a heap, making a churned brown trail across the whiteness.

"Now then," he muttered along the side of a half-smoked cigarette. He was over seventy but still ran the small holding single-handed. He told me once that he had worked as a farm hand for six shillings a day for thirty years, yet still managed to save enough to buy his own little place. Maybe that was why he didn't want to share it.

"How are you, Mr. Stokill?" I said, but just then the wind tore through the yard, clutching icily at my face, snatching my breath away so that I turned involuntarily to one side with an explosive "Aaahh!"

The old farmer looked at me in surprise, then glanced around as though he had just noticed the weather.

"Aye, blows a bit thin this mornin', lad." Sparks flew from the end of his cigarette as he leaned for a moment on the fork.

He didn't seem to have much protection against the cold. A light khaki smock fluttered over a ragged navy waistcoat, clearly once part of his best suit, and his shirt bore neither collar nor stud. The white stubble on his fleshless jaw was a reproach to my twenty-four years and suddenly I felt an inadequate city-bred softie.

The old man dug his fork into the manure pile and turned towards the buildings. "Ah've got a nice few cases for ye to see today. Fust 'un's in 'ere." He opened a door and I staggered gratefully into a sweet bovine warmth where a few shaggy little bullocks stood hock deep in straw.

"That's the youth we want." He pointed to a dark roan standing with one hind foot knuckled over. "He's been on three legs for a couple o' days. Ah reckon he's got foul."

I walked up to the little animal but he took off at a speed which made light of his infirmity.

"Well have to run him into the passage, Mr. Stokill," I said. "Just open the gate, will you?"

With the rough timbers pushed wide I got behind the bullock and sent him on to the opening. It seemed as though he was going straight through but at the entrance he stopped, peeped into the passage and broke away. I galloped a few times round the yard after him, then had another go. The result was the same. After half a dozen tries I wasn't cold any more. I'll back chasing young cattle against anything else for working up a sweat, and I had already forgotten the uncharitable world outside. And I could see I was going to get warmer still because the bullock was beginning to enjoy the game, kicking up his heels and frisking around after each attempt.

I put my hands on my hips, waited till I got my breath back then turned to the farmer.

"This is hopeless. He'll never go in there," I said. "We'd maybe better try to get a rope on him."

"Nay, lad, there's no need for that. We'll get him through t'gate right enough." The old man ambled to one end of the yard and returned with an armful of clean straw. He sprinkled it freely in the gate opening and beyond in the passage, then turned to me. "Now send 'im on."

I poked a finger into the animal's rump and he trotted forward, proceeded unhesitatingly between the posts and into the passage.

Mr. Stokill must have noticed my look of bewilderment "Aye, 'e just didn't like t'look of them cobbles. Once they was covered over he was awright."

"Yes ... yes ... I see." I followed the bullock slowly through.

He was indeed suffering from foul of the foot, the mediaeval term given because of the stink of the necrotic tissue between the cleats, and I didn't have any antibiotics or sulphonamides to treat it. It is so nice and easy these days to give an injection, knowing that the beast will be sound in a day or two. But all I could do was wrestle with the lunging hind foot, dressing the infected cleft with a crude mixture of copper sulphate and Stockholm tar and finishing with a pad of cotton wool held by a tight bandage. When I had finished I took off my coat and hung it on a nail. I didn't need it any more.

Mr. Stokill looked approvingly at the finished job. "Capital, capital," he murmured. "Now there's some little pigs in this pen got a bit o' scour. I want you give 'em a jab wi' your needle."

We had various E coli vaccines which sometimes did a bit of good in these cases and I entered the pen hopefully. But I left in a hurry because the piglets' mother didn't approve of a stranger wandering among her brood and she came at me open-mouthed, barking explosively. She looked as big as a donkey and when the cavernous jaws with the great yellowed teeth brushed my thigh I knew it was time to go. I hopped rapidly into the yard and crashed the door behind me.

I peered back ruminatively into the pen. "We'll have to get her out of there before I can do anything, Mr. Stokill."

"Aye, you're right, young man, ah'll shift 'er." He began to shuffle away.

I held up a hand. "No, it's all right, I'll do it." I couldn't let this frail old man go in there and maybe get knocked down and savaged, and I looked around for a means of protection. There was a battered shovel standing against a wall and I seized it.

"Open the door, please," I said. 'I'll soon have her out."

Once more inside the pen I held the shovel in front of me and tried to usher the huge sow towards the door. But my efforts at poking her rear end were fruitless; she faced me all the time, wide-mouthed and growling as I circled. When she got the blade of the shovel between her teeth and began to worry it I called a halt.

As I left the pen I saw Mr. Stokill dragging a large object over the cobbles.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Dustbin," the old man grunted in reply.

"Dustbin! What on earth ...?"

He gave no further explanation but entered the pen. As the sow came at him he allowed her to run her head into the bin then, bent double, he began to back her towards the open door. The animal was clearly baffled. Suddenly finding herself in this strange dark place she naturally tried to retreat from it and all the farmer did was guide her.

Before she knew what was happening she was out in the yard. The old man calmly removed the bin and beckoned to me. "Right you are, Mr. Herriot, you can get on now."

It had taken about twenty seconds.

Well, that was a relief, and anyway I knew what to do next. Lifting a sheet of corrugated iron which the farmer had ready I rushed in among the little pigs. I would pen them in a corner and the job would be over in no time.

But their mother's irritation had been communicated to the family. It was a big litter and there were sixteen of them hurtling around like little pink racehorses. I spent a long time diving frantically after them, jamming the sheet at a bunch only to see half of them streaking out the other end, and I might have gone on indefinitely had I not felt a gentle touch on my arm.

"Haud on, young man, haud on." The old farmer looked at me kindly. "If you'll nobbut stop runnin' after 'em they'll settle down. Just bide a minute."

Slightly breathless, I stood by his side and listened as he addressed the little creatures.

"Giss-giss, giss-giss," murmured Mr. Stokill without moving. "Giss-giss, giss-giss."

The piglets slowed their headlong gallop to a trot, then, as though controlled by telepathy, they all stopped at once and stood in a pink group in one corner.

"Giss-giss," said Mr. Stokill approvingly, advancing almost imperceptibly with the sheet "Giss-giss."

He unhurriedly placed the length of metal across the corner and jammed his foot against the bottom.

"Now then, put the toe of your Wellington against t'other end and we 'ave 'em," he said quietly.

After that the injection of the litter was a matter of a few minutes. Mr. Stokill didn't say, "Well, I'm teaching you a thing or two today, am I not?" There was no hint of triumph or self-congratulation in the calm old eyes. All he said was, "I'm keepin' you busy this mornin', young man. I want you to look at a cow now. She's got a pea in her tit."

"Peas" and other obstructions in the teats were very common in the days of hand milking. Some of them were floating milk calculi, others tiny pedunculated tumours, injuries to the teat lining, all sorts of things. It was a whole diverting little field in itself and I approached the cow with interest.

But I didn't get very near before Mr. Stokill put his hand on my shoulder.

"Just a minute, Mr. Herriot, don't touch 'er tit yet or shell clout ye. She's an awd bitch. Wait a minute till ah rope 'er."

"Oh right" I said. "But I'll do it."

He hesitated. "Ah reckon I ought to ..."

"No, no, Mr. Stokill, that's quite unnecessary, I know how to stop a cow kicking," I said primly. "Kindly hand me that rope."

"But ... she's a bugger . .. kicks like a 'oss. She's a right good milker but ..."

"Don't worry," I said, smiling. "I'll stop her little games."

I began to unwind the rope. It was good to be able to demonstrate that I did know something about handling animals even though I had been qualified for only a few months. And it made a change to be told before and not after the job that a cow was a kicker. A cow once kicked me nearly to the other end of the byre and as I picked myself up the farmer said unemotionally, "Aye, she's allus had a habit o' that."

Yes, it was nice to be warned, and I passed the rope round the animal's body in front of the udder and pulled it tight in a slip knot Just like they taught us at college. She was a scrawny red shorthorn with a woolly poll and she regarded me with a contemplative eye as I bent down.

"All right, lass," I said soothingly, reaching under her and gently grasping the teat. I squirted a few jets of milk then something blocked the end. Ah yes, there it was, quite large and unattached. I felt sure I could work it through the orifice without cutting the sphincter.

I took a firmer grip, squeezed tightly and immediately a cloven foot shot out like a whip lash and smacked me solidly on the knee. It is a particularly painful spot to be kicked and I spent some time hopping round the byre and cursing in a fervent whisper.

The farmer followed me anxiously. "Ee, ah'm sorry, Mr. Herriot, she's a right awd bugger. Better let me ..."

I held up a hand. "No, Mr. Stokill. I already have her roped. I just didn't tie it tight enough, that's all." I hobbled back to the animal, loosened the knot then retied it, pulling till my eyes popped. When I had finished, her abdomen was lifted high and nipped in like a wasp-waisted Victorian lady of fashion.

"That'll fix you," I grunted, and bent to my work again. A few spurts of milk then the thing was at the teat end again, a pinkish-white object peeping through the orifice. A little extra pressure and I would be able to fish it out with the hypodermic needle I had poised ready. I took a breath and gripped hard.

This time the hoof caught me half way up the shin bone. She hadn't been able to get so much height into it but it was just as painful. I sat down on a milk stool, rolled up my trouser leg and examined the roll of skin which hung like a diploma at the end of a long graze where the sharp hoof had dragged along.

"Now then, you've 'ad enough, young man." Mr. Stokill removed my rope and gazed at me with commiseration. "Ordinary methods don't work with this 'un. I 'ave to milk her twice a day and ah knaw."

He fetched a soiled length of plough cord which had obviously seen much service and fastened it round the cow's hock. The other end had a hook which he fitted into a ring on the byre walk. It was just the right length to stretch taut, pulling the leg slightly back.

The old man nodded. "Now try."

With a feeling of fatalism I grasped the teat again. And it was as if the cow knew she was beaten. She never moved as I nipped hard and winkled out the offending obstruction-a milk calculus. She couldn't do a thing about it.

"Ah, thank ye, lad," the farmer said. "That's champion. Been bothering me a bit, has that. Didn't know what it was." He held up a finger. "One last job for ye. A young heifer with a bit o' stomach trouble, ah think. Saw her last night and she was a bit blown. She's in an outside buildin'."

I put on my coat and we went out to where the wind welcomed us with savage glee. As the knife-like blast hit me, whistling up my nose and making my eyes water, I cowered in the lee of the stable.

"Where is this heifer?" I gasped.

Mr. Stokill did not reply immediately. He was lighting another cigarette, apparently oblivious of the elements. He clamped the lid on an ancient brass lighter and jerked his thumb.

"Across the road. Up there."

I followed his gesture over the buried walls, across the narrow roadway between the ploughed-out snow dunes to where the fell rose steeply in a sweep of unbroken white to join the leaden sky. Unbroken, that is, except for a tiny barn, a grey stone speck just visible on the last airy swell hundreds of feet up where the hillside joined the moorland above.

"Sorry," I said, still crouching against the wall. "I can't see anything."

The old man, lounging in the teeth of the wind, looked at me in surprise. "You can't? Why, t'barn's good enough to see, isn't it?"

"The barn?" I pointed a shaking finger at the heights. "You mean that building? The heifer's surely not in there!"

"Aye, she is. Ah keep a lot o' me young beasts in them spots."

"But ... but ..." I was gabbling now. "We'll never get up there! That snow's three feet deep!"

He blew smoke pleasurably from his nostrils. "We will, don't tha worry. Just hang on a second."

He disappeared into the stable and after a few moments I peeped inside. He was saddling a fat brown cob and I stared as he led the little animal out, climbed stiffly on to a box and mounted.