expectantly She threw it and he brought it back again.
I gasped incredulously. A feline retriever!
The Bassets looked on disdainfully. Nothing would ever have induced
them to chase a ball, but Buster did it again and again as though he
would never tire of it.
Mrs Ainsworth turned to me.
"Have you ever seen any thing like that?"
"No," I replied.
"I never have. He is a most remarkable cat."
She snatched Buster from his play and we went back into the house where
she held him close to her face, laughing as the big cat purred and
arched himself ecstatically against her cheek.
Looking at him, a picture of health and contentment, my mind went back
to his mother. Was it too much to think that that dying little
creature with the last of her strength had carried her kitten to the
only haven of comfort and warmth she had ever known in the hope that it
would be cared for there? Maybe it was.
But it seemed I wasn't the only one with such fancies. Mrs Ainsworth
turned to me and though she was smiling her eyes were wistful.
"Debbie would be pleased," she said.
I nodded.
"Yes, she would.... It was just a year ago today she brought him,
wasn't it?"
"That's right." She hugged Buster to her again.
"The best Christmas present I ever had."
Chapter Eleven I stared in disbelief at the dial of the weighing
machine. Nine stone seven pounds! I had lost two stones since joining
the RAF. I was cowering in my usual corner in Boots' Chemist's shop in
Scar borough, where I had developed the habit of a weekly weigh-in to
keep a morbid eye on my progressive emaciation.
It was incredible and it wasn't all due to the tough training.
On our arrival in Scar borough we had a talk from our Flight Commander,
Flt Lieut Barnes. He looked us over with a contemplative eye and
said,
"You won't know yourselves when you leave here." That man wasn't
kidding.
We were never at rest. It was PT and Drill, PT and Drill, over and
over.
Hours of bending and stretching and twisting down on the prom in sing
lets and shorts while the wind whipped over us from the wintry sea.
Hours of marching under the bellowings of our sergeant; quick march,
slow march, about turn. We even marched to our navigation classes,
bustling along at the RAF quick time, arms swinging shoulder high.
They marched us regularly to the top of Castle Hill where we fired off
every Conceivable type of weapon; twelve bores, .22 rifles, revolvers,
Browning machine oud guns. We even stabbed at dummies with bayonets.
In between they had us swimming, playing football or rugby or running
for miles along the beach and on the cliff tops towards Riley.
At first I was too busy to see any change in myself, but one morning
after a few weeks our flight was coming to the end of a five-mile run.
We dropped down from the Spa to a long stretch of empty beach and the
sergeant shouted, "Right, sprint to those rocks! Let's see who gets
there first!"
We all took off on the last hundred yards' dash and I was mildly
surprised to find that the first man past the post was myself and I
wasn't really out of breath. That was when the realisation hit me. Mr
Barnes had been right. I didn't know myself.
When I left Helen I was a cosseted young husband with a little double
chin and the beginnings of a spare tyre, and now I was a lithe,
tireless greyhound.
I was certainly fit, but there was something wrong. I shouldn't have
been as thin as this. Another factor was at work.
In Yorkshire when a man goes into a decline during his wife's pregnancy
they giggle behind their hands and say he is 'carrying' the baby. I
never laugh at these remarks because I am convinced I 'carried' my
I base this conclusion on a variety of symptoms. It would be an
exaggeration to say I suffered from morning sickness, but my suspicions
were certainly aroused when I began to feel a little queasy in the
early part of the day. This was followed by a growing uneasiness as
Helen's time drew near and a sensation, despite my physical condition,
of being drained and miserable. With the onset in the later stages of
unmistakable labour pains in my lower abdomen all doubts were resolved
and I knew I had to do something about it.
I had to see Helen. After all, she was just over that hill which I
could see from the top windows of the Grand. Maybe that wasn't
strictly true, but at least I was in Yorkshire and a bus would take me
to her in three hours. The snag was that there was no leave from ITW.
They left us in no doubt about that.
They said the discipline was as tough as a Guards regiment and the
restrictions just as rigid. I would get com passionate leave when the
baby was born, but I couldn't wait till then. The grim knowledge that
any attempt to dodge off unofficially would be like a minor desertion
and would be followed by serious consequences, even prison, didn't
weigh with me.
As one of my comrades put it: "One bloke, tried it and finished up in
the Glasshouse. It isn't worth it, mate."
But it was no good. I am normally a law-abiding citizen but I had not
a single scruple. I had to see Helen. A surreptitious study of the
timetables revealed that there was a bus at 2 p.m. which got to Darrow
by at five o'clock, and another leaving Darrow by at six which arrived
in Scar borough at nine. Six hours travelling to have one hour with
Helen. It was worth it.
At first I couldn't see a way of get ting to the bus station at two
o'clock in the afternoon because we were never free at that time, but
my chance came quite unexpectedly. One Friday lunchtime we learned
that there were no more classes that day but we were confined to the
Grand till evening Most of my friends collapsed thankfully on to their
beds, but I slunk down the long flights of stone stairs and took up a
position in the foyer where I could watch the front door.
There was a glass-fronted office on one side of the entrance where the
SPs sat and kept an eye on all departures. There was only one on duty
today and I waited till he turned and moved to the back of the room
then I walked quietly past him and out into the square.
That part had been almost too easy, but I felt naked and exposed as I
crossed the deserted space between the Grand and the hotels on the
opposite side. It was] better once I had rounded the corner and I set
off at a brisk pace for the west.: All I needed was a little bit of
luck and as I pressed, dry-mouthed, along the empty street it seemed I
had found it. The shock when I saw the two burly SPs Strolling towards
me was like a blow but was immediately followed by a strange calm They
would ask me for the pass I didn't have, then they would want to know
what I was doing there. It wouldn't be much good telling them I had
just popped out for a breath of air this street led to both the bus and
railway stations and it wouldn't need a genius to rumble my little
game. Anyway, there was no cover here, no escape, and I wondered idly
if there had ever been a veterinary surgeon in the Glasshouse. Maybe I
was about to set up some kind of a record.
Then behind me I heard the rhythmic tramp of marching feet and the
shrill "eft 'ight, 'eft, 'ight," that usually went with it. I turned
and saw a long blue column approaching with a corporal in charge. As
they swung past me I looked again at the SPs and my heart gave a thud.
They were laughing into each other's faces at some private joke; they
hadn't seen me. Without thinking I tagged on to the end of the
marching men and within a few seconds was past the SPs unnoticed.
With my mind working with the speed of desperation, it seemed I would
be safest where I was till I could break away in the direction of the
bus station.
For a while I had a glorious feeling of anonymity then the corporal,
still shouting, glanced back. He faced to the front again then turned
back more slowly for another look. He appeared to find something
interesting because he shortened his stride till he was marching
opposite me.
As he looked me up and down I examined him in turn from the corner of
my eye. He was a shrivelled, runtish creature with fierce little eyes
glinting from a pallid, skull-like face. It was some time before he
spoke.
"Who the hell are you?" he enquired conversationally. It was the
number one awkward question but I discerned the faintest gleam of hope;
he had spoken in the unmistakable harsh, glottal accent of my home
town.
"Herriot, corporal. Two flight, four squadron," I replied in my
broadest Glasgow.
"Two flight, four . . .! This is one flight, three squadron. What
the hell are ye daein' here?"
Arms swinging high, staring rigidly ahead, I took a deep breath.
Concealment was futile now.
"Try in' to get tee see ma wife, corp. She's havin' a baby soon."
I glanced quickly at him. His was not the kind of face to reveal
weakness by showing surprise but his eyes widened fractionally.
"Get tee see yer wife? Are ye daft or whit?"
"It's no' far, corp. She lives in Darrow by. Three hours in the bus.
Ah wid be back tonight."
"Back tonight! Ye want yer held examinin'!"
"I've got tee go!"
"Eyes from!" he screamed suddenly at the men before us.
"eft'ight,"eft'ight!"
Then he turned and studied me as though I were an unbelievable
phenomenon.
He was interesting to me, too, as a typical product of the bad times in
Glasgow between the wars. Stunted, undernourished, but as tough and
belligerent as a ferret.
"Dye no' ken," he said at length, 'that ye get leave when yer wife has
the wean ?"
"Aye, but a canna' wait that long. Gimme a break, corp."
"Give ye a break! Dye want tee get me shot?"
"No, corp, just want tee get to the bus station."
"Jesus! Is that ai?" He gave me a final incredulous look before
quickening h steps to the head of the column. When he returned he
surveyed me again.
"Whit part o' Glesca are ye free?"
"Scotstounhill," I replied.
"How about you?"
"Go van."
I turned my head slightly towards him.
"Ranger supporter, eh?"
He did not change expression, but an eyebrow flickered and I knew I ha
him.
"Whit a team!" I murmured reverently.
"Many's the time I've stood on terraces at Ibrox."
He said nothing and I began to recite the names of the great Rangers
tea' of the thirties.
"Daw son, Gray, McDonald, Meiklejohn, Simpson, Brown." H eyes took on
a dreamy expression and by the time I had intoned
"Archibald Marshall, English, McPhail and Morton," there was something
near to a wistful smile on his lips.
Then he appeared to shake himself back to normality.
"Eft'ight,"eft 'ight!"he bawled.
"C'mon, c'mon, pick it up!" then he muttered to me from the corner of
his mouth.
"There's the bus station. When we march past it run like !"
He took off again, shouting to the head of the flight, I saw the buses
and the windows of the waiting room on my left and dived across the
road and through the door. I snatched off my cap and sat trembling
among a group of elderly farmers and their wives. Through the glass I
could see the long lines of blue moving away down the street and I
could still hear the shouts of the corporal.
But he didn't turn round and I saw only his receding back, the narrow'
shoulders squared, the bent legs stepping it out in time with his men.
I never.
saw him again but to this day I wish I could take him to Ibrox and
watch the Rangers with him and maybe buy him a half and half pint at
one of the Gova pubs. It wouldn't have mattered if he had turned out
to be a Celtic support. at that decisive moment because I had the
Celtic team on my tongue all read to trot out, star ting with Kennaway,
Cook, McGonigle. It is not the only tie my profound knowledge of
football has stood me in good stead. ~.
Sitting on the bus, still with my cap on my lap to avoid attracting
attention' it struck me that the whole world changed within a mile or
two as we left the town.
Back there the war was everywhere, filling people's minds and eyes an
thoughts; the teeming thousands of uniformed men, the RAF and army
vehicle the almost palpable atmosphere of anticipation and suspense.
And suddenly we were both astonished, she because I was so skinny and I
because she was so fat Helen, with the baby only two weeks away, was
very large indeed, but not too large for me to get my arms around her,
and we stood there in the middle of the tagged floor clasped together
for a long time with neither of us say ing much She cooked me egg and
chips and sat by me while I ate. We carried on a rather halting
conversation and it came to me with a bump that my mind had been forced
on to different tracks since I had left her. In those few months my
brain had become saturated with the things of my new life even my mouth
was full of RAF slang and jargon. In our bed-sitter we used to talk
about my cases, the funny things that happened on my rounds, but now, I
thought helplessly, there wasn't much point in telling her that AC2
Phillips was on jankers again, that vector triangles were the very
devil, that Don McGregor thought he had discovered the secret of
Sergeant Hynd's phenomenally shiny boots.
But it really didn't matter. My worries melted as I looked at her. I
had been wondering if she was well and there she was, bouncing with
energy, shining-eyed, rosy-checked and beautiful. There was only one
jarring note and it was a strange one. Helen was wearing a 'maternity
dress' which expanded with the passage of time by means of an opening
down one side. Anyway, I hated it.
It was blue with a high red collar and I thought it cheap-loo king and
ugly. I was aware that austerity had taken over in England and that a
lot of things were shoddy, but I desperately wishe
d my wife had
something better to wear. In all my life there have been very few
occasions when I badly wanted more money and that was one of them,
because on my wage of three shillings a day as an AC2 I was unable to
drape her with expensive clothes.
The hour winged past and it seemed no time at all before I was back on
the top road waiting in the gathering darkness for the Scar borough
bus. The journey back was a bit dreary as the black-out vehicle bumped
and rattled its way through the darkened villages and over the long
stretches of anonymous countryside. It was cold, too, but I sat there
happily with the memory of Helen wrapped around me like a warm quilt.
The whole day had been a triumph. I had got away by a lucky stroke and
there would be no problem get ting back into the Grand because one of
my pals would be on sentry duty and it would be a case of 'pass
friend'. Closing my eyes in the gloom I could still feel Helen in my
arms and I smiled to myself at the memory of her bounding healthiness.
She looked marvellous, the egg and chips tasted wonderful, everything
was great.
Except that one discord which jangled still. Oh, how I hated that
dress!
wide sweep of grey-blue sea fell beneath the rising ground as the bus
trundled westward I looked out on a landscape 'he long moist furrows of