Every Living Thing Part 25

"Okay," I said. "Will you bring me some fresh water, please?"

It was then that I noticed the alarm flickering in Bernard's eyes. I remembered that he couldn't stand smells, and in the odoriferous trade of country vetting, removal of the bovine afterbirth is the smelliest. And he would have to hold the tail while I did it.

When he came back with the steaming bucket he set it down and whipped out a large red-and-white spotted handkerchief from his pocket. Carefully he tied it round his face, knotting it tightly at the back of his neck, then he took up his place by the side of the cow.

As I put my arm into the animal and looked at Bernard's big eyes swimming above the mask I thought again how fitting was our nickname for him. It was Tristan who had first christened him the Cisco Kid because of his uncanny resemblance to the famous bandit. In all the unpleasant procedures that a.s.sailed Bernard's nostrils-stinking carvings, autopsies, releasing the gas from tympanitic cows-the handkerchief came out, and, in fact, in every image I had of him he was wearing that mask.

It seemed to give him a feeling of security, because he was able to make cheerful, if m.u.f.fled, replies to my attempts at conversation, although occasionally he closed his eyes in a pained manner as though some alien whiff had got through to him.

Fortunately it was an easy cleansing and it wasn't long before Bernard was waving me goodbye as I drove away. In the darkness of the yard he still had the handkerchief round his face-the Cisco Kid to the life.

I felt I had managed to put the police sergeant in the picture. However, he still wasn't quite convinced.

"But he still wouldn't be wearing that mask when he came into Darrowby."

"Bernard would."

"You mean he just forgot to take it off?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, he's a rum sort of feller."

I could understand his wonderment, but to me Bernard's actions were quite in character. He'd had a traumatic evening with the lambing and the cleansing and it was totally understandable that he would jump on his bike and pedal into the town to seek solace in a parcel of fish and chips. I knew for a fact that they were his greatest pleasure. A little matter like removing the handkerchief would easily slip his mind.

"Aye well," the sergeant said. "I suppose I can take your word about him."

"Sergeant," I said, "that man you have there is the most harmless character in north Yorkshire."

There was a pause. "Okay, then, we'd better get the handcuffs off him."

"What! You haven't..."

"No, no, heh-heh-heh! Just having a bit o' fun with you, Mr. Herriot. You did it to me with your flippin' Cisco Kid, so I'm giving it back to you."

"All right, fair enough." I laughed in return. "Is Bernard very upset?"

"Upset? Not him. Not a care in the world. His only worry is that the fish and chip shop might be closed."

"Oh, dear. And is it?"

"No, I'll be able to rea.s.sure him about that. They're stayin' open till eleven o'clock tonight."

"Good, good, so it's a happy ending for Bernard."

"Guess so." The sergeant laughed again as he put down the receiver.

But it could have been so different. If the little farm had been on the phone, Miss Wain would have received that call. My mind reeled at the thought of her reaction when she learned that Bernard couldn't even go out for fish and chips without landing in the hands of the police.

I could imagine her exasperated cry. "Useless! Useless!"

Chapter 37.

THERE ARE FEW SIGHTS more depressing than a litter of dying piglets.

"Looks pretty hopeless, Mr. Bush," I said as I leaned over the wall of the pen. "And what a pity, it's a grand litter. Twelve of them, aren't there?"

The farmer grunted. "Aye, it allus happens like that." He wasn't a barrel of laughs at any time but now his long, hollow-cheeked face was set in gloom.

I looked down at the little pink creatures huddled in a heap, liquid yellow faeces trickling down their tails. Neonatal scour. The acute diarrhoea that afflicts new-born piglets and is nearly always fatal unless treated quickly.

"When did they start with this?" I asked.

"Pretty near just after they were born. That were three days ago."

"Well, I wish I'd seen them a bit sooner. I might have been able to do something for them."

Mr. Bush shrugged. "I thought it was nowt-maybe t'milk was too rich for 'em."

I opened the door and went into the pen. As I examined the little pigs their mother grunted as if in invitation. She was stretched on her side, exposing the long double row of teats, but her family weren't interested. As I lifted and laid the limp little bodies I felt sure they would never suckle again.

However, I just couldn't do nothing. "We'll give it a go," I said. "You never know, we might manage to save one or two."

The farmer didn't say anything as I went out to the car. I couldn't remember ever having seen him smile and his hunched shoulders and sombre features added to the general atmosphere of doom.

For my part I was disappointed I hadn't been called earlier because I had a new product with me that might have helped. It was a Neomycin mixture contained in a plastic bottle, which enabled the antibiotic to be squirted into the mouth. I'd had some good results with it in calves but hadn't had the chance to try it on pigs, but as I handled the unresisting little creatures, giving each one a shot onto its tongue and laying it, apparently lifeless, back on the floor, I felt I was wasting my time.

I supplemented the treatment with a small injection of a sulpha drug, and having satisfied my conscience with the feeling that I had done everything, I prepared to leave.

I handed the Neomycin bottle to the farmer. "Here, if there's any alive tomorrow, give them a squirt. Let me know if you manage to save any-it isn't worth my paying another visit."

Mr. Bush nodded wordlessly and walked away.

After three days I had heard nothing and presumed that my unhappy prognostications had been correct, but it was on my mind that I ought to have given the farmer some advice for the future. There were some preventive E. coli vaccines that could be given to the sow before farrowing, and he had a couple of other sows that ought to be protected.

Since I happened to be pa.s.sing right by Bush's farm on my way home from another visit, I turned in at the gate. As I got out of the car the farmer was sweeping up in the corner of the yard. He didn't look up and my spirits sank. At the same time I felt a little annoyed. It wasn't my fault he had lost his litter. He didn't have to ignore me-I had done my best.

Since he still didn't pay any attention I walked into the piggery and looked into the pen.

At first I thought I was looking in the wrong place, but no, I recognised the sow-she had a little nick out of one ear. What my mind could hardly grasp was the sight of a pink jumble of little creatures fighting to get hold of the best teat. It was difficult to count them in the scramble, but finally they settled down to a rapt sucking, each contented with his lot. And there were twelve.

I looked out of the doorway. "Hey, Mr. Bush, they're all alive! Every one of them!"

The farmer, trailing his brush, walked slowly across the yard, and together we looked down into the pen.

I still couldn't believe it. "Well, that's marvellous. A miracle. I thought they'd all die-and there they are!"

There was no joy in Mr. Bush's face. "Aye," he muttered, "but they've lost a bit o' ground."

With Mr. Bush's unimpressed line still groaning in my ear, I drove out to Lord Gresham's farm.

It was only when I was in the RAF with the SP's bawling, "Hey, you, c'mere!" that I realised that the quiet respect I usually received as a veterinary surgeon on the Yorkshire farms was something I had taken for granted. Yet it was very special in my life. It was nothing to do with success or failure in my work-things sometimes went wrong and occasionally I was ticked off by my clients-but behind it all there was the feeling that I was a professional man doing my best for the animals, and I was esteemed accordingly.

But I never got any more respect from Lord Gresham's men than I did from Mr. Bush. Danny, Bert, Hughie and Joe regarded me with a total detachment I always found disquieting. It wasn't that they disliked me or were rude in any way, it was the fact that no matter what I did they were totally unimpressed, not, seemingly, even interested.

This was strange because, as every vet knows, there are some places where everything goes right and others where everything goes wrong and Lord Gresham's place was one of the former. I always felt that my good fairy was watching over me there, because every single case had gone like a breeze and in fact I had pulled off a long succession of cures that warmed my heart.

Today, after climbing out of my car and walking into the fold yard, I believed I would do it again. I looked at the cow standing alone and disconsolate in the deep straw. She was a pathetic sight with, it seemed, half her insides hanging out of her. Prolapsed uterus. It was a scene to wipe the smile from any veterinary surgeon's face-a promise of hard labour with the animal's life at stake. But with the pa.s.sage of years this condition had lost a lot of its dread and, although I was naturally apprehensive, I had the feeling that with my new knowledge and equipment I could restore this poor cow to normal. But at the same time I knew I would get no credit for it, no respect. Not on this farm anyway.

By bringing up a tractor and using the recently invented Bagshaw hoist clamped on the cow's pelvis I raised the cow's back end, so that I was working downhill, administered a spinal anaesthetic and replaced the uterus with none of the labour of past years.

The cow walked away, good as new, and while I felt delighted at the magical return to normal, the men were completely unmoved and strolled off without a word. It was always like this here.

Shortly after this I attended some sheep going round in circles with listeriosis. An injection of penicillin and they were right within a couple of days-quite a spectacular cure. Same reaction from the men. No interest. Not a sc.r.a.p of respect.

A week later, I was called to a cow with a twisted uterus. She was unable to calve and was lying straining, distressed, on the point of exhaustion. Without my help she would have had to be slaughtered, but by rolling her over several times I righted the twist and produced a beautiful live calf. As I looked wonderingly and with deep satisfaction at the result of my work, the men offered no comment but went phlegmatically about the business of clearing up after the operation. For the umpteenth time I wondered what I had to do to get through to them. I was putting on my jacket when an envelope fell out of my pocket. It was from Liverpool, from the football pools firm, and just for the sake of breaking the silence I said, "Ah, my winnings for this week."

The effect was electric and the previous apathy was replaced by acute interest. They studied the enclosed postal order, which was only for two pounds, with total absorption. "By gaw, look at that!" "We can't do any good with them things!" "Fust time I've ever seen a winner!" The remarks flew thick and fast. Then Danny, the foreman, said, "De ye often win?"

Carried away by the excitement and the unprecedented interest, I replied casually, "Oh, yes, regularly," which was an exaggeration because I very rarely won, but the remark was received with open-mouthed fascination. For the first time ever I was the centre of concentrated attention.

After a few moments, Danny cleared his throat. "Mr. Herriot, the lads and me do the three draws every week- we each put on a shillin'-and we've never 'ad a touch yet. Will you fill up our coupon for us?"

With a wistful feeling that my sudden popularity would be soon exploded I took the coupon and, using the cow's back as a desk, I did as they asked.

It was a winner and, during the week, Danny appeared at my surgery. "We've got thirty bob apiece, Mr. Herriot. It's never happened before and t'lads are over the moon. Will ye do t'same again?"

"Certainly," I replied airily and put my crosses in the little squares. It won again, and this time all four of the men turned up at the surgery, smiling and triumphant. "Another thirty bob each, Mr. Herriot! It's champion! We're goin' to put a bit more on this week."

I felt that things were getting out of hand. "Look, chaps, I'd really rather not do this again. I don't want to lose you a lot of money and you will if you start putting on bigger stakes. Anyway, I'm no expert at this-I was only kidding when I gave you the idea that I won every week."

A hush fell upon the room and four pairs of eyes narrowed to slits. They didn't believe a word.

Helplessly I looked from one to the other, but they stood there as though carved from stone, waiting for me to make my move.

"I tell you what," I said at length. "I'll do your coupon this week, but it will be for the last time. All right?"

There were nods all round. "Aye, that'll do us fine," Danny said.

"Just this week and never n'more."

Once more I entered the crosses in the squares and as I handed over the coupon I made my final appeal. "And you'll never ask me to do this again?"

Danny raised a hand. "Nay, never n'more, Mr. Herriot. That's a promise."

For the third successive week, their coupon was a winner. Even as I write, I feel I can hardly ask anybody to believe it, but it is a true story. And a growing sensation of the eerie workings of fate was strengthened when I myself had my biggest-ever win-seventy-seven pounds, four shillings and eleven pence-on the treble chance. The sum is engraved on my memory till the end of time.

That evening I showed the postal order tremblingly to my partner. "Look at this, Siegfried. All this money! And if I had had just one more draw I'd have won the first prize-sixteen thousand pounds!" Siegfried whistled as he studied the postal order. "James, this calls for a celebration. Let's get over to the Drovers'."

In the bar, Siegfried bustled to the counter. "Two large whiskies, Betty," he cried. "Mr. Herriot's just won sixteen thousand pounds on the pools!"

"No, no..." I protested, trying to restrain my ebullient colleague. "It wasn't as much as that..."

But it was too late. The barmaid's eyes popped, the other occupants nearly choked on their beer and the damage was done. The news swept through Darrowby like a prairie fire.

Sixteen thousand pounds was a vast fortune in those days and wherever I went over the next few weeks I was greeted with secret smiles and knowing winks. It happened nearly forty years ago, but to this day there are many people in our little town who are convinced that Herriot became rich on the pools.

The next time I had to visit Lord Gresham's farm was to carry out the tuberculin test on the cattle. I didn't have to do anything clever to the beasts-just clip a couple of inches of hair from the necks and inject into the skin, but there was a different atmosphere altogether from the previous occasions when I was pulling off miracle cures, saving animals' lives with my veterinary skill. The four men seemed to hang on my every word, treating my requests with the greatest deference. "Yes, Mr. Herriot." "Right you are, Mr. Herriot." And, whereas before they had always acted as though I wasn't there, today they watched my smallest move with the greatest concentration. It became clear to me that I was forever enshrined in their minds as the one man to whom the mysteries of the football pools were an open book, to be manipulated as the fancy took me, and as I looked round the four men I could read something in their eyes I had never seen before.

It was respect-deep, abiding respect.

Chapter 38.

I WAS IN A familiar position. Lying flat on my face on a hard cobbled floor with my arm up to the shoulder inside a straining heifer. I had been doing this for over an hour and was beginning to despair. There was a huge live calf in there and the only thing stopping the delivery was that there was a leg back-normally a simple malpresentation and easily corrected. That was the cause of my frustration-I couldn't believe that such a thing could beat me, but the trouble was that this was a very small heifer and there was no room to work. Time and again I had managed to reach the calf's foot but I could only get a couple of fingers round it and as soon as I tried to pull, it slipped away from me. And on top of this the heifer was giving me h.e.l.l with her expulsive efforts, trapping my hand painfully between the calf's head and the pelvic bones.

With all my soul I wished that my arm had been a few inches longer. If only I could get my fingers beyond the smooth wall of the hoof and grasp the hairy leg, the job would be over in minutes, but this was what I had been trying to do for that long hour and my arm was becoming paralysed and useless.

In these situations I would often get a big farm lad to strip off and try to reach inaccessible places for me, but Mr. Kilding and his son were stocky, short-armed chaps-they wouldn't get as far as I had.

Suddenly I remembered something. Calum was doing a tuberculin test on a farm less than a mile away. If I could get hold of him, my troubles would be over because among his many attributes Calum had very long arms.

"Mr. Kilding," I said, "would you phone the Ellertons and ask Mr. Buchanan to come round and give me a hand? I'm afraid I need a bit of help."

"Buchanan? Vet wi' t'badger?"

I smiled. Calum was known as such not only in our own practice but for many miles beyond, "Yes, that's the man."

The farmer hurried off and returned quickly. "Aye, he's just finished the test. Says 'e'll be round in a minute or two." He was a nice man, and wasn't complaining at my long, unproductive rolling about on his byre floor, but he couldn't hide his anxiety. "I 'ope you'll be able to do summat, Mr. Herriot, I've been really lookin' forward to getting this calf."

As he spoke, Calum strode into the byre. He looked down at the prostrate animal and grinned. "Having a little trouble, Jim?" His manner, as always, was breezy.

I explained the situation and he quickly whipped off his shirt. We lay down together on those cobbles, which had been getting steadily harder. I inserted my left arm until I could feel the calf's muzzle against the palm of my hand and Calum pushed in his right arm alongside mine.