Every Living Thing (32 page)

Since I happened to be passing 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 passage 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 scrap 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.

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 hell 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.

“Right,” I said, “I’ll push the head back while you try to get hold of that foot.”

“Okay,” he replied. “Fire away.”

I pushed and just as the head moved away, making the vital room we needed, the heifer gave a mighty strain and pushed it back at me. Calum yelped as his fingers were trapped. “Ouch, that hurt! You’ll have to do a bit better than that.”

I gritted my teeth and tried again, bracing my arm desperately against the heifer’s expulsive efforts.

“I’m nearly there,” grunted Calum. “Nearly…nearly…push, you’re not pushing!”

“I am pushing, dammit!” I gasped. “But she’s stronger than I am, and I’ve been doing this for an hour, you know. My arm’s like spaghetti.”

We tried again, several times, groaning and panting, then Calum let his head slump onto his shoulder. “I know. Let’s have a rest for a few seconds.”

I was all for that and I relaxed, feeling the calf’s rough tongue licking at my palm. He was still alive, anyway.

As we lay there, practically cheek to cheek, arms still inside the heifer, my colleague put on a bright smile. “Well, now, what shall we talk about while we’re resting?”

I didn’t feel like light conversation, but I tried to fall in with his sally. “Oh, I don’t know. Have you any interesting news?”

“Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I have. I’m going to get married.”

“What!”

“I said I’m going to get married.”

“Oh, you’re joking!”

“No, I assure you. I am.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Well…well…Anybody I know?”

“No, no. Girl who works in the surgery department at the London College. I met her there while I was taking the course.”

I lay there, thunderstruck. I found it difficult to take in. I had never imagined that a chap like Calum would ever entertain dreams of domestic bliss. I was still trying to sort out my thoughts when he brought me back to reality. “Come on, let’s have another go.”

And it seemed as though the shock to my system had brought a surge of adrenaline with it, because this time I gave a great, pop-eyed heave and was able to hold the head back till I heard Calum’s triumphant cry, “I’ve got it!”