Lord God Made Them All (23 page)

“Beef tartare!” His voice had a triumphant ring. “You eat, Mr. Herriot. You feel better!”

I shrank back a pace. How could I possibly eat this concoction? Raw meat, uncooked egg—it was unthinkable. I was desperately scouring my mind for some excuse to decline when I looked up again at Nielsen’s beaming face. He was my friend, this unsung genius of the galley, and he was trying to succour me in my time of need. I would undoubtedly be ill later, but I couldn’t say no.

It took courage, but I thanked him, seized the heaped slice of bread and bit resolutely into it. I thought if I held my breath throughout I wouldn’t taste anything, but there was too much of it, and as I exhaled I got the full flavour. It was delicious.

The cook’s expression became more and more ecstatic as he saw the growing wonder in my face. Then, as I chewed steadily, he must have noticed a fleeting doubt, a moment of disbelief in my eyes because he rested a hand anxiously on my shoulder.

“A leetle more pepper, maybe?”

I swallowed and regarded him for a moment. “Well … yes, possibly … just a touch.”

He plied the grater, and as I started again on the delicacy, he began to pour me a glass of lager, his face a picture of delight.

I was sorry when I came to the end of the beef tartare, but the strong Carlsberg was just right to wash it down. Nielsen’s taste was impeccable, as always.

It was dark—about 8
P.M.
—when the
Ubbergen
moved out. Our ship took its place, and the discharging of the cargo commenced. Wagons drew up on the railway lines alongside the ship, a great crane lowered a gangway and my poor little sheep were driven up the ramps.

I had literally lived with them for six days, and even though I knew that as pedigree breeding animals they would get the best of treatment, it tugged at my heart to see them go. Those beautiful Romney Marsh with their teddy bear heads trotting under the glaring lights and disappearing into the black interiors of the wagons—I didn’t like it at all. They had come from the green fields of Kent, and as the doors closed behind them, I wondered where they were going.

A throng of black-capped Russian workers swarmed on the quayside, wheeling the wagons from the darkness into the light thrown by the cranes. They all looked frail, dark and washed-out in contrast with the strapping Danes on the ship. My faithful helper, Raun, was in the thick of the action, all six feet four of him, his mop of golden hair flapping as he ushered the animals along the ramp.

Another striking figure was Jumbo, the youngest seaman on the ship. Apparently the youngest member of the crew is always called Jumbo, pronounced “Yoombo,” and this chap is just about the bonniest lad I have ever seen. Seventeen years old, immensely tall and with massive shoulders, yet he has an angelic face, with large blue eyes and thick yellow hair growing down over his ears.

His job was the unloading of the surplus fodder, and I marvelled at the effortless way he roped and hoisted the heavy bags and bales onto the hook which swung down again and again from the crane on the quay. I cannot help thinking of the Vikings when I see these men. If they are typical, the Danes are a wonderful people.

Finally, at about midnight, the last sheep had trotted from sight and the last bale of hay and bag of nuts had been lifted out. The man in charge of the Russian workers waved up at me as I looked down from the rail of the ship.

“Doktor, goodbye,” he cried and went off into the night.

I walked around the empty holds, feeling a sense of loss; then I went up to the captain’s cabin to await a representative from Saufratt to sign my acceptance forms.

He came at about 2
A.M.
, and that is 4
A.M.
Russian time. He was a young chap of about twenty-five and had been hard at it all day, checking the sheep and supervising the unloading. He was exhausted, white-faced and grimy, and I noticed that his nails were bitten right back. But he was no fool. He could speak and write English very well, and he had the authority to sign for £20,000 worth of sheep.

On the first form he wrote, “About twenty percent of Lincoln sheeps have cough.” Gently I pointed out that it should be “sheep,” and though he was so tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open, he launched into an interrogation as to why the singular should be the same as the plural and wanted to know all the other English words which had this peculiarity. It was another symptom of the passion for learning that I had found repeatedly in Klaipeda.

He was followed by the customs and immigration people who cleared our passports; then the Inflot representatives came aboard and presented their bills to the captain—so many rubles for pilot, berthing and so forth.

The captain gave them hell in his gentlemanly way and said they charged far too much, but they only shrugged their shoulders and laughed heartily.

The very last Russian to come aboard was the pilot, a different one this time.

His face was grave as he spoke to the captain. “There is big storm blowing out beyond the estuary—force six-eight and getting worse. I advise you to pull away from the berth and anchor in the harbour till morning.” He wagged a finger as he made his final admonition. “It will not be so good out there for you tonight.”

The captain paced up and down the cabin, trying to make up his mind. He badly wanted to be off, but dare he risk the storm?

At last he said, “I think you are right, Mr. Pilot. We had better stay here tonight.”

Leaving the cabin, I bumped into the mate. He had overheard the conversation, and he looked at me ruefully.

“I tell you this, Mr. Herriot, I have heard this before. We will leave tonight. Captain Rasmussen, he is not afraid of storms. Prepare yourself.”

Sitting here over my log, I am very sleepy and my bunk looks very inviting. Still and peaceful, it beckons to me. It has been a long, long day.

“T
HIS IS
B
IGGINS ’ERE.”

I gripped the telephone tightly and dug the nails of my other hand into my palm. Mr. Biggins’s vacillations always tried me sorely. He regarded calling out the vet as a final desperate measure, and it was always sheer torture for him to make up his mind to take it. On top of that he was extremely pig-headed about taking my advice if I did manage to fight my way onto his farm, and I knew beyond doubt that I had never ever managed to please him.

He had made me suffer during my pre-R.A.F. days, and now, with the war well over, he was still there, a bit older and a bit more pig-headed.

“What’s the trouble, Mr. Biggins?”

“Well … I ’have a heifer badly.”

“Right, I’ll have a look at her this morning.”

“Haud on, just a minute.” Mr. Biggins was still not sure if he wanted me out there, even though he had got as far as lifting the phone. “Are you sure she needs seein’?”

“Well, I don’t know. What is she doing?”

There was a long pause. “Just laid out, like.”

“Laid out?” I said. “That sounds rather serious to me. I’ll be along as soon as possible.”

“Now then, now then, she ’asn’t allus been laid out.”

“Well, how long, then?”

“Just this last couple o’ days.”

“You mean she just dropped down?”

“Nay, nay, nay.” His voice took on an edge of exasperation at my thick-headedness. “She’s been off her grub for a week, and now she’s gone down.”

I took a long breath. “So she’s been ill for a week, and now she’s collapsed and you’ve decided to call me?”

“Aye, that’s right. She were pretty bright about t’head till she went off ’er legs.”

“Right, Mr. Biggins, I’ll be with you very soon.”

“Ah, but … but … are ye sure there’s any need …?”

I put down the receiver. I knew from hard experience that this conversation could go on for a long time. I also knew that I was probably visiting a hopeless case, but if I got there immediately I might be able to do something.

I was on the farm within ten minutes, and Mr. Biggins met me with his typical attitude—hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes regarding me suspiciously from under a thick fringe of greying eyebrows.

“Ye’re ower late,” he grunted.

I stopped with one foot out of the car. “You mean she’s dead?”

“Nay, but just about. Ye’re too late to do owt about it now.”

I gritted my teeth. This animal had been ill for a week, I had arrived ten minutes after being summoned, but the farmer’s tone was unequivocal; if it died it would be my fault. I had come ower late.

“Ah, well,” I said, trying to relax. “If she’s dying there’s nothing I can do.” I began to get back into the car.

Mr. Biggins lowered his head and kicked at a cobblestone with a massive boot. “Are ye not going to look at ’er while you’re ’ere?”

“I thought you said it was too late.”

“Aye … aye … but you’re the vitnery.”

“Right, if that’s what you want.” I climbed out again. “Where is she?”

He hesitated. “Will ye charge me extra?”

“No, I won’t. I’ve made the journey to your farm, and if I can’t do anything more, that’s all you’ll pay for.”

It was a sadly familiar sight. The skinny young beast lying in a dark comer of the fold yard. Eyes sunken and glazed and moving every few seconds with the slow nystagmus of approaching death. Temperature was 99°F.

“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Biggins,” I said. “She’s dying.” I put my thermometer away and began to leave.

The farmer was a picture of gloom, with his head sunk deep in his shoulders as he looked down at the beast. Then he glanced at me quickly. “Where are ye goin’?”

I looked back in surprise. “I’m going on my round. I’m truly sorry about your heifer, Mr. Biggins, but she’s beyond human aid.”

“So you’re just goin’ to walk away without doin’ owt?” He gave me a truculent stare.

“But she’s dying. You said so yourself.”

“Aye, but you’re t’vet, not me. And I’ve allus heard that where there’s life there’s hope.”

“Not in this case, I assure you. She could go any minute.”

He continued to stare down at the animal. “Look, she’s breathin’ isn’t she? Aren’t you goin’ to give her a chance?”

“Well … if you like, I can try giving her a stimulant injection into her vein.”

“It’s not what ah like. You’re t’one that’s supposed to know.”

“Very well, I’ll have a go.” I trailed out to the car for the injection.

The heifer, in a deep coma, knew nothing as I slipped the needle into the jugular vein. As I depressed the plunger, Mr. Biggins gave tongue again.

“Expensive things, them injections. How much is this goin’ to cost me, then?”

“I honestly don’t know.” My brain was beginning to reel.

“You’ll know awright when you get t’pen in your ’and to send me that big bill, won’t ye?”

I didn’t answer. As the last drop of fluid trickled into the vein the heifer extended her fore limbs, stared sightlessly ahead for a second, then stopped breathing. I watched her for a few moments and put my hand over her heart. “I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr. Biggins.”

He bent quickly. “Have ye killed ’er?”

“No, no, of course not. She was just ready to go.”

The farmer rubbed his chin. “It wasn’t much of a bloody stimulant, was it?”

I had no answer to that one and began to put my syringe away. I was conscious of an increasing desire to get off this farm as quickly as possible.

I was on the way to the car when Mr. Biggins caught at my arm.

“Well, what was t’matter with ’er?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Well, you’ve wasted ma money with that injection. Vets are supposed to know, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Mr. Biggins, they are. But in this case I could only say that the animal was dying. You would need a postmortem examination to find out the cause of death.”

The farmer began to pluck excitedly at his coat. “Well, this is a funny carry-on. I ’ave a dead beast here, and nobody knows what killed her. Could be anything, couldn’t it?”

“Well … I suppose so.”

“Could be anthrax!”

“Oh no, Mr. Biggins. Anthrax is very sudden, and you say this heifer was ill for over a week.”

“Nay, nay, not right ill. Just a bit off it, then she went down like a shot at t’end. That was sudden enough!”

“Oh, but …”

“And Fred Bramley along t’road had a beast wi’ anthrax last month, didn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s right. There was a positive case there—first around here for several years. But that was in a cow he found dead.”

“Ah don’t care!” Mr. Biggins stuck his jaw out. “The
Darrowby and Houlton Times
was on about it, and they said that all sudden deaths should be examined for anthrax because it was right dangerous and fatal to people. I want ma heifer examined!”

“Okay,” I replied wearily. “If you say so. As it happens, I have my microscope with me.”

“Microscope? That sounds a costly job. How much will that be?”

“That’s all right, the Ministry pays me,” I said and began to walk towards the house.

Mr. Biggins nodded with glum satisfaction, then raised his eyebrows. “Where you goin’ now?”

“Into the house. I’ve got to use your phone to report to the Ministry. I can’t do anything till I get permission. I’ll pay for the call.” I added the last few words because he was beginning to look worried.

He stood by me as I spoke to the Ministry clerk. He fidgeted impatiently when I asked him for his full name, the proper name of the farm, the breed of the heifer.

“Didn’t know ah’d have to go through all this,” he mumbled.

I went out and produced my postmortem knife from the car boot. It was a large and dangerous carving knife that I used only on dead animals.

Mr. Biggins’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “By gaw, I don’t like the look of that bloody great knife. What are you goin’ to do with that?”

“Just take a bit of blood.” I bent and made a nick at the root of the heifer’s tail and smeared a film of blood onto a glass slide. I took this, along with the microscope, into the farmhouse kitchen.

“Now what do you want?” Mr. Biggins asked sourly.

I looked around. “I want the use of the sink, the fire and that table by the window.”