Lord God Made Them All (27 page)

This really wasn’t like me because I have never been a heavy father and have always believed that children should follow their inclinations. But as Rosie entered her teens, I dropped a long series of broad hints and perhaps played unfairly by showing her as many grisly, dirty jobs as possible. She finally decided to be a doctor on humans.

Now, when I see the high percentage of girls in the veterinary schools and observe the excellent work done by the two girl assistants in our own practice, I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing.

But Rosie is a happy and successful doctor, and, anyway, parents are never sure that they have done the right thing. They can only do what they think is right.

However, all that was far in the future as I drove home from Mr. Binns’s with my three-year-old daughter by my side. She had started to sing again and was just finishing the first verse of her great favourite,
“Careless hands don’t care when dreams slip through.”

I
T WAS IN 1950
that one of my heroes, George Bernard Shaw, broke his leg while pruning apple trees in his garden. By a coincidence I had been reading some of the prefaces that same week, revelling in the unique wit of the man and enjoying the feeling I always had with Shaw—that I was in contact with a mind whose horizons stretched far beyond those of the other literary figures of the day, and most other days.

I was shocked when I read about the calamity, and there was no doubt the national press shared my feelings. Banner headlines pushed grave affairs of state off the front pages, and for weeks bulletins were published for the benefit of an anxious public. It was right that this should be, and I agreed with all the phrases that rolled off the journalists’ typewriters. “Literary genius …” “Inspired musical critic who sailed fearlessly against the tide of public opinion …” “Most revered playwright of our age …”

It was just about then that the Castings’ calf broke its leg, too, and I was called to set it. The Casting farm was one of a group of homesteads set high on the heathery Yorkshire moors. They were isolated places and often difficult to find. To reach some of them you had to descend into gloomy, garlic-smelling gills and climb up the other side; with others there was no proper road, just a clay path through the heather, and it came as a surprise to find farm buildings at the end of it

Caslings’ place didn’t fall into either of these categories. It was perched on the moor top, with a fine disregard for the elements. The only concession was a clump of hardy trees that had been planted to the west of the farm to give shelter from the prevailing wind, and the way those trees bent uniformly towards the stones of house and barns was testimony to the fact that the wind hardly ever stopped blowing.

Mr. Casling and his two big sons slouched towards me as I got out of the car. The farmer was the sort of man you would expect to find in a place like this, his sixty-year-old face purpled and roughened by the weather, wide, bony shoulders pushing against the ragged material of his jacket. His sons, Alan and Harold, were in their thirties and resembled their father in almost every detail, even to the way they walked, hands deep in pockets, heads thrust forward, heavy boots trailing over the cobbles. Also, they didn’t smile. They were good chaps, all of them, in fact, a nice family, but they weren’t smilers.

“Now, Mr. Herriot.” Mr. Casling peered at me under the frayed peak of his cap and came to the point without preamble. “Calf’s in t’field.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Could you bring me a bucket of water, please? Just about lukewarm.”

At a nod from his father, Harold made wordlessly for the kitchen and returned within minutes with a much-dented receptacle.

I tested the water with a finger. “Just right. That’s fine.”

We set off through a gate with two stringy little sheepdogs slinking at our heels, and the wind met us with savage joy, swirling over the rolling bare miles of that high plateau, chill and threatening to the old and weak, fresh and sweet to the young and strong.

About a score of calves was running with their mothers on a long rectangle of green cut from the surrounding heather. It was easy to pick out my patient, although, when the herd took off at the sight of us, it was surprising how fast he could run with his dangling hind leg.

At a few barked commands from Mr. Casting, the dogs darted among the cattle, snapping at heels, baring their teeth at defiant horns till they had singled out cow and calf. They stood guard then till the young men rushed in and bore the little animal to the ground.

I felt the injured limb over with a tinge of regret. I was sure I could put him right, but I would have preferred a foreleg. Radius and ulna healed so beautifully. But in this case the crepitus was midway along the tibia, which was more tricky.

However, I was thankful it was not the femur. That would have been a problem, indeed.

My patient was expertly immobilised, held flat on the sparse turf by Harold at the head, Alan at the tail and their father in the middle. One of a country vet’s difficulties is that he often has to do vital work on a patient that won’t keep still, but those three pairs of huge hands held the shaggy creature as in a vice.

As I dipped my plaster bandages in the water and began to apply them to the fracture, I noticed that our heads were very close together. It was a very small calf—about a month old—and at times the three human faces were almost in contact. And yet nobody spoke.

Veterinary work passes blithely by when there is good conversation, and it is a positive delight when you are lucky enough to have one of those dry Yorkshire raconteurs among your helpers. At times I have had to lay down my scalpel and laugh my fill before I was able to continue. But here all was silence.

The wind whistled, and once I heard the plaintive cry of a curlew, but the group around that prostrate animal might have been Trappist monks. I began to feel embarrassed. It wasn’t a difficult job; I didn’t need a hundred percent concentration. With all my heart I wished somebody would say something.

Then, like a glorious flash of inspiration, I remembered the recent clamour in the newspapers. I could start things off, at least.

“Just like Bernard Shaw, eh?” I said with a light laugh.

The silence remained impenetrable, and for about half a minute it seemed that I was going to receive no reply.

Then Mr. Casling cleared his throat. “ ’oo?” he enquired.

“Bernard Shaw, George Bernard Shaw, you know. He’s broken his leg, too.” I was trying not to gabble.

The silence descended again, and I had a strong feeling that I had better leave it that way. I got on with my job, dousing the white cast with water and smoothing it over while the plaster worked its way under my fingernails.

It was Harold who came in next. “Does ’e live about ’ere?”

“No … no … not really.” I decided to put on one more layer of bandage, wishing fervently that I had never started this topic.

I was tipping the bandage from the tin when Alan chipped in.

“Darrowby feller, is ’e?”

Things were becoming more difficult. “No,” I replied airily. “I believe he spends most of his time in London.”

“London!” The conversation, such as it was, had been carried on without any movement of the heads, but now the three faces jerked up towards me with undisguised astonishment and the three voices spoke as one.

After the initial shock had worn off the men looked down at the calf again, and I was hoping that the subject was dead when Mr. Casling muttered from the corner of his mouth. “He won’t be in t’farmin’ line, then?”

“Well, no … he writes plays.” I didn’t say anything about Shaw’s intuitive recognition of Wagner as a great composer. I could see by the flitting side glances that I was in deep enough, already.

“We’ll just give the plaster time to dry,” I said. I sat back on the springy turf as the silence descended again.

After a few minutes I tapped a finger along the length of the white cast. It was as hard as stone. I got to my feet. “Right, you can let him go now.”

The calf bounded up and trotted away with his mother as though nothing had happened to him. With the support of the plaster his lameness was vastly diminished, and I smiled. It was always a nice sight.

“I’ll take it off in a month,” I said, but there was no further talk as we made our way over the field towards the gate.

Still, I knew very well what the remarks would be over the farmhouse dinner table. “Queer lad, that vitnery. Kept on about some friend of his in London broke his leg.”

“Aye. Kept on just like the man knows us.”

“Aye. Queer lad.”

And my last feeling as I drove away was not just that all fame is relative but that I would take care in future not to start talking about somebody who doesn’t live about ’ere.

November 4, 1961

T
HE WEATHER WAS, IF
anything, worse this morning, and I spent a night very like the one before. I noticed at mealtimes that the tablecloth was soaking wet. I kept quiet because I assumed that somebody had spilled something, but when it stayed wet all day, I had to mention it.

The captain smiled at my query. “Ah, yes, Mr. Herriot, I should have told you. We have dipped it in water. It does not slide about the table so much.” He looked at me ruefully. “When the cloth is wet, you can bet the weather is really bad.

I saw his point. The sliding cloth, the slopping soup and, indeed, the constant restlessness of everything on the table had been a problem for some time.

I cannot rid myself of the feeling that we have struck a rock every time the ship falls from the summit of the waves, and apparently it is a standing joke among the crew, because after one of these shattering belly flops during lunch, the plates and cutlery flew all over the room, and Hansen, the engineer, jumped to his feet and peered out of the porthole.

“Deed you see that beeg stone?” he cried, staring at me with a terrified expression. It was a little jest for my benefit.

Again I have spent another disgracefully lazy day, stretched on my bunk, reading. I would have loved to do a few exercises on my hidden corner on deck, but I dare not take the chance. Even my trip for my daily shower is fraught with danger. It is a communal shower and, so far as I know, the only one on this tiny vessel. It is just a few yards away down the passage past the crew’s quarters, but it seemed a long way as I reeled along, armed with towel and soap.

On my way, I could see several of the big, flaxen-haired seamen lying on their bunks, and I am sure I did not imagine the hollow groans issuing from the doorways. Can it be that even these supermen are seasick …?

I really have nothing more to write about today, but tomorrow we should be in Stettin, and with a bit of luck I might get ashore and see something of interest.

November 5, 1961

My wedding anniversary. Strange to be spending it in Poland.

This morning when I awoke, the world was still, and the sea and sky were not wheeling beyond my cabin windows. I realised that we must be in Stettin and heaved myself up in my bunk. I saw that we were moored to a frost-covered quay. It was very foggy, but I could see several men with rods fishing from the quayside.

There was a Polish soldier on guard, but he was not festooned with artillery like the Russians. Also, he smiled when I called out to him. We were lying in a quiet backwater of the main river, the Oder, and there were willow trees and rushes at the water’s edge. I judged from the wooden sheds with pens that this was probably a special place for the loading of livestock.

The usual mob of officials descended on us. Representatives from customs, immigration and farms. Among them was a handsome young Polish army officer who insisted not only on seeing the passports, but on interviewing each of their owners too.

I tentatively approached the captain as he dealt with the throng in his cabin.

“I’d like to go ashore into the town,” I said.

His expression was slightly harassed, and I couldn’t help feeling that he would be glad to get rid of this pest from Yorkshire. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

“I am too busy to go with you, Mr. Herriot, and we must leave here at 11
A.M.
”

“Well, that gives me two hours,” I replied. My natural curiosity and my almost desperate desire for some exercise lent weight to my appeal.

“All right.” He raised a finger. “But you will not be late?”

“No, I promise you.”

He nodded and returned to his business, while I showed my pass to the soldier and set off for the town. Oh, it was lovely to be able to stride out in the frosty air, to feel my limbs moving after the days of immobility and Nielsen’s insidious skills. The fog had lifted, and I could see, about two miles away, the roofs and spires of a sizable town.

First I passed a military barracks with gymnastic equipment outside it, then allotments with a few women digging in them. My immediate impression as I approached the town was of the tremendous devastation left from the R.A.F. raids in wartime. Everywhere there were ruins and empty spaces. Vast buildings, some with ornate statuary over the doors, stood roofless, with gaping windows.

During the first mile of my walk, I saw hardly any evidence of effort to repair these ravages. It was not until I reached the town centre that I came on modern blocks of flats with shops on their ground floors. I took great care to impress every turning on my mind—if I got lost, I couldn’t ask my way back.

Right inside the town, I was able to pin a general impression of the place and people. Obviously they observed Sunday as a holiday, because there was nobody working in the port area, and most of the shops were closed. Notable exceptions were two hairdressers’ salons side by side, designated “Damski” and “Meski” above their respective doors. A lady was having a manicure in the front window of “Damski.”

The population was arrayed in its Sunday best, and it seemed to me remarkable that the well-dressed man in Poland wore what amounted almost to a uniform. Black beret with a small stalk projecting from the top, dark gabardine macintosh and navy-blue suit. Also, every single one had a scarf crossed under his coat. The women were much smarter than in Klaipeda.