Lord God Made Them All (5 page)

“Ah, James, just the man I was looking for! I’ve had the most ghastly time this morning. I knocked the exhaust off my car going up that bloody awful track to High Liston, and now I’m without transport. They’ve sent for a new exhaust, but until it arrives and they get it fitted I’m stuck. It’s maddening!”

“That’s all right, Siegfried. I’ll do your calls.”

“No, no, James, it’s kind of you, but don’t you see, this sort of thing is going to happen again and again. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We need a spare car.”

“A spare?”

“That’s right. Doesn’t have to be a Rolls Royce. Just something to fall back upon at a time like this. As a matter of fact, I rang Hammond at the garage to bring round something suitable for us to look at. I think I can hear him outside now.”

My partner was always one for instant action, and I followed him to the front door. Mr. Hammond was there with the vehicle for our inspection. It was a 1933 Morris Oxford, and Siegfried trotted down the steps towards it.

“A hundred pounds, you said, eh, Mr. Hammond?” He walked around the car a couple of times, picking pieces of rust from the black paintwork, opening the doors and peering at the upholstery. “Ah, well, it’s seen better days, but the appearance doesn’t matter as long as it goes all right.”

“It’s a sound little job, Mr. Farnon,” the garage proprietor said. “Re-bored two thousand miles ago and don’t use hardly any oil. New battery and a good bit o’ tread on the tyres.” He adjusted the spectacles on his long nose, drew his thin frame upright and adopted a businesslike expression.

“Mmmm.” Siegfried shook the rear bumper with his foot, and the old springs groaned. “How about the brakes? Important in this hilly country.”

“They’re champion, Mr. Farnon. First-rate.”

My colleague nodded slowly. “Good, good. You don’t mind if I drive her round the block, do you?”

“Nay, nay, of course not,” Mr. Hammond replied. “Give ’er any trial you like.” He was a man who prided himself on his imperturbability, and he dropped confidently into the passenger seat as Siegfried took the wheel.

“Hop in the back, James!” my partner cried. I opened the rear door and took my place behind Mr. Hammond in the musty interior.

Siegfried took off abruptly with a roaring and creaking from the old vehicle, and despite the garage man’s outward calm I saw the back of his shirt collar rise a couple of inches above his blue serge jacket as we shot along Trengate.

The collar subsided a little when Siegfried slowed down at the church to make a left turn but reappeared spasmodically as we negotiated a series of sharp and narrow bends at top speed.

When we reached the long straight lane that runs parallel to Trengate Mr. Hammond appeared to relax, but when Siegfried put his foot on the boards and sent the birds squawking from the overhanging branches as he thundered beneath them, I saw the collar again.

When we reached the end of the lane, Siegfried came almost to a halt as he turned left.

“I think we’ll test the brakes, Mr. Hammond,” he said cheerfully and hurled the car suddenly along the home straight for Trengate. He really meant to carry out a thorough test. The roar of the ancient engine rose to a scream, and as the street approached with frightening rapidity the collar reappeared, then the shirt.

When Siegfried stood on the brakes, the car slewed violently to the right, and as we catapulted crabwise into Trengate, Mr. Hammond’s head was jammed against the roof and his entire shirt back was exposed. When we came to a halt, he slid slowly back into his seat, and the jacket took over again. At no time had he spoken or, apart from his up-and-down movements, shown any emotion.

At the front door of the surgery we got out, and my colleague rubbed his chin doubtfully. “She does pull a little to the right on braking, Mr. Hammond. I think we’d need to have that rectified. Or perhaps you have another vehicle available?”

The garage man did not answer for a few moments. His spectacles were askew, and he was very pale. “Aye … aye …” he said shakily. “I ’ave another little job over there. It might suit you.”

“Capital!” Siegfried rubbed his hands. “Perhaps you’d bring it along after lunch, and we can have a spin round to try it.”

Mr. Hammond’s eyes widened, and he swallowed a few rimes.

“Right … right, Mr. Farnon. But I’m goin’ to he busy this afternoon. I’ll send one of me men.”

We bade him goodbye and went back into the house. Walking along the passage, my partner put an arm across my shoulders. “Well, James, another step towards increasing the efficiency of the practice. Anyway,” he smiled and whistled a few cheerful bars, “I rather enjoy these little interludes.”

Suddenly I began to feel good. So many things were new and different, but the Dales hadn’t changed, and Siegfried hadn’t changed either.

“A
VOYAGE TO
R
USSIA
!” I stared at John Crooks.

Siegfried and I worked alone in the practice during the immediate postwar years, and this book is about that period. In 1951 John Crooks came to us as assistant and three years later left to set up his own practice in Beverley. Before he departed he paid us the charming compliment of “filling” a bottle with the air from Skeldale House, to be released in his new surgery with the object of transferring some of our atmosphere. Sometime in the future I shall write about John’s spell in Darrowby, but at the moment I should like to jump forward in time to 1961 in order to interpolate some extracts from the journal I kept of my Russian adventure.

John was behind it. Although he no longer worked for us, he came back often as a friend and he had been describing some of his experiences in exporting animals from Hull. He often sailed with these animals as veterinary attendant, but it was the Russian thing that caught my imagination.

“That must have been very interesting,” I said.

John smiled. “Oh yes, fascinating. I’ve been out there several times now and it’s the real Russia, with the lid off, not a tour of the showplaces they want you to see. You get a glimpse of the country through the eyes of a seaman, and you meet the ordinary Russians, the commercial people, the workers.”

“Sounds great!”

“And you get paid for it, too,” John went on. “That makes it even better.”

I sighed. “You’re a lucky beggar. And these jobs come up pretty regularly?”

“Yes, they do.” He looked at me closely, and I suppose my expression must have been wistful. “Would you like to have a go sometime?”

“Do you mean it?”

“Of course,” he said. “Just say the word and you can sail on the next one. That’ll be sometime around the end of October.”

I thumped my fist into my palm. “Book me in, John. It’s really kind of you. Country vetting is fine but sometimes I feel I’m sliding into a rut. A trip to Russia is just what I need.”

“Well, that’s grand.” John stood up and prepared to leave. “I’ll let you know the details later, but I believe you’ll be sailing with a cargo of valuable sheep—breeding animals. The insurance company is bound to insist on veterinary supervision.”

For a few weeks I went around in a fever of anticipation, but there were many people who didn’t share my enthusiasm.

One cowman cocked an eye at me. “Ah wouldn’t go there for a bloody big clock,” he said. “One wrong word and you’ll find yourself in t’nick for a long, long time.”

He had a definite point. East-West relations were at one of their lowest ebbs at that time and I grew used to my clients making it clear that Russia was one place they would avoid. In fact, when I told Colonel Smallwood about it when I was tuberculin-testing his cattle a few days before I left, he raised his eyebrows and gave me a cold stare.

“Nice to have known you,” he murmured.

But I have seafarers’ blood in my veins going back several generations, and I felt only happy expectation.

October 28, 1961

The first day has come and gone. When I walked onto the quayside at Hull, I saw our ship right in front of me. She is Danish, the
Iris Clausen
of 300 tons, and my first sensation is of mild shock that she is so small. I had cherished a mental picture of a substantial vessel for such a voyage.

When I first saw her at the dockside, only the bows and a portion of deck were visible. This part looked tiny, and a high superstructure obscured what I surmised must be the greater part of the ship. I walked along past this superstructure and experienced a moment of disquiet. I found that the ship ends right there. There just isn’t any more.

To my untutored eyes, the
Iris Clausen
looked like a toy oil tanker, and it was difficult to imagine her crossing an ocean or weathering a storm.

The cargo of sheep had just been loaded and the decks were littered with straw. When I went into the little mess room I saw the captain, who was called Rasmussen, sitting at the head of the table around which were grouped representatives of the export company and two Russian veterinary surgeons who had been inspecting the sheep.

The table itself was heavily laden with a wonderful variety of Danish open sandwiches, beer, whisky, schnapps and other drinks, and with mountains of forms which everybody was furiously signing.

One of the Russians, a bespectacled little man, apparently realised who I was, because he came up and with a smile said, “Veterinary surgeon,” and shook my hand warmly. His colleague, tall and gaunt, was painstakingly going through the forms and saying nothing.

The chief man from the export people informed me that not only am I to be the medical attendant to the 383 pedigree Romney Marsh and Lincoln sheep we are carrying, but I have also to deal with the Russians at our port of destination, Klaipeda. I have to bring back five acceptance forms signed by the Russians and myself, otherwise the company will not get paid.

“How much are the sheep worth?” I asked.

The export man’s mouth twitched up at one corner. “Twenty thousand pounds.”

My stomach lurched. It was a fortune. This was a responsibility I hadn’t foreseen.

When the crowd had cleared, Captain Rasmussen and I were left alone in the room. He introduced himself charmingly and I was immediately attracted by his gentle manner. He is smallish, silver-haired and speaks excellent English.

He waved me to the chair by his side. “Sit down, Mr. Herriot, and let us talk.”

We spoke about our families, then about the job in hand.

“This is a motor ship,” said the captain. “Built for the sole purpose of transporting animals. There are two decks below with pens for the sheep. Perhaps you would like to see your charges?”

As we left the mess room I noticed that the captain was limping slightly. He smiled as he saw me looking down at his feet.

“Yes, I broke my ankle a few months ago. Fell down the steps from the bridge to my cabin during a storm. Silly of me.”

I wondered if I would be doing any falling about over the next week or so. We walked around the sheep. Beautiful animals, all of them, and they were very comfortable, well bedded in straw and with lots of sweet hay to eat. The ventilation was just right and the atmosphere pleasantly warm.

When I left the captain, I was agreeably surprised at the first sight of my cabin. No doubt those on passenger liners are more sumptuous, but there is a bunk with spotless sheets and pillows, a desk, armchair and sofa, a wash basin, fitted wardrobe, two cupboards and a lot of drawers. The whole place is done out in shining light oak. I am very impressed with my temporary home.

I opened my suitcase. Only a tiny part of it was taken up by my personal effects; the rest was filled with the things I thought I might need. My black P.V.C. working coat, bottles of calcium, antibiotics and steroids, scalpel, scissors, suture materials, bandages, cotton wool and syringes.

I looked down thoughtfully at the limited array. Would I find it too meagre or would I not need any of it? The following days would tell me.

We took on the pilot at 8
P.M.
, and at 9
P.M.
I heard some activity outside my window. I looked out and saw two of the crew winching up the anchor.

I went up on deck to watch our departure. The night was very dark, and the dockside was deserted. A cat scurried through the light thrown by a single street lamp but nothing else stirred. Then our siren gave a loud blast and I could see we were moving very slowly away from the quay. We glided through the narrow outlet of the dock, then began to head quite swiftly towards the mouth of the Humber, two miles away.

As I stood on the deck I could see several other ships sailing out on the evening tide, some quite close, cleaving through the water abreast of us only a few hundred yards away, a graceful and thrilling sight.

Away behind, the lights of Hull receded rapidly, and I was looking at their faint glitter beyond the stretch of dark water when I felt a touch on my arm.

It was a young sailor, and he grinned cheerfully as I turned round. “Doctor,” he said. “You show me how to feed the sheeps?”

I must have looked puzzled because his grin widened as he explained. “Many times I sail with cattles and pigs but never with sheeps.”

I understood and motioned him to lead on. Like all the crew, he was a Dane, big, fair-haired, typically Nordic, and I followed his broad back down to the animals’ pens. He listened intently as I gave him the information about feeding and watering, especially about how much concentrates to give. I was particularly pleased to see that as well as the fine-quality hay, there was an abundance of a top-class brand of sheep nuts in big paper sacks.

While he got on with his work, I looked around at the animals which would be under my care. Most of them were Romney Marsh, and as the engines throbbed and the deck vibrated under my feet I marvelled again at their attractiveness. They had great woolly heads like teddy bears, and their eyes, soft and incurious, looked back at me as they lay in the straw or nibbled at their food.

Before coming down here to my cabin, I had an irresistible urge to return to the upper deck and look around. I have sea captains among my uncles and a great grandfather who was a ship’s pilot and the sea has always had a pull for me. In the darkness I walked around the deck. This wasn’t easy because there is only a narrow strip, twenty-five yards long, on either side.