The Lord God Made Them All

by James Herriot

  That was when I realised it was an accolade, a gesture of approval. In ancient days the feudal knights would carry a glove at their saddle bow or a scarf on their lance point as a symbol of their lady’s esteem, but with Miss Grantley it was goat droppings.

  On the occasion when I got mine, Siegfried’s face showed the slightest flicker of surprise and I suppose I might have shown a trace of smugness, but he needn’t have worried. Within a week or two the tin reappeared at his end of the table.

  And after all, it was the natural thing, because if sheer male attractiveness entered into this situation, there was no doubt that Siegfried was out in front by a street. Tristan pursued the local girls enthusiastically and with considerable success; I had no reason to complain about my share of female company, but Siegfried was in a different class. He seemed to drive women mad.

  He didn’t have to chase them; they chased him. I hadn’t known him long before I realised that the tales I had heard about the irresistible appeal of tall, lean-faced men were true. And when you added his natural charm and commanding personality, it was inevitable that the goat droppings would land regularly by his plate.

  In fact, that is how it was for a long time even though Tristan and I paid almost as many visits to Miss Grantley’s goats as Siegfried. As I said, she seemed to be quite rich because she called us out to the slightest ailment and was as good a client as some of our big farmers.

  However, when I heard her voice on the telephone one morning, I knew that this time it wasn’t for something trivial. She sounded agitated.

  “Mr. Herriot, Tina has caught her shoulder on a nail and torn herself rather badly. I do hope you can come out immediately.”

  “Yes, as it happens, I can. There is nothing urgent at the moment. I’ll leave right away.”

  A mild glow of satisfaction rippled through me. This would be just another stitching job and I liked stitching. It was easy and always impressed the client. I would be on happier ground there than when Miss Grantley was quizzing me about goat diseases. They had taught me practically nothing about goats at college, and though I had tried to catch up by snatches of reading here and there, I realised uncomfortably that I was no expert.

  I was leaving the room when Tristan levered himself slowly from the depths of the armchair where he spent a lot of his time. Since breakfast I had been aware of his presence only by the rustle of the Daily Mirror under a cloud of Woodbine smoke.

  He yawned and stretched. “Miss Grantley’s, eh? Think I’ll come with you. Just feel like a ride out.”

  I smiled. “Okay, come on, then.” He was always good company.

  Miss Grantley met us in a tight-fitting pale-blue boiler suit of some silky material which did nothing to diminish her attractions.

  “Oh, thank you so much for coming,” she said. “Please follow me.

  Following her was rewarding. In fact, on entering the goat house Tristan failed to see the step and fell onto his knees. Miss Grantley glanced at him briefly before hurrying to a pen at the far end.

  “There she is,” she said and put a hand over her eyes. “I can’t bear to look.”

  Tina was a fine white Saanen, but her beauty was ravaged by a huge laceration that had pulled the skin down from her shoulder in a long V, exposing the naked smoothness of the supraspinatus and infraspinatus muscles. The bony spine of the scapula gleamed white through the blood.

  It was a mess, but I had to stop myself rubbing my hands. It was all superficial, and I could put it right and look very good in the process. Already I could see myself inserting the last stitch and pointing to the now almost-invisible wound. “There, now, that looks a lot better, doesn’t it?” Miss Grantley would be in raptures.

  “Yes … yes …” I murmured in my most professional manner as I probed the damaged area. “It’s nasty, really nasty.”

  Miss Grantley clasped her hands together. “But do you think you can save her?”

  “Oh, yes.” I nodded weightily. “It will be a big stitching job and take rather a long time, but I feel sure she will pull through.”

  “Oh, thank heaven.” She gave a long sigh of relief. “I’ll fetch some hot water.”

  Soon I was ready for action. My needles, cotton wool, scissors, suture materials and forceps laid out on a clean towel, Tristan holding Tina’s head, Miss Grantley hovering anxiously, ready to help.

  I cleaned the whole area thoroughly, sprinkled dusting powder with a liberal hand, then began to stitch. Miss Grantley was soon in action, passing me the scissors to clip each suture. It was a nice smooth start, but it was a very large wound and this was going to take some time. I searched my mind for light conversation.

  Tristan chipped in, apparently thinking the same thing. “Wonderful animal, the goat,” he said lightly.

  “Ah, yes.” Miss Grantley looked across at him with a bright smile. “I do agree.”

  “When you think about it, they are probably the earliest of the domestic animals,” he went on. “It always thrills me to realise that there is ample evidence of domestication of goats in prehistoric times. There are cave paintings of goats and later, ancient books from all over the world mention their existence. They have been part of the world of man since recorded time. It is a fascinating thought.”

  From my squatting position I looked up at him in surprise. In my relationship with Tristan I had discovered several things which fascinated him, but goats were not one of them.

  “And another thing,” he went on. “They have such a marvellous metabolism. They will consume food other animals won’t look at, and they will produce abundant milk from that food.”

  “Yes, indeed,” breathed Miss Grantley.

  Tristan laughed. “They’re such characters, too. Tough and hardy under all climatic conditions, absolutely fearless and ready to tackle any other animal, no matter how large. And, of course, it is a known fact that they can eat with impunity many poisonous plants which would kill most creatures in a very short time.”

  “Oh, they are amazing.” Miss Grantley gazed at my friend and passed the scissors to me without turning her head.

  I felt I ought to make some contribution. “Goats certainly are extremely …” I began.

  “But really, you know,” Tristan was in full flow again, “I think that the thing which appeals to me most about them is their affectionate nature. They are friendly and sociable, and I feel that that is why people become so deeply attached to them.”

  Miss Grantley nodded gravely. “How true, how true.”

  My colleague stretched out a hand and fingered the hay in the animal’s rack. “I see you feed them properly. There’s all sorts of rough stuff in here—thistles and bits of shrubs and coarse plants. Obviously you know that goats prefer such things to grass. No wonder your animals are so healthy.”

  “Oh thank you.” She blushed faintly. “Of course I give them concentrates, too.”

  “Whole grain, I hope?”

  “Oh yes, always.”

  “Good, good. Keeps up the pH of the rumen. You know, you can get hypertrophy of the rumenal walls and inhibition of cellulose-digesting bacteria with a low pH?”

  “Well, no … I didn’t really understand it in those terms.” She was staring at him as if he were a prophet.

  “Ah, no matter,” Tristan said airily. “You are doing all the right things, and that is the important point.”

  “Can I have the scissors, please?” I grunted. I was beginning to feel cramped in my bent-over position and also a little piqued at the growing impression that Miss Grantley had forgotten all about me.

  But I stitched on doggedly, one-half of my mind watching thankfully as the skin gradually covered the denuded area, the other listening in amazement as Tristan pontificated on the construction of goat houses, their dimensions, ventilation and relative humidity.

  A long time later Miss Grantley hardly noticed as I inserted the last suture and straightened up wearily. “Well, now, that looks better, doesn’t it?” I said, but there wasn’t the
expected impact because Tristan and my client were deeply involved in a discussion of the relative merits of the different breeds of goats.

  “Are you really in favour of the Toggenburg and Anglo-Nubian?” she asked.

  “Oh yes.” Tristan inclined his head judicially. “Excellent animals, both of them.”

  Miss Grantley suddenly became aware that I had finished. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said absently. “You have taken such pains. I am most grateful. Now you must both come in for a cup of coffee.”

  As we balanced our cups on our knees in the elegant sitting room, Tristan carried on, unabated. He dealt in depth with reproductive problems, obstetrics and the feeding of weaned kids, and he was well into a little treatise on anaesthesia for dehorning when Miss Grantley turned towards me. She was clearly still under his spell but no doubt felt that it would be only polite to bring me into the conversation.

  “Mr. Herriot, one thing worries me. I share a pasture with the farmer next door, and very often my goats are grazing with his ewes and lambs. Now, I have heard that his sheep are troubled with coccidiosis. Is there any chance that my goats could contract it from them?”

  I took a long pull at my coffee cup to give myself time to think. “Well … er … I would say …”

  My friend broke in again effortlessly. “Most unlikely. It seems that most types of coccidiosis are specific to their individual hosts. I don’t think you need worry on that account.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Grantley addressed me again, as though deciding to give me a last chance. “And how about worms, Mr. Herriot? Can my goats become infected with worms from the sheep?”

  “Ah now, let’s see …” My cup rattled in the saucer, and I could feel a light perspiration breaking out on my brow. “The thing is …”

  “Quite so,” murmured Tristan, gliding once more to my aid. “As Mr. Herriot was about to say, helminthiasis is a different proposition. There is a very real danger of infection, since the common nematodes are the same in both species. You must always worm regularly, and if I can give you a brief programme …”

  I sank deeper in my chair and let him get on with it, only half hearing erudite remarks about the latest anthelmintics and their actions on trichostrongyles, haemonchus and ostertagia.

  It came to an end at last, and we went out to the car. “I’ll come back in ten days to remove the stitches,” I said as Miss Grantley showed us off the premises. It struck me that it was just about the only sensible thing I had said.

  I drove a few hundred yards along the road, then I stopped the car.

  “Since when have you been a goat lover?” I demanded bitterly. “And where the hell did you get all that high-powered stuff you were preaching back there?”

  Tristan giggled, then threw back his head and laughed immoderately. “Sorry, Jim,” he said when he had recovered. “I have exams coming up in a few weeks, as you know, and I heard that one of the examiners is really goat-orientated. Last night I boned up on every bit of goat literature I could find. Uncanny how I had the opportunity to trot it all out so soon after.”

  Ah, well, that made sense. Tristan had the kind of brain that absorbed information like a sponge. I could believe that he would have to read those chapters only once, and they would be his for good. In my student days I often had to go over a thing about six times before it sank in.

  “I see,” I said. “You’d better let me see those things you read last night. I didn’t realise I was so ignorant.”

  There was an interesting little sequel about a week later. Siegfried and I were going in to breakfast when my partner stopped in mid-stride and stared at the table. The familiar brown-wrapped cocoa tin was there, but it was at his brother’s place. Slowly he walked over and examined the label. I had a look, too, and there was no mistake. It read, “Mr. Tristan Farnon.”

  Siegfried said nothing but sat down at the head of the table. Very soon the young man himself joined us, examined the tin with interest and started on his meal.

  Not a word was spoken and the three of us sat in silence, but over everything the undeniable fact hung heavy in the room. Tristan, for the moment, at least, was top man.

  Chapter

  12

  October 31, 1961

  Getting into bed last night wasn’t easy. With every passing minute the ship’s movements became more violent, and I fell down several times while undressing.

  Once in the bunk I was thrown from side to side, not in the gentle roll of the other nights but with an unpleasant jarring bump. I turned onto my stomach, braced arms and legs against the wood and after about half an hour I managed to fall asleep.

  Around two o’clock in the morning I was jerked from a troubled slumber into a world gone mad. I was being tossed about like a rubber ball, the wind howled, driving rain spattered against the cabin window and a frightful din rose from all over the ship. The banging and clattering were deafening. I could hear the pans in the galley flying around against the walls, a loose iron door clanged repeatedly on its hinges and from everywhere came a medley of undefined rattles and groans.

  I switched on the light and looked out on a scene of chaos. My money, keys, pipe and tobacco were rolling about on the floor; the desk drawers were shooting out to their full extent, then slamming back again; the chair and my suitcase were sliding from one side to another.

  Reeling about in the pandemonium, falling down repeatedly, I did my best to clear up the mess. Then I got back into bed. But I couldn’t stand the thumping of the drawers against the chair so I got out again, jammed the chair against the drawers and my suitcase between chair and bunk, and clambered wearily up again. But though this cured most of the local noise, the uproar outside was unabated, and I got very little sleep after that.

  At dawn a cheerless sight greeted me as I looked out of my window. All around was an empty waste of grey water tossed up into mighty green-and white-topped waves that broke up into clouds of spray as the wind caught them. It gave me an uncomfortable thrill to see our little ship climb up one monstrous wave after another and then drop into a series of deep watery valleys beyond. The Baltic was really playing up.

  My first thought was for the sheep, but I heard the knock on my door and the familiar voice of the mess boy. “Breakfast, Mr. Herriot.”

  I hurried to the mess room. I would have a quick bite and then collect Raun. The captain was seated alone at the table when I entered.

  “Good morning, Mr. Herriot,” he said and gave me a long appraising stare, which I couldn’t quite understand.

  I sat down and waited. I was impatient to get down to the hold, and I wished the breakfast would arrive. On top of that I was distinctly peckish, and I jabbed busily at the smoked ham, herring and salt beef. The captain watched me with narrowed eyes all the time.

  After a few minutes the mess boy appeared. His face was as green as grass, and he averted his eyes from the piled plateful of sausages, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.

  I grabbed a piece of rye bread and fell upon the savoury mound without delay. I was hacking at a sausage when the captain spoke again.

  “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Herriot?”

  I looked up in surprise and replied with my mouth full, “Mm, yes, fine, thanks, a bit tired, maybe. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “But you are hungry, yes?”

  “I am, yes, I certainly am. All that bouncing around seems to have stimulated my appetite.”

  “This is most unusual,” the captain said in his precise way. “We have just come through a force-nine gale, and I was sure you would be seasick this morning. You are a very good sailor.”

  I laughed. “Well, thank you. I don’t suppose there’s anything very clever about that. I’m just made that way. Motion of any kind has never troubled me.”

  “Yes, yes …” The captain nodded gravely. “Still, it is remarkable. Didn’t you notice Peter’s face?”

  “Peter?”

  “Yes, the mess boy. All mess boys are called Peter, by the w
ay, no matter what their real name is. He is feeling very ill; in fact, he is always ill in bad weather.”

  “Oh, poor lad. It was pretty rough last night, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Herriot, and I might say that we were sailing with the wind behind us. If we have to come back in weather like that with the wind against us, then heaven help us. It will be much worse.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. I …”

  Raun’s face, poking round the door, cut me off in mid-sentence.

  “Doctor, come queek. The sheeps … the sheeps are bad!”

  I bolted the last of the sausage and followed him to the hold as quickly as the heaving of the ship would allow me.

  “Look, Doctor!” The big Dane pointed excitedly at one of the Romney Marsh rams.

  The sheep was standing with some difficulty, legs straddled wide. It was panting violently, its mouth gaped and a bubbling saliva poured from its lips. The normally docile eyes were wide and charged with terror as the animal fought for breath.

  All the euphoria I had felt since boarding the Iris Clausen evaporated as I rushed feverishly around the pens. A lot of the other sheep were behaving in exactly the same way, and I realised with a sense of shock that I wasn’t on a pleasure cruise after all.

  I suppressed a rising panic as I examined the animals. They all looked as though they were going to die, and I had a strong conviction that those unknown Russians waiting at the other end were not going to be amused when the expert veterinary attendant presented them with a heap of carcasses. A fine start it would be to my first venture at sea.

  But as I went round the pens again, I began to calm down. None of the sheep looked happy, but it was only the biggest that were affected in this way—all the rams and one or two of the larger ewes, about a dozen in all. So, though it might be a tragedy, it wasn’t going to be total disaster. With Raun hanging onto the necks, I took the temperatures. They were all around 107.