Looking into the pen, I saw with some apprehension that the animal was a Calloway—black and shaggy with a fringe of hair hanging over bad-tempered eyes. She lowered her head and switched her tail as she watched me.
“Couldn’t you have got her tied up, Mr. Binns?” I asked.
The farmer shook his head. “Nay, I’m short o’ room, and this ’un spends most of ’er time on the moors.”
I could believe it. There was nothing domesticated about this animal. I looked down at my daughter. Usually I lifted her into hayracks or onto the tops of walls while I worked, but I didn’t want her anywhere near the Galloway.
“It’s no place for you in there, Rosie,” I said. “Go and stand at the end of the passage, well out of the way.”
We went into the pen, and the cow danced about and did her best to run up the wall. I was pleasantly surprised when the farmer managed to drop a halter over her head. He backed into a corner and held tightly to the shank.
I looked at him doubtfully. “Can you hold her?”
“I think so,” Mr. Binns replied, a little breathlessly. “You’ll find t’place at the end of her back, there.”
It was a most unusual thing—a big discharging abscess near the root of the tail. And that tail was whipping perpetually from side to side—a sure sign of ill nature in a bovine.
Gently I passed my fingers over the swelling, and, like a natural reflex, the hind foot lashed out, catching me a glancing blow on the thigh. I had expected this, and I got on with my exploration.
“How long has she had this?”
The farmer dug his heels in and leaned back on the rope. “Oh, ’bout two months. It keeps bustin’ and fillin’ up over and over again. Every time I thought it’d be the last, but it looks like it’s never goin’ to get right. What’s t’cause of it?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Binns. She must have had a wound there at some time, and it’s become infected. And, of course, being on the back, drainage is poor. There’s a lot of dead tissue which I’ll have to clear away before the thing heals.”
I leaned from the pen. “Rosie, will you bring me my scissors, the cotton wool and that bottle of peroxide?”
The farmer watched wonderingly as the tiny figure trotted to the car and came back with the three things. “By gaw, tlittle lass knows ’er way around.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, smiling. “I’m not saying she knows where everything is in the car, but she’s an expert on the things I use regularly.”
Rosie handed me my requirements as I reached over the door. Then she retreated to her place at the end of the passage.
I began my work on the abscess. Since the tissue was necrotic, the cow couldn’t feel anything as I snipped and swabbed, but that didn’t stop the hind leg from pistoning out every few seconds. Some animals cannot tolerate any kind of interference, and this was one of them.
I finished at last with a nice wide, clean area onto which I trickled the hydrogen peroxide. I had a lot of faith in this old remedy as a penetrative antiseptic when there was a lot of pus about, and I watched contentedly as it bubbled on the skin surface. The cow, however, did not seem to enjoy the sensation because she made a sudden leap into the air, tore the rope from the farmer’s hands, brushed me to one side and made for the door.
The door was closed, but it was a flimsy thing, and she went straight through it with a splintering crash. As the hairy black monster shot into the passage I desperately willed her to turn left, but to my horror she went right and, after a wild scraping of her feet on the cobbles, began to thunder down towards the dead end where my little daughter was standing.
It was one of the worst moments of my life. As I dashed towards the broken door, I heard a small voice say, “Mama.” There was no scream of terror, just that one quiet word. When I left the pen, Rosie was standing with her back against the end wall of the passage and the cow was stationary, looking at her from a distance of two feet.
The animal turned when she heard my footsteps, then whipped round in a tight circle and galloped past me into the yard.
I was shaking when I lifted Rosie into my arms. She could easily have been killed, and a jumble of thoughts whirled in my brain. Why had she said, “Mama”? I had never heard her use the word before—she always called Helen “Mummy” or “Mum.” Why had she been apparently unafraid? I didn’t know the answers. All I felt was an overwhelming thankfulness. To this day I feel the same whenever I see that passage.
Driving away, I remembered that something very like this had happened when Jimmy was out with me. It was not so horrific because he had been playing in a passage with an open end leading into a field, and he was not trapped when the cow I was working on broke loose and hurtled towards him. I could see nothing, but I heard a piercing yell of “Aaaagh!” before I rounded the corner. To my intense relief, Jimmy was streaking across the field to where my car was standing and the cow was trotting away in another direction.
This reaction was typical because Jimmy was always the noisy one of the family. Under any form of stress he believed in making his feelings known in the form of loud cries. When Dr. Allinson came to give him his routine inoculations, he heralded the appearance of the syringe with yells of “Ow! This is going to hurt! Ow! Ow!” He had a kindred spirit in our good doctor, who bawled back at him, “Aye. You’re right, it is! Oooh! Aaah!” But Jimmy really did scare our dentist because his propensity for noise appeared to carry on even under general anaesthesia. The long quavering wail he emitted as he went under the gas brought the poor man out in a sweat of anxiety.
Rosie solemnly opened the three gates on the way back, then she looked up at me expectantly. I knew what it was—she wanted to play one of her games. She loved being quizzed, just as Jimmy had loved to quiz me.
I took my cue and began. “Give me the names of six blue flowers.”
She coloured quickly in satisfaction because, of course, she knew. “Field Scabious, Harebell, Forget-me-not, Bluebell, Speedwell, Meadow Cranesbill.”
“Clever girl,” I said. “Now, let’s see—how about the names of six birds?”
Again the blush and the quick reply. “Magpie, Curlew, Thrush, Plover, Yellowhammer, Rook.”
“Very good indeed. Now, name me six red flowers.” And so it went on, day after day, with infinite variations. I only half realised at the time how lucky I was. I had a demanding, round-the-clock job, and yet I had the company of my children at the same time. So many men work so hard to keep the home going that they lose touch with the families who are at the heart of it, but it never happened to me.
Both Jimmy and Rosie, until they went to school, spent most of their time with me round the farms. With Rosie, as her school days approached, her attitude, always solicitous, became distinctly maternal. She really couldn’t see how I was going to get by without her, and by the time she was five she was definitely worried.
“Daddy,” she would say seriously, “how are you going to manage when I’m at school? All those gates to open and having to get everything out of the boot by yourself. It’s going to be awful for you.”
I used to try to reassure her, patting her head as she looked up at me in the car. “I know, Rosie, I know. I’m going to miss you, but I’ll get along somehow.”
Her response was always the same. A relieved smile, and then the comforting words, “But never mind, Daddy, I’ll be with you every Saturday and Sunday. You’ll be all right then.”
I suppose it was a natural result of my children seeing veterinary practice from early childhood and witnessing my own pleasure in my work that they never thought of being anything else but veterinary surgeons.
There was no problem with Jimmy. He was a tough little fellow and well able to stand the buffets of our job, but somehow I couldn’t bear the idea of my daughter being kicked and trodden on and knocked down and covered with muck. Practice was so much rougher in those days. There were no metal crushes to hold the big struggling beasts; there were still quite a number of farm horses around, and they
were the ones that regularly put the vets in hospital with broken legs and ribs. Rosie made it very clear that she wanted country practice, and to me this seemed very much a life for a man. In short, I talked her out of it.
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.”
Chapter
23
IT 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 d
ry,” 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.
Chapter
24
November 4, 1961
THE 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.
The Lord God Made Them All Page 21