James Herriot (31 page)

It was late one afternoon and I was feeling more of a weakling than ever, with Mr. Edwards throwing the sheaves around as though they were weightless while I groaned and strained. The farmer was called away to attend to a calving cow and as he hopped blithely from the stack he patted my shoulder as I leaned on my fork.

“Never mind, Jim,” he laughed.

An hour later we were going into the kitchen for our meal when Mrs. Edwards said, “My husband’s still on with that cow. He must be having difficulty with her.”

I hesitated in the doorway. “Do you mind if I go and see how he’s getting on?”

She smiled. “All right, if you like. I’ll keep your food warm for you.”

I crossed the yard and went into the byre. One of the old men was holding the tail of a big Red Poll and puffing his pipe placidly. Mr. Edwards, stripped to the waist, had his arm in the cow up to the shoulder. But it was a different Mr. Edwards. His back and chest glistened and droplets of sweat ran down his nose and dripped steadily from the end. His mouth gaped and he panted as he fought his private battle somewhere inside.

He turned glazed eyes in my direction. At first he didn’t appear to see me in his absorption, then recognition dawned.

“‘Ullo, Jim,” he muttered breathlessly. “I’ve got a right job on ’ere.”

“Sorry to hear that. What’s the trouble?”

He began to reply then screwed up his face. “Aaah! The old bitchl She’s squeezin’ the life out of me arm again! She’ll break it afore she’s finished!” He paused, head hanging down, to recover, then he looked up at me. “The calf’s laid wrong, Jim. There’s just a tail comin’ into the passage and I can’t get the hind legs round.”

A breech. My favourite presentation but one which always defeated farmers. I couldn’t blame them really because they had never had the opportunity to read Franz Benesch’s classical work on
Veterinary Obstetrics
which explains the mechanics of parturition so lucidly. One phrase has always stuck in my mind: “The necessity for simultaneous application of antagonistic forces.”

Benesch points out that in order to correct many malpresentations it is necessary to apply traction and repulsion at the same time, and to do that with one hand in a straining cow is impossible.

As though to endorse my thoughts Mr. Edwards burst out once more. “Dang it, I’ve missed it again! I keep pushin’ the hock away then grabbin’ for the foot but the old bitch just shoves it all back at me. I’ve been doin’ this for an hour now and I’m about knackered.”

I never thought I would hear such words from this tough little man, but there was no doubt he had suffered. The cow was a massive animal with a back like a dining table and she was heaving the farmer back effortlessly every time she strained. We didn’t see many Red Polls in Yorkshire but the ones I had met were self-willed and strong as elephants; the idea of pushing against one for an hour made me quail.

Mr. Edwards pulled his arm out and stood for a moment leaning against the hairy rump. The animal was quite unperturbed by the interference of this puny human but the farmer was a picture of exhaustion. He worked his dangling fingers gingerly then looked up at me.

“By God!” he grunted. “She’s given me some stick. I’ve got hardly any feelin’ left in this arm.”

He didn’t have to tell me. I had known that sensation many a time. Even Benesch in the midst of his coldly scientific “repositions,” “retropulsions,” “malpositions” and “counteracting pressures” so far unbends as to state that “Great demands are made upon the strength of the operator.” Mr. Edwards would agree with him.

The farmer took a long shuddering breath and moved over to the bucket of hot water on the floor. He washed his arms then turned back to the cow with something like dread on his face.

“Look,” I said. “Please let me help you.”

He gave me a pallid smile. “Thanks, Jim, but there’s nuthin’ you can do. Those legs have got to come round.”

“That’s what I mean. I can do it”

“What …?”

“With a bit of help from you. Have you got a piece of binder twine handy?”

“Aye, we’ve got yards of it, lad, but I’m tellin’ you you need experience for this job. You know nuthin’ about …”

He stopped because I was already pulling my shirt over my head. He was too tired to argue in any case.

Hanging the shirt on a nail on the wall, bending over the bucket and soaping my arms with the scent of the antiseptic coming up to me brought a rush of memories which was almost overwhelming. I held out my hand and Mr. Edwards wordlessly passed me a length of twine.

I soaked it in the water, then quickly tied a slip knot at one end and inserted my hand into the cow. Ah yes, there was the tail, so familiar, hanging between the calf’s pelvic bones. Oh, I did love a breech, and I ran my hand with almost voluptuous satisfaction along the hair of the limb till. I reached the tiny foot. It was a moment’s work to push the loop over the fetlock and tighten it while I passed the free end between the digits of the cloven foot.

“Hold that,” I said to the farmer, “and pull it steadily when I tell you.”

I put my hand on the hock and began to push it away from me into the uterus.

“Now pull,” I said. “But carefully. Don’t jerk.”

Like a man in a dream he did as I said and within seconds the foot popped out of the vulva.

“Hell!” said Mr. Edwards.

“Now for the other one,” I murmured as I removed the loop.

I repeated the procedure, the farmer, slightly pop-eyed, pulling on the twine. The second little hoof, yellow and moist, joined its fellow on the outside almost immediately.

“Bloody hell!” said Mr. Edwards.

“Right,” I said. “Grab a leg and we’ll have him out in a couple of ticks.”

We each took a hold and leaned back, but the big cow did the job for us, giving a great heave which deposited the calf wet and wriggling into my arms. I staggered back and dropped with it on to the straw.

“Grand bull calf, Mr. Edwards,” I said. “Better give him a rub down.”

The farmer shot me a disbelieving glance then twisted some hay into a wisp and began to dry off the little creature.

“If you ever get stuck with a breech presentation again,” I said, “I’ll show you what you ought to do. You have to push and pull at the same time and that’s where the twine comes in. As you repel the hock with your hand somebody else pulls the foot round, but you’ll notice I have the twine between the calf’s cleats and that’s important. That way it lifts the sharp little foot up and prevents injury to the vaginal wall.”

The farmer nodded dumbly and went on with his rubbing. When he had finished he looked up at me in bewilderment and his lips moved soundlessly a few times before he spoke.

“What the … how … how the heck do you know all that?”

I told him.

There was a long pause then he exploded.

“You young bugger! You kept that dark, didn’t you?”

“Well … you never asked me.”

He scratched his head. “Well, I don’t want to be nosey with you lads that helps me. Some folks don’t like it …” His voice trailed away.

We dried our arms and donned our shirts in silence. Before leaving he looked over at the calf, already making strenuous efforts to rise as its mother licked it.

“He’s a lively little beggar,” he said. “And we might have lost ’im. I’m right grateful to you.” He put an arm round my shoulders. “Anyway, come on, Mister Veterinary Surgeon, and we’ll ’ave some supper.”

Half way across the yard he stopped and regarded me ruefully. “You know, I must have looked proper daft to you, fumblin’ away inside there for an hour and damn near killin’ myself, then you step up and do it in a couple of minutes. I feel as weak as a girl.”

“Not in the least Mr. Edwards,” I replied. ‘It’s …” I hesitated a moment. “It’s not a question of strength, it’s just knowing how to do it.”

He nodded, then became very still and the seconds stretched out as he stared at me. Suddenly his teeth shone as the brown face broke into an ever-widening grin which developed into a great shout of laughter.

He was still laughing helplessly when we reached the house and as I opened the kitchen door he leaned against the wall and wiped his eyes.

“You young devil!” he said. “I allus had a feeling there was something behind that innocent face of yours.”

A
T LAST WE WERE
on our way to Flying School. It was at Windsor and that didn’t seem far on the map, but it was a typical wartime journey of endless stops and changes and interminable waits. It went on all through the night and we took our sleep in snatches. I stole an hour’s fitful slumber on the waiting-room table at a tiny nameless station and despite my hard pillowless bed I drifted deliriously back to Darrowby.

I was bumping along the rutted track to Nether Lees Farm, hanging on to the jerking wheel. I could see the house below me, its faded red tiles showing above the sheltering trees, and behind the buildings the scrubby hillside rose to the moor.

Up there the trees were stunted and sparse and dotted widely over the steep flanks. Higher still there was only scree and cliff and right at the top, beckoning in the sunshine, I saw the beginning of the moor—smooth, unbroken and bare.

A scar on the broad sweep of green showed where long ago they quarried the stones to build the massive farmhouses and the enduring walls which have stood against the unrelenting climate for hundreds of years. Those houses and those endlessly marching walls would still be there when I was gone and forgotten.

Helen was with me in the car. I loved it when she came with me on my rounds, and after the visit to the farm we climbed up the fell-side, panting through the scent of the warm bracken, feeling the old excitement as we neared the summit.

Then we were on the top, facing into the wide free moorland and the clean Yorkshire wind and the cloud shadows racing over the greens and browns. Helen’s hand was warm in mine as we wandered among the heather through green islets nibbled to a velvet sward by the sheep. She raised a finger as a curlew’s lonely cry sounded across the wild tapestry and the wonder in her eyes shone through the dark flurry of hair blowing across her face.

The gentle shaking at my shoulder pulled me back to wakefulness, to the hiss of steam and the clatter of boots. The table top was hard against my hip and my neck was stiff where it had rested on my pack.

“Train’s in, Jim.” An airman was looking down at me. “I hated to wake you—you were smiling.”

Two hours later, sweaty, unshaven, half asleep, laden with kit, we shuffled into the airfield at Windsor. Sitting in the wooden building we only half listened to the corporal giving us our introductory address. Then suddenly his words struck home.

“There’s one other thing,” he said. “Remember to wear your identity discs at all times. We had two prangs last week—couple of fellers burned beyond recognition and neither of ’em was wearing his discs. We didn’t know who they were.” He spread his hands appealingly. “This sort of thing makes a lot of work for us, so remember what I’ve told you.”

In a moment we were all wide awake and listening intently. Probably thinking as I was—that we had only been playing at being airmen up till now.

I looked through the window at the wind sock blowing over the long flat stretch of green, at the scattered aircraft, the fire tender, the huddle of low wooden huts. The playing was over now. This was where everything started.

T
HIS WAS A VERY
different uniform. The Wellingtons and breeches of my country vet days seemed far away as I climbed into the baggy flying suit and pulled on the sheepskin boots and the gloves—the silk ones first then the big clumsy pair on top. It was all new but I had a feeling of pride.

Leather helmet and goggles next, then I fastened on my parachute passing the straps over my shoulders and between my legs and buckling them against my chest before shuffling out of the flight hut on to the long stretch of sunlit grass.

Flying Officer Woodham was waiting for me there. He was to be my instructor and he glanced at me apprehensively as though he didn’t relish the prospect. With his dark boyish good looks he resembled all the pictures I had seen of Battle of Britain pilots and in fact, like all our instructors, he had been through this crisis in our history. They had been sent here as a kind of holiday after their tremendous experience but it was said that they regarded their operations against the enemy as a picnic compared with this. They had faced the might of the Luftwaffe without flinching but we terrified them.

As we walked over the grass I could see one of my friends coming in to land. The little biplane slewed and weaved crazily in the sky, just missed a clump of trees then about fifty feet from the ground it dropped like a stone, bounced high on its wheels, bounced twice again then zig-zagged to a halt. The helmeted head in the rear cockpit jerked and nodded as though it were making some pointed remarks to the head in front. Flying Officer Woodham’s face was expressionless but I knew what he was thinking. It was his turn next.

The Tiger Moth looked very small and alone on the wide stretch of green. I climbed up and strapped myself into the cockpit while my instructor got in behind me. He went through the drill which I would soon know by heart like a piece of poetry. A fitter gave the propellor a few turns for priming. Then “Contact!” the fitter swung the prop, the engine roared, the chocks were pulled away from the wheels and we were away, bumping over the grass, then suddenly and miraculously lifting and soaring high over the straggle of huts into the summer sky with the patchwork of the soft countryside of southern England unfolding beneath us.

I felt a sudden elation, not just because I liked the sensation but because I had waited so long for this moment. The months of drilling and marching and studying navigation had been leading up to the time when I would take the air and now it had arrived.

F. O. Woodham’s voice came over the intercom. “Now you’ve got her. Take the stick and hold her steady. Watch the artificial horizon and keep it level. See that cloud ahead? Line yourself up with it and keep your nose on it.”