James Herriot (32 page)

I gripped the joystick in my gauntleted hand. This was lovely. And easy, too. They had told me flying would be a simple matter and they had been right. It was child’s play. Cruising along I glanced down at the grandstand of Ascot racecourse far below.

I was just beginning to smile happily when a voice crashed in my ear. “Relax, for God’s sake! What the hell are you playing at?”

I couldn’t understand him. I felt perfectly relaxed and I thought I was doing fine, but in the mirror I could see my instructor’s eyes glaring through his goggles.

“No, no, no! That’s no bloody good! Relax, can’t you hear me, relax!”

“Yes, sir,” I quavered and immediately began to stiffen up. I couldn’t imagine what was troubling the man but as I began to stare with increasing desperation, now at the artificial horizon then at the nose of the aircraft against the cloud ahead, the noises over the intercom became increasingly apoplectic.

I didn’t seem to have a single problem, yet all I could hear were curses and groans and on one occasion the voice rose to a scream. “Get your bloody finger out, will you!”

I stopped enjoying myself and a faint misery welled in me. And as always when that happened I began to think of Helen and the happier life I had left behind. In the open cockpit the wind thundered in my ears, lending vivid life to the picture forming in my mind.

The wind was thundering here, too, but it was against the window of our bed-sitter. It was early November and a golden autumn had changed with brutal suddenness to arctic cold. For two weeks an icy rain had swept the grey towns and villages which huddled in the folds of the Yorkshire Dales, turning the fields into shallow lakes and the farmyards into squelching mudholes.

Everybody had colds. Some said it was flu, but whatever it was it decimated the population. Half of Darrowby seemed to be in bed and the other half sneezing at each other.

I myself was on a knife edge, crouching over the fire, sucking an antiseptic lozenge and wincing every time I had to swallow. My throat felt raw and there was an ominous tickling at the back of my nose. I shivered as the rain hurled a drumming cascade of water against the glass. I was all alone in the practice. Siegfried had gone away for a few days and I just daren’t catch cold.

It all depended on tonight. If only I could stay indoors and then have a good sleep I could throw this off, but as I glanced over at the ’phone on the bedside table it looked like a crouching beast ready to spring.

Helen was sitting on the other side of the fire, knitting. She didn’t have a cold—she never did. And even in those early days of our marriage I couldn’t help feeling it was a little unfair. Even now, thirty-five years later, things are just the same and, as I go around sniffling, I still feel tight-lipped at her obstinate refusal to join me.

I pulled my chair closer to the blaze. There was always a lot of night work in our kind of practice but maybe I would be lucky. It was eight o’clock with never a cheep and perhaps fate had decreed that I would not be hauled out into that sodden darkness in my weakened state.

Helen came to the end of a row and held up her knitting. It was a sweater for me, about half done.

“How does it look, Jim?” she asked.

I smiled. There was something in her gesture that seemed to epitomise our life together. I opened my mouth to tell her it was simply smashing when the ’phone pealed with a suddenness which made me bite my tongue.

Tremblingly I lifted the receiver while horrid visions of calving heifers floated before me. An hour with my shirt off would just tip me nicely over the brink.

“This is Sowden of Long Pasture,” a voice croaked.

“Yes, Mr. Sowden?” I gripped the ’phone tightly. I would know my fate in a moment.

“I ’ave a big calf ’ere. Looks very dowly and gruntin’ bad. Will ye come?”

A long breath of relief escaped me. A calf with probable stomach trouble. It could have been a lot worse.

“Right, I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” I said.

As I turned back to the cosy warmth of the little room the injustice of life smote me.

“I’ve got to go out, Helen.”

“Oh, what a shame.”

“Yes, and I have this cold coming on,” I whimpered. “And just listen to that rain!”

“Yes, you must wrap up well, Jim.”

I scowled at her. “That place is ten miles away, and a cheerless dump if ever there was one. There’s not a warm corner anywhere.” I fingered my aching throat. “A trip out there’s just what I need—I’m sure I’ve got a temperature.” I don’t know if all veterinary surgeons blame their wives when they get an unwanted call, but heaven help me, I’ve done it all my life.

Instead of giving me a swift kick in the pants Helen smiled up at me. “I’m really sorry, Jim, but maybe it won’t take you long. And you can have a bowl of hot soup when you get back.”

I nodded sulkily. Yes, that was something to look forward to. Helen had made some brisket broth that day, rich and meaty, crowded with celery, leeks and carrots and with a flavour to bring a man back from the dead. I went over and kissed her and trailed off into the night.

Long Pasture Farm was in the little hamlet of Dowsett and I had travelled this narrow road many times. It snaked its way high into the wild country and on summer days the bare lonely hills had a serene beauty; treeless and austere, but with a clean wind sweeping over the grassy miles.

But tonight as I peered unhappily through the streaming windscreen the unseen surrounding black bulk pressed close and I could imagine the dripping stone walls climbing high to the summits where the rain drove across the moorland, drenching the heather and bracken, churning the dark mirrors of the bog water into liquid mud.

When I saw Mr. Sowden I realised that I was really quite fit. He had obviously been suffering from the prevalent malady for some time, but like most farmers he just had to keep going at his hard ceaseless work. He looked at me from swimming eyes, gave a couple of racking coughs that almost tore him apart and led me into the buildings. He held an oil lamp high as we entered a lofty barn and in the feeble light I discerned various rusting farm implements, a heap of potatoes and another of turnips and in a corner a makeshift pen where my patient stood.

It wasn’t the two week old baby calf I had half expected, but a little animal of six months, almost stirk age, but not well grown. It had all the signs of a “bad doer”—thin and pot-bellied with its light roan coat hanging in a thick overgrown fringe below its abdomen.

“Allus been a poor calf,” Mr. Sowden wheezed between coughs. “Never seemed to put on flesh. Rain stopped for a bit this afternoon, so ah let ’im out for a bit of fresh air and now look at ’im.”

I climbed into the pen and as I slipped the thermometer into the rectum I studied the little creature. He offered no resistance as I gently pushed him to one side, his head hung down and he gazed apathetically at the floor from deep sunk eyes. Worst of all was the noise he was making. It was more than a grunt—rather a long, painful groan repeated every few seconds.

“It certainly looks like his stomach,” I said. “Which field was he in this afternoon?”

“I nobbut let ’im have a walk round t’orchard for a couple of hours.”

“I see.” I looked at the thermometer. The temperature was subnormal. “I suppose there’s a bit of fruit lying around there.”

Mr. Sowden went into another paroxysm, then leaned on the boards of the pen to recover his breath. “Aye, there’s apples and pears all over t’grass. Had a helluva crop this year.”

I put the stethoscope over the rumen and instead of the normal surge and bubble of the healthy stomach I heard only a deathly silence. I palpated the flank and felt the typical doughy fullness of impaction.

“Well, Mr. Sowden, I think he’s got a bellyful of fruit and it’s brought his digestion to a complete halt. He’s in a bad way.”

The farmer shrugged. “Well, if ’e’s just a bit bunged up a good dose of linseed oil ’ud shift ’im.”

“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,” I said. “This is a serious condition.”

“Well what are we goin’ to do about it, then?” He wiped his nose and looked at me morosely.

I hesitated. It was bitterly cold in the old building and already I was feeling shivery and my throat ached. The thought of Helen and the bed-sitter and the warm fire was unbearably attractive. But I had seen impactions like this before and tried treating them with purgatives and it didn’t work. This animal’s temperature was falling to the moribund level and he had a sunken eye—if I didn’t do something drastic he would be dead by morning.

“There’s only one thing will save him,” I said. “And that’s a rumenotomy.”

“A what?”

“An operation. Open up his first stomach and clear out all the stuff that shouldn’t be there.”

“Are ye sure? D’ye not think a good pint of oil would put ’im right. It ’ud be a lot easier.”

It would indeed. For a moment the fireside and Helen glowed like a jewel in a cave, then I glanced at the calf. Scraggy and long-haired, he looked utterly unimportant, infinitely vulnerable and dependent. It would be the easiest thing in the world to leave him groaning in the dark till morning.

“I’m quite sure, Mr. Sowden. He’s so weak that I think I’ll do it under a local anaesthetic, so we’ll need some help.”

The farmer nodded slowiy. “Awright, ah’ll go down t’village and get George Hindley.” He coughed again, painfully. “But by gaw, ah could do without this tonight. Ah’m sure I’ve got brown chitis.”

Brown chitis was a common malady among the farmers of those days and there was no doubt this poor man was suffering from it but my pang of sympathy faded as he left because he took the lamp with him and the darkness closed tightly on me.

There are all kinds of barns. Some of them are small, cosy and fragrant with hay, but this was a terrible place. I had been in here on sunny afternoons and even then the dank gloom of crumbling walls and rotting beams was like a clammy blanket and all warmth and softness seemed to disappear among the cobwebbed rafters high above. I used to feel that people with starry-eyed notions of farming ought to take a look inside that barn. It was evocative of the grim comfortless other side of the agricultural life.

I had it to myself now, and as I stood there listening to the wind rattling the door on its latch a variety of draughts whistled round me and a remorseless drip-drip from the broken pantiles on the roof sent icy droplets trickling over my head and neck. And as the minutes ticked away I began to hop from foot to foot in a vain effort to keep warm.

Dales farmers are never in a hurry and I hadn’t expected a quick return, but after fifteen minutes in the impenetrable blackness bitter thoughts began to assail me. Where the hell was the man? Maybe he and George Hindley were brewing a pot of tea for themselves or perhaps settling down to a quick game of dominoes. My legs were trembling by the time the oil lamp reappeared in the entrance and Mr. Sowden ushered his neighbour inside.

“Good evening, George,” I said. “How are you?”

“Only moderate, Mr. Herriot,” the newcomer sniffled. “This bloody caud’s just—ah—ah—whooosh—just g’tting’ a haud o’ me.” He blew lustily into a red handkerchief and gazed at me wearily.

I looked around me. “Well let’s get started. We’ll need an operating table. Perhaps you could stack up a few straw bales?”

The two men trailed out and returned, carrying a couple of bales apiece. When they were built up they were about the right height but rather wobbly.

“We could do with a board on top.” I blew on my freezing fingers and stamped my feet. “Any ideas?”

Mr. Sowden rubbed his chin. “Aye, we’ll get a door.” He shuffled out into the yard with his lamp and I watched him struggling to lift one of the cow byre doors from its hinges. George went to give him a hand and as the two of them pulled and heaved I thought wearily that veterinary operations didn’t trouble me all that much but getting ready for them was a killer.

Finally the men staggered back into the barn, laid the door on top of the bales and the theatre was ready.

“Let’s get him up,” I gasped.

We lifted the unresisting little creature on to the improvised table and stretched him on his right side. Mr. Sowden held his head while George took charge of the tail and the rear end.

Quickly I laid out my instruments, removed coat and jacket and rolled up my shirt sleeves. “Damn! We’ve no hot water. Will you bring some, Mr. Sowden?”

I held the head and again waited interminably while the farmer went to the house. This time it was worse without my warm clothing and the cold ate into me as I pictured the farm kitchen and the slow scooping of the water from the side boiler into a bucket, then the unhurried journey back to the buildings.

When Mr. Sowden finally reappeared I added antiseptic to the bucket and scrubbed my arms feverishly. Then I clipped the hair on the left side and filled the syringe with local anaesthetic. But as I infiltrated the area I felt my hopes sinking.

“I can hardly see a damn thing.” I looked helplessly at the oil lamp balanced on a nearby turnip chopper. “That light’s in the wrong place.”

Wordlessly Mr. Sowden left his place and began to tie a length of plough cord to a beam. He threw it over another beam and made it fast before suspending the lamp above the calf. It was a big improvement but it took a long time and by the time he had finished I had abandoned all hope of ever throwing off my cold. I was frozen right through and a burning sensation had started in my chest. I would soon be in the same state as my helpers. Brown chitis was just round the corner.

Anyway, at least I could start now, and I incised skin, muscles, peritoneum and rumenal wall at record speed. I plunged an arm deep into the opened organ, through the fermenting mass of stomach contents, and in a flash all my troubles dissolved. Along the floor of the rumen apples and pears were spread in layers, some of them bitten but most of them whole and intact. Bovines take most of their food in big swallows and chew it over later at their leisure, but no animal could make cud out of this lot.

I looked up happily. “It’s just as I thought. He’s full of fruit.”

“Hhrraaagh!” replied Mr. Sowden. Coughs come in various forms but this one was tremendous and fundamental, starting at the soles of his hob-nailed boots and exploding right in my face. I hadn’t realised how vulnerable I was with the farmer leaning over the calf’s neck, his head a few inches from mine. “Hhrraaagh!” he repeated, and a second shower of virus laden moisture struck me. Apparently Mr. Sowden either didn’t know or didn’t care about droplet infection, but with my hands inside my patient there was nothing I could do about it.