It seemed to me that all the forces of black magic had broken through and were engulfing me and that my slender resources of science had no chance of shoring up the dyke. I don’t know how I heard the creaking sound above the din—probably because I was bending low over Mr. Reynolds in an attempt to persuade him to desist from his tail rubbing. But at that moment the cow shifted her position slightly and I distinctly heard it. It came from the pelvis.
It took me some time to attract attention—I think everybody had forgotten I was there—but finally the dogs were separated and secured with innumerable lengths of binder twine, everybody stopped shouting, Mr. Reynolds was pulled away from the tail and I had the stage.
I addressed myself to Mr. Handshaw. “Would you get me a bucket of hot water, some soap and a towel, please.”
He trailed off, grumbling, as though he didn’t expect much from the new gambit. My stock was definitely low.
I stripped off my jacket, soaped my arms and pushed a hand into the cow’s rectum until I felt the hard bone of the pubis. Gripping it through the wall of the rectum I looked up at my audience. “Will two of you get hold of the hook bones and rock the cow gently from side to side.”
Yes, there it was again, no mistake about it. I could both hear and feel it—a looseness, a faint creaking, almost a grating.
I got up and washed my arm. “Well, I know why your cow won’t get up—she has a broken pelvis. Probably did it during the first night when she was staggering about with the milk fever. I should think the nerves are damaged, too. It’s hopeless, I’m afraid.” Even though I was dispensing bad news it was a relief to come up with something rational.
Mr. Handshaw stared at me. “Hopeless? How’s that?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but that’s how it is. The only thing you can do is get her off to the butcher. She has no power in her hind legs. She’ll never get up again.”
That was when Mr. Handshaw really blew his top and started a lengthy speech. He wasn’t really unpleasant or abusive but firmly pointed out my shortcomings and bemoaned again the tragic fact that his dad was not there to put everything right. The other farmers stood in a wide-eyed ring, enjoying every word.
At the end of it I took myself off. There was nothing more I could do and anyway Mr. Handshaw would have to come round to my way of thinking. Time would prove me right.
I thought of that cow as soon as I awoke next morning. It hadn’t been a happy episode but at least I did feel a certain peace in the knowledge that there were no more doubts. I knew what was wrong, I knew that there was no hope. There was nothing more to worry about.
I was surprised when I heard Mr. Handshaw’s voice on the phone so soon. I had thought it would take him two or three days to realise he was wrong.
“Is that Mr. Herriot? Aye, well, good rnornin’ to you. I’m just ringing to tell you that me cow’s up on her legs and doing fine.”
I gripped the receiver tightly with both hands.
“What? What’s that you say?”
“I said me cow’s up. Found her walking about byre this morning, fit as a fiddle. You’d think there’d never been owt the matter with her.” He paused for a few moments then spoke with grave deliberation like a disapproving schoolmaster. “And you stood there and looked at me and said she’d never get up n’more.”
“But … but …”
“Ah, you’re wondering how I did it? Well, I just happened to remember another old trick of me dad’s. I went round to t’butcher and got a fresh-killed sheep skin and put it on her back. Had her up in no time—you’ll ’ave to come round and see her. Wonderful man was me dad.”
Blindly I made my way into the dining-room. I had to consult my boss about this. Siegfried’s sleep had been broken by a 3 a.m. calving and he looked a lot older than his thirty-odd years. He listened in silence as he finished his breakfast then pushed away his plate and poured a last cup of coffee. “Hard luck, James. The old sheep skin, eh? Funny thing—you’ve been in the Dales over a year now and never come across that one. Suppose it must be going out of fashion a bit now but you know it has a grain of sense behind it like a lot of these old remedies. You can imagine there’s a lot of heat generated under a fresh sheep skin and it acts like a great hot poultice on the back—really tickles them up after a while, and if a cow is lying there out of sheer cussedness she’ll often get up just to get rid of it.”
“But damn it, how about the broken pelvis? I tell you it was creaking and wobbling all over the place!”
“Well, James, you’re not the first to have been caught that way. Sometimes the pelvic ligaments don’t tighten up for a few days after calving and you get this effect.”
“Oh God,” I moaned, staring down at the table cloth. “What a bloody mess I’ve made of the whole thing.”
“Oh, you haven’t really.” Siegfried lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “That old cow was probably toying with the idea of getting up for a walk just when old Handshaw dumped the skin on her back. She could just as easily have done it after one of your injections and then you’d have got the credit. Don’t you remember what I told you when you first came here? There’s a very fine dividing line between looking a real smart vet on the one hand and an immortal fool on the other. This sort of thing happens to us all, so forget it, James.”
But forgetting wasn’t so easy. That cow became a celebrity in the district. Mr. Handshaw showed her with pride to the postman, the policeman, corn merchants, lorry drivers, fertiliser salesmen, Ministry of Agriculture officials and they all told me about it frequently with pleased smiles. Mr. Handshaw’s speech was always the same, delivered, they said, in ringing, triumphant tones:
“There’s the cow that Mr. Herriot said would never get up n’more!”
I’m sure there was no malice behind the farmer’s actions. He had put one over on the young clever-pants vet and nobody could blame him for preening himself a little. And in a way I did that cow a good turn; I considerably extended her life span, because Mr. Handshaw kept her long beyond her normal working period just as an exhibit. Years after she had stopped giving more than a couple of gallons of milk a day she was still grazing happily in the field by the roadside.
She had one curiously upturned horn and was easy to recognise. I often pulled up my car and looked wistfully over the wall at the cow that would never get up n’more.
THIRTY-THREE
SIEGFRIED CAME AWAY FROM the telephone; his face was expressionless. “That was Mrs. Pumphrey. She wants you to see her pig.”
“Peke, you mean,” I said.
“No, pig. She has a six-week-old pig she wants you to examine for soundness.”
I laughed sheepishly. My relations with the elderly widow’s Peke was a touchy subject. “All right, all right, don’t start again. What did she really want? Is Tricki Woo’s bottom playing him up again?”
“James,” said Siegfried gravely. “It is unlike you to doubt my word in this way. I will repeat the message from Mrs. Pumphrey and then I shall expect you to act upon it immediately and without further question. The lady informed me that she has become the owner of a six-week-old piglet and she wants the animal thoroughly vetted. You know how I feel about these examinations and I don’t want the job scamped in any way. I should pay particular attention to its wind—have it well galloped round a paddock before you get your stethoscope on it and for heaven’s sake don’t miss anything obvious like curbs or ringbones. I think I’d take its height while you’re about it; you’ll find the measuring stick in …”
His words trailed on as I hurried down the passage. This was a bit baffling; I usually had a bit of leg-pulling to stand ever since I became Tricki the Peke’s adopted uncle and received regular presents and letters and signed photographs from him, but Siegfried wasn’t in the habit of flogging the joke to this extent. The idea of Mrs. Pumphrey with a pig was unthinkable; there was no room in her elegant establishment for livestock. Oh, he must have got it wrong somehow.
But he hadn’t.
Mrs. Pumphrey received me with a joyful cry. “Oh, Mr. Herriot, isn’t it wonderful! I have the most darling little pig. I was visiting some cousins who are farmers and I picked him out. He will be such company for Tricki—you know how I worry about his being an only dog.”
I shook my head vigorously in bewilderment as I crossed the oak-panelled hall. My visits here were usually associated with a degree of fantasy but I was beginning to feel out of my depth.
“You mean you actually have this pig in the house?”
“But of course.” Mrs. Pumphrey looked surprised. “He’s in the kitchen. Come and see him.”
I had been in this kitchen a few times and had been almost awestruck by its shining spotlessness; the laboratory look of the tiled walls and floors, the gleaming surfaces of sink unit, cooker, refrigerator. Today, a cardboard box occupied one corner and inside I could see a tiny pig; standing on his hind legs, his forefeet resting on the rim, he was looking round him appreciatively at his new surroundings.
The elderly cook had her back to us and did not look round when we entered; she was chopping carrots and hurling them into a saucepan with, I thought, unnecessary vigour.
“Isn’t he adorable!” Mrs. Pumphrey bent over and tickled the little head. “It’s so exciting having a pig of my very own! Mr. Herriot, I have decided to call him Nugent.”
I swallowed. “Nugent?” The cook’s broad back froze into immobility.
“Yes, after my great uncle Nugent. He was a little pink man with tiny eyes and a snub nose. The resemblance is striking.”
“I see,” I said, and the cook started her splashing again.
For a few moments I was at a loss; the ethical professional man in me rebelled at the absurdity of examining this obviously healthy little creature. In fact I was on the point of saying that he looked perfectly all right to me when Mrs. Pumphrey spoke.
“Come now, Nugent,” she said, “You must be a good boy and let your Uncle Herriot look at you.”
That did it. Stifling my finer feelings I seized the string-like tail and held Nugent almost upside down as I took his temperature. I then solemnly auscultated his heart and lungs, peered into his eyes, ran my fingers over his limbs and flexed his joints.
The cook’s back radiated stiff disapproval but I carried on doggedly. Having a canine nephew, I had found, carried incalculable advantages; it wasn’t only the frequent gifts—and I could still taste the glorious kippers Tricki had posted to me from Whitby—it was the vein of softness in my rough life, the sherry before lunch, the warmth and luxury of Mrs. Pumphrey’s fireside. The way I saw it, if a piggy nephew of the same type had been thrown in my path then Uncle Herriot was going to be the last man to interfere with the inscrutable workings of fate.
The examination over, I turned to Mrs. Pumphrey who was anxiously awaiting the verdict. “Sound in all respects,” I said briskly. “In fact you’ve got a very fine pig there. But there’s just one thing—he can’t live in the house.”
For the first time, the cook turned towards me and I read a mute appeal in her face. I could sympathise with her because the excretions of the pig are peculiarly volatile and even such a minute specimen as Nugent had already added his own faint pungency to the atmosphere in the kitchen.
Mrs. Pumphrey was appalled at the idea at first but when I assured her that he wouldn’t catch pneumonia and in fact would be happier and healthier outside, she gave way.
An agricultural joiner was employed to build a palatial sty in a corner of the garden; it had a warm sleeping apartment on raised boards and an outside run. I saw Nugent installed in it, curled up blissfully in a bed of clean straw. His trough was filled twice daily with the best meal and he was never short of an extra titbit such as a juicy carrot or some cabbage leaves. Every day he was allowed out to play and spent a boisterous hour frisking round the garden with Tricki.
In short, Nugent had it made, but it couldn’t have happened to a nicer pig; because, though most of his species have an unsuspected strain of friendliness, this was developed in Nugent to an extraordinary degree. He just liked people and over the next few months his character flowered under the constant personal contact with humans.
I often saw him strolling companionably in the garden with Mrs. Pumphrey and in his pen he spent much of the time standing upright with his cloven feet against the wire netting, waiting eagerly for his next visitor. Pigs grow quickly and he soon left the pink baby stage behind, but his charm was undiminished. His chief delight was to have his back scratched; he would grunt deeply, screwing up his eyes in ecstasy, then gradually his legs would start to buckle until finally he toppled over on his side.
Nugent’s existence was sunny and there was only one cloud in the sky; old Hodgkin, the gardener, whose attitude to domestic pets had been permanently soured by having to throw rubber rings for Tricki every day, now found himself appointed personal valet to a pig. It was his duty to feed and bed down Nugent and to supervise his play periods. The idea of doing all this for a pig who was never ever going to be converted into pork pies must have been nearly insupportable for the old countryman; the harsh lines on his face deepened whenever he took hold of the meal bucket.
On the first of my professional visits to his charge he greeted me gloomily with “Hasta come to see Nudist?” I knew Hodgkin well enough to realise the impossibility of any whimsical word-play; it was a genuine attempt to grasp the name and throughout my nephew’s long career he remained “Nudist” to the old man.
There is one memory of Nugent which I treasure. The telephone rang one day just after lunch; it was Mrs. Pumphrey and I knew by the stricken voice that something momentous had happened; it was the same voice which had described Tricki Woo’s unique symptoms of flop-bott and crackerdog.
“Oh, Mr. Herriot, thank heavens you are in. It’s Nugent! I’m afraid he’s terribly ill.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that. What’s he doing?”
There was a silence at the other end except for gasping breathing then Mrs. Pumphrey spoke again. “Well, he can’t manage … he can’t do … do his little jobs.”
I was familiar with her vocabulary of big jobs and little jobs. “You mean he can’t pass his urine?”
“Well … well …” she was obviously confused. “Not properly.”
“That’s strange,” I said. “Is he eating all right?”
“I think so, but …” then she suddenly blurted out: “Oh, Mr. Herriot, I’m so terribly worried! I’ve heard of men being dreadfully ill … just like this. It’s a gland, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. Pigs don’t have that trouble and anyway, I think four months is a bit young for hypertrophy of the prostate.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, but something is … stopping it. You will come, won’t you!”
“I’m leaving now.”
I had quite a long wait outside Nugent’s pen. He had grown into a chunky little porker and grunted amiably as he surveyed me through the netting. Clearly he expected some sort of game and, growing impatient, he performed a few stiff-legged little gallops up and down the run.
I had almost decided that my visit was fruitless when Mrs. Pumphrey, who had been pacing up and down, wringing her hands, stopped dead and pointed a shaking finger at the pig.
“Oh God,” she breathed. “There! There! There it is now!” All the colour had drained from her face leaving her deathly pale. “Oh, it’s awful! I can’t look any longer.” With a moan she turned away and buried her face in her hands.
I scrutinised Nugent closely. He had halted in mid gallop and was contentedly relieving himself by means of the intermittent spurting jets of the normal male pig.
I turned to Mrs. Pumphrey. “I really can’t see anything wrong there.”
“But he’s … he’s …” she still didn’t dare to look. “He’s doing it in … in fits and starts!”
I had had considerable practice at keeping a straight face in Mrs. Pumphrey’s presence and it stood me in good stead now.
&n
bsp; “But they all do it that way, Mrs. Pumphrey.”
She half turned and looked tremblingly out of the corner of her eye at Nugent. “You mean … all boy pigs …?”
“Every single boy pig I have ever known has done it like that.”
“Oh … Oh … how odd, how very odd.” The poor lady fanned herself with her handkerchief. Her colour had come back in a positive flood.
To cover her confusion I became very business-like. “Yes, yes indeed. Lots of people make the same mistake, I assure you. Ah well, I suppose I’d better be on my way now—it’s been nice to see the little fellow looking so well and happy.”
Nugent enjoyed a long and happy life and more than fulfilled my expectations of him; he was every bit as generous as Tricki with his presents and, as with the little Peke, I was able to salve my conscience with the knowledge that I was really fond of him. As always, Siegfried’s sardonic attitude made things a little uncomfortable; I had suffered in the past when I got the signed photographs from the little dog—but I never dared let him see the one from the pig.
THIRTY-FOUR
ANGUS GRIER M.R.C.V.S. WAS never pretty to look at, but the sight of him propped up in bed, his mottled, pop-eyed face scowling above a pink quilted bed jacket was enough to daunt the bravest. Especially at eight in the morning when I usually had the first of my daily audiences with him.
“You’re late again,” he said, his voice grating. “Can ye no’ get out of your bed in the morning? I’ve told you till I’m tired that I want ye out on the road by eight o’clock.”
As I mumbled apologies he tugged fretfully at the counterpane and looked me up and down with deepening distaste. “And another thing, that’s a terrible pair o’ breeches you’re wearing. If you must wear breeches to your work, for heaven’s sake go and get a pair made at a proper tailor. There’s nae cut about those things at all—they’re not fit to be worn by a veterinary surgeon.”