I turned as in a dream to Mrs. Dalby.
“They’ve got husk.” Even as I said it it sounded a grimly inadequate description of the tragedy I was witnessing. Because this was neglected husk, a terrible doom-laden thing.
“Husk?” the little woman said brightly. “What causes it?”
I looked at her for a moment then tried to make my voice casual.
“Well it’s a parasite. A tiny worm which infests the bronchial tubes and sets up bronchitis—in fact that’s the proper name, parasitic bronchitis. The larvae climb up the blades of grass and the cattle eat them as they graze. Some pastures are badly affected with it.” I broke off. A lecture was out of place at a time like this.
What I felt like saying was why in God’s name hadn’t I been called in weeks ago. Because this wasn’t only bronchitis now; it was pneumonia, pleurisy, emphysema and any other lung condition you cared to name with not merely a few of the hair-like worms irritating the tubes, but great seething masses of them crawling everywhere, balling up and blocking the vital air passages. I had opened up a lot of calves like these and I knew how it looked.
I took a deep breath. “They’re pretty bad, Mrs. Dalby. A mild attack isn’t so bad if you can get them off the grass right away, but this has gone a long way beyond that. You can see for yourself, can’t you—they’re like a lot of little skeletons. I wish I’d seen them sooner.”
She looked up at me apprehensively and I decided not to belabour the point. It would be like rubbing it in; saying what her neighbours had said all along, that her inexperience would land her in trouble sooner or later. If Billy had been here he probably would never have turned his young cattle on to this marshy field; or he would have spotted the trouble right at the start and brought them inside. Charlie would be no help in a situation like this; he was a good willing chap but lived up to the Yorkshire saying, “Strong in t’arm and thick in t’head.” Farming is a skilful business and Billy, the planner, the stocksman, the experienced agriculturist who knew his own farm inside out, just wasn’t there.
Mrs. Dalby drew herself up with that familiar gesture.
“Well what can we do about it, Mr. Herriot?”
An honest reply in those days would have been, “Medicinally nothing.” But I didn’t say that.
“We’ve got to get them all inside immediately. Every mouthful of this grass is adding to the worm burden. Is Charlie around to give us a hand?”
“Yes, he’s in the next field, mending a wall.” She trotted across the turf and in a minute or two returned with the big man ambling by her side.
“Aye, ah thought it were a touch of husk,” he said amiably, then with a hint of eagerness. “Are ye goin’ to give them the throat injection?”
“Yes…yes…but let’s get them up to the buildings.” As we drove the cattle slowly up the green slope I marvelled ruefully at this further example of faith in the intratracheal injection for husk. There was really no treatment for the condition and it would be another twenty years before one appeared in the shape of diethylcarbamazine, but the accepted procedure was to inject a mixture of chloroform, turpentine and creosote into the windpipe. Modern vets may raise their eyebrows at the idea of introducing this barbaric concoction directly into the delicate lung tissue and we old ones didn’t think much of it either. But the farmers loved it.
When we had finally got the stirks into the fold yard I looked round them with something like despair. The short journey had exacerbated their symptoms tremendously and I stood in the middle of a symphony of coughs, grunts and groans while the cattle, tongues protruding, ribs pumping, gasped for breath.
I got a bottle of the wonderful injection from the car, and with Charlie holding the head and little Mrs. Dalby hanging on to the tail I began to go through the motions. Seizing the trachea in my left hand I inserted the needle between the cartilaginous rings and squirted a few c.c.’s into the lumen and, as always, the stirk gave a reflex cough, sending up the distinctive aroma of the medicaments into our faces.
“By gaw, you can smell it straight off, guvnor,” Charlie said with deep satisfaction. “Ye can tell it’s gettin’ right to t’spot.”
Most of the farmers said something like that. And they had faith. The books spoke comfortably about the chloroform stupefying the worms, the turpentine killing them and the creosote causing increased coughing which expelled them. But I didn’t believe a word of it. The good results which followed were in my opinion due entirely to bringing the animals in from the infected pasture.
But I knew I had to do it and we injected every animal in the yard. There were thirty two of them and Mrs. Dalby’s tiny figure was involved in the catching of all of them; clutching vainly at their necks, grabbing their tails, pushing them up against the wall. William, the eldest son, aged eight, came in from school and he plunged into the fray by his mother’s side.
My repeated “Be careful, Mrs. Dalby!” or Charlie’s gruff “Watch thissen, Missis, or you’ll get lamed!” had no effect. During the melee both she and the little boy were kicked, trodden on and knocked down but they never showed the slightest sign of being discouraged.
At the end, the little woman turned to me, her face flushed to an even deeper hue. Panting, she looked up, “Is there anything else we can do, Mr. Herriot?”
“Yes there is.” In fact the two things I was going to tell her were the only things which ever did any good. “First, I’m going to leave you some medicine for the worms which are in the stomach. We can get at them there, so Charlie must give every stirk a dose. Secondly, you’ll have to start giving them the best possible food—good hay and high protein cake.”
Her eyes widened “Cake? That’s expensive stuff. And hay…”
I knew what she was thinking. The precious hay safely garnered for next winter’s feed; to have to start using it now was a cruel blow, especially with all that beautiful grass out there; grass, the most natural, most perfect food for cattle but every blade carrying its own load of death.
“Can’t they go out again…ever?” she asked in a small voice.
“No, I’m sorry. If they had just had a mild attack you could have kept them in at nights and turned them out after the dew had left the grass in the mornings. The larvae climb up the grass mainly when it’s wet. But your cattle have got too far. We daren’t risk them picking up any more worms.”
“Right…thank you, Mr. Herriot. We know where we are, anyway.” She paused. “Do you think we’ll lose any of them?”
My stomach contracted into a tight ball. I had already told her to buy cake she couldn’t afford and it was a certainty she would have to lay out more precious cash for hay in the winter. How was I going to tell her that nothing in the world was going to stop this batch of beasts dying like flies? When animals with husk started blowing bubbles it was nearly hopeless and the ones which were groaning with every breath were quite simply doomed. Nearly half of them were in these two categories and what about the rest? The pathetic barking other half? Well, they had a chance.
“Mrs. Dalby,” I said. “It would be wrong of me to make light of this. Some of them are going to die, in fact unless there’s a miracle you are going to lose quite a few of them.” At the sight of her stricken face I made an attempt to be encouraging. “However, where there’s life there’s hope and sometimes you get pleasant surprises at this job.” I held up a finger. “Worm them and get some good grub into them! That’s your hope—to help them to fight it off themselves.”
“I see.” She lifted her chin in her characteristic way. “And now you must come in for a wash.”
And of course there it was in its usual place in the kitchen; the tray with all the trimmings.
“Really, Mrs. Dalby. You shouldn’t have bothered. You have enough to do without this.”
“Nonsense,” she said, the smile back on her face. “You take one spoonful of sugar don’t you?”
As I sat there she stood in her habitual position, hands clasped in front of her, watching me while the mi
ddle boy, Dennis, who was five looked up at me solemnly and Michael, a mere toddler of two, fell over the coal scuttle and started to bawl lustily.
The usual procedure was to repeat the intratracheal injection in four days so I had to go through with it. Anyway, it gave me a chance to see how the cattle were faring.
When I drew up in the yard my first sight was of a long sack-covered mound on the cobbles. A row of hooves protruded from beneath the sacks. I had expected something of the sort but the reality was still like a blow in the face. It was still quite early in the morning and perhaps I wasn’t feeling quite strong enough to have the evidence of my failure thrust before my eyes. Because failure it undoubtedly was; even though I had been in a hopeless position from the start there was something damning in those motionless hooves jutting from their rough blanket.
I made a quick count. There were four dead cattle under there. Wearily I made my way into the fold yard; I had no cheerful expectation of what I would find inside. Two of the stirks were down and unable to rise from the deep straw, the rest were still panting, but I noticed with a faint lifting of my gloom that several of them were doggedly munching at the cubes of cake in the troughs and others were pulling an occasional wisp of hay from the racks. It was incredible how animals with advanced respiratory symptoms would still eat, and it provided the only gleam of hope.
I walked over to the house. Mrs. Dalby greeted me cheerfully as though those carcases outside didn’t exist.
“It’s time for the second injection,” I said, and then after some hesitation, “I see you’ve lost four of them…I’m sorry.”
“Well you told me, Mr. Herriot.” She smiled through the tired lines on her face. “You said I had to expect it so it wasn’t as big a shock as it might have been.” She finished washing the youngest child’s face, seized a towel in her work-roughened hands and rubbed him briskly, then she straightened up. It was Saturday and William was at home and I noticed not for the first time that there was something about the little boy which suggested that even at his age he had decided he was going to be the man about the house. He pulled on his little Wellingtons and marched resolutely with us across the yard to do his bit as he saw it. I rested my hand on his shoulder as he walked beside me; he would have to grow up a lot more rapidly than most youngsters but I had the feeling that the realities of life wouldn’t bowl him over very easily.
We gave the animals their second injection with the two little Dalbys again throwing themselves fearlessly into the rough and tumble and that was about the last practical thing I did in the husk outbreak.
Looking back, there is a macabre fascination in recalling situations like this when we veterinary surgeons were utterly helpless in the face of inevitable disaster. Nowadays, thank heavens, the young members of the profession do not have to stand among a group of gasping, groaning creatures with the sick knowledge that they can’t do a thing about it; they have an excellent oral vaccine to prevent husk and efficient therapeutic agents to treat it.
But with the Dalbys who needed my help so desperately I had nothing to offer; my memories are of repeated comfortless visits, of death, and of an all-pervading reek of chloroform, creosote and turpentine. When the business had finally come to an end a dozen of the stirks had died, about five were alive but blowing hard and would probably be stunted and unthrifty for the rest of their lives. The rest, thanks to the good feeding and not to my treatment, had recovered.
It was a crushing blow for any farmer to take but for a widow struggling to survive it could have been fatal. But on my last visit little Mrs. Dalby, hovering as usual, hands clasped above the tea tray, was undefeated.
“Only them as has them can lose them,” she said firmly, her head tilted as always.
I had heard that said many times and they were brave Yorkshire words. But I wondered…did she have enough to be able to lose so many?
She went on. “I know you’ve told me not to turn the young beasts on to that field next year but isn’t there anything we can give them to stop them getting husk?”
“No, Mrs. Dalby, I’m sorry.” I put down my cup. “I don’t think there’s anything country vets need and want more than a husk vaccine. People keep asking us that question and we have to keep on saying no.”
We had to keep on saying no for another twenty years as we watched disasters like I had just seen at the Dalbys’, and the strange thing is that now we have a first rate vaccine it is taken completely for granted.
Driving away I stopped to open the gate at the end of the track and looked back at the old stone farmhouse crouching against the lower slopes. It was a perfect autumn day with mellow golden sunshine softening the harsh sweep of fell and moor with their striding walls and the air so still and windless that the whirring of a pigeon’s wings overhead was loud in the silence. Across the valley on the hilltop a frieze of sparse trees stood as motionless as though they had been painted across the blue canvas of sky.
It seemed wrong that in the midst of this beauty was worry and anxiety, grinding struggle and the threat of ruin. I closed the gate and got back into the car. That little woman over there may have weathered this calamity but as I started the engine the thought was strong in my mind that another such thing would finish her.
13
I WAS VASTLY RELIEVED when winter came and spring followed and I saw virtually nothing of Mrs. Dalby. It was one market day in midsummer that she came to the surgery. I was just going to open the door when Siegfried beat me to it. More than most people he appreciated the hospitality we were shown on the farms and he had sampled Mrs. Dalby’s tray as often as I had. On top of that he had the deepest admiration for her indomitable battle to keep the farm going for her children, so that whenever she appeared at Skeldale House he received her like royalty. His manners, always impeccable, became those of a Spanish grandee.
I watched him now as he threw the door wide and hurried to the top step.
“Why, Mrs. Dalby! How very nice to see you! Do come inside.” He extended his hand towards the house.
The little woman, dignified as ever, inclined her head, smiled and walked past him while Siegfried hastened to her side; and as they negotiated the passage he kept up a running fire of enquiries. “And how is William…and Dennis…and little Michael? Good, good, splendid.”
At the sitting room door there was the same ceremonious opening and courteous gestures and once inside a tremendous scraping of armchairs as he hauled them around to make sure she was comfortable and in the right position.
Next he galloped through to the kitchen to organise some refreshment and when Mrs. Hall appeared with the tray he raked it with an anxious glance as though he feared it may fall below the standard of Mrs. Dalby’s. Apparently reassured, he poured the tea, hovered around solicitously for a moment or two then sat down opposite, the very picture of rapt attention.
The little woman thanked him and sipped at her cup.
“Mr. Farnon, I have called to see you about some young beasts. I turned a batch of thirty five out this spring and they looked in good condition but now they’re losing ground fast—all of them.”
My heart gave a great thump and something must have shown in my face because she smiled across at me.
“Oh don’t worry, Mr. Herriot it’s riot husk again. There’s not a cough among the lot of them. But they are going thin and they’re badly scoured.”
“I think I know what that will be,” Siegfried said, leaning across to push a plate of Mrs. Hall’s flapjack towards her. “They’ll have picked up a few worms. Not lungworms but the stomach and intestinal kind. They probably just need a good dose of medicine to clear them out.”
She nodded and took a piece of the flapjack. “Yes, that’s what Charlie thought and we’ve dosed the lot of them. But it doesn’t seem to have made any difference.”
“That’s funny.” Siegfried rubbed his chin. “Mind you they sometimes need a repeat but you should have seen some improvement. Perhaps we’d better have a look at them.”
/> “That’s what I would like,” she said. “It would set my mind at rest.”
Siegfried opened the appointment book. “Right and the sooner the better. Tomorrow morning all right? Splendid.” He made a quick note then looked up at her. “By the way I’m going off for a week’s holiday starting this evening, so Mr. Herriot will be coming.”
“That will be fine,” she replied, turning to me and smiling without a trace of doubt or misgiving. If she was thinking “This is the fellow who supervised the deaths of nearly half of my young stock last year” she certainly didn’t show it. In fact when she finally finished her tea and left she waved and smiled again as though she could hardly wait to see me again.
And when I walked across the fields with Mrs. Dalby next day it was like turning the clock back to last year, except that we were going in the other direction; not down towards the marshy ground below the house but up to the stony pastures which climbed in an uneven checkerboard between their stone walls over the lower slopes of the hill.
The similarity persisted as we approached, too. These young beasts—roans, reds, red and whites—were an almost exact counterpart of last year’s batch; shaggy little creatures, little more than calves, they stood spindly legged and knock-kneed regarding us apathetically as we came up the rise. And though their symptoms were entirely different from the previous lot there was one thing I could say for sure; they were very ill.
As I watched I could see the dark watery diarrhoea flowing from them without any lifting of the tails as though there was nothing they could do to control it. And every one of them was painfully thin, the skin stretched over the jutting pelvic bones and the protruding rows of ribs.
“I haven’t neglected them this tune,” Mrs. Dalby said. “I know they look dreadful but this seems to have happened within a few days.”