“How about school meals?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Kitty replied. “All the children stay for meals.” She mentioned the number of kopeks they paid each day, and it worked out to about one shilling per meal.
“For this,” Kitty went on, “they get a glass of tea, bread and sausage.”
This did not sound as substantial as the food in English schools.
A volley of Russian from the deputy director was translated as an attack on the private school system in Britain. In the course of my reply I mentioned that the private schools were called public schools, which made them all look blank. The big man kept hammering home his point that only the children of the rich got a proper education in Britain, but when I pointed out that through university grants everybody in our country could receive a full education no matter what their financial position, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. I don’t think he believed me.
However, the party was really going with a bang, with lots of laughter, banter and give-and-take. It was a pity in one way that the children were away, but on the other hand I should never have had this priceless opportunity of a long discussion with all the teachers.
I was enjoying it so much that I could have stayed all day, but I saw the captain glancing anxiously at his watch and knew he was worried about getting back to the ship. Poor chap, he must be praying that he never has to sail with another veterinary attendant like me.
We took our leave in the friendliest spirit, with laughter and handshakes all round. Little Kitty was particularly nice.
“Oh, I am so thrilled. I will always remember meeting a real live Englishman,” she said as we parted.
The deputy director also revealed an unexpected vein of massive charm as he led us out formally to the main door. His powerful features relaxed into a pleasant smile as he shook hands, bowed and waved us off down the street
As we left the school, I saw some of the children coming back. They were all boys about twelve years old, and many had a greenish, military-style uniform and peaked cap. I saw one with a stripe on his arm. Whether this was a school uniform or whether they were members of a cadet corps, I do not know.
Back at the ship, trouble awaited me. A woman—who, I was told, was a farm commissar—had been asking to see me.
She was huge, well over six feet and broad in proportion, and as she towered over me, two hard eyes in a rough-hewn countenance regarded me coldly from under a black beret. She obviously meant business.
She spoke no English but came to the point straightaway.
“Ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha!” The other Russians had simulated the sheep’s cough very closely, but this, rumbling from deep in her mighty rib-cage, was the best effort yet.
I tried my shrug and vacant smile, but they didn’t work with this one. She seized my arm in steel claws and propelled me effortlessly towards the hold.
Down there among the sheep, she pointed an accusing finger at the Lincolns and went through the coughing routine again and again, while I replied with a series of reassuring grins that became more and more exhausting.
She produced a thermometer, and I wondered if she were a vet. If so, I greatly preferred her chubby little colleague of the morning. She needed no assistance to hold the sheep but jammed a great knee against each animal, trapping them against the wall as though they were puppy dogs. All the readings were normal, and she grew more and more impatient.
As she charged around the pens, she made frequent contact with me. I am a fairly solidly built man of around five feet ten, but she never even noticed as I bounced off her, and the thought occurred to me that if we both donned boxing gloves and got into a ring together, I would be lucky to last a three-minute round.
Finally she produced a tiny Russian-English dictionary and tried me out with various incomprehensible words. The nearest she came to the root of the matter was “broncheetees,” but by then she had lapsed into a discontented muttering. I had the feeling that she was no longer aware of my presence, so I took my opportunity and made a bolt for my cabin.
I was almost there when Nielsen’s head poked out from his cooking cell.
“You miss your lunch, Mr. Herriot. You have tough time, you look tired. Wait there.” He held up a hand. “I make you something.”
I stood in the doorway as he laid out a slice of rye bread and began to chop onto it tiny pieces of raw steak. He slashed away like lightning, his huge knife glinting with expert movements. Then he began to whittle away at a raw onion till the meat was covered with the fragments, then followed this by cracking an egg onto the top of the pile. He finished by dusting the whole mound with salt and black pepper before holding the final result proudly in my direction.
“Beef tartare!” His voice had a triumphant ring. “You eat, Mr. Herriot. You feel better!”
I shrank back a pace. How could I possibly eat this concoction? Raw meat, uncooked egg—it was unthinkable. I was desperately scouring my mind for some excuse to decline when I looked up again at Nielsen’s beaming face. He was my friend, this unsung genius of the galley, and he was trying to succour me in my time of need. I would undoubtedly be ill later, but I couldn’t say no.
It took courage, but I thanked him, seized the heaped slice of bread and bit resolutely into it. I thought if I held my breath throughout I wouldn’t taste anything, but there was too much of it, and as I exhaled I got the full flavour. It was delicious.
The cook’s expression became more and more ecstatic as he saw the growing wonder in my face. Then, as I chewed steadily, he must have noticed a fleeting doubt, a moment of disbelief in my eyes because he rested a hand anxiously on my shoulder.
“A leetle more pepper, maybe?”
I swallowed and regarded him for a moment. “Well … yes, possibly … just a touch.”
He plied the grater, and as I started again on the delicacy, he began to pour me a glass of lager, his face a picture of delight.
I was sorry when I came to the end of the beef tartare, but the strong Carlsberg was just right to wash it down. Nielsen’s taste was impeccable, as always.
It was dark—about 8 P.M.—when the Ubbergen moved out. Our ship took its place, and the discharging of the cargo commenced. Wagons drew up on the railway lines alongside the ship, a great crane lowered a gangway and my poor little sheep were driven up the ramps.
I had literally lived with them for six days, and even though I knew that as pedigree breeding animals they would get the best of treatment, it tugged at my heart to see them go. Those beautiful Romney Marsh with their teddy bear heads trotting under the glaring lights and disappearing into the black interiors of the wagons—I didn’t like it at all. They had come from the green fields of Kent, and as the doors closed behind them, I wondered where they were going.
A throng of black-capped Russian workers swarmed on the quayside, wheeling the wagons from the darkness into the light thrown by the cranes. They all looked frail, dark and washed-out in contrast with the strapping Danes on the ship. My faithful helper, Raun, was in the thick of the action, all six feet four of him, his mop of golden hair flapping as he ushered the animals along the ramp.
Another striking figure was Jumbo, the youngest seaman on the ship. Apparently the youngest member of the crew is always called Jumbo, pronounced “Yoombo,” and this chap is just about the bonniest lad I have ever seen. Seventeen years old, immensely tall and with massive shoulders, yet he has an angelic face, with large blue eyes and thick yellow hair growing down over his ears.
His job was the unloading of the surplus fodder, and I marvelled at the effortless way he roped and hoisted the heavy bags and bales onto the hook which swung down again and again from the crane on the quay. I cannot help thinking of the Vikings when I see these men. If they are typical, the Danes are a wonderful people.
Finally, at about midnight, the last sheep had trotted from sight and the last bale of hay and bag of nuts had been lifted out. The man in charge of the Russian workers waved up at me as I looked down from the rail of
the ship.
“Doktor, goodbye,” he cried and went off into the night.
I walked around the empty holds, feeling a sense of loss; then I went up to the captain’s cabin to await a representative from Saufratt to sign my acceptance forms.
He came at about 2 A.M., and that is 4 A.M. Russian time. He was a young chap of about twenty-five and had been hard at it all day, checking the sheep and supervising the unloading. He was exhausted, white-faced and grimy, and I noticed that his nails were bitten right back. But he was no fool. He could speak and write English very well, and he had the authority to sign for £20,000 worth of sheep.
On the first form he wrote, “About twenty percent of Lincoln sheeps have cough.” Gently I pointed out that it should be “sheep,” and though he was so tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open, he launched into an interrogation as to why the singular should be the same as the plural and wanted to know all the other English words which had this peculiarity. It was another symptom of the passion for learning that I had found repeatedly in Klaipeda.
He was followed by the customs and immigration people who cleared our passports; then the Inflot representatives came aboard and presented their bills to the captain—so many rubles for pilot, berthing and so forth.
The captain gave them hell in his gentlemanly way and said they charged far too much, but they only shrugged their shoulders and laughed heartily.
The very last Russian to come aboard was the pilot, a different one this time.
His face was grave as he spoke to the captain. “There is big storm blowing out beyond the estuary—force six-eight and getting worse. I advise you to pull away from the berth and anchor in the harbour till morning.” He wagged a finger as he made his final admonition. “It will not be so good out there for you tonight.”
The captain paced up and down the cabin, trying to make up his mind. He badly wanted to be off, but dare he risk the storm?
At last he said, “I think you are right, Mr. Pilot. We had better stay here tonight.”
Leaving the cabin, I bumped into the mate. He had overheard the conversation, and he looked at me ruefully.
“I tell you this, Mr. Herriot, I have heard this before. We will leave tonight. Captain Rasmussen, he is not afraid of storms. Prepare yourself.”
Sitting here over my log, I am very sleepy and my bunk looks very inviting. Still and peaceful, it beckons to me. It has been a long, long day.
Chapter
19
“THIS IS BIGGINS ’ERE.”
I gripped the telephone tightly and dug the nails of my other hand into my palm. Mr. Biggins’s vacillations always tried me sorely. He regarded calling out the vet as a final desperate measure, and it was always sheer torture for him to make up his mind to take it. On top of that he was extremely pig-headed about taking my advice if I did manage to fight my way onto his farm, and I knew beyond doubt that I had never ever managed to please him.
He had made me suffer during my pre-R.A.F. days, and now, with the war well over, he was still there, a bit older and a bit more pig-headed.
“What’s the trouble, Mr. Biggins?”
“Well … I ’have a heifer badly.”
“Right, I’ll have a look at her this morning.”
“Haud on, just a minute.” Mr. Biggins was still not sure if he wanted me out there, even though he had got as far as lifting the phone. “Are you sure she needs seein’?”
“Well, I don’t know. What is she doing?”
There was a long pause. “Just laid out, like.”
“Laid out?” I said. “That sounds rather serious to me. I’ll be along as soon as possible.”
“Now then, now then, she ’asn’t allus been laid out.”
“Well, how long, then?”
“Just this last couple o’ days.”
“You mean she just dropped down?”
“Nay, nay, nay.” His voice took on an edge of exasperation at my thick-headedness. “She’s been off her grub for a week, and now she’s gone down.”
I took a long breath. “So she’s been ill for a week, and now she’s collapsed and you’ve decided to call me?”
“Aye, that’s right. She were pretty bright about t’head till she went off ’er legs.”
“Right, Mr. Biggins, I’ll be with you very soon.”
“Ah, but … but … are ye sure there’s any need …?”
I put down the receiver. I knew from hard experience that this conversation could go on for a long time. I also knew that I was probably visiting a hopeless case, but if I got there immediately I might be able to do something.
I was on the farm within ten minutes, and Mr. Biggins met me with his typical attitude—hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes regarding me suspiciously from under a thick fringe of greying eyebrows.
“Ye’re ower late,” he grunted.
I stopped with one foot out of the car. “You mean she’s dead?”
“Nay, but just about. Ye’re too late to do owt about it now.”
I gritted my teeth. This animal had been ill for a week, I had arrived ten minutes after being summoned, but the farmer’s tone was unequivocal; if it died it would be my fault. I had come ower late.
“Ah, well,” I said, trying to relax. “If she’s dying there’s nothing I can do.” I began to get back into the car.
Mr. Biggins lowered his head and kicked at a cobblestone with a massive boot. “Are ye not going to look at ’er while you’re ’ere?”
“I thought you said it was too late.”
“Aye … aye … but you’re the vitnery.”
“Right, if that’s what you want.” I climbed out again. “Where is she?”
He hesitated. “Will ye charge me extra?”
“No, I won’t. I’ve made the journey to your farm, and if I can’t do anything more, that’s all you’ll pay for.”
It was a sadly familiar sight. The skinny young beast lying in a dark comer of the fold yard. Eyes sunken and glazed and moving every few seconds with the slow nystagmus of approaching death. Temperature was 99°F.
“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Biggins,” I said. “She’s dying.” I put my thermometer away and began to leave.
The farmer was a picture of gloom, with his head sunk deep in his shoulders as he looked down at the beast. Then he glanced at me quickly. “Where are ye goin’?”
I looked back in surprise. “I’m going on my round. I’m truly sorry about your heifer, Mr. Biggins, but she’s beyond human aid.”
“So you’re just goin’ to walk away without doin’ owt?” He gave me a truculent stare.
“But she’s dying. You said so yourself.”
“Aye, but you’re t’vet, not me. And I’ve allus heard that where there’s life there’s hope.”
“Not in this case, I assure you. She could go any minute.”
He continued to stare down at the animal. “Look, she’s breathin’ isn’t she? Aren’t you goin’ to give her a chance?”
“Well … if you like, I can try giving her a stimulant injection into her vein.”
“It’s not what ah like. You’re t’one that’s supposed to know.”
“Very well, I’ll have a go.” I trailed out to the car for the injection.
The heifer, in a deep coma, knew nothing as I slipped the needle into the jugular vein. As I depressed the plunger, Mr. Biggins gave tongue again.
“Expensive things, them injections. How much is this goin’ to cost me, then?”
“I honestly don’t know.” My brain was beginning to reel.
“You’ll know awright when you get t’pen in your ’and to send me that big bill, won’t ye?”
I didn’t answer. As the last drop of fluid trickled into the vein the heifer extended her fore limbs, stared sightlessly ahead for a second, then stopped breathing. I watched her for a few moments and put my hand over her heart. “I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr. Biggins.”
He bent quickly. “Have ye killed ’er?”
“No,
no, of course not. She was just ready to go.”
The farmer rubbed his chin. “It wasn’t much of a bloody stimulant, was it?”
I had no answer to that one and began to put my syringe away. I was conscious of an increasing desire to get off this farm as quickly as possible.
I was on the way to the car when Mr. Biggins caught at my arm.
“Well, what was t’matter with ’er?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, you’ve wasted ma money with that injection. Vets are supposed to know, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Mr. Biggins, they are. But in this case I could only say that the animal was dying. You would need a postmortem examination to find out the cause of death.”
The farmer began to pluck excitedly at his coat. “Well, this is a funny carry-on. I ’ave a dead beast here, and nobody knows what killed her. Could be anything, couldn’t it?”
“Well … I suppose so.”
“Could be anthrax!”
“Oh no, Mr. Biggins. Anthrax is very sudden, and you say this heifer was ill for over a week.”
“Nay, nay, not right ill. Just a bit off it, then she went down like a shot at t’end. That was sudden enough!”
“Oh, but …”
“And Fred Bramley along t’road had a beast wi’ anthrax last month, didn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s right. There was a positive case there—first around here for several years. But that was in a cow he found dead.”
“Ah don’t care!” Mr. Biggins stuck his jaw out. “The Darrowby and Houlton Times was on about it, and they said that all sudden deaths should be examined for anthrax because it was right dangerous and fatal to people. I want ma heifer examined!”
“Okay,” I replied wearily. “If you say so. As it happens, I have my microscope with me.”
“Microscope? That sounds a costly job. How much will that be?”
“That’s all right, the Ministry pays me,” I said and began to walk towards the house.