The Lord God Made Them All

  “Lionel,” I said, “you’ve got to slaughter every healthy pig on the place.”

  His eyes widened. “But there’s hardly any of ’em ready for killin’ yet. And there’s in-pig sows and all sorts.”

  “Yes, I know, but if the disease had been confirmed, I would have advised you to get rid of them all. You are under restrictions, as you know, and you can’t send any pigs to the market, but I can give you a licence for all the healthy pigs to go to the bacon factory.”

  “Aye, but …”

  “I can understand how you feel, Lionel. It’s tragic, but if once the disease gets among your other pigs, I won’t be able to give you a licence then, and you’ll just have to watch them die. This way I can save you about a couple of thousand pounds.”

  “But the bacon pigs … the porkers … ah’d get a lot more in two months from now.”

  “Yes, but you’d get something for them now and nothing if they get swine fever. And apart from the money, wouldn’t you rather have your pigs humanely slaughtered than see them waste away like this sick lot?”

  My words brought home to me the fundamental sadness of a country vet’s work—that so many of our patients are ultimately destined for the butcher’s hook, and no matter how attractive farm animals may be, all our activities have a commercial foundation.

  “Well, ah don’t know. It’s a big thing.” He looked again over the new piggery and the animals he had tended so carefully, then he turned and gave me a level stare. “And what if it isn’t swine fever?”

  He had me there. Under those steady eyes I could only give him an honest answer. “If it isn’t, Lionel, I’ll be costing you thousands instead of saving you thousands.”

  “Aye … aye … I see that. But you think it is?”

  “As I told you before, I am not allowed to make an official diagnosis, but in my own mind I’m bloody sure it is.”

  He nodded quickly. “Right, Mr. Herriot. Start makin’ out your licences. I’ve got a bit o’ faith in you.”

  A “bit o’ faith” was a tremendous compliment from a plain Yorkshireman, and I hoped fervently that it was not misplaced. I got out my blue forms and started to write.

  It wasn’t long before the new piggery was an empty, silent place. There remained only the pen or affected animals, and they died off rapidly. With all its terrors I was sure that swine fever was not a painful disease, and the one gleam of light in the little tragedy was that the diseased pigs quietly faded away and the others had a humane end. There was no real suffering.

  Towards the end of the episode I heard from the Ministry that they had confirmed the disease. I showed the letter to Lionel, and he put his spectacles on and read it through carefully.

  “You were right, then,” he said. “So it were a good job we did what we did.” He folded the paper and handed it back to me. “I got a nice bit from the factory for them pigs we sent in, and if we’d hung on I’d have got nowt. Ah’m grateful to ye.”

  So that was what I got from that simple roadman after he had seen his dream collapse and melt away—no moaning, no complaints, only gratitude.

  Different people reacted in different ways when they were ravaged by this terrible thing, but thank heaven it is all in the past now. A Crystal Violet vaccine was introduced and this helped to control the disease, but finally the Ministry started a compulsory slaughter policy, as in foot-and-mouth, and that was the end of swine fever. It must be nearly thirty years since I had to witness these disasters and wrestle with the forms and boxes and greaseproof papers, but the memory still lingers.

  In the meantime, I wondered what Lionel would do with his new buildings. When the last pig had gone, he meticulously cleaned out and disinfected the place, but he didn’t say anything about his intentions. When the place had stood empty for four months, I concluded that he had had enough of large-scale farming, but I was wrong.

  One evening when I had finished seeing a few dogs and cats, I found him sitting in a corner of the waiting room.

  “Mr. Herriot,” he said without preamble, “I want to start again.”

  “You mean, with pigs?”

  “Aye, ah want to fill that place up again. Can’t bear seein’ it standin’ empty.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you absolutely sure? You took a nasty knock last time. I thought it might have put you off.”

  “Nay, nay—ah still have this feelin’. I want to be in pigs. There’s just one thing, and that’s what I’ve come to ask ye. Could there be any of them germs left from t’last do?”

  It was the sort of question I don’t like being asked. In theory, the infection should have died out on that place long ago, but I had heard some funny things about the swine fever virus surviving for long periods. But four months … the place had to be safe by now.

  Anyway, it’s not much help when a vet says he doesn’t know. This man wanted an answer.

  “I’m sure it would be safe to bring more pigs on now—if you’ve quite made up your mind.”

  “Right, right, ah’ll get started again.” He turned and left me as though he couldn’t begin quickly enough.

  And, indeed, it wasn’t long before the piggery echoed once more to the grunts, snorts and squeals of a new colony. And it wasn’t long, either, before trouble struck.

  Lionel’s voice on the phone was more agitated than I had ever heard it. “I’ve just got back from me work, and me pigs are in a ‘ell of a state. Laid out all over t’place.”

  My heart gave one mighty wallop against my ribs. “What do you mean … laid out?”

  “Well, it’s like they were takin’ fits.”

  “Fits!”

  “Aye, they’re on their sides, kickin’ and slaverin’, and when they get up they stagger around and fall down again.”

  “I’ll be right out.” The receiver rattled on its rest as I replaced it. I felt suddenly drained. I had advised this poor man that it was safe to restock, and there was no doubt swine fever could display nervous symptoms. I rushed for Udall and whipped through the pages. Yes, by God, there it was. “Motor irritation may be noted in the beginning in the form of circling, muscular twitchings and even convulsions.”

  I didn’t see a thing as I threw my car at full speed along the narrow road. I never even noticed the trees speeding past the windows or the green fell rising beyond. I had only a horrid mental picture of what was waiting for me at the other end.

  And it was worse than I expected. Much worse. The yard was littered with pigs of all sizes, from young stores to big pregnant sows. Some of them were reeling and toppling in the straw, but most were on their sides, foaming at the mouth, trembling and pedalling frantically with their feet at the empty air. Udall had talked about convulsions, and, dear God, I had never seen worse convulsions than these.

  Pale-faced and wordless, Lionel led me round the pens. Suckling sows lay twitching as their litters fought at their udders for milk. The boar paced around his area like a blind thing, bumping into the walls, then sitting down, doglike, in a stupor. There was hardly a normal animal on the place.

  The roadman turned to me with an attempt at a smile. “Well, we can’t licence off the healthy ’uns this time. There aren’t any.”

  I shook my head dumbly. I was utterly bewildered. I found my voice at last. “When did this start?”

  “They were all right as ninepence this momin’, t’whole lot of ’em. Bawlin’ for their grub like they allus do. Then when I came ’ome, they were like this.”

  “But dammit, Lionel,” I said almost in a shout, “it’s too sudden! It doesn’t make sense!”

  He nodded. “Aye, that’s what t’plumber said when ‘e saw them. Cot a bit of a shock, did t’feller.”

  “Plumber?”

  “Aye, the missus noticed at dinnertime that t’pigs had no water. She sent for Fred Buller, and ‘e came out this afternoon. Said there was a blockage in the pipes somewhere. He’s put it right now.”

  “Then they’ve been without water most of the day?”
>
  “Ah reckon so. They must ‘ave.”

  Oh, glory be, now I knew. I was still full of apprehension, but the weight of guilt was suddenly lifted from me. Whatever happened now, it wasn’t my fault.

  “So that’s it!” I gasped.

  Lionel looked at me questioningly. “What d’ye mean? The water? That ’ud only make ’em a bit thirsty.”

  “They’re not thirsty, they’ve got salt poisoning.”

  “Salt poisoning? But they haven’t ‘ad no salt.”

  “Yes, they have. There’s salt in nearly all pig meal.” My mind was racing. What was the first thing to do? I grabbed his arm and hustled him into the yard. “Come on, let’s get some of these pigs onto their feet.”

  “But they’ve allus had the same meal. What’s happened today?” He looked mystified as we trotted through the straw.

  I selected a big sow that was lying quiet between convulsions and started to push at her shoulder. “They’ve been without water. That’s what happened. And that causes a higher concentration of salt in the brain. Gives them fits. Push, Lionel, push! We’ve got to get her over to that trough. There’s plenty of water in there now.”

  I could see he thought I was raving but he helped me to raise the sow to her feet, and we supported her on either side as she tottered up to the long metal trough that bounded one side of the yard. She took a few gulps at the water, then collapsed.

  Lionel took a few panting breaths. “She hasn’t had much.”

  “No, and that’s a good thing. Too much makes them worse. Let’s try this other pig. She’s lying very still.”

  “Makes ’em worse?” He began to help me to lift. “How the ’ell’s that?”

  “Never mind,” I puffed. “It just does.” I couldn’t very well tell him that I didn’t know myself, that I had never seen salt poisoning before and that I was only going by the book.

  He groaned as we pushed the second pig towards the trough. “God ’elp us. This is a bloody funny carry-on. I’ve never seen owt like this.”

  Neither have I, I thought. And I only hoped all those things I was taught at college were true.

  We spent a busy hour, assisting the stricken animals to the water or carefully dosing them when they were unable to move. We did this by pushing a Wellington boot with the toe cut off into the mouths and pouring the water down the leg of the boot. A pig would certainly crunch the neck off a glass bottle.

  The animals with the most powerful convulsions I injected with a sedative to control the spasms.

  When we had finished, I looked round the piggery. All the animals had got some water into them and were lying within easy reach of the troughs. As I watched, several of them got up, took a few swallows, then lay down. That was just what I wanted.

  “Well,” I said wearily, “we can’t do anymore.”

  He shrugged. “Right, come in and ‘ave a cup o’ tea.”

  As I followed him to the house, I could tell by the droop of his shoulders that he had lost hope. He had a defeated look, and I couldn’t blame him. My words and actions must have seemed crazy to him. They did even to me.

  When the bedside phone rang at seven o’clock in the morning, I reached for it with half-closed eyes, expecting the usual calving or milk fever, but it was Lionel.

  “I’m just off to me work, Mr. Herriot, but I thowt you’d like to know about them pigs first.”

  I snapped wide awake. “Yes, I would. How are they?”

  “They’re awright.”

  “How do you mean, all right? Are they all alive?”

  “Aye, every one.”

  “Are they ill in any way?”

  “Nay, nay, every one of ’em shoutin’ for their breakfast just like they were yesterday mornin’.”

  I fell back on the pillow, still grasping the phone, and my sigh of relief must have been audible at the other end because Lionel chuckled.

  “Aye, that’s how ah feel, too, Mr. Herriot. By gaw, it’s a miracle. I thought ye’d gone round the bend yesterday with all that salt talk, but you were right, lad. Talk about savin’ ma bacon —ye really did it, didn’t ye?”

  I laughed. “I suppose I did. In more ways than one.”

  Over my forty years in practice, I have seen only about half a dozen cases of salt poisoning or water deprivation or whatever you like to call it. I don’t suppose it is all that common. But the one at Lionel’s stays in my mind as the most exciting and the happiest.

  I thought this unexpected triumph would settle the roadman down for good as a pig keeper, but I was wrong again. It was several weeks before I was on his place, and just as I was leaving, a young man rode up on a bicycle.

  Lionel introduced him. “This is Billy Fothergill, Mr. Herriot.” I shook hands with a smiling lad of about twenty-two.

  “Billy’s takin’ over ma place next month.”

  “What?”

  “It’s right. Ah’ve sold ’im the pigs, and he’s goin’ to rent the building’s from me. In fact, he’s doin’ all t’work now.”

  “Well, I’m surprised, Lionel,” I said. “I thought you were doing what you wanted to do.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “So did I, for a bit. But ah’ll tell ye, that salt job really gave me a shock. I thowt I was ruined, and that’s a nasty feelin’ at my time of life. Billy’s been pigman for Sir Thomas Rowe for three years, and he’s just got married. Feels like branchin’ out for ’imself, like.”

  I looked at the young man. He wasn’t tall, but the bullet head, muscular shoulders and slightly bowed legs gave the impression of great power. He looked as though he could run through a brick wall.

  “Ah know it’s for t’best,” Lionel went on. “That piggery was all right, but it was allus just a bit on top o’ me. Sort of a worry, like. I reckon Billy’ll manage the job better than me.”

  I looked again at Billy’s stubby features, at the brown skin, the unclouded eyes and the confident grin.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “He’ll manage all right.”

  As the roadman walked back towards my car with me, I tapped his elbow. “But Lionel, aren’t you going to miss your livestock? It was your great hobby, wasn’t it?”

  “By gaw, you’re right. It was and it still is. Ah couldn’t do without some stock to look after. I’ve filled up t’awd hut again. Come and have a look.”

  We walked over to the hut and opened the door, and it was like turning back the clock—a cow, three calves, two goats, two pigs and some assorted poultry, all sectioned off with outlandish partitions. I could see the bed frames and wire netting with loops of binder twine hanging from every comer. The only difference was that he had moved the dining table to a position immediately inside the door, and a grand-piano lid stood proudly by the side of the cow.

  He pointed out the various animals and gave me a brief history of each, and as he spoke there was a contentment in his face that had been absent for some time.

  “Only two pigs, eh, Lionel?” I said.

  He nodded slowly. “Aye, it’s enough.”

  I left him there and went over to the car, and as I opened the door I looked back across the field. From this angle I could shut out the garish new piggery so that I saw only the stone cottage with its sheltering trees and the old hut nearby. The roadman was leaning against the upended dining table, and as he gazed in at his mixed charges, the smoke from his pipe rose high against the back-cloth of the hills. The whole picture looked just right, and I smiled to myself.

  That was Lionel’s kind of farming.

  Chapter

  38

  IT WAS A SUNDAY morning in June, and I was washing my hands in the sink in Matt Clarke’s kitchen. The sun was bright, with a brisk wind scouring the fell-sides, so that through the window I could see every cleft and gully lying sharp and clear on the green flanks as the cloud shadows drove across them.

  I glanced back beyond the stone flags at the white head of Grandma Clarke bent over her knitting. The radio on the dresser was tuned to the morning service and, as I
watched, the old lady looked up from her work and listened intently to some words of the sermon for a few moments before starting her needles clicking again.

  In that brief time I had a profound impression of serenity and unquestioning faith that has remained with me to this day. It is a strange thing, but over the years whenever I have heard discussions and arguments on religion, on the varying beliefs and doctrines, on the sincerity or otherwise of some pious individuals, there still rises before me the seamed old face and calm eyes of Grandma Clarke. She knew and was secure. Goodness seemed to flow from her.

  She was in her late eighties and always dressed in black with a little black neckband. She had come through the hard times of farming and could look back on a long life of toil, in the fields as well as in the home.

  As I reached for the towel, the farmer led Rosie into the kitchen.

  “Mr. Clarke’s been showing me some baby chicks, Daddy,” she said.

  Grandma looked up again. “Is that your little lass, Mr. Her-riot?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” I replied. “This is Rosie.”

  “Aye, of course. I’ve seen her before, many a time.” The old lady put down her knitting and rose stiffly from her chair. She shuffled over to a cupboard, brought out a gaily coloured tin and extracted a bar of chocolate.

  “How old are ye now, Rosie?” she asked as she presented the chocolate.

  “Thank you, I’m six,” my daughter replied.

  Grandma looked down at the smiling face, at the sturdy, tanned legs in their blue shorts and sandals. “Well, you’re a grand little lass.” For a moment she rested her work-roughened hand against the little girl’s cheek, then she returned to her chair. They didn’t make much of a fuss, those old Yorkshire folk, but to me the gesture was like a benediction.

  The old lady picked up her knitting again. “And how’s that lad o’ yours? How’s Jimmy?”

  “Oh, he’s fine thank you. Ten years old now. He’s out with some of his pals this morning.”