James Herriot (34 page)

“Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo.”

About seven o’clock that evening I had a phone call from Will Hollin.

“Gertrude’s started farrowin’!” he said urgently. “And she’s tryin’ to worry her pigs!”

It was bad news. Sows occasionally attacked their piglets after birth and in fact would kill them if they were not removed from their reach. And of course it meant that suckling was impossible.

It was a tricky problem at any time but particularly so in this case because Gertrude was a pedigree sow—an expensive animal Will Hollin had bought to improve his strain of pigs.

“How many has she had?” I asked.

“Four—and she’s gone for every one.” His voice was tense.

It was then I remembered Soothitt and again I blessed the coming of Mr. Barge.

I smiled into the receiver. “There’s a new product I can use, Mr. Hollin. Just arrived today. I’ll be right out.”

I trotted through to the dispensary, opened the box of phials and had a quick read at the enclosed pamphlet. Ah yes, there it was. “Ten cc’s intramuscularly and the sow will accept the piglets within twenty minutes.”

It wasn’t a long drive to the Hollin farm but as I sped through the darkness I could discern the workings of fate in the day’s events. The Soothitt had arrived this morning and right away I had two urgent calls for it. There was no doubt Mr. Barge had been sent for a purpose—living proof, perhaps, that everything in our lives is preordained. It gave me a prickling at the back of my neck to think about it.

I could hardly wait to get the injection into the sow and climbed eagerly into the pen. Gertrude didn’t appreciate having a needle rammed into her thigh and she swung round on me with an explosive bark. But I got the ten cc’s in before making my escape.

“We just wait twenty minutes, then?” Will Hollin leaned on the rail and looked down anxiously at his pig. He was a hard-working smallholder in his fifties and I knew this meant a lot to him.

I was about to make a comforting reply when Gertrude popped out another pink, squirming piglet. The farmer leaned over and gently nudged the little creature towards the udder as the sow lay on her side, but as soon as the nose made contact with the teat the big pig was up in a flash, all growls and yellow teeth.

He snatched the piglet away quickly and deposited it with the others in a tall cardboard box. “Well, you see how it is, Mr. Herriot.”

“I certainly do. How many have you got in there now?”

“There’s six. And they’re grand pigs, too.”

I peered into the box at the little animals. They all had the classical long-bodied shape. “Yes, they are. And she looks as though she has a lot more in her yet.”

The farmer nodded and we waited.

It seemed to take a long time for the twenty minutes to pass but finally I lifted a couple of piglets and clambered into the pen. I was about to put them to the sow when one of them squealed. Gertrude rushed across with a ferocious roar, mouth gaping, and I leaped to safety with an agility which surprised me.

“She don’t look very sleepy,” Mr. Hollin said.

“No … no … she doesn’t, does she? Maybe we’d better wait a bit longer.”

We gave her another ten minutes and tried again with the same result. I injected a further ten cc’s of the Soothitt, then about an hour later a third one. By nine o’clock Gertrude had produced fifteen beautiful young pigs and had chased me and her family from the pen six times. She was, if anything, livelier and fiercer than when I started.

“Well, she’s cleansed,” Mr. Hollin said gloomily. “So it looks like she’s finished.” He gazed, sad-faced, into the box. “And now I’ve got fifteen pigs to rear without their mother’s milk. I could lose all this lot.”

“Nay, nay.” The voice came from the open doorway. “You won’t lose ’em.”

I looked round. It was Grandad Hollin, his puckish features set in their customary smile. He marched to the pen and poked Gertrude’s ribs with his stick.

She responded with a snarl and a malignant glare and the old man’s smile grew broader.

“Ah’ll soon fettle the awd beggar,” he said.

“Fettle her?” I shifted my feet uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“Why, she just wants quietin’, tha knaws.”

I took a long breath. “Yes, Mr. Hollin, that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do.”

“Aye, but you’re not doin’ it the right way, young man.”

I looked at him narrowly. The know-all with his liberal advice in a difficult situation is a familiar figure most veterinary surgeons have to tolerate, but in Grandad Hollin’s case I didn’t feel the usual irritation. I liked him. He was a nice man, the head of a fine family. Will was the eldest of his four sons and he had several farmer grandsons in the district.

Anyway, I had failed miserably. I was in no position to be uppity.

‘Well, I’ve given her the latest injection,” I mumbled.

He shook his head. “She don’t want injections, she wants beer.”

“Eh?”

“Beer, young man. A drop o’ good ale.” He turned to his son. “Hasta got a clean bucket, Will, lad?”

“Aye, there’s a new-scalded one in t’milk house.”

“Right, ah’ll slip down to the pub. Won’t be long.” Grandad swung on his heel and strode briskly into the night. He must have been around eighty but from the back he looked like a twenty five year old—upright, square-shouldered, jaunty.

Will Hollin and I didn’t have much to say to each other. He was sunk in disappointment and I was awash with shame. It was a relief when Grandad returned bearing an enamel bucket brimming with brown liquid.

“By gaw,” he chuckled. “You should’ve seen their faces down at t’Wagon and Horses. Reckon they’ve never heard of a two gallon order afore.”

I gaped at him. “You’ve got two gallons of beer?”

“That’s right, young man, and she’ll need it all.” He turned again to his son. “She hasn’t had a drink for a bit, has she, Will?”

“Naw I was goin’ to give her some water when she’d finished piggin’, but I haven’t done it yet.”

Grandad poised his bucket. “She’ll be nice and thirsty, then.” He leaned over the rail and sent a dark cascade frothing into the empty trough.

Gertrude ambled moodily across and sniffed at the strange fluid. After some hesitation she dipped her snout and tried a tentative swallow, and within seconds the building echoed with a busy slobbering.

“By heck, she likes it!” Will exclaimed.

“She should,” Grandad murmured wistfully. “It’s John Smith’s best bitter.”

It took the big sow a surprisingly short time to consume the two gallons and when she had finished she licked out every corner of the trough before turning away. She showed no inclination to return to her straw bed but began to saunter round the pen. Now and then she stopped at the trough to check that there was no more beer in it and from time to time she looked up at the three faces overhanging the timber walls.

On one of these occasions I caught her eye and saw with a sense of disbelief that the previously baleful little orb now registered only a gentle benevolence. In fact with a little effort I could have imagined she was smiling.

As the minutes passed her perambulations became increasingly erratic. There were times when she stumbled and almost fell and finally with an unmistakable hiccup she flopped on the straw and rolled on to her side.

Grandad regarded her expressionlessly for a few moments, whistling tunelessly, then he reached out again and pushed his stick against the fleshy thigh; but the only response he received from the motionless animal was a soft grunt of pleasure.

Gertrude was stoned to the wide.

The old man gestured towards the cardboard box. “Put the little ’uns in now.”

Will went into the pen with a wriggling armful, then another, and like all new born creatures they didn’t have to be told what to do. Fifteen ravenous little mouths fastened on to the teats and with mixed feelings I gazed at the sight which I had hoped to bring about with my modern veterinary skill, the long pink row filling their tiny stomachs with the life-giving fluid.

Well, I had fallen down on the job and an octogenarian farmer had wiped my eye with two gallons of strong ale. I didn’t feel great.

Sheepishly I closed the box of Soothitt phials and was beating an unobtrusive retreat to my car when Will Hollin called after me.

“Come in and have a cup o’ coffee afore you go, Mr. Herriot.” His voice was friendly, with nothing to suggest that I had made no useful contribution all evening.

I made my way into the kitchen and as I went over to the table Will dug me in the ribs.

“Hey, look at this.” He held out the bucket in which a quantity of the good beer still sloshed around the bottom. “There’s summat better than coffe ’ere—enough for a couple of good drinks. I’ll get two glasses.”

He was fumbling in the dresser when Grandad walked in. The old man hung his hat and stick on a hook on the wall and rubbed his hands.

“Tha can get another glass out, Will,” he said. “Remember ah did the pourin’ and ah left enough for three.”

Next morning I might have been inclined to dwell despondently on my chastening experience but I had a pre-breakfast call to a cow with a prolapsed uterus and there is nothing like an hour of feverish activity to rid the mind of brooding.

It was 8 a.m. when I drove back into Darrowby and I pulled into the market place petrol station which was just opening. With a pleasantly blank mind I was watching Bob Cooper running the petrol into my tank when I heard the sound in the distance.

“Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo.”

Tremblingly I scanned the square. There was no other vehicle in sight but the dread ululation approached inexorably until Mr. Beresford’s car rounded the far corner, heading my way.

I shrank behind a petrol pump but it was of no avail. I had been spotted and the car bumped over the strip of cobbles before screeching to a halt beside me.

“Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo.” At close quarters the noise was insupportable.

I peeped round the pump and into the bulging eyes of the bank manager as he lowered his window. He switched off the engine and Coco stopped his howling and gave me a friendly wag through the glass.

His master, however, did not look at all friendly.

“Good morning, Mr. Herriot,” he said, grim-faced.

“Good morning,” I replied hoarsely, then working up a smile I bent at the window. “And good morning to you, Mrs. Beresford.”

The lady withered me with a look and was about to speak when her husband went on.

“I administered one of the wonderful new tablets early this morning on your advice.” His chin quivered slightly.

“Oh, yes …?”

“Yes, I did, and it had no effect, so I gave him another.” He paused. “Since this produced a similar result I tried a third and a fourth.”

I swallowed. “Really …?”

“Indeed.” He gave me a cold stare. “So I am driven to the conclusion that the tablets are useless.”

“Well … er … it certainly does look …”

He held up a hand. “I cannot listen to explanations. I have already wasted enough time and there are three hundred miles’ driving in front of me.”

“I’m truly sorry …” I began, but he was already closing the window. He started the engine and Coco froze immediately into his miniature wolf position, nose high, lips puckered into a small circle. I watched the car roll across the square and turn out of sight on the road to the south. For quite a while after it had gone I could still hear Coco.

“Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo.”

Feeling suddenly weak, I leaned against the pump. My heart went out to Mr. Beresford. As I have said, I felt sure he was a decent man.

In fact I quite liked him, but for all that I was profoundly grateful that I would probably never see him again.

Our audiences with Mr. Barge usually took place every three months and it was mid June before I saw him again at the head of our luncheon table. The silvery head gleamed under the summer sunshine as he sipped his coffee and murmured politenesses. At the end of the meal he dabbed his lips with a napkin and slid his brochure unhurriedly along the table cloth.

Siegfried reached for it and asked the inevitable question. “Anything new, Mr. Barge?”

“My dear sir.” The old gentleman’s smile seemed to convey that the follies of the young, though incomprehensible to him, were still delightful. “Cargill and Sons never send me to you without a host of new products, many of them specific, all of them efficient. I have many sovereign remedies to offer you.”

I must have uttered some sort of strangled sound because he turned and regarded me quizzically. “Ah, Mr. Herriot, did you say something, young sir?”

I swallowed a couple of times and opened my mouth as the waves of benevolence flowed over me, but against that dignity and presence I was helpless.

“No … not really, Mr. Barge,” I replied. I knew I would never be able to tell him about the Soothitt.

N
OW THAT WE WERE FACED
with the reality of life at flying school, the ties which bound me to my fellow airmen were strengthened. We had a common aim, a common worry.

The feeling of comradeship was very like my relationship with Siegfried and Tristan, back in Darrowby. But there, the pressures came not from learning to fly but from the daily challenge of veterinary practice. Our existence was ruled by sudden and unexpected alarms.

Tristan, however, didn’t let it get him down. He and I were sitting in the big room at Skeldale House one night when the telephone burst into strident voice.

He reached from his chair and lifted the receiver.

“Allo, plis, oo is dis?” he enquired.

He listened attentively for a few moments then shook his head.

“Naw, naw, verree sorry, but Meester Farnon no at home. Yis, yis, I tell heem when he come. Hokey dokey, bye bye.”

I looked across at him wonderingly from the other side of the fireplace as he replaced the instrument. These strange accents were only one facet of his constant determination to extract amusement from every situation. He didn’t do it all the time, only when the mood was on him, but it was not unusual for farmers to say that “some foreign feller” had answered the phone.

Tristan settled comfortably behind his
Daily Mirror
and was fumbling for a Woodbine when the ringing started again. He stretched out once more.