Lord God Made Them All (19 page)

He was right. There was nothing to compare with that first suck. And if they didn’t get it, those tiny creatures with their empty stomachs could start dying at an alarming rate.

“Looks like they’re all goin’ to go down t’nick,” Bert said. “Ah don’t know what little Tess is goin’ to say. She’ll be heartbroken.”

I tapped my fingers against the receiver. An idea was forming in my mind. “There’s just one possibility,” I said. “I know I can get to the top of Dennor Bank because the road is open to there. After that it’s all flat going to your place. I could maybe get there on skis.”

“Skis?”

“Yes, I’ve been doing a bit of that lately. But I’ve not tackled anywhere as far off as your farm. I can’t be sure that I’ll make it, but I’ll try.”

“By ’eck, I’d be very grateful if you would, Mr. Herriot. It’s t’little lass ah’m thinkin’ of.”

“Same here, Bert. Anyway, I’ll have a go. I’ll leave now.”

On the summit of Dennor Bank I manoeuvered my car as close as possible to the tall white walls the snow ploughs had thrown up, got out and buckled on my skis. I have to admit I was beginning to fancy myself a bit on skis, because one bonus of the long spell of snow and frost was that some nice little slopes had become available. With a few other enthusiasts I had been rushing out to the hillsides at every opportunity and I had found that gliding down again and again in the frosty air was one of the most exhilarating things I had ever known. I had bought a book on the subject and thought I was becoming quite skilful.

All I needed was the bottle of pituitrin and a syringe, and I put them in my pocket.

To get to the Kealey farm in normal conditions you drove a couple of miles along a very straight road, turned right and made for the high-lying village of Branderley. Bert’s farm lay in an isolated position about halfway along this second road.

But today, although I had travelled this region a hundred times, I might have been in a strange country, somewhere I had never seen before. The stone walls had been deeply engulfed, so there were no fields, no roads, nothing but a yawning white expanse with the tops of telegraph poles sticking up here and there. It was uncanny.

Without skis there was no saying how far I might have sunk into the billowing drifts. I felt a twinge of misgiving, but I had promised to try. Anyway, I would be able to travel cross-country. It would be like cutting off two sides of a triangle, and I was pretty sure the farm lay in one of the hollows just below the dark skyline.

I am afraid this is not a glorious episode in my history. I had slithered amateurishly for about half a mile when the snow started again. It seemed to come from nowhere and was by no means a blizzard, just a white veil that cut me off completely from my surroundings. There was no point in going on because I had lost all sense of direction; the swirling screen of flakes was impenetrable. There is no disguising the fact that I was scared. As I stood stock-still in the cold with my eyes half-closed, I wondered what would happen to me if the snow didn’t stop. In fact, I still wonder about that, because I could have blundered for miles in that empty wilderness without coming upon a house.

It is a question that will never be answered because the flurry stopped as suddenly as it had begun. My heart thumped as I stared around me, and the dark smudge of my car roof in the white distance was a sweet sight. I headed back to it with a speed worthy of an Olympic skier, and I am sure my eyes were popping as I kept them fixed on my link with home.

Relief flowed through me as I threw my skis into the back and started the engine, and I had left Dennor Bank behind and was well on the way to Darrowby before my pulse rate returned to normal.

“Bert,” I said on the phone. “I’m terribly sorry but I just couldn’t make it. I got caught by a snow shower and had to turn back.”

“Well, ah’m glad ye did turn. I’ve been a bit worried since ye left. Fellers have got lost and died in the snow up here. I shouldn’t have let you try.”

He paused for a moment, then said wistfully, “If only there was some other way to make Polly let ’er milk down.”

As he spoke, the picture flashed into my mind of that cow I was cleansing and the white jets striking the byre floor. And there were other memories—when I was doing uterine examinations on sows, the same thing had happened.

“Maybe there is a way,” I blurted out.

“What d’ye mean?”

“Bert, have you ever had your hand inside a sow?”

“Eh?”

“Have you ever examined a sow internally?”

“You mean … in ’er pig bed?”

“Yes.”

“Nay, nay, ah leave that to you chaps.”

“Well, I want you to start now. Get some warm water and soap and …”

“Hey, hang on, Mr. Herriot. I’m sure there’s no more pigs left in ’er.”

“I don’t suppose there are, Bert, but do as I say. Soap your arm well and use any household antiseptic you have. Then feel your way into the vagina till you come to the cervix. She’s only just farrowed, so the cervix should still be open. Put a finger inside and waggle the pig bed around a bit.”

“Oh, ’eck, I don’t fancy this. What’s it all about?”

“It often brings the milk down, that’s what it’s about, so get going.”

I put down the phone and went through to have lunch. Helen kept glancing at me during the meal as I answered little Jimmy’s questions in a preoccupied way. She knew something was on my mind, and I don’t suppose she was surprised when I leaped to my feet at the sound of the phone ringing.

It was Bert. He sounded breathless but triumphant. “It worked, Mr. Herriot! I ’ad a good waggle round like you said, then I tried the udder. I could draw milk out of every tit and there wasn’t a drop there before. It was like magic.”

“Are the piglets feeding?”

“Not half! They were fightin’ to get a drink before, but they’re all laid quiet in a row, suckin’ hard. It’s lovely to see them.”

“Well, that’s great,” I said. “But we haven’t won yet. The piglets have had that vital first feed, but Polly will probably dry up again by tomorrow or even tonight. You’ll have to get your hand in again.”

“Oh, crumbs.” A lot of the enthusiasm went out of Bert’s voice. “I thought I’d finished wi’ that.”

The poor man did indeed have to perform his unusual task several times and, in fact, Polly never did come fully to her milk, but the piglets were kept going until they were able to drink the milk substitute from the tin. The litter was saved.

The great snow of 1947 was followed by the most glorious summer I can remember, but in late April in the high country, the white streaks still lay behind the walls, standing out against the green moorland like the ribs of a great beast. But the roads were clear, and my journey to see one of Bert Kealey’s heifers had none of the drama of last time.

When I had finished my job, young Tess took me through to see her beloved Polly and family.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” she said as we looked into the pen at the twelve chunky little pigs playing around their mother.

“They certainly are, Tess,” I replied. “Your first attempt at pig breeding has been a big success, but I really think you have to thank your father for it. He did a wonderful job.”

Bert gave a wry smile, then screwed up his face at the memory. “Aye, maybe so, and I reckon it was worth it. Aye, well, it’s wonderful what ye can do when you have to.”

“A
RE YOU ALL RIGHT,
Helen?”

I looked round anxiously as my wife fidgeted in her seat. We were in the one-and-ninepennies in the La Scala cinema in Brawton, and I had a strong conviction that we had no right to be there.

I had voiced my doubts that morning. “I know it’s our half-day, Helen, but with the baby due anytime, don’t you think it would be safer to stay around Darrowby?”

“No, of course not.” Helen laughed incredulously at the very idea of missing our outing. And I could see her point because it was an oasis of relaxation in our busy lives. For me it was an escape from the telephone and the mud and the Wellington boots, and for my wife it meant a rest from her own hard slog, plus the luxury of having meals cooked and served by somebody else.

“But, honestly,” I said. “What if the thing comes on quickly? It’s all right you laughing. We don’t want our second child to be born in Smith’s book shop or the back of a car.”

The whole business had me worried. I wasn’t as bad as when Jimmy was on his way. I was in the R.A.F. then, and I went into a sort of decline during which I lost two stones in weight, which wasn’t all due to the hard training. People make jokes about this syndrome, but I didn’t find it funny. There was something about having babies that really got through to me, and lately I had spent a lot of time flapping around watching Helen’s every move, much to her amusement. I just couldn’t be calm about the thing. There isn’t much of the yogi in my make-up at any time, and over the last two days the tension had built up.

But Helen had been adamant this morning. She wasn’t going to be done out of her half-day by such a trifle, and now here we were in the La Scala, with Humphrey Bogart competing vainly for my attention and my blood pressure rising steadily as my wife squirmed around and occasionally ran a thoughtful hand over her swollen abdomen.

As I scrutinised her keenly from the corner of my eye, she gave a convulsive jerk and her lips parted in a soft moan. An instant dew of perspiration had already sprung out all over me before she turned and whispered, “I think we’d better go now, Jim.”

Stumbling over the outstretched legs in the darkness, I guided her up the sloping aisle, and such was my panic that I felt sure the crisis would be upon us before we reached the usherette standing at the back with her torch.

I was thankful to reach the street and see our little car standing only a few yards away. As we set off, I seemed to notice the rattles and bumping of the old springs for the first time. It was the only time in my life that I wished I had a Rolls Royce.

The twenty-five miles to Darrowby seemed to take an eternity. Helen sat very quiet by my side, occasionally closing her eyes and catching her breath, while my heart beat a tattoo against my ribs. When we reached our little town I turned the car to the right towards the market place.

Helen looked at me in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“Well, to Nurse Brown’s, of course.”

“Oh, don’t be so silly. It’s not time for that yet.”

“But … how do you know?”

“I just know.” Helen laughed. “I’ve had a baby before, don’t you remember? Come on, let’s go home.”

Heavy with misgiving, I drove to Skeldale House, and as we mounted the stairs I marvelled at Helen’s composure.

It was the same when we got into bed. She lay there, obviously not very comfortable but quite patient, and there was about her a calm acceptance of the inevitable which I could not share.

I suppose I kept dropping into what is termed a fitful slumber because it was 6
A.M.
when she nudged my arm.

“Time to go, Jim.” Her tone was very matter-of-fact.

I shot from the bed like a jack-in-the-box, threw on my clothes and shouted across the landing to Auntie Lucy who was staying with us for the occasion, “We’re off!”

A faint reply came through the door. “All right, I’ll see to Jimmy.”

When I returned to our bedroom, Helen was dressing methodically.

“Get that suitcase out of the cupboard, Jim,” she said.

I opened the cupboard door. “Suitcase?”

“Yes , that one. It’s got my nighties and toilet things and baby clothes and everything I’ll need. Go on, bring it out.”

Suppressing a groan, I carried the case out and stood waiting. I had missed all this last time because of the war and had often regretted it, but at that moment I wasn’t at all sure whether I wouldn’t rather be elsewhere.

Outside, it was a glorious May morning, the air limpid with the new-day freshness that had soothed the irritation of many an early call, but it was all lost on me today as I drove across the empty market place.

We had only about half a mile to go, and I was pulling up outside Greenside Nursing Home within minutes. There was a touch of grandeur about the name, but, in fact, it was just the small dwelling house of Nurse Brown. Upstairs there were a couple of bedrooms which for many years had seen the arrival of the local children.

I knocked at the door and pushed it open. Nurse Brown gave me a quick smile, put her arm round Helen’s shoulders and led her upstairs. I was left in the kitchen feeling strangely alone and helpless, but a voice cut in on my jumbled thoughts.

“Now then, Jim, it’s a grand mornin’.”

It was Cliff, Nurse Brown’s husband. He was sitting in the corner of the kitchen eating his breakfast, and he spoke to me casually as though we had encountered each other in the street. He wore the broad grin that never seemed to leave his face, but I suppose I half expected that he would leap from the table, seize my hand and say, “There, there,” or something of the sort.

However, he continued to work his way phlegmatically through the stack of bacon, eggs, sausages and tomatoes on his plate, and I realised that over the years he must have seen hundreds of quivering husbands standing in that kitchen. It was old stuff to Cliff.

“Yes, Cliff … yes.…” I replied. “I think it will turn out hot later.”

He nodded absently and pushed his plate to one side to join an empty porridge bowl before turning his attention to bread and marmalade. Nurse Brown was a noted cook as well as a baby expert, and it was evident that she believed in ensuring that her husband, a very big man and a lorry driver for one of the local contractors, would not grow faint from hunger during the morning.

Watching him slapping on the marmalade, I cringed inwardly at the creaking sounds from the floorboards above. What was happening in that bedroom?

As he chewed, Cliff seemed to notice that I was perhaps one of the more distraught type of husbands because he turned his big, kind smile on me. He was and is one of the nicest men in our town, and he spoke gently.

“Don’t worry, lad,” he said. “It’ll be right.”

His words were mildly soothing, and I fled. In those days it was unheard of for the husband to be present at the birth, and though it is now the in thing to observe it all, I marvel at the fortitude of these young men. I know beyond all doubt that Herriot would be carried away unconscious at some time during the proceedings.