Lord God Made Them All (28 page)

There were little kiosks on every comer, and people were strolling up to buy their newspapers and cigarettes. These places also sold draught beer and, having been on an exclusive diet of bottled lager for some time, I watched with envy as one fellow downed a frothing pint. If I had possessed any Polish money, it would have been nice to emulate him.

Stettin has 350,000 inhabitants, and I was struck by the greater air of comfort and civilisation, compared with Klaipeda. The people looked altogether smoother and more urbane, and the town had a cheerful atmosphere despite the ever-present ruins.

Funny little single-decker tramcars ran through the streets, always in pairs, one joined to the other, and there were a lot of private cars and taxis.

Shops displayed attractive dresses and materials, but a huge picture of Lenin reminded me that I was still behind the iron curtain.

Croups of youths, well dressed and laughing among themselves, were sauntering around, and I watched one family getting off a tram: Mum very chic in a light, fluffy hat and brightly coloured coat, Dad in the unvarying black beret and mac, and two teenage sons in identically the same outfit.

As I passed over the main river bridge, I could see innumerable barges moored along the banks. I walked past many churches but saw only two elderly women going into them.

I was amused when a little man in a soft hat, breeches and riding boots came and asked me the way to somewhere in an unintelligible gibberish. He, too, it seemed was a stranger, but not, I warrant, as much a stranger as I.

It was now a glorious cold, sunny day and I was revelling in the activity after my incarceration, but I kept referring to my son Jimmy’s pocket watch and, when I saw I had been away an hour, I had to turn back.

I reached the ship before 11
A.M.
and found the Polish officials still in the captain’s cabin. They had given the free booze and cigarettes a severe hammering and were exuding bonhomie when I came in.

They seemed very glad to see me and shouted for me to sit down with them with merry cries of “Doktor, please, Doktor, please.” I thought it was the schnapps that made them so welcoming, but later the captain said they had been anxious in case I got lost and kept asking him, “Has the Englishman returned yet?”

But, he said, there was no doubt they had wrought havoc among the bottles, all except the young Polish officer, who had been very correct and after one drink politely declined any more.

I went down to the hold and had a look at the pigs. We have them for only twenty-four hours and nobody seems particularly concerned about them, but pigs are funny things—they often fight among themselves, and it occurred to me that if 800 of them started a free-for-all, it would be a problem.

However, Polish pigs are perhaps more placid than ours because I found them all lying asleep, snuggling up to each other in perfect harmony. During the day I heard an occasional squeal from the hold and dashed down there in some anxiety, but it always turned out to be an isolated squabble or flash of irritation, with none of the bleeding scars or torn ears I had seen so often in Yorkshire. On the whole, peace has reigned.

We have taken aboard a great load of potatoes to feed them till we reach Lübeck.

The crew do not like carrying pigs because of the smell, and there is no doubt the ship has an entirely different aroma now. This does not percolate as far as the cabins or mess room, but I am told that in the summer it is pretty bad and shipboard life is dominated by the ever-present atmosphere of pig.

After lunch I spent a fascinating afternoon on the deck as the ship made its way through the delta of the Oder, which spreads itself into a maze of huge lakes. This, I was told, is characteristic of the coastline in this region, right along through Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. If ever a pilot were needed, it is here.

We sailed through the strangest and most desolate countryside I have ever seen—endless miles of flat marshlands with innumerable rush-lined inlets and pools, and occasional belts of trees. Clouds of wild ducks and geese provided the only signs of life, and the effect was inexpressibly wild and lonely despite the bright sunshine.

After about four hours the delta narrowed to a straight channel, and we came to the port of Swinemunde on the Baltic. This is a big naval base, and I saw a lot of Russian destroyers, torpedo boats and submarines.

At the entrance to the port we dropped the pilot and headed out to sea again. The gale had dropped, and the weather was now much better. It was very pleasant to stand out there in the stern, watching the land recede as the ship glided through calm water with hardly any rolling.

As far as my eye could reach, the coastline was thickly wooded, mainly with pine trees right down to the water’s edge. There were some sandy beaches and cliffs, but no hills.

I stayed outside as we cruised along the East German coast, never out of sight of land, and maybe it was because my voyage was nearly over, but I didn’t want to go below. I came inside only when the daylight was drowned in a magnificent sunset.

The ship’s officers have been particularly charming today since it is my anniversary. They have shaken my hand warmly and bombarded me with lager. The captain asked anxiously if he should send a telegram to my wife but I explained that I had left a card with Rosie and I felt that a telegram might alarm Helen.

The cook, too, produced what I think must have been a banquet in my honour because it had a touch of England about it— a delectable soup of celery spinach and other vegetables, then roast pork with crackling, accompanied by roast ham, potatoes and red cabbage. Dessert was sago pudding, thickly sprinkled with cinnamon.

After dinner we had our usual and, sadly, my last session with the schnapps. The captain, red-eyed and tired after one and a half hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, still managed to be the perfect host.

November 6, 1961

The end of it all. From Lübeck to Hamburg by train, then by plane to Heathrow, London, before the last lap to Darrowby. I had much to think of on the way. I had been lucky enough to have a peep at mysterious places, a glimpse of a totally different world, but when I looked back on the last ten days, my warmest and most vivid memories were of the animals, the ship and the people aboard her.

The brave little
Iris Clausen
butting her way through the storms with the sheep safe inside her; the big, tough, yellow-haired crewmen, especially Raun and “Yoombo”; and of course, the ship’s officers who had treated me so kindly. The captain who never seemed to lose his grace; Carl Rasmussen, the mate, tubby, balding and with the mighty appetite; Peter Hansen, the engineer, always ready with a joke; and, of course, my devoted Nielsen, who, I feel sure, has put half a stone of surplus flesh onto me.

I hope they have the same friendly memories of me. The captain, invariably courteous as he was, must have regarded me as an unmitigated nuisance at times, but Nielsen I know is going to miss me.

“W
AS THERE NO PEACE
in a vet’s life?” I wondered fretfully as I hurried my car along the road to Gilthorpe village. Eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and here I was, trailing off to visit a dog ten miles away which, according to Helen who had taken the message, had been ailing for more than a week.

I had worked all morning then spent an afternoon in the hills with the children and some of their friends, a long-standing weekly event during which we had managed to explore nearly every corner of the district over the years. Jimmy had set a brisk pace with his hardy young pals and I had had to carry Rosie on my shoulders up the steepest slopes. After tea there was the usual routine of baths, story reading and bed for the two of them, then I was ready to settle down with the Sunday papers and listen to the radio.

Yet here I was back on the treadmill, staring through the windscreen at the roads and the walls that I saw day in, day out. When I left Darrowby, the streets of the little town were empty in the gathering dusk and the houses had that tight-shut, comfortable look that raised images of armchairs and pipes and firesides, and now, as I saw the lights of the farms winking on the fell-sides, I could picture the stocksmen dozing contentedly with their feet up.

I had not passed a single car on the darkening road. There was nobody out but Herriot.

I was really sloshing around in my trough of self-pity when I drew up outside a row of greystone cottages at the far end of Gilthorpe. Mrs. Cundall, Number Four, Chestnut Row, Helen had written on the slip of paper, and as I opened the gate and stepped through the tiny strip of garden, my mind was busy with half-formed ideas of what I was going to say.

My few years’ experience in practice had taught me that it did no good at all to remonstrate with people for calling me out at unreasonable times. I knew perfectly well that my words never seemed to get through to them and that they would continue to do exactly as they had done before, but for all that I had to say something, if only to make me feel better.

No need to be rude or ill-mannered, just a firm statement of the position: that vets liked to relax on Sunday evenings just like other people; that we did not mind at all coming out for emergencies, but that we did object to having to visit animals that had been ill for a week.

I had my speech fairly well prepared when a little middle-aged woman opened the door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cundall,” I said, slightly tight-lipped.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Herriot.” She smiled shyly. “We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you walkin’ round Darrowby on market days. Come inside.”

The door opened straight into the little low-beamed living room, and my first glance took in the shabby furniture and some pictures framed in tarnished gilt when I noticed that the end of the room was partly curtained off.

Mrs. Cundall pulled the curtain aside. In a narrow bed a man was lying, a skeleton-thin man whose eyes looked up at me from hollows in a yellowed face.

“This is my husband, Ron,” she said cheerfully, and the man smiled and raised a bony arm from the quilt in greeting.

“And here is your patient, Hermann,” she went on, pointing to a little dachshund who sat by the side of the bed.

“Hermann?”

“Yes, we thought it was a good name for a German sausage dog.” They both laughed.

“Of course,” I said. “Excellent name. He looks like a Hermann.”

The little animal gazed up at me, bright-eyed and welcoming. I bent down and stroked his head, and the pink tongue flickered over my fingers.

I ran my hand over the glossy skin. “He looks very healthy. What’s the trouble?”

“Oh, he’s fine in himself,” Mrs. Cundall replied. “Eats well and everything, but over the last week he’s been goin’ funny on ’is legs. We weren’t all that worried but tonight he sort of flopped down and couldn’t get up again.”

“I see. I noticed he didn’t seem keen to rise when I patted his head.” I put my hand under the little dog’s body and gently lifted him onto his feet. “Come on, lad,” I said. “Come on, Hermann, let’s see you walk.”

As I encouraged him he took a few hesitant steps, but his hind end swayed progressively, and he soon dropped into the sitting position again.

“It’s his back, isn’t it?” Mrs. Cundall said. “He’s strong enough on ’is forelegs.”

“That’s ma trouble, too,” Ron murmured in a soft husky voice, but he was smiling, and his wife laughed and patted the arm on the quilt.

I lifted the dog onto my knee. “Yes, the weakness is certainly in the back.” I began to palpate the lumbar vertebrae, feeling my way along, watching for any sign of pain.

“Has he hurt ’imself?” Mrs. Cundall asked. “Has somebody hit ’im? We don’t usually let him out alone, but sometimes he sneaks through the garden gate.”

“There’s always the possibility of an injury,” I said. “But there are other causes.” There were, indeed—a host of unpleasant possibilities. I did not like the look of this little dog at all. This syndrome was one of the things I hated to encounter in canine practice.

“Can you tell me what you really think?” she said. “I’d like to know.”

“Well, an injury could cause haemorrhage or concussion or oedema—that’s fluid—all affecting his spinal cord. He could even have a fractured vertebra, but I don’t think so.”

“And how about the other causes?”

“There’s quite a lot. Tumours, bony growths, abscesses or discs can press on the cord.”

“Discs?”

“Yes, little pads of cartilage and fibrous tissue between the vertebrae. In long-bodied dogs like Hermann, they sometimes protrude into the spinal canal. In fact, I think that is what is causing his symptoms.”

Ron’s husky voice came again from the bed. “And what’s ’is prospects, Mr. Herriot?”

Oh, that was the question. Complete recovery or incurable paralysis. It could be anything. “Very difficult to say at this moment,” I replied. “I’ll give him an injection and some tablets, and we’ll see how he goes over the next few days.”

I injected an analgesic and some antibiotic, and counted out some salicylate tablets into a box. We had no steroids at that time. It was the best I could do.

“Now, then, Mr. Herriot.” Mrs. Cundall smiled at me eagerly. “Ron has a bottle o’ beer every night about this time. Would you like to join ’im?”

“Well … it’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to intrude …”

“Oh, you’re not doing that. We’re glad to see you.”

She poured two glasses of brown ale, propped her husband up with pillows and sat down by the bed.

“We’re from south Yorkshire, Mr. Herriot,” she said.

I nodded. I had noticed the difference from the local accent.

“Aye, we came up here after Ron’s accident, eight years ago.”

“What was that?”

“I were a miner,” Ron said. “Roof fell in on me. I got a broken back, crushed liver and a lot o’ other internal injuries, but two of me mates were killed in the same fall, so ah’m lucky to be ’ere.” He sipped his beer. “I’ve survived, but Doctor says I’ll never walk no more.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Nay, nay,” the husky voice went on. “I count me blessings, and I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. Ah suffer very little, and I’ve got t’best wife in the world.”