The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  He was immensely likable, with a personality that was formal and dignified beyond his twenty-two years and which was only just saved from pomposity by a gentle humour. He was a solid citizen in the making if ever I saw one, and this impression was strengthened by his slightly pear-shaped physique and the fact that he was determinedly trying to cultivate a pipe.

  He was having a little trouble with the pipe, but I felt sure he would win through. I could see him plainly twenty years from now, definitely tubby, sitting around the fireside with his wife and children, puffing at that pipe which he had finally subjugated; an upright, dependable family man with a prosperous practice.

  As the dry stone walls rolled past the car windows, I got back onto the topic of the new operations.

  “And you say they are actually doing Caesarians on cows in the college clinics?”

  “Good Lord, yes.” Norman made an expansive gesture and applied a match to his pipe. “Doing them like hot cakes, it’s a regular thing.” His words would have carried more weight if he had been able to blow a puff of smoke out after them, but he had filled the bowl too tightly and, despite a fierce sucking which hollowed his cheeks and ballooned his eyeballs, he couldn’t manage a draw.

  “Gosh, you don’t know how lucky you are,” I said. “The number of hours I’ve slaved on byre floors calving cows. Sawing up calves with embryotomy wire, knocking my guts out trying to bring heads round or reach feet. I think I must have shortened my life. And if only I’d known how, I could have saved myself the trouble with a nice straightforward operation. What sort of a job is it, anyway?”

  The student gave me a superior smile. “Nothing much to it, really.” He relit his pipe, tamped the tobacco down and winced as he burned his finger. He shook his hand vigorously for a moment, then turned towards me. “They never seem to have any trouble. Takes about an hour, and no hard labour.”

  “Sounds marvellous.” I shook my head wistfully. “I’m beginning to think I was born too soon. I suppose it’s the same with ewes?”

  “Oh yes, yes, indeed,” Norman murmured airily. “Ewes, cows, sows—they’re in and out of the place every day. No problem at all. Nearly as easy as bitch spays.”

  “Ah, well, you young lads are lucky. It’s so much easier to tackle these jobs when you’ve seen a lot of them done.”

  ‘True, true.” The student spread his hands. “But, of course, most bovine parturitions don’t need a Caesarian, and I’m always glad to have a calving for my case book.”

  I nodded in agreement. Norman’s case book was something to see; a heavily bound volume with every scrap of interesting material meticulously entered under headings in red ink. The examiners always wanted to see these books, and this one would be worth a few extra marks to Norman in his finals.

  It was August Bank Holiday Sunday, and Darrowby market place had been bustling all day with holiday makers and coach parties. Each time we passed through I looked at the laughing throngs with a tiny twinge of envy. Not many people seemed to work on Sundays.

  I dropped the student at his digs in late afternoon and went back to Skeldale House for tea. I had just finished when Helen got up to answer the phone.

  “It’s Mr. Bushell of Sycamore House,” she said. “He has a cow calving.”

  “Oh damn. I thought we’d have Sunday evening to ourselves.” I put down my cup. “Tell him I’ll be right out, Helen, will you?” I smiled as she put down the receiver. “One thing, Norman will be pleased. He was just saying he wanted something for his case book.”

  I was right. The young man rubbed his hands in glee when I called for him, and he was in excellent humour as we drove to the farm.

  “I was reading some poetry when you rang the bell,” he said. “I like poetry. You can always find something to apply to your life. How about now, when I’m expecting something interesting. ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ ”

  “Alexander Pope, Essay on Man,” I grunted. I wasn’t feeling so enthusiastic as Norman. You never knew what was ahead on these occasions.

  “Jolly good.” The young man laughed. “You aren’t easy to catch out.”

  We drove through the farm gateway into the yard.

  “You’ve made me think with your poetry,” I said. “It keeps buzzing in my head. ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here.’ ”

  “Dante, of course, The Inferno. But don’t be so pessimistic.” He patted me on the shoulder as I put on my Wellingtons.

  The farmer led us into the byre, and in a stall opposite the window a small cow looked up at us anxiously from her straw bed. Above her head, her name, Bella, was chalked on a board.

  “She isn’t very big, Mr. Bushell,” I said.

  “Eh?” he looked at me enquiringly, and I remembered that he was hard of hearing.

  “She’s a bit small,” I shouted.

  The farmer shrugged. “Aye, she allus was a poor doer. Had a rough time with her first calvin’, but she milked well enough after it.”

  I looked thoughtfully at the cow as I stripped off my shirt and soaped my arms. I didn’t like the look of that narrow pelvis, and I breathed the silent prayer of all vets that there might be a tiny calf inside.

  The farmer poked at the light roan hairs of the rump with his foot and shouted at the animal to make her rise.

  “She won’t budge, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “She’s been painin’ all day. Ah doubt she’s about buggered.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that either. There was always something far wrong when a cow strained for a long time without result. And the little animal did look utterly spent. Her head hung down and her eyelids drooped wearily.

  Ah well, if she wouldn’t get up, I had to get down. With my bare chest in contact with the ground, the thought occurred that cobbles didn’t get any softer with the passage of the years. But when I slid my hand into the vagina, I forgot about my discomfort. The pelvic opening was villainously narrow, and beyond was something that froze my blood: two enormous hooves and, resting on their cloven surfaces, a huge expanse of muzzle with twitching nostrils. I didn’t have to feel anymore, but with an extra effort I strained forward a few inches, and my fingers explored a bulging brow squeezing into the small space like a cork in a bottle. As I withdrew my hand, the rough surface of the calf’s tongue flicked briefly against my palm.

  I sat back on my heels and looked up at the farmer. “There’s an elephant in there, Mr. Bushell.”

  “Eh?”

  I raised my voice. “A tremendous calf, and no room for it to come out.”

  “Can’t ye cut it away?”

  “Afraid not. The calf’s alive and, anyway, there’s nothing to get at. No room to work.”

  “Well, that’s a beggar,” Mr. Bushell said. “She’s a good little milker. Ah don’t want to send ’er to the butcher.”

  Neither did I. I hated the very thought of it, but a great light was breaking beyond a new horizon. It was a moment of decision, of history. I turned to the student.

  “This is it, Norman! The ideal indication for a Caesar. What a good job I’ve got you with me. You can keep me right.”

  I was slightly breathless with excitement, and I hardly noticed the flicker of anxiety in the young man’s eyes.

  I got to my feet and seized the farmer’s arm. “Mr. Bushell, I’d like to do a Caesarian operation on your cow.”

  “A what?”

  “A Caesarian. Open her up and remove the calf surgically.”

  “Tek it out o’ the side, d’ye mean? Like they do wi’ women?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well that’s a rum’ un.” The farmer’s eyebrows went up. “I never knew you could do that wi’ cows.”

  “Oh, we can now,” I said airily. “Things have moved on a bit in the last few years.”

  He rubbed a hand slowly across his mouth. “Well, ah don’t know. I reckon she’d die if you made a bloody great hole in her like that. Maybe she’d be better goin’ for slaughter. I’d get a few quid for her and I allus th