The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  That was when I realised it was an accolade, a gesture of approval. In ancient days the feudal knights would carry a glove at their saddle bow or a scarf on their lance point as a symbol of their lady’s esteem, but with Miss Grantley it was goat droppings.

  On the occasion when I got mine, Siegfried’s face showed the slightest flicker of surprise and I suppose I might have shown a trace of smugness, but he needn’t have worried. Within a week or two the tin reappeared at his end of the table.

  And after all, it was the natural thing, because if sheer male attractiveness entered into this situation, there was no doubt that Siegfried was out in front by a street. Tristan pursued the local girls enthusiastically and with considerable success; I had no reason to complain about my share of female company, but Siegfried was in a different class. He seemed to drive women mad.

  He didn’t have to chase them; they chased him. I hadn’t known him long before I realised that the tales I had heard about the irresistible appeal of tall, lean-faced men were true. And when you added his natural charm and commanding personality, it was inevitable that the goat droppings would land regularly by his plate.

  In fact, that is how it was for a long time even though Tristan and I paid almost as many visits to Miss Grantley’s goats as Siegfried. As I said, she seemed to be quite rich because she called us out to the slightest ailment and was as good a client as some of our big farmers.

  However, when I heard her voice on the telephone one morning, I knew that this time it wasn’t for something trivial. She sounded agitated.

  “Mr. Herriot, Tina has caught her shoulder on a nail and torn herself rather badly. I do hope you can come out immediately.”

  “Yes, as it happens, I can. There is nothing urgent at the moment. I’ll leave right away.”

  A mild glow of satisfaction rippled through me. This would be just another stitching job and I liked stitching. It was easy and always impressed the client. I would be on happier ground there than when Miss Grantley was quizzing me about goat diseases. They had taught me practically nothing about goats at college, and though I had tried to catch up by snatches of reading here and there, I realised uncomfortably that I was no expert.

  I was leaving the room when Tristan levered himself slowly from the depths of the armchair where he spent a lot of his time. Since breakfast I had been aware of his presence only by the rustle of the Daily Mirror under a cloud of Woodbine smoke.

  He yawned and stretched. “Miss Grantley’s, eh? Think I’ll come with you. Just feel like a ride out.”

  I smiled. “Okay, come on, then.” He was always good company.

  Miss Grantley met us in a tight-fitting pale-blue boiler suit of some silky material which did nothing to diminish her attractions.

  “Oh, thank you so much for coming,” she said. “Please follow me.

  Following her was rewarding. In fact, on entering the goat house Tristan failed to see the step and fell onto his knees. Miss Grantley glanced at him briefly before hurrying to a pen at the far end.

  “There she is,” she said and put a hand over her eyes. “I can’t bear to look.”

  Tina was a fine white Saanen, but her beauty was ravaged by a huge laceration that had pulled the skin down from her shoulder in a long V, exposing the naked smoothness of the supraspinatus and infraspinatus muscles. The bony spine of the scapula gleamed white through the blood.

  It was a mess, but I had to stop myself rubbing my hands. It was all superficial, and I could put it right and look very good in the process. Already I could see myself inserting the last stitch and pointing to the now almost-invisible wound. “There, now, that looks a lot better, doesn’t it?” Miss Grantley would be in raptures.

  “Yes … yes …” I murmured in my most professional manner as I probed the damaged area. “It’s nasty, really nasty.”

  Miss Grantley clasped her hands together. “But do you think you can save her?”

  “Oh, yes.” I nodded weightily. “It will be a big stitching job and take rather a long time, but I feel sure she will pull through.”

  “Oh, thank heaven.” She gave a long sigh of relief. “I’ll fetch some hot water.”

  Soon I was ready for action. My needles, cotton wool, scissors, suture materials and forceps laid out on a clean towel, Tristan holding Tina’s head, Miss Grantley hovering anxiously, ready to help.

  I cleaned the whole area thoroughly, sprinkled dusting powder with a liberal hand, then began to stitch. Miss Grantley was soon in action, passing me the scissors to clip each suture. It was a nice smooth start, but it was a very large wound and this was going to take some time. I searched my mind for light conversation.

  Tristan chipped in, apparently thinking the same thing. “Wonderful animal, the goat,” he said lightly.

  “Ah, yes.” Miss Grantley looked across at him with a bright smile. “I do agree.”

  “When you think about it, they are probably the earliest of the domestic animals,” he went on. “It always thrills me to realise that there is ample evidence of domestication of goats in prehistoric times. There are cave paintings of goats and later, ancient books from all over the world mention their existence. They have been part of the world of man since recorded time. It is a fascinating thought.”

  From my squatting position I looked up at him in surprise. In my relationship with Tristan I had discovered several things which fascinated him, but goats were not one of them.

  “And another thing,” he went on. “They have such a marvellous metabolism. They will consume food other animals won’t look at, and they will produce abundant milk from that food.”

  “Yes, indeed,” breathed Miss Grantley.

  Tristan laughed. “They’re such characters, too. Tough and hardy under all climatic conditions, absolutely fearless and ready to tackle any other animal, no matter how large. And, of course, it is a known fact that they can eat with impunity many poisonous plants which would kill most creatures in a very short time.”

  “Oh, they are amazing.” Miss Grantley gazed at my friend and passed the scissors to me without turning her head.

  I felt I ought to make some contribution. “Goats certainly are extremely …” I began.

  “But really, you know,” Tristan was in full flow again, “I think that the thing which appeals to me most about them is their affectionate nature. They are friendly and sociable, and I feel that that is why people become so deeply attached to them.”

  Miss Grantley nodded gravely. “How true, how true.”

  My colleague stretched out a hand and fingered the hay in the animal’s rack. “I see you feed them properly. There’s all sorts of rough stuff in here—thistles and bits of shrubs and coarse plants. Obviously you know that goats prefer such things to grass. No wonder your animals are so healthy.”

  “Oh thank you.” She blushed faintly. “Of course I give them concentrates, too.”

  “Whole grain, I hope?”

  “Oh yes, always.”

  “Good, good. Keeps up the pH of the rumen. You know, you can get hypertrophy of the rumenal walls and inhibition of cellulose-digesting bacteria with a low pH?”

  “Well, no … I didn’t really understand it in those terms.” She was staring at him as if he were a prophet.

  “Ah, no matter,” Tristan said airily. “You are doing all the right things, and that is the important point.”

  “Can I have the scissors, please?” I grunted. I was beginning to feel cramped in my bent-over position and also a little piqued at the growing impression that Miss Grantley had forgotten all about me.

  But I stitched on doggedly, one-half of my mind watching thankfully as the skin gradually covered the denuded area, the other listening in amazement as Tristan pontificated on the construction of goat houses, their dimensions, ventilation and relative humidity.

  A long time later Miss Grantley hardly noticed as I inserted the last suture and straightened up wearily. “Well, now, that looks better, doesn’t it?” I said, but there wasn’t the