The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  “Oh, she is, she is.” The little girl’s eyes shone with pleasure. “I feed her every day, and she lets me stroke her. She’s nice.”

  “I bet she is. She looks nice.”

  “Yes, and do you know something else?” Tess’s face grew serious, and her voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “She’s going to have babies in March.”

  “Well, I never!” I said. “Is that so? You’ll have a whole lot of little pink pigs to look after.” I held my hands a few inches apart. “Just about this size.”

  She was so thrilled at the thought that she was lost for words. She just smiled happily, got hold of the wall of the pen and began to jump up and down.

  All this came back to me as I listened to Bert Kealey’s voice on the phone.

  “Do you think she’s got mastitis, Bert? Is the udder red and swollen? Is she off her food?”

  “No, nowt like that. She’s eatin’ her head off, and her udder’s not a bit inflamed.”

  “Well, then, it’s a straight case of agalactia. She needs a shot of pituitrin, but how the heck is she going to get it? Your district’s been cut off for weeks now.”

  It takes a lot to make a Yorkshire farmer admit that his farm is inaccessible because of the weather, but these were exceptional circumstances and Bert had to agree.

  “I know,” he said. “Ah’ve tried diggin’ me road out, but it fills up as fast as I clear it. Anyway, top road’s blocked for two miles, so I’m wastin’ me time.”

  I thought for a moment. “Have you tried getting some cow’s milk into the piglets? An egg mixed with a quart of milk and a teaspoonful of glucose isn’t a bad milk substitute. I know you got some glucose for those scouring calves.”

  “I’ve tried ’em with that,” Bert replied. “Put it in a Yorkshire puddin’ tin and dipped their noses in it, but they wouldn’t look at it. If only they could have a good suck at their mother and get summat into their bellies it would start them off, and then they’d maybe have a go at t’substitute.”

  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.