Let Sleeping Vets Lie Read online

  caked dirt and slime and bits of straw sticking to my chest. "Right,

  Jim," he said. "That sounds like a good idea."

  I didn't enjoy my visit out to the car. Standing stripped to the waist

  in total darkness in the teeth of a north wind is an overrated pastime

  but it made a change from the cobbles. I fumbled a pump and rubber tube

  from the boot and returned to the byre at a trot.

  Ewan operated the pump as I pushed the tube forward over the dried-out

  legs, playing the water from side to side and especially into that bend

  in the neck.

  When I had finished I came out of the cow quickly, dropped, the tube

  and, slightly breathless, soaped my arm again. This was really it this

  time. That water would give me more room, but only for a few seconds.

  Lying down again I inserted my arm and it was like a different world

  lots of space, everything moist and moveable. My fingers trembled as

  they inched forward under that neck and'hallelujah, the weight was

  there, the smooth, metallic, beautiful edge of the thing just projecting

  from among the hair. I could twiddle it with the end of my fingers and I

  felt it gradually coming down till the hole was within reach and I

  thrust my finger through it with savage relief and lay like that for a

  few moments smiling stupidly down at the wet stones and knowing I had

  won.

  The rest was routine. Joining the cord to the wire and pulling it round

  the neck; threading the wire through the shining steel tubes of the

  embryotome which protected the vaginal wall from the cutting edge; the

  few minutes of steady sawing till the sudden lack of resistance told

  that the head was off and the obstruction removed.

  After that, Ewan and I took a leg apiece and delivered the calf without

  difficulty, the head followed and the job was done. Swilling myself down

  with the last of the water I looked at the cow, she had had a long

  tussle but nothing to do her any harm; no hard pulling, no internal

  damage. She should be all right And as though trying to reassure me she

  hunched her hind legs under her, gave a heave and got to her feet.

  "By Gaw, that's a good sign," Mr. Hugill said.

  The cow turned her fine white face towards me for a moment, straddled

  her legs, strained a couple of times, and the placenta welled in

  multi-coloured entirety from her vulva and plopped into the channel.

  "And that's a better sign," Ewan murmured. He looked at his watch.

  "Nearly three o'clock." Then he turned to the farmer. "Is your missus

  up, Mr. Hugill?"

  The old man didn't seem surprised at the question, in fact he seemed to

  be expecting it. "Aye, she's up, right enough, Mr. Ross?"

  "And is the fire on?"

  "Aye, there's a real good fire, Mr. Ross," he replied eagerly.

  "Splendid!" Ewan said, rubbing his hands. "Well, I think we'll have some

  boiled eggs." He looked over at me. "Boiled eggs all right for you,

  Jim?"

  "Boiled eggs?" The concept was difficult to grasp at this hour.

  "Yes, just the thing for you after your hard work."

  "Oh well, right, just as you say."

  Ewan became very brisk. "Fine, we'll have boiled eggs, Mr. Hugill, and

  some tea of course, and maybe a little toast." He rubbed his chin

  thoughtfully like a diner at his favourite restaurant pondering over the

  menu. "Oh and a few scones would be very nice."

  "Very good, Mr. Ross, I'll go in and tell t'missus." The farmer nodded

  happily and scuttled away.

  Ten minutes later, walking into the farmhouse kitchen, I felt strangely

  disembodied. Maybe it was because my physical state had progressed from

  mere exhaustion to something like coma, but the whole thing seemed

  unreal. The brasses of hearth and mantelpiece glinting in the flames

  from a crackling wood fire, the table under a hissing tilly lamp laden

  with its burden of scones, crusty bread, ham and egg pie, curd tarts,

  fruit cake; it all looked like something from a dream. And it was funny,

  but the most incredible objects of all were the boiled eggs, brown and

  massive, top heavy in their china cradles, two for Ewan at the top of

  the table and two for me down the side.

  Mrs. Hugill, stout and beaming, poured our tea, then she and her husband

  sat down on either side of the fire and waited with evident interest for

  us to go into action. Ewan with total lack of self consciousness began

  busily to knock the tops off his eggs and slap butter on the toast. I

  followed mechanically, noting even through the mists that the eggs had a

  creamy savour which you maybe only found when the hens spent their lives

  pecking around a 1500 foot high farmyard, and that the tang of yeast was

  strong in the home made bread even though I mumbled it with a dry mouth

  and numb lips. The tea, too, would have been excellent but for the fact

  that I added salt to it instead of sugar; just sat and watched myself

  pouring salt from the little spoon first on to my egg plate then into my

  tea. It tasted different, but I don't recommend it.

  All the time the call of home and bed was getting stronger but Ewan was

  in no hurry. Speaking through a mouthful of ham and egg pie he addressed

  his hostess.

  "Mrs. Hugill, now I know why you always win the prizes at Scarburn show

  with your baking."

  As the good lady giggled with pleasure I struggled to my feet. "I second

  that, Mrs. Hugill, I've really enjoyed it, but it's time I was away.

  I've a long way to go.

  Ewan swallowed, wiped his lips and smiled across the table. "Well I

  can't thank you enough, Jim. You've saved the situation. I couldn't have

  done what you've done tonight even if I'd had your magic embryotome."

  "Oh that's all right, it's been a pleasure." I made my way to the door

  and took a last look back at the scene which I still could scarcely

  believe; the farmer and his wife nodding and waving from the bright

  fireside, Ewan, in lordly state at the head of the table, hacking

  vigorously at a large Wensleydale cheese.

  I hardly noticed the run back. In a comfortable state of suspended

  animation I sat with half closed eyes fixed on the road ahead. There was

  none of the apprehension of the journey out, none of the moaning and

  griping, just the warm satisfaction that a good cow would be pulling hay

  from its rack tomorrow instead :s , .

  of hanging from the butcher's hook. Only a little thing, nothing

  world-shaking about it, but good.

  When I drove into the yard at Skeldale House the gale had blown itself

  out leaving a deep litter of leaves shining brilliant gold in the

  headlights and I scuffled my way through them, ankle deep, feeling the

  still air cool on my face in the darkness Bed was an unbelievable haven

  and as I floated away my last emotion was a feeling of wonder at the

  things the farmers would do for Ewan Ross My clients had shown me many

  kindnesses in the past and I had a lot of future still ahead of me, but

  I doubted whether anybody would ever give me boiled eggs at three

  o'clock in the morning.

  Chapter Fourteen.

  It was the chance to start my public speaking career; a definite