Let Sleeping Vets Lie Read online

  Hoisting it in his arms he began to push at it with fierce

  concentration.

  Mr. Thwaite turned to us with an expression of despair and opened his

  mouth to lament again, but Ewan silenced him with a raised hand, pulling

  a milking stool from a corner and squatted down comfortably against a

  wall. Unhurriedly he produced his little pouch and, one-handed, began to

  make a cigarette; as he licked the paper, screwed up the end and applied

  a match he gazed with blank eyes at the sweating, struggling figure a

  few feet from him.

  Duke had got the uterus about half way back. Grunting and gasping, legs

  straddled, he had worked the engorged mass inch by inch inside the vulva

  till he had just about enough cradled in his arms for one last push; and

  as he stood there taking a breather with the great muscles of his

  shoulders and arms rigid his immense strength was formidably displayed.

  But he wasn't as strong as that cow. No man is as strong as a cow and

  this cow was one of the biggest I had ever seen with a back like a table

  top and rolls of fat round her tailhead.

  I had been in this position myself and I knew what was coming next. I

  didn't have to wait long. Duke took a long wheezing breath and made his

  assault, heaving desperately, pushing with arms and chest, and for a

  second or two he seemed to be winning as the mass disappeared steadily

  inside. Then the cow gave an almost casual strain and the whole thing

  welled out again till it hung down bumping against the animal's hocks.

  As Duke almost collapsed against her pelvis in the same attitude as when

  we first came in I felt pity for the man. I found him uncharming but I

  felt for him. That could easily be me standing there; my jacket and

  shirt hanging on that nail, my strength ebbing, my sweat mingling with

  the blood. No man could do what he was trying to do. You could push back

  a calf bed with the aid of an epidural anaesthetic to stop the straining

  or you could sling the animal up to a beam with a block and tackle; you

  couldn't just stand there and do it from scratch as this chap was trying

  to do.

  I was surprised Duke hadn't learned that with all his experience; but

  apparently it still hadn't dawned on him even now because he was going

  through all the motions of having another go. This time he got even

  further - a few more inches inside before the cow popped it out again.

  The animal appeared to have a sporting streak because there was

  something premeditated about the way she played her victim along before

  timing her thrust at the very last moment. Apart from that she seemed

  somewhat bored by the whole business, in fact with the possible

  exception of Ewan she was the calmest among us.

  Duke was trying again. As he bent over wearily and picked up the gory

  organ I wondered how often he had done this since he arrived nearly two

  hours ago. He had guts, there was no doubt. But the end was near. There

  was a frantic urgency about his movements as though he knew himself it

  was his last throw and as he yet again neared his goal his grunts

  changed to an agonised whimpering, an almost tearful sound as though he

  were appealing to the recalcitrant mass, beseeching it to go away inside

  and stay away, just this once.

  And when the inevitable happened and the poor fellow, panting and

  shaking, i surveyed once more the ruin of his hopes I had the feeling

  that somebody had to do something.

  Mr. Thwaite did it. "You've had enough, Duke," he said. "For God's sake

  come in the house and get cleaned up. Missus'll give you a bit o" dinner

  and while you're having it Mr. Ross'll see what he can do."

  The big man, arms hanging limp by his sides, chest heaving, stared at

  the farmer for a few seconds then he turned abruptly and snatched his

  clothes from; the wall.

  "Aw right," he said and began to walk slowly towards the door. He

  stopped , opposite Ewan but didn't look at him. "But ah'll tell you

  summat Maister Thwaite. If ah can't put that calf bed back this awd

  bugger never will."

  Ewan drew on his cigarette and peered up at him impassively. He didn't

  follow him with his eyes as he left the byre but leaned back against the

  wall, puffed out a thin plume of smoke and watched it rise and disappear

  among the . shadows in the roof.

  Mr. Thwaite was soon back. "Now, Mr. Ross," he said a little

  breathlessly, "I'm sorry about you havin" to wait but we can get on now.

  I expect you'll be needin" some fresh hot water and is there anything

  else you want?"

  Ewan dropped his cigarette on the cobbles and ground it with his foot.

  "Yes, you can bring me a pound of sugar."

  "What's that?"

  "A pound of sugar."

  "A pound of ... right, right ... I'll get it." .

  In no time at all the farmer returned with an unopened paper bag. Ewan

  split the top with his finger, walked over to the cow and began to dust

  the sugar all over the uterus. Then he turned to Mr. Thwaite again.

  "And I'll want a pig stool, too. I expect you have one."

  "Oh aye, we have one, but what the hangmen" ... ?"

  t., ~i ~.

  Ewan cocked a gentle eye at him. "Bring it in, then. It's time we got

  this job done."

  As the farmer disappeared at a stiff gallop I went over to my colleague.

  "What's going on, Ewan? What the devil are you chucking that sugar about

  for?"

  "Oh it draws the serum out of the uterus. You can't beat it when the

  thing's engorged like that."

  "It does?" I glanced unbelievingly at the bloated organ. "And aren't you

  going to give her an epidural ... and some pituitrin ... and a calcium

  injection?"

  "Och no," Ewan replied with his slow smile. "I never bother about those

  things."

  I didn't get the chance to ask him what he wanted with the pig stool

  because just then Mr. Thwaite trotted in with one under his arm.

  Most farms used to have them. They were often called 'creels" and the

  sides of bacon were laid on them at pig-killing time. This was a typical

  specimen like a long low table with four short legs and a slatted

  concave top. Ewan took hold of it and pushed it carefully under the cow

  just in front of the udder while I stared at it through narrowed eyes. I

  was getting out of my depth.

  Ewan then walked unhurriedly out to his car and returned with a length

  of rope and two objects wrapped in the inevitable brown paper. As he

  draped the rope over the partition, pulled on a rubber parturition gown

  and began to open the parcels I realised I was once again watching Ewan

  setting out his stall.

  From the first parcel he produced what looked like a beer tray but which

  I decided couldn't possibly be; but when he said, "Here, hold this a

  minute, Jim," and I read the emblazoned gold scroll, "John Smith's

  Magnet Pale Ale" I had to change my mind. It was a beer tray.

  He began to unfold the brown paper from the other object and my brain

  reeled a little as he fished out an empty whisky bottle and placed it on

  the tray.

  standing there with my strange burden I felt like the stooge in