All Things Wise and Wonderful Read online

  “Yes … ,” I said. “You have a problem without a doubt.”

  He pulled nervously at his tie. “And it gets louder the longer you drive. Let me take you a bit farther round and …”

  “No-no, no-no,” I put in hastily. “That won’t be necessary. I can see exactly how you are placed. But you say you haven’t had Coco for long. He isn’t much more than a pup. I’m sure he’ll get used to the car in time.”

  “Very possibly he will.” Mr. Beresford’s voice was taut with apprehension. “But I’m thinking of tomorrow. I’ve got to drive all the way to Portsmouth with my wife and this dog and I’ve tried car sickness tablets without result.”

  A full day with that appalling din was unthinkable but at that moment the image of Mr. Barge rose before me. He had sprouted wings and floated in front of my eyes like an elderly guardian angel. What an incredible piece of luck!

  “As it happens,” I said with a reassuring smile, “there is something new for this sort of thing, and by a coincidence we have just received a batch of it today. Come in and I’ll fix you up.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that.” Mr. Beresford examined the box of tablets. “I just give one half an hour before the journey and all will be well?”

  “That’s the idea,” I replied cheerfully. “I’ve given you a few extra for future journeys.”

  “I am most grateful, you’ve taken a great load off my mind.” He went out to the car and I watched as he started the engine. As if in response to a signal the little brown head on the back seat went up and the lips pursed.

  “Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo,” Coco yowled, and his master shot me a despairing look as he drove away.

  I stood on the steps for some time, listening incredulously. Many people in Darrowby didn’t like Mr. Beresford very much, probably because of his cold manner, but I felt he wasn’t a bad chap and he certainly had my sympathy. Long after the car had disappeared round the corner of Trengate I could still hear Coco.

  “Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo.”

  About seven o’clock that evening I had a phone call from Will Hollin.

  “Gertrude’s started farrowin’!” he said urgently. “And she’s tryin’ to worry her pigs!”

  It was bad news. Sows occasionally attacked their piglets after birth and in fact would kill them if they were not removed from their reach. And of course it meant that suckling was impossible.

  It was a tricky problem at any time but particularly so in this case because Gertrude was a pedigree sow—an expensive animal Will Hollin had bought to improve his strain of pigs.

  “How many has she had?” I asked.

  “Four—and she’s gone for every one.” His voice was tense.

  It was then I remembered Soothitt and again I blessed the coming of Mr. Barge.

  I smiled into the receiver. “There’s a new product I can use, Mr. Hollin. Just arrived today. I’ll be right out.”

  I trotted through to the dispensary, opened the box of phials and had a quick read at the enclosed pamphlet. Ah yes, there it was. “Ten cc’s intramuscularly and the sow will accept the piglets within twenty minutes.”

  It wasn’t a long drive to the Hollin farm but as I sped through the darkness I could discern the workings of fate in the day’s events. The Soothitt had arrived this morning and right away I had two urgent calls for it. There was no doubt Mr. Barge had been sent for a purpose—living proof, perhaps, that everything in our lives is preordained. It gave me a prickling at the back of my neck to think about it.

  I could hardly wait to get the injection into the sow and climbed eagerly into the pen. Gertrude didn’t appreciate having a needle rammed into her thigh and she swung round on me with an explosive bark. But I got the ten cc’s in before making my escape.

  “We just wait twenty minutes, then?” Will Hollin leaned on the rail and looked down anxiously at his pig. He was a hard-working smallholder in his fifties and I knew this meant a lot to him.

  I was about to make a comforting reply when Gertrude popped out another pink, squirming piglet. The farmer leaned over and gently nudged the little creature towards the udder as the sow lay on her side, but as soon as the nose made contact with the teat the big pig was up in a flash, all growls and yellow teeth.

  He snatched the piglet away quickly and deposited it with the others in a tall cardboard box. “Well, you see how it is, Mr. Herriot.”

  “I certainly do. How many have you got in there now?”

  “There’s six. And they’re grand pigs, too.”

  I peered into the box at the little animals. They all had the classical long-bodied shape. “Yes, they are. And she looks as though she has a lot more in her yet.”

  The farmer nodded and we waited.

  It seemed to take a long time for the twenty minutes to pass but finally I lifted a couple of piglets and clambered into the pen. I was about to put them to the sow when one of them squealed. Gertrude rushed across with a ferocious roar, mouth gaping, and I leaped to safety with an agility which surprised me.

  “She don’t look very sleepy,” Mr. Hollin said.

  “No … no … she doesn’t, does she? Maybe we’d better wait a bit longer.”

  We gave her another ten minutes and tried again with the same result. I injected a further ten cc’s of the Soothitt, then about an hour later a third one. By nine o’clock Gertrude had produced fifteen beautiful young pigs and had chased me and her family from the pen six times. She was, if anything, livelier and fiercer than when I started.

  “Well, she’s cleansed,” Mr. Hollin said gloomily. “So it looks like she’s finished.” He gazed, sad-faced, into the box. “And now I’ve got fifteen pigs to rear without their mother’s milk. I could lose all this lot.”

  “Nay, nay.” The voice came from the open doorway. “You won’t lose ’em.”

  I looked round. It was Grandad Hollin, his puckish features set in their customary smile. He marched to the pen and poked Gertrude’s ribs with his stick.

  She responded with a snarl and a malignant glare and the old man’s smile grew broader.

  “Ah’ll soon fettle the awd beggar,” he said.

  “Fettle her?” I shifted my feet uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, she just wants quietin’, tha knaws.”

  I took a long breath. “Yes, Mr. Hollin, that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do.”

  “Aye, but you’re not doin’ it the right way, young man.”

  I looked at him narrowly. The know-all with his liberal advice in a difficult situation is a familiar figure most veterinary surgeons have to tolerate, but in Grandad Hollin’s case I didn’t feel the usual irritation. I liked him. He was a nice man, the head of a fine family. Will was the eldest of his four sons and he had several farmer grandsons in the district.

  Anyway, I had failed miserably. I was in no position to be uppity.

  ‘Well, I’ve given her the latest injection,” I mumbled.

  He shook his head. “She don’t want injections, she wants beer.”

  “Eh?”

  “Beer, young man. A drop o’ good ale.” He turned to his son. “Hasta got a clean bucket, Will, lad?”

  “Aye, there’s a new-scalded one in t’milk house.”

  “Right, ah’ll slip down to the pub. Won’t be long.” Grandad swung on his heel and strode briskly into the night. He must have been around eighty but from the back he looked like a twenty five year old—upright, square-shouldered, jaunty.

  Will Hollin and I didn’t have much to say to each other. He was sunk in disappointment and I was awash with shame. It was a relief when Grandad returned bearing an enamel bucket brimming with brown liquid.

  “By gaw,” he chuckled. “You should’ve seen their faces down at t’Wagon and Horses. Reckon they’ve never heard of a two gallon order afore.”

  I gaped at him. “You’ve got two gallons of beer?”

  “That’s right, young man, and she’ll need it all.” He turned again to his son. “She hasn’t had