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  The calf was now on its feet, blundering unsteadily around. The speed with which newly born animals get onto their legs has always fascinated me, but at this moment it was an unmitigated nuisance.

  The calf, looking for the udder with that instinct which nobody can explain, kept pushing his nose at the cow’s flank and at times toppling headfirst into the gaping hole in her side.

  “Reckon ’e wants back in again,” Mr. Bushell said with a grin. “By ’eck, he is a wick ’un.”

  “Wick” is Yorkshire for lively, and the word was never more aptly applied. As I worked, eyes half-closed, jaws rigid, I had to keep nudging the wet muzzle away with my elbow, but as fast as I pushed him back the calf charged in again, and with sick resignation I saw that every time he nosed his way into the cavity, he brought particles of straw and dirt from the floor and spread them over the abdominal contents.

  “Look at that,” I moaned. “As if there wasn’t enough muck in there.”

  Norman didn’t reply. His mouth was hanging open and the sweat ran down his blood-streaked face as he grappled with that unseen wound. And in his fixed stare I seemed to read a growing doubt as to his wisdom in deciding to be a veterinary surgeon.

  I would rather not go into any more details. The memory is too painful. Sufficient to say that, after an eternity, I got as far down the uterine tear as I could, then we cleared away a lot of rubbish from the cow’s abdomen and covered everything with antiseptic dusting powder. I stitched up the muscle and skin layers, with the calf trying all the time to get in on the act, and at last the thing was finished.

  Norman and I got to our feet very slowly, like two old, old men. It took me a long time to straighten my back, and I saw the young man rubbing tenderly at his lumbar region. Then, since we were both plastered with caked blood and filth, we began the slow process of scrubbing and scraping ourselves clean.

  Mr. Bushell left his position by the head and looked at the row of skin stitches. “Nice neat job,” he said. “And a grand calf, too.”

  Yes, that was something. The little creature had dried off now, and he was a beauty, his body swaying on unsteady legs, his wide-set eyes filled with gentle curiosity. But that “neat job” hid things I didn’t dare think about.

  Antibiotics were still not in general use, but, in any case, I knew there was no hope for the cow. More as a gesture than anything else, I left the farmer some sulpha powders to give her three times a day. Then I got off the farm as quickly as I could.

  We drove away in silence. I rounded a couple of corners, then stopped the car under a tree and sank my head against the steering wheel.

  “Oh hell,” I groaned. “What a bloody balls-up.”

  Norman replied only with a long sigh and I continued, “Did you ever see such a performance? All that straw and dirt and rumenal muck in among that poor cow’s bowels. Do you know what I was thinking about towards the end? I was remembering the story of that human surgeon of olden times who left his hat inside his patient. It was as bad as that.”

  “I know.” The student spoke in a strangled undertone. “And it was all my fault.”

  “Oh no, it wasn’t,” I replied. “I made a right bollocks of the whole thing all by myself, and I tried to blame you because I got in a panic. I shouted and nagged at you and I owe you an apology.”

  “Oh no, no …”

  “Yes, I do. I am supposed to be a qualified veterinary surgeon, and I did nearly everything wrong.” I groaned again. “And on top of it all, I behaved like an absolute swine towards you, and I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t really, you didn’t … I …”

  “Anyway, Norman,” I broke in. “I’m going to thank you now. You were a tremendous help to me. You worked like a Trojan and I’d have got nowhere at all without you. Let’s go and have a pint.”

  With the early-evening sunshine filtering into the bar parlour of the village inn, we dropped into a quiet corner and pulled deeply at our beer glasses. We were both hot and weary and there didn’t seem to be anything more to say.

  It was Norman who broke the silence. “Do you think that cow has any chance?”

  I examined the cuts and punctures on my fingers for a moment. “No, Norman. Peritonitis is inevitable, and I’m pretty sure I’ve left a good-sized hole in her uterus.” I shuddered and slapped my brow at the memory.

  I was sure I would never see Bella alive again, but first thing next morning a morbid curiosity made me lift the phone to find out if she had survived so far.

  The “buzz-buzz” at the other end seemed to last a long time before Mr. Bushell answered.

  “Oh, it’s Mr. Herriot. Cow’s up and eatin’.” He didn’t sound surprised.

  It was several seconds before I was able to absorb his words.

  “Doesn’t she look a bit dull or uncomfortable?” I asked huskily.

  “Nay, nay, she’s bright as a cricket. Finished off a rackful of hay, and I got a couple o’ gallons of milk from ’er.”

  As in a dream I heard his next question. “When’ll you take them stitches out?”

  “Stitches … Oh yes.” I gave myself a shake. “In a fortnight, Mr. Bushell, in a fortnight.”

  After the horrors of the first visit, I was glad Norman was with me when I removed the sutures. There was no swelling round the wound, and Bella chewed her cud happily as I snipped away. In a pen nearby the calf gambolled and kicked his feet in the air.

  I couldn’t help asking, “Has she shown any symptoms at all, Mr. Bushell?”

  “Nay.” The farmer shook his head slowly. “She’s been neither up nor down. You wouldn’t know owt had happened to ’er.”

  That was the way it was at my first Caesarian. Over the years Bella went on to have eight more calves normally and unaided, a miracle which I can still hardly believe.

  But Norman and I were not to know that. All we felt then was an elation all the sweeter for being unexpected.

  As we drove away I looked at the young man’s smiling face. “Well, Norman,” I said. “That’s veterinary practice for you. You get a lot of nasty shocks, but some lovely surprises, too. I’ve often heard of the wonderful resistance of the bovine peritoneum, and thank heavens it’s true.”

  “The whole thing’s marvellous, isn’t it?” he murmured dreamily. “I can’t describe the way I feel. My head seems to be full of quotations like ‘Where there is life there’s hope.’ ”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said. “John Gay, isn’t it—The Sick Man and the Angel.”

  Norman clapped his hands. “Oh, well done.”

  “Let’s see.” I thought for a moment. “How about ‘But t’was a famous victory.’ ”

  “Excellent,” replied the young man. “Southey, The Battle of Blenheim.”

  I nodded. “Quite correct.”

  “Here’s a good one,” the student said. “ ‘Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.’ ”

  “Splendid, splendid,” I replied. “Shakespeare, Henry Fifth.”

  “No, Henry Fourth.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Norman held up a confident hand. “It’s no good, I’m right. And this time I do know what I’m talking about.”

  Chapter

  9

  October 30, 1961

  AT 6:30 A.M. THIS morning we reached the Kiel Canal. There is a little town at the western end and a big lock gate. We had to wait for about half an hour to get through the lock, and during this time we took aboard a German policeman and a Dutch pilot. The policeman’s job was to see that we did not pollute the canal by throwing out the manure and soiled bedding from the ship. He was very smart in a black leather coat with gold buttons and a neat blue uniform with two pips on the shoulder, and we spent a pleasant time chatting. He shamed me, as so many foreigners do, by speaking quite good English.

  After passing through the lock gate it was a delight to be gliding along in still water for a change, and I stood out on the strip of deck, watching the many types of vessels that use the canal. There were seve