All Things Bright and Beautiful Read online

  In the yard at Holly Bush I got out of the car, nodded to the shadowy group of figures standing there, fumbled my bottle of antiseptic and calving ropes from the boot and marched determinedly into the byre. One of the men held an oil lamp over a cow lying on a deep bed of straw in one of the standings; from the vulva a calf’s foot protruded a few inches and as the cow strained a little muzzle showed momentarily then disappeared as she relaxed.

  Far away inside me a stone cold sober veterinary surgeon murmured: “Only a leg back and a big roomy cow. Shouldn’t be much trouble.” I turned and looked at the Bamfords for the first time. I hadn’t met them before but it was easy to classify them; simple, kindly, anxious-to-please people—two middle-aged men, probably brothers, and two young men who would be the sons of one or the other. They were all staring at me in the dim light, their eyes expectant, their mouths slightly open as though ready to smile or laugh if given half a chance.

  I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and said in a loud voice: “Would you please bring me a bucket of hot water, some soap and a towel.” Or at least that’s what I meant to say, because what actually issued from my lips was a torrent of something that sounded like Swahili. The Bamfords, poised, ready to spring into action to do my bidding, looked at me blankly. I cleared my throat, swallowed, took a few seconds’ rest and tried again. The result was the same—another volley of gibberish echoing uselessly round the cow house.

  Clearly I had a problem. It was essential to communicate in some way, particularly since these people didn’t know me and were waiting for some action. I suppose I must have appeared a strange and enigmatic figure standing there, straight and solemn, surmounted and dominated by the vast cap. But through the mists a flash of insight showed me where I was going wrong. It was over-confidence. It wasn’t a bit of good trying to speak loudly like that. I tried again in the faintest of whispers.

  “Could I have a bucket of hot water, some soap and a towel, please.” It came out beautifully though the oldest Mr. Bamford didn’t quite get it first time. He came close, cupped an ear with his hand and watched my lips intently. Then he nodded eagerly in comprehension, held up a forefinger at me, tiptoed across the floor like a tight rope walker to one of the sons and whispered in his ear. The young man turned and crept out noiselessly, closing the door behind him with the utmost care; he was back in less than a minute, padding over the cobbles daintily in his heavy boots and placing the bucket gingerly in front of me.

  I managed to remove my jacket, tie and shirt quite efficiently and they were taken from me in silence and hung up on nails by the Bamfords who were moving around as though in church. I thought I was doing fine till I started to wash my arms. The soap kept shooting from my arms, slithering into the dung channel, disappearing into the dark corners of the byre with the Bamfords in hot pursuit. It was worse still when I tried to work up to the top of my arms. The soap flew over my shoulders like a live thing, at times cannoning off the walls, at others gliding down my back. The farmers never knew where the next shot was going and they took on the appearance of a really sharp fielding side crouching around me with arms outstretched waiting for a catch.

  However I did finally work up a lather and was ready to start, but the cow refused firmly to get to her feet, so I had to stretch out behind her face down on the unyielding cobbles. It wasn’t till I had got down there that I felt the great cap dropping over my ears; I must have put it on again after removing my shirt though it was difficult to see what purpose it might serve.

  Inserting a hand gently into the vagina I pushed along the calf’s neck, hoping to come upon a flexed knee or even a foot, but I was disappointed; the leg really was right back, stretching from the shoulder away flat against the calf’s side. Still, I would be all right—it just meant a longer reach.

  And there was one reassuring feature; the calf was alive. As I lay, my face was almost touching the rear end of the cow and I had a close up of the nose which kept appearing every few seconds; it was good to see the little nostrils twitching as they sought the outside air. All I had to do was get that leg round.

  But the snag was that as I reached forward the cow kept straining, squeezing my arm cruelly against her bony pelvis, making me groan and roll about in agony for a few seconds till the pressure went off. Quite often in these crises my cap fell on to the floor and each time gentle hands replaced it immediately on my head.

  At last the foot was in my hand—there would be no need for ropes this time—and I began to pull it round. It took me longer than I thought and it seemed to me that the calf was beginning to lose patience with me because when its head was forced out by the cow’s contractions we were eye to eye and I fancied the little creature was giving me a disgusted “For heaven’s sake get on with it” look.

  When the leg did come round it was with a rush and in an instant everything was laid as it should have been.

  “Get hold of the feet,” I whispered to the Bamfords and after a hushed consultation they took up their places. In no time at all a fine heifer calf was wriggling on the cobbles shaking its head and snorting the placental fluid from its nostrils.

  In response to my softly hissed instructions the farmers rubbed the little creature down with straw wisps and pulled it round for its mother to lick.

  It was a happy ending to the most peaceful calving I have ever attended. Never a voice raised, everybody moving around on tiptoe. I got dressed in a cathedral silence, went out to the car, breathed a final goodnight and left with the Bamfords waving mutely.

  To say I had a hangover next morning would be failing even to hint at the utter disintegration of my bodily economy and personality. Only somebody who had consumed two or three quarts of assorted home made wines at a sitting could have an inkling of the quaking nausea, the raging inferno within, the jangling nerves, the black despairing outlook.

  Tristan had seen me in the bathroom running the cold tap on my tongue and had intuitively administered a raw egg, aspirins and brandy which, as I came downstairs, lay in a cold, unmoving blob in my outraged stomach.

  “What are you walking like that for, James?” asked Siegfried in what sounded like a bull’s bellow as I came in on him at breakfast, “You look as though you’d pee’d yourself.”

  “Oh it’s nothing much.” It was no good telling him I was treading warily across the carpet because I was convinced that if I let my heels down too suddenly it would jar my eyeballs from their sockets. “I had a few glasses of Mr. Crump’s wine last night and it seems to have upset me.”

  “A few glasses! You ought to be more careful—that stuff’s dynamite. Could knock anybody over.” He crashed his cup into its saucer then began to clatter about with knife and fork as if trying to give a one man rendering of the Anvil Chorus. “I hope you weren’t any the worse to go to Bamford’s.”

  I listlessly crumbled some dry toast on my plate. “Well I did the job all right, but I’d had a bit too much—no use denying it.”

  Siegfried was in one of his encouraging moods. “By God, James, those Bamfords are very strict methodists. They’re grand chaps but absolutely dead nuts against drink—if they thought you were under the influence of alcohol they’d never have you on the place again.” He ruthlessly bisected an egg yolk. “I hope they didn’t notice anything. Do you think they knew?”

  “Oh maybe not. No, I shouldn’t think so.” I closed my eyes and shivered as Siegfried pushed a forkful of sausage and fried bread into his mouth and began to chew briskly. My mind went back to the gentle hands replacing the monstrous cap on my head and I groaned inwardly.

  Those Bamfords knew all right. Oh yes, they knew.

  9

  THE SILVER HAIRED OLD gentleman with the pleasant face didn’t look the type to be easily upset but his eyes glared at me angrily and his lips quivered with indignation.

  “Mr. Herriot,” he said. “I have come to make a complaint. I strongly object to your allowing students to practise on my cat.”

  “Students? What students?�