Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

“There y’are, Mr. Herriot. That wasn’t much trouble was it?”

I didn’t say anything. I was the one who was going to have the trouble. I was working at the wrong end, nicely in range of the hooves which would surely start flying if my patients didn’t appreciate having a needle stuck into their testicles.

Anyway, it had to be done. One by one I infiltrated the scrotal area with the local, taking the blows on my arms and legs as they came. Then I started the actual process of castration, the bloodless crushing of the spermatic cord without breaking the skin. There was no doubt this was a big advance on the old method of incising the scrotum with a knife and in little calves it was a trifling business lasting only a few seconds.

But it was altogether different with these vast creatures. It was necessary to open the arms of the Burdizzo beyond right angles to grip the great fleshy scrotum, and then they had to be closed again. That was when the fun started.

Thanks to my injection the beast could feel little or nothing, but as I squeezed desperately it seemed that I was attempting the impossible. However, it is amazing what the human frame can accomplish when pushed to the utmost, and as the sweat trickled down my nose and I gasped and strained, the metal arms inched closer until the jaws finally clicked together.

I always nipped each side twice, and I took a rest before repeating the process lower down the cord. When I had done the same with the other testicle I flopped back against the wall, panting and trying not to think of the other seven beasts still to do.

It was a long, long time before I got to the last one and I was wrestling away, pop-eyed and open-mouthed, when the idea came to me.

I straightened up and came along the side of the animal. “Mr. Ripley,” I said breathlessly, “why don’t you have a go?”

“Eh?” The farmer had been watching me with equanimity, blowing out slow clouds of blue smoke, but it was plain that I had jolted him out of his composure. “What d’ye mean?”

“Well, this is the last one, and I want you to understand what I’ve been talking about. I’d like to see you close those nippers.”

He thought the matter over for a moment or two. “Aye, but who’s goin’ to hold t’beast?”

“That’s all right,” I said. “We’ll tie him up short to the ring and I’ll set everything up for you, then we’ll see how you get on.”

He looked a little doubtful but I was determined to make my point and ushered him gently to the rear end of the animal. I enclosed the scrotum in the Burdizzo and placed Mr. Ripley’s fingers round the handles.

“Right,” I said. “Off you go.”

The farmer took a long breath, braced himself and began to exert pressure on the metal arms. Nothing happened.

I stood there for several minutes as his face turned red, then purple, his eyes protruded even further than mine and the veins on his forehead stood out in livid ridges. Finally he gave a groan and dropped to his knees.

“Nay, lad, nay, it’s no good, I can’t do it.”

He got to his feet slowly and mopped his brow.

“But Mr. Ripley.” I put a hand on his shoulder and smiled kindly at him. “You expect me to do it.”

He nodded dumbly.

“Ah well, never mind,” I said. “You understand now what I’ve been talking about. This is an easy little job made difficult by leaving it until the beasts are as big as this. If you’d called me out when they were calves of three months, I’d have been on and off your place in a few minutes, wouldn’t I?”

“Aye, you would, Mr. Herriot, you’re right. I’ve been daft, and I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”

I felt really clever. I don’t often have moments of inspiration, but the conviction swelled in me that one of them had come to me today. I had finally got through to Mr. Ripley.

The feeling of exhilaration gave me added strength and I finished the job effortlessly. As I walked to the car I positively glowed, and my self-satisfaction deepened when the farmer bent to the window as I started the engine.

“Well, thank ye, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “You’ve taught me summat this mornin’. Next time ye come I’ll have a nice new gate for ye and I’ll never ask ye to nip big beasts like that again. Ah guarantee it.”

All that had happened a long time ago, before the R.A.F., and I was now in the process of reinserting myself into civilian life, tasting the old things I had almost forgotten. But at the moment when the phone rang I was tasting something very near to my heart—Helen’s cooking.

It was Sunday lunchtime, when the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were served. My wife had just dropped a slab of the pudding on my plate and was pouring gravy over it, a rich, brown flood with the soul of the meat in it and an aroma to dream of. I was starving, after a typical country vet’s Sunday morning of rushing round the farms and I was thinking, as I often did, that if I had some foreign gourmet to impress with the choicest sample of our British food, then this is what I would give him.

? great chunk of Yorkshire pud and gravy was the expedient of the thrifty farmers to fill their families’ stomachs before the real meal started—“Them as eats most puddin’ gets most meat,” was the wily encouragement—but it was heaven. And as I chewed my first forkful I was happy in the knowledge that when I had cleared my plate Helen would fill it again with the beef itself and with potatoes, peas and runner beans gathered from our garden that morning.

The shrilling phone cut cruelly into my reverie, but I told myself that nothing was going to spoil this meal. The most urgent job in veterinary practice could wait until I had finished.

But my hand shook as I lifted the receiver, and a mixture of anxiety and disbelief flowed through me as I heard the voice at the other end. It was Mr. Ripley. Oh please, no, not that long, long trek to Anson Hall on a Sunday.

The farmer’s voice thundered in my ear. He was one of the many who still thought you had to bawl lustily to cover the miles between.

“Is that vitnery?”

“Yes, Herriot speaking.”

“Oh, you’re back from t’war, then?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, ah want ye out here right away. One of me cows is right bad.”

“What’s the trouble? Is it urgent?”

“Aye, it is! I think she’s maybe broke ’er leg!”

I held the ear piece away from me. Mr. Ripley had increased his volume, and my head was beginning to ring. “What makes you think that?” I asked, suddenly dry-mouthed.

“Well, she’s on three legs,” the farmer blasted back at me. “And t’other’s sort of hangin’, like.”

Oh God, that sounded horribly significant. I looked sadly across the room at my loaded plate. “All right, Mr. Ripley, I’ll be along.”

“You’ll come straight away, won’t ye? Right now?” The voice was an importunate roar.

“Yes, I’ll come straight away.” I put down the receiver, rubbed my ear and turned to my wife.

Helen looked up from the table with the stricken face of a woman who can visualise her Yorkshire pudding sagging into lifeless ruin. “Oh surely you don’t have to go this minute?”

“I’m sorry, Helen, this is one of those things I can’t leave.” I could picture only too easily the injured animal plunging around in her agony, perhaps compounding the fracture. “And the man sounds desperate. I’ve just got to go.”

My wife’s lips trembled. “All right, I’ll put it in the oven till you come back.”

As I left I saw her carrying the plate away. We both knew it was the end. No Yorkshire pud could survive a visit to Anson Hall.

I increased my speed as I drove through Darrowby. The cobbled market place, sleeping in the sunshine, breathed its Sunday peace and emptiness with all the inhabitants of the little town eating busily behind closed doors. Out in the country the dry stone walls flashed by as I kept my foot on the boards, and when I finally arrived at the beginning of the farm track I had a sense of shock.