Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

“Dan, eh?” Mrs. Ripley said eagerly. “That’s good news, any road. From what I heard they thought he’d never come out of t’hospital.”

“Excuse me,” I broke in.

“Nay, nay, that was just talk,” Mr. Ripley continued. “It was nobbut a stone in t’kidney. Dan’ll be all right. He was tellin’ me …

I held up a hand. “Mr. Ripley, can I please see this cow? I haven’t had my lunch yet. My wife put it back in the oven when you phoned.”

“Oh, I ’ad mine afore I went up there.” He gave me a reassuring smile and his wife nodded and laughed to put my mind fully at rest.

“Well, that’s splendid,” I said frigidly. “I’m glad to hear that.” But I could see that they took me at my word. The sarcasm was lost on them.

In the loose box Mr. Ripley haltered the cow and I lifted the foot. Cradling it on my knee I scraped away the caked muck with a hoof knife and there, glinting dully as the sunshine slanted in at the door, was the cause of the trouble. I seized the metal stud with forceps, dragged it from the foot and held it up.

The farmer blinked at it for a few seconds, then his shoulders began to shake gently. “One of me own hobnails. Heh, heh, heh. Well, that’s a rum ’un. Ah must’ve knocked it out on t’cobbles; they’re right slippery over there. Once or twice I’ve nearly gone arse over tip. I was sayin’ to t’missus just t’other day …”

“I really must get on, Mr. Ripley,” I interposed. “Remember, I still haven’t had my lunch. I’ll just slip out to the car for an antitetanus injection for the cow.”

I gave her the shot, dropped the syringe into my pocket and was on my way across the yard when the farmer called after me.

“Have ye got your nippers with ye, Mr. Herriot?”

“Nippers …?” I halted and looked back at him. I couldn’t believe this. “Well, yes, I have, but surely you don’t want to start castrating calves now?”

The farmer flicked an ancient brass lighter and applied a long sheet of flame to the bowl of his pipe. “There’s nobbut one, Mr. Herriot. Won’t take a minute.”

Ah, well, I thought, as I opened the boot and fished out the Burdizzo from its resting place on my calving overall. It didn’t really matter now. My Yorkshire pudding was a write-off, a dried-up husk by now, and the beef and those gorgeous fresh vegetables would be almost cremated. All was lost, and nipping a calf wasn’t going to make any difference.

As I turned back, a pair of double doors at the end of the yard burst open and an enormous black animal galloped out and stood looking around him warily in the bright sunshine, pawing the ground and swishing his tail bad-temperedly. I stared at the spreading horns, the great hump of muscle on the shoulder and the coldly glittering eyes. It only needed a blast on a trumpet and sand instead of cobbles and I was in the Plaza de Toros in Madrid.

“Is that the calf?” I asked.

The farmer nodded cheerfully. “Aye, that’s ’im. I thowt I’d better run ’im over to the cow house so we could tie ’im up by the neck.”

A wave of rage swept over me and for a moment I thought I was going to start shouting at the man, then, strangely, I felt only a great weariness.

I walked over to him, put my face close to his and spoke quietly. “Mr. Ripley, it’s a long time since we met, and you’ve had plenty of opportunities to keep the promise you made me then. Remember? About getting your calves nipped when they were little and about replacing that gate? Now look at that great bull and see what your gate has done to my clothes.”

The farmer gazed with genuine concern at the snags and tears in my trousers and reached out to touch a gaping rent in my sleeve.

“Eee, I’m right sorry about that.” He glanced at the bull. “And I reckon ’e is a bit big.”

I didn’t say anything and after a few moments the farmer threw up his head and looked me in the eye, a picture of resolution.

“Aye, it’s not right,” he said. “But ah’ll tell ye summat. Just nip this ’un today, and I’ll see nowt of this ever happens again.”

I wagged a finger at him. “But you’ve said that before. Do you really mean it this time?”

He nodded vigorously. “Ah’ll guarantee it.”

Strangely, the familiar hollow promise did not irk me as I might have expected. Perhaps it was because I’d been away from Yorkshire so long, seeing a world changing faster than I sometimes liked, but this homely sign of immutability tickled me. I chuckled. And then I began to laugh. “A-ha,” I bubbled, “a-ha-ha-ha!” Soon Mrs. Ripley got caught up with it. “Hee!” she agreed. “Hee-hee! Hee-hee!” And Mr. Ripley took his pipe from his mouth with great deliberation and said, “Heh. Heh-heh. Hehheh-heh.” And the three of us stood there, bawling away a Sunday afternoon together.

Just then the bull snorted derisively.

“Aye, it’s true,” Mr. Ripley stammered through his laughter, wiping his eyes. “If ah was in your place, I wouldn’t be laughing either.”

Chapter

2

“OOOH … OOH-HOO-HOOO!” THE BROKEN-HEARTED sobbing jerked me into full wakefulness. It was 1 A.M., and after the familiar jangling of the bedside phone I expected the gruff voice of a farmer with a calving cow. Instead, there was this terrible sound.

“Who is this?” I asked a little breathlessly. “What on earth is the trouble?”

I heard a gulping at the other end and then a man’s voice pleading between sobs, “It’s Humphrey Cobb. For God’s sake, come out and see Myrtle. I think she’s dyin’.”

“Myrtle?”

“Aye, me poor little dog. She’s in a ’ell of a state! Oooh-hooo!”

The receiver trembled in my grasp. “What is she doing?”

“Oh, pantin’ and gaspin’. I think it’s nearly all over with ’er. Come quick!”

“Where do you live?”

“Cedar House. End of Hill Street.”

“I know it. I’ll be there very soon.”

“Oh, thank ye, thank ye. Myrtle hasn’t got long. Hurry, hurry!”

I leaped from the bed and rushed at my clothes, draped over a chair against the wall. In my haste, in the darkness, I got both feet down one leg of my working corduroys and crashed full length on the floor.

Helen was used to nocturnal calls and often she only half awoke. For my part, I always tried to avoid disturbing her by dressing without switching on the light, using the glow from the night light we kept burning on the landing for young Jimmy.

However, the system broke down this time. The thud of my falling body brought her into a sitting position.

“What is it, Jim? What’s happening?”

I struggled to my feet. “It’s all right, Helen, I just tripped over.” I snatched my shirt from the chair back.

“But what are you dashing about for?”

“Desperately urgent case. I have to hurry.”

“All right, Jim, but you won’t get there any sooner by going on like this. Just calm down.”

My wife was right, of course. I have always envied those vets who can stay relaxed under pressure. But I wasn’t made that way.

I galloped down the stairs and through the long back garden to the garage. Cedar House was only a mile away and I didn’t have much time to think about the case, but by the time I arrived I had pretty well decided that an acute dyspnoea like this would probably be caused by a heart attack or some sudden allergy.

In answer to my ring the porch light flashed on, and Humphrey Cobb stood before me. He was a little round man in his sixties, and his humpty-dumpty appearance was accentuated by his gleaming bald head.

“Oh, Mr. Herriot, come in, come in,” he cried brokenly as the tears streamed down his cheeks. “Thank ye for gettin’ out of your bed to help me poor little Myrtle.”