Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

“Plumber?”

“Aye, the missus noticed at dinnertime that t’pigs had no water. She sent for Fred Buller, and ‘e came out this afternoon. Said there was a blockage in the pipes somewhere. He’s put it right now.”

“Then they’ve been without water most of the day?”

“Ah reckon so. They must ‘ave.”

Oh, glory be, now I knew. I was still full of apprehension, but the weight of guilt was suddenly lifted from me. Whatever happened now, it wasn’t my fault.

“So that’s it!” I gasped.

Lionel looked at me questioningly. “What d’ye mean? The water? That ’ud only make ’em a bit thirsty.”

“They’re not thirsty, they’ve got salt poisoning.”

“Salt poisoning? But they haven’t ‘ad no salt.”

“Yes, they have. There’s salt in nearly all pig meal.” My mind was racing. What was the first thing to do? I grabbed his arm and hustled him into the yard. “Come on, let’s get some of these pigs onto their feet.”

“But they’ve allus had the same meal. What’s happened today?” He looked mystified as we trotted through the straw.

I selected a big sow that was lying quiet between convulsions and started to push at her shoulder. “They’ve been without water. That’s what happened. And that causes a higher concentration of salt in the brain. Gives them fits. Push, Lionel, push! We’ve got to get her over to that trough. There’s plenty of water in there now.”

I could see he thought I was raving but he helped me to raise the sow to her feet, and we supported her on either side as she tottered up to the long metal trough that bounded one side of the yard. She took a few gulps at the water, then collapsed.

Lionel took a few panting breaths. “She hasn’t had much.”

“No, and that’s a good thing. Too much makes them worse. Let’s try this other pig. She’s lying very still.”

“Makes ’em worse?” He began to help me to lift. “How the ’ell’s that?”

“Never mind,” I puffed. “It just does.” I couldn’t very well tell him that I didn’t know myself, that I had never seen salt poisoning before and that I was only going by the book.

He groaned as we pushed the second pig towards the trough. “God ’elp us. This is a bloody funny carry-on. I’ve never seen owt like this.”

Neither have I, I thought. And I only hoped all those things I was taught at college were true.

We spent a busy hour, assisting the stricken animals to the water or carefully dosing them when they were unable to move. We did this by pushing a Wellington boot with the toe cut off into the mouths and pouring the water down the leg of the boot. A pig would certainly crunch the neck off a glass bottle.

The animals with the most powerful convulsions I injected with a sedative to control the spasms.

When we had finished, I looked round the piggery. All the animals had got some water into them and were lying within easy reach of the troughs. As I watched, several of them got up, took a few swallows, then lay down. That was just what I wanted.

“Well,” I said wearily, “we can’t do anymore.”

He shrugged. “Right, come in and ‘ave a cup o’ tea.”

As I followed him to the house, I could tell by the droop of his shoulders that he had lost hope. He had a defeated look, and I couldn’t blame him. My words and actions must have seemed crazy to him. They did even to me.

When the bedside phone rang at seven o’clock in the morning, I reached for it with half-closed eyes, expecting the usual calving or milk fever, but it was Lionel.

“I’m just off to me work, Mr. Herriot, but I thowt you’d like to know about them pigs first.”

I snapped wide awake. “Yes, I would. How are they?”

“They’re awright.”

“How do you mean, all right? Are they all alive?”

“Aye, every one.”

“Are they ill in any way?”

“Nay, nay, every one of ’em shoutin’ for their breakfast just like they were yesterday mornin’.”

I fell back on the pillow, still grasping the phone, and my sigh of relief must have been audible at the other end because Lionel chuckled.

“Aye, that’s how ah feel, too, Mr. Herriot. By gaw, it’s a miracle. I thought ye’d gone round the bend yesterday with all that salt talk, but you were right, lad. Talk about savin’ ma bacon —ye really did it, didn’t ye?”

I laughed. “I suppose I did. In more ways than one.”

Over my forty years in practice, I have seen only about half a dozen cases of salt poisoning or water deprivation or whatever you like to call it. I don’t suppose it is all that common. But the one at Lionel’s stays in my mind as the most exciting and the happiest.

I thought this unexpected triumph would settle the roadman down for good as a pig keeper, but I was wrong again. It was several weeks before I was on his place, and just as I was leaving, a young man rode up on a bicycle.

Lionel introduced him. “This is Billy Fothergill, Mr. Herriot.” I shook hands with a smiling lad of about twenty-two.

“Billy’s takin’ over ma place next month.”

“What?”

“It’s right. Ah’ve sold ’im the pigs, and he’s goin’ to rent the building’s from me. In fact, he’s doin’ all t’work now.”

“Well, I’m surprised, Lionel,” I said. “I thought you were doing what you wanted to do.”

He looked at me quizzically. “So did I, for a bit. But ah’ll tell ye, that salt job really gave me a shock. I thowt I was ruined, and that’s a nasty feelin’ at my time of life. Billy’s been pigman for Sir Thomas Rowe for three years, and he’s just got married. Feels like branchin’ out for ’imself, like.”

I looked at the young man. He wasn’t tall, but the bullet head, muscular shoulders and slightly bowed legs gave the impression of great power. He looked as though he could run through a brick wall.

“Ah know it’s for t’best,” Lionel went on. “That piggery was all right, but it was allus just a bit on top o’ me. Sort of a worry, like. I reckon Billy’ll manage the job better than me.”

I looked again at Billy’s stubby features, at the brown skin, the unclouded eyes and the confident grin.

“Oh yes,” I said. “He’ll manage all right.”

As the roadman walked back towards my car with me, I tapped his elbow. “But Lionel, aren’t you going to miss your livestock? It was your great hobby, wasn’t it?”

“By gaw, you’re right. It was and it still is. Ah couldn’t do without some stock to look after. I’ve filled up t’awd hut again. Come and have a look.”

We walked over to the hut and opened the door, and it was like turning back the clock—a cow, three calves, two goats, two pigs and some assorted poultry, all sectioned off with outlandish partitions. I could see the bed frames and wire netting with loops of binder twine hanging from every comer. The only difference was that he had moved the dining table to a position immediately inside the door, and a grand-piano lid stood proudly by the side of the cow.

He pointed out the various animals and gave me a brief history of each, and as he spoke there was a contentment in his face that had been absent for some time.

“Only two pigs, eh, Lionel?” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Aye, it’s enough.”

I left him there and went over to the car, and as I opened the door I looked back across the field. From this angle I could shut out the garish new piggery so that I saw only the stone cottage with its sheltering trees and the old hut nearby. The roadman was leaning against the upended dining table, and as he gazed in at his mixed charges, the smoke from his pipe rose high against the back-cloth of the hills. The whole picture looked just right, and I smiled to myself.