Lord God Made Them All (13 page)

I felt I ought to make some contribution. “Goats certainly are extremely …” I began.

“But really, you know,” Tristan was in full flow again, “I think that the thing which appeals to me most about them is their affectionate nature. They are friendly and sociable, and I feel that that is why people become so deeply attached to them.”

Miss Grantley nodded gravely. “How true, how true.”

My colleague stretched out a hand and fingered the hay in the animal’s rack. “I see you feed them properly. There’s all sorts of rough stuff in here—thistles and bits of shrubs and coarse plants. Obviously you know that goats prefer such things to grass. No wonder your animals are so healthy.”

“Oh thank you.” She blushed faintly. “Of course I give them concentrates, too.”

“Whole grain, I hope?”

“Oh yes, always.”

“Good, good. Keeps up the pH of the rumen. You know, you can get hypertrophy of the rumenal walls and inhibition of cellulose-digesting bacteria with a low pH?”

“Well, no … I didn’t really understand it in those terms.” She was staring at him as if he were a prophet.

“Ah, no matter,” Tristan said airily. “You are doing all the right things, and that is the important point.”

“Can I have the scissors, please?” I grunted. I was beginning to feel cramped in my bent-over position and also a little piqued at the growing impression that Miss Grantley had forgotten all about me.

But I stitched on doggedly, one-half of my mind watching thankfully as the skin gradually covered the denuded area, the other listening in amazement as Tristan pontificated on the construction of goat houses, their dimensions, ventilation and relative humidity.

A long time later Miss Grantley hardly noticed as I inserted the last suture and straightened up wearily. “Well, now, that looks better, doesn’t it?” I said, but there wasn’t the expected impact because Tristan and my client were deeply involved in a discussion of the relative merits of the different breeds of goats.

“Are you really in favour of the Toggenburg and Anglo-Nubian?” she asked.

“Oh yes.” Tristan inclined his head judicially. “Excellent animals, both of them.”

Miss Grantley suddenly became aware that I had finished. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said absently. “You have taken such pains. I am most grateful. Now you must both come in for a cup of coffee.”

As we balanced our cups on our knees in the elegant sitting room, Tristan carried on, unabated. He dealt in depth with reproductive problems, obstetrics and the feeding of weaned kids, and he was well into a little treatise on anaesthesia for dehorning when Miss Grantley turned towards me. She was clearly still under his spell but no doubt felt that it would be only polite to bring me into the conversation.

“Mr. Herriot, one thing worries me. I share a pasture with the farmer next door, and very often my goats are grazing with his ewes and lambs. Now, I have heard that his sheep are troubled with coccidiosis. Is there any chance that my goats could contract it from them?”

I took a long pull at my coffee cup to give myself time to think. “Well … er … I would say …”

My friend broke in again effortlessly. “Most unlikely. It seems that most types of coccidiosis are specific to their individual hosts. I don’t think you need worry on that account.”

“Thank you.” Miss Grantley addressed me again, as though deciding to give me a last chance. “And how about worms, Mr. Herriot? Can my goats become infected with worms from the sheep?”

“Ah now, let’s see …” My cup rattled in the saucer, and I could feel a light perspiration breaking out on my brow. “The thing is …”

“Quite so,” murmured Tristan, gliding once more to my aid. “As Mr. Herriot was about to say, helminthiasis is a different proposition. There is a very real danger of infection, since the common nematodes are the same in both species. You must always worm regularly, and if I can give you a brief programme …”

I sank deeper in my chair and let him get on with it, only half hearing erudite remarks about the latest anthelmintics and their actions on trichostrongyles, haemonchus and ostertagia.

It came to an end at last, and we went out to the car. “I’ll come back in ten days to remove the stitches,” I said as Miss Grantley showed us off the premises. It struck me that it was just about the only sensible thing I had said.

I drove a few hundred yards along the road, then I stopped the car.

“Since when have you been a goat lover?” I demanded bitterly. “And where the hell did you get all that high-powered stuff you were preaching back there?”

Tristan giggled, then threw back his head and laughed immoderately. “Sorry, Jim,” he said when he had recovered. “I have exams coming up in a few weeks, as you know, and I heard that one of the examiners is really goat-orientated. Last night I boned up on every bit of goat literature I could find. Uncanny how I had the opportunity to trot it all out so soon after.”

Ah, well, that made sense. Tristan had the kind of brain that absorbed information like a sponge. I could believe that he would have to read those chapters only once, and they would be his for good. In my student days I often had to go over a thing about six times before it sank in.

“I see,” I said. “You’d better let me see those things you read last night. I didn’t realise I was so ignorant.”

There was an interesting little sequel about a week later. Siegfried and I were going in to breakfast when my partner stopped in mid-stride and stared at the table. The familiar brown-wrapped cocoa tin was there, but it was at his brother’s place. Slowly he walked over and examined the label. I had a look, too, and there was no mistake. It read, “Mr. Tristan Farnon.”

Siegfried said nothing but sat down at the head of the table. Very soon the young man himself joined us, examined the tin with interest and started on his meal.

Not a word was spoken and the three of us sat in silence, but over everything the undeniable fact hung heavy in the room. Tristan, for the moment, at least, was top man.

October 31, 1961

Getting into bed last night wasn’t easy. With every passing minute the ship’s movements became more violent, and I fell down several times while undressing.

Once in the bunk I was thrown from side to side, not in the gentle roll of the other nights but with an unpleasant jarring bump. I turned onto my stomach, braced arms and legs against the wood and after about half an hour I managed to fall asleep.

Around two o’clock in the morning I was jerked from a troubled slumber into a world gone mad. I was being tossed about like a rubber ball, the wind howled, driving rain spattered against the cabin window and a frightful din rose from all over the ship. The banging and clattering were deafening. I could hear the pans in the galley flying around against the walls, a loose iron door clanged repeatedly on its hinges and from everywhere came a medley of undefined rattles and groans.

I switched on the light and looked out on a scene of chaos. My money, keys, pipe and tobacco were rolling about on the floor; the desk drawers were shooting out to their full extent, then slamming back again; the chair and my suitcase were sliding from one side to another.

Reeling about in the pandemonium, falling down repeatedly, I did my best to clear up the mess. Then I got back into bed. But I couldn’t stand the thumping of the drawers against the chair so I got out again, jammed the chair against the drawers and my suitcase between chair and bunk, and clambered wearily up again. But though this cured most of the local noise, the uproar outside was unabated, and I got very little sleep after that.

At dawn a cheerless sight greeted me as I looked out of my window. All around was an empty waste of grey water tossed up into mighty green-and white-topped waves that broke up into clouds of spray as the wind caught them. It gave me an uncomfortable thrill to see our little ship climb up one monstrous wave after another and then drop into a series of deep watery valleys beyond. The Baltic was really playing up.

My first thought was for the sheep, but I heard the knock on my door and the familiar voice of the mess boy. “Breakfast, Mr. Herriot.”

I hurried to the mess room. I would have a quick bite and then collect Raun. The captain was seated alone at the table when I entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Herriot,” he said and gave me a long appraising stare, which I couldn’t quite understand.

I sat down and waited. I was impatient to get down to the hold, and I wished the breakfast would arrive. On top of that I was distinctly peckish, and I jabbed busily at the smoked ham, herring and salt beef. The captain watched me with narrowed eyes all the time.

After a few minutes the mess boy appeared. His face was as green as grass, and he averted his eyes from the piled plateful of sausages, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.

I grabbed a piece of rye bread and fell upon the savoury mound without delay. I was hacking at a sausage when the captain spoke again.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Herriot?”

I looked up in surprise and replied with my mouth full, “Mm, yes, fine, thanks, a bit tired, maybe. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“But you are hungry, yes?”

“I am, yes, I certainly am. All that bouncing around seems to have stimulated my appetite.”

“This is most unusual,” the captain said in his precise way. “We have just come through a force-nine gale, and I was sure you would be seasick this morning. You are a very good sailor.”

I laughed. “Well, thank you. I don’t suppose there’s anything very clever about that. I’m just made that way. Motion of any kind has never troubled me.”

“Yes, yes …” The captain nodded gravely. “Still, it is remarkable. Didn’t you notice Peter’s face?”

“Peter?”

“Yes, the mess boy. All mess boys are called Peter, by the way, no matter what their real name is. He is feeling very ill; in fact, he is always ill in bad weather.”

“Oh, poor lad. It
was
pretty rough last night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Herriot, and I might say that we were sailing with the wind behind us. If we have to come back in weather like that with the wind against us, then heaven help us. It will be much worse.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. I …”

Raun’s face, poking round the door, cut me off in mid-sentence.

“Doctor, come queek. The sheeps … the sheeps are bad!”

I bolted the last of the sausage and followed him to the hold as quickly as the heaving of the ship would allow me.

“Look, Doctor!” The big Dane pointed excitedly at one of the Romney Marsh rams.

The sheep was standing with some difficulty, legs straddled wide. It was panting violently, its mouth gaped and a bubbling saliva poured from its lips. The normally docile eyes were wide and charged with terror as the animal fought for breath.

All the euphoria I had felt since boarding the
Iris Clausen
evaporated as I rushed feverishly around the pens. A lot of the other sheep were behaving in exactly the same way, and I realised with a sense of shock that I wasn’t on a pleasure cruise after all.

I suppressed a rising panic as I examined the animals. They all looked as though they were going to die, and I had a strong conviction that those unknown Russians waiting at the other end were not going to be amused when the expert veterinary attendant presented them with a heap of carcasses. A fine start it would be to my first venture at sea.

But as I went round the pens again, I began to calm down. None of the sheep looked happy, but it was only the biggest that were affected in this way—all the rams and one or two of the larger ewes, about a dozen in all. So, though it might be a tragedy, it wasn’t going to be total disaster. With Raun hanging onto the necks, I took the temperatures. They were all around 107.

I leaned back against the wooden rail and tried to rationalise my thoughts. This was stress—a classical example. It must be; up in my case I had a few bottles of the new wonder drug, cortisone, and one of its indications was just this.

I was up to my cabin and down again quicker than I thought was possible and in the pockets of my working coat the precious bottles bumped against each other. The brand name was Predsolan; it was one of the first of the steroid products and though I had used it for arthritic and inflammatory conditions, I had never tried it in a case like this.

It wasn’t only the ship’s pitching that made my hand shake and wobble as I drew the liquid into my syringe. The supply was very limited, and heaven only knew how many more sheep would go down. I rationed the injections to 3 c.c. per sheep, and as I went round the stricken animals, my spirits sank lower. Only three of them could stand; the others were slumped on their chests, necks craning forward, eyes starting from their heads, their flanks heaving uncontrollably.

As I worked, Raun stroked the woolly heads and muttered endearments in Danish. It was the first time I had seen him look unhappy, and I knew how he felt. I hadn’t been seasick, but I was sick now with apprehension.

These beautiful pedigree animals. And it was the rams, the most valuable of all, which were struck down. I could only wait now, but I was convinced that the whole business was hopeless. I realised that I couldn’t bear to stand there watching them any longer, and I hurried up the iron ladders to the top deck, which was running with water and slanting at crazy angles. It was clearly no place for me, and I went up to the bridge.

The captain, as always, greeted me courteously, and when I told him about the sheep he looked thoughtful. Then he smiled.

“I know they are in good hands, Mr. Herriot. Do not be upset. I am sure you will cure them.”

I couldn’t share his optimism, and, in any case, I was pretty certain he was only trying to cheer me up. To take my mind off my troubles he again showed me our position on the chart and began to talk of maritime things.

“We are out of the sea lanes now,” he said. He waved a hand round the desolation on all sides. “You see no ships now, and I think you see no ships all day.”

As we talked we looked out through the glass at the bows of the ship, dipping into each gulf, then climbing up the green mountain on the other side. This was the best position to appreciate the size of those mighty waves, and a part of me never stopped being surprised as our tiny vessel fought her way up again and again.