Part 25 (1/2)

”Okay,” I said. ”Will you bring me some fresh water, please?”

It was then that I noticed the alarm flickering in Bernard's eyes. I remembered that he couldn't stand smells, and in the odoriferous trade of country vetting, removal of the bovine afterbirth is the smelliest. And he would have to hold the tail while I did it.

When he came back with the steaming bucket he set it down and whipped out a large red-and-white spotted handkerchief from his pocket. Carefully he tied it round his face, knotting it tightly at the back of his neck, then he took up his place by the side of the cow.

As I put my arm into the animal and looked at Bernard's big eyes swimming above the mask I thought again how fitting was our nickname for him. It was Tristan who had first christened him the Cisco Kid because of his uncanny resemblance to the famous bandit. In all the unpleasant procedures that a.s.sailed Bernard's nostrils-stinking carvings, autopsies, releasing the gas from tympanitic cows-the handkerchief came out, and, in fact, in every image I had of him he was wearing that mask.

It seemed to give him a feeling of security, because he was able to make cheerful, if m.u.f.fled, replies to my attempts at conversation, although occasionally he closed his eyes in a pained manner as though some alien whiff had got through to him.

Fortunately it was an easy cleansing and it wasn't long before Bernard was waving me goodbye as I drove away. In the darkness of the yard he still had the handkerchief round his face-the Cisco Kid to the life.

I felt I had managed to put the police sergeant in the picture. However, he still wasn't quite convinced.

”But he still wouldn't be wearing that mask when he came into Darrowby.”

”Bernard would.”

”You mean he just forgot to take it off?”

”Absolutely.”

”Well, he's a rum sort of feller.”

I could understand his wonderment, but to me Bernard's actions were quite in character. He'd had a traumatic evening with the lambing and the cleansing and it was totally understandable that he would jump on his bike and pedal into the town to seek solace in a parcel of fish and chips. I knew for a fact that they were his greatest pleasure. A little matter like removing the handkerchief would easily slip his mind.

”Aye well,” the sergeant said. ”I suppose I can take your word about him.”

”Sergeant,” I said, ”that man you have there is the most harmless character in north Yorks.h.i.+re.”

There was a pause. ”Okay, then, we'd better get the handcuffs off him.”

”What! You haven't...”

”No, no, heh-heh-heh! Just having a bit o' fun with you, Mr. Herriot. You did it to me with your flippin' Cisco Kid, so I'm giving it back to you.”

”All right, fair enough.” I laughed in return. ”Is Bernard very upset?”

”Upset? Not him. Not a care in the world. His only worry is that the fish and chip shop might be closed.”

”Oh, dear. And is it?”

”No, I'll be able to rea.s.sure him about that. They're stayin' open till eleven o'clock tonight.”

”Good, good, so it's a happy ending for Bernard.”

”Guess so.” The sergeant laughed again as he put down the receiver.

But it could have been so different. If the little farm had been on the phone, Miss Wain would have received that call. My mind reeled at the thought of her reaction when she learned that Bernard couldn't even go out for fish and chips without landing in the hands of the police.

I could imagine her exasperated cry. ”Useless! Useless!”

Chapter 37.

THERE ARE FEW SIGHTS more depressing than a litter of dying piglets.

”Looks pretty hopeless, Mr. Bush,” I said as I leaned over the wall of the pen. ”And what a pity, it's a grand litter. Twelve of them, aren't there?”

The farmer grunted. ”Aye, it allus happens like that.” He wasn't a barrel of laughs at any time but now his long, hollow-cheeked face was set in gloom.

I looked down at the little pink creatures huddled in a heap, liquid yellow faeces trickling down their tails. Neonatal scour. The acute diarrhoea that afflicts new-born piglets and is nearly always fatal unless treated quickly.

”When did they start with this?” I asked.

”Pretty near just after they were born. That were three days ago.”

”Well, I wish I'd seen them a bit sooner. I might have been able to do something for them.”

Mr. Bush shrugged. ”I thought it was nowt-maybe t'milk was too rich for 'em.”

I opened the door and went into the pen. As I examined the little pigs their mother grunted as if in invitation. She was stretched on her side, exposing the long double row of teats, but her family weren't interested. As I lifted and laid the limp little bodies I felt sure they would never suckle again.

However, I just couldn't do nothing. ”We'll give it a go,” I said. ”You never know, we might manage to save one or two.”

The farmer didn't say anything as I went out to the car. I couldn't remember ever having seen him smile and his hunched shoulders and sombre features added to the general atmosphere of doom.

For my part I was disappointed I hadn't been called earlier because I had a new product with me that might have helped. It was a Neomycin mixture contained in a plastic bottle, which enabled the antibiotic to be squirted into the mouth. I'd had some good results with it in calves but hadn't had the chance to try it on pigs, but as I handled the unresisting little creatures, giving each one a shot onto its tongue and laying it, apparently lifeless, back on the floor, I felt I was wasting my time.

I supplemented the treatment with a small injection of a sulpha drug, and having satisfied my conscience with the feeling that I had done everything, I prepared to leave.

I handed the Neomycin bottle to the farmer. ”Here, if there's any alive tomorrow, give them a squirt. Let me know if you manage to save any-it isn't worth my paying another visit.”

Mr. Bush nodded wordlessly and walked away.

After three days I had heard nothing and presumed that my unhappy prognostications had been correct, but it was on my mind that I ought to have given the farmer some advice for the future. There were some preventive E. coli vaccines that could be given to the sow before farrowing, and he had a couple of other sows that ought to be protected.

Since I happened to be pa.s.sing right by Bush's farm on my way home from another visit, I turned in at the gate. As I got out of the car the farmer was sweeping up in the corner of the yard. He didn't look up and my spirits sank. At the same time I felt a little annoyed. It wasn't my fault he had lost his litter. He didn't have to ignore me-I had done my best.

Since he still didn't pay any attention I walked into the piggery and looked into the pen.

At first I thought I was looking in the wrong place, but no, I recognised the sow-she had a little nick out of one ear. What my mind could hardly grasp was the sight of a pink jumble of little creatures fighting to get hold of the best teat. It was difficult to count them in the scramble, but finally they settled down to a rapt sucking, each contented with his lot. And there were twelve.

I looked out of the doorway. ”Hey, Mr. Bush, they're all alive! Every one of them!”