Page 25 of Valentine Nook
The little black calf twitches on the hay. Miles is still kneeling next to Elsa’s head, stroking her neck and whispering in her ear, but she’s in no condition to move. Dropping down, I rip the sack open, clear out his nostrils, and clean all the goop off the calf’s face with a handful of hay, trying my best not to touch him before Elsa does.
He takes one big sneeze, spraying me with cow snot, and his first breath comes out in a little squeaking noise. Elsa turns her head toward him but makes no attempt to get closer.
“It’s okay, Elsa. We got him,” I tell her. “You get his brother out.”
Her breathing is labored, and it’s clear she’s becoming distressed. Another set of contractions rolls through her, but nothing happens. I can just make out the tips of one hoofappearing, but that’s it, and there should be more. Sensing the same, Hendricks kneels and feels Elsa for the next calf.
“Shit. Just what I didn’t want. The sack burst with the first calf. If he doesn’t progress, we’ll have to pull him out.”
We wait a couple of minutes to see if Elsa manages to push any more, but after another round of contractions where her mooing is almost deafening, Hendricks steps in to help.
He might be twenty-six and only fully qualified for two years, but Hendricks has spent his entire life caring for animals. Watching him work still fills me with awe. Over the years, I must have been present at the delivery of hundreds and hundreds of cows, a dozen or so horses, and many,manypuppies, but it was the first time we ever delivered a calf together that set him on the path to becoming a vet.
It wasn’t long after I took over Burlington. I was eighteen, and Hendricks was ten. We’d taken a four-wheeler out into the fields to check on the pregnant heifers and came across one in early labor. Along with Burt Easton, the previous Valentine Nook vet, we stayed with her for ten hours.
Unfortunately, the calf didn’t survive, but after that, Hendricks made it his mission to learn everything he could, eventually specializing in large animals. He took over Burt’s practice after he retired, and now Hendricks services the farms around Valentine Nook and the Burlington Estate, as well as the ponies of the Polo Club. Plus, Mrs. Winston’s constantly escaping goat.
Taking hold of the legs, Hendricks shifts his weight back and tugs hard on the calf. His face puffs through his exertions while I stay out of the way, keeping my eye on the first calf as he attempts to lift his head.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” Miles coos to Elsa. “Nearly there.”
“Fuck, this calf is massive.” Hendricks heaves.
“Bigger than the first?”
“Yeah, his shoulder is twisted around, I think. It’s what’s sticking.” Hendricks stops pulling and eases his hand inside Elsa to see if he can move the calf before starting up again. After thirty seconds of doing whatever he’s doing inside Elsa, Hendricks steps back and takes hold of the legs again. “That’s better. C’mon, buddy, let’s get you out.”
It takes another minute of grunting all around before the calf arrives with an unceremonious plop onto the hay, followed by another round of blood and goop.
Miles jumps up, joining Hendricks and me by the gate as Elsa eases to standing. She gives both her calves a long lick, beginning the process of cleaning them and bonding, and next to me, Hendricks takes a long, hard sigh of relief. By now, we have an audience of twenty or so chickens, a couple of the stable cats who are busily sniffing the newest arrivals, and even Hamish has woken up.
“Excellent work, bud.” Miles holds his hand up to Hendricks for a high five as we all watch on. “Looks like one little happy family now.”
Hendricks lets out a tired chuckle. “It sure does.”
“Congratulations on another successful birthing season,” I add with a laugh.
It has been successful too. We haven’t lost any calves this year. Which is not something I can always say, but those are the realities of farming.
We don’t have a huge herd. It has always been kept small, allowing us to personally manage it. These calves will have an incredible life and will eventually be either kept for stud purposes or used for meat. The income received from the Burlington Estate farm is directly allocated toward the upkeep of Valentine Nook and supporting the long-term residents through supplemental income.
It’s a process that has been ongoing for the last couple ofcenturies, and it’s what allows us to ensure Valentine Nook stays pristine, attracting tourists who spend more money.
We watch in silence as the second calf makes a wobbly attempt to push to his feet and join his brother, already drinking hungrily—a good sign after such a stressful birth.
“I think we can leave them to it,” Hendricks says eventually.
“Always enjoy being present at a birthing,” says Miles, throwing his arm around my shoulders as we walk out into the main yard. “Feel like we should be passing around cigars.”
“I’d rather have a coffee,” I reply, stopping by one of the yard’s large outdoor sinks to wash our hands and clean up as best we can.
Even using a scrubbing brush and a bar of soap doesn’t get me fully clean, but it’ll have to do until I take a long soak in the bath later tonight. If I didn’t have to go to London once a month, I’d quite likely be permanently covered in mud.
Running seven days a week, the yard is the busiest place on the Burlington Estate. A staff of fifty is responsible for everything from maintaining the machinery to rolling the hay and plowing the fields and taking care of the various animals, including—cows, of course—horses, sheep, chickens, geese, pigs, goats, and the farm cats who keep the mice away.
Every day is an all-hands-on-deck situation, and I come down here each morning to make sure everything’s running smoothly and check in with the yard manager.
Normally, however, the staff is too busy to hang around. Not today, it seems. It’s like everyone suddenly decided to pick up a sweeping brush or fill the buckets with water, although on closer inspection, three-quarters of the staff I can spot are female. Which has everything to do with Miles being here.
