Connell - The farmers son: calving season on a family farm

First US edition

Copyright 2018 by John Connell

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

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First published in Great Britain as The Cow Book, by Granta Books, 2018

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Connell, John, 1986 author.

Title: The farmer's son : calving season on a family farm / John Connell.

Other titles: Cow book

Description: First US edition. | Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2019. |

First published, titled The cow book : a story of life on an Irish family farm, in Great Britain by Granta Books, 2018.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018042556| ISBN 9781328577993 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781328578006 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Connell, John, 1986- | Farm lifeIrelandBiography. | CattleParturitionIrelandAnecdotes. | CattleBreedingIrelandAnecdotes. | CalvesIrelandAnecdotes.

Classification: LCC S522.I73 C66 2019 | DDC 630.9415dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018042556

Cover design by Brian Moore

Cover photographs Tim Thompson / Getty Images

Author photograph Eamonn Doyle

The lines from A Christmas Childhood by Patrick Kavanagh are reprinted from Collected Poems, edited by Antoinette Quinn (Allen Lane, 2004), by kind permission of the Trustees of the Estate of the late Katherine B. Kavanagh, through the Jonathan Williams Literary Agency.

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

page 17: Cave painting: thipjang/Shutterstock.com. page 19: Aurochs: Public domain via Wikimedia Commons. page 35: Egyptian relief: Vladimir Wrangel/Shutterstock.com. page 162: Buffalo skulls: Courtesy of the Burton Historical Collection, Detroit Public Library. page 181: Heck cattle: hfuchs/Shutterstock.com. page 194: Meadow landscape: EverettArt/Shutterstock.com. page 215: Drer engraving: Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts, USA/Bridgeman Images.

For Mary, Mick & John

To my great friend and teacher David Malouf

With thanks to Simon

The tracks of cattle to a drinking-place,

A green stone lying sideways in a ditch,

Or any common sight, the transfigured face

Of a beauty that the world did not touch.

Patrick Kavanagh, A Christmas Childhood

Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of each.

Henry David Thoreau, Journal, August 23, 1853

Im twenty-nine and Ive never delivered a calf myself. But thats all about to change because Ive got my arms in her passage and Im trying to find the new calfs feet.

As a farmers son, Ive birthed calves aplenty, but always as the helper, holding a cows tail up or pulling the calf out at the last moment. My father has been in charge of the calving for twenty-five years, and when he wasnt, my brother took over, but now that Im home, its me.

Im home again in rural Ireland, back from being an emigrant, here to write a novel, to try and make it as a writer, and, in exchange for a roof over my head, its been agreed that I will help out on the farm. Theres a lot tied up in this birth for me, much more than the cow knows.

The red cow moves suddenly and lets me know her strength and power. I must be quick. I must get the ropes around the calfs feet, slide them above the hock and pull them tight. The amniotic fluid wets my hands, my arms, and I remember now the talk I have heard other men say, that your hand gets weak after a time, that the clasp of her vaginal embrace takes the power from it. I must be quick lest the calf die.

I think for a moment that I am glad I am alone and doing this myself. I could call for help. I could, but then I would still not be tested, would still not be able to prove that I can do this myself. I will call no one. I grasp the first foot and slip the rope over his hock.

I had been watching the red cow all night and could sense that she was going to calve. She was sick, as Mam calls it, patrolling her pen, not eating her silage or nuts or water, and then I saw that her passage was broken down, sausagelike.

Damy father, Tomis away. He is at the sheep mart with his brother Davy. As older men, they have found each other again as friends. They go to the sheep sales together every week. Sheep are a new thing for uswe have only been keeping them three years. We have a flock now, as does Davy. He and Da buy and sell the animals for fun; it gives them a hobby and something to do together, and above all it makes my father happy, for he is a sociable man. I never begrudge him these trips, for I know they do him good and give him a break from the farm. I know too that he wont be in the mood to fight after them. That is the most important thing, for we are trying, this calving season, not to fight, and so far it is working. I cannot say that we are friends yet, but a respect has come between us that was never there before. It is a small and delicate thing, still fragile.

I have the other foot. I take the second rope from the side of the gate and slide it onto the calfs leg. It slips and falls and I curse, and now I think perhaps I do need help, but it is too late. To wait might mean death and then I would be called a fool for trying on my own and there would be a huge row. No, I must focus. The cow has nearly finished the nuts, which are a meal ration I gave her to keep her calm. When they are gone, she will remember her distress and begin to thrash and kick again, and then the job will be all the harder.

I stoop low, take the rope and turn to my work again. The rope is now on the second foot. I pull gently, but the calf is big: he will not come like this; I will need the jack. I take the mechanical wrench, placing it on the cows hips, and hook the ropes into the slots and begin to winch.

I must do this right, I tell myself, though I have seen it done so many times I know my actions. I must jack, then lever down to bring the calf out. The biggest pull will be his head, and once I have that out, the rest should follow, except the hips, which can sometimes be trouble. I winch the jack five times and hear the sprocket chime out in the quiet shed. I pull down, and as I do the cow bellows low in a noise I dont recognize, a noise of pain and strangeness.

There, there, I say, clucking to her. I let off the pressure and jack once more and feel the sprockets turn and the ratchet move up the teeth. The legs emerge more fully now, but still no head, and so I lever down again. I can see his nose; it looks so flat, perhaps his head is squashed. The cow bellows low again and I feel her feet tremble.

Dont go down on me, I say, and let the pressure off once more and she stands to again and we repeat our chores. Her contractions push the calf as much as they can, but he is beyond contractions now, for he is too big and our job is at a point where it cannot be undone.

I jack once more and the cow roars. I am sure Mam will waken now, for she is such a light sleeper. It was she I turned to for advice tonight to make sure I did not take the calf too soon. She has known cows all her life and is wiser than us all with them, but again I remind myself: this is my job now.

I pray, or at least I think I do. The head emerges and I have no time to thank God, for I must jack with all my might and keep going, for the cow could give way, and if she goes down, the calf might die. I see his tongue wag and I know he is alive and I pull still stronger, though my arm is growing tired. I jack and jack and he is emerging now, fluid and strong, and he is red like his mother, with a white sketch on his face. He is the son of our stock bull, of that I am sure, for I can see the old bulls face in his.