She indicated a man in a checked shirt (age approximately forty, BMI thirty) standing a few metres away. He came over and we shook hands according to convention. His hand was extremely sweaty; I diagnosed anxiety. It was a good opportunity to practise my reassurance techniques.

‘The mother’s survival prospects are close to 100 per cent, although the difficult birth may result in a temporary reduction in fertility. The baby’s survival probability is approximately eighty-five per cent.’

Ben looked relieved. ‘Not bad odds,’ he said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

George looked at the mother. ‘Poor cow,’ he said.

Lauren was brilliant! It is always fascinating to watch a competent professional at work. She explained exactly what she was doing, and provided additional commentary on alternative possibilities and procedures. George held a halogen light powered from the battery in Lauren’s vehicle while I assisted her to alter the position of the calf. The cow was held in a corral, hence unable to move far.

It was aesthetically unpleasant work, but I was familiar with the necessary mindset from dissecting mice and the intellectual stimulation exceeded the unpleasantness. It was so interesting!

Gene talked with Ben. Dave, who was not feeling well, sat in the taxi.

‘All right,’ said Lauren. ‘We’re going to need the tractor.’

Lauren reached inside the cow and explained that she was attaching a chain to the unborn calf’s feet. George gave the light to Gene and began talking to the mother, who was making noises indicating distress.

Ben attached the other end of the chain to the tractor, and the pulling process began. In a human birth, forceps would have taken the place of the tractor. Or—more likely—a caesarean would have been performed. Nevertheless there were numerous anatomical similarities, and the three-dimensional experience was invaluable.

‘All right, Don. You’re going to have to help me catch it.’ Fortunately ‘catching’ did not require the coordination of catching a ball—Lauren and I merely had to take the weight of the calf as it emerged. It did, along with vast quantities of fluid, drenching both of us. It was extremely slippery but we managed to avoid dropping it. One leg was at an odd angle, but the calf began breathing. The mother was still standing.

‘Broken leg,’ said Lauren. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘What do you think?’ said Ben.

‘I’m afraid it’s probably best to put it down, unless you want to hand feed it.’

Dave staggered from the taxi. ‘Don’t shoot it. I’ll take it home if I have to.’

My immediate thought was that this was a brilliant idea. Dave and Sonia’s baby would have its immune system strengthened by cohabiting with a farm animal. But a moment’s reflection revealed multiple problems with raising a lame calf in a New York apartment.

Ben smiled. ‘I owe you guys. What’s your name, again?’

‘Dave.’

‘Okay, Dave, meet Dave the calf. He owes you his life. And Lauren—all you guys. My wife’ll feed him. She’ll curse you every day.’

24

After making a phone call for advice, George commanded the taxi to detour via a bar in White Plains. It was 10.35 p.m. and we had not eaten. I was wearing clothes lent to me by Ben the Farmer to replace those soaked during the delivery of Dave the Calf.

‘Beer tonight,’ said George. He ordered four. We drank them rapidly and George ordered more.

‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ he said. ‘Looking after that poor cow was good karma. Made up a wee bit for not being at the birth of my first kid.’

‘The one with the thrifty mother?’ said Gene.

‘That’s the one. I was on the road.’ He paused. ‘They rang the hotel and I was with a groupie. That’s the way it was back then.’

I was amazed. ‘You were having sex with another woman while your wife gave birth to your son?’

‘How did you know it was a boy?’

‘You mentioned it earlier. And it’s on the internet.’

‘I’ve got no bloody secrets. Except what I just told you.’

‘We should all share a secret,’ said Gene. ‘One each. Tell us one of yours, Don.’

‘A secret?’ In the sixteen weeks since the Playground Incident, I had accumulated multiple secrets, but it seemed unwise to disclose any after drinking beer. Conversely, George’s decision to share an example of morally repugnant behaviour seemed to be a gesture of friendship, allowing each of us to disclose something immoral or illegal and receive advice from the others, knowing that our behaviour was unlikely to be as shameful as George’s. It was a subtle social manoeuvre, but my analysis had taken some time.

‘I’ll go first, then,’ said Gene. ‘But this goes no further, all right?’

George made us perform a ludicrous four-handed handshake.

‘Guess how many women I’ve slept with.’

‘Less than me,’ said George. ‘If you can count them, it’s less than me.’

‘More than me,’ I said.

Gene laughed. ‘Go on.’

I remembered Gene’s map, with a pin for each nationality. I allowed for a further fifty per cent to accommodate multiple women of the same origin and more recent conquests.

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Way off.’ Gene drank some more beer, then held up an open hand. ‘Five.’

I was astonished. Was Gene lying? It was a reasonable hypothesis, given that, if he was not lying now, he must have lied repeatedly in the past. Perhaps, being unable to compete with George for the highest total, he was aiming to be the least promiscuous.