kicking at some inward pain, writhing its hindquarters from side to
side. As he watched it fell on its side and began to thrash around
with all four limbs.
"James," he said quietly.
"That calf has been poisoned."
"That's what I thought, but how?"
Mr Billings broke in.
"It's no good talkie' like that, Mr Far non. We've been over this
place time and time again and there's nowt for them to get."
"Well, we'll go over it again." Siegfried stalked around the calf
house as I had done and when he returned his face was expressionless.
"Where do you get the nuts from?" he grunted, crumbling one of the
cubes between his fingers.
Mr Billings threw his arms wide.
"From t'local mill. Ryders' best. You can't fault them, surely."
Siegfried said nothing. Ryders were noted for their meticulous
preparation Of cattle food. He went over the sick calf with
stethoscope and thermometer, digging his fingers into the hairy
abdominal wall, staring impassively at the calf's face to note its
reaction. He did the same with my patient of yesterday whose glazing
eyes and cold extremities told their grim tale. Then he gave the
calves almost the same treatment as I had and we left.
He was silent for the first half mile, then he beat the wheel suddenly
with one hand
"There's an irritant poison there, James! As sure as God made little
apples there is But I'm damned if I know where it's coming from."
Our visit had taken a long time and we returned to Skeldale House for
lunch.
Like myself, his mind was still wrestling with Mr Billings's problem
and he hardly winced as Tristan placed a steaming plateful of sausage
and mash before him Then, as he prodded the mash with a fork, he
appeared to come to the surface.
"God almighty!" he exclaimed.
"Have we got this again?"
Tristan smiled ingratiatingly.
"Yes, indeed. Mr Johnson told me they were a particularly fine batch
of sausages today. Definitely superior, he said."
"Is that so?" His brother gave him a sour glance.
"Well, they look the bloody same to me. Like supper yesterday and like
lunch." His voice began to rise then he subsided.
"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, and began to toy listlessly with the
food.
Clearly those calves had drained him and I knew how he felt.
I got through my share without much difficulty I've always liked
sausage and mash But my boss is a resilient character and when we met
in the late afternoon he was bursting with his old spirit.
"That call to Billings's shook me, James, I can tell you." he said.
"But I've revisited a few of my other cases since then and they're all
improving nicely.
Raises the morale tremendously. Here, let me get you a drink."
He reached into the cupboard above the mantelpiece for the gin bottle
and after pouring a couple of measures he looked benignly at his
brother who was tidying the sitting room.
Tristan was making a big show, running a carpet-sweeper up and down,
straightening cushions, flicking a duster at everything in sight. He
sighed and panted with effort as he bustled around, the very picture of
a harassed domestic.
He needed only a mob cap and frilly apron to complete the image.
We finished our drinks and Siegfried immersed himself in the Veterinary
Record as savoury smells began to issue from the kitchen. It was about
seven o'clock when Tristan put his head round the door.
"Supper is on the table," he said.
my boss put down the Record, rose and stretched expansively.
"Good, I'm ready for it, too."
I followed him into the dining room and almost cannoned into his back
as he halted abruptly. He was staring in disbelief at the tureen in
the middle of the table.
"Not bloody sausage and mash again!" he bellowed.
Tristan shuffled his feet.
"Weller yes it's very nice really."
very nice! I'm beginning to dream about the blasted stuff. Can't you
cook any thing else?"
"Well, I told you." Tristan looked wounded.
"I told you I could cook sausage and mash ' "Yes, you did!" shouted
his brother.
"But you didn't say you couldn't cook any thing else BUT sausage and
bloody mash!"
Tristan made a non-committal gesture and his brother sank wearily down
at the table.
"Go on, then," he sighed.
"Dish it out and heaven help us."
He took a small mouthful from his plate then gripped at his stomach and
emitted a low moan.
"This stuff is kill ing me. I don't think I'll ever be the same after
this week."
The following day opened in dramatic fashion. I had just got out of
bed and was reaching for my dressing gown when an explosion shook the
house It was a great
"WHUFF' which rushed like a mighty wind through passages and rooms
rattling the windows and leaving an ominous silence in its wake.
I dashed out to the landing and ran into Siegfried, who stared
wide-eyed at me for a moment before galloping downstairs.
In the kitchen Tristan was Lying on his back amid a litter of pans and
dishes.
Several rashers of bacon and a few smashed eggs nestled on the Rags.
"What the hell's going on? "Siegfried shouted.
His brother looked up at him with mild interest.
"I really don't know. I was lighting the fire and there was a bang."
"Lighting the fire. . .?"
"Yes, I've had a little difficulty these last two mornings. The thing
wouldn't go. I think the chimney needs sweeping These old houses . .
."
"Yes, yes!" Siegfried burst out.
"We know, but what the hell happened?"
Tristan sat up. Even then, among the debris with smuts all over his
face, he still retained his poise.
"Well, I thought I'd hurry things along a bit," (His agile mind was
forever seeking new methods of conserving energy.) "I soaked a piece of
cotton wool in ether and chucked that in."
"Ether?"
"Well yes, it's inflammable, isn't it?"
"Inflammable!" His brother was pop-eyed.
"It's bloody well explosive! It's a wonder you didn't blow the whole
place up."
Tristan rose and dusted himself off.
"Ah well, never mind. I'll soon have breakfast ready."
"You can forget that." Siegfried took a long shuddering breath then
went over to the bread tin, extracted a loaf and began to saw at it.
"The breakfasts on the floor, and anyway, by the time you've cleared up
this mess we'll be gone. Bread and marmalade all right for you,
James?"
We went out together again. My boss had arranged that Ken Billings
should postpone his calf feeding till we got there so that we could
witness the process.
It wasn't a happy arrival. Both the calves had died and the farmer's
eyes held a look of desperation.
Siegfried's jaw clenched tight for a moment then he motioned with his
hand.
"Please carry on, Mr Billings. I want to see you feed them."
The nuts were always available for th
e little animals but we watched
intently as the farmer poured the milk into the buckets and the calves
started to drink.
The poor man had obviously given up hope and I could tell by his
apathetic manner that he hadn't much faith in this latest ploy.
Neither had I, but Siegfried prowled up and down like a caged panther
as though willing something to happen. The calves raised
white-slobbered muzzles enquiringly as he hung over them but they could
offer no more explanation of the mystery than I could myself.
I looked across the long row of pens. There were still more than
thirty calves left in the building and the terrible thought arose that
the disease might spread through all of them. My mind was recoiling
when Siegfried stabbed a finger at one of the buckets.
"What's that?" he snapped.
The farmer and I went over and gazed down at a circular black object
about half an inch across floating on the surface of the milk.
"Bit o' muck got in somehow," Mr Billings mumbled.
"I'll 'ave it out." He put his hand into the bucket.
"No, let me!" Siegfried carefully lifted the thing, shook the milk
from his fingers and studied it with interest.
"This isn't muck," he murmured.
"Look, it's concave like a little cup." He rubbed a corner between
thumb and forefinger.
"I'll tell you what it is, it's a scab. Where the heck has it come
from?"
He began to examine the neck and head of the calf, then became very
still as he handled one of the little horn buds.
"There's a raw surface here. You can see where the scab belongs." He
placed the dark cup over the bud and it fitted perfectly.
The farmer shrugged.
"Aye, well, I can understand that. I disbudded all the calves about a
fortnight sin'."
"What did you use, Mr Billings?" My colleague's voice was soft.
"Oh, some new stuff. Feller came round sell in' it. You just paint it
on it's a lot easier than t'awd caustic stick."
"Have you got the bottle?"
"Aye, it's in "'house. I'll get it."
When the farmer returned Siegfried read the label and handed the bottle
to me.
"Butter of Antimony, Jim. Now we know,"
"But . . . what are you on about? "asked the farmer bewilderedly.
Siegfried looked at him sympathetically.
"Antimony is a deadly poison, Mr Billings. Oh, it'll burn your horn
buds off, all right, but if it gets in among the food, that's it."
The farmer's eyes widened.
"Yes, clang it, and when they put their heads down to drink that's just
when the scabs would fall off!"
"Exactly," Siegfried said.
"Or they maybe knocked the horn buds on the sides of the bucket.
Anyway, let's make sure the others are safe."
We went round all the calves, removing the lethal crusts and scrubbing
the buds clean, and when we finally drove away we knew that the brief
but painful episode of the Billings calves was over.
In the car, my colleague put his elbows on the wheel and drove with his
chin cupped in his hands. He often did this when in contemplative mood
and it never failed to unnerve me.
"James," he said,
"I've never seen any thing like that before. It really is one for the
book."
His words were prophetic, for as I write about it now I realise that it
has never been repeated in the thirty-five years that have passed since
then.
At Skeldale House we parted to go our different ways. Tristan, no
doubt anxious to redeem himself after the morning's explosive
beginning, was plying mop and bucket and swabbing the passage with the
zeal of one of Nelson's sailors.
But when Siegfried drove away, the activity stopped abruptly and as I
was leaving with my pockets stuffed with the equipment for my round I
glanced into the sitting room and saw the young man stretched in his
favourite chair I went in and looked with some surprise at a pan of
sausages balanced on the coals.
"What's this?" I asked.
Tristan lit a Woodbine, shook out his Daily Mirror and put his feet
up.
"Just prepared lunch, old lad."
"In here?"
"Yes, Jim, I've had enough of that hot stove there's no comfort through
there. And anyway, the kitchen's such a bloody long way away."
I gazed down at the reclining form.
"No need to ask what's on the menu?"
"None at all, old son." Tristan looked up from his paper with a
seraphic smile.
I was about to leave when a thought struck me.
"Where are the potatoes?"
"In the fire."
"In the fire!"
"Yes, I just popped them in there to roast for a while. They're
delicious that way."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely, Jim. I'll tell you you'll fall in love with my cooking
all over again."
I didn't get back till nearly one o'clock. Tristan was not in the
sitting room but a haze of smoke hung on the air and a reek like a
garden bonfire prickled in my nostrils.
I found the young man in the kitchen. His savoir faire had vanished
and he was prodding desperately at a pile of coal black spheres.
I stared at him.
"What are those?"
"The bloody potatoes, Jim! I fell asleep for a bit and this
happened!"
He gingerly sawed through one of the objects. In the centre of the
carbonaceous ball I could discern a small whitish marble which seemed
to be all that remained of the original vegetable.
"Hell's bells, Triss! What are you going to do?"
He gave me a stricken glance.
"Hack out the cent res and mash 'em up together.
It's all I CAN do."
This was something I couldn't bear to watch. I went upstairs, had a
wash then took my place at the dining table. Siegfried was already
seated and I could see that the little triumph of the morning had
cheered him. He greeted me jovially.
"James, wasn't that the damndest thing at Ken Billings'? It's so
satisfying to get it cleared up."
But his smile froze as Tristan appeared and set down the tureens before
him.
From one peeped the inevitable sausages and the other contained an
amorphous dark grey mass liberally speckled with black foreign bodies
of varying size.
"What in the name of God," he enquired with ominous quiet, 'is this?"
His brother swallowed.
"Sausage and mesh," he said lightly.
Siegfried gave him a cold look.
"I am referring to this." He poked warily at the dark mound.
"Weller it's the potatoes." Tristan cleared his throat.
"Got a little burnt, I'm afraid."
My boss made no comment. With dangerous calm he spooned some of the
material on to his plate, raised a forkful and began to chew slowly.
Once or twice he winced as a particularly tough fragment of carbon
cracked between his molars, then he closed his eyes and swallowed.
For a moment he was still, then he grasped his midriff with both hands,
groaned and jumped to his feet.
"No, that's enough!" he cried.
"I don't mind
investigating poison ings on the farms but I object to
being poisoned myself in my own home!" He strode away from the table
and paused at the door.
"I'm going over to the Drovers for lunch."
As he left another spasm seized him. He clutched his stomach again and
looked back.
"Now I know just how those poor bloody calves felt!"
Chapter Seven I suppose it was a little thoughtless of me to allow my
scalpel to flash and flicker quite so close to Rory O"Hagan's fly
buttons.
Vets Might Fly Page 8