Vets Might Fly
Page 29
the front door. They stopped on the steps. The little dog, still on
the end of its string, looked much as it did before.
"All right, Mr Bailey," my colleague said.
"I can only tell you the same as Mr Herriot. I'm afraid he's got that
cough for life, but when it gets bad you must come and see us."
"Very good, sir," the old man put his hand in his pocket.
"And what is the charge' please?"
"The charge, oh yes ... the charge ..." Siegfried cleared his throat a
few times but seemed unable to articulate. He kept loo king from the
mongrel dog to the old man's tattered clothing and back again. Then he
glanced furtively into the house and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"It's nothing, Mr Bailey."
"But Mr Far non, I can't let ye . . ."
'shin! Shh!" Siegfried waved a hand agitatedly in the old man's
face.
"Not a Word now! I don't want to hear any more about it."
Having silenced Mr Bailey he produced a large bag.
There's about a hundred M&B tablets in here," he said, throwing an
anxious glance over his shoulder.
"He's going to keep needing them, so I've given y' a good supply."
I could see my colleague had spotted the hole in the trouser knee
because gazed down at it for a long time before putting his hand in his
jacket pocket.
"Hang on a minute." He extracted a handful of assorted chattels. A
few coins fell and rolled down the steps as he prodded in his palm
among scissOrs thermometers, pieces of string, bottle openers. Finally
his search was reward and he pulled out a bank note.
"Here's a quid," he whispered and again nervously shushed the man's
attempts to speak.
Mr Bailey, realising the futility of argument, pocketed the money.
"Well, thank ye, Mr Far non. Ahtll take t'missus to Scar borough wi'
that."
"Good lad, good lad," muttered Siegfried, still loo king around him
guiltily "Now off you go."
The old man solemnly raised his cap and began to shuffle painfully down
t street. .
"Hey, hold on, there," my colleague called after him.
"What's the matter You're not going very well."
"It's this clang arthritis. Ah go a long way in a long time."
"And you've got to walk all the way to the council houses?" Siegfried
rubbed his chin irresolutely.
"It's a fair step." He took a last wary peep down the passe then
beckoned with his hand.
"Look, my car's right here," he whispered.
"Nip in and I'll run you home."
Some of our disagreements were sharp and short.
I was sitting at the lunch table, rubbing and flexing my elbow.
Siegfried carving enthusiastically at a joint of roast mutton, looked
up from his work.
"What's the trouble, James rheumatism?"
"No, a cow belted me with her horn this morning. Right on the funny
bone "Oh, bad luck. Were you trying to get hold of her nose?"
"No, giving her an injection."
My colleague, transporting a slice of mutton to my plate, paused in
mid-a "Injecting her? Up there?"
"Yes, in the neck."
"Is that where you do it?"
"Yes, always have done. Why?"
l "Because if I may say so, it's rather a daft place. I always use the
rump."
"Is that so?" I helped myself to mashed potatoes.
"And what's wrong with neck ?"
"Well, you've illustrated it yourself, haven't you? It's too damn near
the ho' for a start."
"Okay, well the rump is too damn near the hind feet."
"Oh, come now, James, you know very well a cow very seldom kicks aft ~
.
rump injection." ~.
"Maybe so, but once is enough." ;: "And once is enough with a bloody
horn, isn't it?" : I made no reply, Siegfried plied the gravy boat
over both our plates and started to eat. But he had hardly swallowed
the first mouthful when he returned' to the attack.
"Another thing, the rump is so handy. Your way you have to squeeze
between the cows."
"Well, so what?"
"Simply that you get your ribs squashed and your toes stood on, that's
a.
~_ "All right." I spooned some green beans from the tureen.
"But your way you stand an excellent chance of receiving a faceful of
cow shit."
Oh rubbish, James, you're just making excuses!" He hacked violently at
his mutton.
"Not at all," I said.
"It's what I believe. And anyway, you haven't made out a case against
the neck."
"Made out a case? I haven't started yet. I could go on indefinitely.
For instance.
the neck is more painful."
"The rump is more subject to contamination," I countered.
"The neck is often thinly muscled," snapped Siegfried.
"You haven't got a nice pad to stick your needle into."
"No, and you haven't got a tail either," I growled.
"Tail? What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the bloody tail! It's all right if you have
somebody holding it but otherwise it's a menace, lashing about."
Siegfried gave a few rapid chews and swallowed quickly.
"Lashing about?
What in God's name has that got to do with it?"
"Quite a lot," I replied.
"I don't like a whack across the face from a shitty tail even if you
do."
There was a heavy-breathing lull then my colleague spoke in an
ominously quiet voice.
"Anything else about the tail?"
"Yes, there is. Some cows can whip a syringe out of your hand with
their tail.
The other day one caught my big fifty cc and smashed it against a wall.
Broken glass everywhere."
Siegfried flushed slightly and put down his knife and fork.
"James, I don't like to speak to you in these terms, but I am bound to
tell you that you are talking the most unmitigated balls, bullshit and
poppycock."
I gave him a sullen glare.
"That's your opinion, is it?"
"It is indeed, James."
"Right."
"Right."
"Okay."
"Very well."
We continued our meal in silence.
But over the next few days my mind kept returning to the
conversation.
Siegfried has always had a persuasive way with him and the thought kept
recurring that there might be a lot in what he said.
It was a week later that I paused, syringe in hand, before pushing
between two cows. The animals, divining my intent as they usually did,
swung their craggy hind ends together and blocked my way. Yes, by God,
Siegfried had a point. Why should I fight my way in there when the
other end was ready and ~waiting ?
I came to a decision.
"Hold the tail, please," I said to the farmer and pushed my needle into
the rump.
The cow never moved and as I completed the injection and pulled the
needle out I was conscious of a faint sense of shame. That lovely pad
of gluteal muscle the easy availability of the site my colleague had
been dead right and I had been a pig-headed fool. I knew what to do in
future.
The farmer laughed as he step
ped back across the dung channel.
"It's a funny thing how you fellers all have your different ways."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Mr Far non was 'ere yesterday, injecting that cow over there."
"He was?" A sudden light flashed in my mind. Could it be that
Siegfried we' not the only convincing talker in our practice . . What
about it?"
"Just the 'e had a different system from you. He injected into the
neck."
; ,..
Vels Msgnt {ly ~ . , Chapter Twenty-sever' I leaned on the handle of
my spade, wiped away the sweat which had begun to run into my eyes and
gazed around me at the hundreds of men scattered over the dusty
green.
We were still on our toughening course. At least that's what they told
us i was. I had a private suspicion that they just didn't know what to
do with all the!9 air crews under training and that somebody had
devised this method of get ting us out of the way.
Anyway, we were building a reservoir near a charming little Shropshire
town).
and a whole village of tents had sprung up to house us. Nobody was
quite sun about the reservoir but we were supposed to be building
something. They issued us with denim suits and pick-axes and spades
and for hour after hour we pecked desultorily at a rocky hillside. ~
But, hot as I was, I couldn't help thinking that things could be a lot
worse-' The weather was wonderful and it was a treat to be in the open
all day. I looked down the slope and away across the sweetly rolling
countryside to where low hills rose in the blue distance; it was a
gentler landscape than the stark fells and moors I had left behind in
Yorkshire, but infinitely soothing. ~i And the roofs of the town
showing above the trees held a rich promise. During the hours under
the fierce sun, with the rock dust caking round our lips, we built up a
gargantuan thirst which we nurtured carefully till the evening wher we
were allowed out of camp.
There, in cool taverns in the company of country folk, we slaked it
with pints.
of glorious rough cider. I don't suppose you would find any there now.
It is mostly factory-made cider which is drunk in the South of England
these day' but many of the pubs used to have their own presses where
they squeezed the juice from the local apples.
To me, there was something disturbing about sleeping in a tent. Each
morning.
when I awoke with the early sun beating on the thin walls it was as if
I was back in the hills above the Firth of Clyde long before the war
was dreamed of There was something very evocative about the tent smell
of hot canvas ausl| rubber ground sheet and crushed grass and the dies
buzzing in a little cloud ~ the top of the pole. I was jerked back in
an instant to Rosneath and when:' opened my eyes I half expected to
find Alex Taylor and Eddie Hutchison, the friends of my boyhood, Lying
there in their sleeping bags. i The three of us went camping at
Rosneath every week-end from Easter ~ October, leaving the smoke and
dirt of Glasgow behind us; and here ii Shropshire, in the uncanny tent
smell, when I closed my eyes I could see the little pine-wood behind
the tent and the green hillside running down to the burn' and, far
below, the long blue mirror of the Gareloch glinting under the are.
mountains of Argyll. They have desecrated Rosneath and the Gareloch
now.
but to me, as a boy, it was a fairyland which led me into the full
wonder and beauty of the world It was strange that I should dwell on
that period when I was in my teens because Alex was in the Middle East,
Eddie was in Burma and I was in another tent with a lot of different
young men. And it was as though the time between had been rubbed away
and Darrow by and Helen and all my struggles in veterinary practice had
never happened. Yet those years in Darrow by had been the most
important of my life. I used to sit up and shake myself, wondering at
how my thoughts had been mixed up by the war.
But as I say, I quite enjoyed Shropshire. The only snag was that
reservoir, or whatever it was that we were hacking out of the face of
the hill. I could never get really involved with it. So that I
pricked up my ears when our Flight Sergeant made an announcement one
morning.
"Some of the local farmers want help with their harvest," he called out
at the early parade.
"Are there any volunteers?"
My hand was the first up and after a few moments' hesitation others
followed, but none of my particular friends volunteered for the job.
When everything had been sorted out I found I had been allotted to a
farmer Edwards with three other airmen who were from a different flight
and strangers to me.
Mr Edwards arrived the following day and packed the four of us into a
typical big old-fashioned farmer's car. I sat in the front with him
while the three others filled the back. He asked our names but nothing
else, as though he felt that our station in civil life was none of his
concern. He was about thirty-five with jet black hair above a sunburnt
face in which his white teeth and clear blue eyes shone startlingly.
He looked us over with a good-humoured grin as we rolled into his
farmyard.
"Well, here we are, lads," he said.
"This is where we're going to put you through it."
But I hardly heard. him. I was loo king around me at the scene which
had been part of my life a few months ago. The cobbled yard, the rows
of doors leading to cow byre, barn, pigsties and loose boxes. An old
man was mucking out the byre and as the rich bovine smell drifted
across, one of my companions wrinkled his nose. But I inhaled it like
perfume.
The farmer led us all into the fields where a reaper and binder was at
work, leaving the sheaves of corn Lying in long golden swathes.
"Any of you ever done any stooking?" he asked.
We shook our heads dumbly.
"Never mind, you'll soon learn. You come with me, Jim."
We spaced ourselves out in the big field, each of my colleagues with an
old man while Mr Edwards took charge of me. It didn't take me long to
realise that I had got the tough section.
The farmer grabbed a sheaf in each hand, tucked them under his arms,
walked a few steps and planted them on end, resting against each other.
I did the same till there were eight sheaves making up a stook. He
showed me how to dig the stalks into the ground so that they stood
upright and sometimes he gave a nudge with his knee to keep them in the
right alignment.
I did my best but often my sheaves would fall over and I had to dart
back and replace them. And I noticed with some alarm that Mr Edwards
was going about twice as fast as the three old men. We had nearly
finished the row while they were barely half way along, and my aching
arms and back told me I was in for a testing time.
we went on like that for about two hours; bending, lifting bending,
lifting and shuffling forward without an instant's respite. One of the
strongest impressio
ns I had gained when I first came into country
practice was that farming was the hardest way of all of making a
living, and now I was finding out for myself I was about ready to throw
myself down on the stubble when Mrs Edwards came over the field with
her young son and daughter. They carried baskets withe ingredients for
our ten o'clock break; crusty apple tart and jugs of cider.
The farmer watched me quizzically as I sank gratefully down and began
drink like a parched traveller in the desert. The cider, from his own
press, w superb, and I closed my eyes as I swallowed. The right thing,
it seemed to me would be to lie here in the sunshine for the rest of
the day with about a galllon of this exquisite brew by my side, but Mr
Edwards had other ideas. I was still chewing at the solid crust when
he grasped a fresh pair of sheaves.