Mrs. Calvert sat down for a moment, crossed her hands on her lap and smiled encouragingly. “Can you do anything for the calves, then?” she asked.
Phin butted in before I could reply. “Oh aye, he can an’ all. He’s put them on to epsom salts.”
“Epsom salts?”
“That’s it, Missis. I said when he came that we’d get summat real smart and scientific like. You can’t beat new blood and modern ideas.” Phin sipped his beer gravely.
Over the following days the calves gradually improved and at the end of a fortnight they were all eating normally. The worst one still showed a trace of blindness, but I was confident this too would clear up.
It wasn’t long before I saw Phin again. It was early afternoon and I was in the office with Siegfried when the outer door banged and the passage echoed to the clumping of hobnails. I heard a voice raised in song—hi-ti-tiddly-rum-te-tum. Phineas was in our midst once more.
“Well, well, well!” he bawled heartily at Miss Harbottle. “It’s Flossie! And what’s my little darlin’ doing this fine day?”
There was not a flicker from Miss Harbottle’s granite features. She directed an icy stare at the intruder but Phin swung round on Siegfried with a yellow-toothed grin. “Now, gaffer, ’ow’s tricks?”
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Calvert,” Siegfried replied. “What can we do for you?”
Phin stabbed a finger at me. “There’s my man. I want him out to my place right sharpish.”
“What’s the trouble?” I asked. “Is it the calves again?”
“Damn, no! Wish it was. It’s me good bull. He’s puffin’ like a bellows—bit like pneumonia but worse than I’ve known. He’s in a ’ell of a state. Looks like he’s peggin’ out.” For an instant Phin lost his jocularity.
I had heard of this bull; pedigree shorthorn, show winner, the foundation of his herd. “I’ll be right after you, Mr. Calvert. I’ll follow you along.”
“Good lad. I’m off, then.” Phin paused at the door, a wild figure, tieless, tattered; baggy trousers ballooning from his ample middle. He turned again to Miss Harbottle and contorted his leathery features into a preposterous leer. “Ta-ra, Floss!” he cried and was gone.
For a moment the room seemed very empty and quiet except for Miss Harbottle’s acid “Oh, that man! Dreadful! Dreadful!”
I made good time to the farm and found Phin waiting with his three sons. The young men looked gloomy but Phin was still indomitable. “Here ’e is!” he shouted. “Happy Harry again. Now we’ll be all right.” He even managed a little tune as we crossed to the bull pen but when he looked over the door his head sank on his chest and his hands worked deeper behind his braces.
The bull was standing as though rooted to the middle of the pen. His great rib cage rose and fell with the most laboured respirations I had ever seen. His mouth gaped wide, a bubbling foam hung round his lips and his flaring nostrils; his eyes, almost starting from his head in terror, stared at the wall in front of him. This wasn’t pneumonia, it was a frantic battle for breath; and it looked like a losing one.
He didn’t move when I inserted my thermometer and though my mind was racing I suspected the half minute wasn’t going to be long enough this time. I had expected accelerated breathing, but nothing like this.
“Poor aud beggar,” Phin muttered. “He’s bred me the finest calves I’ve ever had and he’s as quiet as a sheep, too. I’ve seen me little grandchildren walk under ’is belly and he’s took no notice. I hate to see him sufferin’ like this. If you can’t do no good, just tell me and I’ll get the gun out.”
I took the thermometer out and read it. One hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit. This was ridiculous; I shook it vigorously and pushed it back into the rectum.
I gave it nearly a minute this time so that I could get in some extra thinking. The second reading said a hundred and ten again and I had an unpleasant conviction that if the thermometer had been a foot long the mercury would still have been jammed against the top.
What in the name of God was this? Could be Anthrax … must be … and yet … I looked over at the row of heads above the half door; they were waiting for me to say something and their silence accentuated the agonised groaning and panting. I looked above the heads to the square of deep blue and a tufted cloud moving across the sun. As it passed, a single dazzling ray made me close my eyes and a faint bell rang in my mind.
“Has he been out today?” I asked.
“Aye, he’s been out on the grass on his tether all morning. It was that grand and warm.”
The bell became a triumphant gong. “Get a hosepipe in here quick. You can rig it to that tap in the yard.”
“A hosepipe? What the ’ell …?”
“Yes, quick as you can—he’s got sunstroke.”
They had the hose fixed in less than a minute. I turned it full on and began to play the jet of cold water all over the huge form—his face and neck, along the ribs, up and down the legs. I kept this up for about five minutes but it seemed a lot longer as I waited for some sign of improvement. I was beginning to think I was on the wrong track when the bull gulped just once.
It was something—he had been unable to swallow his saliva before in his desperate efforts to get the air into his lungs; and I really began to notice a change in the big animal. Surely he was looking just a little less distressed and wasn’t the breathing slowing down a bit?
Then the bull shook himself, turned his head and looked at us. There was an awed whisper from one of the young men: “By gaw, it’s working!”
I enjoyed myself after that. I can’t think of anything in my working life that has given me more pleasure than standing in that pen directing the life-saving jet and watching the bull savouring it. He liked it on his face best and as I worked my way up from the tail and along the steaming back he would turn his nose full into the water, rocking his head from side to side and blinking blissfully.
Within half an hour he looked almost normal. His chest was still heaving a little but he was in no discomfort. I tried the temperature again. Down to a hundred and five.
“He’ll be all right now,” I said. “But I think one of the lads should keep the water on him for another twenty minutes or so. I’ll have to go now.”
“You’ve time for a drink,” Phin grunted.
In the farm kitchen his bellow of “Mother” lacked some of its usual timbre. He dropped into a chair and stared into his glass of Nutty Brown. “Harry,” he said, “I’ll tell you, you’ve flummoxed me this time.” He sighed and rubbed his chin in apparent disbelief. “I don’t know what the ’ell to say to you.”
It wasn’t often that Phin lost his voice, but he found it again very soon at the next meeting of the farmers’ discussion group.
A learned and earnest gentleman had been expounding on the advances in veterinary medicine and how the farmers could now expect their stock to be treated as the doctors treated their human patients, with the newest drugs and procedures.
It was too much for Phin. He jumped to his feet and cried: “Ah think you’re talking a lot of rubbish. There’s a young feller in Darrowby not long out of college and it doesn’t matter what you call ’im out for he uses nowt but epsom salts and cold water.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
IT WAS DURING ONE of Siegfried’s efficiency drives that Colonel Merrick’s cow picked up a wire. The colonel was a personal friend, which made things even more uncomfortable.
Everybody suffered when Siegfried had these spells. They usually came on after he had been reading a technical work or when he had seen a film of some new technical procedure. He would rampage around, calling on the cowering household to stir themselves and be better men. He would be obsessed, for a time, with a craving for perfection.
“We must put on a better show at these operations on the farms. It just isn’t good enough to fish out a few old instruments from a bag and start hacking at the animal. We must have cleanliness, asepsis if possible, and an orderly technique.”
So h
e was jubilant when he diagnosed traumatic reticulitis (foreign body in the second stomach) in the colonel’s cow. “We’ll really show old Hubert something. We’ll give him a picture of veterinary surgery he’ll never forget.”
Tristan and I were pressed into service as assistants, and our arrival at the farm was really impressive. Siegfried led the procession, looking unusually smart in a brand new tweed jacket of which he was very proud. He was a debonair figure as he shook hands with his friend.
The colonel was jovial. “Hear you’re going to operate on my cow. Take out a wire, eh? Like to watch you do it, if it’s all right with you.”
“By all means, Hubert, please do. You’ll find it very interesting.”
In the byre, Tristan and I had to bustle about. We arranged tables alongside the cow and on these we placed new metal trays with rows of shining, sterilised instruments. Scalpels, directors, probes, artery forceps, hypodermic syringes, suture needles, gut and silk in glass phials, rolls of cotton wool and various bottles of spirit and other antiseptics.
Siegfried fussed around, happy as a schoolboy. He had clever hands and, as a surgeon, he was worth watching. I could read his mind without much trouble. This, he was thinking, was going to be good.
When all was to his liking, he took off his jacket and donned a brilliantly white smock. He handed the jacket to Tristan and almost instantly gave a roar of anger. “Hey, don’t just throw it down on that meal bin! Here, give it to me. I’ll find a safe place for it.” He dusted the new garment down tenderly and hung it on a nail on the wall.
Meanwhile, I had shaved and disinfected the operation site on the flank and everything was ready for the local anaesthetic. Siegfried took the syringe and quickly infiltrated the area. “This is where we go inside, Hubert. I hope you aren’t squeamish.”
The colonel beamed. “Oh, I’ve seen blood before. You needn’t worry, I shan’t faint.”
With a bold sweep of the scalpel, Siegfried incised the skin, then the muscles and finally, with delicate care, the glistening peritoneum. The smooth wall of the rumen (the large first stomach) lay exposed.
Siegfried reached for a fresh scalpel and looked for the best place to cut in. But as he poised his knife, the wall of the rumen suddenly bulged out through the skin incision. “Unusual,” he muttered. “Probably a bit of rumenal gas.” Unflurried, he gently thrust back the protrusion and prepared again to make his cut; but as he withdrew his hand, the rumen welled out after it, a pinkish mass bigger than a football. Siegfried pushed it back and it shot out again immediately, ballooning to a startling size. This time, he took two hands to the job, pushing and pressing till he forced the thing once more out of sight. He stood for a moment with his hands inside the cow, breathing heavily. Two beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.
Carefully, he withdrew his hands. Nothing happened. It must have settled down. He was reaching back for his knife when, like a live thing, the rumen again came leaping and surging out. It seemed almost as though the entire organ had escaped through the incision—a slippery, gleaming mass rising and swelling till it was level with his eyes.
Siegfried had dropped all pretence of calm and was fighting desperately, both arms round the thing, pressing downwards with all his strength. I hastened forward to help and, as I drew near, he whispered hoarsely: “What the hell is it?” Clearly, he was wondering if this pulsating heap of tissue was some part of the bovine anatomy he had never even heard of.
Silently, we fought the mass down till it was level with the skin. The colonel was watching intently. He hadn’t expected the operation to be so interesting. His eyebrows were slightly raised.
“It must be gas that’s doing this,” panted Siegfried. “Pass me the knife and stand back.”
He inserted the knife into the rumen and cut sharply downwards. I was glad I had moved away because through the incision shot a high-pressure jet of semi-liquid stomach contents—a greenish-brown, foul-smelling cascade which erupted from the depths of the cow as from an invisible pump.
The first direct hit was on Siegfried’s face. He couldn’t release his hold of the rumen or it would have slipped back into the abdomen and contaminated the peritoneum. So he hung on to each side of the opening while the evil torrent poured on to his hair, down his neck and all over his lovely white smock.
Now and then, the steady stream would be varied by a sudden explosion which sent the fermenting broth spouting viciously over everything in the immediate vicinity. Within a minute, the trays with their gleaming instruments were thoroughly covered. The tidy rows of swabs, the snowy tufts of cotton wool disappeared without trace, but it was the unkindest cut of all when a particularly powerful jet sent a liberal spray over the new jacket hanging on the wall. Siegfried’s face was too obscured for me to detect any change of expression but at this disaster, I saw real anguish in his eyes.
The colonel’s eyebrows were now raised to the maximum and his mouth hung open as he gazed in disbelief at the chaotic scene. Siegfried, still hanging grimly on, was the centre of it all, paddling about in a reeking swamp which came half way up his Wellington boots. He looked very like a Fiji Islander with his hair stiffened and frizzled and his eyes rolling whitely in the brown face.
Eventually, the flood slowed to a trickle and stopped. I was able to hold the lips of the wound while Siegfried inserted his arm and felt his way to the reticulum. I watched him as he groped inside the honeycombed organ far out of sight against the diaphragm. A satisfied grunt told me he had located the piercing wire and within seconds he had removed it.
Tristan had been frantically salvaging and washing suture materials and soon the incision in the rumen was stitched. Siegfried’s heroic stand had not been in vain; there was no contamination of the peritoneum.
Silently and neatly, he secured the skin and muscles with retention sutures and swabbed round the wound. Everything looked fine. The cow seemed unperturbed; under the anaesthetic she had known nothing of the titanic struggle with her insides. In fact, freed from me discomfort of the transfixing wire, she appeared already to be feeling better.
It took quite a time to tidy up the mess and the most difficult job was to make Siegfried presentable. We did our best by swilling him down with buckets of water while, all the time, he scraped sadly at his new jacket with a flat stick. It didn’t make much difference.
The colonel was hearty and full of congratulations. “Come in, my dear chap. Come in and have a drink,” But the invitation had a hollow ring and he took care to stand at least ten feet away from his friend.
Siegfried threw his bedraggled jacket over his shoulder. “No thank you, Hubert. It’s most kind of you, but we must be off.” He went out of the byre. “I think you’ll find the cow will be eating in a day or two. I’ll be back in a fortnight to take out the stitches.”
In the confined space of the car, Tristan and I were unable to get as far away from him as we would have liked. Even with our heads stuck out of the windows it was still pretty bad.
Siegfried drove for a mile or two in silence, then he turned to me and his streaked features broke into a grin. There was something indomitable about him. “You never know what’s round the corner in this game, my boys, but just think of this—that operation was a success.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THERE WERE THREE of us in the cheerless yard, Isaac Cranford, Jeff Mallock and myself. The only one who looked at ease was Mallock and it was fitting that it should be so, since he was, in a manner of speaking, the host. He owned the knacker yard and he looked on benignly as we peered into the carcass of the cow he had just opened.
In Darrowby the name Mallock had a ring of doom. It was the graveyard of livestock, of farmers’ ambitions, of veterinary surgeons’ hopes. If ever an animal was very ill somebody was bound to say: “I reckon she’ll be off to Mallock’s afore long,” or “Jeff Mallock ’ll have ’er in t’finish.” And the premises fitted perfectly into the picture; a group of drab, red-brick buildings standing a few fields back from the road
with a stumpy chimney from which rolled endlessly a dolorous black smoke.
It didn’t pay to approach Mallock’s too closely unless you had a strong stomach, so the place was avoided by the townspeople, but if you ventured up the lane and peeped through the sliding metal doors you could look in on a nightmare world. Dead animals lay everywhere. Most of them were dismembered and great chunks of meat hung on hooks, but here and there you could see a bloated sheep or a greenish, swollen pig which not even Jeff could bring himself to open.
Skulls and dry bones were piled to the roof in places and brown mounds of meat meal stood in the corners. The smell was bad at any time but when Jeff was boiling up the carcasses it was indescribable. The Mallock family bungalow stood in the middle of the buildings and strangers could be pardoned if they expected a collection of wizened gnomes to dwell there. But Jeff was a pink-faced, cherubic man in his forties, his wife plump, smiling and comely. Their family ranged from a positively beautiful girl of nineteen down to a robust five-year-old boy. There were eight young Mallocks and they had spent their lifetimes playing among tuberculous lungs and a vast spectrum of bacteria from Salmonella to Anthrax. They were the healthiest children in the district.
It was said in the pubs that Jeff was one of the richest men in the town but the locals, as they supped their beer, had to admit that he earned his money. At any hour of the day or night he would rattle out into the country in his ramshackle lorry, winch on a carcass, bring it back to the yard and cut it up. A dog food dealer came twice a week from Brawton with a van and bought the fresh meat. The rest of the stuff Jeff shovelled into his boiler to make the meat meal which was in great demand for mixing in pig and poultry rations. The bones went for making fertiliser, the hides to the tanner and the nameless odds and ends were collected by a wild-eyed individual known only as the “ket feller.” Sometimes, for a bit of variety, Jeff would make long slabs of strange-smelling soap which found a brisk sale for scrubbing shop floors. Yes, people said, there was no doubt Jeff did all right. But, by gaw, he earned it.
All Creatures Great and Small Page 18