Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  David Morgan, a small intense Welshman, had taken me on as general hand for the summer.

  ‘Just goin’ off on the round,’ he said curtly, through the van window, when I met him in the lane. For every Monday he took cream, eggs, potatoes and other produce up to Llanavon at the top of the next valley, where he sold his wares from door to door. ‘You go and give Dicko a hand. He’s my man an’ he’s putting the barn ready — he knows you’re coming.’ He gave a wave and revved the engine; the old Austin spluttered and jerked off down the track.

  I faced Brynheulog, the sun sparkling on its whitewashed walls, and, with a rich mixture of country aromas in my nostrils, set forth to find Dicko.

  I had no idea where the barnyard was, but after going through the cowhouse, into the roothouse and out by the stables, I found it. It was cobbled and part covered in seeded corn, and on a neatly stacked midden in the far corner about twenty Rhode Island hens squabbled and scratched with great vigour. To the left, a Dutch barn ran in continuation with the farm buildings, one of the bays still stacked with the previous year’s fodder.

  Apart from the hens and a wall-eyed collie dog eyeing me suspiciously through the bars of the gate, there was no sign of life.

  ‘Dicko!’ I shouted. ‘Are you there?’

  I stood for a few minutes awaiting a response. Then, I shouted again.

  The second time, I did get a reaction.

  ‘D’yer know anything about chickens, Mr Vet?’ a voice bellowed from above.

  Startled, I looked upwards and stood back a pace to discover a round, red face peering down at me from the gap between the high stack and the barn roof.

  ‘D’yer know anything about chickens?’ the face repeated, beginning to deepen in colour.

  ‘I’ve done some anatomy,’ I responded rather weakly, still a bit confused by the turn of events.

  ‘Wha’s wrong with this, then?’ asked the red face, and dropped an egg from his lofty position down to me. Instinctively I cupped my hands and caught it, the shell shattering in a dozen pieces, and from the mess came the foulest smell I have ever encountered. I stood there, rigid, as the green-black, stinking contents oozed malevolently between my fingers.

  ‘It’s rotten!’ I shouted, half choking.

  ‘Right!’ roared the red face, in a gale of laughter. ‘Right yer be! That must be a hell of a fine college you be at!’

  I threw the egg in the midden and plunged both hands deep into the water trough. I was livid and clenched my fists — whoever owned the red face was in trouble.

  ‘I’m comin’ down,’ came a shout, still full of raucous laughter.

  I moved to the corner of the stack, burning with anger, poising myself ready to take revenge.

  Then the Red Face emerged.

  He was shorter than I, but that was my only advantage, for he was built like an ox; his cheery red face, topped by a hayseed-covered cap, ran directly into his broad shoulders, which could have supported the Llanellen Bridge. About forty, hair flowed luxuriant from his open-necked flannel shirt and his moleskin trousers were gathered at his solid midriff by a wide, black leather belt, joined by a powerful brass buckle.

  Had this not been enough to make me reconsider my original intention, the thickness of his forearms and the breadth of his horny hands soon made up my mind. My anger quickly subsided.

  ‘No offence, Mr Vet. Just a lark. Dicko Jeeps is the name. Now, try a drop o’ this.’ And he thrust a small earthenware jar into my hands. ‘Don’ be frit of it, it ain’t rotten,’ he said, his face still wreathed in a smile. ‘I won’t pull yer leg no more.’

  It was good cider in the little jar, and not the last I was to have from it, for that summer I worked alongside the genial countryman and learned much about country ways.

  One morning I found Dicko mixing up an evil-looking potion in an old jug. It smelled quite intoxicating and Dicko stirred away with the obvious delight of an ancient witch mixing a brew.

  ‘Us be ’avin’ a party tonight. You comin’?’ he asked, jovially.

  ‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘It looks awful.’

  ‘Old Jasper’s bound up,’ explained Dicko. ‘So I’m makin’ a drop o’ “special” for ’im. By rights you ought to be seein’ ter this, Mr Vet,’ he winked, broadly, then stirred the mixture with renewed vigour.

  Jasper was the Large White boar, a great, mean, hairy creature who lived in a part of the stable building, just off the yard.

  ‘Won’t eat or drink an’s got real miserable,’ said Dicko. ‘Right off ’is jim-jam, too, ’e is — if yer know what I means.’ He gave another wicked wink.

  ‘Whatever is in it?’ I asked, as the alcoholic aroma wafted towards me.

  ‘Salts an’ cider, with a little bit of castor oil. ‘An’ if that don’t shift ’im, nothin’ will!’

  ‘I can believe that,’ I agreed. ‘But if he isn’t eating or drinking, how are you going to give it to him?’

  ‘How are we goin’ ter give it to ’im, Mr Vet,’ said Dicko, rubbing his hands. ‘Bring that jow’line and I’ll get me boot.’

  I picked up the thin ploughrope and made my way out to the stable where Dicko joined me, carefully setting down the jugful of medicine and an old riding boot with the toe cut away.

  Jasper lay grunting unconcernedly in the straw in one corner, as Dicko explained his plan.

  ‘I slips the noose of the jow’line round ’is snout an’ throws it over that beam,’ he said, pointing to a rough oak strut running under the roof. ‘You catch it an’ pull up, hard as you can, then ’e’ll back up against the wall an’ I can stuff the boot down ’is gullet an’ pour the jollop through the toe, an’ Bob’s yer uncle!’

  It sounded straightforward enough, so long as Jasper was in agreement. He soon showed he wasn’t as the noose tightened around his snout, and leaped to his feet complaining loudly. I grabbed the loose end that Dicko hurled over the beam and pulled for all I was worth. Jasper fought and wriggled, causing the beam to creak ominously.

  ‘’Old ’im steady!’ shouted Dicko, advancing upon the great foaming jaws with the boot in one hand and jug in the other. But Jasper would have none of it. Eventually, he gave in to the rope and stood still, but whenever Dicko touched his mouth with the lip of the boot, he shook his head violently.

  ‘No good from the front,’ said Dicko. ‘I’ll get behind his head an’ pull it in from the back.’

  ‘Are you sure you can manage it?’ I asked, doubtfully. ‘Sounds a bit dangerous.’

  ‘Seen it done afore,’ retorted Dicko. ‘Jus’ you ’old that rope tight. I’ll show yer summat to tell ’em back at that college of your’n.’

  With boot and jug in hand, he straddled the boar’s neck and leaned forward. Jasper squatted a few inches to take Dicko’s weight, then pushed robustly against the rope.

  ‘Don’ yer let go now!’ gasped Dicko, trying to keep his balance.

  ‘I won’t!’ I shouted.

  Then, suddenly, an evil thought entered my mind and the smell of rotten eggs came flooding back. For there was Dicko, who had had such fun at my expense on my first day at Brynheulog, now sitting with his back to me, astride a great pig. And the only thing stopping him from going for one hell of a ride was the rope — which I was holding.

  I was savouring the power in my possession, when Jasper made a sudden jerk and my arms fell as the rope went slack. I stumbled back against the wall, only to see Dicko, firmly astride Jasper, charge the stable door which sprang open, releasing the flying duo onto the yard.

  I recovered quickly and followed them out to witness one of the finest Bucking Boar Exhibitions one could wish to see, as Dicko, raving like a dervish and still brandishing the boot and jug, rode Jasper around the yard.

  Eventually, after about five circuits, they parted company and Dicko was deposited in a patch of docks by the water trough.

  I stood, trying to contain my mirth, as Dicko scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Rope snapped!’ I said, holding up the frayed end.
‘Sorry!’

  ‘You looks as sorry as ’e does,’ commented Dicko grumpily as he picked up his cap and looked at Jasper. The old boar seemed perfectly recovered and was tucking into the potato clamp with great energy.

  ‘He’s eating now,’ I said, just suppressing a smile.

  ‘Told yer it would work, didn’t’ I?’ said Dicko, dusting down his moleskins.

  Then, he gave one of his famous winks and said, ‘Where’s me flamin’ bottle?’ And we both burst out laughing.

  During that summer Dicko taught me how to turn a sheep, tack up a cart horse, mix feed, tell good corn from bad, know when a cow was ‘slacking’ to calve or spot a beast not ‘doing’. He taught me how to observe with a countryman’s eye and follow the signs of nature.

  There was one point of observation for which I shall particularly remember Dicko. We had been slaving all morning to dig a post-hole for the gateway leading from the cow pasture onto the canal lane. From the spot where we were working the land fell away gently, presenting a superb view of the countryside, right down to the river several miles away. Dicko, bare to the waist, his torso glistening with sweat, was resting with his weight on his shovel, when down the lane came a smartly dressed young man with a giggling little blonde on his arm.

  Dicko touched his cap and said, ‘Goodmorning.’

  ‘Digging a hole for that post, eh!’ commented the young gentleman, rather snootily.

  Dicko nodded.

  The young man stepped gingerly forward and peered over the edge.

  ‘Not quite deep enough,’ he said, after some consideration.

  Dicko straightened up on his shovel and I tensed, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘An ’ow would you be knowin’ that, then?’ asked Dicko, slowly.

  ‘I could be wrong,’ replied the young man, with a cocky smile. ‘I’m only a civil engineer, but I’m pretty sure that hole is too shallow.’

  ‘Come along, darling,’ said the girl. ‘Don’t stop the men working.’ Then she gave a little gasp. ‘Oh, look!’ she said, suddenly. ‘Down there. That cow — why hasn’t it got any horns?’

  The young man turned and looked in the direction she was pointing: to an animal grazing near the larch wood, two fields away.

  ‘I say, my dear chap,’ he said, turning to Dicko, who was still leaning on his shovel. ‘You can see it. Tell me, why hasn’t that cow got any horns?’

  I was just about to blurt out a comment, when Dicko caught my eye.

  ‘Well, sir,’ he began, slowly, ‘there be many reasons why cows don’t ’ave horns. Some cows is born without ’em. Some cows gets ’em knocked off. And with some cows, we cuts ’em off. But that animal down there ain’t got horns for a different reason.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the young man. ‘Tell me, now. Why is that?’

  ‘Well, sir, I may be wrong,’ said Dicko, leaning forward and lowering his tone rather confidentially. ‘I’m only a country bloke, but I’m pretty sure that cow down there is a ’orse!’

  That summer at Brynheulog was one of the happiest of my life and, although the prospect of returning to the fog and grime of a Glasgow winter was daunting, my appetite for a country life had been well and truly whetted.

  * * *

  Back in Glasgow, I changed my digs and went to live in a small ‘semi’ in Anniesland, which I shared with a pal of mine. Our landlady and her longsuffering husband had been in service to some gentry in Argyll and had returned to the city to retire. Mrs Maddox treated Jack and me like gentry too, even though we could afford little and her budget was slim. But she was kindness itself, and often when we came in from our studies, cold and wet, she would make us a tonic she called ‘Bosun’s Cream’. It looked not unlike Dicko’s jollop and consisted of milk, whisky, some spice and a raw egg. Mrs Maddox would stand over us, until we, not wishing to offend her by refusing, had consumed the slimy beverage.

  ‘Do you’se like it?’ she would ask, topping up our glasses. I would nod and say it was very good, adding, ‘It’s Jack’s favourite.’ And Jack, who could only just keep the concoction down, would give me hell when we got up to our room.

  Mrs Maddox was a diminutive lady, neat as a new pin and with a heart of gold, but she had one slight weakness: she loved a ‘wee flutter’.

  Twice a week found her at the greyhound track, all on her own, amongst the roughs and toughs of the city, and nearly always she came back with the same tale.

  ‘There I was,’ she would begin, as she took off her hat and carefully removed the long spiky pin. ‘There I was, marking my card. An’ I thought I’d do three and two and four and seven reversed, when this man came and stood in front of me. “What are you’se doing?” asked I. “Five and three and one and six reversed, dearie,” says he. He seemed ever so nice, so I changed — and what do you’se think?’ Mrs Maddox would stand, her coat half off, waiting for our response which invariably came in unison.

  ‘Three and two and four and seven reversed, came up!’

  ‘Ay, it did!’ she would say, shaking her head. ‘I should never have listened to that useless fellow.’ Completely forgetting that it was her fault for being nosey.

  Occasionally she got it right and would be beaming like a little sun when she arrived home. But she rarely brought her winnings, for she would have spent them at the shops where she would buy a chicken for the following day’s dinner.

  ‘A wee treat,’ she would say.

  Which is probably another reason why I shall always regard roast chicken as something rather special.

  Part of the Autumn term was spent under the tuition of the great Professor Bardsley, known affectionately as the Bomber, for if one was unfortunate enough to incur his displeasure he was apt to come down on his victim swiftly and from a great height, with devastating effect.

  At his first lecture he stood before us, dressed sombrely but immaculately in a black suit with tie to match, his shoes sparkling in the lecture room lights. His most distinguishing feature was a mat of heavily greased black hair, topping a sallow complexion and hooked nose that combined to give him the appearance of an up-market funeral director — which was quite apt, considering his subject.

  ‘Pathology!’ he boomed. ‘From the Greek! Pathos — suffering! Logos — discourse!’

  Then he lowered his tone and, in the manner of Talfyn Thomas, Chief Warden of Abergranog, hissed:

  ‘Gentlemen, I am going to teach you about suffering!’

  I never forgot it.

  But the learned Professor led us through the pathways of death and decay carefully and with dignity. He taught that disease and degeneration were not to be regarded as terrible enemies, but part of life’s natural pattern of reaction and response. With this understanding, the clinician was more able to control the conditions and appreciate that, ultimately, even death was part of the orderly but irrevocable process.

  But when the Professor did adopt his ‘Bomber’ tactics, he could reduce anyone by verbal barrage to a heap of dust. For me, his most memorable tirade, after questioning a poor student who never seemed to get anything right, came when in exasperation the Bomber threw up his arms and roared: ‘A million sperms and one of them had to be you!’

  But if Pathology was a ‘dead’ subject, Materia Medica was quite lively fun. Due to some staffing problems at the college, we commenced the subject with lectures given by a temporary tutor, a jovial little Irishman who astounded us on the first day with his opening remarks:

  ‘Materia Medica used to be a lot of balls!’

  He grinned mischievously and, having seen that his comment had achieved the desired effect, qualified it by saying: ‘Horse balls, of course. Balls for coughs. Balls for water. Balls for blood. Balls to stop and balls to start — like I said …’ he peered over the top of his half-rimmed spectacles in anticipation of the inevitable chorus that dutifully arose from the class:

  ‘JUST A LOT OF BALLS!’

  In fact, the 1950s were seeing a tremendous change in human and animal therapy, with the
advent of antibiotics and drugs in injectable form. We were probably some of the last students to learn the practicalities of pharmacy and were taught how to make pills, pack powders and prepare medicines from ingredients whose names suggested hidden powers and mysterious potency: Kamala, Male Fern, Croton Oil and Sweet Spirit of Nitre.

  When the drench or the draught was prepared, each one could be tailor-made for the patient, with a bit of this and a touch of that, all mixed freshly and presented, corked and labelled, in a great glass bottle. Far more impressive than a few millilitres of colourless liquid quickly injected under the skin.

  The instructions for administration were also far more picturesque. ‘A wineglassful to be given in a pint of old ale, morning and night.’ ‘Mix thoroughly in a pint of gruel’ or ‘Dilute with a quart of spring water.’

  We were being taught the art and science of veterinary medicine and I think that in the presentation of their treatments, the old veterinarians extolled the art to the full.

  Another subject I found most fascinating was the study of parasites — worms, flukes, ticks, fleas and countless minute beings that, by their natural ingenuity, were able to exist, feed and reproduce by courtesy of some unsuspecting animal body. Of course, they contributed nothing towards the well-being of their hosts, and the damage they created caused loss of condition and even death as a result, but still, the complexity of their existence could not be discarded lightly.

  There were so many uninvited guests in the animal world — the horse bots that could live quite happily in the stomach without themselves being digested, or the warble fly whose larva burrowed through the skin on a cow’s hoof and migrated through the tissues until it reached the back, where it rested through the winter, breathing through a small hole which it made between the hairs.

  While the parasites may have been insignificant in appearance, many of them rejoiced in names of such grandeur that in some cases they defied pronunciation. There was a minute stomach worm of the horse, four millimetres long, called Paranplocephala mamillana, its name longer than its body. A midge, only a millimetre bigger, known as Phlebotomus papatasii. And it’s quite amazing how some of these names, despite their complexity, can hang on in the memory. There was a small mite found only in Japan, called Trombicula akamushi, that was responsible for a disease called Tsutsugamushi Disease — why I remember it, I do not know and whether this obscure fact will ever be any use to me is doubtful, to say the least. But the student mind functions in weird and wonderful ways and mine was no exception.