by Hugh Lasgarn
‘Nothing! Nothing!’ she repeated, her voice scratchy and witch-like, ‘is ever placed on Mr Hacker’s counter!’
I put my case on the floor and apologised. I’d never really come across a woman of Miss Billings’ type before, but even with my limited experience of dragons, I realised that it was best to tread carefully.
But my adrenalin was still high and my enthusiasm undaunted.
‘What is the emergency?’ I asked manfully. ‘I’ll handle it.’
At this, Miss Billings relaxed, gave a condescending sniff and consulted the ledger, which was obviously very important, being allowed on the counter.
‘It’s a cat with a bone in its throat,’ she said without raising her eyes. ‘Belongs to Mrs Jarvis, Offa’s Close. Mr Hacker Senior always attends Mrs Jarvis’ cat personally, but as he is indisposed and it is an emergency, she will accept someone else.’
I had always imagined emergencies to be big situations. Cows calving, bulls blown or horses injured — a cat with a bone in its throat didn’t seem to have the same kudos.
But to Mrs Jarvis it was no doubt very important — and I would go.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘You can walk,’ Miss Billings advised sharply. ‘It’s only a short way. Go down past the Town Hall and take the first turning left, straight across at the junction and Offa’s Close is at the end. Mrs Jarvis lives in number four, they are alms houses and she is old and very deaf.’
‘Right!’ I said. ‘I’ll go straight away.’
My hand was on the doorknob, but she called me back.
‘Don’t you want anything?’ she enquired, peering over the tops of her horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘Want anything?’ I replied, slightly puzzled.
‘The others usually take a case, with drugs and instruments.’
I released the knob and stepped back towards the sacred counter.
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ she said, and disappeared through the door into another room.
In a few minutes she returned carrying a very smart leather medical case, which she held towards me, but just before I could take it, she withdrew it slightly.
‘You have not been allocated any equipment. Mr Hacker Junior will do that when he returns. I shouldn’t really be doing this, but it’s an emergency and I suppose it will be all right.’ Then she inhaled deeply and the jumper stitches tensed again. ‘This case belongs to Mr Hacker Senior. It will contain all you need, but take exceptional care of it and return it to me as soon as you come back.’
As she presented it to me I was tempted to shake her hand, such was the drama of the moment, but I thought better of it. In fact, it was rather a special occasion, in that here I was, green as grass, going to my first emergency, armed with the case belonging to an illustrious and highly respected veterinarian. Who could have asked for a more momentous initiation into the profession?
To the sound of the clanging bell, I left the surgery, carefully negotiating the step and closing the door firmly behind me. I didn’t glance back at Miss Billings, but put my best foot forward to minister unto Mrs Jarvis’ cat.
Offa’s Close was a group of alms houses which could only be described as quaint. They were set in a quadrangle whose centre was a mixture of rosebeds and grassy places divided by pavestone walkways. Two willow trees and a tidy beech gave shade to the occasional wooden seats.
The dwellings were single storey and built of stone, with delicate lattice windows and studded oak doors. Eight in all, four pairs, and Number Four was Mrs Jarvis.
I rapped the wrought iron knocker confidently, then stood back, clasping G. R. Hacker’s case in front of me. While no movement came from within, I was conscious of being observed from all sides, yet when I turned quickly there was no one, just an occasional quiver of a curtain behind a few of the lattice windows. Just as I was about to knock again I heard a shuffling and gasping, then the flap of the letterbox in the door disappeared inwards and I saw a pair of eyes replace it.
‘Mrs Jarvis!’ I shouted. But the eyes remained immobile. ‘The vet, Mrs Jarvis. I’ve come to see your cat.’
The flap closed and there followed a great creaking and drawing of bolts. Then the studded oak door slowly opened and Mrs Jarvis came into view.
She was a typical ‘little old lady’, grey haired, bespectacled, a dark woollen shawl about her shoulders. She looked up at me and smiled, then turned away and motioned me to follow.
Mrs Jarvis led me into her living room, which again was quaint and just what one might have expected a ‘little old lady’ to live in. Neat, chintzy, with the minimum of walking space, it was more a collection of memories than a habitation. On a mahogany sideboard along one wall was displayed an array of photographs of family, soldiers, nurses, dogs, cats, young people on bicycles, seaside snapshots and the Royal Family. Lustre jugs, willow pattern plates, a boy holding cherries over his head, an Alsatian dog looking skywards, tiny teapots and a cheese dish completed the display.
A square table occupied the centre, covered with a red woollen cloth with tassels around its border.
But the most eye-catching feature of Mrs Jarvis’ homestead was the fireplace. Not just for the pleasant glow of the coals, but complementing the brightness and the warmth of the room was a row of brass candlesticks that surmounted the tall mantelshelf. I had never seen so many in one collection before, ranging from thumbnail size, graduating evenly to a centrepiece at least twelve inches in height, each one balanced by its partner on the opposite side. There must have been fifty in all.
I placed my case, or rather Mr Hacker’s case, on the table. Momentarily, I checked myself, for the last time I had put my case on a table I had been swiftly admonished, but this time there was no reproach.
‘I blame myself,’ said Mrs Jarvis meekly. ‘All because I didn’t look. You see, it’s very rarely I have salmon, but we were all given a piece by the Fishing Club and I left it on the table to cool. Samson jumped up and took it, and the next thing I knew he was choking. He spat and rubbed his mouth and I was so distressed, I didn’t know what to do, but then the Vicar called and saw what had happened, so he phoned Mr Hacker.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but Mr Hacker has gone to hospital, so I have come instead.’
‘Poor Mr Hacker,’ she said. ‘Such a gentleman.’
‘Well now, Mrs Jarvis.’ I began to look for my patient. ‘Where’s the cat?’
She bent down and raised the edge of the red cloth, which hung quite low around the table.
‘There he is,’ she cooed. ‘There’s my Samson. Come out dear, where we can see you.’
In the semi-darkness between the table legs I saw two bright green eyes staring keenly at me. Gradually, as I accustomed to the half light, Samson’s body took shape. He was not as large as his name might have suggested, but his coat was sleek and his movements agile and he came forward in response to Mrs Jarvis’ call. I could see that his mouth was unnaturally half open and his jaws appeared locked, but despite the inconvenience, he still managed to hiss aggressively.
‘No, it’s not Mr Hacker,’ said Mrs Jarvis, addressing Samson, ‘it’s the other gentleman, Mr …’
‘Lasgarn, Hugh,’ I prompted.
‘It’s Mr Lasgarnew,’ she repeated. ‘Are you foreign?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘Welsh,’ I said.
But the information didn’t impress Samson at all as, still hissing through his jammed mouth, he leaped onto an armchair and sat on the cushion in a guarded manner.
‘Perhaps I can take a closer look,’ I offered and made a move forward, but Samson was ready and stood up immediately as if to make a quick departure.
‘Now don’t be silly,’ reprimanded Mrs Jarvis, approaching her cat and wagging her finger at him. ‘Mr Lasgarnew wants to help you. Sorry about this,’ she added demurely. ‘Normally he’s quite good, but when he wants to, he can be a real bugger!’
Before I could even raise my eyebrows, she had grabbed Samson and quite uncerem
oniously lifted him onto the table.
I quickly steadied him by grasping his scruff, forcing him downwards, and he lay still, submitting to the pressure.
‘Are you all right?’ I shouted to Mrs Jarvis.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her face grim with concentration. ‘I can manage this end for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking to myself that there was more to this sweet little old lady than met the eye. ‘Now let’s have a look at his mouth.’ Still holding firmly to his scruff, I extended my grip to clamp my thumb and forefinger either side of Samson’s head. As I rotated it gradually, putting pressure on the angle of his jaws, with my other hand I slowly depressed his lower jaw. Samson moaned evilly but did not resist, and as I widened the aperture I saw, jammed across the top of his mouth, a thin spicule of fishbone.
‘I can see it,’ I said. ‘Next thing is to get it out.’ I decided that this was no finger operation, as Samson’s teeth were needle-sharp and his attitude unco-operative to say the least.
‘If you can hang on,’ I shouted, ‘I’ll see if there is an instrument in the case.’
Mrs Jarvis nodded and her scrawny hands tensed with effort as she restrained Samson.
Mr Hacker’s case, when open, revealed three drawers. The lower one contained bottles of injections and pills, the middle one, syringes, a thermometer and a black stethoscope, while in the top one were surgical instruments for suturing wounds.
My eye fell upon a long thin artery forceps, somewhat like a pair of scissors, but with ridged jaws instead of blades. Just the thing, and taking the instrument I again grasped Samson’s head and squeezed his cheeks. His moaning increased in volume, but he did not resist unduly, and I was able to get a good grip on the bone. But pulling it out was another matter. Despite a firm tug, it wouldn’t budge. Three times I tried, but it was solidly wedged.
‘I don’t think it’s going to come,’ I commented loudly.
‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed Mrs Jarvis, and with that took her hands away from the sleek black body.
Samson needed no further invitation to escape. In a flash his whole body tensed and with claws extended, he drew backwards, cagging the red tasselled tablecloth as he went. As soon as he was beyond my grasp he changed direction and charged forward, scrambling over Mr Hacker’s medical case which unbalanced and, with the drawers sliding out, discharged all the medical aids onto the floor. The red tasselled tablecloth followed it. But Samson was clear and in full flight as, like greased lightning, he leaped onto the mahogany sideboard. Pictures and pots went flying, the lid of the cheese dish came adrift, the Alsatian, still staring skywards, was swung round violently and the boy lost his cherries.
Mrs Jarvis and I watched helplessly as Samson continued his career of destruction by leaping onto the curtains. Momentarily his claws held him firm, but his weight was too much for the rail and down came the lot; yet before either of us could make a move, he had miraculously extricated himself and climbed back onto the windowsill.
Shooting a hateful glance at me, he spat loudly, then soared through the air to land on the back of the armchair where he sat and cocked his head quizzically, as if to say, ‘Want to see any more?’ Then, with an evil smirk on his pointed black face, he looked up at the mantelshelf, on which stood the fifty brass candlesticks, arranged in ascending and descending order.
‘Oh, no! Samson!’ I shouted. ‘Not up there!’
I am sure the black devil winked at me first, before executing a perfectly measured leap from the armchair to the edge of the mantelshelf, and with one defiant look at me ran the length of the line, peeling every single one of the brass candlesticks from its perch as neatly as a set of collapsing dominoes.
Down they came, small ones, large ones, largest one and down the line again. One by one, they hit the cast iron fender and the pokers and tongs with an almighty continuous clatter that would have awakened the dead. Even Mrs Jarvis, deaf as she was, put her hands to her ears.
When the pandemonium subsided and everything had stopped moving I looked about for the black villain, only to discover him sitting quietly beneath the table, whence he had first started, cleaning his paws.
I turned to face Mrs Jarvis, not knowing what to expect or what to say, and to my profound amazement discovered her to be smiling.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘Sorry he was naughty.’
‘But, I haven’t …’ I started. Then I realised that if Samson was licking his paws, the bone must have shifted and, looking at the forceps, I discovered the offending obstruction clamped firmly between its jaws.
The devastation did not seem to perturb Mrs Jarvis in any way, and when I offered to replace the candlesticks she said she would clean them first, and that it had saved her the bother of getting down, as being so short she found it quite difficult. I re-assembled Mr Hacker’s case and collected up the contents. To my sheer good fortune it appeared undamaged. All the while Samson maintained his position and warily watched my every movement.
Mrs Jarvis returned from the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Mr Hacker’s indisposition, Mr Lasgarnew,’ she said. ‘I do hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘Something to do with his throat, I believe,’ I explained. ‘He’s been intending to have it seen to for some time. That’s why I am here, to help out.’
‘Do give him this.’ She held up a small jar of pickled onions. ‘And wish him all the best from Samson and me.’
I thanked her and, taking my case, made for the door.
‘I shall tell Mr Hacker how clever you were, when next I see him,’ she said, as she closed the door. And I felt rather pleased.
But Mr Hacker never knew, for although he had come through the operation quite well, he suffered a sudden relapse and, following a cardiac arrest, he died that night.
* * *
That tragic and completely unexpected event made all the difference to my starting work, for although when I returned to the surgery after the fishbone episode and met Mr Hacker Junior, who sorted out my equipment and introduced me to LCJ 186, my Ford car, I saw little of him for the next fortnight. There was much confusion in the practice following the news; Miss Billings, however, who had been terribly shocked and upset, completely altered her attitude to me and became most helpful and cooperative.
But it was McBean who was a pillar of strength and a tremendous aid to me in those early days, taking the lion’s share of the work, while I saw the occasional dog and cat in the surgery or handled straightforward jobs, such as lame cows, coughing calves, pigs off their food and horses with mild colic.
McBean was a Belfast Irishman who had qualified from university some six years before me and had spent five of them in Ledingford. Short and stocky, he spoke with a deep Irish brogue, prefacing nearly every statement with ‘Well, now!’ His manner of dress was more casual than untidy, showing a preference for ex-army purchases at bargain prices. To this effect he sported khaki shirts and trousers and heavy boots, adding colour with a Fair Isle pullover and green tweed jacket. The other constant feature was a flat cap which he wore at a rakish angle.
One advantage from Mr Hacker’s unfortunate demise was that I was readily accepted by the clients, who were so upset at what had happened that, for the first few days, they never really questioned my inexperience and mostly seemed reasonably satisfied with my diagnosis and treatment. I bowled around in my little Ford car, feeling on top of the world and so very, very happy.
But my confidence was severely tested when, early in my first week, McBean asked me to go to Donhill Court.
‘Well, now!’ he began. ‘Paxton of Donhill is a very influential and wealthy man and a wicked devil to work for! Mr Hacker Senior was the only man who could really handle him, but he’ll not be getting him today, however much he rants,’ he added somewhat irreverently. ‘I will say this though, the man’s got a fine pedigree herd, with some really good stock, but he thinks that all we do is sit on our bums and wait for him to ring. Whenever he wants a vet,
he wants him yesterday — everything is a dire emergency to Paxton and every cow that’s sick is always his best and most valuable beast.’ McBean gave a grunt of disgust, then continued. ‘Now I’ve got one hound of a round south of the river, so it’s your good fortune to have to take the call, Hugh.’ He stroked his straggling moustache thoughtfully. ‘But, well, now! It’ll be good experience for you,’ he finished.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Should be no problem. It’s a cow, his best cow no less, with a swelling on her jaw. Now it could be an “actino” — you’re familiar with that?’
I nodded, for I had already seen the slow-growing jaw bone infection of cattle, when I was with C. J. Pink.
‘Intravenous iodine,’ I suggested.
He nodded. ‘Make sure it’s in the vein. Now, what else could it be?’
‘Tooth problem?’
‘Possible,’ he agreed.
‘Abscess?’
‘Yes,’ said McBean emphatically. ‘Yes. Yes. In fact that’s what Big Head Paxton thinks it is. Of course, he always knows better than anyone else. But remember this, Hugh; you’ve trained for five years on animal symptoms and diseases and so, no matter what buck he gives you, you make your own diagnosis and stick to it. Don’t get upset by his attitude — you know more than he does. Good luck to you, now!’
I pondered McBean’s remarks as I drove out of the city. The directions to Donhill Court were quite clear: five miles north of Easthope, through the village for another two miles, passing an old quarry on the left, and the farmstead was just beyond it, standing grandly upon a ridge about a quarter of a mile from the road.
From the moment the car crossed the well-maintained cattle grid that guarded the wide entrance to a pot-hole-free, asphalt driveway leading through the meadows, I could tell that Donhill Court was exceedingly well run. Hedges were trim, with no gaps, and the fences firm and tidy. A group of lively but inquisitive Hereford heifers kicked their heels and followed the car at a gallop on the other side of the rails, to the edge of their pasture.