by Hugh Lasgarn
Nearer the buildings the road began to rise and then forked, the left-hand route running to the residence, which was set apart from the buildings and very impressive. It was a large house, brick built and three storeys tall, with panelled windows peeping through a well established Virgina creeper that adorned the front and near side. French windows with lined red velvet curtains led out to a terrace overlooking a grass tennis court, while a sloping porchway at the front appeared to be full of exotic plants and gave access to a well-tended rose garden.
The right fork, which I took, led to a large open yard. I drove in, taking a wide sweep — the little Ford’s turning circle not being all that tight — to finish up facing the direction I had come. At least, I thought to myself, I could make a reasonably quick get-away if necessary.
As I swung round, my eye caught Mr Paxton talking to a thin-faced fellow in a lumpy cap and brown stock coat. Talking seemed rather a weak description of the action; from the domineering attitude of the larger man, it appeared to be more of an ultimatum. In fact, it was for that reason that I assumed the aggressor was Mr Paxton.
He gave the impression that he was either leaving for, or had just returned from a funeral or some other formal occasion, for he was clad in a bowler hat, black city coat with a rose in the buttonhole and shining black shoes. In his hand he grasped a silver-topped cane, which he persistently tapped on the ground. I was later to learn that he attired himself thus for most of the year, the only concession to warmer weather being to remove the overcoat, revealing a black suit beneath.
As I drew to a halt, he concluded his chastisement of the unfortunate fellow in the brown stock coat and turned his attention to me.
Taking a deep breath, I got out of the car and slammed the door confidently. The little Ford shuddered at the shock and the bottles in the boot jangled together rather cheaply. Clearing my throat, I walked over to him.
‘Mr Paxton?’
He stopped tapping his cane and screwed up his eyes. For the first time I noticed his great bushy eyebrows that seemed to disappear in a rather devilish fashion under his bowler hat.
‘Who are you?’ he roared.
‘Hugh Lasgarn. Mr Hacker … the late Mr Hacker’s assistant,’ I replied.
‘My God!’ said Paxton, still scrutinising me keenly. ‘You come by yourself?’
It was pretty obvious that I had. It was a baited question and I felt my neck go a little cold.
‘How long have you been qualified, then?’ Paxton placed both hands on his cane and rocked back slightly on his heels. This was another testing question, but I came back quickly.
‘Long enough,’ I replied.
He didn’t follow up his enquiry, but changed the line of his interrogation.
‘Where’s young Hacker?’
‘Busy with arrangements.’
‘McBean?’
‘Has a lot of work south of the river.’
Paxton started to breathe heavily; his face darkened and his jugulars bulged like drainpipes.
‘This won’t do!’ he shouted, banging the cane on the ground. ‘This won’t do! I pay that firm a fortune every year and I expect service. Experienced service!’ He glared directly at me, his eyes showing red. ‘There are other vets, you know,’ he stormed, waving the cane about, so that the brown-coated stockman, who had been standing nervously by, took a step backward. ‘Other vets who’d only be too ready to do my work!’ He really did look evil as he rested his cane on the ground again, his thumb twitching involuntarily on the silver knob.
‘It’s very unfortunate circumstances,’ I said, trying to make my voice firm. But in the face of the unwarranted tirade, my throat had become dry. ‘Mr Hacker will be a great loss to the farmers.’
‘Farmers!’ he bawled arrogantly, as if he were a class above. ‘Farmers! That doesn’t help me!’
He turned and was about to stalk away. What a pig of a man this is, I thought. My temper rose and my voice, though raised, came firm and clear.
‘Nobody could help you!’ I shouted after him angrily.
It stopped him in his tracks. He didn’t face me immediately, he just stood, staring at the ground. Then, suddenly, he turned and raised his cane. This was great, I thought, two days in practice and about to be slung off a farm. But I was wrong, for Paxton pointed the cane at his man and said:
‘Mason, show him the cow.’
The stockman gave him a subservient bow. Then, with a nod of his thin head, he beckoned me to follow.
The farm really was a showpiece, with not a door unpainted, brick out of place or the slightest smell of anything remotely relating to livestock. Two long avenues led from the yard, each one lined by looseboxes, very much in the manner of a racing stable.
But the occupants were all bulls, some of whom pushed their great heads out over the doors and snorted belligerently as we passed, obviously having the same attitude to life as their owner.
Mason opened a door at the end of the row and went inside. I followed him into a spotlessly clean and airy box, to find, standing knee-deep in golden straw, a large placid Hereford cow with a lump on the right side of her face.
‘This is ’er,’ Mason said, the first time he had uttered a word. ‘Oyster Maiden the Third. One of the best.’
‘Her first two calves were champions and she’s a champion herself!’ It was Paxton, who had followed us and was leaning over the door. ‘I want to show her this season and I don’t want her messed about, d’you understand? Lance it deep and clean, and I don’t want any scar to show!’
Mason slipped a white cotton rope halter over Oyster’s head and pulled her around for me to see. The swelling was quite obvious, about the size of a small apple, situated midway between the chin and the angle of the lower right jaw.
‘I want no fiddling and poulticing with this,’ continued Paxton. ‘I want it cleared up!’
‘How long has she had it?’ I enquired.
‘How long, Mason?’ Paxton roared.
‘About … about two or three days, boss,’ he stuttered nervously. ‘Come up quite quick, it did.’
‘Can she eat?’ I asked.
‘Can she eat, Mason?’ came the loud echo.
‘Yes. Yes, I think so, boss.’ Mason’s hand shook at the end of the halter.
‘Think so! Think so!’ bellowed Paxton. ‘Yes or no, man?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ Mason was now visibly quaking.
‘Hold her steady,’ I said. ‘I want to feel it.’
Gently I ran my fingers over and around the protuberance. Oyster Maiden the Third made no movement when I touched it and, even when I pressed it hard, showed no sign of distress. The sides felt fairly firm, but the top was softer, as if it was coming to a head; yet there was no heat in it.
‘Seems a bit low for a tooth problem and as it’s come up so quickly, it’s most unlikely to be “Lumpy Jaw”,’ I commented, ‘Lumpy Jaw’ being the colloquial term for an ‘actino’.
‘Don’t start “umming”’ and “aaring”,’ said Paxton impatiently. ‘It’s an abscess and wants lancing!’
I studied the lump more closely. I really wasn’t very keen to lance it as I would need to cut very deep and the chances of healing without a blemish would be slim. If it was given time and allowed to burst naturally it would be safer and more likely to heal better, but with Paxton breathing down my neck I had to try and be positive. Of course, the fact that I was only there for thirty days might let me off the hook, for I would be far away by the show season anyway — but that philosophy didn’t suit. I could feel the old tyrant’s influence pressurising me, so I decided to play for time.
‘I’d like to feel inside the mouth,’ I said finally. ‘Just to check on the lining of the cheek.’
‘You can see it’s an abscess, man!’ Paxton snapped. ‘What more do you want?’
‘I’ll get a gag,’ I said, ignoring his comment, and pushed the half door, forcing him to move. I went back to the car to get the instrument and also to collect my thoughts. ‘N
o matter what buck he gives you, you know more than he does,’ McBean had said. At that precise moment, I wasn’t too sure. But even so, I was determined not to be rushed.
Drinkwater’s gag is an extremely useful piece of veterinary equipment and can save the fingers from being badly damaged when examining a bovine mouth. Although a cow has no upper front teeth, the upper back teeth are present and, in conjunction with the lower ones, form a very efficient grinding machine.
The gag is simple in design, being fashioned from aluminium and about the size of a hand. Oval at one end, to fit at the back of the mouth between the jaws, it has a grooved top and bottom to accommodate the upper and lower molar teeth on the side opposite to the one being examined, rather like a wedge.
With Mason holding Oyster’s head firmly with the halter, I slipped the gag between her left jaws. She took it well and, after a bit of a shuffle, stood quietly with her mouth jammed open. Rolling up my sleeves, I grasped the rough slippery tongue and examined the gums of that side, which felt perfectly normal; but when I probed a little further I made a most extraordinary discovery. There was a swelling all right, but it was quite independent of the cheek, teeth or gums. In fact, my fingers were able to run right round it. When I squeezed it, it depressed and when I pulled it — it came away in my hand.
Gradually I withdrew my arm to bring the object into sight. Mason blinked incredulously at what he saw.
‘Abscess?’ grunted Paxton, from behind. For, with my back to him, he had been unable to see what was going on.
‘No, Mr Paxton. It isn’t!’ I said, still with my back to him.
‘What d’yer mean, “It isn’t”!’ he retorted grumpily.
I turned to face him and held up my find.
‘It’s a tennis ball!’
Paxton’s eyes nearly popped.
‘The hair’s all gone, but it’s a ball all right — jammed between the cheek and the jaw. Good job I didn’t lance it, Mr Paxton, isn’t it!’ Even with my limited experience of practice, I knew I was the winner.
‘Where the hell …?’ Paxton fumed.
‘That bunch have been grazing the paddock next to the tennis lawn for the past week,’ said Mason hesitantly.
‘Them dam’ girls,’ raged Paxton. ‘I’ll stop their games, I will! Mason, you scour that paddock and don’t you leave any dam’ tennis balls or anything else there. Hear me! That could have choked my best cow! Those nieces of mine will have to be more careful!’
‘Lucky escape,’ I added, when he went off the boil. ‘Could have caused complications, though, if it hadn’t been removed.’
‘Will she want any more treatment?’ asked Paxton.
‘I’ll leave some drenches for her. There’s a bit of bruising where it was stuck and we don’t want to take any risks.’ I gradually eased the Drinkwater from Oyster’s mouth.
‘Whatever you say,’ said Paxton. ‘Give Mason full instructions.’
‘I’d like to wash my hands,’ I said.
‘Mason, get some water. And when you’ve done …’ he looked questioningly at me.
‘Lasgarn,’ I prompted. ‘Hugh Lasgarn.’
‘Lasgarn,’ he repeated. ‘You’re not foreign?’
‘Welsh,’ I informed him.
‘Same thing,’ he grunted. ‘I want Lasgarn to look at Warrior — get him out on the yard.’ As he stumped off, I collected my things and took them back to the car. Mason arrived shortly with a bucket of hot water, soap and a sparkling white towel, and I washed up.
I was wondering who or what Warrior was, when Mason re-appeared. He was not a small man, but the hulk that he was leading slowly across the yard completely dwarfed him. At the end of a bull rope and staff, clipped into a big brass nose ring, was the largest bull I had ever seen in my life.
One ton of powerful muscle and surging blood, his deep mahogany coat contrasting sharply with the snow white of his magnificent head and crest, while his tail, thick as a tree trunk, flicked relentlessly behind. He approached and lowered his massive head to display a pair of mighty horns. Fearsome weapons if ever they were needed, but there was little doubt, as Warrior rippled his muscular crest and gave an impatient snort from his wide nostrils, that few, if any, would ever dare to challenge this majestic creature.
‘This is some bull,’ I said, as he turned sideways, casting a shadow over both me and my Ford car. ‘He is superb.’
‘Walk him around, Mason.’ Paxton waved his cane. ‘This is my stock bull,’ he informed me. ‘Finest blood in the breed; his pedigree goes way back to the Grove family. It was a Grove bull that went to America and from him they bred half the cattle in Texas. Fine bull,’ he said proudly, as Warrior paraded before us. ‘Good worker, hundred per cent fertile and worth a lot of money. There’s many as would like to get their hands on Warrior.’ He tapped his cane on the ground with a staccato effect. ‘Now, Lasgarn, have a good look at him. Tell me what you think.’ Paxton started to hum quietly and turned away, as if to detach himself from my examination. I watched Warrior carefully as he moved ponderously about the yard. Taking my time, I followed him up and down several times. I stood ahead of him and watched the movement of his forelimbs; then, I stood behind to check his action at the back.
As if I had been allotted a certain fixed period to come up with the answer, Paxton suddenly cracked the ground with his cane and, swinging round, called, ‘Right! What have you to say?’
‘Just a minute,’ I said, not even looking at the old man. ‘Hold him up, Mason, let me have a close look at his feet.’
Mason drew to a halt.
Warrior’s feet were clean and well trimmed, but it wasn’t difficult to spot the thick folds of tender tissue wedged between his back toes. Even as I watched, the great bull raised one of his feet uneasily and shifted his weight.
‘Well?’ said Paxton irritably. ‘Well?’
‘Corns!’ I exclaimed. ‘He’s tender behind.’
‘I know that!’ The cane banged the ground again. ‘What can you do about them?’
‘What’s been tried?’ I asked.
‘What have we tried?’ Paxton threw back his head and snorted, just like one of his bulls. ‘Everything under the sun! Lotions, potions, washes, and ointments. Supplements in the feed, vitamins and even some raspberry leaf tea, which he drank by the gallon!’
Warrior started to paw the ground ominously, as if he was getting rather fed up with the conversation.
‘He’s worth a lot of money, and if his back end goes — well, he’s half the herd, is Warrior. Well, Lasgarn, what do you suggest?’
‘It’s his tremendous weight,’ I said. ‘When you think of the surface area the soles of his feet have to carry, it’s not surprising the skin bulges between his toes. When he walks it gets pinched and forms a corn, and the more it grows — the more it hurts.’
‘I know all that!’ stormed Paxton. ‘I’ve been in cattle since your arse was the size of a shirt button. What I want to know is, as a brand new vet, have you got any brilliant ideas!’
‘Cut them out!’ I answered.
For a second time that morning Paxton’s eyes nearly popped out.
‘Cut them out!’ he nearly screamed, in such a tone that even Warrior stopped pawing and looked round to see what was going on. ‘Cut them out! Are you mad? You’re not taking a knife to that bull, I can tell you!’ And mumbling fiercely to himself, he took off across the yard in anger.
‘You serious?’ asked Mason, when the old man had disappeared out of sight.
‘I’ve never seen it done,’ I admitted, ‘but that’s what they recommended at the university.’
‘Oh! university!’ said Mason, nodding his head, as if that explained everything, and, giving Warrior a gentle tug on the halter, he led the great bull away.
When work had finished that evening, McBean offered to buy me a drink. Over a pint in the Hopman Arms, I told him what had happened at Donhill Court. He listened intently, stroking his moustache and punctuating my story with an occasional ‘Well, n
ow!’ When I told him how Paxton’s eyes popped when I held up the tennis ball, he roared with laughter, slapped his thighs and said:
‘Hugh, lad, dear old Hacker would have loved that. What a pity he missed it. Good for you, Hugh!’
‘Then he asked me to look at Warrior,’ I continued.
‘Did he now!’ said McBean, his face becoming serious. ‘My word, Hugh, you were honoured. Apart from Mr Hacker Senior, no one from this practice has ever been asked to do that.’
‘Well, he showed him to me,’ I said.
‘What was the trouble?’ McBean sat up straight on his stool and showed more than passing interest.
‘Corns,’ I answered.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Persistent problem. Mr Hacker tried most things; I suppose the old fart asked you for a cure.’
‘Yes, he did,’ I replied.
‘What did you say?’ McBean asked.
‘Cut them out!’
‘Cut them out?’ McBean exploded into the pint pot he was just bringing to his lips. ‘You didn’t say, “Cut them out”, did you?’
I nodded.
‘Mother Mary, Hugh! How are you going to do that?’
‘With an anaesthetic, of course.’
‘Anaesthetic, with a bull of that size?’ McBean shook his head. ‘Too much of a risk, young man. Too much of a risk. Lord save us, if that Warrior should snuff it while you’re cutting away his corns …’ The Irishman made a spluttering sound and threw his hands up to indicate a bomb exploding. ‘Goodbye, Hugh!’ His last action reminded me of Talfyn Thomas and the Germans and, thinking it over, I could see that Paxton’s reaction under those circumstances would be equally as hostile.
‘What did Paxton say?’ McBean was now perched precariously, right on the very edge of his stool.
‘He said I was mad. And that nobody was going to take a knife to his bull. Then he tore off in a rage.’
‘Thank God for that!’ McBean rubbed his forehead earnestly. ‘That could just have been a bit of a problem.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It was a bit rash to jump in like that.’