by Hugh Lasgarn
‘Never mind,’ said McBean, ‘it’s early days yet. But remember, Hugh, what you say, you must be able to back up. Always weigh up the risks versus the results, because in this game they take miracles for granted — they only remember you by your mistakes!’
‘I’m a bit green yet,’ I said disconsolately.
‘Green — not a bit of it,’ said McBean, gathering up the glasses. ‘Why, when I started, I was so green I thought an “abbattoir” was a French tart’s bedroom!’ and laughing heartily at his own expense, he bought another round.
* * *
I took digs with a spinster lady in Church Road, Putsley, about two miles from the surgery, in a substantially built three-bedroomed semi. It had been recommended by McBean and, when I called, I decided it would be most acceptable on two counts. Firstly, the landlady was Welsh, originating from Pembrokeshire, and secondly, because of the sign hanging in her hall. It was in gold lettering on an oblong piece of black wood, hanging next to the hallstand, and it read:
‘The more I see of people, the more I like my dog.’
The odd thing was that it was far from apt, for Doris Bradley — or Brad as she was known — loved people and had a heart of gold. Neither did she have a dog, but instead owned two fat and contented cats.
I paid three pounds and ten shillings weekly for bed, breakfast and evening meal, with a bedroom of my own and sharing the lounge and dining room with the other lodger, a Cockney lad of about my own age.
The first night I met him, I thought how alike to Elvis Presley, except that his hair was blond, not black. But the style was the same, curly and profuse at the front, severely slashed back at the sides and heavily greased. He was tall and well built, his shoulders adequately filling his powder-blue drape jacket. Drainpipe trousers, winkle picker shoes, heavily buckled belt and from his neck, filling the gap in his open embroidered shirt, hung a medallion on a gold chain. He pushed out a ringed and braceleted hand.
‘Charlie Love’s the name,’ he announced. ‘Love by name and love by nature.’
‘Hugh Lasgarn,’ I replied, grasping his palm firmly. He had a good handshake, despite his pretty looks.
‘Odd moniker that. Where you from?’
‘I’m from Wales.’
‘Ah! I was in Wales once. Used to go out with a girl from Merthyr Tydfil. Teddy bear stuffer, she was, in a toy factory.’ Charlie winked wickedly. ‘Oow!! She was a little raver. Lucky ole’ teddy bears, eh!’ He rubbed his hands warmly together. ‘Lumpy old country though, is Wales.’
He then produced a comb from his back trouser pocket and, turning to the mirror over the fire-place, proceeded to sweep it deftly through his greasy locks, following its passage rhythmically with the other hand.
‘D’you know why it’s so lumpy, Hubert?’ he asked, still preening his locks in the mirror.
‘Hugh,’ I reminded him, but before I could add anything else, he turned about, slid the comb back into his pocket, folded his arms and said: ‘Well, my son, I’ll tell you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, no disrespect to you, Hubert,’ he began, ‘but the Welsh have always been a thieving lot of bas …’ he broke off and shook his head sagely. ‘Many years ago, they used to come over the wall, raping and pillaging and generally getting up to a bit of nonsense; and amongst doing all sorts of naughty things, they stole a lot of land. Now, when they got it all back home, they found they had too much. So, what did they do?’ He eyed me quizzically. ‘They piled it all up in heaps, didn’t they? That’s why you’ve got so many bleedin’ hills down there, Hubert. Surely you know that?’
Charlie tried hard to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t for long and broke into raucous laughter, subsiding with a flop into an adjacent armchair. Then he pulled out a packet of Player’s from the breast pocket of his embroidered shirt.
‘Smoke, Hubert?’ He offered one up.
I shook my head. ‘No thanks.’ Charlie then took what appeared to be a gold lighter and, with a great flourish, lit up, closed his eyes, inhaled, then, taking the cigarette from his lips, blew a great stream of grey-blue smoke into the air.
‘You’re a vet, Brad tells me,’ he continued. ‘Bit in the same way myself.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked with interest, wondering what occupation this city character and I could possibly have in common.
‘Butchery!’ he replied, grinning. ‘Presentation of the finished article, you might say.’
I would never have guessed.
‘The guv’nor I work for is very, very sharp.’ Charlie tapped his nose with his right-hand index finger in the manner of C. J. Pink, although there the resemblance ended. ‘Setting up butcher’s shops all over, he is. I come down to give it the treatment. Get it going — “Love the Shove”, you might say, an’ then of course you might not.’ He dragged deeply on his cigarette. ‘It’s the old chat that gets them going; they love the patter: ‘“Owe abart a bit o’ skirt then, darlin’!”’ he shouted out. ‘“Try some of our sausages — keep your old man on his toes!”’ There was not doubt about it, I could see he had the touch.
‘Then, when it’s ticking over nice, I move on to the next one.’ His face took on the satisfied look of a man who knew he was a success and, from the way he chirped on, I could see why the housewives loved it.
But as well as the chat and the Teddy Boy style, Charlie was a grafter, out at six every morning and often back after me at night.
It was because of Charlie that we ate well at Brad’s, for he often brought home steak, chops or sausages from his work and would never let Brad or me pay anything towards it. The more I got to know him, the more I liked his extrovert ways; his jokes and constant chatter, and his individual approach to life, were in such contrast to what I was beginning to find in Herefordshire.
The practice was very extensive and took in a wide variety of agricultural husbandry: from the Black Mountains in the west, with ancient stone farmsteads, mountain sheep and wild ponies — where everyone was either a Morgan, a Powell or a Watkins — to the lush watermeadows along the river and the hop farms to the east.
Hop farms were new to me and reminiscent of the stories I had read about the cotton plantations of the Deep South of America. They were expansive properties with grand, imposing residences, solid, red-bricked barns, cattle yards and pinnacle-roofed kilns. The hop yards stretched for miles over gently undulating countryside, dormant and naked in winter, awaiting spring when, flushing green, the bines would swarm the poles in flourishing growth.
Hop farming families, too, were old-established, ruling their fertile empires not unlike eastern potentates. The owners were often large, red faced and jolly, their wives well-dressed and haughty, their sons wild and the daughters pretty.
The workers, too, were also long-established. Bent, animal-wise cowmen, knowledgeable shepherds; strong young farm-hands, father followed by son, as in the grand houses were the cooks and the maids, daughter following mother.
‘Master’ and ‘Mistress’ were still accepted titles, but without any subservience by their staff; it just came naturally, through long-standing respect and loyalty.
It was, indeed, like going back several decades, and during my childhood in Abergranog and my student days at Glasgow University, I had never realised that such relationships and life-styles still existed.
The livestock reflected the rich and fertile living, with magnificent pedigree Herefords, fat Clun and Kerry sheep and fine thoroughbred horses grazing the pastures. Orchards abounded with low-slung trees, that in their time gave fruit to eat and fruit to crush for cider — another of the county’s famous products that I was soon to taste and learn to respect.
Red earth, red cattle, red apples — that was the pattern, and in the early days, as I wended my way through the highways and byways, over hump-backed bridges and mountain tracks, I realised that it was everything a country vet could wish for.
Doris Bradley was in her early fifties, dark-haired, full-figured and pleasant. She was usually attired in print dresses that she made
herself, tightly gathered at the waist, short ankle socks and sandals. Her mode of transport was a green Raleigh bicycle with a three-speed hub. She only ever used the bottom gear which was very low, so that her legs would make at least ten turns to every yard and she would appear to be peddling fast but going nowhere.
But Brad cared for us with sincere dedication, like a second mother. Her life had already been one of service devoted to her parents, who had suffered ill health for a considerable time and had both died a few years previously. With little savings and no income, taking in lodgers had become a necessity.
She had never married, but had been engaged in the early forties to a young naval officer whose photo, showing him smartly attired in uniform with cap under arm, stood in a silver frame in the centre of the sideboard. But his ship had been torpedoed in the Atlantic and all hands lost.
To this day, I have never really appreciated what a good soul she was, for apart from looking after Charlie and myself, she cleaned and carried for several old folk nearby and was always visiting the sick, or sewing and washing for someone in need. To me she gave a ‘24-hour’ service, and well do I remember my first night on duty.
It was the Saturday at the end of my first full week and Mr Hacker Senior’s son, Bob, who was now head of the practice, asked me if I would be on call. I stayed up until eleven, then decided to go to bed and was soon in a deep sleep.
I was awakened by a jogging movement at my left shoulder; at first I shook it off and tried to settle down, but it persisted and I turned over and opened my eyes.
It was Brad in her night attire:
‘The ’phone, Mr Lasgarn. It’s Mr Hacker!’
I took a little time to get orientated and was still not quite with it when I reached the hallway and picked up the receiver.
‘That you, Hugh?’ It was Bob Hacker’s voice.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ I replied.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, fine. I just woke up a bit quickly, that’s all.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘One of the pleasures of being a vet.’ I didn’t quite appreciate his sense of humour at the time and he continued: ‘Amos Breeze at Gwyllicwmbach has got a cow down. Sounds like a milk fever, she calved yesterday. Can you handle it?’
‘Gwylli … where?’ I asked.
‘Gwyllicwmbach, down towards your country. Take the Abergavenny road to Pendulas, turn sharp left by the Council offices, up the hill for about a mile and you’ll see a barn by the roadside; then you pass a telephone box on the right. Go on down the slope and turn left at the bottom, and two hundred yards on turn sharp right, then up the lane to Sunnybank Farm.’
I hastily scribbled the directions on the pad.
‘Nice old boy,’ Bob Hacker added. ‘Lives on his own. Manage it all right?’
‘Yes, sure,’ I replied, feeling far more awake.
‘Good luck!’ said Bob and clicked off.
‘I’ve made some coffee and cut some sandwiches for you. Now I’ll go and open the front gates,’ said Brad from the kitchen doorway. ‘What a shame you have to go out at this time of night.’
‘One of the pleasures of being a vet,’ I replied, and thanked her for waking me. ‘But I can do the gates.’
‘You go and change,’ she said and, as I went back upstairs, I thought how kind-hearted she was and what a wonderful wife she would have made that poor lost sailor.
The little Ford obliged by starting first pull. At just on midnight its co-operation was very welcome, for it could be a bit obstinate at times, having already endured over 40,000 veterinary miles in the hands of McBean, who had now graduated to a more modern Ford Prefect.
‘Veterinary miles are different from ordinary miles,’ McBean told me once, ‘and to be driven by a vet is a unique experience for any car. It’s no myth that vets aren’t like ordinary drivers. You see, it all stems from early training when everything was related to the horse.’ He then expounded his theory.
‘There was a time when our profession consisted solely of horse doctors, rather than vets. Although, there’s a very great difference between doctoring and vetting, as any self-respecting tom cat will tell you,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘But although our outlook with respect to livestock has changed, our relationship with the horse is still very strong and that’s why vets’ driving style is so special. They don’t just sit there and steer, they drive as they would ride a horse, urging the cars on, coaxing them up hills, easing them around bends and skidding them to a halt. You watch a vet drive: he sits on the edge of his seat, crouching lightly over the wheel to keep his centre of gravity forward, like riding a racehorse. If he overtakes, you’ll notice he gives only a fleeting glance to the opposition as he forces his mount forward. Of course,’ he concluded, ‘my theory also explains why you often see vets’ cars perched on hedges or upside-down in ditches, because they sometimes get carried away; they think they are at a point-to-point!’
I smiled to myself as I drove along the Abergavenny road when I thought of McBean’s theory; there was no doubt about it, vets did drive differently, and my mind went back to C. J. Pink, who manoeuvred his car in a series of straight lines, driving sedately at thirty miles an hour on main roads and about eighty around farm lanes.
Little LCJ 186 was my first car and, even in the short time I had driven it, I had come to realise that it had a personality all its own. It was not very stylish, being more of a ‘sit up and beg’ type of design; black with two doors and quite high off the ground, which was an advantage around the rutted tracks. Being a utility model, there were no refinements, no heater or washers. I remember asking McBean what the potatoes were for in the parcel shelf, thinking I was being humorous; I was quite taken aback when he explained that, if the windscreen should freeze, a potato cut in half and rubbed on the outside would clear it. He then showed me how it was possible to do this while in motion, by curling the right arm through the passenger window and on to the front to act like an extra windscreen wiper.
After a few days I had to agree with him that, not only did vets drive their cars like jockeys, but the cars responded like horses — at least my little Ford did! It actually leaped over hump-backed bridges, of which there were quite a few, completely leaving the ground to land with a bump on all fours, or wheels — while I came down next, and the kit landed last, with a great crash.
That night, however, we buzzed along merrily with no leaps or bucks, for the road was smooth, even though the night was very dark. So black was it, that there was absolutely nothing to be seen beyond the thin gleam of the two wing-mounted headlamps. The countryside was indeed fast asleep.
In Pendulas, even the garage and shop were in darkness, and as I turned up the hill by the Council offices, there was not a light anywhere in the village. When I had gone about a mile, I began to look for the barn, but it was difficult to discern anything other than the roadside verge and the butts of the hedges. I wondered if I had missed it and kept my eyes skinned for the telephone box, which was the next clue and should be more obvious; but nothing came into view.
I slowed down and took every bend more cautiously but without any success, and after about two miles I stopped and had to admit I was lost.
Pitch black, depths of the countryside, dead of night — not a place for the faint-hearted. What, I wondered, was my next move? I had a choice: either I could go back to Pendulas, although I was sure I had taken the right road from there, or I could go on in hope.
I decided to carry on.
My spirits rose when, around the next bend, I saw a cottage showing a light in an upstairs window. I pulled up outside, got out and popped in through the garden gate to the front door. There was no bell or knocker, so I hammered on the wood with my fist. As soon as I did so, the light went out. All became silent, so I hammered again, but with no response. Then I shouted:
‘I’m the vet! I want to get to Sunnybank Farm. Can you tell me the way, please?’
But it was to no avail. Silent as the grave. Gone
to ground, as they say in hunting circles. As I fastened the gate and returned to my car, I decided that the occupants were not so unco-operative after all, because who, in their right mind, in the middle of the countryside at night, would answer the door to a stranger, even if he said he was a vet? Perhaps if I’d said I was a vicar or a policeman, or even Elvis Presley, they might have listened. But they didn’t, and that was that.
To my relief and surprise, around the next bend was another cottage and again it had a light in an upstairs window. There was no question about it, I had to give it another try.
Approaching the door, I wondered if I should alter my tactics, but there was a bold brass knocker in the centre; I dispensed with intrigue and banged the door vigorously.
To my delight, the cottage did not go into darkness; instead, there was a great banging and scraping, as if some heavy furniture was being dragged across the floor. This was followed by what sounded like at least six doors slamming one after the other, then there came a crash, like glass shattering, and heavy footsteps coming down a hollow staircase. Keys were turned and bolts drawn, there was much grunting and heavy breathing and the door, with a reluctant shudder, partly opened. A small paraffin lamp came through the gap first; it spluttered and spat, so that the light it gave came in flashes rather than a steady glow.
The face that followed was difficult to age. It was male, mustachioed and rather pale. Below it, in half silhouette, the body appeared to be clad in white combinations; as for feet, I couldn’t tell, for the light didn’t reach that far.
‘I’m the vet from Ledingford,’ I explained. ‘I’m looking for Mr Breeze at Sunnybank Farm. I was given directions, but I must have gone wrong somewhere. Can you help me?’
The man didn’t reply, but just kept staring at me through the intermittent rays of the lamp.
‘I came up from Pendulas,’ I continued, ‘and I was told to look for a barn by the roadside, then a telephone box, and to turn left at the bottom of the slope — but I didn’t see any of them.’