Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  ‘I can afford it,’ said Mr Parry. ‘But I don’t want a three-quartered cow!’

  ‘This is Mr Lasgarn, the vet,’ said Shackleton. ‘He’s going to arbitrate.’

  Denthall turned aside and glowered at me, his tiny eyes cold and hostile, then suddenly his manner altered, and a calculated smile developed on his face.

  ‘Oh well!’ he exclaimed. ‘The vet, eh!’ He placed a large fat hand on my shoulder. ‘Well, let’s see what the young gentleman thinks, then. See if he can tell the difference between a normal bagging and mastitis.’ He turned and surveyed the attendant crowd and nodded knowingly. Shackleton stood back. The man in the brown coat held the tail to one side.

  ‘Try her and see,’ said Denthall, in a syrupy tone.

  I ran my hand over the upper part of the udder, feeling for enlarged glands, but none were obvious. The skin was taut and, beneath, the tissue was full and doughy, indicating post-calving swelling. But, as Denthall had said, that was normal. To the left back quarter I gave special attention. Although its consistency was very similar it did feel slightly larger, but not a great deal. I drew the milk from the other three quarters — it was creamy, with no clots or lumps — and then I drew the milk from the left back quarter.

  ‘How’s that, vet?’ It was Denthall peering over my shoulder.

  ‘It appears all right,’ I agreed.

  ‘There,’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘What did I tell you! I never bring no rubbish to market.’

  I stood back and studied the cow. Mr Parry studied my face, but said nothing. I tried not to look at him, but I could feel his sad, appealing eyes burning into my cheek.

  The quarter was slightly larger, but it was difficult to be sure. The milk appearance was normal, and yet I felt that I was giving in to Denthall’s pressure; but I couldn’t hedge, I had to make a decision.

  Denthall, Parry, Shackleton and a couple of dozen faces awaited my pronouncement.

  I was just about to speak when I felt a nudge in my ribs and then came a hoarse whisper from behind: ‘Strip it out!’ I half turned, but the stocky figure behind me turned away, too. I just caught a glimpse of a red neck-a-chief protruding from an ill-fitting tweed jacket. The adviser, if that was him, pulled the peak of his cap down slightly, as if to retain his anonymity.

  As I turned back, he must have turned too, for again came the whispered instruction: ‘Get him to strip it out!’ I got the message, and sound advice it was too; if that was done it would make a diagnosis a hundred times easier.

  ‘I’d like it stripped out,’ I said. The effect of my request was quite momentous. Shackleton looked up like a startled rabbit, little Mr Parry put his hand to his lips and bit his finger. Denthall seemed ready to explode and the crowd remained in an uneasy silence. Then Denthall did explode, quite violently.

  ‘Strip ’er out! Strip ’er out!’ he raged. ‘Can’t you bloody well tell? There’s nowt wrong, any fool could tell that without stripping her out!’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘But to make a reasonable diagnosis I want her milked.’

  ‘I’ll take ’er home first!’ stormed Denthall.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ chipped in little Mr Parry. ‘She was knocked down to me, so I’ve got the choice. Get your chap to strip her out.’

  The brown coated man looked at Denthall, who in turn took a hasty look at the crowd around.

  ‘Go on, strip her out!’ shouted a voice from the back.

  ‘Yes, go on,’ said a few others.

  Realising his position, Denthall nodded.

  The man in the brown coat certainly could milk and, urged on by the contagious anger of his boss, powered the streams of milk into the bucket, so that it frothed up spectacularly.

  ‘I’ll have a word with your father about this,’ Denthall threatened, glaring at young Shackleton. ‘If you can’t take my word, I’ll not come here any more. There’s other markets and auctioneers as good as this!’ But Shackleton said nothing.

  Finally, after half filling a second bucket, the brown coated man dragged his stool away. I stepped forward and gently examined the left hind quarter. As I probed into the now slack substance, my fingers came across three hard lumps, two plum-size and one a little larger, evidence of damage caused by previous mastitis. The other quarters were clear.

  I stood up and looked Denthall straight in his piggy blue eyes.

  ‘Chronic mastitis,’ I said. ‘Mr Parry is right.’

  Denthall seethed on the spot, then, taking the butt end of his cigar from his mouth, flung it to the floor. ‘Bloody vets!’ he roared and charged away.

  A satisfied murmur ran through the crowd and they started to disperse. ‘Thank you, vet.’ It was Mr Parry. ‘Thank you for standing up for me.’

  I nodded and we shook hands. Poor Mr Parry, he didn’t know how close it had been.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Peter Shackleton. ‘I’d better go and report to Father.’

  I looked about for the red neck-a-chief, but the people had already moved on and he was nowhere to be seen.

  I spent the rest of my inspection walking about in a slight daze. The incident had taken all my energy, although one or two folks did smile and say ‘Hello’, and I realised that my performance must have made some impact.

  At half past twelve I reported to the Market Superintendent’s office, as Bob Hacker had told me.

  ‘All in order,’ I advised him through the wooden hatch.

  ‘Turned down one of Mr Denthall’s cows, I hear,’ he said, looking over his glasses.

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, well,’ he replied. ‘Well, well.’

  With mixed feelings I went back to the car. As I approached the parking spot, I noticed the red van still in my place. The back doors were now open and a pair of stocky buttocks protruded from them. The owner was wrestling with a white-faced calf. I could hear the collie dog yelping on the front seat and its presence triggered off my annoyance. A few sharp words were in order, I thought.

  ‘You’ve got no right to park here, this is the vet’s spot,’ I told the buttocks firmly.

  There was a puffing and blowing as the body withdrew and straightened up.

  ‘You mustn’t park here,’ I repeated. ‘It’s for vets.’

  ‘And you be the vet, be you?’ came the reply, as the man turned round and grinned broadly. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Sam Juggins.’

  And it was then that my eye caught sight of the red neck-a-chief tied at his throat.

  * * *

  The market incident had unsettled me and I was glad to be able to chat things over with McBean at the end of the day. I found our evening meetings in the Hopman both relaxing and reassuring and a great help to my confidence, which was still rather shaky.

  Well, now! You were truly blooded on your first inspection, Hugh. But it’ll not do you any harm,’ commented McBean wryly, after I had recounted my confrontation with Denthall. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work at any time and I’ve had more than one barney with the devil, myself.’

  ‘It was Sam Juggins who saved me,’ I admitted.

  ‘Now, isn’t that life!’ said McBean, smoothing down his moustache. ‘To a lot of people, Sam is a rogue and Denthall a lord, but Sam’s an honest rogue, if you know what I mean. He may bend the rules a bit, but he’ll never leave anyone in trouble.’

  I went to the bar and bought another round.

  ‘Met a rather special client of yours, last night,’ I said to McBean, as I set the full tankards back on the table.

  He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Now who might that be?’ he enquired.

  ‘Mimi Lafont.’

  ‘And Petal,’ he added, a mischievous grin creeping over his face. ‘Not another hay seed?’

  ‘How did you guess?’ I answered.

  ‘She comes fairly regularly, ever since I removed one in the Summer. Just for a bit of a check, you know. And what did you diagnose, yourself?’

  ‘First of all, I took the wrong
track,’ I admitted. Then I told McBean how I had erroneously concluded from her description, that Petal had been the unfortunate victim of some lusty, canine Casanova in the Bishop’s Meadow. ‘I was just going to give the stilboestrol, when she mentioned hayseeds,’ I explained.

  McBean burst into laughter. ‘Well, Hugh! That’s surely one of the best,’ he exclaimed, wiping his eyes.

  ‘You certainly added two and two into five there, my boy.’

  ‘She’s coming again on Friday,’ I added.

  McBean ceased his laughter. ‘Is she, now?’ he said, suspiciously. ‘Well, Hugh, lad. We’ll have to see you don’t get led astray.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked ‘Could be good experience for a young vet.’

  ‘Time yet,’ replied McBean.

  ‘But I’ve only got thirty days, less than that now,’ I reminded him. ‘Anyway, you should talk. Five years qualified and not even courting.’

  McBean grasped the handle of his pint and raised it before his eyes, studying the clear amber brew intently, as if examining it for certification.

  ‘I’ll get married when ‘I’m good and ready,’ he said, without averting his gaze. ‘I’m good enough now — but I’m not yet ready.’

  Then he set into his pint and lowered it in one go.

  Five

  Charlie had described Wales as ‘lumpy’ and in many respects his description was apt. Once south-west of the River Wye, the flat water meadows receded and the countryside became ridged, forming three valleys running west to south-east. The first and most fertile was the Golden Valley, which opened out into plains of arable farmland. Next and much narrower came Lindenchurch where, although the land appeared rich, the living was just a shade harder. The fields tended to be smaller, the trees more round-shouldered, the hedges tighter and the farm buildings strategically sited to avoid the wicked Welsh winds.

  But it was the last valley, the Shepwall, that left the most lasting impression upon all who visited it. Steepsided from the north, the fields covering the lower slopes formed small neat squares, yet the farmsteads were few and isolated. The south side, however, displayed the grandest feature. Wild and beautiful, it rose through bracken and gorse, two thousand feet and more. A sombre wall whose top, often masked by threatening cloud, took the full force of the rain-bearing south-westerlies. Storms could lash the rocky steps and shelves, whilst down below the valley basked in sunshine.

  How fittingly named, that brooding barrier to ‘lumpy’ Wales: the Black Mountain.

  It was on the Friday morning of my second week that I was to discover the Shepwall valley.

  I had been given two calls. The first and most urgent was to a Mrs Sarah Williams of Pontavon Farm where, during the night, a calf had died and others in the bunch were unwell. Mrs Williams was a widow with a young family, her husband having succumbed the previous year to a massive heart attack.

  ‘Worked himself into an early grave,’ McBean had commented when he gave me the instructions. ‘Good woman, lovely family, very, very sad. She didn’t give much history about the calves, it could be blackleg or even acute pneumonia. Anyway, Hugh, get there as soon as you can, she’s rather upset about it all. Then, when you’ve finished, go back up the valley to Howell Powell. Mrs Williams will give you directions.’

  Howell Powell apparently had a lame cow that needed attention. According to McBean, he was an odd character, treating most animal ailments with his own personal remedies.

  ‘Don’t suppose we go there more than twice a year,’ McBean had added as he further studied the ledger lying on the sacred counter. ‘And when you’ve done, give a ring back from Evan’s shop at St Madoc’s. You can use his telephone, but remember, he’ll listen to everything you say. And don’t forget to pay for the call.’

  I took on petrol from the handcranked pump in the yard and topped up the radiator which had developed a slight leak, then checked that I had all my equipment.

  The late G. R. Hacker had devised a veterinary box that rode on the back seat of the car and was of sturdy wooden construction, not unlike a small cabin trunk. The interior was divided into compartments that accommodated bottles of medicine, tins of tablets and packets of powders from which cattle drenches were prepared. In the boot there was a metal box containing all the requirements for calving cows, such as thick and thin ropes, short sticks to use as handles and eye hooks to control movement of the head. There were also embryotome wires and guarded knives for the grisly task of dismembering dead calves that proved too difficult to deliver normally. The remainder of the tools comprised a brass stirrup pump to irrigate unclean wombs with antiseptic; a probang, a large, long and rather unwieldy leather-bound tube which, when inserted into the throat, could unblock an obstructed gullet or let out wind from an over-inflated gut; a pair of ‘barnacles’ — metal nose tongs to restrain a fractious patient — and a strong rope halter.

  The protective clothing was minimal, and stripping to the waist for dirty jobs was the order of the day. Wellington boots and a red rubber apron were provided for messy encounters, but these could be supplemented according to personal taste. A cold rubber apron on a bare chest in the frosty air could be an enlivening experience and even the acclimatised personnel had taken steps to ease the shock.

  Bob Hacker had a little sheepskin waistcoat that he wore beneath his red apron, but it was McBean, with his usual Irish ingenuity, who had developed an odd, but very practical regalia. It consisted of one of a number of old flannel shirts with the sleeves removed, which were sent to him regularly in batches from an old uncle in Connemara. To prevent any distasteful matter reaching his uncle’s shirts he was equipped with what appeared to be rubber washers, circles of thin rubber cut from old car inner tubes. These he wore around his biceps, the whole weird ensemble giving him the appearance of being prepared for initiation into a secret society.

  ‘A wee idea I picked up when I was a student working at Dublin Docks,’ he confided. ‘You’ll see similar designs on ships’ hawsers to prevent rats reaching the decks. Really ought to patent the idea, Hugh,’ he said, when he proudly presented me with a pair of his creations. ‘McBean’s “Mucklets” could make me a fortune!’

  My medical bag was similar to that of the late G. R. Hacker, which I had been privileged to use on my first case, but much more battered. However, it served its purpose and in the drawers I kept glass syringes, a thermometer, stethoscope, small drugs and a few instruments.

  Finally, having found everything in place and functional, I started on my way.

  The barometric pressure had fallen and the weather had changed from bright days with frosty mornings to a milder atmosphere that caused leaden clouds to hang low over the county. Occasionally a shaft of sunlight broke through the uneasy sky, like a spotlight on a stage, and through the gap, white fluffy banks of cumulus gave a heavenly impression of the universe beyond. But as I drove west, I could see in the distance ahead that the sky was lowering to join the Black Mountain summit, erasing the horizon in a continuous lack-lustre mist.

  Turning from the Gradonchurch road, I came to Colestone, a small hamlet caught in one of the spots of sunshine. The lath and plaster panels of the Tudor cottages shone brightly in the brilliant rays, accentuating the black timbers in sharp relief. Each dwelling, unique in design, reflected the ancient craftsman’s art and whim. I tried to picture the industrious scene as they were built. Men digging and hauling, sawing and hammering, working with natural materials and using their hands with great satisfaction.

  Woodwork was never my strongpoint. I remembered how, at school, I made an egg-holder — a simple structure consisting of a small square of wood in which I bored four holes and mounted it on a triangular plinth. I took it home to Mother, very proud of my achievement, and begged her to give me some eggs, very scarce in those days, to put into my egg-holder. But I had made the holes too large, and when I put the eggs in, they fell to the floor and smashed.

  That was the last time I ever made anything in wood.

  Through
Colestone to Lindenchurch, past Evan’s shop at St Madoc’s — also known as ‘Top Shop’ because of its situation on the ridge overlooking the next valley. Away to my left, the shadowy outline of Capley Court was just visible through the trees, a grand and somewhat mysterious-looking mansion presenting an incongruous sight amid the wild countryside.

  Two miles on and I was descending sharply to Shepwall, and halfway down the valley I came to Pontavon Farm.

  Clearly visible from the road, it was more of a smallholding than a farm. A compact low-walled garden fronted a whitewashed cottage, whose single chimney merrily belched clouds of grey smoke. From the garden, a gate led onto the yard which was bordered by a cowhouse, barn, two small cots and a lean-to log shed.

  Access to Pontavon was by no means straightforward, however, for between it and the road ran a small river, full and boisterous. There was a ford for vehicles and a rather willowy bridge for pedestrians. I decided it was too much to expect amphibious qualities of my gallant little car, so I elected to cross by the bridge. It creaked beneath my weight, but did not rock or sway, and I negotiated it without mishap to be greeted on the far side by two collie dogs, one excitedly barking and the other, obviously older, standing by the garden gate, wagging its tail. As they followed me I heard the sound of children’s voices through the partly open cottage door. I gave three sharp knocks and the chatter ceased abruptly. I waited a while, then around the door, below latch level, appeared a small tousled head and two large brown eyes. I smiled, but before I could say a word the head was followed by another, just above it, and another pair of equally large brown eyes.

  ‘Hullo,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

  My question was answered with giggles and the little girls disappeared. As they did, the door was opened wider by a young woman, Mrs Sarah Williams. She was very slender, with long dark hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. Her face was quite serene, yet seemed to mirror an inner sadness. She held up two floury hands and smiled and as she did, for a fleeting moment, a bright sparkle lit her eyes.