by Hugh Lasgarn
‘I’ve been baking,’ she said, and a trifle nervously brushed some loose strands of hair from her forehead, leaving specks of flour on her cheek.
By now, the two small girls had reappeared, hanging on their mother’s apron.
‘Have you come to see Tommy’s baby calf?’ asked the elder girl.
‘It’s gone to sleep,’ said the little one, sadly.
‘Hugh Lasgarn. I’m with Mr Hacker,’ I explained. ‘And yes,’ I said to the little girls, ‘I have come to see the calves.’
‘It was a dreadful shock and so upsetting for Tommy,’ said Mrs Williams. ‘He looks after them and tries so hard. He even made the feeding trough himself,’ she added, proudly. ‘My husband died last year, you know.’ She pulled the girls closer to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, inadequately.
‘Tommy’s the man of the house now,’ she continued. She looked beyond me, raising her head as gracefully as a ballerina. Mrs Sarah Williams was indeed a very beautiful woman. ‘Here’s Tommy now, he’ll tell you.’
I turned to see a curly headed boy running across the yard, his face flushed and eager as he swung through the gate.
‘I saw you come,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was in the top field with the sheep, so I ran back.’ It was Tommy Williams, the man of the house and all of ten years old. ‘They’re in the cot. Come with me and I’ll show you.’
As we crossed the yard, he told me how his uncle had bought six Hereford Cross calves at Abergavenny market. ‘I was going to rear them up and sell them as stores in the Autumn,’ he said in serious tone. ‘They could be turned out in the Spring, we’ve got good grass at Pontavon.’ Tommy chatted on, taking slightly longer strides than most ten-year-olds and conversing in rather an old-fashioned manner, probably as his father had done. A lump came to my throat as I followed him — a boy trying to do a man’s job.
He didn’t appear to show any remorse when he pulled back the sack on the dead calf, but I knew he was fighting tears.
‘Found him dead this morning,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Took his feed like a good ’un last night.’
‘Let’s have a look at the rest of them,’ I suggested.
‘They look OK,’ Tommy commented, opening the door of the calf cot. It was well strawed and clean; some sweet-smelling hay hung from a net and a long wooden trough containing the remnants of barley meal stood along the far wall.
‘Made that yourself?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, nodding his head. ‘It was an old door that Dad cut up before he …’ Tommy turned away and I took an exaggerated step forward to examine the calves. They were in good condition; one or two seemed slightly nervous, but their eyes were bright, noses clean and coats sleek. I questioned Tommy about the feeding, watering and bedding he used.
‘I think we’ll open up the dead one,’ I said finally. ‘Do a post-mortem examination. Can you get me a bucket of water?’
‘I’ll only be a minute,’ he said and sped off to the cottage.
Tommy paid great attention to the examination of the calf’s organs as I explained the various parts and their functions to him. When I come to the heart, he knelt down beside me and studied it closely.
‘What does it look like when a heart makes an attack?’ he asked.
‘Attack?’
‘Yes, like Dad had,’ he replied, looking up. ‘Last year.’
They never told me about this at university. About how, one morning, I would find myself in a wild Border valley, the sound of rushing water at my back, the air still and thundery and the Black Mountain brooding silently overhead. How I would be holding a bloodstained calf’s heart in my hands and, kneeling down beside me, a small boy, earnestly wanting to know how his father had died.
He was waiting for my answer.
‘Rather like this one,’ I told him eventually. ‘Just still, just very, very still.’
Then I continued the rest of my examination in silence.
There were no abnormal symptoms, apart from a few small areas in the lung, showing evidence of slight damage probably caused by a pneumonia virus, but in no way sufficient to cause death. It was when I examined the stomach contents that I found a clue. Lying in the mix of digested hay and barley meal were small black flakes, like bits of rust. I collected several and washed them carefully in the water. The lad watched closely.
‘Bring me a sample of the meal, Tommy.’ He leaped up and ran to another shed. But the meal he brought was fresh and pure, there were no black flakes to be seen.
I washed up and went back to the calf cot where the calves looked up inquisitively. With a clap of my hands, I startled them, causing three to move back from the door, the fourth to stand and shiver, but the fifth ran straight into the wall and banged its head. I went in and caught the last calf and waved my hand before its eyes, but it made no reaction — it was blind.
Dead calf, nervous calf, blind calf. Black flakes in the stomach. It had to be paint, lead paint. The calves were suffering from lead poisoning.
But where could they be licking paint?
Then my eyes fell on the trough that ran alongside the wall. The wooden one that Tommy had made.
I got the little lad to fetch his mother. Then I explained what had happened.
‘The paint on the old door contained lead — most old paints do. The calves have been licking the trough as they were feeding and have swallowed the poisonous flakes. They are very toxic, causing nervous symptoms, blindness and death.
Mrs Williams put her hands on her son’s shoulder.
‘You weren’t to know, Tommy dear,’ she comforted. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Tommy Williams put his hand to his mouth and bit his finger hard, then suddenly he started to shake and burst into tears.
‘Don’t be upset, Tommy.’ But as I held out my hand towards him, he broke away from his mother and ran across the yard and out into the field.
The girls went to run after him, but their mother called them back. Only the dogs followed, the young one swiftly, the older one at a slower pace.
‘He’s best left, at the moment,’ she said, understandingly. ‘Best left alone. Will we lose any more, Mr Lasgarn?’
‘Once nervous symptoms develop, it’s not good,’ I admitted. ‘You could lose two more. I’ll drench them all with Epsom Salts, that will combine with any free lead in the stomach and neutralise it. If it’s already absorbed, then it will be more difficult to control, but I have some injections I can try.’
Mrs Williams held the calves for their treatment and when I had finished, I carried the trough into the yard.
‘You could scrape the paint off, but it would never be really safe. I think it would be best to burn it,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow and check them again.’
‘That’s very kind, Mr Lasgarn,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made some Welsh cakes. Do you like them?’
‘My favourite,’ I replied.
Over tea and Welsh cakes, she told me how they had come down from Breconshire and bought Pontavon, and how her husband had done ploughing and hedging for neighbouring farmers to pay for it, as well as tending to his own stock and crops.
‘His ambition was to grow acres of potatoes in the Valley. They all said it wouldn’t work, but he would have made it, I’m sure. He was that sort of man,’ she said proudly. ‘Perhaps one day Tommy will show them.’ There was no self-pity in her attitude and, if there was sadness, it was more than countered by determination of spirit.
‘I’m sure he will,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure he will.’
I thanked her for the tea and she gave me a bag of Welsh cakes.
Tommy was sitting on the low garden wall. His tears had gone, though his eyes were still red.
‘My woodwork wasn’t much good,’ he said, forcing a smile.
‘You’re just like me, Tommy,’ I replied and, putting down my case, I told him all about my egg holder.
* * *
Followin
g Mrs Williams’ directions, I set off back up the valley. The main road curved gently around a sparsely wooded hill and, where it flattened, a narrow lane, partly hidden by high hedges, led away to the right by an old slate-roofed barn. It was more of a cutting than a lane, for the track was deeply rutted, leaving a high, grassy central ridge along which the little Ford rubbed uneasily. I was afraid my exhaust pipe might come adrift, but was wary of stopping in case, straddled on the prominence, I would fail to get going again.
Steep banks rose at each side, covered with lank brown grass and topped with tangled hedges, shaggy with strands of dead convolvulus. A solitary jay fled out, flashing its white flecked tail as it swooped ahead, as if to warn whoever lived beyond of my intrusion.
It was all a bit unnerving.
The access to the field at the head of the track was guarded by a five-barred gate, green with mould. I had difficulty in unlatching the rusty clasp and, when I did, the gate sagged like a partly collapsed deck chair. It proved awkward and obstinate to open, as if trying to take revenge by straining the muscles of all who wished to pass.
Once inside the field, the going was easier. A dozen sheep had collected around a wooden rack, the top protected by a corrugated sheet to keep the hay dry. There appeared to be three distinct types of sheep: the nervous, the inquisitive and the unconcerned. The nervous looked startled at my presence and scampered away. The inquisitive came cautiously forward a few paces, then stood silently, fixing me with their glassy eyes. While the unconcerned and probably most sensible, concentrated on eating as much as they could while their fellows were distracted.
At the far end there was a gap in the hedgerow where the gate, having succumbed to decay, lay alongside like a crumpled skeleton. Beyond it, the track ran steeply downwards and out of sight. Discretion being the better part of valour, I decided to leave the car and, taking my case and the rope halter, set off in search of Howell Powell and the lame cow.
I hadn’t walked far, when a cluster of farm buildings came into view. They were low and stone built, with ancient slit windows, which over the years must have kept both bad weather and uninvited guests firmly at bay. My ears detected the laboured chugging of a tractor and, as I rounded the barn, I discovered it to be an old Fordson, one of the basic mechanical work horses of the war years — sturdy but temperamental.
Crouched over the exposed guts of the vibrating machine, back towards me, and obviously concentrating on some vital adjustment, was my client.
‘Hello!’ I called. ‘Mr Powell!’ But my voice made little impact over the chugging engine.
‘HELLO!’ I repeated, as loudly as I could.
There followed a small explosion and an orange flame, chased eagerly by a cloud of black smoke, shot out from the vertical exhaust pipe. The engine faltered momentarily, so that the tractor ceased juddering, then it seemed to cough and the chassis recovered its frenzied, jerking motion.
Despite the sudden retort, the crouched figure never budged, so I approached until I was directly behind him. I was raising my hand to tap his shoulder when I suddenly realised the import of the situation.
I was now standing behind someone who, living in the depths of the isolated countryside, completely unaware of my presence and certainly not used to visitors, might at the least have an epileptic fit or even a heart attack in response to my touch. I stood for a while, my thoughts practically drowned by the deafening chatter of the engine. Better, I thought, if I withdrew a few feet and waited until he had finished.
I took two steps backward and trod upon a dog.
The poor creature let out such an ear-splitting shriek that it was I who nearly succumbed to apoplexy and all but collapsed in my tracks.
When I had recovered my composure, Howell Powell was standing facing me.
‘Sorry,’ I apologised weakly. ‘I … I didn’t want to scare you — so I trod on your dog!’
Howell Powell looked somewhat bemused, for by then there was no dog to be seen.
‘You all right?’ he boomed, his voice sounding louder in the now exaggerated silence.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Just didn’t want to frighten you.’
‘No,’ he said, a trifle vaguely, still not clear as to what had really happened.
‘Come to see the lame cow,’ I explained, gathering my breath.
He nodded. ‘She’s in the shed.’ And without further ceremony he led off.
‘How long has she been lame?’ I asked, as I followed him across the yard.
‘A week,’ he replied, without so much as a turn of his head.
‘Tried any treatment yourself?’ I enquired.
He opened a stable door and peered inside. ‘The sod!’ he said.
‘What’s the matter?’ I queried, looking into the stable, not knowing what to expect. As it was, I could see no reason for his blasphemy, for the large cock-horned Ayrshire cow that stood before us seemed quite inoffensive as she unconcernedly picked at some rather coarse hay. Howell Powell studied me quizzically.
‘The sod,’ he repeated. ‘The sod for “foul”!’
It was no good pretending and I told him flatly, I didn’t understand.
Had I put a pound in his hand, I could not have changed his attitude so significantly. His gruff manner vanished and he pushed back his tattered cap and smiled.
‘You never ’eard of the sod treatment for “foul of the foot”? Well, you ain’t no Black Mountain man an’ that’s for sure.’
I shook my head.
‘Fancy that,’ he went on. Then his face took on a serious expression, as if it had just registered that I was new. ‘You ain’t been to me afore, ’ave you?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘Where d’you come from?’ he enquired, suspiciously.
‘I come from Abergranog,’ I replied. ‘Hugh Lasgarn’s the name.’
‘You’m a Welshman then,’ beamed Howell Powell. ‘Well, that’s different. You listen, young man, an’ I’ll tell you all about it.’ With that, he folded his arms and stared up at the lintel of the stable door. I realised that it was going to be an explanation in some detail, so I put down the case and halter and leaned against the wall.
‘The Black Mountain remedy,’ he began, ‘has been known in these parts for years. You must watch where the sick beast treads and cut a sod from the very spot it plants the poisoned foot. Then, at night, when the moon is a wasting, you throws the sod high in a blackthorn tree.’ Howell Powell then shut his eyes, as if about to mutter an incantation.
‘As the sod wastes,’ he whispered, ‘so will the foul disappear.’ Then, as if drained of emotion, he stood, eyes closed for quite a while, until I ventured a comment.
‘But it didn’t work,’ I said.
He woke, startled from his reverie.
‘Moon was wrong,’ he retorted sourly. ‘She’ll need one of those injections’.
I moved inside the stable to take a closer look at the offending foot. The old cow was certainly lame, for she rested very gingerly on the points of her left hind leg and moved back uneasily when I tried to make her take weight upon it.
‘It’s not swollen enough for foul,’ I remarked, as I carefully ran my hand down the limb and on to the foot where I pressed my finger between the clees.
‘Not very tender either, and doesn’t smell.’ For the foul-producing germ gave rise to a very distinctive obnoxious odour, whence the condition derived its name. ‘We’ll have to get the foot up.’
Howell Powell puffed and shook his head. ‘Bit of a performance, that’ll be. She might look sweet and she’ll let you touch it, but Bronwen’s a cantankerous old witch if she’s a mind. You try liftin’ ’er foot an’ she’ll go mad!’
At that, the old cow looked round and all but nodded her spiky head, as if to confirm Howell Powell’s comment.
‘That new injection works, don’ it?’ he asked.
‘Certainly it does,’ I declared, ‘but only if the foul is uncomplicated. Penicillin will kill the foul germ, but it’s useless
if there’s a stick, stone or piece of gravel in the foot.’
‘Well she won’t let you look at it,’ Howell asserted emphatically. ‘So it’s a waste of time you tryin’!’
‘Let’s put her down,’ I suggested.
‘What! Not our Bronwen!’ he said, incredulously.
‘On the floor, rope her so that I can give the foot a thorough examination,’ I explained, suddenly realising he thought I intended a more severe solution. ‘Have you got a wagon rope?’
‘Several.’
‘Bring two,’ I requested. ‘One long and one short.’
Howell Powell fetched the ropes and together we put the halter on his cow and tied her to an iron ring in the wall. I then made a running noose in the long wagon rope and placed it over Bronwen’s menacing horns, bringing the trailing end back and winding it around her neck. Then I looped it at the top and took it back behind her shoulders.
‘Stand on the other side,’ I ordered. ‘When I give you the rope, you pass it back to me under her belly.’ In this way, I made two more loops, one behind her forelegs and another in front of the udder, with the trailing end running free behind, so that she looked tied up like a Christmas parcel.
‘Now, if we both pull on this free end at the back of her,’ I announced, ‘the rope will tighten and down she’ll go!’
Howell Powell who, so far, had followed every move I had made without a word, eyed me suspiciously. Then he looked at Bronwen, who seemed quite mystified, herself, by the whole performance, shook his head and took hold of the rope.
‘When I say “pull”.’ He nodded. Together we took the strain.
‘PULL!’
We heaved in unison and, to my delight, Bronwen first sank to her knees, then her hind quarters wavered and she rolled gently on to one side.
Howell Powell looked at me in amazement.
‘Now there’s a trick, mun,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a trick.’
‘Puts pressure on the spine, just like someone pinching you in the back,’ I explained. ‘As long as you keep pulling, she can’t get up.’