by John Hicks
Other cultures raise their children to despise dogs. The only human contact a dog is likely to receive in many Arab countries is a violent one, from a foot or stone: all in the name of religion. Yet other religious philosophies revere all forms of life, even those lowlier than rats. How practical is that?
Who decides where to site the pale beyond which we must not stray? In the past, religious faiths have determined our moral boundaries. But the sufferings of my Huguenot ancestors at the dictates of men of unbounded religiosity inclines me to favour an education system that enables us to humbly understand that we are not at the apex of creation, but a mere part of it; and that of all the creatures on this planet we are, probably, the most intelligent and, almost certainly, the least perfect – because we should know better.
Chapter Three
Feckless in Ireland
It ain’t the parts of the Bible that I can’t understand that bother me, it is the parts that I do understand – Mark Twain
Sunday Chapel, Liverpool, 1965
I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth.
And in Jesus Christ his only Son, our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, Born of the Virgin Mary, Suffered under Pontius Pilate, Was crucified, dead, and buried, He descended into hell; The third day he rose again from the dead, He ascended into heaven, And sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty; From whence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.
Once again I found the familiar words tumbling out of my mouth, indeed, they seemed to be tumbling out of the mouths of everyone except for the new boy on my right – stumbling would be a better way to describe his effort. Of course Brown had only started boarding that term and had yet to learn the Apostles’ Creed off pat. Regular attendance at chapel would soon sort that out. Some of the other boys sniggered smugly. We believed in all sorts of things that Brown evidently didn’t. We believed in: the Holy Ghost; The holy Catholick Church; The Communion of Saints; The forgiveness of sins; The Resurrection of the body, And the Life everlasting. Amen. And really! That aymen from Brown was a dead giveaway. We all knew it should be ahmen. You couldn’t cheat by reading it from the Book of Common Prayer – not that it would have been easy from its dense print of lurching capitals and idiosyncratic punctuation. Oh no! You had to speak it from the heart! It was important to inflect the words properly, to pause in the right places. Those who rushed on when the rest had stopped found themselves in a very exposed position. Religious etiquette was a minefield. You could betray your ignorance in so many ways, like when you didn’t sink to your knees at one with the rest of the congregation, or emulate their postures of sombre reflection as, with bowed heads and piously closed eyes, they joined in the Reverend Black’s incantations – though who would notice such transgressions was a matter for cynical conjecture. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Brown was catching on quickly.
There were lots of questions. Earlier in my childhood I had wondered if Pontius Pilate drove his tugboat around the Sea of Galilee like Clive Digby’s dad, who was a pilot on the river Mersey. Was a communion of saints a collective noun: as prosaic as a flock of sheep, as alliterative as a gaggle of geese, as uplifting as an exaltation of larks, as ridiculous as an observance of hermits or as sinister as a coven of witches? Why did we believe in the holy Catholick Church when we were supposed to be Anglicans? And how could Mary have let a ghost, holy or secular, anywhere near her? When I was much older I learned that He had, in fact, impregnated Mary another way: not down below; for there was nothing dirty or sinful about this conception. No! He had waxed (and, no doubt, waned) in her ear – which one, or both, is not clear. Nuns wore wimples covering the sides of their heads in modest acknowledgement of this miracle, lest the sight of even these innocent orifices could lead the thoughts of mortal men towards the sin of copulation. Church sermons are fertile breeding grounds for lateral thinkers.
It brought to my mind the vision of a man trying to squirm through the eye of a needle. Perhaps I had mixed my metaphors. How did it go? Yes… for it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.
The Reverend Black posed elegantly in his chasuble as he delivered his sermon and led us in the Lord’s Prayer. Somehow, I doubted he would trade in his Rover for a bicycle and conduct his next sermon in sackcloth. Such doubts, rather formless in my youthful teens, but moulded here by life’s experiences, continued:
And lead us not into temptation. Even though you’ve swamped our bodies with testosterone, told us that fornication is a sin, and advocated chastity before marriage? We are to be tempted for many years before we may, with the blessing of the church, indulge our sinful appetites. Meanwhile your messenger will preach us an impossible message of self-control.
As we forgive them that trespass against us. Except for Makliski – abandoned to the boarding school by his recently divorced parents. We didn’t forgive him for carving “The Kinks” into one of our pews. We expelled him, didn’t we?
I wasn’t good enough to be a Christian, but neither, I strongly suspected, was the Reverend who stood proudly before us. And so it came to pass that I chose not to be confirmed when Brown, along with many others of my peers, claimed that they did, truly, believe and knew that the wine they drank at communion was Christ’s blood. This was the full Monty: Anglo-Catholic high-church transubstantiation. Yet I couldn’t even believe in the Lutheran cop-out, consubstantiation: that the blood and flesh of Christ merely coexisted with the wine and bread consumed at the Eucharist.
But thank you, Reverend, for the insights you gave me in my early youth. Life promised to be a delicious paradox from which, to extract maximum enjoyment, I needed to develop a strong sense of irony. I accepted that many good Christians have led exemplary lives – excellent life models for the rest of us to follow – and that organised religion has inspired great architecture, wonderful music and, through the King James Bible, developed the poetry of our language. Yet, in spite of all this, absolute faith still evades me. I remain a heretic – free to choose what I believe – and further, the calumnies committed in the name of religion convince me that blind faith is a menace to society. It is the duty of everyone to question and to choose for themselves.
~
The Emerald Isle would not normally be regarded as a hallowed destination for the youth of one of England’s staunchly Church of England public schools. But if that school happened to be in Liverpool, at least you could say that it was convenient. It was easy enough to hop on the ferry and swap the stench of the Mersey for the sniffy Liffey. So, one summer holiday, in the early 1960’s, Ireland became the destination of a troop of about twenty Boy Scouts from my school. We set out to visit the lair of the “bog-Irish” Roman Catholics – as my mother would have it – the home of those idle navvies who “breast fed their shovels” beside every road works in Liverpool. Couched in such overblown terms, I felt like Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver about to embark on one of his exotic travels. And perhaps I was not so far off the mark, for Jonathan Swift, born in Dublin, remains one of the many brilliant literary stars of Ireland, and a he was a sarcastic bastard into the bargain.
Beyond Dublin, the country was green – yes, emerald – and well wooded. We were heading for the Wicklow Mountains. Eire had a special feel, all its own. We had stepped back in time. Callow as I was, in my tender early teens, I had little idea of the organisation that went into making arrangements for a scout camp, but those responsible had chosen well. We set up our bell tents in a sheltered meadow. We were surrounded on three sides by trees, handy to running water and wood for our fires. One of the first tasks was to erect a flagpole. Over the days we constructed towers and bridges from spars and ropes, learned about lashings and knots, campfires and billies, kit inspections and night hikes, played rounders with tennis balls and, when no adult was looking, chicken with sheath knives – the whole boy scout experience.
Each morning started with prayers under the flag, and ev
ery evening ended with a singsong round the campfire. I hated the conformity of both of these extremes; no matter how pissed off with life you might have felt – and, believe me, sometimes teenagers do succumb to vague feelings of negativity – Ging gang goolie, goolie, goolie, watcha or I’m riding along on the crest of a wave was the tonic for you! Thank you very much Robert Baden Powell.
The flag was a serious part of our ritual. The Union Jack has to be folded correctly. Is the broad, diagonal stripe at the top or bottom? Never let it touch the ground. When does the patrol leader salute? Then the morning prayers: the Union Jack and C of E flaunted in holy alliance. Our flag was launched aloft and proudly unfurled over the verdant pastures of Ireland. It blessed the rising voices of the little Anglicans circled beneath its protection. I’m sure it was all done in unthinking innocence, but obviously that was not the way some of the locals saw it. One morning our flagpole wasn’t there. It wasn’t a hatchet job: nothing as dramatic as Hone Heke’s efforts to destroy this symbol of British sovereignty at Kororareka. Our pole and its supporting guys were neatly stowed – an elegant yet forceful statement by locals unknown, rather than an act of vandalism.
Displays of the Union Jack were abandoned for the rest of our camp. Quite possibly the flag itself had been “confiscated”. It was a point well made. In addition, we were no longer to wear our scout uniforms at the camp. From now on it was strictly mufti – so woggles, lanyards and neckerchiefs were out; but the true reason was never leaked to us. We may have been politically naïve, but the letters I,R and A were not unknown to us. Boys being boys, all sorts of rumours about Mr B, our scoutmaster, sleeping with a shotgun under his camp bed followed. It would have been a great opportunity to have given us a balanced lesson in Irish history, but as you would expect, anything we had been taught at that stage came with a distinctly Cromwellian slant. It wasn’t till years later, after living in New Zealand, that I gained a more mature understanding, from a colonial viewpoint, of cultural imperialism.
Two other episodes remain imprinted on my mind from that holiday. One involved a middle-aged woman rushing out of her cottage at the end of a remote valley to speak to us, a patrol of six Boy Scouts, solely because we were Protestants. Hers was the only Protestant family in the district. We gratefully consumed the proffered refreshments and, tired and hungry boys that we were, thought no more of it. On reflection, it seems that there is more solace to be gained from religion for those who worship in the same manner as their neighbours. Organised religion, of no matter what denomination, does not reward individuality.
Very early one morning we returned by coach to Dublin, travelling in full Boy Scout regalia. Weary and hungry, we traipsed the streets down towards the quay and our boat. To our joy, someone found a bright and cheerful breakfast bar. A jovial Dubliner gestured us inside and we sat side-by-side on the tall stools and slavered over the choices of full cooked breakfasts. I was the last one in and sat at the end of the row of hungry boys. The seat next to me was almost immediately occupied by a very unsteady and untidily attired woman. She had evidently been eating eggs and bacon because, as she tried to engage me in conversation, a hail of yolk chunks showered from her mouth. “You focking English pig”. It was an interesting, but not very encouraging, opening gambit. I had not had a wide experience of drunks before, but I was beginning to suspect that this lady was over the limit. Her slurred diction was not conducive to effective communication, so I concentrated – as unobtrusively and politely as possible – on shielding my bacon and eggs from the gathering garnish of labial detritus. Besides, I was a bit thrown by the transposed vowel in that unutterable second word. We didn’t say it like that. Boy Scouts are not saints; we used the “f” word whenever we judged we were not in danger of being overheard by adults – for it was certainly a flogging offence – but this “lady” seemed to have transposed the central vowel. I would get confirmation of this in due course.
In the face of such unexpected aggression I went into autopilot and tried to shut her out of my mind. Ignoring her, however, didn’t help. If anything she was working herself into an even greater frenzy. What should I do? We were always taught to be polite to ladies and so, in the face of her insistence I made the mistake of asking, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“You heard me, you focking English pig.” Yes, I was callow and tender. I had not been exposed to naked hatred from a total stranger, drunken or otherwise, at such close quarters. And this screaming harridan meant business. She took off her stiletto shoe and raised it above her head. Before she could bring it down on me, a hand grabbed her wrist from behind and, still screaming and swearing, she was shepherded onto the street by the firm but gentle hand of the proprietor. Our genial host had rescued me. I was extremely relieved and he was profusely apologetic to both me and our leaders, who had now gathered round to see what the fuss was about.
He told us that the woman’s son had been in the British army and was killed in an accident. Without asking, my spattered breakfast was replaced. So, during my little ordeal, nothing had escaped his eye. “Eat up lads, the show is over.”
~
Many years later, the wonderful Father Ted TV comedy series dispersed any reservations I may have had about the Irish. Humour, and the ability to laugh at ourselves, is the greatest healer. In that series we were also repeatedly exposed to another word: feck. What a difference a letter makes. The “e” had blunted the great, “u”-laden, unutterable. But I’m sure that was not the intention behind my Irish harpy’s surprising “o” version. I know that’s what she said. It’s seared in my memory. But then, memories can be fockle.
Chapter Four
St. Blaise and the Art of Veterinary Science
We must welcome the future, remembering that soon it will be the past; and we must respect the past, remembering that it was once all that was humanly possible. – George Santayana
Modern veterinary science began with the founding of the world’s first veterinary school, the Royal Academy of Lyons, by Louis XV, in 1761. It was a response to the appalling livestock losses France suffered between 1710 and 1770 from epidemics of Cattle Plague (a virus disease, also known as Rinderpest). Soon, another school was established at the famous Maisons Alfort near Paris. Other European countries followed France’s lead. The London Veterinary School dates from 1792.
How much I owe to La Belle France! Louis XV was no less a persecutor of my Huguenot ancestors than his royal predecessors; so it seems ironic that my chosen career owes its origins to him – or perhaps to his mistresses, Mme de Pompadour and Mme du Barry, who are said to have held undue influence during the latter part of his reign.
Unfortunately, these early veterinary schools had neither the knowledge nor skills to influence the course of epidemics like Cattle Plague. Until they began to apply scientific principles, from the middle of the nineteenth century, the principal treatments for animal diseases tended to dramatic interventions such as bleeding, or cauterisations with hot irons which did more harm than good. Bleeding was well documented even in Roman times. It took two thousand years for more rational procedures to displace what was little more than misplaced showmanship.
Edward Coleman, one of the founding professors of the London school, published a booklet: Instructions for the use of Farriers attached to the British Cavalry and the Honourable Board of Ordinance.
His treatment for “mad staggers” sets the tone:
The horse should lose at least four quarts of blood, and repeated every four hours during the first twelve, if the symptoms be not relieved. The top of the head should be blistered (the hair first being cut close), one ounce and a half of laxative powder… should be given immediately, or even two ounces if the horse be large. The hair should be cut off from the hoof to the fetlock joints, and boiling water poured on the part; this should be repeated twice in the day. Clysters [enemas] of warm water and salt should be given every two hours (one pound of salt to five quarts of water). If the horse does not purge in thirty-six hours aft
er the first powder has been given, repeat the dose as before. Two rowels should be placed under his belly.
Rowels were pieces of leather forced through incisions to lie under the skin. The idea was to cause a severe infection and discharge of pus – draining away “evil humours”.
This advice is no more advanced than the treatment given more than one hundred years earlier to Charles II prior to his death in 1679. He was, literally, tortured to death by the well-intentioned ministrations of his royal physicians. It has been estimated that a total of fifty-eight drugs were given to him over his last five days. He was purged, bled, cauterised and clystered. Red hot irons were applied to his skull and feet. His urinary tract was inflamed by cantharides, an infusion of toxic metals in white wine was given as an emetic, and white hellebore sneezing powder was used to clear his nose. Modern physicians suspect that he suffered from a renal condition. Only a kidney transplant could have saved him.
Earlier still, during the Dark Ages, there was no pretence of rationality. Superstition reigned supreme. Anglo Saxon texts describe sorcery. To remedy illness caused by elves or demons one recipe recommended:
…a knife whose handle is made of the horn of an ox of tawny colour and which bears three bronze nails. Trace the mark of Christ on the forehead of the animals, as well as on each of its legs and then, in silence, pierce the left ear of the animal …
