Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  Mike maintained that wearing gloves impaired the sensitivity of his fingers when separating the rotting placenta from the uterus. He wore gloves because he got a rash on his arms if he didn’t, but he compromised their protective effect by cutting off the fingertips. Even had he left them intact, he would still have been at risk. Gloves were often defective and tore or gave way at the seams. A healthy constitution is no defence against brucellosis, and it is a condition difficult to diagnose in humans because of its range of manifestations. It is truly debilitating and not easily treated, even with modern antibiotics. After initial symptoms, which can be mistaken for flu, it may become chronic, cause heart problems, settle into joints and even result in neurological and psychological changes.

  Mike and his wife, Mary, lived in a large stone house with a cobbled drive. Inside, the polished oak panelling and parquet floor gleamed. We always had time for lunch and it was always something substantial, even exotic—grouse, pheasant, trout. Mary was a wonderful cook. This was style and Mike, notwithstanding those stained trouser knees, had it in oodles. He had been the sole vet in a remote area for years. He had been on duty night and day to service the needs of a demanding clientele—not that the dour Yorkshire farmers would appreciate such a fancy foreign appellation. He was widely respected in the community and his loss to brucellosis, perhaps ten years later, was keenly felt.

  For me, the doubts remained. I didn’t think the glory was worth the discomfort. I belonged to a softer generation.

  Chapter Twelve

  And Then There was You

  Once upon a time, two soldiers of misfortune manned the guns that defended the great city of London from the worst that Hitler could fling at it. Their misfortune was that their birthdates decreed they would be embroiled, along with millions of others, in the cataclysmic upheaval of the Second World War. One was my father, ex-public school. His passions were motor cycling, gliding, the great outdoors. He stood to inherit the family bakery business, but his ability in maths initially suggested a more academic career. The war was to change that. The other, the son of a builder, had spent his formative years during the Great Depression in a damp and claustrophobic mining town in South Wales. He had left school at fourteen, left his father’s employ a few years later and was a pantry boy at a public school when war broke out. Despite any disadvantages of upbringing, he was a man of spirit, a natural comedian who could wring laughter from a basset hound.

  My fortune was that war forged an enduring friendship between these two men. During the war my father was best man at the wedding of his friend and subsequently the annual Christmas card was for many years the tenuous link between them and their growing families.

  When I was in my early teens the families met briefly as the Lanfears passed through Liverpool on their way to a holiday in Scotland. The youngest daughter was a gorgeous little blond thing. Little did I know how she was to blossom.

  Our next encounter was during another family visit several years later. I had just finished my first year at university, with the ignominy of an organic chemistry re-sit exam hanging over me. Here was an attractive, charming girl: natural and kind. A Frenchman, to my chagrin (what else), had once described her as ‘sympathique’, and though I regarded him as competition at the time, I concede it is entirely fitting.

  I have it on reliable authority that the feeling was mutual. How was I to know that? I touched her arm and it was not withdrawn, was there even a reassuring little squeeze in return? Further opportunities for less ambiguous displays of affection did not arise within the confines of a family visit. I have touched many arms before and since, but this was the memorable one, the one that quickened heart, mind and soul; yet it was meaningless if it had no significance to its recipient.

  Women are much better at this sort of thing than men. Their intuitive skills enable them to move with assurance through the shadowy, blurred and insubstantial world of love and emotion. To those males of more Neanderthal persuasions there is no hindrance; you see the apple and you pluck it. Some apples (Brita?) like to be plucked. Why go through all the angst? Civilisation has complicated the rules of the game. It decrees that the apple shall not be plucked by a civilised man unless it wants to be and that if the picker has been to a single-sex English public school he shall have both hands tied behind his back. If he is a Neanderthal who happens to have gone to an English public school he will pretend to have his hands tied. All the while that little apple can decide whether to drop into his mouth or dok him on the head, or pretend to do either. It knows whether he is there just for a casual nibble or to satisfy a lifelong craving. All power to the apple; who would have it otherwise? Men may as well have their feelings tattooed on their foreheads for all their body language and chemistry reveals to the fairer sex. Men require more tangible proofs of affection and commitment.

  And so, just weeks before my exam, it was my luck to receive a package of immense importance. A letter and a horse shoe for luck. The latter was a confounded nuisance in the pocket of my jacket during the exam, but since I passed, I bore it no ill-will and I treasure it yet. And the letter? That letter was my lifeline and the start of a long and regular correspondence.

  Before long we had met again. I stayed with the Lanfear family near London and Viv and I went to the West End to see a film. There were long queues outside the cinema and we ended up joining the wrong queue and attending a film we had no intention of seeing, but didn’t see anyway. It took us a long time to get home but, as I recall, we were at least thirty seconds inside the allotted curfew. By the time I had to take the train home we knew that we were going to see a lot more of each other.

  I had taken my first bite of the apple in more ways than one. The Lanfears had a large Bramley tree at the end of their garden and I knew I was going to be well fed.

  It was most fortunate that Viv’s parents were tolerant of this student interloper. Not only had he found a new girlfriend, but he was generously welcomed into their home. Thanks to them I now had a new base from which to expand my veterinary education and during the holidays I was able to gain work experience in a modern veterinary practice near Watford.

  ~

  Apart from being a loving and understanding girlfriend, Viv looked the part of any young man’s dream of the late 1960s. She had long, blond hair and legs that embellished many a mini-skirt. With her white calf-length boots she needed but one accoutrement to be my femme fatale. Almost before I realised what, I had set myself a challenge that would sorely test any diffident, hormone-laden, teenaged male. So, with great trepidation, I entered the anonymity of a large Liverpool department store, and headed for the bras and panties. Like most men of that era, still less callow youths, I had little nous when it came to navigating a women’s lingerie department. Other men stood awkwardly on an ill-defined shoreline, nonchalantly examining their fingernails or gazing blankly at imaginary distant vistas, whilst their female partners recklessly plunged into a mystical island of intimate female apparel. Purposefully, for I did not wish to appear furtive, I stepped across the boundary and into this realm of cardboard cut-out sirens. Pink, lacy, black, flesh, legs, busts, bosoms, bottoms, crutches, cleavages … all forbidden territory.

  At such moments one comes to realise the power of one’s peripheral vision. I took great pains to avoid looking directly at the photos of these scantily clad models, much as I would have liked to in different circumstances. I blurred past them, seeking out the hosiery section. I sensed the curiosity of women looking up at this clumsy little pervert invading their domain—or I imagined I did, which had the same effect on my confidence. But despite everything, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t complete this mission.

  Blushing and sweating profusely I fumbled through the stockings.

  ‘Can I help you, love?’

  Did I detect the slightest hint of irony in the assistant’s question?

  ‘Well, I’m looking for a pair of these for my girlfriend,’ I managed to stammer, holding up a pai
r of black fishnet stockings.

  ‘Oh aye, and what size might she be then?’ It is absolutely true for me to state here that Viv’s legs are about the same length as my own. It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to have to give this assistant precisely the answer on which I imagined, in my paranoid state, she would pounce. So I did.

  ‘She’s about my size.’ I can’t say I looked her in the eye as I anticipated the ‘that’s what they all say’ response. I merely got a look of pity when she put the item in a brown paper bag. Looks can deceive, but I suspect ‘guilty of perversion’ was written all over my blushing face.

  The moment was prolonged as I fumbled for cash and then found, poor penurious student, that I had to write a cheque. Finally, she had the ink-smudged document in her hand and I was at last free to scuttle off with my prize, more relieved than triumphant. It was one of the bravest things I have ever done.

  Viv’s response was more sympathetic, although not overwhelmingly reassuring. She wore them occasionally, just to please me, but I was never fully able to convince her of the sacrifices I had made to bring her my tribute.

  The moral of this story, for every young man, is that the way to a woman’s heart is not necessarily through her stockings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Horses for Courses

  We were young, absurdly young as others liked to point out, but two years later we were married. What else is there for it when you meet your soul mate? For those two years we had not merely communicated, but communed. We were spiritually compatible and our love for each other certain. We revelled in the brief weekends we could be together and share the profundity of classical music for which we have an abiding passion. Together we had tramped the Scottish Highlands, wandered the Lakeland Fells and ridden horses along the A5.

  It wasn’t my choice. As part of our practical training in the first two years of university vacations we were required to work on farms, in riding establishments, dog kennels: anywhere that would broaden our experience of animal handling and husbandry. My contact with horses had been confined to a back-street riding school in Liverpool. It was a rough and tacky establishment and I learned enough about the seamy side of this colourful industry to discourage me from further equine experiences. That was until I met Viv. She had an interest in ponies, as many young girls do. Eventually her parents had acceded to her repeated requests and her persistence was rewarded with a strong-willed pony called Coffee. One of Viv’s friends had a larger pony, Playboy, who shared Coffee’s field.

  Playboy was spoilt. He hadn’t been ridden recently and was ready for action. I was to prove my manhood by following my true love on this trusty steed. Together we traversed the meadows and bridleways of Hertfordshire. But this is an overpopulated corner of an overpopulated country. Glorious tree-bound fields were all too frequently interspersed with roads bristling with traffic. It wasn’t until we reached the A5, one of the largest highways feeding London, that Playboy decided he was a leader and no longer content to follow. At the same time he ascertained that while his rider may have been determined, he certainly wasn’t experienced. Also the girth was loose and the saddle starting to slide. This was to be, for me, an unhappy combination of circumstances. While Viv cantered Coffee on the green verge, Playboy overtook them at full gallop with me hanging round his neck. I was very conscious that I had no control, and that I was perilously close to the lorries and cars roaring past in the opposite direction.

  Fortunately, when Coffee’s experienced rider realised my plight, and stopped him, Playboy realised that he had won that particular race and stopped too. Besides, his lopsided cargo had started to impede his dash for glory. I felt I had been in mortal danger, but my sweetheart recognised that, and the part where she showed her concern for my plight was well worth the few moments of terror.

  I am one of those people who sometimes makes the same mistake twice. Although this was my last equine escapade on British soil, a more scenic but no less stimulating repeat was to occur in New Zealand just a few years later.

  ~

  On many backcountry stations in New Zealand, horses are still used to muster sheep and cattle in rough terrain. I regard it as a privilege to have worked during a period when there were quite a few station hacks around, although their numbers have dropped off rapidly in recent years. Treating these animals is relatively straightforward because, like most working animals, they are un-pampered and easy to handle and their owners have a pragmatic approach to injuries and treatment. Mostly, they are sheep farmers and sheep farmers are in my considered opinion the salt of the earth; praise I would not attribute to every member of the horse-owning public.

  Thus, one windy summer day, Viv, Brian—a friend and vet with whom I was working in a mid-Canterbury veterinary practice—and I drove to the remote Erehwon Station. Samuel Butler, the English author, established this station in the mid-nineteenth century and his satire Erehwon (‘nowhere’ backwards) was inspired by the lonely and, in those days, unexplored lands over the mountains to the west.

  We hired the station horses and set off up the broad shingle bed of the mighty Rangitata River and into the shadows of the Southern Alps. The three of us slowly worked our way up the valley into the teeth of a fresh nor’wester. Brian—a man who had been brought up with horses and had a classical sense of style—erect and confident in his saddle; Viv competent and revelling in the knowledge that she had overcome my reluctance to ever mount a horse again; and me, delighting in the magnificence of the scenery and the adventure on which we were embarking. The horses were slow and plodding, to my (secret) satisfaction. Viv and Brian were disappointed that they could not be cajoled into more than a brisk trot, but it was windy and the going rough. It fell on me to carry the panniers of provisions fashioned from our backpacks and they were strapped behind my saddle. I wasn’t bothered about the galloping part, so was able to play the uncomplaining martyr with conviction.

  Before nightfall we had reached a musterers’ hut. The Watchdog hut. What powerful evocations a name brings. It was set in an alpine meadow, melting into a background of matagouri and coprosma scrub. We hobbled the horses on the sweet grass. This is the best part—such promises ahead. We contemplated the rocky, snow-streaked peaks surrounding us and selected a spur to climb the following day. However, the pennants of ragged cloud streaking from the west did not augur well. During the night the storm broke and the tin walls of our puny shelter were drummed by torrential rain. Who has not experienced the snug refuge of a remote hut without a feeling of privilege and awe?

  Although the rain had eased by dawn, our assault on the ridge was cut short by lowering cloud and we returned to the hut and prepared the horses for departure. The rain had raised the river and the weather had by now swung round to the south so we faced a cold ride back into the wind once again.

  The horses were now pointing homewards. It was remarkable how eagerly they picked a safe route across the shingle and through the swollen strands of the braided river. There were a couple of awkward moments crossing some swift, deep water, places we could never have gone on foot. Then, as we neared the homestead, ears pricked and the pace quickened. I was about to experience the New Zealand version of my A5 incident.

  A grassy flat proved irresistible to the more experienced equestrians in our party and their horses needed minimal encouragement. Little did I know, but once again, unfortunately, I had picked a winner. As the others took off on a full-scale gallop I held my mount on a tight rein. Gradually I lost the battle of wills; the brisk trot became a canter. As we cantered, the panniers behind my saddle started to bounce. Dobbin was getting mixed messages. A couple of rucksacks thumping on his flanks spurred him on in no uncertain way and seemed to influence him more than my steady pull on the reins. In the end I had no choice but to give him his head and concentrate on retaining my seat. Just like Playboy, he was determined to win anyway. An observer would have seen two elegant riders whooping joyously across the turf, being rapidly overhauled by an indecorous, cling
ing novice athwart an uncontrolled horse, the bulky packs flapping like wings. But Dobbin knew what he was doing. As he had sure-footedly crossed that river, so was he perfectly assured in that flight across the rough grass.

  In the end it was an exhilarating episode and I can understand the fascination that these wonderful and powerful animals have held throughout history but, personally, I prefer to control my own destiny rather than entrust it to a horse.

  ~

  Mortality spares neither weak nor powerful and the practising vet must familiarise himself with the dead as well as the quick. Perhaps the worst job that ever befell me involved a dead horse.

  ‘Is that you, John?’ Murray enquired anxiously down the phone. ‘I was looking after Mrs Jabcowski’s daughter’s pony while she was overseas and now she’s back again.’

  I couldn’t understand the reason for his anxiety. I didn’t even know Mrs Jabcowski. If I had, maybe I would have felt the same. Murray was a kind-hearted sheep farmer, who had offered grazing on his farm for this friend-of-a-friend’s nag, and now things had backfired on him.

  ‘The pony died a week or so back. It must have run onto a waratah [metal stake] and bled to death when I found it. Now she’s insisting that I get a vet’s certificate,’ he elucidated. It also transpired that the pony was down an offal pit.

  ‘Could be a bit difficult to verify the cause of death after a week,’ I said, ‘and you’ll need to get it out of the offal pit if I’m to attempt a post-mortem. Are you sure she wants to go ahead with this?’ I was playing for time. I wasn’t sure that I was too keen to go ahead with this, even if she was.