by Hugh Lasgarn
‘Took some up in a churn before ’ew come,’ he said. ‘Come back from Chapel, went up to look at ’er. Come back. Rang ’ew. Then took the water up.’ He raised his lamp over the car as we changed into our boots and waterproofs. ‘Knew I’d ’ave plenty of time,’ he added.
But C.J. and I took no notice of his jibe; instead we checked our gear and, like all good vets, or nearly vets — kept our thoughts to ourselves.
In single file we left the yard through the mountain gate, the rain slashing against us. Elmer led with the tilly, I followed with calving bag and ropes and C.J. puffed away behind with the medical case.
On the ridge we rested.
‘She is due now, is she?’ asked C.J., in between gasps.
‘Should have calved this morning,’ said Elmer, setting down the tilly, his voice clear and his breathing steady and unstressed — the benefit of a lifetime of hill farming. ‘Looked on ’er at dawn, then again before I went to Chapel. Saw ’er when I come back and before I went again. To Chapel, ’ew see.’ He shone the lamp and looked at us as if we had never heard of it. ‘Then I went again, tonight.’ Elmer Morgan hung his head as if he was apologising for what he was about to say next. ‘When I came back, she was still the same — so I had to ring for ’ew.’
C.J. wiped the rain from his moustache and grinned.
‘The Lord works in mysterious ways, Elmer,’ he said, having regained his breath.
‘Take not His name in vain, Mr Pink,’ came the reply, but it was faceless, for Elmer had already turned and was leading off up the bank.
As we pushed on, the rain eased, and by the time we reached the small plateau at the top of the rise, I could see the lights of Nantygyll twinkling in the valley. In the distance came a grunting sound and soon the outline of a cow appeared, lying on the edge of the plateau. Even in the dark I could see her shape, and when Elmer raised his lamp I could see she was black.
Just like Old Thundertits.
C.J. set down his case and took a torch from his waterproof pocket. He walked round to the cow’s head and shone the light. Again like Old Thundertits, her horns had dug into the soil and squirts of steam came from her nostrils and, apart from the fact that she was soaking wet, like the rest of us, it was Little Pant all over again.
‘What’s her name?’ asked C.J., bending down.
‘Megan,’ said Elmer, irritably.
C.J. parted the old cow’s eyelids gently. To some it might have appeared as if he was soothing and caressing the poor beast, but I knew he was starting his clinical examination and, as he talked, he was assessing the situation.
‘You’ve picked a grand night to do this, Megan. Sunday’s the Day of Rest, didn’t you know?’ He shone his torch over her flanks, then took out his stethoscope and listened to her heart.
‘Calving she is,’ Elmer informed C.J., rather impatiently.
C.J. paid no attention to the remark, but continued his examination. Finally, he shone his torch on the tailhead and pressed the ligaments beneath.
‘She is ready to calve,’ he said, addressing his comments to me. ‘But something is definitely wrong. She’s as dry as a bone behind and by now there should be some sign of the water.’ He undid his waterproof and laid it on the grass, then he took off his jacket and shirt. Stripped to the waist in the gentle drizzle that now descended, he rolled his clothes in the waterproof and, donning his apron, turned to Elmer.
‘Soap!’
Elmer ferreted beneath the sack around his waist, obviously searching for a pocket. Eventually he withdrew a piece of newspaper which he carefully unrolled — to reveal a scrap of soap about the size of a matchbox which, by its sharp edges, had no doubt been sliced from a larger bar.
‘If cleanliness is next to godliness, you’ve got a long way to go, Elmer,’ said C.J. Then working hard with the morsel, he soaped his arm up to his shoulder.
There are many ways of spending a Sunday night, even in Wales, and I remember thinking, as I held Megan’s tail, while mean old Elmer shone the lamp and C.J., stripped to the waist, eased a soapy arm into the depths of the sweating, prostrate cow on the side of Nantygyll Mountain in the rain, that this must definitely be one of the more unusual.
As C.J. cautiously probed the birth canal, Megan began to strain uneasily.
‘Pinch her back!’ he called to Elmer.
Elmer, without any comment, set down the lamp and squeezed Megan’s spine with his thin, scrawny hands.
‘Further forward!’ shouted C.J.
Elmer moved to her shoulders and his lean frame tensed as he squeezed again.
‘Stops the muscle contractions and eases the straining,’ said C.J., looking up at me, and as he did so I could see the tension in his rain-spattered face.
‘Feel anything?’ enquired Elmer urgently, still bent and squeezing. C.J. didn’t answer, but gradually withdrew his arm, sat back on his haunches and sighed.
‘What is it, mun?’ shrieked Elmer. ‘For God’s sake, what is it?’
C.J. rose to his feet. ‘Elmer Morgan,’ he said, ‘don’t blaspheme. We are going to need all the help available. You. Hugh. Megan, who’s already doing her best.’ C.J. looked upwards into the murky gloom. ‘And Anyone Else who might care to lend a hand!’ he added, wiping the rain from his face.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Elmer shone the lamp right in C.J.’s face.
‘It’s a twisted womb,’ he said.
And I realised then, that it wasn’t like Old Thundertits after all.
Elmer Morgan covered his face with his hand. ‘Megan, my best cow,’ he wailed. ‘My best cow.’
‘I must say that one bit of Providence is that you didn’t get her in to the cowhouse, Elmer,’ remarked C.J. as he opened the calving bag and uncoiled a length of rope. ‘The fact that we’re on the hill will make it easier to roll her. And I want Hugh to feel it, too,’ he added, firmly, ‘so that he will know which way I want the rope to be pulled.’
Elmer made no comment and C.J. nodded to me to make an internal examination. I quickly stripped, soaped my arm with the morsel of soap and knelt down behind Megan. C.J. knelt alongside and, as I gently inserted my hand, he explained what I would feel.
‘If she strains, don’t force against it. Wait until she relaxes, then smoothly ease in.’
I had felt normal calvings on two previous occasions, so the sensation was not completely unknown to me.
‘Let your hand go with the contour and you’ll find the passage twisted like a corkscrew. Feel it?’
The tissue was warm and tacky, but in no way objectionable. In fact, now that I was directly involved, my mind was just concentrating on what I could discover by touch.
‘Yes,’ I replied, as my arm started to twist naturally with the folds of tissue.
‘Now,’ said C.J. ‘I want you to do something which every vet must learn to do, and learn to do well. I want you to see with your fingers.’
When he said it, ‘See with your fingers’, I nearly said, ‘that’s just what I’m doing.’ For I realised that, while I was on my knees gazing into the darkness of the night, in my mind was a picture of the convoluted channel which was preventing the calf’s delivery.
‘Which way is it going?’ asked C.J. ‘Clockwise or anticlockwise?’
I felt the side of the channel, one way, then the other. Although my mental picture seemed quite clear, I couldn’t decide.
‘Confusing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Come out carefully and I’ll show you how to check. Elmer, give me that sack from around your waist.’
Without a murmur, Elmer untied the sack and handed it over, and as C.J. explained the circumstances to me, the old farmer listened intently.
‘As you know, Hugh,’ he began, ‘for the calf inside the womb, it’s rather like being in a water-filled balloon. In the early stages it lies in a crouched position, but in the later stages, shortly before birth, it extends into a sort of diving posture, head between legs, which are pointed towards the neck of the womb. Imagine this sack as the w
omb and this as the neck, called the cervix.’
C.J. held up the sack by its far corner, then gathered up the open end in his other hand. ‘That’s the normal position. When the neck opens, out comes the calf.’ He relaxed his grip on the neck of the sack. ‘Now, in Megan’s case, unfortunately, the calf in extending has caused the womb to rotate — so!’ He twisted the neck of the sack and held it up. ‘Look at this!’ He held the gathered end towards me. ‘Which way are the folds?’
‘Anticlockwise!’ Both Elmer and I answered in unison.
‘Correct!’ C.J. gave the neck of the sack a further twist to confirm our answer. ‘Now. To undo it we have to turn Megan in the same direction, but keep the womb still, so that she can catch up upon the twist. See?’
‘How d’yew reckon to do that, then?’ said Elmer, more in despair than sarcasm. ‘Yew’m on Nantygyll Mountain now, mind. Not Porthcawl Fairground!’
‘I shall put my arm into the neck of the womb and hold it as steady as I can,’ explained C.J., holding up the rope from the calving bag. ‘We’ll tie this to Megan’s feet, then you and Hugh stand below her,’ down the slope, and when I give the word you jerk her right over. It must be quick, so that her body turns faster than the womb, which I will attempt to slow down.’
‘Deu, man,’ said Elmer. ‘Sounds a performance.’
‘Just hold this and stop your rattle,’ said C.J. ‘You’ll need all your wind to pull!’ With that, he made double nooses in the rope ends and attached them to Megan’s underside fore and hind legs. Then, washing up again, he knelt down behind the cow and gave the final instructions.
‘D’yew think the calf is alive?’ asked Elmer, as he spat on his hands in readiness for the rope.
‘If you said the right words in Chapel, there’s a good chance,’ came the reply.
‘Mr Pink!’ rasped Elmer, then he took up the strain.
‘When I say “now”,’ said C.J., ‘and not before. But make it strong and quick.’
He lay flat out this time, on the sodden mountain turf, legs splayed to give himself more stability. Then he eased his arm inside Megan as Elmer and I pulled the rope taut.
Megan gave a heave as C.J. took up his position. He let her relax and, as she did, shouted:
‘PULL!’
Elmer and I jerked backwards and heaved. Megan rose onto her back and I heard C.J. gasp as he held firm. Then my foot slipped on the grass and I lost my grasp and Megan rolled back on her side.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘We’ll try again,’ said Elmer, gruffly. He gave a great sniff, spat on his hands and took fresh hold of the rope.
With renewed effort we pulled again at C.J.’s command. This time, Megan rose onto her back and a further quick jerk forced her to flop right over onto her other side.
‘Any good, man?’ Elmer’s voice echoed over the hillside as he shouted.
C.J. lay still and exhausted for a few seconds, then, with a sigh he said: ‘Not quite.’
It took two more rolls, leaving us a good ten yards down the hill, before he eventually shouted: ‘Enough!’ And indeed, it was enough, for in seconds the waters, now released, came gushing out and in five minutes, with a little assistance, a fine Friesian cross Hereford calf slithered into the world on Nantygyll Mountain that Sunday night.
Everyone, including Megan, breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Is it all right?’ Elmer shone the tilly over the glistening, writhing body. The calf bawled, a watery choking sound.
‘Pick it up by its back legs,’ shouted C.J., ‘and jerk it!’
I grabbed the right and Elmer the left; it was slippery and heavy, but we raised it together.
‘Up and down,’ C.J. waved his hands. ‘Probably got some fluid in its throat; that will shake it out.’ And sure enough, as we shook, the calf coughed and started to breathe more easily. We laid it on the ground and Elmer picked up the lamp again.
‘What do you think of that, then?’ asked C.J., washing his bespattered torso with water from the churn.
Elmer held the tilly closer and lifted the calf’s hind leg, then he grunted with disgust.
‘A bull!’ he said. ‘An’ I wanted a ’effer!’
C.J. stopped his ablutions and turned his back on us, looking down the bank to the twinkling lights of Nantygyll. I saw him breathe deeply, then he stood quite still for several minutes. Eventually he moved and confronted Megan, who by now was sitting up and looking much more cheerful.
‘Did you hear that, Megan?’ he said to the old cow. ‘He wanted a heifer!’ Then he put his hands on her forehead and added, ‘Aren’t there times when you feel like packing it all in?’
By the time we had collected up the gear, Megan was up and nuzzling her calf. The transformation from the immobile hulk she had been to a vigorous, tail-swishing mother was remarkable.
‘’Old the light while I try ’er tits,’ said Elmer, handing me the lamp. Cautiously he leaned against the cow and his sinewy hands clasped each teat in turn and with a firm downward draw sent streams of first-milk onto the wet grass where it formed a small frothy pool.
‘Plenty there — ’e’ll be all right,’ he commented, taking back the lamp.’ ‘’Ew can wash at the house an’ I’ll make ’ew some tea.’
‘Right,’ said C.J., slipping his waterproof loosely over his shoulders. ‘A wash will be fine, but no tea, thanks.’
‘As ’ew wish.’ As Elmer led off, C.J. turned to me and whispered:
‘Herbal tea. Aaach! Like gypsy’s shaving water.’ He held his finger to his lips, indicating that I should not pursue the subject.
The kitchen at Ty-Bran was a corrugated tin lean-to at the back of the whitewashed farmhouse. Damp, uneven flagstones covered the floor and, just inside the door, a shallow brown stone sink sat upon two low brick pillars. Above it, a dim unshaded light bulb weakly illuminated the interior. Elmer took a large kettle from an oil stove and poured the steaming contents into a bowl in the sink, and as the vapour rose it misted up a piece of cracked mirror glass fixed to the wall above. On a wooden shelf to one side stood a Victoria and Albert shaving mug out of which poked a shaving soap stick and a great hairy shaving brush; alongside the mug lay a cut-throat razor. My mind ran back to Mr Ellis’ kitchen and Boggy, and I found my eyes roaming the walls — and sure enough they were there, on the far wall, hanging from a nail, just what I might have expected to be part of Elmer Morgan’s lifestyle: a bunch of wicked, thin-wired snares. I watched him as he carefully cut another morsel of soap from a long narrow bar and decided that piety of Elmer Morgan’s sort was no antidote to meanness and cruelty.
He ladled some cold water from a tin bath into the bowl and in turn we washed. The water was warm and soft and the soap lathered readily, but had a rather austere, disinfectant aroma that one associates with certain institutions. The towel was a bleached sack, bound at the edges with linen tape. Through a half open door leading from the lean-to, I glimpsed the living room which looked reasonably comfortable, with a bright fire burning in the tall, black-leaded iron grate. A table in the centre was cluttered with crockery and foodstuffs, while in the corner stood a grandfather clock with a faded, painted face.
C.J. reclothed himself after washing and, as he came to the last buttons of his shirt neck, turned to Elmer who was standing, silently, behind.
‘Your account with me is outstanding by twelve months, Elmer,’ he said, very directly. ‘Thirty-nine pounds seven shillings and sixpence, to be exact — not counting tonight. It’s about time you settled.’
‘Yes, Mr Pink.’ Elmer shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I’ll settle.’
‘Settle the overdue now and you can leave tonight’s on the book,’ said C.J., reasonably.
‘Settle now!’ Elmer squeaked.
‘Yes,’ said C.J. ‘Why not, man?’
Elmer stepped forward a pace, shoulders drooped, neck bent and beaky nose prominent, just like a vulture.
‘Mr Pink,’ he croaked, narrowing his beady eyes, ‘you should know better than
to ask.’ Then he stood back, straightened, and held up his hand. ‘It is the Sabbath!’
‘The Sabbath!’ exclaimed C.J., raising his bushy eyebrows.
‘I never do business with money on the Lord’s day,’ said Elmer, with fabricated reverence.
‘I calved your cow for you on the Lord’s day!’ retorted C.J.
‘Ministering to the sick,’ said Elmer, slyly. ‘That’s what that is.’
C.J. grunted, then he leaned back upon his heels and glanced through the door into the living room.
‘What’s that clock say, Hugh?’ He screwed up his eyes in an attempt to read the painted face.
‘Eleven thirty,’ I replied.
‘Eleven thirty,’ said C.J., smoothing down his moustache. ‘Now there’s a thing. What would you say to a cup of tea?’
I hesitated, remembering his whispered comment on the mountainside. Seeing my hesitation, he nodded his head towards me slowly.
‘Oh. Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan. That would be grand.’
C.J. turned upon Elmer, who had suddenly appeared to become smaller and meaner as he clasped his thin fingers together. In comparison C.J. exuded health and confidence and rubbed his strong, broad hands together warmly, as he did in anticipation of some pleasure to come.
‘We’ll take you up on your offer of tea, Elmer,’ he said, smiling benevolently. ‘And while you’re making it, we’ll have a warm by the fire. Then in half an hour or so, Hugh and I will be off!’
Then he stood back, bowed slightly, raised his hand and invited me to precede him into the living room.
It was getting on for half past twelve when we rattled off down the track in the old Vauxhall. The rain had stopped, leaving a dry, clear night, and as we reached the mountain gate, C.J. pulled up.
‘Not a bad way to start the week, eh!’ he said. ‘Twisted womb, live calf and we prised some cash out of Elmer, to boot.’
‘I shall never forget the look on his face when you said we’d stop for half an hour or so,’ I said.
‘Neither shall I.’ C.J. clapped his hands with delight. ‘What did you think of the tea?’
