by Hugh Lasgarn
But the dog did not move.
‘Please!’ added Tom, glaring at me as he did so.
And with that, Shaun gave a deft wag of his tail and followed obediently.
There followed two fairly straightforward cases, one of a dog with inflamed ears and another a sneezing cat, and then Miss Billings came through and shut the door behind her.
‘All finished?’ I asked, as she folded her arms and inflated her woolly jumper.
‘Just that woman!’ she said disdainfully.
‘That woman?’ I questioned, slightly mystified.
‘Calls herself Miss Lafont.’ Miss Billings’ face began to colour. ‘Pretends she’s French. Huh! She’s no more French than my Aunt Fanny!’
I sensed a slight degree of antagonism in the air and decided to tread carefully, but Miss Billings was in full flow: ‘She said she only wants to see Mr McBean. I told her he wouldn’t be coming back this evening. Of course, he plays up to her, the hussie, and she flaps those big artificial eyelashes of hers — quite a pantomime, I can tell you!’
I had never seen Miss Billings in this state before and was quite keen to view the subject of her malevolence.
‘But Mr McBean isn’t coming back this evening,’ I confirmed. ‘So what is she going to do?’
‘After a highly dramatic performance in the waiting room, Her Ladyship has decided that Petal is in distress, so she will see you!’
‘Oh!’ I said, trying to subdue my obvious interest. Whether the fact that I rubbed my hands together, in the manner of C. J. Pink, gave my thoughts away, I wasn’t sure, but Miss Billings shot me a look of absolute contempt. ‘Men!’ she said in exasperation and left, slamming the door behind her.
I cleaned the table, straightened my tie and waited in anticipation for Miss Lafont. Even before she came in, I was conscious of her perfume and, when she did appear, she was just as I might have imagined — slim, attractive, dark haired and sexily dressed. She wore a white, low-cut frilly blouse, with a rose nestling cheekily in the centre, black skirt with a tempting slit up one side and very high-heeled white shoes. She floated towards me with Petal under her arm. Petal was a French Poodle, also slim and attractive as poodles go, blondish and sporting a jewelled collar, and if Miss Billings was to be believed, was probably short on French blood as well.
Miss Lafont came to a halt by the examination table, but her perfume travelled on, lulling me into a state of mind that I only just managed to crop in the nick of time.
‘What can I do for you both?’ I cooed.
She giggled, squeezed Petal closely to her ample bosom and said: ‘Who’s been a naughty girl, then? Who’s been a fast little madam?’ I detected a slight Birminghamese in her Gallic accent, but as far as I was concerned it was a minor flaw. Petal reacted with a couple of barks, which had no French accent at all.
‘We went out when we shouldn’t,’ Miss Lafont continued, laughing, ‘and we did things that we shouldn’t.’ She looked at me and fluttered her eyelashes. Artificial they may have been, but they worked a treat. ‘We’re naughty, aren’t we!’ she said smiling and, without taking her eyes off me, kissed Petal upon her nose.
‘What a naughty girl,’ I said, entering into the spirit of things. ‘Petal, I am surprised at you.’ I winked at the little poodle, but Miss Lafont took my gesture personally and patted the air between us coyly with a heavily-jewelled hand. ‘When did it happen?’ I asked.
‘Last night, after supper. Down in Bishop’s Meadow.’ she shook her head knowingly at Petal and then turned again to me. ‘Perhaps I should have rung you then. You wouldn’t have minded, would you?’ she asked, slipping her eyelashes into top gear.
‘Of course not,’ I gushed. ‘It would be no trouble, any time. But don’t you worry, Miss Lafont …’
‘Mimi,’ she said. ‘You can call me Mimi.’ After being asked to address Tom Blisset as ‘Tom’ and now Miss Lafont as ‘Mimi’, I thought to myself what a sociable lot the Hackers’ clients were. Taking a deep breath I continued:
‘Don’t you worry, Mimi.’ I paused and she nodded approvingly. ‘Everything will be all right. Just one little injection and her problems will be over.’
‘Oh! Isn’t that wonderful, Petal? Just one teensy-weensy injection.’
She smiled appreciatively and I turned away to the chest of drawers. My hand was on the bottle of oestrogen-based injection, when Miss Lafont added: ‘This injection must be new. How marvellous. Last time she had a hay seed in her ear, Mr McBean had a terrible job getting it out!’
I stood with my back to them, remembering Pink’s Law: ‘Never make a diagnosis on one factor alone.’ Even if it was as delicious as Mimi Lafont. My hand strayed over to the auroscope.
‘We’d better have a look at it first,’ I said, recovering my composure, and as I investigated Petal’s ear canal, I thought what a fool I had nearly made myself look. There was no sign of a hay seed of any description; in fact, come to think of it, it was quite unlikely at that time of year.
‘Well, she was shaking her head a bit,’ said Mimi Lafont, demurely.
‘Possibly a slight inflamation, some ear drops should soothe it,’ I advised.
‘You are sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied, as firmly as I was capable.
‘Do you think I should bring Petal back, just to be safe?’ she suggested, smiling sweetly.
‘Certainly,’ I agreed. ‘How about Friday?’
‘We’d love to come on Friday,’ she said.
I gently ran some drops into Petal’s left ear. ‘I’ll do the right one as well, just to balance things up,’ I explained.
‘Doesn’t he think of everything!’ Mimi Lafont purred. ‘We haven’t seen you before. What’s your name?’
‘Hugh Lasgarn.’ I attempted to make it as interesting as I could.
‘How nice,’ she said. ‘Sounds quite foreign.’
‘Welsh,’ I explained.
‘Welsh!’ she laughed. ‘How different.’
Not knowing quite how to take her reaction, I said: ‘Mr McBean will probably be able to see you on Friday, if you wish.’
She gasped, then breathed in deeply and inflated the white blouse in a way that Miss Billings, in her wildest dreams, would have been unable to match.
‘Oh! We’d like to see you again, wouldn’t we, darling?’ And with that, she thrust Petal forward and the poodle licked my face vigorously.
‘She likes you,’ said Mimi dreamily. ‘See you on Friday.’
And sweeping her pet back into her arms, she left. But her perfume lingered on.
I tidied up the chest of drawers and put the Distemper notice back upon the wall. As I passed through reception, I called ‘Goodnight’ to Miss Billings. But she didn’t answer.
* * *
‘Market inspection for you,’ said Bob Hacker, two days later. ‘We do it on behalf of the Council. Nothing too strenuous, just a general appraisal of the stock for contagious diseases, severe lameness, ringworm, that sort of thing. If you see any animal in very poor condition you have the authority to forbid sale, and in extreme cases prosecute. There’s an RSPCA Inspector and a Policeman on duty, so if you have a problem of that nature, get in touch with them.’
‘Is that likely?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Bob, ‘Ledingford Market has a pretty good standard on the whole, but there are occasional lapses. Quite a few dealers do business there and some of those want watching. The drovers are generally careful, but if you should see anyone mistreating or abusing an animal, then jump in and stop it and report the chap to the Market Superintendent. The only other problem you are likely to get is a dispute, when the auctioneers will call on you to arbitrate. Be careful, because there are tricks of the trade and the lads down there know them all.’
The market was situated in the centre of the town and was buzzing with activity when I drove through the gates. It appeared to be absolute chaos, with stock wagons, cars, people and animals all going in different directions. Right ah
ead of me were the sheep pens, packed with woolly bodies and surrounded by a crowd, who seemed hypnotised by the white-coated auctioneer, standing quite perilously on a gang plank that ran along the top of the rails.
My progress was very much a stop-go procedure, for every few yards I was halted by small clutches of farmers, either in earnest conversation or slapping each other’s backs and roaring with laughter. Nobody moved with any great degree of urgency and, as I eased the little Ford through the crowd, I virtually had to shove some of them gently to one side.
Bob Hacker had said that there was a reserved space for the vet by the Market Office, a low bricked building near the cattle ring. As I made my way towards it I felt quite enlivened by my newly acquired position of authority as Market Inspector, and to have a reserved space for my car did my ego a power of good.
In fact, as I rounded the building I was confronted with a row of cars, each parked facing named signs, such as Market Superintendent, Auctioneer, Council Inspector, and at the end, Veterinary Surgeon. The sign was bright and bold and looked very imposing; there was only one thing wrong: there was no space. Where my car was due to park stood a dilapidated red van, its wing loose and rusted, the side windows cracked and partly boarded up and rear door handles and number plate secured by string. It looked highly unlikely that it belonged to another vet, so I decided to investigate. As I peered through the crack in the rear doors I was deafened by a ferocious barking from within. Suddenly there came a loud bang and the doors were forced partly outwards, but the string on the handle fortunately held; then a black muzzle poked through the gap and a vicious snarl revealed some very sharp teeth.
I walked to the front of the van and, like lightning, a black and white collie dog pounced on to the remnants of the front seat and gave a most aggressive display of possession. The dog leaped up and down in a frenzy and, as I watched the little van rock from side to side a voice behind me shouted, ‘You can’t park there!’ I turned to find a very portly policeman bearing down upon me.
‘You can’t park there, you will have to move,’ he said.
‘Well, I should be able to park there,’ I replied, pointing to the red van, ‘I’m the vet.’
‘The vet?’ he queried.
‘Hugh Lasgarn,’ I said, holding out my hand, ‘I’m with Mr Hacker.’
‘Oh yes! Sorry about the old gentleman.’ He held out his hand in return. ‘Bob Packham!’ The policeman studied the red van for a moment, then turned to me and said:
‘Sam Juggins!’
‘His van?’ I asked.
‘It is,’ replied PC Packham. ‘So that’s where he put it. Come up to me a few minutes ago and said, ‘If my vehicle is in the way, officer, you can move it.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Bit of a rogue is Sam, but he ain’t all bad. You move it, Mr Lasgarn, and put your car in.’
‘Move it?’ I said incredulously.
‘Ay,’ he replied. ‘Stick it over there, by that wall.’
I banged the van with my fist and all hell was let loose inside.
‘You move it, Constable,’ I said, the ferocious barking nearly drowning my words.
PC Packham, hands on hips, squinted through the crack in the door and stepped back sharply as the collie’s teeth appeared.
‘I’ll ’ave ’is guts for garters!’ he exploded. ‘Move it be damned. You stick yours by that wall and I’ll go and find ’im,’ and he trudged off to apprehend the culprit.
I parked by the opposite wall and set off on my tour of inspection.
The market was a fascinating place, and it was obviously as much a social occasion as it was a general sale. There were at least three hundred people milling about amongst the stock, most of them farmers and every one so different. Physically there was a tremendous variation, from the accustomed type of jovial, portly, ruddy-complexioned man, to some who were tall and pale, and others so bent it was difficult to see their features at all.
But, whether Welsh or English, each and every one was involved in the gathering in a purposeful way. If not talking, dealing, bidding or driving stock, they were looking over pens of ewes or bunches of bullocks, pressing down through the curly fleeces to tell the bodily condition, or pinching the flanks of store cattle to estimate their firmness.
I passed through the pig section where great hairy sows, with countless pink piglets scurrying about their feet, were for sale, and watched with interest as bunches of porkers, squealing hysterically, were expertly directed down alleyways and into pens by drovers with large flat boards.
In the poultry shed, a completely different atmosphere prevailed, and the vendors and purchasers were also of a different nature. In fact, at first glance, they even appeared bird-like themselves — the men with beaky noses and the women puffed up and rounded, like some of the fat old hens in the cages. Bantams and geese, long-necked ducks and a colourful array of poultry, all changing hands amid a cacophony of clucking, squawking and high-pitched talking.
The quality of stock was good, and I could see that there were no signs of overcrowding of the pens, or ill-treatment of any sort.
I was standing listening to the banter of the auctioneer at the sheep pens, when the loudspeaker crackled out a message.
‘Will the Veterinary Surgeon please go to the cattle ring, the Veterinary Surgeon please to the cattle ring, immediately!’
My heart began to beat just a little faster. ‘To the cattle ring, immediately!’
It was the urgency of the call that disturbed me, and I hurriedly made my way over to the far side of the market.
The ring had not long been erected, in memory of a local worthy. It was of brick construction and was situated at the end of the covered pens. There was tiered seating for a few hundred, looking down upon the railed sale ring, at the back of which stood the auctioneer’s booth.
As I approached I could hear the steady monotones of the auctioneer’s voice, as he controlled the bidding. The sound allayed one of my fears: that an animal had collapsed and I might be called to attend to it before a considerable gallery.
Making my way through the crowd gathered by the ring, I reached the steps of the rostrum. There were several people in the box as well as the auctioneer, a tall impressive man with a tweed cap and long grey sideboards. As he rattled out the bids on a large red shorthorn cow, his assistants, like hawks, scoured the gathering for nods, winks, coughs and minuscule gestures indicating an offer. For the life of me I couldn’t see any significant movement, but the money kept rising all the time.
A young man in a pork pie hat looked round at me.
‘Vet,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes.’ He took me by the arm and led me around the corner, beyond the range of the verbal barrage.
‘Peter Shackleton,’ he said. ‘Part of Shackleton & Co. You’re new, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Hugh Lasgarn.’
‘With Hacker’s?’
‘Yes, for a short while.’
Young Shackleton looked about him rather nervously, then said, ‘Bit of a sticky one and we’d like your opinion. Someone’s chucked up one of Denthall’s cows!’
When I made no comment he looked at me rather strangely, then he snapped his finger.
‘Of course, Denthall wouldn’t mean a thing to you.’
I shook my head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘You will do if you are here long enough,’ Shackleton replied. ‘Brings about twenty cows a week, does a lot of business here, very important man.’ He looked at me directly, his eyes reiterating his last sentence.
‘What’s the reason?’ I asked.
‘Chap who’s bought it says it’s got mastitis and we’d like you to arbitrate. She’s in the lairage, I’ll take you over.’
The lairage was a long shed running parallel to the covered pens, housing fresh-calved dairy cows, before and after their appearance in the adjacent sale ring. Friesians, Shorthorns, Ayrshires, all brushed up and in show condition, were tied in stalls, but there was no doubt where the attention was centred
, for at the end of the shed a small crowd had gathered, buzzing with conversation.
Peter Shackleton pushed through and I followed. In the stall stood a good-looking Friesian cow, her coat shining, her tail brushed and fanned out elegantly behind her. Hooves and horns sparkled and the udder that expanded between her legs looked full and silky. She really was a picture.
‘This is Mr Parry, who’s just bought her,’ said Shackleton. ‘He says she’s wrong.’
Mr Parry was a small man, his face pale and drawn and his appearance in no way enhanced by the crumpled black suit he wore. His shirt and tie, too, were creased and he squeezed his well-worn hands together nervously.
‘She’s got a hard quarter,’ he said. ‘I think she’s had mastitis.’
‘Didn’t you examine her before you bid?’ I asked.
‘Wouldn’t give me no proper chance,’ he replied.
‘Don’t want everybody poking at ’em!’ said a swarthy individual in a brown coat. ‘Anyway, I didn’t think he was looking to buy.’ He looked rather contemptuously at the little man.
‘Mr Denthall’s cowman,’ said Shackleton, motioning to the man in the brown coat.
The crowd had increased in size and I sensed the air of anticipation behind me. ‘We’d like you to arbitrate,’ said Shackleton. ‘Just to see that she’s all right.’ He nodded and gave a weak smile.
‘Of course she’s all right!’ The crowd parted and a large arrogant figure, in a stetson-type trilby and camel coat, walked forward. His face was full-coloured and podgy, his eyes small but very blue, and in his teeth he gripped a half-smoked Havana.
‘There’s nowt wrong with that cow,’ he said, thrusting his left hand deeply into his expensive coat pocket. ‘She’s right and straight. I don’t bring rubbish to this market, and Shackleton here knows that well!’
Peter Shackleton shuffled uneasily.
‘Mr Parry says she’s got a hard quarter,’ I said.
‘Rubbish!’ shouted Denthall. ‘Natural wedging after calving, any fool can see that. Paid more than he wanted to, that’s the real trouble. Well, I’ll not have that; sold under the hammer she was and that’s it!’ He chewed aggressively on his cigar.
