Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  I then took the shorter wagon rope and tied it around the affected limb, pulling it out for examination. While Howell Powell kept the body rope taut, I took my hoof knife and cleaned the foot. As I cleared the heel, Bronwen pulled back sharply and the knife grated against something metallic. I turned the foot slightly to find the head of a rusty nail protruding from the heel. Easing it clear of the flesh with my blade, I took a hold and pulled the nail out with my fingers.

  ‘It wasn’t the moon that was wrong,’ I called, over my shoulder. ‘It was this!’ And I held up the nail for him to see.

  I cleaned and dressed the wound. ‘Now I’ll give her an injection. It will stop any infection developing. We don’t want Bronwen going wrong again.’

  Following treatment, I removed the ropes and the old cow obligingly got to her feet.

  Howell Powell carefully examined the offending nail.

  ‘Wasn’t fair to the sod treatment, that,’ he commented thoughtfully. ‘Weren’t meant for that.’

  ‘That old remedy is just an excuse,’ I chided. ‘It’s a darn sight easier to sling a lump of mud up into a blackthorn tree than to get the foot up. That’s the real sod.’

  ‘No it ain’t.’ Howell Powell frowned morosely, as he spoke. ‘Don’ you never make fun of the Mountain, Mr Lasgarn,’ he said, in serious tone. ‘’E’s been there a long time.’

  I felt slightly put down by his remarks and he must have realised it, for he suddenly clapped his hands and said:

  ‘Well, well. Now I don’t suppose you be married.’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Who looks after you, then?’

  ‘I’m in digs at Putsley.’

  ‘Then you shall ’ave something for your dinner,’ he said. ‘Jus’ you wait ’ere.’

  While he was away, I coiled up the ropes and wondered what my reward was going to be. Already I had my Welsh cakes. Some butter would be fine, or eggs, or even a slice of home-cured ham. But my grandiose expectations were shortlived, for Howell Powell soon returned.

  ‘’E’re, Mr Lasgarn,’ he said. ‘I be most grateful for what you’ve done. Take these ’ome with you, they be real tasty.’

  And into my hands he put two large, round swedes, which must have weighed all of three pounds each. I couldn’t remember if it was one of C. J. Pink’s Laws or a piece of McBean’s advice, but someone had urged me never to refuse a gift from a farmer, or it would be the last I was offered.

  I thanked Howell Powell for the swedes and told him to let me know if Bronwen suffered any setback. Then, I commenced my walk back up the bank.

  By the time I reached the car, after humping my medical case, halter and the two swedes, I was exhausted and, throwing my rewards into the passenger well, sat sideways on the seat until I regained my wind.

  A glance at my watch showed it was past two o’clock, and I realised I should be on my way.

  The green mould gate was equally truculent on the outward journey, and when I eventually dragged it back into place, one of the bars came adrift; as I picked it up I spied two nails, similar to the one in Bronwen’s foot. So much for Howell Powell’s folk medicine.

  ‘Never make fun of the Mountain!’ I shouted at the top of my voice, mimicking in exaggerated Welsh, Howell Powell’s terse advice.

  As the car lurched down the lane, the swedes rolled about hysterically beside me. Keeping my right hand on the wheel, I bent over to put them on the seat where they would be more stable, but my bodily movement jerked the steering and the wheels jarred on the central ridge of the track. The little Ford bucked like a mustang and, in attempting control, I over-corrected, causing it to leap out of the ruts and drift onto its left side.

  It was still going forward at a perilous angle until, with a bang and a shudder, the little car came to rest with both offside wheels in the ditch. With some difficulty, I scrambled out and, hands on hips, surveyed my predicament. Well and truly wedged; there was no way I was going to extricate my vehicle without help.

  I trudged back up the track and for the third time dragged open the green mould gate. As I did, I glanced upwards at the Black Mountain.

  The mist had risen, clearing the summit and leaving a narrow orange gap of hazy sunlight between it and the overhanging cloud. It looked just like a grinning mouth.

  ‘All right, we’re quits now,’ I shouted irritably, and set off across the field to enlist the aid of Howell Powell and his fiery Fordson.

  Howell Powell showed little surprise at my return, as if he was half expecting it. At a frustratingly slow pace, he collected the short wagon rope, started up the tractor and came back with me.

  ‘Wonder what frightened ’er?’ he commented sarcastically as he surveyed my up-ended car. ‘You’ll ’ave to cut ’er oats down, Mr Lasgarn, that’s what you’ll ’ave to do.’

  * * *

  It was nearly two hours later that I arrived at ‘Top Shop’ at St Madoc’s. It was right by the roadside, with a small iron fence across its front.

  ‘Evan P. Evans General Stores,’ announced the wording above the door. A blackhandled ‘sit up and beg’ bicycle leaned against the railings — a lady’s model with a string guard over the rear wheel. Behind it, fixed to the gate, was a sign that stated quite emphatically and with typical Welsh double emphasis, ‘No Parking By Here’.

  ‘Top Shop’ was part of a double-fronted cottage which, from its entrance, led into a narrow passage barred halfway by a low gate, on which was another sign, reading ‘Private’.

  On the right was a door; two signs here: ‘Shop’ and ‘No Dogs’.

  I opened the door and entered, to find myself in a room jam-packed to the ceiling with goods. The free floor space was already occupied by two people: A woman in a black coat and shiny black straw hat, who was counting out coins from her purse onto the counter, and a wizened little man, in a cap, tattered rain coat and oversized Wellington boots. His face was red as a cherry, with a film of white, whiskery hairs covering his cheeks.

  There were open sacks of sugar and flour and hams hanging down, a great bacon slicer with a shining circular knife, cheeses of all varieties and a mountain of butter on a marble slab. Palethorpe’s sausages, brawn and cooked meats fought for display behind, whilst above, the shelves were packed to capacity with teas, coffees, syrups and jams. There were cakes on a tiered cake stand, jars of sweets and Lovell’s King Rex Toffees. At my back stood a glass-fronted cupboard containing health cures, salts, lineaments and pills. There was hardware, software, footwear and well, you name it, it was all there — somewhere — and the mix of aromas, scents and smells defied description.

  Standing beaming benevolently across the counter, white-aproned, black-waistcoated, with black tie and little cutty-back collar, was the proprietor of the multi-purpose rural emporium, Evan P. Evans.

  My entrance caused an immediate tension in the atmosphere. The woman with the coins eyed me suspiciously over the rims of her spectacles and the old gent attempted to tuck himself in between two sugar bags, while Evan P. Evans rubbed his hands together eagerly, in the manner of all shopkeepers, and continued smiling. At that point, one of the woman’s coins rolled from the counter onto the floor and the three of us bent down to retrieve it; being in such tight compass, we all but collided and stood up without anyone picking it up. I bent down again to collect it, replacing it with the rest. The joint action seemed to break the ice and suddenly everyone became good companions.

  ‘Don’t throw it away, Mrs Baggot,’ said the old gent.

  ‘No fear of that, Mr Preece,’ she replied. ‘Too ’ard to come by.’ And turning to me she said, ‘Thank you,’ then stood back, motioning me to squeeze up to the counter.

  ‘I’d like to use the ’phone, please,’ I explained. ‘I’m a vet. Mr McBean from Hacker’s said it would be all right.’

  ‘Most certainly you can, Mr …’

  ‘Lasgarn. Hugh Lasgarn.’

  ‘Sorry to hear about Mr Hacker’s death.’ Evan P. Evans lowered his voice. ‘He was a f
ine man,’ he said, reverently. ‘A fine man.’

  ‘Saved a mare for me last year. Remember that grey mare, Evan?’ the old gent interjected. ‘Came in the middle of the night to ’er.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’ll be missed very much indeed.’

  No one spoke further and they all stood, heads bowed, for about a minute. It was most touching and I think they would have stood much longer had I not shuffled and cleared my throat.

  ‘The telephone?’ I enquired, quietly.

  ‘Through here,’ said Evan, still in slightly funereal tone, and drew back a curtain that had hidden the access to an adjoining room. ‘Who would you like to call?’ he asked, smiling inquisitively.

  ‘The surgery.’

  ‘Oh, yes. ‘O’ for operator, then give your number.’

  The telephone, which stood in pride of place on a mahogany stand, was covered with a sort of woollen tea cosy on which was embroidered in rainbow colours the word ‘TELEPHONE’.

  I got through to the operator and, whilst she was connecting me, I realised the conversation in the adjoining shop had ceased. Remembering McBean’s advice and the wartime slogan ‘Walls have ears’, I decided to be careful in what I said.

  McBean came through and I explained why I had been held up.

  ‘As long as you are all right, Hugh, that’s the main thing,’ he replied. ‘Just one call for you on the way back. Hinks of Greenmore. Cow calved last week and not cleansed the afterbirth. It’ll be a bit of a stinker I’m afraid, we normally like them at twenty-four hours, but old Hinks always hopes they’ll drop away by themselves and save a visit.’ He gave me directions to Greenmore. ‘There’s nothing else, so you might as well go back to your digs and have a bath — you’ll no doubt need one after that job. I’ll see to the small animals, you can have tonight off.’

  The call finished, I paid Evan P. Evans the shilling he requested.

  Mrs Baggot had gone, but old Mr Preece was still there.

  ‘Know anything about dogs?’ he questioned.

  ‘A little,’ I declared.

  ‘Why does my old sheepdog shake ’er ’ead?’

  ‘Bad ears,’ I suggested.

  ‘Could be,’ he said, nodding. ‘What can I do for that?’

  ‘Olive oil,’ I replied.

  ‘Olive oil!’

  ‘Yes, up there, next to the mustard,’ I pointed to the third shelf. ‘Warm it up, a few drops down the ear, do the trick.’

  And with that slick piece of diagnosis and advice, I bid them both ‘Good Day’.

  But, my ‘devil may care’ progress was sharply arrested when I got outside, for lying beneath the front of my car was a large pool of rusty water — the radiator had leaked. I had known that it was faulty, but regular daily topping had so far been sufficient. I checked the hoses, but they were sound, and concluded that the episode in Howell Powell’s ditch had aggravated the condition; so back into ‘Top Shop’ I went, to explain my predicament.

  Evan was very sympathetic and went away to get some water.

  ‘Know anything about radiators?’ I jovially asked Mr Preece.

  ‘A little,’ he said, rubbing his teeth with the stem of a well-smoked briar pipe.

  ‘What can I do for it?’ I asked.

  ‘Mustard,’ he replied.

  ‘Mustard!’

  ‘Ay. Up there, next to the olive oil,’ he grinned. ‘Put it in your radiator, mix it up, do the trick.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg,’ I said incredulously.

  ‘No, ’e’s right,’ said Evan, who had returned with a watering can. ‘Mix it in with the water, it’ll stop the leak. Get you back to Ledingford, anyway.’

  Sure enough, two tins of Coleman’s down the spout under Mr Preece’s direction, and I was on my way. One good turn deserves another I thought, and I hoped that Mr Preece’s sheepdog would respond as well as my little Ford.

  McBean, I thought, had been very decent in giving me the night off and I welcomed the offer. But it was when my eye rested upon the two large round swedes, bobbing up and down gently on the seat alongside me, that I suddenly remembered Miss Lafont.

  It was Friday — she was going tonight. If I got cracking I could be back in time. But, following my encounter with Hinks’ cow, my aroma would be far from conducive to laying on the charm. Dammit!

  McBean was a clever devil! Have the night off, indeed!

  As I drove back towards Ledingford, I glimpsed the Black Mountain receding in my mirror. The cloud had risen and the evening sun glowed softly above its purple summit — it really was a beautiful sight and I resolved there and then, for several reasons, ‘not to make fun of the Mountain’ again.

  * * *

  I concluded my second week with a very busy Saturday and was thankful when evening came. Not that the day was without its satisfaction, for I had my radiator fixed at the garage, successfully delivered two sets of twin lambs, reduced a blown cow with my probang and visited Mrs Williams at Pontavon, where, although one more calf had died, the others seemed likely to survive. Finally, I had called at five farms on the ‘Mastitis Run’.

  The ‘Mastitis Run’, or ‘Tit Trot’ as McBean rudely termed it, was a series of farm visits at evening milking for the purpose of treating infected udders. Penicillin and streptomycin were available in crystalline form and, diluted in sterile water, were injected up the teat canal of the ailing quarter on three evening milkings. Successive visits were necessary due to the instability of the diluted antibiotic and the fact that the drug was not freely available to the farmers. It was, indeed, a ‘whistle-stop’ tour of the dairy herds, often seeing only the backside of the cowman as he carried on with his milking.

  It was simple: stop car, into cowshed, make up solution, squirt up teat, back into car and off.

  I returned to my digs just before seven o’clock. Charlie was out and Brad had waited to rustle up ham and eggs for me, before going off to visit her old folk. After my supper I carried the dishes through to the tiny kitchen, rinsed them and stacked them on the draining board, then I settled down in the deep armchair by the fire in the lounge.

  On the opposite chair, in a most unusual posture, lay Percy, the larger of Brad’s two cats. What a lesson in relaxation was provided by a cat, I mused. Sleek, speedy and agile when hunting, custom-built for the job, but when off duty their bodies became loose and pliable, melting luxuriously into the contour of any resting place they cared to choose. Percy’s rear half lay in the centre of the seat, upside down, with his legs pointing upwards, but sagging. The middle of his body, however, had swivelled so that his chest was upright with right foreleg tucked beneath and, to complete the contortion, his head and left leg hung lifelessly down towards the floor.

  Yet, despite this seemingly impossible position, his eyes were tightly closed and he purred deeply and with immense satisfaction.

  I lay back in my seat and in a much simpler way, tried to emulate him.

  Percy’s example had the required soporific effect, for it was over one hour and a half later that I awoke to the scratching of a key in the front door lock. It was Brad returning from visiting, and already Percy had left his chair to greet her. She popped her woolly-hatted head around the door and chastised me gently for letting the fire sink so low. Then, she retired to the kitchen, to re-appear shortly with a cup of cocoa, served as always, very correctly, on a blue tray with matching napkin.

  Warmed and contented, I decided to turn in. The sideboard clock chimed eleven and, as it ended, the telephone rang.

  It was Miss Billings, her voice soft and apologetic — how she had altered since first we met. She was now in residence with the late Mr Hacker’s widow and took all the telephone messages at night.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lasgarn, but it’s a calving at Mr Ridway of Beckley. Apparently she’s been trying since milking time, but without success. Do you know Beckley?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I passed through there on Tuesday.’

  ‘Well,’ she explained, ‘Mr Ridway far
ms at The Beeches. Go past the church and follow the lane to the end.’

  The call noted, I decided a good wash was required to freshen up and popped up to the bathroom.

  When I came down again, Brad added her commiserations at my misfortune in being called out.

  ‘You wrap up warm, now,’ she advised in a motherly way. ‘Bitter out, it is.’

  Taking her advice, I was donning my duffle and scarf when the door opened and in walked Charlie.

  A Jack-in-the-box could not have presented a more startling entry, for my Cockney companion was attired in a loud mustard-yellow suit, the jacket of which sported highly exaggerated shoulders and a wide black velvet collar. The trouser legs were like drain-pipes and terminated a good eight inches above black, thick-soled, suede shoes. The gap between exposed bright green socks, so dazzling as to cause instant disturbance of vision when they met the eye. His hair, heavily greased, was slicked back in the Elvis style and his cheeks appeared unusually red.

  ‘Wotcher, Hubert!’ he shouted jovially, slapping me on the shoulder with one hand and shutting the door behind him with the other. An aroma of heavy aftershave and whisky filled the hallway. Charlie stood rather unsteadily before me, casting his eyes over my scarf and duffle coat, down to my boots and back up again. ‘On the night shift, Hubert?’ he enquired. I nodded. ‘Where you goin’ then?’ he asked blearily.

  ‘Cow calving at Beckley,’ I replied.

  ‘Like some company?’ he asked, brushing back his hair with both hands.

  ‘What, you?’ I responded, with some amazement.

  Charlie’s hands slowly dropped from his head, slid around his face and finished up clasped in front of his chest. ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of fixin’ you up with a bird, Hubert,’ he said, looking quite forlorn.

  ‘Oh. You can come, if you like,’ I rejoined. ‘But you’d better change first.’

  ‘Change!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘Ain’t this gear Country Style?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well, I’m only goin’ to watch, ain’t I?’ he said, his face beaming with delight. ‘Come on, Hubert. Let’s get cracking!’