by Hugh Lasgarn
With my somewhat inebriated passenger just about aboard, I set off for Beckley. The first turning from the digs was sharp and right-handed and as I swung the little Ford, the passenger seat, which was loose, slipped sideways, nearly depositing Charlie in my lap.
‘Blimey, Hubert!’ he gasped, recovering himself. ‘Proper little dolly-trap you’ve got here, my son. You’re a dark horse, Hubert, an’ no mistake.’ He then proceeded to fumble in his pockets, grunting and puffing as he did so. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked, after he had managed to find his cigarettes and lighter.
‘Not at all,’ I said.
With some difficulty, he lit up. ‘Went out on the town, tonight,’ he explained. ‘Finished up at the Three Ravens Club. Met a friend of yours there an’ all.’
‘A friend of mine?’ I questioned, wondering who on earth it could be.
‘Very smart little piece. Thinks you’re “wonderfool”!’ he threw back his head and chuckled. ‘Got a little pooch called Petal.’
‘Miss Lafont,’ I said.
‘Call me Mimi!’ said Charlie, in a mock French accent. ‘Disappointed you didn’t give her the treatment last night. Some Mick saw her.’
‘McBean,’ I replied. ‘Yes, she had an appointment, but I had other calls.’
‘Said I’d take you down there one night,’ he continued. ‘Have a bit of a knees up. You get the night off — do you good.’
‘Look forward to it,’ I said, but as we rattled on our way to Beckley, I pondered his suggestion with mixed feelings.
The village was deserted as we drove through. Bearing right at the green to the church, we followed the lane to the end where a gate across the road bore a sign: ‘The Beeches’.
‘I’ll do it,’ offered Charlie, and was out of the car before I could even remind him to watch his step. After some fiddling, he unlatched the gate and heaved it open, then, turning to face the lights, swept his right arm downwards and stamped his feet in a grand matadorial gesture, before beckoning me through.
I sighed unconsciously. Help at night calving cases was always acceptable, but I wondered what reception I would get from the Ridways with a half-cut Cockney in a mustard-yellow suit and black suede shoes.
Charlie closed the gate and caught up. As soon as he climbed in, I sensed the pungent odour of cow dung and realised that my helpmate had already garnished himself with something distasteful — but as he made no comment, neither did I.
The track across the fields was fairly smooth and Charlie opened two more gates before we arrived at a cluster of buildings sitting on the highest point of the farm, like a small fort. The farmhouse door was open and, as we drew near, I saw, silhouetted in the opening, the figure of a very large lady.
‘Phew!’ exclaimed Charlie, catching sight of her. ‘You won’t get many of those to the pound, Hubert. Ain’t she a whopper!’
Indeed she was, and as we were parked on an upward slope, it accentuated her perspective considerably. What a contrast to Mimi Lafont, for Mrs Ridway, if it were she, was straight from the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’, a Wagnerian soprano if ever I saw one; had she burst into song it would have seemed most natural.
‘You stay here,’ I said to Charlie, hopefully.
‘I’ll come with you, Hubert,’ he replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘Just in case.’
Clambering out of the car, I approached the warrior maiden. She was not unattractive, just large in every department. Long dark hair flowed down over the shoulders of her rough, smock-type dress which was quite flattering to her contours; but so massive were her breasts that, as she gazed down upon me, it was as if she was looking over a precipice.
‘Mrs Ridway?’ I enquired. She nodded, but her features remained expressionless. ‘The vet. Hugh Lasgarn.’
Suddenly, without warning, like a giant hippo, she moved. Her eyes widened fearfully and she raised her hands, clasped them to her formidable chest and gave a high-pitched shriek. I froze on the spot.
Then I realised that Charlie had arrived out of the darkness alongside me.
‘This is Mr Love. A friend of mine — from London,’ I added, trying to make the introduction sound more descriptive than excusing.
‘Evenin’ darlin’,’ called Charlie in his casual way. ‘Nice night for a ride in the country. Where’s the action, then?’
Mrs Ridway stood before us, nervously massaging her ample thighs and breathing heavily. ‘My man’s with the cow,’ she said, in a surprisingly high-pitched tone. ‘Over there in the boosie.’
‘The where?’ said Charlie, chuckling to himself.
‘Cowhouse!’ I retorted under my breath. ‘It’s country slang.’
Mrs Ridway pointed to a building next to the house from where the glow of a lamp was flickering through the narrow windows.
‘Right,’ said Charlie, clapping his hands. ‘You get the kettle on, darlin’, we’ll pop to the boosie and get the job done. What do we want, Hubert?’
‘You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to stay in the car?’ I suggested to him quietly, for his exuberance was beginning to worry me.
‘Not a bit of it, my old son,’ he replied, slapping me across the back. ‘What can I carry?’
Back at the car, I gave him the metal calving box, put on my Wellington boots, stripped off my shirt and drew on my ‘mucklets’, and together we entered the dimly lit building.
Mr Ridway was small in stature compared with his wife, but his amazement when confronted with Charlie and myself considerably exceeded hers. For a moment, when we appeared, I thought he was going to climb up the wall.
‘My God!’ he gasped, practically putting his hands in the air. ‘W-who are you?’
Men from Mars could not have created a more dramatic entry. However, after I made the introductions, he calmed down, but kept giving sideways glances at Charlie, who by now had rolled up his trouser legs in anticipation of the ‘action’.
The cow was a Guernsey type, not very large and jigging about uneasily in her stall. A dark shadow fell upon us as Mrs Ridway arrived, surprisingly silently, carrying a bucket of hot water, soap and towel. So it was, with Mr Ridway holding the tail and his wife and Charlie in close attendance, that I commenced my examination.
Carefully I probed the soft vaginal passage, through the dilated cervix, over the pelvic brim and into the womb. ‘See with your fingers,’ C. J. Pink had said, and how true that was proving to be. The membranes had burst some time previously, although the area was still well lubricated, but as I searched and ‘saw’ I could appreciate no head or legs; instead my hand rested upon a bony prominence from the tip of which sprouted an unmistakable structure — a tail.
I withdrew my arm and straightened my back; the eyes of my silent audience studied me intently.
‘Coming backwards,’ I announced. ‘Breech presentation.’
‘Awkward, Hubert?’ asked Charlie solemnly.
‘The back legs are forward,’ I explained, ‘making the presented end larger than normal. Rather like trying to push a cork into a bottle.’
‘You’ll have to turn it, then?’ he asked.
‘Not enough room for that, even though the calf is not very large. No, I shall have to try and bring the hind legs back up.’
Soaping my arms thoroughly, I re-introduced them into the vagina and, standing behind the extremely patient mother, passed my hands forward onto the unborn calf’s rump. Pushing onwards with my left hand, I delved inwards and downwards over its hip, alongside the bent hock, until my fingers just clasped the points of the toes of the left foot. Once I had grasped it, I took a deep breath and rested for a moment.
‘You all right?’ asked Charlie urgently.
‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got one foot, next job is to get it up.’
That was the most delicate part of the operation, turning the leg to bring it into a posterior position. The wall of the womb was of unbelievable texture when one considered its elasticity and strength, and its resistance to gradual, even pressure was considerable. But sha
rp jabs, such as could readily be made by the point of a hock or the rim of a hoof, could rip the womb like a knife through butter. I knew that, as I drew the foot backwards, the hock would automatically rise, and if my movement was too rough or the cow strained at the wrong moment, I could rupture the wall immediately.
‘Pinch her back,’ I ordered. ‘It stops the straining.’
Mrs Ridway stepped forward and dropped her large hands across the Guernsey’s spine.
Gently I pulled on the foot and bent the hock, keeping the points of the toes deep in the palm of my hand. Pushing the buttocks forward with my other hand to create as much free space as possible, I drew the leg slowly backwards — and upwards — and sideways — and straight.
With a sigh of relief, I brought the foot into view.
‘Well done, Hubert!’ shouted Charlie excitedly, his suedes squelching in the wet straw. ‘Get the other, my son!’
After some more gentle persuasion, I did get the other one and then roped both legs securely, attaching the wooden handles.
By now, Charlie had discarded his yellow jacket and rolled up both sleeves ready to pull. It was indeed an odd scene, with the great Mrs Ridway on one rope and Cockney Charlie on the other, for Mr Ridway still clung firmly to the Guernsey’s tail.
‘When I say “pull”,’ I ordered, and Charlie and Mrs Ridway took the strain. Even then, he couldn’t resist a quip, for he gently nudged the well-endowed lady in the ribs and called out: ‘What’s a nice girl like you doin’ in a dirty old shed like this?’ At which Mrs Ridway’s seemingly expressionless face broke into a smile and she burst into laughter.
The delivery was smooth, and a perfect bull calf soon lay glistening in the straw. I slapped its chest and it drew its legs up short. I slapped it again and it repeated the action.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Charlie.
‘He’s not breathing,’ I replied sharply. ‘Pick him up by his back legs and shake him.’ Hurriedly, I took one leg and Charlie the other, and we jerked the little chap up and down. ‘Fluid on his chest. Backwards calves often suffer from this,’ I explained.
Three times we tried, but he wouldn’t breathe.
‘Try some straw,’ suggested Mr Ridway and, taking a piece from the bedding on the floor, tickled the calf’s nostrils, but there was no response.
I got down on my knees and, placing one hand over the calf’s nose, blew down into its mouth in an attempt to stimulate respiration.
It was useless and I felt about the same. I could hear the heart eagerly thumping in the little bull’s chest, but I knew that if the lungs failed, it would soon cease to function. Despairingly I looked up at Charlie; his face was quite white, the ruddiness of his earlier complexion vanished. Suddenly, his face lit up and he clenched his fists, shook them vigorously in the air and shouted: ‘COLD WATER! WHERE’S SOME COLD WATER?’
‘There’s a trough outside,’ shouted back Mr Ridway, getting the second shock of the night at Charlie’s outburst.
‘Pick him up, Hubert,’ roared Charlie, grabbing the calf’s forelegs.
I was quite taken aback by his action and for a moment stood motionless.
‘Pick him up,’ he shouted at me again. ‘An’ open the door, darlin!’ he called to Mrs Ridway.
We swung the calf outside and up to the trough. ‘IN!’ bellowed Charlie. ‘ALL OF HIM!’ And with that, we plunged the newborn calf deep into the icy water.
The little bull gasped audibly as we pulled him out and hauled him back to the shed. As he lay in the straw I could see his chest heaving and I set to, rubbing him with a wisp until he was breathing deeply and evenly. Soon he was shaking his head and finally bawled out lustily, so that I ceased my rubbing and sat back on my haunches with relief.
‘I never seen that afore,’ exclaimed Mr Ridway, shaking Charlie by the hand. ‘Where did you ever learn a trick like that?’
‘Saw John Wayne do it on a ranch in Nevada,’ said Charlie. ‘Couple of years ago.’
‘Well, I never,’ commented Mr Ridway. ‘Fancy that.’
I looked hard at Charlie, but he had already turned his attentions to Mrs Ridway. ‘I couldn’t ’arf go a nice cuppa, darlin,’ he was saying, and Mrs Ridway, now all smiles and chuckles, said: ‘Certainly you shall, Mr Charlie. Certainly.’ And with that, she bustled off to the house.
‘Come on, Hubert,’ he called over his shoulder, giving me a broad wink as he did so. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
We sat in the kitchen drinking tea laced generously with whisky, and eating thick ham sandwiches which Mrs Rid way soon prepared. Charlie was on top form, cracking jokes and singing Cockney rhymes with the Rid ways joining in lustily — it really was quite a party.
It was well into the small hours when we left, bearing a dozen eggs each, a thick wedge of home-cured bacon and a pint of cream.
When we got to the last gate on the edge of the farm, Charlie closed it wearily and clambered back into the car.
‘Smudged the old finery a bit,’ he said, surveying the sleeves of his jacket in the dashboard light.
‘Sorry about that, Charlie,’ I apologised. ‘But you really did save that calf tonight. Thanks.’
‘Think nothing of it, my old son,’ he replied, generously.
‘But why did you tell them you saw John Wayne do it in Nevada?’ I asked. ‘You’ve never been to the States.’
‘Course, I haven’t,’ he chortled. ‘Course, I haven’t, but I’ve been to the Odeon in Leicester Square, ain’t I?’ With that, he slapped me hard over the shoulders. ‘Drive on, Hubert,’ he shouted. ‘Drive on!’
Six
During my early days in country practice, I found the transition from student to veterinary surgeon, although abrupt, not as obvious as I might have expected. This factor was due in some measure to the change in circumstances occasioned by Mr Hacker Senior’s unfortunate demise and the pressure of work that consequently ensued. Such that I had little time to be truly aware of what was happening. But even despite this unfortunate turn of fate, there would have been more than enough to occupy my mind in the absolute diversity of the lifestyle.
Newborn lawyers, doctors, teachers and engineers commence their careers in regulated circumstances and within predictable surroundings of offices, wards, classrooms or building sites. But for a young vet in country practice, places of work can range from windswept hills and river pastures to dark, animal-warm cowsheds, stately homes or even gypsy encampments; and there are demands, not only upon academic knowledge, but upon physical stamina, ingenuity, diplomacy and above all, one’s sense of humour.
In my first three weeks, I dealt with what seemed like a multitude of species and breeds of varying size, colour and condition, and, as well as my patients, I also encountered a glorious mix of humanity, as varied as the stock I treated. There was, however, one marked difference between the animals and those who owned or cared for them, for while the former’s colour, shape and breeding capacity were far more diverse than my own species, they could not talk. I soon realised this obvious difference put vets in a very special position when it came to communication.
‘Talk, touch and treat them as equal,’ C. J. Pink had said, and how right he was; except that with practically every animal I saw, there was a human spokesman or spokeswoman, and it was often this third party who presented the greatest problem.
Take Miss Millicent for example.
She was a tall, angular, spinster lady, who came to the surgery one evening carrying a friendly little tortoiseshell cat, called Sybil.
‘She doesn’t seem to be quite herself,’ commented Miss Millicent, placing Sybil upon the examination table. ‘She seems rather dreamy.’
Now, ‘dreamy’ was not a clinical description of a symptom, but I understood what she meant.
‘She eats extremely well, in fact better than she has ever done, and she does everything else quite properly. But lately she doesn’t seem so active and sleeps a lot.’
The little cat purred conte
ntedly as I passed my stethoscope over her soft coat. Ears, eyes, mouth were perfect. There were no joint swellings or pain in any part of her body and her temperature was normal. Miss Millicent was right, she was just ‘dreamy’.
I gently palpated her abdomen and she whisked her tail, as if disapproving of my familiarity. Then my fingers probed a little deeper and I found the answer. ‘She’s pregnant,’ I announced confidently.
‘Impossible,’ replied Miss Millicent, equally confidently.
There was a moment when the conversation could have developed into a ‘she is’, ‘she isn’t’ ding-dong pantomime situation, but I avoided this by lowering my tone and adjusting the stethoscope around my neck to assert my professional authority.
‘She is, Miss Millicent. Definitely,’ I assured. ‘I can feel her distended womb. It’s quite distinct. There are at least three and possibly more.’
Miss Millicent looked more puzzled than shocked.
‘But she’s never been out,’ she wailed.
‘Perhaps she slipped through an open window,’ I suggested.
‘I am very careful about windows; wire netting guards each one. The house is very secure. It has to be when you live alone.’
‘A door open,’ I volunteered.
‘I am very careful about doors,’ she replied adamantly. ‘And the porch is double locked.’
The subject of the investigation curled herself up unconcernedly.
‘Impossible,’ continued Miss Millicent. ‘Impossible.’
I studied the snoozing bundle on the table. ‘Any other cats in the house?’ I enquired, a trifle vaguely.
Miss Millicent leaned forward and picked up Sybil, cuddling the little tortoiseshell to her flat bosom. ‘Only George,’ she replied, rubbing her cheek across the soft fur. ‘But he’s her brother — and he wouldn’t do a thing like that!’
Certainly, I was beginning to find that, when speaking on behalf of their pets, owners tended to humanise their companions regarding symptoms, feelings and, in Miss Millicent’s case, even morals.
