by Hugh Lasgarn
But there were occasions when a case history was presented in more realistic terms and still gave rise to pitfalls, as I discovered when I went to Joe Price’s farm at Hill Morton, to carry out a Tuberculin Test.
In the fifties, the Tuberculosis Eradication Scheme was in full swing, in an attempt to eliminate the insidious disease that was rife in both cattle and human populations.
‘A disease of great antiquity,’ I remembered Professor Bardsley booming during lectures at Glasgow. ‘Found in the mummies of Ancient Egypt, it is a disease of community life, disseminated from the centres of ancient culture around the Mediterranean, hence to Europe, the New World — and you!’
Bovine Tuberculosis at the time affected about one third of all cattle in varying degrees. As well as causing an incurable wasting condition in livestock, it was transmissible to humans through unpasteurised milk and, for the latter reason alone, its eradication was of paramount importance.
The diagnosis and elimination of infected cattle was carried out by means of the single, comparative intradermal sensitivity test, otherwise known as the ‘lump test’. This entailed injecting a minute dose of an extract of tuberculosis germs into the neck skin of the animal. The tuberculin, as it was termed, would not cause disease, but stimulated a local reaction which showed up as a swelling. In three days the swelling was measured with calipers, and if it exceeded certain limits, the animal was classed as a reactor and slaughtered.
Two types of tuberculosis extract were used, one derived from poultry germs, called avian, and the other from human germs, called mammalian. The avian was not of serious consequence, being used as a control and given about two inches above the mammalian injection. If the top lump was therefore larger than the bottom, the cow was cleared. So a large top lump was vital to passing the test, and so important that there was often some jiggery-pokery to ensure that it came up to size. Because of its avian origin, there were tales of eggs being fed by the bucketful to cows before testing, and even rumours of more unsavoury poultry derivatives being added to the food, in the hope of ensuring a good top lump.
McBean had told me of one test he carried out, where the condition of the cows pointed very much to a generalised infection with tuberculosis. But the first test showed them to be all clear, for at the reading the top lumps on every cow were very much larger than the bottom ones.
‘I thought there was something queer,’ McBean explained, ‘For the skin was greasy and I could whiff paraffin in the air.’ Two clear tests were necessary at an interval of one month, before the herd could be accepted by the Ministry, and on the second test, without informing the farmer, McBean reversed the injections. This would make no difference to the result, other than that the bottom lump was now the control and the top, the failing reaction. At the reading three days later, the top lumps were again the larger and the smell of paraffin still in the air.
‘When I told him they had all failed, it was then that he came clean, so he did,’ explained McBean. ‘The old varmint was injecting paraffin over the area where I had done my test, to make sure it would swell and I would pass them. Not all the crooks are inside prison.’
But Joe Price was of a different mould and as honest as they came. The road to his farm was ancient and well worn and the little Ford’s hard-sprung chassis took a severe buffeting.
Joe was waiting on the yard to greet me. A stocky figure, hands deep in the pockets of his patched, brown stock coat. I introduced myself and commented on the change in the weather.
‘’Tis cold enough for a walking stick,’ he said, roaring with laughter at his quip. ‘Don’t doubt you’ll need a hand with the clerking,’ he continued. ‘Our Ann can see to that.’
Indeed, it was a great help to have someone to record the identification numbers tattooed in the cow’s ears and take down the skin measurements, before I gave the injection. And to cap it all, Joe’s daughter was really something special; not that she said a lot, but who cared when she had blonde hair, blue eyes and a figure that did all the talking.
The testing went extremely well and by 11.30 we were finished.
‘Go along to the house and make a cup of tea for the vet an’ me, m’dear,’ said Joe to his daughter as I cleared up my tack. ‘Us’ll be in, shortly.’
I watched her wiggle across the yard and into the kitchen, and as the door closed, old Joe lowered his voice and, in a confidential tone, said:
‘Vet, I’d be most obliged if you’d ’ave a look at Ann’s arse afore you go.’
I stood rooted to the ground as medical ethics, in confusion, raced through my mind. In my wildest dreams, I had never expected anything like that, even though I was very deep in the countryside. And as I followed him to the house I wondered, ‘Should I?’ ‘Could I?’ ‘What would the Min. of Ag. say?’
As we reached the kitchen door, I felt my palms becoming slightly moist, but instead of halting, Joe carried on and turned down a narrow path at the side of the house. There, confronting us, was a stable and, with its head hanging over the door, stood a chestnut hunter with a white blaze.
‘Ann’s arse,’ announced Joe. ‘I think ’e’s sprained a fetlock!’
So much for human involvement in animal matters, such things that degree courses at university in veterinary medicine and surgery don’t cover. Indeed, there are occasions when all the learning is plainly inadequate and the demands not purely academic, but bordering upon the emotional. ‘There is no substitute for experience.’ Who said it? It could have been Pink, Bardsley or McBean — certainly it was someone who found out the hard way.
Experience is a wisdom derived from the changes and trials of life, an event or course of events by which one is affected. But when the Reverend Gladstone asked for his dog to be put to sleep, for me it was more than just an experience; what it was, I am still not too clear.
Saint Mary’s Church, Brentdor, was a building of red and grey sandstone standing upon rising ground, just outside the village. Obscured by tall elm and sycamore, it was not readily visible unless one took the winding lane that led to it and, apart from the vicarage, nowhere else. The vicarage itself, a tall plain dwelling in similar stone with a slate roof and long, narrow windows, lay beyond and was even more obscured by a high hedge of fir trees. The lane terminated in a small turning area, devoid of tarmac and muddy from the previous night’s rain.
That morning, I left the car, unlatched the sinking wooden gate and took the path that trailed through an unkempt shrubbery, the foliage hanging heavily in the cold, damp air. The path gave way to a clearing that had once been a lawn, but now resembled a lumpy cow pasture, with clumps of couch grass and dead thistles. The straggling weeds spread beyond the confines of the rough sward, invading flower beds that must have known more orderly growth in bygone days.
As I made for the front door, I felt engulfed in an air of desolation and sadness.
The bell pull responded jerkily and, after an interval during which I imagined wires and rusty wheels wearily transmitting my call, a bell rang faintly within the depths of the house. I waited, clutching my case in a silence broken only by the heavy drips falling irregularly from the sodden leaves. I was on the point of giving the round black knob a second tug, when I was aware of a shuffling sound and, with the drawing of the bolt, the door juddered open.
White hair was the only distinguishing feature, the rest of the frail figure in shabby clerical black and faded collar being hard to distinguish against the drab background, but there was no doubt it was the Reverend Gladstone.
‘You’ve come to see Tess,’ he said, quietly. A gentle but sad smile played upon his drawn features and he shivered slightly. ‘Come along in,’ he beckoned. ‘She’s in the study.’
I followed the aged cleric across the gloomy hallway. Dark oil paintings in heavy gilt frames hung from the walls and, as I passed a stand laden with an untidy mix of coats and a collection of walking sticks, I noticed some lady’s hats hanging at the side. The Reverend Gladstone, sensing my observation, said wi
thout turning: ‘My dear wife passed away last year, after much suffering. Sadly missed,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘Sadly missed.’
Turning, he entered the study, a small room with a distinctly musty odour, which I suspected came from a sagging red curtain partly covering the door. More red curtains hung limply on either side of a box window, in the small bay of which stood a rexine sofa, piled high with yellowing newspapers. A glass-doored bookcase with cracked panes, an armchair and two stools stood formally against the other walls, while the centre of the room was occupied by a large mahogany desk littered with books, papers, pens and inks, sweet tins and a collection of bric-a-brac that appeared to have lain undisturbed for some considerable time.
There was only one picture on the wall, fixed over the empty fireplace. It was quite narrow and showed Jesus holding a lantern, emerging from what appeared to be a shrubbery, not unlike the one outside. Beneath it were the words: ‘Behold, I am the Light of the World’.
The Reverend Gladstone shuffled his carpet-slippered feet towards the desk and leaned heavily upon it. He appeared to have difficulty in getting his breath and, when he did, he gave a slight cough and then pointed to the floor behind him. There, lying prostrate before a one-bar electric fire, greying muzzle resting upon a green pillow, her body partly covered by a patchwork blanket, was an aged Red Setter.
‘Tess,’ said the old man affectionately. ‘My Tess.’
Putting my case on the floor, I knelt beside the old dog and gently drew back the blanket. Though her coat still shone, she was painfully thin and her flanks slack and hollow. Laying my hand upon her chest I felt her heart thumping irregularly and her breathing, though not distressed, was very shallow.
‘She started to falter two days ago,’ he began. ‘Until then she was eating quite well. Smaller meals than she used to, of course, and she took things a lot slower. Like we all must do,’ he sighed. ‘For some time she’s been drinking more water than usual and I got some tablets for her kidneys. But she is fifteen and I became resigned that nothing could be done.’
Tess lay perfectly still and relaxed, quite oblivious to the discussion, but to me, it was obvious that her resistance was failing fast.
‘I’m afraid that, for Tess, things are wearing out. Nothing lasts for ever,’ I said.
‘How right you are, young man,’ replied the Reverend Gladstone. ‘How right you are.’ He moved unsteadily over to the armchair and, supporting himself upon its side, sat down. ‘Fifteen years,’ he continued, and his face took on another smile, but this time there was a more obvious thread of happiness in it, as memories of Tess and her companionship came flooding back.
He told me how, with his wife, he had returned from missionary work abroad to take the living at Brentdor.
‘We bought her as a pup, when we moved in. She was so full of fun, my wife would play with her for hours on the lawn.’ He raised his cloudy eyes towards the window. ‘As I prepared my sermons, I could hear her laughter and Tess merrily barking in the garden. The garden …’ he sighed again. ‘I’m afraid I’ve let that go. In fact, I’ve let most things go.’
There was an uneasy silence as the Reverend Gladstone studied the backs of his scrawny hands, while I continued to stroke Tess’s narrow forehead.
I looked at the pathetic, crumpled old vicar in the armchair and knew I was getting involved. But after all, I reasoned, it was an old dog and what I was about to do was both practical and humane. Then I looked up at the old man again, the old man whose last link with his dear, departed wife and those happy, carefree days I was about to sever, and I realised there was far more to being a country vet than I had ever imagined.
He pressed his hands onto the arms of the chair, as if he was going to rise, but didn’t.
‘When my wife suffered so much pain in those last few weeks,’ he said softly, ‘there were times when I questioned my faith and wondered why it was all so necessary. At least, with Tess, I can repay her loyalty by not letting her linger.’
‘Would you like to stay?’ I asked.
He shook his head, then moved from the chair to kneel beside me. Shakily he bent forward and cradled the old Setter’s head in his arms.
‘Remember blackberry time, those warm, easeful days. We’d look for Molly in the fields; you’d see her first, old girl. She’d call and off you’d go, leaping across the stubble to her. Then I would catch you up and take her basket; then home we’d come, all three of us together.’ He closed his eyes and pulled the old dog to him. ‘Run on now, my Tess, to dear Molly. And I’ll be with you shortly.’
He grabbed my arm as he rose and for a few seconds, head bowed, hung on to me. Then looking up, eyes tearful but still set with a gentle smile, he said:
‘I’ll leave her in your care, young man.’ Then he shuffled to the door and drew it and the sagging curtain closed behind him.
I stood for a few seconds looking at her; I was full up and my eyes were feeling gritty, so I took a deep breath and opened the case.
Tess looked up momentarily as the fine needle entered her vein; then, as the barbiturate flooded her bloodstream, her breathing quickened slightly, she took two deeper breaths and lowered her head back onto her paws, as if she was very tired. Then she was still. Tess was dead, and I had killed her.
I pulled the patchwork blanket across and put the syringe and bottle away. After a few minutes I called the Reverend Gladstone; he offered me a sherry, but his hand shook so much that most of it spilled upon the floor. I asked if he would like me to take Tess away, but he declined, saying he would bury her in the garden. Then he walked with me to the gate and, as we parted, even asked God to bless me.
Half a mile out of Brentdor, I stopped on a grassy sward just off the road and sat for quite some time, just thinking.
* * *
‘All work and no play makes Hubert a dull vet!’ observed Charlie on the Tuesday evening of my last week. ‘You’ll be leaving soon and we haven’t had a night out together, yet. Well, social that is,’ he added, rubbing his hands eagerly. ‘Mind you, some of those calls have been a bit of a lark, I’ll give you that.’ For having whetted Charlie’s veterinary appetite at the Ridways’, he had since joined me on several night visits and, as the territory was still rather foreign to me, his company was welcome and also reassuring, especially as I had managed to persuade him to tone down his ‘gear’ for our rural expeditions.
‘How about a jar at the Ravens tonight?’ he suggested. ‘Promised you a knees-up there, didn’ I? Tell your guvnor your going to look at a “leedle Frog pooch”.’ He pointed to the phone.
It was true that, so far, my time at Ledingford had seemed all work with little opportunity for relaxation, my only diversions being an evening when Brad had invited me to a talk on Australia at Putsley Church Hall and a visit to the cinema to see a Western, during which I fell fast asleep. A ‘knees-up’ was due, I concluded.
‘Good idea!’ I told Charlie. ‘I’ll give Bob Hacker a ring.’
Bob sounded in an unusually good mood and agreed to handle anything that came in, so after a wash and brush up I was ready to go.
‘Have a nice time,’ said Brad, though her expression changed to one of mild disapproval when she learned where we were going.
The Three Ravens Club was established in a large country house on the outskirts of the town. The old residence had obviously seen more genteel times, but was now given over to the demands of the modern clientele. Although it was termed a club, the rules seemed very flexible, for when Charlie explained that when we got there, he would sign me in, I enquired how long he had been a member. But he just tapped his nose, in the manner of C. J. Pink, and replied that he wasn’t.
There were several cars parked on the gravel forecourt and I pulled up the little Ford on the end of the line. Charlie was out before I could secure the brake.
‘Come on, Hubert!’ he shouted. ‘We’re wasting good drinking time.’
I followed up the steps to the extensive porch, supported by columns in
the Grecian style, not unlike those outside the Merchants Hall but smaller, chipped and in need of restoration. In fact, the whole place appeared a bit run down, although inside the lights were bright and, even with the door closed, I could hear the strains of lively music.
The interior hallway was lit by a showy chandelier which, together with the heavily embossed plum-coloured wallpaper, was obviously designed to give the impression of unashamed luxury, but didn’t quite get away with it. There were several archways leading off into side rooms. I caught sight of a gaming table in one, and there was a card school in progress in another. Charlie led off confidently down a long passage and we eventually emerged into an oak-panelled bar.
‘’Allo, Charlie!’
The voice was unmistakable.
‘’Allo, Mimi!’ mimicked Charlie. ‘Look ’oo I ’ave brought for you.’ And standing to one side, with a wide sweep of his arm, he presented me to Mimi Lafont who was in attendance behind the counter. She was visible only from the waist upwards, a factor that accentuated her positives in no uncertain manner. Yet as soon as my eyes had re-coordinated themselves, my nostrils were being titillated by the delights of her exotic perfume. She wore a pink, diaphanous blouse abundant with frills and, lodged in the ‘V’ of the extremely low neck was that rose, the one whose presence absolved the garment, but barely in the nick of time, of any degree of impropriety.
I smiled and nodded at the delicious creature.
‘Mr Lasgarn,’ she cooed. ‘’Ow lovely.’ Then she gave a sideways glance and, touching her lips briefly with the back of her jewelled hand, said coyly:
‘Now I ’ave two of you. ’Ow lovely.’
I followed her glance to the end of the bar where, seated on a high stool with a large whisky before him, was none other than McBean.
‘Well now, Hugh,’ he acknowledged, ‘now there’s a surprise an’ all. You’ll be here for the experience, I shouldn’t wonder?’
