Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  ‘You might say that,’ I countered, copying Charlie’s style. ‘And then again — you might not.’

  Charlie appeared bemused by the banter, so I introduced him to my colleague.

  After handshakes and greetings, McBean ordered two pints, took another whisky for himself and Mimi joined us with a port and lemon.

  Charlie was soon rabbiting on about a trip he had once made to Ireland, and how he hadn’t enjoyed it because ‘it rained all the bleedin’ time’ and he had difficulty in understanding the ‘lingo’. McBean listened tolerantly until Charlie said:

  ‘No wonder all Micks are little, it’s gettin’ wet all the time. Shrinks ’em, you see.’ He raised his glass and called, ‘Cheerio.’ I could see McBean was becoming irritated, so I changed the subject and enquired of Mimi how Petal was faring.

  ‘She still ’as a leedle trouble,’ she replied, flashing her lashes. ‘But with you and “Iggy” to look after her, I know she will be wonderfool!’

  ‘Iggy!’ I repeated.

  ‘Ignatius,’ she explained, casting an alluring glance at McBean.

  McBean coughed, said, ‘Well now,’ and finished his whisky. This revelation gave another dimension to McBean’s character, for surprisingly enough, in my three weeks at Hacker’s, I had never thought of him as other than Mr McBean, McBean or just Mac — or on such close terms with Mimi Lafont, either.

  It was Charlie who, putting his glass back upon the counter, couldn’t resist following up the line. ‘Another whisky, Iggy?’ he asked, his face showing not the slightest trace of flippancy.

  McBean nodded, but I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t taking too kindly to my Cockney companion.

  We sat drinking for some time, Charlie doing most of the talking, while Mimi occasionally detached herself to attend to other members in the bar. Charlie had got to the point where he was displaying his expertise at bar tricks with piles of pennies, when McBean asked: ‘Ever seen a “whisky knock”, Charlie?’

  Charlie eyed McBean suspiciously and slowly shook his head, then his face gradually broke into a smile as he realised there could well be some catch in the question.

  ‘Come on, let’s have it,’ he said. ‘What’s a “whisky knock”?’

  ‘Now there’s a thing, Hugh,’ said McBean. But we couldn’t really expect a gentleman from the City to know, could we?’ Then, turning to Mimi, he asked for a whisky. ‘In one of those wee glasses, there.’ He pointed to a row of small goblets. ‘And some ginger ale, if you please.’

  With the requirements before him, McBean assumed the pose of a conjuror by raising his arms so that his jacket sleeves fell back slightly, as if to demonstrate that all was above board and he had nothing concealed about his person.

  Charlie watched with undivided attention.

  First, McBean held up the goblet and appraised its contents; then, after replacing it upon the counter, he dipped the end of his forefinger into the amber liquid and moistened the rim of the glass with a circular motion. Finally, he touched the end of his tongue with his fingertip, to avoid any wastage.

  ‘Now watch carefully,’ he said, slowly and deliberately. ‘This must be done very quickly.’

  For a few seconds he sat poised with his hands held over the drink; then, taking a deep breath, he shot into action. Grabbing the ginger ale, he topped up the scotch with the left hand, covering the glass immediately afterwards with the palm of his right. Then, ale bottle down, he took the goblet in his left hand, still covered with the right, thumped it hard on his knee, uncovered the glass and downed it in one.

  ‘There!’ he announced smugly, smoothing his dampened moustache down at each side. ‘That’s a “whisky knock”.’

  ‘So what!’ exclaimed Charlie, turning to me with an expression of amused bewilderment upon his face.

  ‘Let’s see you do it,’ challenged McBean.

  Charlie slapped his knee. ‘You’re a mad Mick and no mistake,’ he roared.

  ‘A little wager,’ added McBean. ‘Five bob ye can’t.’

  ‘Five bob I can’t!’ Charlie dissolved in laughter, but on recovering, he dug his hand deep into his powder-blue drainpipe pocket and slapped two halfcrowns on the counter.

  ‘You’re on, Iggy! You’re on!’ he shouted. ‘Set ’em up. darlin’.’

  Mimi obliged and Charlie went through the ritual step by step as demonstrated by McBean: first appraising the whisky, then moistening the rim and licking his forefinger. When all set, he turned to the assembled company that had now grown to a small group as other members were drawn with interest to the contest.

  ‘Now you all watch very carefully. I’ve got to be quick, so I have, an’ all, an’ all,’ Charlie announced in a mock Irish accent and, taking a deep breath as McBean had done, he was off. In went the ginger ale, then swiftly he covered the glass with his palm. Snatching it from the counter with his free hand, he thumped it violently on his knee and raised the glass to his lips.

  But, as he took his right hand away to drink, the effervescing contents foamed up instantaneously, exploding in his face, leaving him dripping in a bubbly mix of whisky and ginger ale.

  Charlie spluttered and wrung his hands amid the laughter.

  ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Even my bleedin’ pants are soaked!’

  ‘Well, now, Charlie me boy,’ commented McBean, as he reverently removed the two halfcrowns from the counter, ‘at least Micks only get wet in the rain!’

  Charlie, however, took it all in good part. ‘All right. Where did I go wrong?’ he asked, unbuttoning his shirt to mop up with a large handkerchief.

  ‘Buy me another whisky and I’ll show you,’ said McBean, at which point Charlie realised his opponent had got him very much over a barrel and, with a broad smile, held out a hand and said: ‘Iggy, my son. I’ll give you best!’

  At that moment a rather overdressed, middle-aged blonde came into the bar and called: ‘Mr Lasgarn here?’ Seeing me acknowledge, she said, ‘Telephone for you. At the desk.’

  ‘You’re not on call?’ asked McBean.

  ‘Didn’t think so,’ I said, slipping from my stool. ‘Bob Hacker said he’d handle things.’

  I followed the overdressed female to the small reception kiosk. She handed the phone across the counter and attempted to assume a disinterest in my caller, by re-arranging an already neat display of leaflets in a holder on the wall.

  ‘It’s Percy, Mr Lasgarn. He’s had an accident. Could you come home, please!’ It was Brad, sounding terribly distressed. ‘He’s in the kitchen …’ Her voice faltered and I could tell she was crying. ‘He’s just crawled in, bleeding and in an awful state. Please come home!’

  ‘Brad, I’ll be there straight away,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m coming now.’ I heard her give a sniff, then she put the phone down.

  ‘Everything all right?’ enquired the overdressed blonde.

  ‘Percy’s had an accident,’ I replied.

  ‘Relative?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘a friend. Just a friend.’ Then I made my way hastily back to the bar.

  ‘I’m going back to the digs, now,’ I told my drinking companions.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Charlie, rising from his stool.

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘So you might,’ he replied, shaking his sticky trousers. ‘But Percy’s a mate of mine. Come on.’

  ‘Want any help?’ asked McBean.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ I admitted. ‘But it doesn’t sound too good.’

  ‘Ring back if you do. 9730, isn’t it?’ He turned to Mimi.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’

  Percy was lying in his favourite spot by the stove in the kitchen. Brad had covered him with a woollen blanket.

  ‘He hasn’t moved since he came in,’ she sobbed, gathering the collar of her dressing gown closer.

  I carefully drew back the blanket to reveal Percy lying on his right side. He raised his head slightly in response to my movem
ent, but it obviously caused him pain and he unsteadily lowered it again. Sticky, bloodstained saliva covered his face, his tongue protruding slightly over a sagging lower jaw.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ asked Brad tearfully.

  ‘Don’t you worry, m’dear.’ Charlie put his arm tenderly around her shoulders. ‘Hugh here will fix him, if anybody can.’

  I paid no apparent heed to the compliment, though secretly I was very flattered and only hoped I could come up to Charlie’s expectations. He himself was certainly very concerned and upset, which had probably accounted for him calling me Hugh, for the very first time.

  I lifted Percy up and motioned to Charlie to put the blanket on the table, then gently I laid the poor creature on it and commenced my examination.

  ‘Could you fetch my case from the car, Charlie?’ He nodded and disappeared.

  From the colour of the membranes around the eyes, I deduced that Percy had not lost an excessive amount of blood, despite the haemorrhage from the mouth. There were no broken limbs, no scars or abrasions on his skin, but his coat on the left side was contaminated with what appeared to be red sand. Charlie returned with the case and opened it ready for me to use.

  With my stethoscope I listened to Percy’s chest; the breathing was shallow but regular and his heart steady. There was no evidence of broken ribs or lung damage.

  ‘So far, so good,’ I commented.

  ‘Car accident?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Could be,’ I agreed. Then, cautiously I opened Percy’s mouth. As I did so, he tensed and dug his claws deeply into the fabric of the woollen blanket, at the same time giving a low growl of anguish. But for me, one glimpse was enough to recognise that his jaw had been broken; the teeth on the right side were displaced at least half an inch above those opposite.

  ‘That hurt him!’ exclaimed Charlie, wincing as if experiencing the pain personally. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Fractured jaw,’ I replied. ‘Right at the symphisis — the join,’ I explained. ‘At the front.’

  ‘Oh!’ gasped Brad. ‘Poor Percy. Don’t put him to sleep. Please!’

  ‘Can you do anything?’ Charlie’s face was quite white. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘It’s a nasty one,’ I admitted. ‘He’s had a crack on the jaw, all right. Trouble is, fixing it so that he will still be able to eat. You can’t plaster that area.’

  I moistened some cotton wool and cleaned Percy’s face. He seemed to appreciate my attention, closing his eyes and slightly raising his aching head as if trying to assist in any way he could. I thought of the evenings when he would relax on the chair in front of me — not a care in the world. And now this. Poor old chap.

  Suddenly I knew I was becoming involved again. How difficult it was to be detached, I thought, yet I had to be. For if I could do nothing, I would have to put Percy down and that would be heartbreaking for Brad — and Charlie — and, I had to admit it, for me as well.

  ‘It wants a brace,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘Like a wire brace.’ If I could fix the jawbones together with wire, it would still allow the tongue to function and Percy could at least lap. ‘It wants to be fairly fine and strong, but pliable.’

  ‘Like fuse wire,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Fuse wire?’

  ‘Yea, thick fuse wire. Wind it round his cutters — what d’you call them?’

  ‘Carnacials,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that could work. Brad, have you got any?’

  Brad, who seemed to have composed herself, ferreted about in a kitchen drawer and eventually held up a card.

  ‘Thirty-amp should do the trick,’ I said, studying it. ‘But I’ll have to put Percy out first.’

  Over the next half hour, with Charlie’s assistance and Brad hovering about in the background, I anaesthetised Percy with a barbiturate injection and, after cleaning up the jaw, secured the fractured ends in place with the fuse wire. To ensure that the brace wouldn’t slip, I had to pass the free ends through the skin flaps of his lower jaw to meet in a twist under his chin. Finally, I dressed my handiwork with some antiseptic ointment.

  ‘Nice bit of engineering, Hubert,’ said Charlie, as I washed up. ‘Ole Percy will think he’s done ten rounds with Joe Erskine when he wakes up.’

  ‘He will wake up?’ asked Brad anxiously.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he will,’ I said. ‘Percy’s a tough old stick, he’ll make it. He’ll obviously have a bit of difficulty eating at first, so milk with sugar or Bovril would be a good starter.’

  The clatter of the door knocker broke abruptly into our conversation.

  ‘Now who could that be, at this time of night?’ said Brad, a trifle nervously.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Charlie. ‘Could be the News of the World come to get my story!’

  I heard greetings and laughter, then McBean popped his head round the door.

  ‘Well now,’ he began, ‘I was just running Mimi — Miss Lafont — home and I thought I’d call by to see what was afoot.’

  By the exotic aroma that wafted after him I deduced that Mimi — Miss Lafont — was not very far behind. Sure enough, she was there and I could hear Charlie introducing her to Brad in the hallway. I explained the circumstances to McBean who carefully scrutinised Percy’s repaired jaw before standing back and after a cursory smoothing of his moustache, pronouncing judgement.

  ‘Good bit of work, Hugh, good bit of work,’ he commented. ‘Seen this type o’ thing once or twice before. It’s usually caused by a fall, cat jumping for a wall and misjudging the distance. Cracks his chin and splits the symphisis.’

  ‘That’s how he did it,’ said Brad who had overheard McBean’s comments. ‘You silly boy,’ she scolded, though Percy was quite oblivious of the reprimand, being still deeply asleep. ‘Some nights,’ she explained, ‘if he’s shut out, he climbs the apple tree and jumps onto my window sill.’

  ‘That explains the sand on his coat,’ I added. ‘The builders left a pile on the concrete below.’

  ‘Well, Mimi,’ said Charlie, ‘hope it’s not so dangerous getting into your bedroom.’

  ‘Charlie!’ exploded Mimi, patting the air with her hand, as she usually did when pretending to be disapproving, but enjoying it really.

  Brad, with a look of slight embarrassment, suggested that she make some cocoa.

  ‘How long do you think the brace should stay on?’ I asked McBean.

  ‘About a month should do it,’ he replied.

  ‘Will you see to taking it off?’ I asked.

  ‘Me?’ he questioned.

  ‘I can’t,’ I explained. ‘I’ll be finished here next week.’

  ‘Well now!’ McBean took my arm and secretively turned me into the corner, facing the saucepan rack and bread bin. ‘Bob and I have been talking,’ he confided. ‘You see, now that his father is dead, we’re going to be a bit short-handed. And I think we could get a deferment for you from the Army, for a while anyway, if you’d like to stay. It’s up to you, of course. It’s not so bad here, and — well now —’ he assumed a very dour expression, as if he was about to say something very profound. ‘— I’d like you to stay, if you would. Think it over.’

  The offer took me completely by surprise. I thanked him for it and said I would consider the suggestion. Brad was busying herself with cups and saucers, and through in the hallway I could see Charlie offering to listen to Mimi’s heart with my stethoscope. Percy was still relaxed, but gradually starting to come around.

  It was a good offer, but was I just putting off the inevitable National Service? Perhaps it would be better to get it over. Yet I was happy at Ledingford, and who was to say if there would be a job available here again?

  ‘Cocoa’s ready,’ said Brad. And as I followed her into the dining room, she turned and said, ‘Percy and I would like you to stay, too.’

  Seven

  The following morning I was unable to discuss with Bob Hacker the opportunity of extending my stay in Ledingford, as both he and McBean had taken early calls. I had been left the job of deh
orning a small herd of dairy cows at Redwarden, so there was ample time to deliberate my immediate future as I trundled along the Brecon Road.

  Even if I elected to stay, I still could not be absolutely sure that I would qualify for deferment. McBean had said that there had been talk of National Service being abandoned, but that was not definite either, and I did not fancy spending the coming months in an atmosphere of uncertainty. Of course, in the Royal Army Veterinary Corps I would be eligible for a commission on entry, because of my degree. Captain Lasgarn sounded pretty good and an officer’s life had a lot going for it. Army vets were posted all over the world; the chance to travel at Her Majesty’s expense was something to be seriously considered. All in all, it was not an easy decision.

  However, as I swung off the main road and turned down towards the river, I decided to concentrate on the job in hand — the unsavoury business of chopping the horns off cattle.

  It was to be the first time that I would carry out the procedure all by myself. Previously I had watched demonstrations in my final student year and been part of a group in the practical course which had removed the elegant but lethal appendages from a herd of Ayrshires. Lethal indeed they were — long, curved and sharp as lances — and it was their destructive potential, acceptable in the wild but prohibitive under housed conditions, that was the reason for their removal.

  Punctured udders, ripped flanks and damaged eyes were some of the many injuries caused by spiteful or aggressive horned cows, and a ‘boss’ with sharp horns could wreak havoc, if she so had a mind.

  In fact, only six months previously, a veterinary surgeon had unfortunately been killed while carrying out a Ministry Tuberculin Test. The poor chap had been standing beside the neck of an Ayrshire cow, about to measure her skin reaction. As he stooped to read the size on the calipers, she threw her head back and, such was the length and curvature of her horns, that it fractured his skull and he died almost immediately.

  So, while the dehorning procedure appeared barbaric to some folk, there were very practical and humane reasons why it was carried out.