Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  I joined a ‘spoof’ school which had been set up by the boys. It consisted of guessing who had how many coins in a closed hand, betting on the results. It was a new game to me and I lost twelve shillings. Then came a competition of walking on beer bottles, a feat of which I had considerable experience from my Glasgow days. A line was drawn and, with feet behind it, the participant stretched forward supported by two Cheltenham and Gloucesters, one in each hand. The object was to leave one bottle as far forward as possible, returning in backward hops, both hands on the remaining bottle, without collapsing on the floor.

  My main opponent was the John who was with the blonde Diana, and I was determined to beat him. But he must have had a bit of practice, for he left his bottle two inches beyond my best attempt and in trying to beat it, I slipped, hitting my head upon the floor and revitalising the painful lump which, until then, I had completely forgotten.

  At that moment I lost my spirit of fair play and resented my victor, not only for his monopoly of the most attractive girl in the room, but for beating me at the bottles, at which I was normally invincible.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if McBean is coming,’ commented Raymond, as we sat together in a corner after the contest.

  ‘Probably finished too late,’ I suggested.

  ‘No point wasting his beer,’ said Raymond, handing me another bottle, and we settled into a quiet little session together.

  It as well past midnight when the first guests started to leave, and I decided that I should make a move as well. I was seeking out Pam, to thank her for the evening, and trying to avoid Polly who kept crossing my path rather obviously, when the larger John came in through the front door.

  ‘Ah, Hugh. You going back to Ledingford?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Could you give my girl a lift. Damned car won’t fire — and she has to get back. Pam says we could stay here, but she won’t have it.’ He winked.

  ‘Of course, John,’ I replied. ‘Yes, of course. No trouble!’

  ‘Aha,’ I thought. Things were looking up, so I speedily found Pam, thanked her and quickly got out to my car. Diana was standing by the MG with a face like thunder.

  ‘Hugh Lasgarn will run you back,’ said John. ‘Sure you won’t stay?’

  ‘No, thank you!’ she responded firmly, and tugged her coat around her.

  I scuttled to the passenger door and found it locked, so I had to run around to the other side, open the door and lean across. In my haste I hit my head on the roof sill, but I hardly noticed it. Then I scrabbled to clear the seat of my barnacles, two mucklets, a rope and four or five bottles, slinging it all onto the back seat. Finally, after a cursory dusting of the seat with my hand, I opened the door.

  But Diana was not standing on ceremony. She got in and sat down, nearly squashing my hand and slammed the passenger door behind her.

  ‘Blasted points!’ exclaimed John, ‘and now the battery’s down. If I leave it half an hour she should kick, but Her Ladyship won’t wait.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied, ‘my pleasure.’ And two fingers to you, I thought, for beating me at the bottles.

  ‘Hope yours starts,’ he said.

  I went cold with fear. At last, the girl on the piano seat to myself and now it all depended on the little Ford. ‘Let me down whenever you like,’ I murmured. ‘Stall on hills, conk out in the middle of nowhere, have four flat tyres and the spare at the same time, but please, please start now!’

  I pulled the knob and the engine, all eight horsepower of it, rattled joyously into life.

  ‘You beauty!’ I exclaimed, thankfully. ‘You little beauty!’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ said Diana, frostily.

  ‘Oh, the car,’ I explained. ‘I was talking to the car.’

  Two locks and I had turned, then, straightening up, headed down the drive to the open road.

  ‘Sorry to put you to all this trouble,’ she apologised, as we approached the gateway. ‘But John knew very well that I had to be home on time.’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ I replied manfully and swung onto the road. It was a tight, right-angled turn and, as I pressed the accelerator to keep momentum, the passenger seat tipped and threw Diana on to me.

  ‘My God! What’s happening!’ she screamed, her arms folded around my neck. The car lurched and I corrected the swerve, the passenger seat fell back in place and Diana followed it.

  ‘I’d have been safer walking!’ She pulled her coat closely about her and stared straight ahead.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologised. ‘The seat’s loose.’

  ‘That I have discovered,’ she retorted icily, and sat in silence as we made for the main road. She didn’t speak for about another mile, then she sat up straight and said:

  ‘You’re taking me the wrong way!’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said, a little annoyed that my navigational skills should be questioned. ‘We’ll come to Stokley village soon and Ledingford is about nine miles further on.’

  ‘You are taking me the wrong way,’ she insisted. ‘Now turn around, please!’

  I slowed down and pulled up at the side of the road.

  ‘Look, when I came from Ledingford I came through Stokley for about two miles, turned left and got to Pam’s. Okay, so coming back I come out of Pam’s to the main road, turn right, back through Stokley, which is around the corner, then on to Ledingford.’

  ‘This way leads to Belbury,’ Diana said adamantly. ‘So please turn round or I’ll get out!’ She fumbled for the door catch, but couldn’t find it. ‘Please, Hugh,’ she pleaded. ‘Turn round.’

  So turn round I did. I drove six miles until we came to Belbury, where she apologised, then I turned round again and headed back to Ledingford.

  Diana sat in silence, just looking ahead. I gave occasional glances to the side, but it produced no response. The dim dashboard lights were enough for me to see her face and her long, elegant neck. In profile she had a most beautiful face — high cheekbones, fine nose and perfect lips — she really was the most attractive girl I had ever met.

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ I volunteered, trying to ease the obvious tension. ‘Earthquakes and other minor harassments permitting.’

  She turned and I glanced to see her smile.

  ‘Sorry I was such a pig, Hugh,’ she said, quietly, ‘but I was fuming with John and I did think you were taking me the wrong way, honestly!’

  A car with its lights full on was rapidly approaching behind, causing me to dip the driving mirror. When it caught up, it hung on my tail for several minutes before making a further move, then it suddenly pulled out and drove alongside.

  It was John in his MG.

  Even in the semi-darkness, I could discern a vile expression on his face; he shouted something that I couldn’t quite hear, but which I guessed was equally vile.

  ‘You know what he’s thinking,’ I said to Diana, as the tail lights of the MG disappeared in the distance, but by her face, it was obvious she had already realised how John had read the situation.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, frowning. ‘I know …’ Then she put her hand to her lips and started to laugh. ‘Serve him right for having such an awful mind.’

  For the rest of the journey she chatted away happily. She was a secretary at Seamer’s Cider Works. She had no brothers or sisters, liked dancing — particularly Scottish country dancing — cooking and reading, had no pets but wanted a dog. In turn, I gave her a potted history of myself and my career to date, and when I rather hesitantly asked her about the relationship with John, she replied that she had only been out with him a few times, a fact which cheered me considerably.

  Eventually we arrived at her home.

  ‘Thank you ever so much, Hugh,’ she said, giving me a charming smile. ‘It was so kind of you to bring me home. Sorry about those extra miles.’

  ‘Could I see you again?’ I asked.

  Diana gave a slight gasp, then said, ‘But you’re finishing this week.’

  ‘Oh, n
o,’ I said, without any hesitation. ‘Oh no. I came with the option of leaving if I didn’t like it — but no, I shall probably stay on for a little while anyway.’

  ‘Well, there’s a Young Farmers’ Dance at Beckhampton, next Wednesday. We could go to that if you’d like — they’re usually good fun.’

  ‘Grand. What time shall I call for you?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘Goodnight, Hugh.’ She unlatched the gate and I watched her run to the front door. She turned again and waved, I briefly saw her face in the porch light — then she was gone and the door closed behind her.

  I stood for a few moments looking at the house until the porch light went out, thinking to myself how strange it was that a logical, calculated decision could suddenly be made illogical, yet very much more acceptable.

  I got back into the car feeling quite light headed — and it wasn’t the beer or the crack on my head, which I felt to make sure I was the same person.

  ‘Come on, you little beauty,’ I shouted, happily. ‘Let’s go home.’ And the little Ford burst into life, but because of the extra miles, she ran out of petrol at the bottom of Putsley Pitch and I had to leave her and walk.

  As I locked the door before leaving, I patted her affectionately on the wing.

  ‘You’re still a little beauty,’ I told her. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Bob Hacker appeared pleased, when I told him the following morning that I would like to stay.

  ‘I’ll get on to the Ministry right away,’ he said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘You never know what this might lead to.’

  And as blonde hair and blue eyes had suddenly monopolised my thoughts, I was beginning to wonder precisely that, myself.

  * * *

  I went before the Deferment Board the following week. The Brigadier from the War Department who took the chair was everything one imagined of an established military man. Sharpfaced, shorthaired, resplendent in much-embroidered khaki and displaying an arrogance of bearing, even when seated. In marked contrast, the National Farmer’s Union representative was a small chapel-suited man with a profusion of grey hair and a twinkle in his eye — a Welshman, by name, Eifion Pritchard. The third member of the Board was from the Ministry of Agriculture Veterinary Department — a red faced bespectacled Scot who, more often than not, looked over the tops of his glasses rather than through them.

  The Brigadier, who had come from London, obviously intended to justify his visit and took a considerable time explaining to me, for I appeared to be the only one listening, how defence strategy for the country was formulated and on what and whom it depended. He developed his theme into the role of our great Nation in an unsettled world and concluded his speech with: ‘Mr Lasgarn. Our country always was and always will be a vital force in world peace.’ Then, he fixed me with a glare, rather like the chap pointing his finger on the old ‘Your Country Needs You’ posters, to whom the Brigadier had a sinister familiarity. ‘The role is ours!’ he continued, releasing me from his glare and raising his eyes to look beyond, as if gazing towards a glorious cinematic sunrise or sunset. ‘And we must be worthy of it!’

  When he finished, there was a silence, as if space had been left for some recognition of his oratory, such as a small fanfare of trumpets, a round of applause or at least a few ‘Hear hears’. But there was nothing, for the Ministry Vet was peering out through the window at a red bricked wall and Mr Pritchard, I suspected, was sleeping with his eyes open.

  The Brigadier then asked if my father was in the Army, did I consider myself Military material and was I ever in the Boy Scouts. To all three of which, I answered, ‘No’.

  The Ministry Vet was then asked for comment. He looked over the tops of his specs and said: ‘Remember, there’s more to life than calving cows!’ I remember thinking what a cynical old fart he was, and wondering whose side he was on. Odd though it was, there was some sense in what he said, but at that stage in my life it was imperceptible.

  Then it was Eifion Pritchard’s turn. He asked me where I was born and what farming experience I had and, when I mentioned Brynheulog, his face lit up and he banged the table with his fist.

  ‘David Morgan!’ he erupted. ‘Darw! What a man! I could tell you some tales, Mr Lasgarn. Would you believe that David and I courted the same girl for two years? D’you know what …’ The Brigadier coughed and pulled his moustache irritably. ‘Another time,’ said Eifion Pritchard. ‘Another time.’

  That was all, and three days later I received a letter giving me deferment, time unspecified, subject to a three weeks’ availability.

  Eight

  Bob Hacker and McBean seemed very pleased that I was now on a more permanent basis in the practice. My salary went up by two pounds a week to fifteen pounds and I gave Brad an extra fifteen bob towards my keep.

  One afternoon a few weeks later, things were quiet and I was tidying the boot of my car in the yard at the back of the surgery, when Bob drove in, in his Ford Pilot. All my equipment was strewn about like a gypsy encampment.

  ‘Having a sort out?’ he called and came over, hands in pockets, to scrutinise the array. ‘That looks as if it’s had its day,’ he remarked, motioning to the battered medical case which he had given me when I started.

  ‘The drawers are broken as well,’ I added. ‘I had a cow with a potato jammed in its throat yesterday. But the biggest job was getting my case open!’

  Bob smiled. ‘Well, we’ll have to see what we can do to improve on that,’ he said amiably, and walked off down the yard to the surgery.

  When I had finally cleaned, sorted and re-arranged the kit, I also went down to the surgery and bumped into Bob, who was coming to see me.

  ‘Got a minute?’ he asked, and we went into reception where he leaned upon the sacred counter. ‘You never met father, did you, Hugh?’ he began. I shook my head. ‘Fine vet,’ continued Bob. ‘Dedicated to his work, and he had such a keen, enquiring mind. Though he was my father, I still don’t mind telling you, Hugh, his death was a tragic loss to the profession. Mind, he didn’t suffer fools gladly, and if a beast wasn’t tied up or ready, or the box hadn’t been cleaned and strawed down, he’d play merry hell. But the clients loved and respected him, to a man.’ Bob shook his head, obviously still very upset.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I was sorry not to be able to meet your father. When they knew, at Glasgow, that he had accepted me, the Dean said that, even though I was only coming for a short while, the experience would be invaluable.’ Bob Hacker nodded in agreement.

  ‘Scientific acumen was only part of his nature, for when it came to learning, he was only too ready to share it. We had students from all over the world coming to see practice here and observe his clinical technique. He wanted to pass on all his findings and experience to the oncoming generation of veterinary surgeons, never jealously guarding his discoveries to capture all the credit. But you’ll benefit from it, Hugh,’ he continued, ‘even though it’s only indirectly, by seeing the way we tackle things here.’ With that, he bent down behind the counter. ‘Sadly,’ he said, ‘the old man won’t be here to help you, but at least this will.’ And from behind the sacred counter, he raised his father’s leather medical bag — the one I’d used on my very first case. ‘I’d like you to have this,’ said Bob, handing it to me.

  ‘But wouldn’t you like it?’ I replied, quite taken aback by Bob’s offer.

  ‘I’ve got the one that he bought me when I qualified,’ he explained. ‘No. You have it, Hugh. I know he would have liked that and I’m sure that if you’re stuck, the old man will open the right drawers for you.’

  It was like getting my spurs or being capped. I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Go and see if it’ll fit in your car,’ said Bob and he turned away, pretending to look for something on the top shelf.

  So I just said: ‘Thank you, I do appreciate it,’ and went back out into the yard with G. R. Hacker’s leather case gripped firmly in my hand.

  *
* *

  If the spirit of G. R. Hacker, through his medical case, guided me through my first months in practice, there were occasions when I think that even the great man himself would have been stumped.

  One evening, a small tousle-headed girl appeared at the surgery, carrying a cardboard box. She placed it carefully upon the floor and out of it took a tortoise.

  ‘When he eats his jaw “clicks”,’ she announced. ‘You listen!’ Then, from a packet, she produced a piece of lettuce and, by waving it before her pet’s shell, lured its head into view, whence it started to nibble at her offering. Together, we placed our ears close to the munching jaws and, sure enough, a ‘clicking’ sound could be heard.

  Now, the nutritional aspects of the tortoise had not featured very highly in the university curriculum; in fact, I couldn’t remember tortoises ever being mentioned at all.

  However, once again, from my Abergranog days, I knew that, after hibernation, these curious creatures took a little time to become completely functional and that joints could be stiff and muscles sluggish for a short time. I suggested a mild lubrication of the jaws and demonstrated how it could be done with some liquid paraffin and a dropper. I prepared a small container of the lubricant and told the little girl to bring it back in a few days if the condition hadn’t improved.

  So far so good. She appeared perfectly satisfied and replaced her tortoise in the box. She was just about to leave, when she paused, then turned to me and said: ‘Mother said to ask you if it was a boy or a girl!’

  G. R. Hacker, where are you! I thought. Certainly, when it came to sex, I had learnt quite a bit. Cattle I knew about, horses, pigs, sheep, dogs and cats. I knew about the birds and the bees and even humans — but never, despite my Bachelorate in Veterinary Medicine and Surgery, had I learnt how to sex a tortoise.

  ‘Let me see it again,’ I requested.

  She took it out of the box and I examined it studiously, turning it over several times, but its undercarriage, to my eye anyway, was completely devoid of any indication. ‘Is this the only one you have?’ I enquired. She nodded.