by Hugh Lasgarn
‘There ’ain’t no liver,’ observed Ivor. ‘Shows it’s a dog.’
‘This all you lost?’ asked Sam.
Ivor nodded.
‘No other sheep even bit?’ furthered Sam.
Ivor shook his head.
‘Found it early this morning, did you?’ Sam continued.
‘Just on light,’ replied Ivor.
Sam shook his head slowly and turned away. As if just talking to himself, he said: ‘That ain’t no dog. That’s a fox!’
‘Definitely been killed by one or the other,’ I concluded, after surveying the dismembered carcase. ‘Marks on the neck show where it was pulled down and there’s no evidence of any disease or other abnormality. Definitely killed.’
‘Well it ain’t Snapper,’ Sam retorted, a trifle aggressively. ‘He’s too good with sheep for that!’
‘He has got a nasty side, though,’ PC Packham said sternly. ‘When I seen him in the market in your van, he was vicious, Sam. An’ Mr Lasgarn will bear me out.’
‘He was, Sam,’ I admitted.’
‘Course ’e is in the van. Course ’e is,’ said Sam. ‘God bless us, that’s where ’e sleeps, an he’s only guarding it. But out of there, he’s as gentle as they come. How did you catch him, then, Ivor?’
‘Just called him, an’ he ran to me,’ said Ivor.
‘There you are, then,’ appealed Sam, bending and ruffling Snapper’s coat. ‘No sheep killer would do that, now would they?’
‘Where’s the blood from, then?’ persisted Ivor.
‘Rabbiting.’ Sam held up his hand as if that must obviously be the reason, but it failed to convince.
‘The circumstantial evidence is very considerable,’ commented PC Packham, as if he were the judge summing up.
‘Look, Sam,’ said Ivor, ‘I don’t want to get you into court. If you’ll put the dog down, I’ll stand the loss of the lamb.’ Sam shook his head. ‘If you don’t want to shoot him, I’ll do it for you,’ added Ivor.
‘He never done it.’ Sam turned and faced me squarely. ‘Dogs work by day and don’t just take one lamb. They’ll rag the whole flock, tearing and ripping. Then they’ll run off, hardly ever eat anything. Leave alone take a leg away. Can’t you do anything, Mr Lasgarn? I don’t want to shoot this little dog.’
And Snapper pushed tight against Sam’s baggy trousers, as if he understood all that was being said.
It was Mrs Barret, hanging out her washing at the back of the house, who gave me the idea. As the sheets and shirts blew gaily in the wind I was reminded of a visit I had made with C. J. Pink to a farm where a collie, not unlike Snapper, was thought to have swallowed poison. And that was a Monday, too.
‘Has your wife got any washing soda, Ivor?’ I asked.
The three men looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses; even Snapper seemed to raise his foxy head in amazement.
‘Washing soda?’ questioned Ivor.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A piece about as big as my thumbnail, that’s all.’
Ivor crossed to the house and shortly returned, followed by Mrs Barret. She looked equally incredulous as she held out a box.
‘Is this what you want?’ she asked. ‘It’s proper washing soda.’
I selected a small lump and turned to Sam.
‘I want you to give this to your dog. Open his mouth and pop it down.’
Sam didn’t question my motive. He took the washing soda, sniffed it, then, bending down, opened Snapper’s jaws and pushed it far to the back of the collie’s throat. The dog wriggled, but Sam held his mouth firmly closed until a gulp signalled that the soda had been swallowed.
‘What now?’ asked Sam.
I didn’t answer, for I knew that, if it worked, as it had when C. J. Pink had used it, the results would soon be obvious.
We stood around peering down at Sam’s dog, which he was still holding by the cord.
‘Let him go, Sam,’ I advised. As Sam released the cord, Snapper got up and circled twice in front of us. Then he whined uneasily and started to heave. Still heaving he ran a few yards, then stopped and was violently sick.
It wasn’t a pretty sight by any means, and poor Snapper went through extreme discomfort for several minutes. But it proved a point. Sam had been right, for there, for all to see, were the remains of a partly digested rabbit.
PC Packham surveyed the evidence, then wrinkled up his nose.
‘We’ll continue with our enquiries, Ivor,’ he said, folding up his notepad. ‘But I think we can release the suspect, pending further h’investigation.’
‘Aye,’ said Ivor, ‘that’s proof enough. Sorry about it, Sam, but what was I to think?’
‘Don’ worry about it,’ he replied, as he comforted Snapper who was now lying down, completely exhausted. ‘Thanks, Mr Lasgarn.’
‘Not at all, Sam.’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘I was glad I could help you.’
‘One good turn …’ he said.
I nodded ‘You’re right,’ I agreed, then added, ‘Good job it was Monday.’
But he didn’t get the point.
* * *
Through my veterinary work I was meeting more and more folk every day, discovering more characters and making more friends.
But I was losing some as well. Brad’s old cat, Percy, was killed outside the digs one evening, by a motorcyclist. It was about three weeks after I had removed the wire frame from his jaw which had healed remarkably well, much to Brad’s pleasure. But that must have been Percy’s ninth life and, when the motorbike came along, his credit had run out. Charlie left, too. He went to Chester to open another butcher’s shop, and I missed his happy-go-lucky company tremendously.
But the biggest change in my life was Diana.
The Spring of that year for me was definitely a time of discovery. I discovered the art of veterinary medicine, the beauty of the countryside and a degree of happiness and enthusiasm for life I had never thought possible.
And I discovered I was in love.
Nine
As the weeks rolled by I came to realise that veterinary work, like the farming to which it was so closely allied, was more a way of life than just a job. I had realised that time was of little consequence to my patients and that the cow that had difficulty in calving at two in the morning, or the horse that decided to develop colic at Sunday lunchtime, did it without any thoughts of conforming to a nine-to-five pattern, or even to a six-day week.
But as the seasons marked the major changes in rural life in a gradual manner, so were there certain more specific landmarks in the country calendar by which time was measured.
Ledingford Agricultural and Horse Show was one of them. Snippits of conversation could often be heard that admirably demonstrated this feature, such as:
‘When did you dip yer sheep?’ — ‘Oh, two weeks afore the Show.’ Or, ‘Now tell me, Beth, when did they get married?’ — ‘About a month after the Show.’ Or, ‘I had mumps last year, just on Show time!’ Ledingford Show was, indeed, a supremely important occasion, giving relief from work and a day out for honest competition, paying bills, meeting friends, drinking cider and having fun.
The Hacker practice were Honorary Veterinary Surgeons to the Society and attended on the day; but when the day came round, Bob Hacker was taking his summer break and McBean suggested that, once the urgent calls had been cleared, I should represent the practice.
I had previously arranged to pick up Diana from work at eleven o’clock and arrived just outside the offices of Seamer’s dead on time. It was, however, a quarter of an hour before she burst through the main door looking delightfully flustered. She wore a white dress with a full skirt that had differently coloured flowers printed on it and was gathered at the waist by a narrow rope belt. The neckline was wide but not low, allowing her long blonde hair to cover bare, sun-browned shoulders.
I cast a veterinary eye over her for, up until meeting Diana, I had never taken the opposite sex very seriously and regarded them mainly as a necessary
attachment only if one went to a dance. In Abergranog there had been girls, but they were different in that they had different playgrounds, different games, different lavatories, and we boys were rather scornful of their company, having far more important things on our minds. At university I had met several girls, but on a student allowance in those days it was difficult to create much of an impression. So I settled for Rugby and snooker and bawdy songs in the Student Union bar.
But as this vision came towards the car, smiling happily, I discarded my veterinary eye without delay, accepting that, while it was sometimes possible to credit animals with human attributes, a beautiful girl could never be anything but a beautiful girl — and in Diana’s case, the effect on a young country vet was devastating!
If that wasn’t enough, when she got in, the little Ford became filled with such an exotic perfume that it was a wonder its wheels didn’t fall off, for my legs certainly felt detached. I sat back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Mmm! That must be the most beautiful smell in the world,’ I said, inhaling deeply for the second time.
‘Well, you should know,’ replied Diana, laughingly. ‘All vets are experts on smells.’
‘Not like that,’ I admitted. ‘No, ma’am! Not like that.’
‘Carven, “Ma Griffe”.’ Diana held out her arm, turned it upwards and slowly passed it beneath my nose.
‘There should be a Home Office licence on stuff like that,’ I said, recovering slightly.
‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked, sniffing the back of her hand to reassure herself.
‘You should have a red ribbon in your hair whenever you wear it,’ I told her and, taking another lungful, pulled away from the kerb.
Ledingford Show was held in the grounds of Granstone Castle, on parkland that sloped gently down to the river. The estate was the home of Lord Pendleford and a glorious setting for one of the best one-day displays of livestock and agricultural produce in the Borders. For most of the year, the rolling pastures, overlooked by Granstone, a fine castellated mansion, were populated solely by ancient oaks and grazing cattle. But at Show Time, like magic mushrooms, tents and marquees sprouted overnight, and multicoloured banners and high-flying flags fluttered merrily overhead. It became an encampment full of hustling, bustling, happy country folk and superbly bred animals, focusing the attention of the whole county, and further afield if anyone was prepared to note, on all that was good in agriculture.
There was a queue of cars at the entrance which had been divided into two avenues, separated by rope, each guarded by stewards with armbands and large poacher’s bags in which they were depositing the money. When our turn came, a rather toffee-nosed chap in tweeds and a deerstalker pushed his hand through the window and said, haughtily: ‘One pound!’
What followed gave me immense pleasure, especially as Diana was with me, for out of my pocket I took the badge which Bob Hacker had left for whichever of us attended the Show.
‘Veterinary Surgeon,’ I replied, equally haughtily.
‘Veterinary Surgeon,’ he repeated, looking at me suspiciously. Then another steward leaned over his shoulder, eyed the badge and said: ‘Vet. Official cars on the left.’ At which instruction, I revved up the little Ford as grandly as I was able and drove off to the left.
‘My,’ said Diana impishly, ‘it’s the first time I’ve been to the Show with an Official.’
‘So who have you been with before?’ I asked, as I pulled into line.
‘Never you mind,’ she said, laughing. ‘But it wasn’t with an Official!’
From the privileged position of the Official Car Park it was only a short distance to the showground. I bought a programme and spotted amongst the list of names: Hon. Veterinary Surgeon: R. A. Hacker MRCVS.
‘There’s Bob’s name,’ I said, underlining it with my finger.
‘Should be yours,’ commented Diana.
‘Might be, one day,’ I replied.
‘At Ledingford?’ She stopped and looked at me wistfully, and I knew it wasn’t just a simple question.
‘If it was, would you still come with me?’ I asked.
Her eyes searched my face eagerly, as if trying to give me an answer for which her lips weren’t ready. Then she sidetracked and said: ‘If you were an Official, how could I refuse?’ Then she took hold of my hand, adding, ‘Come on, Mr Vet. Show me the Show!’
As we approached the main ring, the ladies’ hunter side-saddle class was entering. Diana stood enthralled by the effortless grace of the riders and the fluent, freeflowing action of their mounts. To me, they appeared as latter day Godivas, darkclad and veiled, aloof, yet courting attention with intriguing sensuality. I was privately contemplating the captivating scene when Diana interrupted my train of thought.
‘Hugh!’ she cried. ‘Can’t you hear!’
I broke my reverie, just in time to catch the last words of the loudspeaker announcement.
‘… urgently to the goats!’
‘They want a veterinary surgeon at the goats,’ she explained excitedly. ‘Come on, quickly!’
‘My case is in the car,’ I protested, as she dragged me away from the ring. ‘Anyway, where are the goats?’
‘Goats is by the sheep,’ said a fat man standing next to us. ‘Same as always.’
I thanked him for the information which was of little help, as I didn’t know where the sheep were, either. However, on the way to collect my case, I passed a sign post with numerous fingers pointing in all directions, and amongst ‘Main Ring,’ ‘Toilets’, ‘Cattle’, ‘Horses’, ‘Pigs’ and ‘Dog Show’, I spied ‘Sheep’. With Diana in close attendance, I set off hastily in the direction indicated.
Breathless and uncomfortably warm, we came across the goat tent next to the sheep lines, at the far end of the showground. Because of the hot weather, the flaps of the tent had been rolled up to improve ventilation, revealing a maze of hurdles that sectioned the interior into pens. Each one contained all the bric-a-brac of goatkeeping, with bales of hay, bags of feed, milking buckets, boxes, brushes, halters and, of course, goats. There were drab, mouse-coloured Toggenburgs with swinging tassels; tall, lop-eared Nubians straight out of the Book of Moses; snow-white Saanens and jet black Alpines. Some were busily chewing on bunches of hazel twigs tied to their hurdles, while others looked about with an air of complete disdain, as if it was all a bit beneath them.
A fussy, bowler-hatted little man in a slightly oversize, navy-blue pin-striped suit, came forward, clutching an untidy sheaf of papers.
‘Vet?’ he enquired anxiously. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘Hugh Lasgarn.’ I held out my hand. ‘Where’s the emergency?’
‘Mr Bevan. Steward of the Goats,’ he responded, briefly touching my palm, ‘and it’s not an emergency. Not yet, anyway,’ he blew out his cheeks nervously. ‘But it soon could be. It soon could be.’
Noticing Diana, he smiled weakly and touched the rim of his bowler. Then taking me by the elbow, he looked around furtively, like a spy about to pass secret information, and said: ‘There’s a fellow here with two sets of tack!’
I blinked, so he repeated it. ‘Two sets of tack!’ This time more slowly and deliberately.
He studied my face eagerly, then assuming, in part correctly, that I hadn’t yet got the message, he took hold of my arm and pulled me a few paces further away from Diana. Then, stretching on tip-toe, he came close to my right ear and whispered hoarsely:
‘’E’s got a willy and a wonker!’
I fought hard to suppress my reactions and turned away to look at Diana, who was obviously puzzled by the whole affair.
‘A willy and a wonker,’ he repeated, this time more loudly. ‘You come and see. See for yourself!’ And still holding my arm, he propelled me into the tent, steering me through the pens until we arrived at a section where a small, biscuit-coloured goat was busily tucking into a forest of twigs.
Mr Bevan, Steward of the Goats, put down his papers, took off his bowler hat and laid it on
top. Then, after looking about nervously once again, he knelt down behind the goat, who seemed completely indifferent to his presence, and thrust his hand between its back legs.
Looking up, he said: ‘If you feel under here — there’s a willy.’ Then, with the other hand, he raised the stumpy tail. ‘And if you look under there — there’s a wonker! See!’
I took a step forward and a closer look to confirm the remnants of a female orifice, and when Mr Bevan got out of the way, I felt the male appendage beneath the goat’s belly.
‘Hermaphrodite!’ I announced.
Mr Bevan replaced his bowler and shuffled the papers into an even more untidy bundle.
‘You knows it an’ I knows it, Mr Lasgarn. But the owner don’t! Now, I can’t enter that goat because, well …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There ain’t no call for a Class like that, you see.’
‘Should be no problem,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a pretty obvious case.’
‘Will you explain it to the owner?’ he pleaded. ‘You’d know how to put it better than me.’
‘Certainly,’ I agreed. ‘Who is it?’
‘She’s over there.’ He pointed to a tall, rather flamboyantly dressed female, standing with her back towards us. ‘Lady Octavia Grimes,’ he explained. ‘Lord Pendleford’s sister!’
I felt the clammy hand of fate settling upon me and looked around accusingly at Mr Bevan.
‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘But I did mention it could be an emergency.’
‘Not a diplomatic emergency, though,’ I added. But, whatever, there was nothing for it, Her Ladyship would have to be told and I was the victim. Clutching my case, I moved forward, somewhat rigidly, to confront the aristocracy, not having a clue as to how I should broach such a delicate subject.
As I drew near, she turned, and for the first time I saw her, full frontal.
To say she had a strong face was probably the kindest way of putting it. Certainly, it was a large face, accommodating dark eyebrows, deepset eyes and a prominent nose. Her make-up was pale and powdery, contrasting violently with bright red lipstick. A wide-brimmed straw hat attempted to obscure her countenance with flattering shadow, but was fighting a losing battle, and as I approached she seemed to lurch sideways, like a listing windjammer. But, by plunging the point of her unopened parasol deftly into the turf, she arrested her sway in the nick of time.
