by Ivor Smith
Christine was a good trainee nurse in the practice who understood the needs of the animals and their owners. She also had a wicked sense of humour. One particular client of the practice enjoyed eating calf’s sweetmeats and when the occasion arose Christine was able to provide him with the main ingredients for his supper. For those who are neither gourmets nor French, sweetmeats are calves’ testicles.
I had spent one bright, crisp spring morning at Stockwell Farm, a large dairy farm near Birdlip, and on this occasion was ably assisted by the farm’s stockmen and Christine. We had gradually carried out castration of a large group of calves using a technique known as the open method. Without going into unnecessary detail the method entailed removing the essential organs completely. At the end of the morning we had operated on about a hundred calves and naturally ended up with twice that number of testicles. They had been placed temporarily into a bucket and as we prepared to leave the farm I could see that considerate Christine had the appetite of our carnivorous client in mind.
‘He’s in for a bit more than a beanfeast here’, I muttered to myself. Clearly she wanted to offer these delicacies to the client in some more appetising way than in a bucket – not that that was particularly important I am sure, providing they were fresh. She delved into the boot and found a pink plastic arm-length glove of the type normally worn to protect the vet’s arm when carrying out a manual internal examination of a cow. One by one each little testicle was delicately transferred from the bucket to the glove and the first lot slid into the plastic fingers. Gradually, as more were added, the pulpy hand took shape and the glove began to take on the appearance of a severed arm. Our job done, we bid farewell to the chaps on the farm. Christine had obligingly put all the equipment, overalls, wellies and bloody, testicle-filled glove into the boot of the car and off we journeyed back to base, no doubt accompanied by the Rolling Stones on the radio.
Half an hour later we pulled into the practice yard, both of us ready for lunch. Going round to the boot to unload our equipment, I not only lost my appetite but my thoughts turned to the cars parked behind us as we halted at numerous traffic lights on the A46. I could not believe that we had driven all the way back with the glove dangling from the boot, looking for all the world like a gory human arm.
CHAPTER FIVE
PIONEER SETTLERS
I know that this is a strange chapter title for a book on veterinary life, but all will soon be revealed. Actually, the circumstances prompting these words won’t be revealed until the last chapter, but by then I hope that you have not become so thoroughly bored with my story that you won’t read that far.
The drive to work each morning entailed a fast route through St Paul’s, passing the old Cheltenham maternity hospital and the lower High Street; it was the shortest route to St George’s Terrace, the freshly baked bread and jam-oozing doughnuts, and the veterinary surgery of Hull & Eaton.
There was an optional journey through the town which took you along the famous Promenade. It took a little longer and at about 8.30 in the morning was particularly hazardous, especially for young male drivers who for some reason became oblivious to the vehicle in front. It was the time of day when Cheltenham’s young women were also on their way to work. It was also that time in history when the miniskirt was in vogue. The epidemic of minor motor accidents in that area that resulted from admiring glances was so rife that the insurance claims departments began to refer to them as the Promenade mini-shunt.
Cheltenham life was fun, and as carefree youngsters Angela and I enjoyed it while we could, although we were always aware that before too long we would have the trappings of mortgages, parenthood and the responsibility of running our own practice, but at this stage we had no real idea where that practice might be. Life began to move in a different and more serious direction the day Wynn handed in his notice. It was now our third year in the practice and both Wynn and I suspected that, frustratingly, we would not be offered partnerships in the foreseeable future. Whenever the subject was raised the topic of conversation was quickly changed. We had worked hard and were aware of just how much the practice had grown in the time that we had been there. We were ambitious and knew that for both of us our veterinary world was about to change dramatically.
Wynn made the first move and became a junior partner in a successful practice in Chippenham. To make matters worse for me, his departure coincided with the end of Mr Hull’s BVA full-time commitments and his return to the practice sadly seemed to justify the decision not to find a replacement for Wynn. My working hours increased rapidly and the situation was aggravated by Tim Eaton becoming heavily involved in the British Small Animal Veterinary Association. The partners’ prestigious positions in these paramount organisations were tremendous kudos for the practice but the grass-roots work still had to be done. For a while I felt privileged to have their trust and enjoyed the responsibility of running their practice virtually single-handed for several days at a time. But no matter how much you enjoy your work there is a limit as to how much you can do without a rest and some sleep.
Eventually I had to admit defeat. At 8 o’clock one Monday morning I drove into the practice’s cobbled yard, leaned back as far as I could in my car seat and dozed off, waiting for Peter’s return from his London job. I hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in one go since Thursday night. That was three days ago! The telephone had not stopped ringing all weekend. Eventually I felt that every cow on every farm had a difficult calving and if she didn’t she would just go down with milk fever anyway, just to keep me awake and on my toes. It wasn’t quite as bad as that, but it was taxing enough to drain every ounce of my energy reserves.
I knew that Mr Hull was due back by 9 o’clock and I eagerly awaited his return, but dreaded having to explain to him how I felt and that I just couldn’t carry on without some rest. It sounded wimpish, but my case was probably supported by my drained white face and lips that had started to break out in numerous painful ulcers. The green Volvo sports car finally drew up and I was relieved to see Peter emerging. He saw straight away that I wasn’t fit to carry on and simply told me to go home and come back when I was up to it again.
I was worried enough to make an appointment to see a doctor that day. My own doctor was on holiday and I was examined by his brash young locum. Actually I wasn’t examined at all. I might have felt more reassured if he had at least stuck a thermometer in my mouth. After two minutes of irrelevant questions his diagnosis was that I had a viral infection. I suggested to him that, before I dropped down dead, perhaps it would be in order for me to have a few days at home.
‘No, you’ll be far better off at work than lounging around at home’, the doctor announced unsympathetically.
With my final ounce of strength I managed to convince him that I was truly knackered and with or without his blessing I was not going back to work, so he signed me off for a week. I spent most of that week sleeping, and when I wasn’t sleeping I was thinking really hard about the future.
I returned to work refreshed a week later and was quickly back in the swing of things once more. It was an unusual week, as things turned out. Churchdown is about 6 miles from Cheltenham, a small ancient village tucked away between Cheltenham and Gloucester. Here there were a number of family-run farms and smallholdings, some of which were run by local folk I knew. On that particular Monday morning I found myself at Green Farm in the company of the Halford family, father Albert and son John. I was there to carry out the annual herd TB test. It would take most of the morning to inspect and inject the cattle if things went well. As it turned out the task was completed by early afternoon, having moved the groups of cattle from Green Farm to other associated farms in the village, as well as some disassociated farms, gardens and allotments, repairing numerous fences on the way.
I found myself on the village green once more on the following Thursday morning, measuring the skin of cattle necks. The second day of the test is normally a shorter affair but it provided the farmer with a veterina
ry visit paid for by the government and thus the opportunity to get some routine work done at a bargain price. It was rare for a farmer ever to miss this opportunity. On this occasion, after the official Ministry business was completed, we dehorned some cattle. Removing the horns from adult cattle was not just fashionable at the time, but sensible; cattle without horns were less likely to bully other animals and made handling them safer. Having anaesthetised the horns of each animal they were again put into the steel cattle crush which restrained their movements and made it possible to remove the horns by sawing them off at the base with a tenon saw.
The restraint sounds ideal, but it is surprising the range of movements that a crush-restrained bovine can display. On this occasion one managed to penetrate my forehead with the pointed tip of its horn. A mixture of blood and perspiration trickled down my face. I am sure it must have looked dramatic. Job done, I returned to the surgery anticipating a sympathetic response from the nurses. I walked slowly past two of them and neither took the slightest notice of me. I would have got more attention from even the most biased of rugby referees if I’d shouted ‘Did you see that, Ref?’ I washed my face and went home for lunch.
I found myself back in Churchdown on several occasions that week. Between testing Mr Halford’s cattle I had been sent out to White House Farm to see one of Mr Lever’s lame cows and whilst there his sons John and Ken asked me if there was time for me to look at another lame cow. I obliged and from somewhere they produced several more cows which were ‘not exactly lame but walking, you know, a bit different’. My planned half-hour visit turned into a 2½-hour foot-trimming session. My back aches today even just thinking about it, but the following two-hour chat was to lead to events I had previously only dreamt of. The conversation was a mixture of the usual farming doom and gloom and local gossip, but more importantly their vision of the future of Churchdown.
By the end of that week I was 100 per cent sure I knew what I wanted to do. I would start my own practice in Churchdown. I was going to be the Village Vet.
Around the time I entered Vet School, whenever I was back home in Gloucestershire, Angela and I often wandered over one of our favourite places, Chosen Hill. It was a wonderful location where you could get away from it all and plan your future, which in our case we hoped might include a veterinary utopia. Our favourite walk took us out of Hucclecote along a winding lane towards Churchdown, past the old farmhouse of the De Lisle Wells family at Noake Court and the imposing Chosen Hill House, taking us eventually to the Bat & Ball pub.
A lemonade and half a pint of bitter later, we wandered back to Angela’s Hucclecote home on the other side of Chosen Hill. We often found ourselves looking down the hill and admiring the attractive new houses in Crifty Craft Lane and beyond them the miles of green fields and endless open land. Occasionally the stillness was interrupted by the distant whistle and puff of steam from the engine of a passing steam train. On one occasion I remarked,
‘Do you know, Ange, this would be a lovely place to have our own practice.’ A true word is often spoken in jest, but on this occasion I think I was really serious.
These youthful romantic notions were not at the top of my thoughts as my calloused hands pared away at the feet of John and Ken’s cattle, but the financial realities were. Our profession was an odd one and it had only slowly crept into the hard-headed twentieth-century business world. The idea that the treatment of animals could possibly be equated with making anything other than a living seemed outrageous to many. It was Mr Hull who first said to me, ‘Ivor, you’ll need to be a businessman first and a practising veterinary surgeon second, or it won’t be very long before you will be a practising veterinary surgeon without a business.’ The first time I heard him say that my thoughts returned to the Crudwell practice and my early chats with local farmers. Apparently it was not unusual for Mr Pettifer to send out a bill to a farm client about every three years for their perusal.
As I pared away at the overgrown feet I couldn’t help wondering why there had never been a veterinary practice here in Churchdown. I returned to base later that afternoon and joined the queues of rush-hour traffic, which seemed to grow ever longer as time went by. An emergency call at this time of the day meant a frustrating twenty minutes’ delay trying to get out of Cheltenham. ‘Bet I wouldn’t have this problem in Churchdown’, I thought to myself.
One evening that week the telphone rang at about 11 o’clock, and half an hour later I was attending an emergency in Churchdown. There was nothing particularly unusual about the treatment of this case and an hour or so later I was back in Cheltenham, operatingon an elderly mongrel bitch who was struggling in vain to produce her few, but very large, puppies. When I later said goodnight to the owners, as they left with their sleepy dog and three new pups, my mind was made up. I was going to become the Churchdown vet.
Once the seeds were sown I couldn’t get the idea of putting up my plate out of my head. Angela gradually got used to the idea of what might be in store and as the weeks went by her early doubts changed to cautious enthusiasm. Perhaps in hindsight, with a pregnant wife and a baby son, the timing was not perfect. But perhaps if we always wait for the perfect moment we may never do anything.
We drove to Churchdown most evenings and weekends when the opportunity arose searching for suitable premises. In our minds we knew the sort of building we were looking for. We definitely needed a roof over our heads, but essentially we needed premises that could be converted into a veterinary surgery. We had approached the planning department of Tewkesbury Borough Council but the young fellow delegated to advise us on the sort of property we should be looking for knew little about animals and nothing about their behaviour or needs. In order to minimise the social distress he perceived would be associated with a veterinary surgery (the constant barking of dogs and obnoxious odours), he directed us ever closer to the top of Chosen Hill. At times, as a safety margin, I thought he was directing us a few miles further on to neighbouring Coopers Hill and Robinswood Hill.
How we initially found The Brambles I really cannot remember now. It must have been advertised somewhere. In 1971 property across the country was rocketing in price and houses changed hands so quickly the estate agents only ever bothered to put up a ‘Sold’ board. I do remember telephoning the owners of an interesting turn-of-the-century Victorian house that might possibly suit our needs. The house and huge garden belonged to Major and Mrs Farlow who had lived there for the previous thirteen years. At the appointed time on a gorgeous late autumn afternoon we were greeted at the front door by Mrs Farlow, and having introduced ourselves we were immediately invited to view the second floor rooms first. We walked into one of the rear bedrooms where she had drawn the blinds to protect the furnishings from the brilliant low October sun. She dramatically drew back the curtains and we were presented with a magnificent display of the Major’s gardening achievements. In the foreground the lawns rolled back to meet the weedless vegetable garden beyond. Angela and I dared a subtle glance at each other, one of disbelief at our good fortune. Our reaction was noticed by the observant Mrs Farlow.
‘The garden a little too big for you?’ she enquired, in an almost maternal way.
‘Oh no, not at all’, I replied. ‘We like gardening.’ We did like gardening very much, but I must have sounded stupidly naïve. If only she had known what I wanted to do to her garden. Before leaving the bedroom, and with a private knowing wink to Angela, I assured Mrs Farlow of our total interest and, within minutes and probably to her astonishment, I boldly announced ‘We’ll buy it!’
We had no idea where the money would come from. We made an offer via our solicitor which was a little below the fortune we thought we were being asked for, and were delighted when it was accepted.
The estate agent dispensed with the formality of the ‘For Sale’ board, and simply put up the ‘Sold’ board that week. At the same time I arranged an appointment with the manager of a building society on Cheltenham Promenade. We went through the usual checklist and
things went well until he began asking relevant questions such as, ‘What will be your income?’ The answer was that I might soon not have one and within a couple of months I might even be on social security.
I am grateful that the office computer wasn’t yet in use, or at this point all the lights would be flashing crazily before it exploded and I was politely escorted to the front door. Fortunately at this time there was still an opportunity for a little negotiation, debate and discretion, and with a bit of persuasion we secured our mortgage. However, we still had to obtain planning consent. We arranged to visit the chairman of the Churchdown Parish Council. A room was set aside for such meetings and we took our place on a bench in the chairman’s monastic consulting room in his secluded Green Lane House. He listened carefully and with interest to our proposal. We believed that we had something to offer the village and his response was incredibly positive.
With the support of the Parish Council we soon had our planning go-ahead. We sold our Cheltenham home, made a small profit which would be our sole starting capital sum, and moved to Churchdown.
We moved into The Brambles on a bright yet bitterly cold January morning in 1972. It did not take long to move the furniture in, as we hadn’t got much. The house had been empty for a couple of weeks with all the windows shut and secured, which had caused a musty odour that was quickly resolved by opening the windows in every room. This was a mixed blessing as we had chosen to move in during one of the coldest winter spells for many years. We were convinced of this as, later that night, we huddled around a back room stove that provided one room with bearable warmth and the house with some hot water. We wondered if the Farlows had ever heard about gas boilers and central heating.
