I looked again at the scarecrow figure with the hat brim drooping over the calm eyes. “You did a wonderful job there, Mr. Buckle. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. It was amazing how that bull followed the cow in like that.”
The old man smiled and I had a sudden surging impression of the wisdom in that quiet mind.
“There’s nowt amazin’ about it, lad, it’s most nat’ral thing in t’world. That’s ’is mother.”
44
I SLOWED DOWN AND gazed along the farm lane. That was Tristan’s car parked against the byre and inside, behind that green door, he was calving a cow. Because Tristan’s student days were over. He was a fully fledged veterinary surgeon now and the great world of animal doctoring with all its realities stretched ahead
Not for long, though, because like many others he was bound for the army and would leave soon after myself. But it wouldn’t be so bad for Tristan because at least he would be doing his own job. When Siegfried and I had volunteered for service there had been no need for our profession in the army so we had gone into R.A.F. aircrew which was the only branch open to our “reserved occupation.” But when it came to Tristan’s turn the fighting had escalated in the far east and they were crying out for vets to doctor the horses, mules, cattle, camels.
The timing suggested that the Gods were looking after him as usual. In fact I think the Gods love people like Tristan who sway effortlessly before the winds of fate and spring back with a smile, looking on life always with blithe optimism. Siegfried and I as second class aircraftmen pounded the parade ground for weary hours, Captain Tristan Farnon sailed off to the war in style.
But in the meantime I was glad of his help. After my departure he would run things with the aid of an assistant then when he left the practice would be in the hands of two strangers till we returned. It seemed strange but everything was impermanent at that time.
I drew up and looked thoughtfully at the car. This was Mark Dowson’s place and when I had rung the surgery from out in the country Helen told me about this calving. I didn’t want to butt in and fuss but I couldn’t help wondering how Tristan was getting on, because Mr. Dowson was a dour, taciturn character who wouldn’t hesitate to come down on the young man if things went wrong.
Still, I hadn’t anything to worry about because since he qualified Tristan was doing fine. The farmers had always liked him during his sporadic visits as a student but now that he was on the job regularly the good reports were coming in thick and fast.
“I’ll tell tha, that young feller does work! Doesn’t spare ’imself,” or “Ah’ve never seen a lad put his ’eart and soul into his job like this ’un.” And one man drew me to one side and muttered “He meks some queer noises but he does try. I think he’d kill ’isself afore he’d give up.”
That last remark made me think Tristan’s forte was certainly not brute effort and I had been a bit bewildered at some of the comments till I began to remember some of my experiences with him in his student days. He had always applied his acute intelligence to any situation in his own particular way and the way he reacted to the little accidents of country practice led me to believe he was operating a system.
The first time I saw this in action was when he was standing by the side of a cow watching me pulling milk from a teat Without warning the animal swung round and brought an unyielding cloven hoof down on his foot. This is a common and fairly agonising experience and before the days of steel-tipped Wellingtons I have frequently had the skin removed from my toes in neat parchment-like rolls. When it happened to me I was inclined to hop around and swear a bit and my performance was usually greeted with appreciative laughter from the farmers. Tristan, however, handled it differently.
He gasped, leaned with bowed head against the cow’s pelvic bone for a moment then opened his mouth wide and emitted a long groan. Then, as the cowman and I stared at him he reeled over the cobbles dragging the damaged limb uselessly behind him. Arrived at the far wall he collapsed against it, face on the stone, still moaning pitifully.
Thoroughly alarmed, I rushed to his aid. This must be a fracture and already my mind was busy with plans to get him to hospital with all possible speed. But he revived rapidly and when we left the byre ten minutes later he was tripping along with no trace of a limp. And I did notice one thing; nobody had laughed at him, he had received only sympathy and commiseration.
This sort of thing happened on other places. He sustained a few mild kicks, he was crushed between cows, he met with many of the discomforts which are part of our life and he reacted in the same histrionic way. And how it paid off! To a man, the farmers exhibited the deepest concern when he went into his act and there was something more; it actually improved his image. I was pleased about that because impressing Yorkshire farmers isn’t the easiest task and if Tristan’s method worked it was all right with me.
But I smiled to myself as I sat outside the farm. I couldn’t see Mr. Dowson being affected by any sign of suffering. I had had my knocks there in the past and he obviously hadn’t cared a damn.
On an impulse I drove down the lane and walked into the byre. Tristan, stripped off and soaped, was just inserting an arm into a large red cow while the fanner, pipe in hand, was holding the tail. My colleague greeted me with a pleasant smile but Mr. Dowson just nodded curtly.
“What have you got, Triss?” I asked.
“Both legs back,” he replied. “And they’re a long way in. Look at the length of her pelvis.”
I knew what he meant. It wasn’t a difficult presentation but it could be uncomfortable in these long cows. I leaned back against the wall; I might as well see how he fared.
He braced himself and reached as far forward as he could, and just then the cow’s flanks bulged as she strained hard against him. This is never very nice; the powerful contractions of the uterus squeeze the arm relentlessly between calf and pelvis and you have to grit your teeth till it passes off.
Tristan, however, went a little further.
“Ooh! Aah! Ouch!” he cried. Then as the animal still kept up the pressure he went into a gasping groan. When she finally relaxed he stood there quite motionless for a few seconds, his head hanging down as though the experience had drained him of all his strength.
The farmer drew on his pipe and regarded him impassively. Throughout the years I had known Mr. Dowson I had never seen any particular emotion portrayed in those hard eyes and craggy features. In fact it had always seemed to me that I could have dropped down dead in front of him and he wouldn’t even blink.
My colleague continued his struggle and the cow, entering into the spirit of the game, fought back with a will. Some animals will stand quietly and submit to all kinds of internal interference but this was a strainer; every movement of the arm within her was answered by a violent expulsive effort. I had been through it a hundred times and I could almost feel the grinding pressure on the wrist, the helpless numbing of the fingers.
Tristan showed what he thought about it all by a series of heartrending sounds. His repertoire was truly astounding and he ranged from long harrowing moans through shrill squeals to an almost tearful whimpering.
At first Mr. Dowson appeared oblivious to the whole business, puffing smoke, glancing occasionally through the byre door, scratching at the bristle on his chin. But as the minutes passed his eyes were dragged more and more to the suffering creature before him until his whole attention was riveted on the young man.
And in truth he was worth watching because Tristan added to his vocal performance an extraordinary display of facial contortions. He sucked in his cheeks, rolled his eyes, twisted his lips, did everything in fact but wiggle his ears. And there was no doubt he was getting through to Mr. Dowson. As the noises and grimaces became more extravagant the farmer showed signs of growing uneasiness; he darted anxious glances at my colleague and occasionally his pipe trembled violently. Like me, he clearly thought some dreadful climax was at hand.
As if trying to bring matters to a head the c
ow started to build up to a supreme effort. She straddled her legs wide, grunted deeply and went into a prolonged heave. As her back arched Tristan opened his mouth wide in a soundless protest then little panting cries began to escape him. This, I thought, was his most effective ploy yet; a long drawn “Aah…aah…aah…” creeping gradually up the scale and building increasing tension in his audience. My toes were curling with apprehension when, with superb timing, he released a sudden piercing scream.
That was when Mr. Dowson cracked. His pipe had almost wobbled from his mouth but now he stuffed it into his pocket and rushed to Tristan’s side.
“Ista all right, young man?” he enquired hoarsely.
My colleague, his face a mask of anguish, did not reply.
The farmer tried again. “Will ah get you a cup o’ tea?”
For a moment Tristan made no response, then, eyes closed, he nodded dumbly.
Mr. Dowson scampered eagerly from the byre and within minutes returned with a steaming mug. After that I had to shake my head to dispel the feeling of unreality. It couldn’t be true, this vision of the hardbitten farmer feeding the tea to the young man in sips, cradling the lolling head in a horny hand. Tristan was still inside the cow, still apparently semi-conscious with pain but submitting helplessly to the farmer’s ministrations.
With a sudden lunge he produced one of the calf’s legs and as he flopped against the cow’s rump he was rewarded with another long gulp of tea. After the first leg the rest wasn’t so bad and the second leg and the calf itself soon followed.
As the little creature landed wriggling on the floor Tristan collapsed on his knees beside it and extended a trembling hand towards a pile of hay, prepared to give the new arrival a rub down.
Mr. Dowson would have none of it
“George!” he bellowed to one of his men in the yard. “Get in ’ere and wisp this calf!” Then solicitously to Tristan, “You maun come into t’house, lad, and have a drop o’ brandy. You’re about all in.”
The dream continued in the farm kitchen and I watched disbelievingly as my colleague fought his way back to health and strength with the aid of several stiff measures of Martell Three Star. I had never had treatment like this and a wave of envy swept over me as I wondered whether it was worth adopting Tristan’s system.
But I still have never found the courage to try it.
45
IT WAS STRANGE, BUT somehow the labels on the calves’ backs made them look even more pathetic; the auction mart labels stuck roughly with paste on the hairy rumps, stressing the little creatures’ role as helpless merchandise.
As I lifted one sodden tail and inserted the thermometer a thin whitish diarrhoea trickled from the rectum and streamed down the thighs and hocks.
“It’s the old story, I’m afraid, Mr. Clark,” I said.
The farmer shrugged and dug his thumbs under his braces. In the blue overalls and peaked porter’s cap he always wore he didn’t look much like a farmer and for that matter this place did not greatly resemble a farm; the calves were in a converted railway wagon and all around lay a weird conglomeration of rusting agricultural implements, pieces of derelict cars, broken chairs. “Aye, it’s a beggar isn’t it? I wish I didn’t have to buy calves in markets but you can’t always find ’em on t’f arms when you want them. This lot looked all right when I got them two days since.”
“I’m sure they did.” I looked at the five calves, arch-backed, trembling, miserable. “But they’ve had a tough time and it’s showing now. Taken from their mothers at a week old, carted for miles in a draughty wagon, standing for most of the day at the mart then the final journey here on a cold afternoon. They didn’t have a chance.”
“Well ah gave them a good bellyful of milk as soon as they came. They looked a bit starved and ah thought it would warm them up.”
“Yes, you’d think it would, Mr. Clark, but really their stomachs weren’t in a fit state to accept rich food like that when they were cold and tired. Next time if I were you I’d just give them a drink of warm water with maybe a little glucose and make them comfortable till next day.”
“White scour” they called it. It killed countless thousands of calves every year and the name always sent a chill through me because the mortality rate was depressingly high.
I gave each of them a shot of E coli antiserum. Most authorities said it did no good and I was inclined to agree with them. Then I rummaged in my car boot and produced a packet of our astringent powders of chalk, opium and catechu.
“Here, give them one of these three times a day, Mr. Clark,” I said. I tried to sound cheerful but I’m sure my tone lacked conviction. Whiskered veterinary surgeons in top hats and tail coats had been prescribing chalk opium and catechu a hundred years ago and though it might have been helpful in mild diarrhoea it was almost useless against the lethal bacterial enteritis of white scour. It was a waste of time just trying to dry up the diarrhoea; what was wanted was a drug which would knock out the vicious bugs which caused it, but there wasn’t such a thing around.
However there was one thing which we vets of those days used to do which is sometimes neglected since the arrival of the modern drugs; we attended to the comfort and nursing of the animals. The farmer and I wrapped each calf in a big sack which went right round its body and was fastened with binder twine round the ribs, in front of the brisket and under the tail. Then I fussed round the shed, plugging up draught holes, putting up a screen of straw bales between the calves and the door.
Before I left I took a last look at them; there was no doubt they were warm and sheltered now. They would need every bit of help with only my astringent powders fighting for them.
I didn’t see them again until the following afternoon. Mr. Clark was nowhere around so I went over to the railway wagon and opened the half door.
This, to me, is the thing that lies at the very heart of veterinary practice; the wondering and worrying about how your patient is progressing then the long moment when you open that door and find out. I rested my elbows on the timbers and looked inside. The calves were lying quite motionless on their sides, in fact I had to look closely to make sure they were not dead. I banged the door behind me with deliberate force but not a head was raised.
Walking through the deep straw and looking down at the outstretched little animals, each in his rough sacking jacket, I swore softly to myself. It looked as though the whole lot was going to perish. Great, great, I thought as I kicked among the straw—not just one or two but a hundred per cent death rate this time.
“Well you don’t look very ’opeful, young man.” Mr. Clark’s head and shoulders loomed over the half door.
I dug my hands into my pockets. “No, damn it, I’m not. They’ve gone down really fast, haven’t they?”
“Aye, it’s ower wi’ them all right. I’ve just been in t’house ringing Mallock.”
The knacker man’s name was like the pealing of a mournful bell. “But they’re not dead yet,” I said.
“No, but it won’t be long. Mallock allus gives a bob or two more if he can get a beast alive. Makes fresher dog meat, he says.”
I didn’t say anything and I must have looked despondent because the farmer gave a wry smile and came over to me.
“It isn’t your fault, lad. I know all about this dang white scour. If you get the right bad sort there’s nothing anybody can do. And you can’t blame me for tryin’ to get a bit back—I’ve got to make the best of a bad job.”
“Oh I know,” I said. “I’m just disappointed I can’t have a go at them with this new medicine.”
“What’s that, then?”
I took the tin from my pocket and read the label. “It’s called M and B 693, or sulphapyridine, to give it its scientific name. Just came in the post this morning. It’s one of a completely new range of drugs—they’re called the sulphonamides and we’ve never had anything like them before. They’re supposed to actually kill certain germs, such as the organisms which cause scour.”
Mr. Clark t
ook the tin from me and removed the lid. “A lot of little blue tablets, eh? Well ah’ve seen a few wonder cures for this ailment but none of ’em’s much good—this’ll be another, I’ll bet.”
“Could be,” I said. “But there’s been a lot of discussion about these sulphonamides in our veterinary journals. They’re not quack remedies, they’re a completely fresh field. I wish I could have tried them on your calves.”
“Well look at them.” The farmer gazed gloomily over the five still bodies. “Their eyes are goin’ back in their heads. Have you ever seen calves like that get better?”
“No I haven’t, but I’d still like to have a go.”
As I spoke a tall-sided wagon rumbled into the yard. A sprightly, stocky man descended from the driver’s seat and came over to us.
“By gaw, Jeff,” said Mr. Clark. “You ’aven’t been long.”
“Nay, they got me on t’phone at Jenkinson’s, just down t’road.” He gave me a smile of peculiar sweetness.
I studied Jeff Mallock as I always did with a kind of wonder. He had spent the greater part of his forty odd years delving in decomposing carcases, slashing nonchalantly with his knife at tuberculous abscesses, wallowing in infected blood and filthy uterine exudates yet he remained a model of health and fitness. He had the clear eyes and the smooth pink skin of a twenty year old and the effect was heightened by the untroubled serenity of his expression. To the best of my knowledge Jeff never took any hygienic precautions such as washing his hands and I have seen him enjoying a snack on his premises, seated on a heap of bones and gripping a cheese and onion sandwich with greasy fingers.
He peered over the door at the calves. “Yes, yes, a clear case of stagnation of t’lungs. There’s a lot of it about right now.”
Mr. Clark looked at me narrowly. “Lungs? You never said owt about lungs, young man.” Like all farmers he had complete faith in Jeff’s instant diagnosis.