Mr. Biggins nodded with glum satisfaction, then raised his eyebrows. “Where you goin’ now?”
“Into the house. I’ve got to use your phone to report to the Ministry. I can’t do anything till I get permission. I’ll pay for the call.” I added the last few words because he was beginning to look worried.
He stood by me as I spoke to the Ministry clerk. He fidgeted impatiently when I asked him for his full name, the proper name of the farm, the breed of the heifer.
“Didn’t know ah’d have to go through all this,” he mumbled.
I went out and produced my postmortem knife from the car boot. It was a large and dangerous carving knife that I used only on dead animals.
Mr. Biggins’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “By gaw, I don’t like the look of that bloody great knife. What are you goin’ to do with that?”
“Just take a bit of blood.” I bent and made a nick at the root of the heifer’s tail and smeared a film of blood onto a glass slide. I took this, along with the microscope, into the farmhouse kitchen.
“Now what do you want?” Mr. Biggins asked sourly.
I looked around. “I want the use of the sink, the fire and that table by the window.”
The sink was full of dirty dishes which the farmer removed with groans of protest, while I fixed the blood film by drawing it through the flames in the hearth. Then I moved to the sink and poured methylene blue over the slide. In the process, a small blue pool formed in the white sink bottom, and the colouration stayed there after I had swilled the slide with cold water from the tap.
“Look at the bloody mess you’ve made!” Mr. Biggins exclaimed. “You’ve stained t’sink. The missus’ll play ’ell when she gets home this afternoon.”
I forced a smile. “Don’t worry, that isn’t a stain. It will come off quite easily.” But I could see he didn’t believe me.
I dried the slide off at the fire, rigged up the microscope on the table and peered through the eyepiece. As I expected, I found only the usual pattern of red and white corpuscles. Not an anthrax bacillus in sight.
“Well, there’s nothing there,” I said. “You can call the knacker man quite safely.”
Mr. Biggins blew out his cheeks and made a long-suffering gesture with one hand. “All that bloody fuss for nothin’,” he sighed.
As I drove away I felt, not for the first time, that you just couldn’t win with Mr. Biggins, and a month later the conviction was strengthened when he came into the surgery one market day.
“One of me cows has wooden tongue,” he announced. “I want some iodine to paint on.”
Siegfried looked up from the day book where he was checking the visits. “Oh, you’re a bit out of date, Mr. Biggins,” he said, smiling. “We’ve got far better medicine than that now.”
The farmer took up his usual stance, head down, glowering under his eyebrows. “I don’t care about your new medicine. Ah want the stuff I’ve allus used.”
“But Mr. Biggins.” Siegfried was at his most reasonable. “Painting the tongue with iodine went out years ago. Since then we’ve used intravenous injections of sodium iodide, which was much better, but now even that has been replaced by sulphanilamide.”
“Big words, Mr. Farnon, big fancy words,” grunted the farmer. “But ah know what’s best for me cow, so are you goin’ to give me the iodine or not?”
“No, I am not,” Siegfried replied, the smile fading from his face. “I wouldn’t be a competent veterinary surgeon if I prescribed something as totally outdated as that.” He turned to me. “James, would you slip through to the stockroom and bring a pound packet of the sulphanilamide?”
Mr. Biggins was protesting as I hurried from the office. In the stockroom the sulphanilamide packets stood in rows, some pounds, others half-pounds, but there were plenty of them because at that time this drug bulked very large in our veterinary life. It was such a striking improvement on our old remedies. It was useful in many kinds of bacterial diseases, it was an excellent dusting powder for wounds and, of course, as Siegfried had said, it cleared up actinobacillosis, or wooden tongue, quite rapidly.
The packets were square and wrapped in white paper tied down with string. I grabbed one from the shelf and returned at a trot, listening to the two voices echoing along the passage.
The argument was still raging when I came back to the office, and I could see that Siegfried’s patience was running out. He seized the packet from me and began to write the instructions on the label.
“You give three tablespoonsful in a pint of water to start with, then …”
“But ah tell you ah don’t want …”
“… you follow with one tablespoonful three times daily . . “
“… got no faith in them new things …”
“… and after you’ve used the packet, let us know, and we’ll give you another supply if necessary.”
The farmer glared at my partner. “That stuff’ll do no good.”
“Mr. Biggins,” Siegfried said with ominous calm. “It will cure your cow.”
“It won’t!”
“It will!”
“It won’t!”
Siegfried brought his hand down on the desk with a thud. Clearly he had had enough. “Take this, and if it doesn’t do the trick I won’t charge you, all right?”
Mr. Biggins narrowed his eyes, but I could see that the idea of something for nothing had an irresistible appeal. Slowly he stretched out his hand and took the sulphanilamide.
“Splendid!” Siegfried jumped up and patted the farmer’s shoulder. “Now, you get in touch with us when you’ve used it. I bet you anything your cow will soon be much better.”
It would be about ten days after this interview that Siegfried and I were out together castrating colts, and on the way back to the surgery we had to pass through Mr. Biggins’s village.
Siegfried slowed down when he saw the farmhouse. It was square-faced and massive, and the front garden showed only the sprouting heads of potato plants. Mr. Biggins did not believe in wasting money on ornamentation.
“Tell you what, James,” my partner murmured. “We’ll just drop in there. We haven’t heard from our old friend about the sulphanilamide. Doesn’t want to lose face, I suspect.” He laughed softly. “We’ll be able to rub it in a bit.”
He turned the wheel and drove round to the yard at the back of the house. Outside the kitchen door Siegfried raised his hand to knock, then he gripped my arm. “Look at that, James!” he said in an urgent whisper.
He pointed to the kitchen window, and there on the sill was our square white packet, virgin and unopened, the string binding undisturbed.
My partner clenched his fist. “The cussed old blighter! He won’t try it — out of sheer spite.”
At that moment the farmer opened the door and Siegfried greeted him cheerfully. “Ah, good morning to you, Mr. Biggins. We were just passing and thought we’d check on how your cow was progressing.”
The eyes under the shaggy brows registered sudden alarm, but my partner held up a reassuring hand. “No charge, I give you my word. This is just for our own interest.”
“But … but … I’ve got me slippers on. Was just havin’ a cup o’ tea. There’s no need for ye to …”
But Siegfried was already striding towards the cow byre. The patient was easy to pick out. Her skin was stretched tightly over the jutting ribs and pelvic bones, saliva drooled from her lips and a long swelling bulged from under her jaw. She was a scarecrow among her sleek neighbours.
Siegfried moved quickly to her head, seized the nose and pulled it towards him. With his other hand he prised open the mouth and fingered the tongue.
“Feel that, James,” he said softly.
I ran my hand over the knobbly hard surface which for centuries has given actinobacillosis its evocative name. “This is awful. It’s a wonder she can eat at all.” I sniffed at my fingers. “And there’s iodine here.”
Siegfried nodded. “Yes, he’s been to the chemist despite what I said.”
At that moment the byre door burst open and Mr. Biggins hurried in, panting slightly.
My partner looked at him sadly along the cow’s back. “Well, it seems you were right. Our medicine hasn’t done a bit of good. I can’t understand it.” He rubbed his chin. “And your poor cow is a mess, I’m afraid. Almost starving to death. I do apologise.”
The farmer’s face was a study. “Aye, well … that’s right … she’s done no good … I reckon she’ll …”
Siegfried broke in. “Look here,” he said. “I feel responsible for this. My medicine has failed, so it’s up to me to get her right.” He strode from between the cows. “I have an injection in the car which I think will do the trick. Excuse me for a moment.”
“Now, then, wait a minute … I don’t know …” But the farmer’s words went unheeded as my colleague hurried out to the yard.
He was back very quickly, holding a bottle that I couldn’t recognise. He held it up and began to fill a 20 c.c. syringe, watching the rising level intently and whistling tunelessly under his breath.
“Hold the tail, will you, James?” he said and poised the needle over the cow’s rump. With his hand still held high, he looked across at Mr. Biggins. “This is an excellent injection, but it’s a good job you’ve been using our medicine.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, on its own it could have serious effects on the animal.”
“You mean … could kill ’er?”
“Just possible,” Siegfried murmured. “But you’ve nothing to worry about. She’s had the sulphanilamide.” He was about to plunge the needle in when the farmer gave tongue.
“Hey, hey, haud on. Don’t do that!”
“What is it, Mr. Biggins? Something wrong?”
“Nay, nay, but there’s maybe been a bit of a misunderstandin’.” Conflicting emotions chased across the farmer’s face. “Ye see, it’s like this—ah don’t think she’s been gettin’ enough of your stuff.”
Siegfried lowered his arm. “You mean you’ve been underdosing? I wrote the instructions on the packet if you remember.”
“That’s right. But ah must have got a bit mixed up.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. As long as you put her back to full dosage, all will be well.” Siegfried inserted the needle and, ignoring Mr. Biggins’s yelp of alarm, he injected the full contents.
As he put the syringe back in its case, he sighed with satisfaction. “Well, I’m sure that will put everything right. But remember, you must start again with the full three tablespoonsful and continue till you’ve finished the packet. The cow is in such a state that I’m pretty sure you’ll need a further supply, but you’ll let us know about that, eh?”
As we drove away I stared at my colleague. “What the devil was that injection?”
“Oh, mixed vitamins. It’ll help the poor thing’s condition, but it had nothing to do with the wooden tongue. Just part of my plan.” He smiled gleefully. “Now he’s got to use the sulphanilamide. It will be interesting to see what happens.”
It was indeed interesting. Within a week Mr. Biggins was back in the surgery, looking sheepish.
“Can I have some more o’ that stuff?” he muttered.
“By all means.” Siegfried extended his arm in an expansive gesture. “As much as you like.” He leaned on the desk. “I suppose the cow is looking better?”
“Aye.”
“Stopped slavering?”
“Aye.”
“Putting on flesh, is she?”
“Aye, aye, she is.” Mr. Biggins lowered his head as though he didn’t want to answer any more questions. Siegfried gave him another packet.
Through the surgery window we watched him cross the street, and my partner thumped me on the shoulder. “Well, James. That was a little victory. At last we’ve managed to beat Mr. Biggins.”
I laughed, too, because it was very sweet, but when I look back over the years, I realise it was the only time we did beat him.
Chapter
20
THERE IS NOTHING VERY exciting about tuberculin testing, and I was quite pleased when George Forsyth, the insurance agent, came into the byre and started to make conversation.
I was doing the annual test on the little farm of the Hudson brothers. Clem, the elder, about forty years old, was painstakingly writing the numbers in the book, while Dick, a few years younger, was rubbing the inner surfaces of the ears to find the tattoo marks.
As I clipped, measured and injected, I listened to George’s observations on the weather, the latest cricket scores and the price of pigs. He was leaning against a wall, taking leisurely pulls at a cigarette as though he had all the time in the world, but I had a fair idea he had come along for something more than idle talk.
After a few minutes he got round to the point.
“You know, Clem,” he said, “you fellows should be properly insured.”
Clem carefully rounded off a figure in the book. “What are ye talkin’ about? We’ve got the car insured and we’re covered for fire and lightnin’. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Enough!” George was shocked. “That’s nothing. You should both have life policies, for a start.”
“Nay, nay.” Clem shook his head. “Don’t believe in all that. In fact, I don’t believe in insurance at all except what we’ve got to have.”
Dick raised his head from the front of the cow. “And ah don’t believe in it either. You’re wastin’ your time, George.”
“Honestly,” the agent said, “you two are living in the past. Don’t you think it would be a good thing for your dependants to have a nice sum of money in the event of your deaths?”
“Not goin’ to die for a long time yet,” Clem grunted, moving along to the next cow.
“How the heck do you know that?”
“All the Hudsons is long-lived,” Dick said. “They nearly have to shoot some of ’em. Our old dad’s over eighty, and he’s fightin’ fit. He passed the farm over to us, but ‘e could be workin’ now if he wanted.”
George tiptoed daintily to one side in his patent leather shoes as a cow raised her tail dangerously in his direction. “You don’t seem to get the point, but I won’t press the matter. However,” he raised a finger, “you should certainly have sickness policies.”
Both the brothers had a good laugh at this.
“Sickness?” Clem said, a pitying smile creasing his craggy features. “Neither of us ’ave ever ailed a thing in our lives. Never even had a cold. We ’aven’t missed a day’s work since we started on this place.”
“But how do you know that’s going to continue?” the agent replied weakly. “As you get older, you’ll be more liable to illness.”
“Oh, leave off, George.” Dick pushed his way out from between two cows. “We’ve told you—we don’t believe in insurance, and that’s all about it. And we’re not goin’ to chuck our money away on any of your fancy policies.”
George narrowed his eyes. This was a challenge, and I could see he was going to rise to it.
“I tell you what …” he began, but I had got to the end of the byre.
“Where do we go now?” I asked.
Clem pointed across the yard. “Few heifers in a box over there.”
These were big, rough beasts, and I pressed back against the wall as they careered around in the straw. The brothers had made a few ineffectual throws with a rope halter when I noticed George’s head appearing over the box door.
“I tell you what,” he repeated, and I was reminded of the old couplet, “There’s no guy got endurance/like the guy who sells insurance.” “How about an accident policy? Both of you ought to have one.”
Clem managed to snare one of the galloping animals and leaned back on the rope. “Accident? Fiddlesticks! We’ve never ’ad a accident.”
“Aha! That’s the very reason why you should start protecting yourselves. The fact that nothing has happened to you makes it more probable that something is waiting round the corner. It’s simple mathematics.”
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“There’s nowt simple about it,” Dick said, “Just because we’ve never had a accident doesn’t mean that …” His words were cut off as the haltered beast went violently into reverse and its bony rump thudded into his midriff, crushing him with brutal force against the rough stones of the wall.
He sank down in the straw, completely winded, and sat motionless, holding his middle.
“Look at that!” George cried. “Just what I’ve been talking about! Yours is a dangerous trade. Anything could happen.”
“Aye, well, ’e’s all right,” Clem said doubtfully as his brother eased himself to his feet.
George’s eyes had the fanatical gleam of an insurance man who suddenly finds fate on his side. “Yes, yes, maybe he is all right this time, but he might have had an internal injury, mightn’t he? Could have been off work for ages, and then where would you be? You’d have to pay for extra labour, wouldn’t you? And with a nice little policy from me, you’d have the money to do it.”
The musical sound of the word “money” appeared to stir something in Clem. He gave the agent a sidelong glance. “How much?”
George became brisk and businesslike. “Now, then, I have just the thing for you here.” He pulled a sheaf of policies from his inside pocket. “For a premium of ten pounds per annum, you would receive twenty pounds a week in the case of incapacitating injuries. There are other benefits, of course; look here.”
Clem put on a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and perused the document while Dick looked over his shoulder. I could hear mutterings.
“Twenty pun a week … lot o’ money … not bad.”
Twenty pounds was indeed a tidy sum in 1948 when the average weekly wage for a qualified veterinary assistant was around ten pounds.
Finally Clem looked up. “Reckon we might ’ave a go at that. Twenty pun a week would come in right handy.”
“Splendid, splendid.” George produced a silver pencil. “Just sign here, both of you. Thank you very much.”
He paused for a moment. “And of course there’s young Herbert who works for you.”
“Aye, he’s down t’fields,” Dick said. “What about ’im?”