All Things Bright and Beautiful (33 page)

I led him across the bridge out onto the station yard. He didn’t actually raise his eyebrows when he saw my car but he shot a cold glance at the mud-spattered vehicle, at the cracked windscreen and smooth tyres; and when I opened the door for him I thought for a moment he was going to wipe the seat before sitting down.

At the surgery I showed him round. I was only the assistant but I was proud of our modest set-up and most people were impressed by their first sight of it. But Carmody said “Hm,” in the little operating room, “Yes, I see,” in the dispensary, and “Quite” at the instrument cupboard. In the stockroom he was more forthcoming. He reached out and touched a packet of our beloved Adrevan worm medicine for horses.

“Still using this stuff, eh?” he said with a faint smile.

He didn’t go into any ecstasies but he did show signs of approval when I took him out through the french windows into the long, high-walled garden where the daffodils glowed among the unkempt tangle and the wisteria climbed high over the old bricks of the tall Georgian house. In the cobbled yard at the foot of the garden he looked up at the rooks making their din high in the overhanging elms and he gazed for a few moments through the trees to where you could see the bare ribs of the fells still showing the last white runnels of winter.

“Charming,” he murmured. “Charming.”

I was glad enough to see him to his lodgings that evening. I felt I needed time to readjust my thinking.

When we started out next morning I saw he had discarded his check suit but was still very smart in a hacking jacket and flannels.

“Haven’t you any protective clothing?” I asked.

“I’ve got these.” He indicated a spotless pair of Wellingtons in the back of the car.

“Yes, but I mean an oilskin or a coat of some kind. Some of our jobs are pretty dirty.”

He smiled indulgently. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be all right. I’ve been round the farms before, you know.”

I shrugged my shoulders and left it at that.

Our first visit was to a lame calf. The little animal was limping round its pen, holding up a fore leg and looking very woebegone. The knee was visibly swollen and as I palpated it there seemed to be a lumpiness in the fluid within as if there might be a floccules of pus among it. The temperature was a hundred and four.

I looked up at the farmer. “This is joint ill. He probably got an infection through his navel soon after birth and it’s settled in his knee. We’ll have to take care of him because his internal organs such as the liver and lungs can be affected. I’ll give him an injection and leave you some tablets for him.”

I went out to the car and when I came back Carmody was bending over the calf, feeling at the distended knee and inspecting the navel closely. I gave my injection and we left.

“You know,” Carmody said as we drove out of the yard, “that wasn’t joint ill.”

“Really?” I was a bit taken aback. I didn’t mind students discussing the pros and cons of my diagnosis as long as they didn’t do it in front of the farmer, but I had never had one tell me bluntly that I was wrong. I made a mental note to try to keep this fellow away from Siegfried; one remark like that and Siegfried would hurl him unhesitatingly out of the car, big as he was.

“How do you make that out then?” I asked him.

“Well there was only the one joint involved and the navel was perfectly dry. No pain or swelling there. I should say he just sprained that knee.”

“You may be right, but wouldn’t you say the temperature was a bit high for a sprain?”

Carmody grunted and shook his head slightly. Apparently he had no doubts.

A few gates cropped up in the course of our next batch of calls and Carmody got out and opened them just like any ordinary being except that he did it with a certain leisurely elegance. Watching his tall figure as he paced across, his head held high, the smart hat set at just the right angle, I had to admit again that he had enormous presence. It was remarkable at his age.

Shortly before lunch I saw a cow that the farmer had said on the phone might have T.B. “She’s gone down t’nick ever since she calved, guvnor. I doubt she’s a screw, but you’d better have a look at her, anyroad.”

As soon as I walked into the byre I knew what the trouble was. I have been blessed with an unusually sensitive nose and the sickly sweet smell of ketone hit me right away. It has always afforded me a childish pleasure to be able to say suddenly in the middle of a tuberculin test “There’s a cow in here about three weeks calved that isn’t doing very well,” and watch the farmer scratch his head and ask me how I knew.

I had another little triumph today. “Started going off her cake first didn’t she?” and the farmer nodded assent. “And the flesh has just melted off her since then?”

“That’s right,” the farmer said, “I’ve never seen a cow go down as quick.”

“Well you can stop worrying, Mr. Smith. She hasn’t got T.B., she’s got slow fever and we’ll be able to put her right for you.”

Slow fever is the local term for acetonaemia and the farmer smiled in relief. “Damn. I’m glad! I thowt she was dog meat. I nearly rang Mallock this morning.”

I couldn’t reach for the steroids which we use today, but I injected six ounces of glucose and 100 units of insulin intravenously—it was one of my pet remedies and might make modern vets laugh. But it used to work. The cow, dead-eyed and gaunt, was too weak to struggle as the farmer held her nose.

When I had finished I ran my hand over the jutting bones, covered, it seemed, only by skin.

“She’ll soon fatten up now,” I said. “But cut her down to once a day milking—that’s half the battle. And if that doesn’t work, stop milking her entirely for two or three days.”

“Yes, I reckon she’s putting it in t’bucket instead of on her back.”

“That’s it exactly, Mr. Smith.”

Carmody didn’t seem to appreciate this interchange of home-spun wisdom and fidgetted impatiently. I took my cue and headed for the car.

“I’ll see her in a couple of days,” I cried as we drove away, and waved to Mrs. Smith who was looking out from the farmhouse doorway. Carmody however raised his hat gravely and held it a few inches above his head till we had left the yard, which was definitely better. I had noticed him doing this at every place we had visited and it looked so good that I was playing with the idea of starting to wear a hat so that I could try it too.

I glanced sideways at my companion. Most of a morning’s work done and I hadn’t asked him any questions. I cleared my throat.

“By the way, talking about that cow we’ve just seen, can you tell me something about the causes of acetonaemia?”

Carmody regarded me impassively. “As a matter of fact I can’t make up my mind which theory I endorse at the moment. Stevens maintains it is the incomplete oxidation of fatty acids, Sjollema leans towards liver intoxication and Janssen implicates one of the centres of the autonomic nervous system. My own view is that if we could only pin point the exact cause of the production of diacetic acid and betaoxybutyric acid in the metabolism we’d be well on the way to understanding the problem. Don’t you agree?”

I closed my mouth which had begun to hang open.

“Oh yes, I do indeed…it’s that oxy…that old beta-oxy…yes, that’s what it is, without a doubt.” I slumped lower in-my seat and decided not to ask Carmody any more questions; and as the stone walls flipped past the windows I began to face up to the gradually filtering perception that this was a superior being next to me. It was depressing to ponder on the fact that not only was he big, good-looking, completely sure of himself but brilliant as well. Also, I thought bitterly, he had every appearance of being rich.

We rounded the corner of a lane and came up to a low huddle of stone buildings. It was the last call before lunch and the gate into the yard was closed.

“We might as well go through,” I murmured. “Do you mind?”

The student heaved himself from the car, unlatched the gate and began to bring it round. And he did it as he seemed to do everything; coolly, unhurriedly, with natural grace. As he passed the front of the car I was studying him afresh, wondering again at his style, his massive composure, when, apparently from nowhere, an evil looking little black cur dog glided silently out, sank its teeth with dedicated venom into Carmody’s left buttock and slunk away.

Not even the most monolithic dignity can survive being bitten deeply and without warning in the backside. Carmody screamed, leaped in the air clutching his rear, then swarmed to the top of the gate with the agility of a monkey. Squatting on the top spar, his natty hat tipped over one eye, he glared about him wildly.

“What the hell?” he yelled. “What the bloody hell?”

“It’s all right,” I said, hurrying towards him and resisting the impulse to throw myself on the ground and roll about .“It was just a dog.”

“Dog? What dog? Where?” Carmody’s cries took on a frantic note.

“It’s gone—disappeared. I only saw it for a couple of seconds.” And indeed, as I looked around it was difficult to believe that that flitting little black shadow had ever existed.

Carmody took a bit of coaxing down from the top of the gate and when he finally did reach ground level he limped over and sat down in the car instead of seeing the case. And when I saw the tattered cloth on his bottom I couldn’t blame him for not risking a further attack. If it had been anybody else I’d have told him to drop his pants so that I could slap on some iodine but in this instance I somehow couldn’t bring myself to do it. I left him sitting there.

W
HEN
C
ARMODY TURNED UP
for the afternoon round he had completely recovered his poise. He had changed his flannels and adopted a somewhat lopsided sitting position in the car but apart from that the dog episode might never have happened. In fact we had hardly got under way when he addressed me with a touch or arrogance.

“Look, I’m not going to learn much just watching you do things. Do you think I could carry out injections and the like? I want actual experience with the animals themselves.”

I didn’t answer for a moment but stared ahead through the maze of fine cracks on the windscreen. I couldn’t very well tell him that I was still trying to establish myself with the farmers and that some of them had definite reservations about my capabilities. Then I turned to him.

“O.K. I’ll have to do the diagnosing but whenever possible you can carry on from there.”

He soon had his first taste of action. I decided that a litter of ten week old pigs might benefit from an injection of E coli antiserum and handed him the bottle and syringe. And as he moved purposefully among the little animals I thought with gloomy satisfaction that though I may not be au fait with all the small print in the text books I did know better than to chase pigs into the dirty end of the pen to catch them. Because with Carmody in close pursuit the squealing creatures leaped from their straw bed and charged in a body towards a stagnant lake of urine against the far wall. And as the student grabbed at their hind legs the pigs scrabbled among the filth, kicking it back over him in a steady shower. He did finally get them all injected but at the end his smart outfit was liberally spattered and I had to open the windows wide to tolerate his presence in the car.

The next visit was to a big arable farm in the low country, and it was one of the few places where they had hung on to their horses; the long stable had several stalls in use and the names of the horses on the wall above; Boxer, Captain, Bobby, Tommy, and the mares Bonny and Daisy. It was Tommy the old cart horse we had to see and his trouble was a “stoppage.”

Tommy was an old friend of mine; he kept having mild bouts of colic with constipation and I often wondered if he had a faecolith lurking about in his bowels somewhere. Anyway, six drachms of Istin in a pint of water invariably restored him to normal health and I began automatically to shake up the yellow powder in a drenching bottle. Meanwhile the farmer and his man turned the horse round in his stall, ran a rope under his nose band, threw it over a beam in the stable roof and pulled the head upwards.

I handed the bottle to Carmody and stepped back. The student looked up and hesitated. Tommy was a big horse and the head, pulled high, was far beyond reach; but the farm man pushed a ramshackle kitchen chair wordlessly forward and Carmody mounted it and stood swaying precariously.

I watched with interest. Horses are awkward things to drench at any time and Tommy didn’t like Istin, even though it was good for him. On my last visit I had noticed that he was becoming very clever at holding the bitter mixture at the back of his throat instead of swallowing it. I had managed to foil him by tapping him under the chin just as he was toying with the idea of coughing it out and he had gulped it down with an offended look. But it was more and more becoming a battle of wits.

Carmody never really had a chance. He started off well enough by grasping the horse’s tongue and thrusting the bottle past the teeth, but Tommy outwitted him effortlessly by inclining his head and allowing the liquid to flow from the far side of his mouth.

“It’s coming out t’other side, young man!” the farmer cried with some asperity.

The student gasped and tried to direct the flow down the throat but Tommy had summed him up immediately as an amateur and was now in complete command of the situation. By judicious rolling of the tongue and a series of little coughs and snorts he kept ridding himself of most of the medicine and I felt a pang of pity at the sight of Carmody weaving about on the creaking chair as the yellow fluid cascaded over his clothes.

At the end, the farmer squinted into the empty bottle.

“Well I reckon t’oss got SOME of it,” he muttered sourly.

Carmody eyed him impassively for a moment, shook a few ounces of Istin solution from somewhere up his sleeve and strode out of the stable.

At the next farm I was surprised to detect a vein of sadism in my makeup. The owner, a breeder of pedigree Large White pigs, was exporting a sow abroad and it had to be subjected to various tests including a blood sample for Brucellosis. Extracting a few c.c.’s of blood from the ear vein of a struggling pig is a job which makes most vets shudder and it was clearly a dirty trick to ask a student to do it, but the memory of his coldly confident request at the beginning of the afternoon seemed to have stilled my conscience. I handed him the syringe with scarcely a qualm.