Pets in a Pickle (35 page)

‘You hit it then,’ commented Madge. ‘Vet hit it,’ she added over her shoulder to her sister.

‘Couldn’t miss it, vein that size,’ Rosie replied.

I quickly released the cord and the vein collapsed, the flow of blood dropping to a mere trickle. ‘Madge … please … ’ I clicked my fingers and flicked my wrist.

‘Rush, rush,’ she muttered, leaning over the cow to hand me the tubing and bottle.

‘No … no … just the tubing,’ I cried, pushing the bottle back into her hand.

‘See? That’s what comes of hurrying,’ she declared.

‘Now hold it up,’ I instructed.

‘Vet says to hold the bottle up,’ said Rosie.

‘I heard him, Rosie.’ Madge raised her arm with the slowness worthy of a tortoise on crutches.

Once some calcium solution had been allowed to sweep through the tubing, clearing any air bubbles, I connected the end to the needle and allowed the rest to drain into Myrtle. Throughout, she remained comatose, unaware of what was going on.

‘Calved recently, has she?’ I nodded at Myrtle’s huge udder.

‘Three days back, wasn’t it?’ said Madge, looking at her sister.

‘Wednesday,’ replied Rosie.

‘Well, it’s Saturday now.’

‘Yes.

‘Well, three days then.’

‘That’s what you said, Madge.’

‘I did.’ Madge turned to me. ‘It was three days ago … Wednesday.’

I felt like asking, ‘Are you sure now?’ but this was no time for irony. Whatever, I think I’d sussed the problem with Myrtle. Having produced a lot of milk in the last three days – since Wednesday to be precise – it had drained her calcium reserves and brought on the nervous symptoms and the dramatic collapse. This intravenous calcium I was giving should produce an equally dramatic reversal of those symptoms. If I had got it right, then Myrtle would be up on her feet in no time.

Myrtle’s front legs began to twitch. The lids on the one eye we could see slowly drew back with a flicker of the lashes, though the eyeball remained rolled down, only the white showing. It brought back memories of Beryl’s eye after she’d discovered the anaconda in the fridge. What a sight – or lack of it – that had been. When the bottle of calcium solution had emptied, I whipped out the needle.

‘Right, ladies, let’s give Myrtle a hand.’ I grasped the Jersey’s front legs, which, now unstiffened, could be bent under her. ‘Tuck her back legs in,’ I instructed. ‘Quick … quick.’

‘Hurry, hurry,’ muttered the Stockwells as they eased themselves slowly round Myrtle’s rump and, with much huffing and puffing, folded the cow’s back legs under her abdomen.

‘Good … now let’s try rolling her into a sitting position.’ This proved easy to do now Myrtle had her legs in their natural position. She still remained bloated, especially her left flank, which stuck out like a large, brown bubble about to burst. Rosie saw me looking.

‘Stick ’er now, will you?’ she queried.

‘I’m in no hurry to,’ I replied.

‘That makes a change then,’ chortled Madge, digging her sister in the ribs.

But it was true; I wasn’t in any hurry. Myrtle needed time to get rid of the build-up of stomach gases herself if at all possible. She shuffled her feet more firmly under her as a deep rumble echoed from the depths of her belly, vibrated up her neck and erupted in a loud belch. I never thought I’d be so delighted at hearing such a sound – even if it did come with the stench of fermented grass which had the three of us back away, hands to our faces. Two more belches with their attendant marsh gas smell wafted from her.

‘Looks as if vet won’t have to stick ’er after all,’ said Rosie, the muffled words behind the hand still covering her face tinged with disappointment.

As ‘vet’, I explained that Myrtle needed more calcium solution under the skin to ensure complete recovery, and proceeded to drain in the contents of the second bottle. Myrtle’s head was now raised, swaying from side to side, and her eyeballs had rotated back to normal and were beginning to focus.

‘She should be up in an hour or so with no ill effects,’ I said.

‘There’s no hurry,’ said Madge.

‘None at all,’ said her sister, ‘is there, Madge?’ she added, turning to her.

‘That’s what I said, Rosie. None at all.’

‘No, that’s what I said.’

“‘None at all”, you said.’

‘Exactly. So there’s no hurry.’

‘None at all.’

I left them to it. My task had been completed – after all was said and done. Whatever was said, I’d said so. Blimey, this was catching.

Back in the twenty-first century, I soon forgot about the Stockwells, caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily life. Even if it was a life without Lucy. She continued to keep her distance, spending more and more time at Prospect House, never keen to discuss our faltering relationship. ‘I need space’ was her only comment when I tried broaching the subject.

It was a Sunday night – that Ovaltine-smooth time when half-read newspapers blend with comforting period dramas on the box to ensure the evening goes with a soothing rustle. Outside it was a wild, blowy night, with torrential rain. Not a night to be called out. I was on duty, though, and I’d earlier tempted fate by treating myself to a take-away curry from a new Indian restaurant that had just opened in Ashton. With the curry now eaten, I was about to curl up in front of the fire I’d lit, ready to watch TV, when the phone rang. I pushed Nelson off my lap – he, for the moment, being my Lucy-substitute in the cuddle stakes – and with a sigh lifted the receiver. It was Lucy at the hospital.

‘I’ve just had a call from the police,’ she said.

Curry or no curry, a hot flush coursed through me.

‘A DC Jefferies from Chawcombe … he needs to speak to a vet. Here’s his number.’

Before I could say anything, she’d rattled off the number and put the phone down on me. Blazing birianis … what had I done to deserve this?

The constable was most apologetic. ‘Thanks for calling back,’ he said, ‘but we’ve got a bit of a problem with a cow stuck in a gravel pit.’ My guts contracted in hot spasms as he went on to explain. Thank God I hadn’t chosen the vindaloo.

‘Couldn’t you get the owners to help?’ I asked, desperate to find some way of wriggling out of what sounded like a nightmarish situation.

‘They’re there now, sir … the Miss Stockwells. They haven’t said much, just that someone must have left their gate open. That’s how the cow got out. Told us to call the vet. They mentioned your name, actually. The young one who’s always in a hurry.’

Hmm. Seems I’d been put in the hot seat. Talking of which, the curry … ‘Excuse me, but I must go,’ I said hurriedly, ‘but I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

DC Jefferies sounded relieved. So was I by the time I left Willow Wren and found my way to the gravel works in question.

I knew the spot. It was across the main road opposite the turning up to Hawkshill Farm; there were a series of disused gravel pits, some of which were due to be turned into lakes for anglers and trout farming if granted planning permission. But it was another matter finding the place in the dark with the rain bucketing down, the windscreen wipers barely able to cope, and the road awash with water. If it continued at this rate, it would be me, not the car, doing a crawl – swimming for safety.

As it was, I nearly missed the turning down to the pits, but the swirl of yellow water running through a gap in the hedgerow gave a clue to its whereabouts. As I plunged in, I did wonder whether I was being foolhardy. But the DC hadn’t warned me of there being any problem so I ploughed on down the track, skidding through pools of ochre mud, the engine whining, the car lurching one way then the other as the tyres lost their grip and the steering wheel spun in my hands. I couldn’t believe it. Yet again, I was finding myself in the hot seat. And, boy, was it burning. I clenched every orifice as I careered on down.

Gradually, the sheet of rain ahead took on a fluorescent hue condensing into blurred columns of light that became brighter and brighter, sharpening as I drew nearer until they defined themselves as two banks of floodlights casting an arena of white into which I splashed to a halt. I found I had joined a fire engine, two police cars and a Land Rover. Yellow-helmeted figures, their elongated shadows undulating across the boggy ruts and banks of sand like black, crooked fingers, were busy unrolling lengths of canvas. At the perimeter of the corona of lights stood two diminutive, hooded figures, their bodies lost within the folds of identical brown, rubber capes that ballooned from their necks to the ground like a couple of bells. I didn’t need to be told who they were – Madge and Rosie Stockwell.

A man in a dark-blue windcheater and peaked cap battled his way over to me, clutching his hat. He was drenched through, his trousers flat against his legs. I wound the window down a fraction, delaying the moment when I had to get out and get drenched, too.

‘Mr Mitchell?’ he enquired, leaning down to the gap.

I nodded.

‘DC Jefferies … grim night to call you out,’ he continued through clenched teeth, ‘but they insisted.’ He raised a sodden arm and pointed in the direction of the two rubber bells.

Another figure, yellow-helmeted, dressed in bulky, dark-blue jacket and trousers with fluorescent strips down the sides and around cuffs and hems, slipped alongside.

‘This is Frankie Woods, Chief Fire Officer,’ said the DC.

‘And responsible for getting this bloody animal out,’ yelled the officer, the wind whipping the words away. ‘She’s being a right cow.’

I don’t think he realised a pun had just been made and I didn’t think it appropriate to point it out. Under the circumstances, it would have been the pits – with me ending up in one of them.

And that seemed a distinct possibility as the wind buffeted me about, knocking me against the car, as I attempted to don waterproofs and wellies before I was pitched into the full force of the wind and rain and dragged across to the edge of a gravel pit.

Only the restraining hand of Frankie Woods stopped me from sailing over the bank into the thick, yellow morass spread out before me, the surface bubbling from the rain beating down on it, the floodlights picking out the head of the Jersey cow stuck in the middle, the brown of her eyes a stark contrast to the custard-like slurry caking her head. Those eyes were full of fear as she fought to prevent herself sinking from sight into that cauldron of mud. I could feel my heart sinking with her. Hell … what on earth was I supposed to do?

Nothing, it seemed, as Frankie had everything under control. Even I was under the officer’s thumb – quite literally – as the wind suddenly whipped behind my knees knocking me off balance; I was rescued from toppling into the gravel pit again by Frankie’s manly arm thrown round my waist, pulling me close. It was enough to start tongues wagging.

‘Just watch it, sir. We don’t want to have to pull you out as well,’ the officer said, gently releasing me.

So I did just that – watch it.

I saw several firemen appear through the rain carrying shovels with which they proceeded to dig away the bank, dollops of yellow mud flying through the air, making a shallow – if slippery – gully down to the water’s edge.

I began to wonder what use I was here. Well, maybe the cow would need looking at if they ever got her out. Perhaps that’s what the Stockwells had in mind when they asked for me. Who knows? They hadn’t made themselves known since I’d arrived. What dumb bells.

It didn’t take long before the gully had been dug out.

Two firemen stumbled forward, clutching the ends of two canvas strops, as I heard one of the crew call them. One man was also holding what looked like a long, thin, metal ruler with a hook on the end of it. They waded in, gradually sinking until, waist deep, they were level with the cow, one each side. Waves of mud lapped along the edge of the pit as the man with the metal probe struggled to feed it under the cow’s belly.

‘Got it,’ cried the other fireman who had been groping for it in the mud. He drew the probe up, attached the strop to the hook and told his mate to start pulling it back under the cow. Once done, the process was repeated with the other strop; firemen up on the bank then secured the metal loops on the ends of the strops to a pulley which had been erected on an anchor post hammered into the ground. While the two firemen stayed with the cow, the rest of the crew, under Frankie’s guidance, got in position to winch the strops up. It was a bit like preparing for a tug-of-war.

‘OK, lads,’ shouted Frankie above the howl of the wind. ‘Shoulders to it … quick as you can. Hurry up.’

I saw one bell slowly turn to the other and whisper in her hood. One didn’t have to be quick off the mark to guess what she was saying.

Within seconds, the slack on the canvas ropes had been taken up. Within minutes, the cow had started to move from the centre of the gravel pit, shouts of encouragement coming from the two men with her. There was a loud glug as her body broke the surface of the mud as first a yellow neck, a shoulder and then a back appeared. All of a sudden, she was lying on the bank like a stranded yellow whale, her flanks heaving, her nostrils spurting clouds of steamy breath.

A cheer went up from the firemen.

‘Well done, lads,’ cried Frankie, turning to me to give me a hug, holding me a fraction longer than I thought necessary. Excuse me, but what was it with this guy? Were the studs in my ears giving out the wrong signals?