Five

Charlie had described Wales as ‘lumpy’ and in many respects his description was apt. Once south-west of the River Wye, the flat water meadows receded and the countryside became ridged, forming three valleys running west to south-east. The first and most fertile was the Golden Valley, which opened out into plains of arable farmland. Next and much narrower came Lindenchurch where, although the land appeared rich, the living was just a shade harder. The fields tended to be smaller, the trees more round-shouldered, the hedges tighter and the farm buildings strategically sited to avoid the wicked Welsh winds.

But it was the last valley, the Shepwall, that left the most lasting impression upon all who visited it. Steepsided from the north, the fields covering the lower slopes formed small neat squares, yet the farmsteads were few and isolated. The south side, however, displayed the grandest feature. Wild and beautiful, it rose through bracken and gorse, two thousand feet and more. A sombre wall whose top, often masked by threatening cloud, took the full force of the rain-bearing south-westerlies. Storms could lash the rocky steps and shelves, whilst down below the valley basked in sunshine.

How fittingly named, that brooding barrier to ‘lumpy’ Wales: the Black Mountain.

It was on the Friday morning of my second week that I was to discover the Shepwall valley.

I had been given two calls. The first and most urgent was to a Mrs Sarah Williams of Pontavon Farm where, during the night, a calf had died and others in the bunch were unwell. Mrs Williams was a widow with a young family, her husband having succumbed the previous year to a massive heart attack.

‘Worked himself into an early grave,’ McBean had commented when he gave me the instructions. ‘Good woman, lovely family, very, very sad. She didn’t give much history about the calves, it could be blackleg or even acute pneumonia. Anyway, Hugh, get there as soon as you can, she’s rather upset about it all. Then, when you’ve finished, go back up the valley to Howell Powell. Mrs Williams will give you directions.’

Howell Powell apparently had a lame cow that needed attention. According to McBean, he was an odd character, treating most animal ailments with his own personal remedies.

‘Don’t suppose we go there more than twice a year,’ McBean had added as he further studied the ledger lying on the sacred counter. ‘And when you’ve done, give a ring back from Evan’s shop at St Madoc’s. You can use his telephone, but remember, he’ll listen to everything you say. And don’t forget to pay for the call.’

I took on petrol from the handcranked pump in the yard and topped up the radiator which had developed a slight leak, then checked that I had all my equipment.

The late G. R. Hacker had devised a veterinary box that rode on the back seat of the car and was of sturdy wooden construction, not unlike a small cabin trunk. The interior was divided into compartments that accommodated bottles of medicine, tins of tablets and packets of powders from which cattle drenches were prepared. In the boot there was a metal box containing all the requirements for calving cows, such as thick and thin ropes, short sticks to use as handles and eye hooks to control movement of the head. There were also embryotome wires and guarded knives for the grisly task of dismembering dead calves that proved too difficult to deliver normally. The remainder of the tools comprised a brass stirrup pump to irrigate unclean wombs with antiseptic; a probang, a large, long and rather unwieldy leather-bound tube which, when inserted into the throat, could unblock an obstructed gullet or let out wind from an over-inflated gut; a pair of ‘barnacles’ — metal nose tongs to restrain a fractious patient — and a strong rope halter.

The protective clothing was minimal, and stripping to the waist for dirty jobs was the order of the day. Wellington boots and a red rubber apron were provided for messy encounters, but these could be supplemented according to personal taste. A cold rubber apron on a bare chest in the frosty air could be an enlivening experience and even the acclimatised personnel had taken steps to ease the shock.

Bob Hacker had a little sheepskin waistcoat that he wore beneath his red apron, but it was McBean, with his usual Irish ingenuity, who had developed an odd, but very practical regalia. It consisted of one of a number of old flannel shirts with the sleeves removed, which were sent to him regularly in batches from an old uncle in Connemara. To prevent any distasteful matter reaching his uncle’s shirts he was equipped with what appeared to be rubber washers, circles of thin rubber cut from old car inner tubes. These he wore around his biceps, the whole weird ensemble giving him the appearance of being prepared for initiation into a secret society.

‘A wee idea I picked up when I was a student working at Dublin Docks,’ he confided. ‘You’ll see similar designs on ships’ hawsers to prevent rats reaching the decks. Really ought to patent the idea, Hugh,’ he said, when he proudly presented me with a pair of his creations. ‘McBean’s “Mucklets” could make me a fortune!’

My medical bag was similar to that of the late G. R. Hacker, which I had been privileged to use on my first case, but much more battered. However, it served its purpose and in the drawers I kept glass syringes, a thermometer, stethoscope, small drugs and a few instruments.

Finally, having found everything in place and functional, I started on my way.

The barometric pressure had fallen and the weather had changed from bright days with frosty mornings to a milder atmosphere that caused leaden clouds to hang low over the county. Occasionally a shaft of sunlight broke through the uneasy sky, like a spotlight on a stage, and through the gap, white fluffy banks of cumulus gave a heavenly impression of the universe beyond. But as I drove west, I could see in the distance ahead that the sky was lowering to join the Black Mountain summit, erasing the horizon in a continuous lack-lustre mist.

Turning from the Gradonchurch road, I came to Colestone, a small hamlet caught in one of the spots of sunshine. The lath and plaster panels of the Tudor cottages shone brightly in the brilliant rays, accentuating the black timbers in sharp relief. Each dwelling, unique in design, reflected the ancient craftsman’s art and whim. I tried to picture the industrious scene as they were built. Men digging and hauling, sawing and hammering, working with natural materials and using their hands with great satisfaction.

Woodwork was never my strongpoint. I remembered how, at school, I made an egg-holder — a simple structure consisting of a small square of wood in which I bored four holes and mounted it on a triangular plinth. I took it home to Mother, very proud of my achievement, and begged her to give me some eggs, very scarce in those days, to put into my egg-holder. But I had made the holes too large, and when I put the eggs in, they fell to the floor and smashed.

That was the last time I ever made anything in wood.

Through Colestone to Lindenchurch, past Evan’s shop at St Madoc’s — also known as ‘Top Shop’ because of its situation on the ridge overlooking the next valley. Away to my left, the shadowy outline of Capley Court was just visible through the trees, a grand and somewhat mysterious-looking mansion presenting an incongruous sight amid the wild countryside.

Two miles on and I was descending sharply to Shepwall, and halfway down the valley I came to Pontavon Farm.

Clearly visible from the road, it was more of a smallholding than a farm. A compact low-walled garden fronted a whitewashed cottage, whose single chimney merrily belched clouds of grey smoke. From the garden, a gate led onto the yard which was bordered by a cowhouse, barn, two small cots and a lean-to log shed.

Access to Pontavon was by no means straightforward, however, for between it and the road ran a small river, full and boisterous. There was a ford for vehicles and a rather willowy bridge for pedestrians. I decided it was too much to expect amphibious qualities of my gallant little car, so I elected to cross by the bridge. It creaked beneath my weight, but did not rock or sway, and I negotiated it without mishap to be greeted on the far side by two collie dogs, one excitedly barking and the other, obviously older, standing by the garden gate, wagging its tail. As they followed me I heard the sound of children’s voices through the partly open cottage door. I gave three sharp knocks and the chatter ceased abruptly. I waited a while, then around the door, below latch level, appeared a small tousled head and two large brown eyes. I smiled, but before I could say a word the head was followed by another, just above it, and another pair of equally large brown eyes.

‘Hullo,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

My question was answered with giggles and the little girls disappeared. As they did, the door was opened wider by a young woman, Mrs Sarah Williams. She was very slender, with long dark hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. Her face was quite serene, yet seemed to mirror an inner sadness. She held up two floury hands and smiled and as she did, for a fleeting moment, a bright sparkle lit her eyes.

‘I’ve been baking,’ she said, and a trifle nervously brushed some loose strands of hair from her forehead, leaving specks of flour on her cheek.

By now, the two small girls had reappeared, hanging on their mother’s apron.

‘Have you come to see Tommy’s baby calf?’ asked the elder girl.

‘It’s gone to sleep,’ said the little one, sadly.

‘Hugh Lasgarn. I’m with Mr Hacker,’ I explained. ‘And yes,’ I said to the little girls, ‘I have come to see the calves.’

‘It was a dreadful shock and so upsetting for Tommy,’ said Mrs Williams. ‘He looks after them and tries so hard. He even made the feeding trough himself,’ she added, proudly. ‘My husband died last year, you know.’ She pulled the girls closer to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, inadequately.

‘Tommy’s the man of the house now,’ she continued. She looked beyond me, raising her head as gracefully as a ballerina. Mrs Sarah Williams was indeed a very beautiful woman. ‘Here’s Tommy now, he’ll tell you.’

I turned to see a curly headed boy running across the yard, his face flushed and eager as he swung through the gate.

‘I saw you come,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was in the top field with the sheep, so I ran back.’ It was Tommy Williams, the man of the house and all of ten years old. ‘They’re in the cot. Come with me and I’ll show you.’

As we crossed the yard, he told me how his uncle had bought six Hereford Cross calves at Abergavenny market. ‘I was going to rear them up and sell them as stores in the Autumn,’ he said in serious tone. ‘They could be turned out in the Spring, we’ve got good grass at Pontavon.’ Tommy chatted on, taking slightly longer strides than most ten-year-olds and conversing in rather an old-fashioned manner, probably as his father had done. A lump came to my throat as I followed him — a boy trying to do a man’s job.

He didn’t appear to show any remorse when he pulled back the sack on the dead calf, but I knew he was fighting tears.

‘Found him dead this morning,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Took his feed like a good ’un last night.’

‘Let’s have a look at the rest of them,’ I suggested.

‘They look OK,’ Tommy commented, opening the door of the calf cot. It was well strawed and clean; some sweet-smelling hay hung from a net and a long wooden trough containing the remnants of barley meal stood along the far wall.

‘Made that yourself?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied, nodding his head. ‘It was an old door that Dad cut up before he …’ Tommy turned away and I took an exaggerated step forward to examine the calves. They were in good condition; one or two seemed slightly nervous, but their eyes were bright, noses clean and coats sleek. I questioned Tommy about the feeding, watering and bedding he used.

‘I think we’ll open up the dead one,’ I said finally. ‘Do a post-mortem examination. Can you get me a bucket of water?’

‘I’ll only be a minute,’ he said and sped off to the cottage.

Tommy paid great attention to the examination of the calf’s organs as I explained the various parts and their functions to him. When I come to the heart, he knelt down beside me and studied it closely.

‘What does it look like when a heart makes an attack?’ he asked.

‘Attack?’

‘Yes, like Dad had,’ he replied, looking up. ‘Last year.’

They never told me about this at university. About how, one morning, I would find myself in a wild Border valley, the sound of rushing water at my back, the air still and thundery and the Black Mountain brooding silently overhead. How I would be holding a bloodstained calf’s heart in my hands and, kneeling down beside me, a small boy, earnestly wanting to know how his father had died.

He was waiting for my answer.

‘Rather like this one,’ I told him eventually. ‘Just still, just very, very still.’

Then I continued the rest of my examination in silence.

There were no abnormal symptoms, apart from a few small areas in the lung, showing evidence of slight damage probably caused by a pneumonia virus, but in no way sufficient to cause death. It was when I examined the stomach contents that I found a clue. Lying in the mix of digested hay and barley meal were small black flakes, like bits of rust. I collected several and washed them carefully in the water. The lad watched closely.

‘Bring me a sample of the meal, Tommy.’ He leaped up and ran to another shed. But the meal he brought was fresh and pure, there were no black flakes to be seen.

I washed up and went back to the calf cot where the calves looked up inquisitively. With a clap of my hands, I startled them, causing three to move back from the door, the fourth to stand and shiver, but the fifth ran straight into the wall and banged its head. I went in and caught the last calf and waved my hand before its eyes, but it made no reaction — it was blind.

Dead calf, nervous calf, blind calf. Black flakes in the stomach. It had to be paint, lead paint. The calves were suffering from lead poisoning.

But where could they be licking paint?

Then my eyes fell on the trough that ran alongside the wall. The wooden one that Tommy had made.

I got the little lad to fetch his mother. Then I explained what had happened.

‘The paint on the old door contained lead — most old paints do. The calves have been licking the trough as they were feeding and have swallowed the poisonous flakes. They are very toxic, causing nervous symptoms, blindness and death.

Mrs Williams put her hands on her son’s shoulder.

‘You weren’t to know, Tommy dear,’ she comforted. ‘It’s not your fault.’

Tommy Williams put his hand to his mouth and bit his finger hard, then suddenly he started to shake and burst into tears.

‘Don’t be upset, Tommy.’ But as I held out my hand towards him, he broke away from his mother and ran across the yard and out into the field.

The girls went to run after him, but their mother called them back. Only the dogs followed, the young one swiftly, the older one at a slower pace.

‘He’s best left, at the moment,’ she said, understandingly. ‘Best left alone. Will we lose any more, Mr Lasgarn?’

‘Once nervous symptoms develop, it’s not good,’ I admitted. ‘You could lose two more. I’ll drench them all with Epsom Salts, that will combine with any free lead in the stomach and neutralise it. If it’s already absorbed, then it will be more difficult to control, but I have some injections I can try.’

Mrs Williams held the calves for their treatment and when I had finished, I carried the trough into the yard.

‘You could scrape the paint off, but it would never be really safe. I think it would be best to burn it,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow and check them again.’

‘That’s very kind, Mr Lasgarn,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made some Welsh cakes. Do you like them?’

‘My favourite,’ I replied.

Over tea and Welsh cakes, she told me how they had come down from Breconshire and bought Pontavon, and how her husband had done ploughing and hedging for neighbouring farmers to pay for it, as well as tending to his own stock and crops.

‘His ambition was to grow acres of potatoes in the Valley. They all said it wouldn’t work, but he would have made it, I’m sure. He was that sort of man,’ she said proudly. ‘Perhaps one day Tommy will show them.’ There was no self-pity in her attitude and, if there was sadness, it was more than countered by determination of spirit.

‘I’m sure he will,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure he will.’

I thanked her for the tea and she gave me a bag of Welsh cakes.

Tommy was sitting on the low garden wall. His tears had gone, though his eyes were still red.

‘My woodwork wasn’t much good,’ he said, forcing a smile.

‘You’re just like me, Tommy,’ I replied and, putting down my case, I told him all about my egg holder.

* * *

Following Mrs Williams’ directions, I set off back up the valley. The main road curved gently around a sparsely wooded hill and, where it flattened, a narrow lane, partly hidden by high hedges, led away to the right by an old slate-roofed barn. It was more of a cutting than a lane, for the track was deeply rutted, leaving a high, grassy central ridge along which the little Ford rubbed uneasily. I was afraid my exhaust pipe might come adrift, but was wary of stopping in case, straddled on the prominence, I would fail to get going again.

Steep banks rose at each side, covered with lank brown grass and topped with tangled hedges, shaggy with strands of dead convolvulus. A solitary jay fled out, flashing its white flecked tail as it swooped ahead, as if to warn whoever lived beyond of my intrusion.

It was all a bit unnerving.

The access to the field at the head of the track was guarded by a five-barred gate, green with mould. I had difficulty in unlatching the rusty clasp and, when I did, the gate sagged like a partly collapsed deck chair. It proved awkward and obstinate to open, as if trying to take revenge by straining the muscles of all who wished to pass.

Once inside the field, the going was easier. A dozen sheep had collected around a wooden rack, the top protected by a corrugated sheet to keep the hay dry. There appeared to be three distinct types of sheep: the nervous, the inquisitive and the unconcerned. The nervous looked startled at my presence and scampered away. The inquisitive came cautiously forward a few paces, then stood silently, fixing me with their glassy eyes. While the unconcerned and probably most sensible, concentrated on eating as much as they could while their fellows were distracted.

At the far end there was a gap in the hedgerow where the gate, having succumbed to decay, lay alongside like a crumpled skeleton. Beyond it, the track ran steeply downwards and out of sight. Discretion being the better part of valour, I decided to leave the car and, taking my case and the rope halter, set off in search of Howell Powell and the lame cow.

I hadn’t walked far, when a cluster of farm buildings came into view. They were low and stone built, with ancient slit windows, which over the years must have kept both bad weather and uninvited guests firmly at bay. My ears detected the laboured chugging of a tractor and, as I rounded the barn, I discovered it to be an old Fordson, one of the basic mechanical work horses of the war years — sturdy but temperamental.

Crouched over the exposed guts of the vibrating machine, back towards me, and obviously concentrating on some vital adjustment, was my client.

‘Hello!’ I called. ‘Mr Powell!’ But my voice made little impact over the chugging engine.

‘HELLO!’ I repeated, as loudly as I could.

There followed a small explosion and an orange flame, chased eagerly by a cloud of black smoke, shot out from the vertical exhaust pipe. The engine faltered momentarily, so that the tractor ceased juddering, then it seemed to cough and the chassis recovered its frenzied, jerking motion.

Despite the sudden retort, the crouched figure never budged, so I approached until I was directly behind him. I was raising my hand to tap his shoulder when I suddenly realised the import of the situation.

I was now standing behind someone who, living in the depths of the isolated countryside, completely unaware of my presence and certainly not used to visitors, might at the least have an epileptic fit or even a heart attack in response to my touch. I stood for a while, my thoughts practically drowned by the deafening chatter of the engine. Better, I thought, if I withdrew a few feet and waited until he had finished.

I took two steps backward and trod upon a dog.

The poor creature let out such an ear-splitting shriek that it was I who nearly succumbed to apoplexy and all but collapsed in my tracks.

When I had recovered my composure, Howell Powell was standing facing me.

‘Sorry,’ I apologised weakly. ‘I … I didn’t want to scare you — so I trod on your dog!’

Howell Powell looked somewhat bemused, for by then there was no dog to be seen.

‘You all right?’ he boomed, his voice sounding louder in the now exaggerated silence.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Just didn’t want to frighten you.’

‘No,’ he said, a trifle vaguely, still not clear as to what had really happened.

‘Come to see the lame cow,’ I explained, gathering my breath.

He nodded. ‘She’s in the shed.’ And without further ceremony he led off.

‘How long has she been lame?’ I asked, as I followed him across the yard.

‘A week,’ he replied, without so much as a turn of his head.

‘Tried any treatment yourself?’ I enquired.

He opened a stable door and peered inside. ‘The sod!’ he said.

‘What’s the matter?’ I queried, looking into the stable, not knowing what to expect. As it was, I could see no reason for his blasphemy, for the large cock-horned Ayrshire cow that stood before us seemed quite inoffensive as she unconcernedly picked at some rather coarse hay. Howell Powell studied me quizzically.

‘The sod,’ he repeated. ‘The sod for “foul”!’

It was no good pretending and I told him flatly, I didn’t understand.

Had I put a pound in his hand, I could not have changed his attitude so significantly. His gruff manner vanished and he pushed back his tattered cap and smiled.

‘You never ’eard of the sod treatment for “foul of the foot”? Well, you ain’t no Black Mountain man an’ that’s for sure.’

I shook my head.

‘Fancy that,’ he went on. Then his face took on a serious expression, as if it had just registered that I was new. ‘You ain’t been to me afore, ’ave you?’

‘No,’ I admitted.

‘Where d’you come from?’ he enquired, suspiciously.

‘I come from Abergranog,’ I replied. ‘Hugh Lasgarn’s the name.’

‘You’m a Welshman then,’ beamed Howell Powell. ‘Well, that’s different. You listen, young man, an’ I’ll tell you all about it.’ With that, he folded his arms and stared up at the lintel of the stable door. I realised that it was going to be an explanation in some detail, so I put down the case and halter and leaned against the wall.

‘The Black Mountain remedy,’ he began, ‘has been known in these parts for years. You must watch where the sick beast treads and cut a sod from the very spot it plants the poisoned foot. Then, at night, when the moon is a wasting, you throws the sod high in a blackthorn tree.’ Howell Powell then shut his eyes, as if about to mutter an incantation.

‘As the sod wastes,’ he whispered, ‘so will the foul disappear.’ Then, as if drained of emotion, he stood, eyes closed for quite a while, until I ventured a comment.

‘But it didn’t work,’ I said.

He woke, startled from his reverie.

‘Moon was wrong,’ he retorted sourly. ‘She’ll need one of those injections’.

I moved inside the stable to take a closer look at the offending foot. The old cow was certainly lame, for she rested very gingerly on the points of her left hind leg and moved back uneasily when I tried to make her take weight upon it.

‘It’s not swollen enough for foul,’ I remarked, as I carefully ran my hand down the limb and on to the foot where I pressed my finger between the clees.

‘Not very tender either, and doesn’t smell.’ For the foul-producing germ gave rise to a very distinctive obnoxious odour, whence the condition derived its name. ‘We’ll have to get the foot up.’

Howell Powell puffed and shook his head. ‘Bit of a performance, that’ll be. She might look sweet and she’ll let you touch it, but Bronwen’s a cantankerous old witch if she’s a mind. You try liftin’ ’er foot an’ she’ll go mad!’

At that, the old cow looked round and all but nodded her spiky head, as if to confirm Howell Powell’s comment.

‘That new injection works, don’ it?’ he asked.

‘Certainly it does,’ I declared, ‘but only if the foul is uncomplicated. Penicillin will kill the foul germ, but it’s useless if there’s a stick, stone or piece of gravel in the foot.’

‘Well she won’t let you look at it,’ Howell asserted emphatically. ‘So it’s a waste of time you tryin’!’

‘Let’s put her down,’ I suggested.

‘What! Not our Bronwen!’ he said, incredulously.

‘On the floor, rope her so that I can give the foot a thorough examination,’ I explained, suddenly realising he thought I intended a more severe solution. ‘Have you got a wagon rope?’

‘Several.’

‘Bring two,’ I requested. ‘One long and one short.’

Howell Powell fetched the ropes and together we put the halter on his cow and tied her to an iron ring in the wall. I then made a running noose in the long wagon rope and placed it over Bronwen’s menacing horns, bringing the trailing end back and winding it around her neck. Then I looped it at the top and took it back behind her shoulders.

‘Stand on the other side,’ I ordered. ‘When I give you the rope, you pass it back to me under her belly.’ In this way, I made two more loops, one behind her forelegs and another in front of the udder, with the trailing end running free behind, so that she looked tied up like a Christmas parcel.

‘Now, if we both pull on this free end at the back of her,’ I announced, ‘the rope will tighten and down she’ll go!’

Howell Powell who, so far, had followed every move I had made without a word, eyed me suspiciously. Then he looked at Bronwen, who seemed quite mystified, herself, by the whole performance, shook his head and took hold of the rope.

‘When I say “pull”.’ He nodded. Together we took the strain.

‘PULL!’

We heaved in unison and, to my delight, Bronwen first sank to her knees, then her hind quarters wavered and she rolled gently on to one side.

Howell Powell looked at me in amazement.

‘Now there’s a trick, mun,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a trick.’

‘Puts pressure on the spine, just like someone pinching you in the back,’ I explained. ‘As long as you keep pulling, she can’t get up.’

I then took the shorter wagon rope and tied it around the affected limb, pulling it out for examination. While Howell Powell kept the body rope taut, I took my hoof knife and cleaned the foot. As I cleared the heel, Bronwen pulled back sharply and the knife grated against something metallic. I turned the foot slightly to find the head of a rusty nail protruding from the heel. Easing it clear of the flesh with my blade, I took a hold and pulled the nail out with my fingers.

‘It wasn’t the moon that was wrong,’ I called, over my shoulder. ‘It was this!’ And I held up the nail for him to see.

I cleaned and dressed the wound. ‘Now I’ll give her an injection. It will stop any infection developing. We don’t want Bronwen going wrong again.’

Following treatment, I removed the ropes and the old cow obligingly got to her feet.

Howell Powell carefully examined the offending nail.

‘Wasn’t fair to the sod treatment, that,’ he commented thoughtfully. ‘Weren’t meant for that.’

‘That old remedy is just an excuse,’ I chided. ‘It’s a darn sight easier to sling a lump of mud up into a blackthorn tree than to get the foot up. That’s the real sod.’

‘No it ain’t.’ Howell Powell frowned morosely, as he spoke. ‘Don’ you never make fun of the Mountain, Mr Lasgarn,’ he said, in serious tone. ‘’E’s been there a long time.’

I felt slightly put down by his remarks and he must have realised it, for he suddenly clapped his hands and said:

‘Well, well. Now I don’t suppose you be married.’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Who looks after you, then?’

‘I’m in digs at Putsley.’

‘Then you shall ’ave something for your dinner,’ he said. ‘Jus’ you wait ’ere.’

While he was away, I coiled up the ropes and wondered what my reward was going to be. Already I had my Welsh cakes. Some butter would be fine, or eggs, or even a slice of home-cured ham. But my grandiose expectations were shortlived, for Howell Powell soon returned.

‘’E’re, Mr Lasgarn,’ he said. ‘I be most grateful for what you’ve done. Take these ’ome with you, they be real tasty.’

And into my hands he put two large, round swedes, which must have weighed all of three pounds each. I couldn’t remember if it was one of C. J. Pink’s Laws or a piece of McBean’s advice, but someone had urged me never to refuse a gift from a farmer, or it would be the last I was offered.

I thanked Howell Powell for the swedes and told him to let me know if Bronwen suffered any setback. Then, I commenced my walk back up the bank.

By the time I reached the car, after humping my medical case, halter and the two swedes, I was exhausted and, throwing my rewards into the passenger well, sat sideways on the seat until I regained my wind.

A glance at my watch showed it was past two o’clock, and I realised I should be on my way.

The green mould gate was equally truculent on the outward journey, and when I eventually dragged it back into place, one of the bars came adrift; as I picked it up I spied two nails, similar to the one in Bronwen’s foot. So much for Howell Powell’s folk medicine.

‘Never make fun of the Mountain!’ I shouted at the top of my voice, mimicking in exaggerated Welsh, Howell Powell’s terse advice.

As the car lurched down the lane, the swedes rolled about hysterically beside me. Keeping my right hand on the wheel, I bent over to put them on the seat where they would be more stable, but my bodily movement jerked the steering and the wheels jarred on the central ridge of the track. The little Ford bucked like a mustang and, in attempting control, I over-corrected, causing it to leap out of the ruts and drift onto its left side.

It was still going forward at a perilous angle until, with a bang and a shudder, the little car came to rest with both offside wheels in the ditch. With some difficulty, I scrambled out and, hands on hips, surveyed my predicament. Well and truly wedged; there was no way I was going to extricate my vehicle without help.

I trudged back up the track and for the third time dragged open the green mould gate. As I did, I glanced upwards at the Black Mountain.

The mist had risen, clearing the summit and leaving a narrow orange gap of hazy sunlight between it and the overhanging cloud. It looked just like a grinning mouth.

‘All right, we’re quits now,’ I shouted irritably, and set off across the field to enlist the aid of Howell Powell and his fiery Fordson.

Howell Powell showed little surprise at my return, as if he was half expecting it. At a frustratingly slow pace, he collected the short wagon rope, started up the tractor and came back with me.

‘Wonder what frightened ’er?’ he commented sarcastically as he surveyed my up-ended car. ‘You’ll ’ave to cut ’er oats down, Mr Lasgarn, that’s what you’ll ’ave to do.’

* * *

It was nearly two hours later that I arrived at ‘Top Shop’ at St Madoc’s. It was right by the roadside, with a small iron fence across its front.

‘Evan P. Evans General Stores,’ announced the wording above the door. A blackhandled ‘sit up and beg’ bicycle leaned against the railings — a lady’s model with a string guard over the rear wheel. Behind it, fixed to the gate, was a sign that stated quite emphatically and with typical Welsh double emphasis, ‘No Parking By Here’.

‘Top Shop’ was part of a double-fronted cottage which, from its entrance, led into a narrow passage barred halfway by a low gate, on which was another sign, reading ‘Private’.

On the right was a door; two signs here: ‘Shop’ and ‘No Dogs’.

I opened the door and entered, to find myself in a room jam-packed to the ceiling with goods. The free floor space was already occupied by two people: A woman in a black coat and shiny black straw hat, who was counting out coins from her purse onto the counter, and a wizened little man, in a cap, tattered rain coat and oversized Wellington boots. His face was red as a cherry, with a film of white, whiskery hairs covering his cheeks.

There were open sacks of sugar and flour and hams hanging down, a great bacon slicer with a shining circular knife, cheeses of all varieties and a mountain of butter on a marble slab. Palethorpe’s sausages, brawn and cooked meats fought for display behind, whilst above, the shelves were packed to capacity with teas, coffees, syrups and jams. There were cakes on a tiered cake stand, jars of sweets and Lovell’s King Rex Toffees. At my back stood a glass-fronted cupboard containing health cures, salts, lineaments and pills. There was hardware, software, footwear and well, you name it, it was all there — somewhere — and the mix of aromas, scents and smells defied description.

Standing beaming benevolently across the counter, white-aproned, black-waistcoated, with black tie and little cutty-back collar, was the proprietor of the multi-purpose rural emporium, Evan P. Evans.

My entrance caused an immediate tension in the atmosphere. The woman with the coins eyed me suspiciously over the rims of her spectacles and the old gent attempted to tuck himself in between two sugar bags, while Evan P. Evans rubbed his hands together eagerly, in the manner of all shopkeepers, and continued smiling. At that point, one of the woman’s coins rolled from the counter onto the floor and the three of us bent down to retrieve it; being in such tight compass, we all but collided and stood up without anyone picking it up. I bent down again to collect it, replacing it with the rest. The joint action seemed to break the ice and suddenly everyone became good companions.

‘Don’t throw it away, Mrs Baggot,’ said the old gent.

‘No fear of that, Mr Preece,’ she replied. ‘Too ’ard to come by.’ And turning to me she said, ‘Thank you,’ then stood back, motioning me to squeeze up to the counter.

‘I’d like to use the ’phone, please,’ I explained. ‘I’m a vet. Mr McBean from Hacker’s said it would be all right.’

‘Most certainly you can, Mr …’

‘Lasgarn. Hugh Lasgarn.’

‘Sorry to hear about Mr Hacker’s death.’ Evan P. Evans lowered his voice. ‘He was a fine man,’ he said, reverently. ‘A fine man.’

‘Saved a mare for me last year. Remember that grey mare, Evan?’ the old gent interjected. ‘Came in the middle of the night to ’er.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’ll be missed very much indeed.’

No one spoke further and they all stood, heads bowed, for about a minute. It was most touching and I think they would have stood much longer had I not shuffled and cleared my throat.

‘The telephone?’ I enquired, quietly.

‘Through here,’ said Evan, still in slightly funereal tone, and drew back a curtain that had hidden the access to an adjoining room. ‘Who would you like to call?’ he asked, smiling inquisitively.

‘The surgery.’

‘Oh, yes. ‘O’ for operator, then give your number.’

The telephone, which stood in pride of place on a mahogany stand, was covered with a sort of woollen tea cosy on which was embroidered in rainbow colours the word ‘TELEPHONE’.

I got through to the operator and, whilst she was connecting me, I realised the conversation in the adjoining shop had ceased. Remembering McBean’s advice and the wartime slogan ‘Walls have ears’, I decided to be careful in what I said.

McBean came through and I explained why I had been held up.

‘As long as you are all right, Hugh, that’s the main thing,’ he replied. ‘Just one call for you on the way back. Hinks of Greenmore. Cow calved last week and not cleansed the afterbirth. It’ll be a bit of a stinker I’m afraid, we normally like them at twenty-four hours, but old Hinks always hopes they’ll drop away by themselves and save a visit.’ He gave me directions to Greenmore. ‘There’s nothing else, so you might as well go back to your digs and have a bath — you’ll no doubt need one after that job. I’ll see to the small animals, you can have tonight off.’

The call finished, I paid Evan P. Evans the shilling he requested.

Mrs Baggot had gone, but old Mr Preece was still there.

‘Know anything about dogs?’ he questioned.

‘A little,’ I declared.

‘Why does my old sheepdog shake ’er ’ead?’

‘Bad ears,’ I suggested.

‘Could be,’ he said, nodding. ‘What can I do for that?’

‘Olive oil,’ I replied.

‘Olive oil!’

‘Yes, up there, next to the mustard,’ I pointed to the third shelf. ‘Warm it up, a few drops down the ear, do the trick.’

And with that slick piece of diagnosis and advice, I bid them both ‘Good Day’.

But, my ‘devil may care’ progress was sharply arrested when I got outside, for lying beneath the front of my car was a large pool of rusty water — the radiator had leaked. I had known that it was faulty, but regular daily topping had so far been sufficient. I checked the hoses, but they were sound, and concluded that the episode in Howell Powell’s ditch had aggravated the condition; so back into ‘Top Shop’ I went, to explain my predicament.

Evan was very sympathetic and went away to get some water.

‘Know anything about radiators?’ I jovially asked Mr Preece.

‘A little,’ he said, rubbing his teeth with the stem of a well-smoked briar pipe.

‘What can I do for it?’ I asked.

‘Mustard,’ he replied.

‘Mustard!’

‘Ay. Up there, next to the olive oil,’ he grinned. ‘Put it in your radiator, mix it up, do the trick.’

‘You’re pulling my leg,’ I said incredulously.

‘No, ’e’s right,’ said Evan, who had returned with a watering can. ‘Mix it in with the water, it’ll stop the leak. Get you back to Ledingford, anyway.’

Sure enough, two tins of Coleman’s down the spout under Mr Preece’s direction, and I was on my way. One good turn deserves another I thought, and I hoped that Mr Preece’s sheepdog would respond as well as my little Ford.

McBean, I thought, had been very decent in giving me the night off and I welcomed the offer. But it was when my eye rested upon the two large round swedes, bobbing up and down gently on the seat alongside me, that I suddenly remembered Miss Lafont.

It was Friday — she was going tonight. If I got cracking I could be back in time. But, following my encounter with Hinks’ cow, my aroma would be far from conducive to laying on the charm. Dammit!

McBean was a clever devil! Have the night off, indeed!

As I drove back towards Ledingford, I glimpsed the Black Mountain receding in my mirror. The cloud had risen and the evening sun glowed softly above its purple summit — it really was a beautiful sight and I resolved there and then, for several reasons, ‘not to make fun of the Mountain’ again.

* * *

I concluded my second week with a very busy Saturday and was thankful when evening came. Not that the day was without its satisfaction, for I had my radiator fixed at the garage, successfully delivered two sets of twin lambs, reduced a blown cow with my probang and visited Mrs Williams at Pontavon, where, although one more calf had died, the others seemed likely to survive. Finally, I had called at five farms on the ‘Mastitis Run’.

The ‘Mastitis Run’, or ‘Tit Trot’ as McBean rudely termed it, was a series of farm visits at evening milking for the purpose of treating infected udders. Penicillin and streptomycin were available in crystalline form and, diluted in sterile water, were injected up the teat canal of the ailing quarter on three evening milkings. Successive visits were necessary due to the instability of the diluted antibiotic and the fact that the drug was not freely available to the farmers. It was, indeed, a ‘whistle-stop’ tour of the dairy herds, often seeing only the backside of the cowman as he carried on with his milking.

It was simple: stop car, into cowshed, make up solution, squirt up teat, back into car and off.

I returned to my digs just before seven o’clock. Charlie was out and Brad had waited to rustle up ham and eggs for me, before going off to visit her old folk. After my supper I carried the dishes through to the tiny kitchen, rinsed them and stacked them on the draining board, then I settled down in the deep armchair by the fire in the lounge.

On the opposite chair, in a most unusual posture, lay Percy, the larger of Brad’s two cats. What a lesson in relaxation was provided by a cat, I mused. Sleek, speedy and agile when hunting, custom-built for the job, but when off duty their bodies became loose and pliable, melting luxuriously into the contour of any resting place they cared to choose. Percy’s rear half lay in the centre of the seat, upside down, with his legs pointing upwards, but sagging. The middle of his body, however, had swivelled so that his chest was upright with right foreleg tucked beneath and, to complete the contortion, his head and left leg hung lifelessly down towards the floor.

Yet, despite this seemingly impossible position, his eyes were tightly closed and he purred deeply and with immense satisfaction.

I lay back in my seat and in a much simpler way, tried to emulate him.

Percy’s example had the required soporific effect, for it was over one hour and a half later that I awoke to the scratching of a key in the front door lock. It was Brad returning from visiting, and already Percy had left his chair to greet her. She popped her woolly-hatted head around the door and chastised me gently for letting the fire sink so low. Then, she retired to the kitchen, to re-appear shortly with a cup of cocoa, served as always, very correctly, on a blue tray with matching napkin.

Warmed and contented, I decided to turn in. The sideboard clock chimed eleven and, as it ended, the telephone rang.

It was Miss Billings, her voice soft and apologetic — how she had altered since first we met. She was now in residence with the late Mr Hacker’s widow and took all the telephone messages at night.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lasgarn, but it’s a calving at Mr Ridway of Beckley. Apparently she’s been trying since milking time, but without success. Do you know Beckley?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I passed through there on Tuesday.’

‘Well,’ she explained, ‘Mr Ridway farms at The Beeches. Go past the church and follow the lane to the end.’

The call noted, I decided a good wash was required to freshen up and popped up to the bathroom.

When I came down again, Brad added her commiserations at my misfortune in being called out.

‘You wrap up warm, now,’ she advised in a motherly way. ‘Bitter out, it is.’

Taking her advice, I was donning my duffle and scarf when the door opened and in walked Charlie.

A Jack-in-the-box could not have presented a more startling entry, for my Cockney companion was attired in a loud mustard-yellow suit, the jacket of which sported highly exaggerated shoulders and a wide black velvet collar. The trouser legs were like drain-pipes and terminated a good eight inches above black, thick-soled, suede shoes. The gap between exposed bright green socks, so dazzling as to cause instant disturbance of vision when they met the eye. His hair, heavily greased, was slicked back in the Elvis style and his cheeks appeared unusually red.

‘Wotcher, Hubert!’ he shouted jovially, slapping me on the shoulder with one hand and shutting the door behind him with the other. An aroma of heavy aftershave and whisky filled the hallway. Charlie stood rather unsteadily before me, casting his eyes over my scarf and duffle coat, down to my boots and back up again. ‘On the night shift, Hubert?’ he enquired. I nodded. ‘Where you goin’ then?’ he asked blearily.

‘Cow calving at Beckley,’ I replied.

‘Like some company?’ he asked, brushing back his hair with both hands.

‘What, you?’ I responded, with some amazement.

Charlie’s hands slowly dropped from his head, slid around his face and finished up clasped in front of his chest. ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of fixin’ you up with a bird, Hubert,’ he said, looking quite forlorn.

‘Oh. You can come, if you like,’ I rejoined. ‘But you’d better change first.’

‘Change!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘Ain’t this gear Country Style?’

‘Not exactly,’ I admitted.

‘Well, I’m only goin’ to watch, ain’t I?’ he said, his face beaming with delight. ‘Come on, Hubert. Let’s get cracking!’

With my somewhat inebriated passenger just about aboard, I set off for Beckley. The first turning from the digs was sharp and right-handed and as I swung the little Ford, the passenger seat, which was loose, slipped sideways, nearly depositing Charlie in my lap.

‘Blimey, Hubert!’ he gasped, recovering himself. ‘Proper little dolly-trap you’ve got here, my son. You’re a dark horse, Hubert, an’ no mistake.’ He then proceeded to fumble in his pockets, grunting and puffing as he did so. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked, after he had managed to find his cigarettes and lighter.

‘Not at all,’ I said.

With some difficulty, he lit up. ‘Went out on the town, tonight,’ he explained. ‘Finished up at the Three Ravens Club. Met a friend of yours there an’ all.’

‘A friend of mine?’ I questioned, wondering who on earth it could be.

‘Very smart little piece. Thinks you’re “wonderfool”!’ he threw back his head and chuckled. ‘Got a little pooch called Petal.’

‘Miss Lafont,’ I said.

‘Call me Mimi!’ said Charlie, in a mock French accent. ‘Disappointed you didn’t give her the treatment last night. Some Mick saw her.’

‘McBean,’ I replied. ‘Yes, she had an appointment, but I had other calls.’

‘Said I’d take you down there one night,’ he continued. ‘Have a bit of a knees up. You get the night off — do you good.’

‘Look forward to it,’ I said, but as we rattled on our way to Beckley, I pondered his suggestion with mixed feelings.

The village was deserted as we drove through. Bearing right at the green to the church, we followed the lane to the end where a gate across the road bore a sign: ‘The Beeches’.

‘I’ll do it,’ offered Charlie, and was out of the car before I could even remind him to watch his step. After some fiddling, he unlatched the gate and heaved it open, then, turning to face the lights, swept his right arm downwards and stamped his feet in a grand matadorial gesture, before beckoning me through.

I sighed unconsciously. Help at night calving cases was always acceptable, but I wondered what reception I would get from the Ridways with a half-cut Cockney in a mustard-yellow suit and black suede shoes.

Charlie closed the gate and caught up. As soon as he climbed in, I sensed the pungent odour of cow dung and realised that my helpmate had already garnished himself with something distasteful — but as he made no comment, neither did I.

The track across the fields was fairly smooth and Charlie opened two more gates before we arrived at a cluster of buildings sitting on the highest point of the farm, like a small fort. The farmhouse door was open and, as we drew near, I saw, silhouetted in the opening, the figure of a very large lady.

‘Phew!’ exclaimed Charlie, catching sight of her. ‘You won’t get many of those to the pound, Hubert. Ain’t she a whopper!’

Indeed she was, and as we were parked on an upward slope, it accentuated her perspective considerably. What a contrast to Mimi Lafont, for Mrs Ridway, if it were she, was straight from the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’, a Wagnerian soprano if ever I saw one; had she burst into song it would have seemed most natural.

‘You stay here,’ I said to Charlie, hopefully.

‘I’ll come with you, Hubert,’ he replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘Just in case.’

Clambering out of the car, I approached the warrior maiden. She was not unattractive, just large in every department. Long dark hair flowed down over the shoulders of her rough, smock-type dress which was quite flattering to her contours; but so massive were her breasts that, as she gazed down upon me, it was as if she was looking over a precipice.

‘Mrs Ridway?’ I enquired. She nodded, but her features remained expressionless. ‘The vet. Hugh Lasgarn.’

Suddenly, without warning, like a giant hippo, she moved. Her eyes widened fearfully and she raised her hands, clasped them to her formidable chest and gave a high-pitched shriek. I froze on the spot.

Then I realised that Charlie had arrived out of the darkness alongside me.

‘This is Mr Love. A friend of mine — from London,’ I added, trying to make the introduction sound more descriptive than excusing.

‘Evenin’ darlin’,’ called Charlie in his casual way. ‘Nice night for a ride in the country. Where’s the action, then?’

Mrs Ridway stood before us, nervously massaging her ample thighs and breathing heavily. ‘My man’s with the cow,’ she said, in a surprisingly high-pitched tone. ‘Over there in the boosie.’

‘The where?’ said Charlie, chuckling to himself.

‘Cowhouse!’ I retorted under my breath. ‘It’s country slang.’

Mrs Ridway pointed to a building next to the house from where the glow of a lamp was flickering through the narrow windows.

‘Right,’ said Charlie, clapping his hands. ‘You get the kettle on, darlin’, we’ll pop to the boosie and get the job done. What do we want, Hubert?’

‘You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to stay in the car?’ I suggested to him quietly, for his exuberance was beginning to worry me.

‘Not a bit of it, my old son,’ he replied, slapping me across the back. ‘What can I carry?’

Back at the car, I gave him the metal calving box, put on my Wellington boots, stripped off my shirt and drew on my ‘mucklets’, and together we entered the dimly lit building.

Mr Ridway was small in stature compared with his wife, but his amazement when confronted with Charlie and myself considerably exceeded hers. For a moment, when we appeared, I thought he was going to climb up the wall.

‘My God!’ he gasped, practically putting his hands in the air. ‘W-who are you?’

Men from Mars could not have created a more dramatic entry. However, after I made the introductions, he calmed down, but kept giving sideways glances at Charlie, who by now had rolled up his trouser legs in anticipation of the ‘action’.

The cow was a Guernsey type, not very large and jigging about uneasily in her stall. A dark shadow fell upon us as Mrs Ridway arrived, surprisingly silently, carrying a bucket of hot water, soap and towel. So it was, with Mr Ridway holding the tail and his wife and Charlie in close attendance, that I commenced my examination.

Carefully I probed the soft vaginal passage, through the dilated cervix, over the pelvic brim and into the womb. ‘See with your fingers,’ C. J. Pink had said, and how true that was proving to be. The membranes had burst some time previously, although the area was still well lubricated, but as I searched and ‘saw’ I could appreciate no head or legs; instead my hand rested upon a bony prominence from the tip of which sprouted an unmistakable structure — a tail.

I withdrew my arm and straightened my back; the eyes of my silent audience studied me intently.

‘Coming backwards,’ I announced. ‘Breech presentation.’

‘Awkward, Hubert?’ asked Charlie solemnly.

‘The back legs are forward,’ I explained, ‘making the presented end larger than normal. Rather like trying to push a cork into a bottle.’

‘You’ll have to turn it, then?’ he asked.

‘Not enough room for that, even though the calf is not very large. No, I shall have to try and bring the hind legs back up.’

Soaping my arms thoroughly, I re-introduced them into the vagina and, standing behind the extremely patient mother, passed my hands forward onto the unborn calf’s rump. Pushing onwards with my left hand, I delved inwards and downwards over its hip, alongside the bent hock, until my fingers just clasped the points of the toes of the left foot. Once I had grasped it, I took a deep breath and rested for a moment.

‘You all right?’ asked Charlie urgently.

‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got one foot, next job is to get it up.’

That was the most delicate part of the operation, turning the leg to bring it into a posterior position. The wall of the womb was of unbelievable texture when one considered its elasticity and strength, and its resistance to gradual, even pressure was considerable. But sharp jabs, such as could readily be made by the point of a hock or the rim of a hoof, could rip the womb like a knife through butter. I knew that, as I drew the foot backwards, the hock would automatically rise, and if my movement was too rough or the cow strained at the wrong moment, I could rupture the wall immediately.

‘Pinch her back,’ I ordered. ‘It stops the straining.’

Mrs Ridway stepped forward and dropped her large hands across the Guernsey’s spine.

Gently I pulled on the foot and bent the hock, keeping the points of the toes deep in the palm of my hand. Pushing the buttocks forward with my other hand to create as much free space as possible, I drew the leg slowly backwards — and upwards — and sideways — and straight.

With a sigh of relief, I brought the foot into view.

‘Well done, Hubert!’ shouted Charlie excitedly, his suedes squelching in the wet straw. ‘Get the other, my son!’

After some more gentle persuasion, I did get the other one and then roped both legs securely, attaching the wooden handles.

By now, Charlie had discarded his yellow jacket and rolled up both sleeves ready to pull. It was indeed an odd scene, with the great Mrs Ridway on one rope and Cockney Charlie on the other, for Mr Ridway still clung firmly to the Guernsey’s tail.

‘When I say “pull”,’ I ordered, and Charlie and Mrs Ridway took the strain. Even then, he couldn’t resist a quip, for he gently nudged the well-endowed lady in the ribs and called out: ‘What’s a nice girl like you doin’ in a dirty old shed like this?’ At which Mrs Ridway’s seemingly expressionless face broke into a smile and she burst into laughter.

The delivery was smooth, and a perfect bull calf soon lay glistening in the straw. I slapped its chest and it drew its legs up short. I slapped it again and it repeated the action.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Charlie.

‘He’s not breathing,’ I replied sharply. ‘Pick him up by his back legs and shake him.’ Hurriedly, I took one leg and Charlie the other, and we jerked the little chap up and down. ‘Fluid on his chest. Backwards calves often suffer from this,’ I explained.

Three times we tried, but he wouldn’t breathe.

‘Try some straw,’ suggested Mr Ridway and, taking a piece from the bedding on the floor, tickled the calf’s nostrils, but there was no response.

I got down on my knees and, placing one hand over the calf’s nose, blew down into its mouth in an attempt to stimulate respiration.

It was useless and I felt about the same. I could hear the heart eagerly thumping in the little bull’s chest, but I knew that if the lungs failed, it would soon cease to function. Despairingly I looked up at Charlie; his face was quite white, the ruddiness of his earlier complexion vanished. Suddenly, his face lit up and he clenched his fists, shook them vigorously in the air and shouted: ‘COLD WATER! WHERE’S SOME COLD WATER?’

‘There’s a trough outside,’ shouted back Mr Ridway, getting the second shock of the night at Charlie’s outburst.

‘Pick him up, Hubert,’ roared Charlie, grabbing the calf’s forelegs.

I was quite taken aback by his action and for a moment stood motionless.

‘Pick him up,’ he shouted at me again. ‘An’ open the door, darlin!’ he called to Mrs Ridway.

We swung the calf outside and up to the trough. ‘IN!’ bellowed Charlie. ‘ALL OF HIM!’ And with that, we plunged the newborn calf deep into the icy water.

The little bull gasped audibly as we pulled him out and hauled him back to the shed. As he lay in the straw I could see his chest heaving and I set to, rubbing him with a wisp until he was breathing deeply and evenly. Soon he was shaking his head and finally bawled out lustily, so that I ceased my rubbing and sat back on my haunches with relief.

‘I never seen that afore,’ exclaimed Mr Ridway, shaking Charlie by the hand. ‘Where did you ever learn a trick like that?’

‘Saw John Wayne do it on a ranch in Nevada,’ said Charlie. ‘Couple of years ago.’

‘Well, I never,’ commented Mr Ridway. ‘Fancy that.’

I looked hard at Charlie, but he had already turned his attentions to Mrs Ridway. ‘I couldn’t ’arf go a nice cuppa, darlin,’ he was saying, and Mrs Ridway, now all smiles and chuckles, said: ‘Certainly you shall, Mr Charlie. Certainly.’ And with that, she bustled off to the house.

‘Come on, Hubert,’ he called over his shoulder, giving me a broad wink as he did so. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

We sat in the kitchen drinking tea laced generously with whisky, and eating thick ham sandwiches which Mrs Rid way soon prepared. Charlie was on top form, cracking jokes and singing Cockney rhymes with the Rid ways joining in lustily — it really was quite a party.

It was well into the small hours when we left, bearing a dozen eggs each, a thick wedge of home-cured bacon and a pint of cream.

When we got to the last gate on the edge of the farm, Charlie closed it wearily and clambered back into the car.

‘Smudged the old finery a bit,’ he said, surveying the sleeves of his jacket in the dashboard light.

‘Sorry about that, Charlie,’ I apologised. ‘But you really did save that calf tonight. Thanks.’

‘Think nothing of it, my old son,’ he replied, generously.

‘But why did you tell them you saw John Wayne do it in Nevada?’ I asked. ‘You’ve never been to the States.’

‘Course, I haven’t,’ he chortled. ‘Course, I haven’t, but I’ve been to the Odeon in Leicester Square, ain’t I?’ With that, he slapped me hard over the shoulders. ‘Drive on, Hubert,’ he shouted. ‘Drive on!’