Nine

As the weeks rolled by I came to realise that veterinary work, like the farming to which it was so closely allied, was more a way of life than just a job. I had realised that time was of little consequence to my patients and that the cow that had difficulty in calving at two in the morning, or the horse that decided to develop colic at Sunday lunchtime, did it without any thoughts of conforming to a nine-to-five pattern, or even to a six-day week.

But as the seasons marked the major changes in rural life in a gradual manner, so were there certain more specific landmarks in the country calendar by which time was measured.

Ledingford Agricultural and Horse Show was one of them. Snippits of conversation could often be heard that admirably demonstrated this feature, such as:

‘When did you dip yer sheep?’ — ‘Oh, two weeks afore the Show.’ Or, ‘Now tell me, Beth, when did they get married?’ — ‘About a month after the Show.’ Or, ‘I had mumps last year, just on Show time!’ Ledingford Show was, indeed, a supremely important occasion, giving relief from work and a day out for honest competition, paying bills, meeting friends, drinking cider and having fun.

The Hacker practice were Honorary Veterinary Surgeons to the Society and attended on the day; but when the day came round, Bob Hacker was taking his summer break and McBean suggested that, once the urgent calls had been cleared, I should represent the practice.

I had previously arranged to pick up Diana from work at eleven o’clock and arrived just outside the offices of Seamer’s dead on time. It was, however, a quarter of an hour before she burst through the main door looking delightfully flustered. She wore a white dress with a full skirt that had differently coloured flowers printed on it and was gathered at the waist by a narrow rope belt. The neckline was wide but not low, allowing her long blonde hair to cover bare, sun-browned shoulders.

I cast a veterinary eye over her for, up until meeting Diana, I had never taken the opposite sex very seriously and regarded them mainly as a necessary attachment only if one went to a dance. In Abergranog there had been girls, but they were different in that they had different playgrounds, different games, different lavatories, and we boys were rather scornful of their company, having far more important things on our minds. At university I had met several girls, but on a student allowance in those days it was difficult to create much of an impression. So I settled for Rugby and snooker and bawdy songs in the Student Union bar.

But as this vision came towards the car, smiling happily, I discarded my veterinary eye without delay, accepting that, while it was sometimes possible to credit animals with human attributes, a beautiful girl could never be anything but a beautiful girl — and in Diana’s case, the effect on a young country vet was devastating!

If that wasn’t enough, when she got in, the little Ford became filled with such an exotic perfume that it was a wonder its wheels didn’t fall off, for my legs certainly felt detached. I sat back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

‘Mmm! That must be the most beautiful smell in the world,’ I said, inhaling deeply for the second time.

‘Well, you should know,’ replied Diana, laughingly. ‘All vets are experts on smells.’

‘Not like that,’ I admitted. ‘No, ma’am! Not like that.’

‘Carven, “Ma Griffe”.’ Diana held out her arm, turned it upwards and slowly passed it beneath my nose.

‘There should be a Home Office licence on stuff like that,’ I said, recovering slightly.

‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked, sniffing the back of her hand to reassure herself.

‘You should have a red ribbon in your hair whenever you wear it,’ I told her and, taking another lungful, pulled away from the kerb.

Ledingford Show was held in the grounds of Granstone Castle, on parkland that sloped gently down to the river. The estate was the home of Lord Pendleford and a glorious setting for one of the best one-day displays of livestock and agricultural produce in the Borders. For most of the year, the rolling pastures, overlooked by Granstone, a fine castellated mansion, were populated solely by ancient oaks and grazing cattle. But at Show Time, like magic mushrooms, tents and marquees sprouted overnight, and multicoloured banners and high-flying flags fluttered merrily overhead. It became an encampment full of hustling, bustling, happy country folk and superbly bred animals, focusing the attention of the whole county, and further afield if anyone was prepared to note, on all that was good in agriculture.

There was a queue of cars at the entrance which had been divided into two avenues, separated by rope, each guarded by stewards with armbands and large poacher’s bags in which they were depositing the money. When our turn came, a rather toffee-nosed chap in tweeds and a deerstalker pushed his hand through the window and said, haughtily: ‘One pound!’

What followed gave me immense pleasure, especially as Diana was with me, for out of my pocket I took the badge which Bob Hacker had left for whichever of us attended the Show.

‘Veterinary Surgeon,’ I replied, equally haughtily.

‘Veterinary Surgeon,’ he repeated, looking at me suspiciously. Then another steward leaned over his shoulder, eyed the badge and said: ‘Vet. Official cars on the left.’ At which instruction, I revved up the little Ford as grandly as I was able and drove off to the left.

‘My,’ said Diana impishly, ‘it’s the first time I’ve been to the Show with an Official.’

‘So who have you been with before?’ I asked, as I pulled into line.

‘Never you mind,’ she said, laughing. ‘But it wasn’t with an Official!’

From the privileged position of the Official Car Park it was only a short distance to the showground. I bought a programme and spotted amongst the list of names: Hon. Veterinary Surgeon: R. A. Hacker MRCVS.

‘There’s Bob’s name,’ I said, underlining it with my finger.

‘Should be yours,’ commented Diana.

‘Might be, one day,’ I replied.

‘At Ledingford?’ She stopped and looked at me wistfully, and I knew it wasn’t just a simple question.

‘If it was, would you still come with me?’ I asked.

Her eyes searched my face eagerly, as if trying to give me an answer for which her lips weren’t ready. Then she sidetracked and said: ‘If you were an Official, how could I refuse?’ Then she took hold of my hand, adding, ‘Come on, Mr Vet. Show me the Show!’

As we approached the main ring, the ladies’ hunter side-saddle class was entering. Diana stood enthralled by the effortless grace of the riders and the fluent, freeflowing action of their mounts. To me, they appeared as latter day Godivas, darkclad and veiled, aloof, yet courting attention with intriguing sensuality. I was privately contemplating the captivating scene when Diana interrupted my train of thought.

‘Hugh!’ she cried. ‘Can’t you hear!’

I broke my reverie, just in time to catch the last words of the loudspeaker announcement.

‘… urgently to the goats!’

‘They want a veterinary surgeon at the goats,’ she explained excitedly. ‘Come on, quickly!’

‘My case is in the car,’ I protested, as she dragged me away from the ring. ‘Anyway, where are the goats?’

‘Goats is by the sheep,’ said a fat man standing next to us. ‘Same as always.’

I thanked him for the information which was of little help, as I didn’t know where the sheep were, either. However, on the way to collect my case, I passed a sign post with numerous fingers pointing in all directions, and amongst ‘Main Ring,’ ‘Toilets’, ‘Cattle’, ‘Horses’, ‘Pigs’ and ‘Dog Show’, I spied ‘Sheep’. With Diana in close attendance, I set off hastily in the direction indicated.

Breathless and uncomfortably warm, we came across the goat tent next to the sheep lines, at the far end of the showground. Because of the hot weather, the flaps of the tent had been rolled up to improve ventilation, revealing a maze of hurdles that sectioned the interior into pens. Each one contained all the bric-a-brac of goatkeeping, with bales of hay, bags of feed, milking buckets, boxes, brushes, halters and, of course, goats. There were drab, mouse-coloured Toggenburgs with swinging tassels; tall, lop-eared Nubians straight out of the Book of Moses; snow-white Saanens and jet black Alpines. Some were busily chewing on bunches of hazel twigs tied to their hurdles, while others looked about with an air of complete disdain, as if it was all a bit beneath them.

A fussy, bowler-hatted little man in a slightly oversize, navy-blue pin-striped suit, came forward, clutching an untidy sheaf of papers.

‘Vet?’ he enquired anxiously. ‘Thank goodness.’

‘Hugh Lasgarn.’ I held out my hand. ‘Where’s the emergency?’

‘Mr Bevan. Steward of the Goats,’ he responded, briefly touching my palm, ‘and it’s not an emergency. Not yet, anyway,’ he blew out his cheeks nervously. ‘But it soon could be. It soon could be.’

Noticing Diana, he smiled weakly and touched the rim of his bowler. Then taking me by the elbow, he looked around furtively, like a spy about to pass secret information, and said: ‘There’s a fellow here with two sets of tack!’

I blinked, so he repeated it. ‘Two sets of tack!’ This time more slowly and deliberately.

He studied my face eagerly, then assuming, in part correctly, that I hadn’t yet got the message, he took hold of my arm and pulled me a few paces further away from Diana. Then, stretching on tip-toe, he came close to my right ear and whispered hoarsely:

‘’E’s got a willy and a wonker!’

I fought hard to suppress my reactions and turned away to look at Diana, who was obviously puzzled by the whole affair.

‘A willy and a wonker,’ he repeated, this time more loudly. ‘You come and see. See for yourself!’ And still holding my arm, he propelled me into the tent, steering me through the pens until we arrived at a section where a small, biscuit-coloured goat was busily tucking into a forest of twigs.

Mr Bevan, Steward of the Goats, put down his papers, took off his bowler hat and laid it on top. Then, after looking about nervously once again, he knelt down behind the goat, who seemed completely indifferent to his presence, and thrust his hand between its back legs.

Looking up, he said: ‘If you feel under here — there’s a willy.’ Then, with the other hand, he raised the stumpy tail. ‘And if you look under there — there’s a wonker! See!’

I took a step forward and a closer look to confirm the remnants of a female orifice, and when Mr Bevan got out of the way, I felt the male appendage beneath the goat’s belly.

‘Hermaphrodite!’ I announced.

Mr Bevan replaced his bowler and shuffled the papers into an even more untidy bundle.

‘You knows it an’ I knows it, Mr Lasgarn. But the owner don’t! Now, I can’t enter that goat because, well …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There ain’t no call for a Class like that, you see.’

‘Should be no problem,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a pretty obvious case.’

‘Will you explain it to the owner?’ he pleaded. ‘You’d know how to put it better than me.’

‘Certainly,’ I agreed. ‘Who is it?’

‘She’s over there.’ He pointed to a tall, rather flamboyantly dressed female, standing with her back towards us. ‘Lady Octavia Grimes,’ he explained. ‘Lord Pendleford’s sister!’

I felt the clammy hand of fate settling upon me and looked around accusingly at Mr Bevan.

‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘But I did mention it could be an emergency.’

‘Not a diplomatic emergency, though,’ I added. But, whatever, there was nothing for it, Her Ladyship would have to be told and I was the victim. Clutching my case, I moved forward, somewhat rigidly, to confront the aristocracy, not having a clue as to how I should broach such a delicate subject.

As I drew near, she turned, and for the first time I saw her, full frontal.

To say she had a strong face was probably the kindest way of putting it. Certainly, it was a large face, accommodating dark eyebrows, deepset eyes and a prominent nose. Her make-up was pale and powdery, contrasting violently with bright red lipstick. A wide-brimmed straw hat attempted to obscure her countenance with flattering shadow, but was fighting a losing battle, and as I approached she seemed to lurch sideways, like a listing windjammer. But, by plunging the point of her unopened parasol deftly into the turf, she arrested her sway in the nick of time.

‘Lady Octavia?’ I spoke as firmly as I could.

She nodded condescendingly, and a small cloud of powder drifted onto her shoulders.

‘Hugh Lasgarn, veterinary surgeon. I’ve just had a look at your goat.’

She raised a lorgnette that had been dangling on a black cord at her side and scrutinized me closely. Then, having satisfied herself that I merited her attention, but still peering through her glasses, she drew herself up to her full height, which was at least three inches taller than myself, and boomed:

‘So you’ve seen Bertie. What do you think of him?’

I put my case down, cleared my throat and began:

‘Bertie’s got a bit of a problem.’

‘A problem!’ she echoed.

‘Well, he’s a shade abnormal.’

‘Abnormal!’ she boomed, with such volume that everyone in the vicinity froze. ‘Tell me more!’ she continued. ‘Tell me more!’ And with that, everyone nearby instantly unfroze and gathered round.

‘By a quirk of nature,’ I explained cautiously, ‘Bertie has developed hermaphroditic tendencies. He has vestiges of female reproductive organs as well as being equipped with normal male genitalia.’ I felt I was making little impression as she stood before me like Boadicea, eyeing me through the glasses and not saying a word. ‘It’s usually a hormonal imbalance due to circulation of oestrogens in excess of normal, and quite often …’ But I got no further, for she stirred, raised her hand and, dropping the lorgnette to her side, roared in a stentorian tone that filled the tent:

‘You’re telling me that Bertie’s a bloody will-jill!’

The silence was deafening, broken only by a low moan that came from behind me, which I assumed was Mr Bevan, Steward of the Goats, breathing his last.

Lady Octavia clasped her heavily jewelled hands in front of her and raised her eyes to the tent roof.

I was racking my brains for something to say when she suddenly dropped her hands, threw back her head and burst into a gale of laughter.

The effect of this unpredicted reaction was highly contagious, and the onlookers all fell about with uncontrolled mirth, which I suspected was more through relief than humour.

‘Mr Lasgarn,’ Lady Octavia exclaimed, tears running down her face, ‘you’ve made my day. Just wait until I tell my brother.’

Mr Bevan, now recovered, came up to us and started to explain why he couldn’t enter Bertie for judging, but her Ladyship ignored him and turned again to me.

‘You’re new, Mr Lasgarn. I assume you are helping young Mr Hacker, now that his dear father is dead. Well, you really have bucked me up, you know. Every Show night my brother gives a dinner party — stuffy old affair usually, awfully boring. But tonight I shall set the conversation alight when I tell them all about Bertie. You obviously haven’t been to Granstone, yet. But if you do come to see the animals, call on me, my apartment is in the west wing. I’ll show you the rest of my family, I breed Maltese, you know.’

‘How many have you?’ I enquired.

‘Fifty-six,’ she said. ‘Do call.’

And with that, she swept away between the hurdles, obviously intent on consoling poor Bertie.

Over lunch, I explained the commotion to Diana who had watched the whole episode from a safe distance.

‘Sounds as if you made quite a hit there,’ she observed. ‘Come out with you for a day and already I’ve got competition.’

‘Not really my type,’ I assured her. ‘Come on, let’s go and see the cattle.’

The cattle lines were in an area shaded by oaks on the south side of the showground. There were graceful Ayrshires, solid Shorthorns and widebodied Friesians, but by far the largest entry were the Herefords.

They inhabited what seemed like an endless avenue of stalls, stretching as far as one could see. Magnificent, deep red-coated bulls, the older ones standing patiently while their coats were brushed and tails combed, the younger, more inexperienced ones frisky and keen to get on the move, charged with all the excitement of the occasion. Further down, placid, dreamy-eyed, white-faced cows looked on tolerantly as their calves, like kids out of school, leaped and bawled, tugged on their ropes or eyed the onlookers mischievously.

As in the goat section, much space was taken up with all the paraphernalia of showing. Great wooden travelling boxes proclaimed the owner’s name or herd title in bold letters painted on the lids: ‘Merryhill Herefords’, ‘The Eaton Herd’, and other descriptive information that conjured up rich pastoral scenes of fertile, grazing herds. When a lid was opened it revealed a chest full of secrets, guarded jealously by animal-wise stockmen, with salves and ointments, potions and lotions, each one to put some special finishing touch to the final presentation. There were curry combs and brushes, snow-white cotton halters and leather head collars adorned with eyebright brassware. And on the inside of the lid, fluttering in the breeze, were the rosettes — red, white, blue and tricolour — in row upon gaudy row, the trophies of past success. And well earned, too, for the art of cattle showmanship was a country talent that took years of experience to perfect; many were the tricks of the trade, not only in preparation but in presentation, when a hardly perceptible movement of a leading rope, a quiet word or nearly inaudible low whistle (which passed unnoticed by the onlooker), could make all the difference between a bull standing up proudly or missing the opportunity to catch the judge’s eagle eye.

There was a large crowd ranged around the judging ring, where a group of some twenty maiden Hereford heifers were parading.

‘Just like a beauty competition,’ said Diana, rising up on her toes to see them.

‘Well, they are the girls of the family,’ I agreed. ‘Go on. Pick the winner.’

A few people moved away in front of us, and we were able to get to the rope that separated the spectators from the action.

‘They all seem the same to me,’ Diana remarked, shaking her head. ‘What is the judge looking for?’

‘Poise, balance, a good figure,’ I replied. ‘Just like bathing beauties.’

The judge, a portly gentleman in a dark suit and bowler, had his back to us. He had drawn out five heifers to stand in line before him, obviously his final selection, and was about to decide upon the order. Moving up and down the line, he prodded rumps, probed flanks and moved one animal up a place, then put one down. Eventually, satisfied with his selection, he tapped the winner on the back with a silver-topped cane — and when he turned round I could see it was none other than Paxton of Donhill.

As the heifers left the ring, he surveyed the crowd, and when his eyes fell upon me, he bounced his cane several times on the ground and then came across.

‘Well, Lasgarn,’ he barked, glaring at me as if I had criticised his judgement. ‘Agree with that?’

‘You’re the judge, Mr Paxton,’ I replied diplomatically.

‘Correct!’ he boomed. ‘There’s only one person in this ring I’ve got to please. That’s myself!’

Then his eye strayed to Diana and, as if by magic, his frosty glare melted into a benevolent smile, the like of which I would never have imagined him capable.

‘Mr …’ I nearly got it wrong, but corrected myself in the nick of time. ‘Diana. This is Mr Paxton of Donhill. Mr Paxton — Diana …’

The old tyrant held the brim of his immaculate bowler and raised it elegantly.

‘My pleasure, young lady,’ he beamed. ‘My pleasure.’

Diana responded with a delectable smile, then Paxton again rounded on me.

‘Don’t know what you’ve done to deserve company like this, Lasgarn — you’re a very fortunate fellow, d’y hear!’ He caught sight of the next Class entering the ring. ‘Excuse me, but I must get back to work,’ he said softly to Diana.

He was on the point of leaving when, once again, he fixed me with his steely glare.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I want you to cut the corns out of Warrior. I want it done soon. Ring me tomorrow.’ Then he stalked back to the judging.

It was like a knife in the back. ‘Cut the corns out of Warrior — soon.’ For the second time in hours I felt in a state of shock; the first had been having to break the truth to Lady Octavia, which had fortunately gone all right. But now Warrior, this was a different affair. My mind flashed back to McBean’s relief when I told him Paxton didn’t consider my suggestion. What did he say? ‘If that Warrior should snuff it while you’re cutting away at his corns … it’s “Boom! Boom! Goodbye Hugh”!’ And with Bob Hacker away — oh, my God, this was trouble.

‘What a nice man,’ said Diana, running her fingers through her hair. ‘D’you know, I think he liked me. You can have your old Lady Octavia Grimes.’

‘Of the two, I would much prefer her at this minute,’ I said. ‘I just wish we hadn’t met him this afternoon.’

‘Why on earth not?’ asked Diana.

I explained about my precipitous advice on Warrior’s condition when I had visited Donhill some months previously, and the responsibility that I had unwittingly let myself in for.

‘Why did I open my big mouth?’ I droned. ‘A mad flight of fancy, and now the bird is coming home to roost.’

‘Surely it can’t be that dangerous,’ comforted Diana. ‘And it can’t be that difficult. You should see my grandmother, she’s terrific at it. Does all her old friends quite regularly.’

‘Oh, Diana,’ I said, chuckling, ‘I’m sure she does, but her “old friends” don’t weigh over a ton, like mine does.’

I tried to put the prospect of the operation to the back of my mind during the rest of the afternoon as we enjoyed all the Show had to offer.

I attended the victims of a fight at the Dog Show, where two Jack Russells had a difference of opinion which resulted in one losing a chunk from his right ear. The owner enquired, quite innocently, if I could stitch it back on, which I explained was not possible. Then some wag standing nearby suggested I cut a piece out of the other ear to match, and that nearly started another fight.

About five o’clock, I was called to the horse boxes, where a hunter had been cut at the back of a hind fetlock.

‘Don’t think you can do much,’ the chap in charge informed me. ‘But I just want you to check that it hasn’t damaged the tendon.’

It was a horizontal wound, but not gaping and quite clean. Fortunately it was only the skin that was broken and none of the underlying tissues were affected. I cleansed and disinfected the area and packed it with sulphonamide powder.

‘What’s the tetanus status?’ I asked.

‘He’s been vaccinated recently, so he should be all right,’ came the reply.

‘How did it happen?’ Diana enquired.

‘That mule over there,’ said the groom aggressively, pointing to a classy looking bay mare tied beneath a tree. ‘It isn’t fair on unsuspecting folks. With a kick like that, she ought to be wearing a red ribbon!’

‘Red ribbon!’ Diana flashed an indignant glance in my direction. ‘Why a red ribbon?’

‘Approach with caution, miss,’ explained the groom. ‘That is, unless you wants yer head kicked off!’

My vision rounded upon me, hands on hips.

‘Carven “Ma Griffe”,’ I said defensively.

‘No, his name’s Sailor,’ said the groom.

‘You wait till I get you alone,’ said Diana, and even Sailor looked round enviously, while the groom made a ‘clicking’ sound with his mouth and gave me a broad wink.

And wishing both man and horse ‘Goodbye’, I beat a hasty retreat to the car.

But Diana’s pique was shortlived and we spent the evening at a quaint riverside pub called The Sallies, to end a most eventful day. As I lay in bed that night, I thought to myself what wonderful company she had been and how I was fully in agreement with old Paxton that I was a most fortunate fellow.

But when I closed my eyes all I could see was Warrior, hobbling up and down before me, complaining bitterly about his wretched corns.

As I drove to the surgery the following morning, I deliberated how I might avoid operating upon the great bull; perhaps Paxton might change his mind. But my chances of reprieve diminished when, on arrival, Miss Billings informed me that he had already rung twice, in order to speak to me.

When I got through, Paxton was in his usual, arrogant form.

‘I want it done tomorrow, Lasgarn,’ he roared.

‘But Mr Hacker is away and I haven’t been able to speak to Mr McBean,’ I explained — which was quite true as McBean had already taken two early calls.

‘What in hell’s name has that got to do with it!’ he almost screamed. ‘I asked you! Not anybody else!’

‘Yes, but — it’s a big job and there are risks.’

My reply was greeted with a hollow silence, as if the line had gone dead, but I surmised from previous experience, that it was but the lull before a very violent storm. Yet, when he did respond, Paxton’s voice was uncannily controlled.

‘Now look, young fellow,’ he began, in a threateningly sinister tone. ‘Don’t you talk to me of risks.’ Then his voice rose gradually in a crescendo. ‘Don’t you talk to me of bloody risks. I know about risks — and you are a professional and professionals have to take risks. You’ve trained, God knows how many years, at that university …’

‘Five,’ I interjected, amazed that I was able to get a word in, in spite of his tirade. But Paxton was only drawing breath, for immediately he bore on:

‘You’re supposed to know — otherwise I’d do the bloody job myself, d’y hear! Now I want you here tomorrow morning at ten-thirty — and no buts!’ I heard him draw breath again. ‘Any instructions?’ he asked finally.

That was an invitation to be very rude if I had had the courage, but that would probably have inflamed the situation irreparably.

‘Starve him,’ I said, quite involuntarily, as if my body had accepted the commitment even if my mind had not.

‘Any water?’ he asked.

‘Not after five o’clock,’ I advised.

‘Right, Lasgarn. Tomorrow!’ And with that, he slammed down the phone.

For a few minutes, I sat quite still, just meditating.

‘You all right, Mr Lasgarn?’ asked Miss Billings.

‘Yes, thanks, just fine,’ I lied. ‘Just fine.’

McBean’s face was a picture when I told him what had been arranged.

‘Mother Mary and all the Saints be blessed,’ he said, and gave a low whistle.

‘Sorry Mac,’ I apologised. ‘But somehow I feel I got pushed into it.’

‘Now that’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘That divil would push his grandmother’s tits through a mangle, just for the laugh!’ He looked straight at me, and I had to smile — there was no doubt about it, McBean could certainly put things in perspective, regardless of the intensity of the problem. ‘You told him the risks?’ I gave a confirmatory nod. ‘It’ll have to be done, an’ that’s for sure,’ he affirmed, slapping his thigh. ‘So, Hugh, me laddo. Let’s get it organised.’

‘You’ll help me?’ I asked.

‘Sure an’ I will,’ he replied. ‘Now, Bob has anaesthetised several bulls with chloral and mag sulph. It’s as safe as you’ll get and fairly gentle. Bit of a swine if it gets outside the vein.’

‘Like what?’ I enquired.

‘Irritant. Causes a slough and half the neck drops off!’

‘Oh, Mac,’ I said, ‘what did I let us in for? You must think I’m the perfect idiot.’

Mac scrutinized me closely, then shook his head and said with a grin, ‘No I don’t, Hugh. None of us is perfect!’

For an hour we discussed the operation step by step. How much anaesthetic, how long it would last. How to prevent inhalation of rumenal contents and how to prevent bloat. What to do in case of haemorrhage, how deep to incise, and care during the recovery stage. At the end, I felt more confident and, knowing I would have McBean’s assistance, I was reassured and even mildly looking forward to the challenge.

I prepared all the equipment before leaving surgery that night and read through my lecture notes several times before I turned in.

Come what might, I was as ready as I could be.

* * *

I had started doing morning surgeries, and the following day, before I was able to get off to Donhill, I had to deal with a dog that had a sore paw and one with an ulcerated eye, and I had to castrate a cat. At five past nine, Miss Billings, who had taken well to my innovation, shepherded in the last client.

‘Billy Bent and his budgerigar,’ she announced, sounding as if it was a Music Hall act. But it was no spectacle of gaiety and joy that met my eyes as Billy, cap in hand, struggled into the exotic plant consulting room carrying a cage covered with a piece of drab curtain material.

On the contrary, it was a sad little combination, for Billy was about eight years old, pale and red eyed as if he had been crying. His pullover was typical of the joke about holes being held together with wool and his short trousers, well above his nobbly, scabby knees, were extensively patched. From the top of his basin-cut hairstyle to his oversize, uncomfortable looking boots, he was barely more than three foot six and hardly high enough to put his cage on the table. I took it from him and removed the cover.

Sitting forlornly at the edge of the perch and leaning against the wire, was a blue budgerigar whose physical appearance matched its tiny owner’s pathetic state. The bird’s plumage was drab and lack-lustre, its eyes half closed as if dozing, but occasionally, it jerked itself awake, only just in time to avoid toppling from its perch.

‘It’s his stomach,’ said Billy. ‘It’s all swollen up. My sister said I fed him too much, but I never,’ the little boy rubbed his eyes and looked away.

Without even handling it, I could see the protrusion at its front, which was no doubt the cause of the imbalance.

‘How long has he been like this?’ I asked.

‘Nearly a week,’ said Billy, sniffing hard. ‘Will he die?’

It was a simple question, asked so openly and expectantly and without any intention of putting responsibility upon me. And yet it had. It was as bad as Paxton, yet so different.

How did I know whether it would die or live? Who did he think I was? I’m a professional, I told myself grimly — I’m supposed to know — supposed to accept responsibility.

So why didn’t I say: ‘I don’t know’? As I should have with Paxton. Then, I wouldn’t have been sweating on the top line about Warrior. Be cautious; hedge; don’t commit yourself. But how on earth could I help it?

‘What do you call him, Billy?’ I asked, looking down at the little chap.

‘Peter,’ he said, his voice quivering.

‘He won’t die, Billy,’ I said confidently. ‘Not if I can help it.’

I managed to catch the frail creature without much effort and, holding it carefully, wings pinioned, in the palm of my hand, I turned it onto its back.

Gently I probed the swelling, which was generally soft and pliable. It was obviously an impaction of the crop.

When I questioned Billy about the feeding, he replied bluntly, ‘Seed and greens.’

But there was no grit in the cage and I explained to the lad how budgies needed the sharp insoluble mixture to aid digestion.

‘Ask your Dad to get you some,’ I told him. ‘It’s quite cheap.’

‘Me Dad’s dead,’ he replied, stony-faced.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Billy,’ I apologised. ‘Your Mam, then.’

‘Mam’s in the General,’ he informed me matter-of-factly. ‘She’s got a growth.’ He put his hands in his trouser pockets and kicked an imaginary football across the surgery floor. I put my hand on his shoulder.

‘Look, Billy,’ I said. ‘You come back tonight and I’ll have some for you. In the meantime, we’ll give Peter a tiny dose of liquid paraffin to ease his stomach.’

‘He won’t die, will he?’ he asked again.

I shook my head. ‘Bring him back tonight,’ I said. ‘There’s a good lad.’

As Billy left, McBean came through to see how I was getting on.

‘There’s a call at Connelly’s, I’ll go round that way and see to it, then I’ll come over to Donhill. You take the gear and get things set up and I’ll join you as soon as I can. I expect Paxton will be champing at the bit, but don’t let him rattle you. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll check the instruments and see you there.’

McBean was dead right, for even though I was a quarter of an hour early, the old man was impatient for action and bore down upon me before I could even get out of the car.

‘Mr McBean will be along shortly, to give a hand,’ I informed him, but it was more to give myself confidence than to appease Paxton.

‘Two vets!’ he exclaimed, irritably. ‘Huh!’

I was about to explain how difficult the anaesthesia could be with a great bull like Warrior, but decided against it. I was committed to the operation and it was no good arguing the toss with him, in his evidently truculent mood.

‘I’ve had the big yard strawed down,’ he announced, rattling his cane on the concrete. ‘It’s partly covered, so there’s no draughts and nothing sharp to cause any problems. There’s four men, plenty of rope and gallons of hot water. Anything else?’

Fair play to the man, he was organised, despite his manner.

‘Some straw bales to put the instruments on — and then I’d like to give Warrior a checkover before we start,’ I replied.

‘That bull’s as fit as a fiddle,’ retorted Paxton. ‘Apart from his back legs. But this operation puts them right, so I’m told,’ he continued. ‘Harper of Kesley in Warwickshire had his bull done last month and it’s walking perfectly. I want mine done the same!’

By the time I had examined Warrior it was eleven o’clock, and still no sign of McBean. The bull was, indeed, as fit as a fiddle, though had I found some problem that would have genuinely prevented me carrying out the task, I had to admit, I would not have been unduly displeased. But the heartbeat was strong, the lungs clear and the temperature normal.

‘How long will it take?’ Paxton asked, as I folded up my stethoscope.

I wasn’t really sure, but said ‘half an hour’, in as positive a manner as I could muster.

By eleven fifteen I was ready, with everything laid out, the chloral warmed up and my hands sweating.

‘Where’s McBean?’ roared Paxton.

‘On his way, I hope,’ I affirmed, rearranging the order of the instruments for the fourth time.

‘I can’t have men hanging about like this,’ he bellowed, banging his cane on the gatepost. At that moment, a greyhaired woman came across the yard holding a piece of paper. ‘A message for Mr Lasgarn,’ she said, nervously, ‘from the surgery.’

I didn’t have to read it — I knew: McBean wasn’t coming. When I looked at the note it confirmed my fears. He had been held up and wouldn’t be with me for an hour, at least. I would have to tackle it alone.

Paxton was eyeing me closely and I knew that if I asked for a delay, there would be fireworks. So I crumpled up the note, swallowed deeply and said:

‘McBean will be late — we’ll make a start.’

Anticipation of a demanding occasion is the most harrowing part of the ordeal. I’d heard of famous actors and opera stars, who appeared so confident and professional on stage, suffering similar agonies. Even the greatest had ‘butterflies’ and some even became physically ill. But once the performance commenced, such was the involvement that there was no time for fear or thought of failure — and the moment I gave myself the signal, miraculously my nervousness vanished.

Warrior was a brick. It took me two stabs to get properly into his jugular which was up like a drainpipe, and yet he never budged. I had Mason and one other man at the head and one man either side of his body, to steady him if possible. As the chloral slowly narcotised the great hulk, Warrior closed his eyes and, in just over a minute, he sank gently to his knees, then lowered his powerful hindquarters and finally lay on his side in perfect position.

I made sure that his air passages were clear and raised his head by packing wedges of straw beneath. Then, with ropes on his hind legs, I dragged them into a position where I could infiltrate the corns with local anaesthetic. When they were adequately frozen and Warrior snoring contentedly, I tied a rope tourniquet around his ankle, disinfected the site and made ready for the incision.

‘Corns’ are exuberant growths of tissue or ‘proud flesh’ which can recur if not completely excised. ‘Make the cut bold and deep,’ my notes had said, and so I did. The cavity left between the clees seemed massive, but the haemorrhage was not excessive and, certainly, there was no evidence of any ‘corn’ tissue remaining.

I packed it tight with sulphonamide and strapped it firmly with a heavy bandage and tape. Throughout the whole procedure, I had kept a watchful eye on Warrior’s chest, always thankful to see it heaving gently up and down.

Then I set to and worked on the other foot, which went equally well. My concentration had made me unaware of time, but as I gave the tape on the final dressing a last twist, Paxton, who had been standing but a yard away throughout the whole proceedings, said: ‘Just over half an hour.’

It was then that I became aware of myself again, but this time I felt a degree of euphoria, as I thought with relief: So far — so good.

We sat Warrior upon his brisket and propped him up with bales, then I gave him a large dose of crystalline penicillin directly into his muscle.

‘He should be up within an hour,’ I commented, feeling far more confident about things.

‘Feeding?’ interrupted Paxton.

‘Just a little hay, later on,’ I suggested.

‘Tell Mason,’ said Paxton gruffly. ‘You’ll check him tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ I affirmed. Then, without a word of thanks or criticism, the old man grunted, turned on his heels and, flourishing his silver-topped cane, tapped his way back across the yard to the house.

I felt quite chatty as I cleared up and was conscious of myself wittering away to Mason and the other men. They had appeared quite impressed by the whole episode and, whilst saying nothing when their boss had been present, they now responded with the usual rural veterinary quips, such as; ‘I’ll bring the missus over for yer to have a go on.’

‘Don’t rush him to get up,’ I advised finally, as I prepared to leave. ‘But you’d best stay with him until he does.’

It was only when I was well clear of Donhill that I pulled up at a quiet spot, closed my eyes and breathed a gargantuan sigh of relief.

McBean had been called to a calving and was full of apologies at having to leave me to cope alone, but was extremely pleased and relieved that the job had gone satisfactorily.

‘The anaesthetic was the biggest hurdle,’ he admitted. ‘But you got the measure of that all right. I’ll buy you a pint tonight.’

I thanked him for his offer, thinking that one would be hardly enough, and spent the rest of the afternoon going about the calls with a permanent grin on my face.

* * *

First in for evening surgery were Billy Bent and Peter.

‘’E’s still got the lump,’ he said forlornly. ‘And he won’t eat anything, ’e ain’t no better at all.’

Peter was sitting in his usual position on the perch, right next to the wire — a picture of absolute dejection.

‘If the lump don’t go away, what can you do?’ asked Billy.

I lifted the little bird from its cage; there was no resistance. On examination, it was obvious that the liquid paraffin had been ineffective. There was only one course — surgery. The crop would have to be opened and the contents released.

‘Peter is going to need a little operation,’ I told the young lad. ‘Just a small one to empty the “stomach”. Well, it isn’t really the stomach, it’s the part before it called the crop, all part of his digestive system. But it’s the only way.’ Billy’s eyes widened and his lip began to tremble. ‘Now look, Billy,’ I comforted, ‘you leave Peter with me for tonight and I’ll see if I can ease that lump. You come round in the morning.’

‘I can’t come till this time,’ he murmured. ‘I got papers in the morning.’

I looked at him, standing there, less than four foot high and hardly big enough to keep a newspaper carrier clear of the floor.

‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘You come back tomorrow night.’ And I put Peter back inside his cage.

Billy stretched up and passed his hand through the open door to stroke the frail bird’s dulled feathers.

‘I’ll be back for you tomorrow, Pete,’ he said, gently. ‘Now don’ you worry.’

I left Peter until I had cleared the rest of the clients. It wasn’t going to be a big job — a whiff of ether, a small nick to remove the debris and a fine stitch would be all that was required. I remembered the miners in Abergranog doing it on their pigeons without much fuss, and they always seemed to make a good recovery.

I checked the procedure in a reference book. There wasn’t much on birds, except to say that they were very sensitive and easily shocked. But, as with Warrior, risks had to be taken and my confidence in my abilities as a surgeon had risen considerably since the morning’s achievement.

I got a bell jar from the dispensary and a swab of cotton wool. Then the instruments, a scalpel, forceps and fine needle and suture — it seemed quite odd that, although smaller, the needs for both bull and budgerigar were nearly the same.

Carefully I removed Peter from the cage and placed him under the jar. Then quickly I moistened the cotton wool with ether and slipped it in after him.

The bird made no move to panic or flutter about. He just stood there, head gently nodding. Then I noticed the third eyelid becoming more prominent — the ether was obviously having its effect. Peter opened his beak as if to yawn, then he shuddered and fell over on his side.

I left him for a few seconds to ensure he was fully anaesthetised, then lifted the jar, withdrew the tiny feathered scrap and laid it on the table.

He was indeed, very still — there was no movement of breast feathers or any part of the chest. I moved him gently with my finger, and as I did so he began to extend his legs, then his tiny claws clenched and relaxed again — and I knew that Peter was dead.

Unpredictable death is a terrible thing, an almost unrealistic state of affairs, even when it’s only a budgerigar.

It’s the awful finality and the realisation that things can never be the same again. Something that everyone, but vets in particular, must get used to — but at that moment, I just wasn’t used to it. ‘Shock’ covers it all — and I was shocked.

Miss Billings was understanding and told me it was not my fault, which I had already tried to tell myself. In fact, it was not the budgie for which I was upset — it was for Billy. Billy, whose parting words, ‘I’ll be back for you tomorrow. Now don’ you worry,’ still rang in my ears.

It was ironic that after all my worry about Warrior and the consequent success of the morning, instead of finishing work in a state of elation, I drove back to the digs depressed over the death of a budgerigar.

Meeting Diana that evening cheered me up considerably, and probably I bored her by talking about people and pets, but she didn’t complain. I tried to keep telling myself that it was just one of those things and I shouldn’t get so involved, but despite all the reasoning, I still wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Billy the following evening.

Warrior looked magnificent when I visited Donhill next morning.

‘Never worried him one bit,’ said Mason. ‘Give him some sweet hay last night an’ he cleared the lot. Bit tender behind, but nothing like as lame as he used to be. The boss ain’t half pleased and you’re to go to the house when you’ve finished.’

I gave Warrior another large dose of penicillin and, after satisfying myself that the bandages were still good, I went for my audience with Paxton.

I was ushered into his presence in a grand book-lined study by the greyhaired lady, who didn’t introduce herself, but who I assumed was the housekeeper.

The atmosphere reminded me of a film I had recently seen about the President of the United States, for the old man was seated behind a vast oak desk on which were but four objects: a large open book (probably a diary), a pen and holder on a small marble plinth, a photograph in an ornate frame and a silver box. The rest of the room was heavily curtained and a glass-doored showcase crammed with silver cups and trophies stretched the length of the far wall. Every other available wall space was hung with photographs of Hereford cattle, while over an Adam fireplace was an oil painting, unmistakably of Warrior.

‘Sit down, Lasgarn,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen him, then?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and he’s doing very well.’

He leaned across the desk, opened the silver box and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head and he snapped the lid shut.

‘I’m very pleased with you, that was a good piece of work,’ he continued, still fixing me with his usual steely glare. There was a silence as if he was waiting for a response. ‘Well!’ he barked impatiently. ‘You can at least smile. I don’t usually hand out compliments!’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ Paxton shouted. ‘You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence!’

The analogy was so much the opposite that I had to smile. ‘No, Mr Paxton,’ I replied, ‘it’s the other way about.’

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ he roared.

So I told him all about Billy Bent and his budgerigar.

According to form, he should have leapt up from the desk and berated me for wasting his time, but he didn’t, and instead listened intently to everything that I said.

When I had finished, he rubbed his chin rather roughly with his stubby fingers, then shook his head and the faintest of faint smiles ventured from the corner of his mouth.

‘Come with me, Lasgarn,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘Come with me.’

I followed him through the French windows and along a paved pathway to a door that led into a walled garden. Like everything else at Donhill, the vegetation was flourishing — raspberry canes laden, strawberries in abundance, lettuces, onions, peas and beans, all of the highest quality. Eventually we came to a long, low building where Paxton halted and, taking a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the door.

‘Go on in!’ he ordered, motioning with his cane. ‘See what you think of that!’

He stood back and I walked up the stone steps and into an aviary, the most exotic I could ever have imagined. My entry precipitated an explosion of noise, colour and activity, kaleidoscopic in the extreme. Large airy cages of glossy parakeets, twittering finches, apple-green love-birds, bronze-winged mannikins, sulphur-crested cockatoos and budgerigars by the hundred.

I could do nothing but stand and absorb the fusion of sights and sounds that enveloped my whole person. As if replacing a cork in a bottle, when Paxton closed the door behind him, the cacophony gradually subsided until it was reduced to a melodic harmony and the birds settled on their perches or sank inside their nesting boxes again.

‘How about that, then?’ asked Paxton proudly.

‘Magnificent,’ I admitted. ‘Absolutely magnificent.’

He leaned against the side of an enclosure which housed at least one hundred Java sparrows, each one immaculate in neat grey plumage, black head and white cheek patches. They fluttered up nervously, rearranging their positions several times until, finally, they calmed and sat, looking down their bulbous, rose-coloured beaks at Paxton and myself.

‘I rarely bring anyone in here,’ he said. ‘This is my place, a place to remind me …’ He straightened up, moving from the support of the enclosure, then leaned forward, both hands on his cane. ‘You think I’m an arrogant bastard, don’t you?’

I made no comment.

‘Go on! Go on! Admit it!’

I nodded.

‘Of course you do! Of course you do!’ he hissed. ‘And you’re right, I am!’ Paxton straightened up as if proud of the fact, and the Java sparrows twittered nervously and rearranged themselves once again. ‘And, Lasgarn, I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell you why.’

It brought back memories of the Ancient Mariner from my schooldays, for the tale I could not choose but hear.

‘When I was a lad,’ began Paxton, ‘up North and many moons ago, we lived on a large estate.’ His upper lip curled malevolently — it was obviously not a happy memory.

‘My father worked on the land and my mother was in service — and they were treated like dirt!’ Paxton all but spat upon the ground. ‘My father died at thirty — worked to death. And my mother — they took advantage of her, too …’ From his eyes, I detected there was more to that than was said. ‘I had a pet jackdaw, Barley I called him, because I found him on the edge of a barley field one Summer. His wing was broken and he could only just flitter a few feet from the ground. But I took him home and cared for him, fed him and made a pen in the garden of our cottage. That bird was my whole life.’ The old man shook his head and looked up at the roof; he was upset, there was no doubt about it. ‘Barley would ride on my shoulder, and if he ever left it, no more than three or four yards he would go, then back he’d come with just enough wing beat to get onto my shoulder again. Well, one day I was walking through the wood to wait for Mother coming home from the Court, when His Lordship’s two sons came by. They had three dogs with them, a Springer and two Labradors, one black and one yellow, and when they saw me, the dogs came at me as if I was a hare. I stood my ground, but Barley panicked and fluttered up into a beech tree and wouldn’t come down. I called and coaxed, but he wouldn’t budge.

‘We’ll get him down for you,’ they said and ran off. ‘I thought they were going to get a ladder.’ Paxton looked up at the roof again and then closed his hand over his face. ‘But when they came back, they had a gun. And the bastards shot Barley right out of the tree.’

For a few moments, he stood, incensed by the memory of the tragedy so indelibly imprinted upon his mind. Then he took a deep breath and continued.

‘I was eight at the time, the same age as your Billy Bent. But that experience changed my whole personality. I’d been a quiet, even shy boy before, but after that, I swore I’d get even. And, by God, I did!’

I was eager to ask how, but there was no need, for Paxton was oblivious of my presence, he was re-living his past with all the aggression and venom which life had inflicted upon him.

‘I worked, I sweated, I slaved. I bought and sold scrap. Then the War came. The Great War — that was a misnomer, if ever there was one. I saw men killed and killed men myself. I took orders, then I became a sergeant and I gave orders. I was in the thick of it. And I saw officers at the back and soldiers at the front. They even gave me a medal.

‘When I came out, Lasgarn, I got back into business and I trod on people and hurt people and barged my way through life. I bought property, then a factory and another factory, went into engineering, until by the time I was fifty I had made a fortune.

‘Then the estate where I was born came up for sale, but it was so run-down they couldn’t get a bid. And they came and asked me if I was interested. What d’you think of that, Lasgarn? They came and asked the servant’s son. And what did I do?’ He looked above and beyond me, searching  for the golden filmstrip sunset, like the Brigadier on my deferment board. ‘I laughed in their bloody faces, Lasgarn, that’s what I did. Laughed in their bloody faces!’

Suddenly, as if the emotion had sapped all his energy, he leaned back rather heavily against the sparrow enclosure and I moved forward, thinking he was about to collapse, but he waved his hand to show he was all right.

‘So, I sold up and moved down here,’ he continued. ‘And I decided to have the best — the best land, the best crops, the best livestock — and the finest collection of birds that money could buy.’ He waved his cane about expansively. ‘And all, Lasgarn, all, you might say, because of a dead jackdaw.’

He was quiet for a while and I was uncertain how to respond. Certainly he wouldn’t thank me for any commiseration. Then he smiled briefly and wistfully: ‘But I never had any time for anything else. Time to get married, time to raise a family. Oh, I’ve got some grand nieces that come down from time to time, but they don’t come so much now. I’m a successful but miserable old man, Lasgarn, and I don’t know why I’ve told you all this.’

I raised my eyebrows, but made no comment, for indeed, I too was at a loss to know why he had revealed his background to me.

‘Billy Bent,’ he said, as if that was the answer. ‘You bring him out here to see my birds and he shall have the smartest pair of budgerigars in the county to go home with.’

Before I could even thank him, he was motioning for me to leave, and he followed, locking the aviary behind him. We came to another door leading back to the farm. ‘What I’ve told you goes no further, d’you understand,’ he grunted, showing me through. ‘Don’t think I’m asking for sympathy, I’m not! And don’t think I’ll make life any easier for you, because I won’t! I’ll ride you as hard as anybody!’ I looked back at him as he started to close the door behind me; he was grinning. ‘But I know you can take it,’ he added. ‘Bring that young Billy out on Saturday — and bring that young lady of yours, too. I know she’d like to see my birds.’

With that, he slammed the door, leaving me standing alone on the yard.

* * *

Billy didn’t cry when I told him that Peter had died — in fact, it might have been easier for me if he had. He just kept searching my face with his sad little eyes as if I had spoken in a foreign language that he didn’t understand. I explained that Peter was very weak and the operation was really the only hope, but he didn’t respond. Even when I told him of Mr Paxton’s offer, he just shrugged his shoulders and said he would have to ask his Gran.

As I had only two further clients, I suggested that, if he waited, I would take him back home in my car and we could then ask his grandmother. That seemed to cheer him up more than anything.

‘Can we take Peter home, too?’ he asked.

‘You’re going to bury him?’

He nodded. ‘Of course you can,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it together.’

When we arrived, Billy’s Gran was sweeping the steps of the little terraced house behind the railway station. I explained about Peter and the proposed visit to Donhill and she was happy about the idea.

‘Don’t get much attention with his Dad gone and his Mam in hospital,’ she admitted.

‘How is his mother?’ I enquired.

The old lady shook her head, indicating a hopeless situation. ‘Matter of months,’ she said forlornly. ‘But it’ll be a blessing. Anyway, a trip in the country will do Billy the world of good. Thank you very much. I’ll have him ready at two.’

There was only a postage stamp garden, but Billy chose a spot in the corner of a straggling flower bed and we buried Peter in a cardboard bandage box that I had in the car. Billy put a small ring of stones around the patch.

And so, after laying Peter to rest and promising to call at two o’clock on Saturday, I went back to the digs.

Saturday was hot and dry. The ground lay parched and hard, for there had been little rain for five weeks, but the corn was turning fast and the countryside looked well as we drove out to Donhill. Diana and I had collected Billy at two, looking as if he had been through a laundry and smelling of carbolic.

Paxton acted like a benevolent uncle, a role of which I would never have thought him capable.

The greyhaired lady served tea on the lawn with sandwiches, cakes, strawberries and cream, and Billy ate as if it was his last day on earth. The old man was charm itself to Diana, calling her ‘my dear’, and guiding her gently by the elbow wherever he took her.

We saw Warrior and the rest of the Hereford cattle, the thoroughbred Arabs, the flock of pedigree Suffolks, the rose gardens, the lake and, finally, the aviary.

Billy looked quite frightened when he first entered, unable to comprehend the sudden intensity of noise and colour. But once he acclimatised, the little lad couldn’t stop asking questions, and Paxton answered every one with an equal enthusiasm.

Finally, the old man produced a pair of budgerigars, one green and the other blue, just like Peter, for Billy to take home. And, not only did he provide the birds, but a brand new, brightwired cage with all the equipment as well. Without any prompting, Billy thanked him, and I suspected that both man and boy had tears in their eyes. I know Diana had.

Paxton had said very little to me all afternoon, concentrating entirely on Diana and the boy. It was only when we were leaving that he took much notice of me at all. Billy had run on ahead and climbed the paddock rails to take a last look at the Herefords; then, giving them a wave, he ran back towards us.

‘Well, Billy,’ said Paxton, ‘have you enjoyed yourself?’

‘Yes, please. Thank you very much,’ Billy replied.

‘I suppose that one day, you’d like to be a farmer like me, with all these cows?’

Billy looked back at the grazing herd, then around at the buildings and, finally, towards the great house, as if weighing up the prospects. Then he took hold of Diana’s hand and said: ‘No, thank you. I’d rather be like Mr Lasgarn.’

Paxton tapped his cane, but once, then turned to face me.

‘Lasgarn,’ he said, nodding his head gently as if, after much deliberation, he had finally come to a conclusion. ‘Lasgarn, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: you’re a very fortunate fellow.’

And with that, I had to agree.