All Things Bright and Beautiful (26 page)

I looked back at the enormous white billows and folds of the fells, crowding close, one upon another into the blue distance, every crevice uncannily defined, the highest summits glittering where the sun touched them. I could see the village with the Kirby’s cottage at the end. I had found Christmas and peace and goodwill and everything back there.

Farmers? They were the salt of the earth.

M
ARMADUKE
S
KELTON WAS AN
object of interest to me long before our paths crossed. For one thing I hadn’t thought people were ever called Marmaduke outside of books and for another he was a particularly well known member of the honourable profession of unqualified animal doctors.

Before the Veterinary Surgeons’ Act of 1948 anybody who fancied his chance at it could dabble in the treatment of animal disease. Veterinary students could quite legally be sent out to cases while they were seeing practice, certain members of the lay public did a bit of veterinary work as a sideline while others did it as a full time job. These last were usually called “quacks.”

The disparaging nature of the term was often unjust because, though some of them were a menace to the animal population, others were dedicated men who did their job with responsibility and humanity and after the Act were brought into the profession’s fold as Veterinary Practitioners.

But long before all this there were all sorts and types among them. The one I knew best was Arthur Lumley, a charming little ex-plumber who ran a thriving small animal practice in Brawton, much to the chagrin of Mr. Angus Grier MRCVS. Arthur used to drive around in a small van. He always wore a white coat and looked very clinical and efficient, and on the side of the van in foot-high letters which would have got a qualified man a severe dressing down from the Royal College was the legend, “Arthur Lumley M.K.C., Canine and Feline Specialist.” The lack of “letters” after their name was the one thing which differentiated these men from qualified vets in the eyes of the general public and I was interested to see that Arthur did have an academic attainment. However the degree of M.K.C. was unfamiliar to me and he was somewhat cagey when I asked him about it, I did find out eventually what it stood for: Member of the Kennel Club.

Marmaduke Skelton was a vastly different breed. I had been working long enough round the Scarburn district to become familiar with some of the local history and it seemed that when Mr. and Mrs. Skelton were producing a family in the early 1900’s they must have thought their offspring were destined for great things; they named their four sons Marmaduke, Sebastian, Cornelius and, incredibly, Alonzo. The two middle brothers drove lorries for the Express Dairy and Alonzo was a small farmer; one of my vivid memories is the shock of surprise when I was filling up the forms after his tuberculin test and asked him for his first name. The exotic appellation pronounced in gruff Yorkshire was so incongruous that I thought he was pulling my leg; in fact I was going to make a light comment but something in his eye prompted me to leave it alone.

Marmaduke, or Duke as he was invariably called, was the colourful member of the family. I had heard a lot about him on my visits to the Scarburn farms; he was a “right good hand” at calving, foaling and lambing, and “as good as any vitnery” in the diagnosis and treatment of animals’ ailments. He was also an expert castrator, docker and pig-killer. He made a nice living at his trade and in Ewan Ross he had the ideal professional opposition; a veterinary surgeon who worked only when he felt like it and who didn’t bother to go to a case unless he was in the mood. Much as the farmers liked and in many cases revered Ewan, they were often forced to fall back on Duke’s services. Ewan was in his fifties and unable to cope with the growing volume of testing in his Scarburn practice. I used to help him out with it and in consequence saw a lot of Ewan and his wife, Ginny.

If Duke had confined his activities to treating his patients I don’t think Ewan would ever have spared him a thought; but Skelton liked to enliven his farm visits with sneers about the old Scotch vet who had never been much good and was definitely getting past it now. Maybe even that didn’t get very far under Ewan’s skin but at the mention of his rival’s name his mouth would harden a little and a ruminative expression creep into the blue eyes.

And it wasn’t easy to like Duke. There were the tales you heard about his savage brawls and about how he knocked his wife and children around when the mood was on him. I didn’t find his appearance engaging either when I first saw him swaggering across Scarburn market place; a black bull of a man, a shaggy Heathcliffe with fierce, darting eyes and a hint of braggadocio in the bright red handkerchief tied round his neck.

But on this particular afternoon I wasn’t thinking about Duke Skelton, in fact I wasn’t thinking about anything much as I sprawled in a chair by the Ross’s fireside. I had just finished one of Ginny’s lunches; something with the unassuming name of fish pie but in truth a magical concoction in which the humble haddock was elevated to unimagined heights by the admixture of potatoes, tomatoes, eggs, macaroni and things only Ginny knew. Then the apple crumble and the chair close to the fire with the heat from the flames beating on my face.

The thoughts I had were slumberous ones; that this house and the people in it had come to have a magnetic attraction for me; that if this had been a big successful practice the phone would have been dinging and Ewan would be struggling into his coat as he chewed his last bite. And an unworthy thought as I glanced through the window at the white garden and the snow-burdened trees; that if I didn’t hurry back to Darrowby, Siegfried might do double the work and finish the lot before I got home.

Playing with the soothing picture of the muffled figure of my boss battling round the farms I watched Ginny placing a coffee cup by her husband’s elbow. Ewan smiled up into her face and just then the phone rang.

Like most vets I am bell-happy and I jumped, but Ewan didn’t. He began quietly to sip his coffee as Ginny picked up the receiver and he didn’t change expression when his wife came over and said, “It’s Tommy Thwaite. One of his cows has put its calf bed out.”

These dread tidings would have sent me leaping round the room but Ewan took a long swallow at his coffee before replying.

“Thank you, dear. Will you tell him I’ll have a look at her shortly.”

He turned to me and began to tell me something funny which had happened to him that morning and when he had finished he went into his characteristic laugh—showing nothing apart from a vibration of the shoulders and a slight popping of the eyes. Then he relaxed in his chair and recommenced his leisurely sipping.

Though it wasn’t my case my feet were itching. A bovine prolapsed uterus was not only an urgent condition but it held such grim promise of hard labour that I could never get it over quickly enough. Some were worse than others and I was always in a hurry to find out what was in store.

Ewan, however, appeared to be totally incurious. In fact he closed his eyes and I thought for a moment he was settling down for a post prandial nap. But it was only a gesture of resignation at the wrecking of his afternoon’s repose and he gave a final stretch and got up.

“Want to come with me, Jim?” he asked in his soft voice.

I hesitated for a moment then, callously abandoning Siegfried to his fate, I nodded eagerly and followed Ewan into the kitchen.

He sat down and pulled on a pair of thick woolen over-socks which Ginny had been warming by the stove, then he put on his Wellingtons, a short overcoat, yellow gloves and a check cap. As he strolled along the narrow track which had been dug through the garden snow he looked extraordinarily youthful and debonair.

He didn’t go into his dispensary this time and I wondered what equipment he would use, thinking at the same time of Siegfried’s words: “Ewan has his own way of doing everything.”

At the farm Mr. Thwaite trotted over to meet us. He was understandably agitated but there was something else; a nervous rubbing of the hands, an uneasy giggle as he watched my colleague opening the car boot.

“Mr. Ross,” he blurted out at last, “I don’t want you to be upset, but I’ve summat to tell you.” He paused for a moment. “Duke Skelton’s in there with my cow.”

Ewan’s expression did not flicker. “Oh, right. Then you won’t need me.” He closed the boot, opened the door and got back into the car.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean you to go away!” Mr. Thwaite ran round and cried through the glass. “Duke just happened to be in t’village and he said he’d help me out.”

“Fine,” Ewan said, winding down the window, “I don’t mind in the least. I’m sure he’ll do a good job for you.”

The farmer screwed up his face in misery. “But you don’t understand. He’s been in there for about an hour and a half and he’s no further forward. He’s not doin’ a bit o’ good and he’s about buggered an’ all. I want you to take over, Mr. Ross.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Ewan gave him a level stare. “I couldn’t possibly interfere. You know how it is, Tommy. He’s begun the job—I’ve got to let him finish.” He started the engine.

“No, no, don’t go!” shouted Mr. Thwaite, beating the car roof with his hands. “Duke’s whacked, I tell ye. If you drive away now ah’m going to lose one of ma best cows. You’ve got to help me, Mr. Ross!” He seemed on the verge of tears.

My colleague looked at him thoughtfully as the engine purred. Then he bent forward and turned off the ignition. “All right, I’ll tell you what—I’ll go in there and see what he says. If he wants me to help, then I will.”

I followed him into the byre and as we paused just inside the door Duke Skelton looked up from his work. He had been standing head down, one hand resting on the rump of a massive cow, his mouth hanging open, his great barrel chest heaving. The thick hair over his shoulders and ribs was matted with blood from the huge everted uterus which dangled behind the animal. Blood and filth streaked his face and covered his arms and as he stared at us from under his shaggy brows he looked like something from the jungle.

“Well now, Mr. Skelton,” Ewan murmured conversationally, “How are you getting on?”

Duke gave him a quick malevolent glance. “Ah’m doin’ all right.” The words rumbled from deep down through his gaping lips.

Mr. Thwaite stepped forward, smiling ingratiatingly. “Come on, Duke, you’ve done your best. I think you should let Mr. Ross give you a ’and now.”

“Well ah don’t.” The big man’s jaw jutted suddenly. “If I was lookin’ for help I wouldn’t want ’IM.” He turned away and seized the uterus. Hoisting it in his arms he began to push at it with fierce concentration.

Mr. Thwaite turned to us with an expression of despair and opened his mouth to lament again, but Ewan silenced him with a raised hand, pulled a milking stool from a corner and squatted down comfortably against a wall. Unhurriedly he produced his little pouch and, one-handed, began to make a cigarette; as he licked the paper, screwed up the end and applied a match he gazed with blank eyes at the sweating, struggling figure a few feet from him.

Duke had got the uterus about half way back. Grunting and gasping, legs straddled, he had worked the engorged mass inch by inch inside the vulva till he had just about enough cradled in his arms for one last push; and as he stood there taking a breather with the great muscles of his shoulders and arms rigid his immense strength was formidably displayed. But he wasn’t as strong as that cow. No man is as strong as a cow and this cow was one of the biggest I had ever seen with a back like a table top and rolls of fat round her tail-head.

I had been in this position myself and I knew what was coming next. I didn’t have to wait long. Duke took a long wheezing breath and made his assault, heaving desperately, pushing with arms and chest, and for a second or two he seemed to be winning as the mass disappeared steadily inside. Then the cow gave an almost casual strain and the whole thing welled out again till it hung down bumping against the animal’s hocks.

As Duke almost collapsed against her pelvis in the same attitude as when we first came in I felt pity for the man. I found him uncharming but I felt for him. That could easily be me standing there; my jacket and shirt hanging on that nail, my strength ebbing, my sweat mingling with the blood. No man could do what he was trying to do. You could push back a calf bed with the aid of an epidural anaesthetic to stop the straining or you could sling the animal up to a beam with a block and tackle; you couldn’t just stand there and do it from scratch as this chap was trying to do.

I was surprised Duke hadn’t learned that with all his experience; but apparently it still hadn’t dawned on him even now because he was going through all the motions of having another go. This time he got even further—a few more inches inside before the cow popped it out again. The animal appeared to have a sporting streak because there was something premeditated about the way she played her victim along before timing her thrust at the very last moment. Apart from that she seemed somewhat bored by the whole business; in fact with the possible exception of Ewan she was the calmest among us.

Duke was trying again. As he bent over wearily and picked up the gory organ I wondered how often he had done this since he arrived nearly two hours ago. He had guts, there was no doubt. But the end was near. There was a frantic urgency about his movements as though he knew himself it was his last throw and as he yet again neared his goal his grunts changed to an agonised whimpering, an almost tearful sound as though he were appealing to the recalcitrant mass, beseeching it to go away inside and stay away, just this once.

And when the inevitable happened and the poor fellow, panting and shaking, surveyed once more the ruin of his hopes I had the feeling that somebody had to do something.

Mr. Thwaite did it. “You’ve had enough, Duke,” he said. “For God’s sake come in the house and get cleaned up. Missus’ll give you a bit o’ dinner and while you’re having it Mr. Ross’ll see what he can do.”

The big man, arms hanging limp by his sides, chest heaving, stared at the farmer for a few seconds then he turned abruptly and snatched his clothes from the wall.