Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [102]
THE LAND THAT TIME FORGOT
One of the questions I’d asked at my interview back in June was ‘Is there any large animal work?’
Eric had been rather vague in his reply: ‘Not much to speak of.’
In one, respect he had been right; there wasn’t a great deal to speak of. But what there was you could have spoken volumes about: the Richardsons with their darling Clementine; Jill and Alex Ryman with Miss Piggy and her dozen piglets; not to mention the headline-grabbing antics of Gert and Daisy, the Saddlebacks belonging to Mildred Millichip. It was enough to cope with – I didn’t relish more. Not for me the midnight calving or lambing, arms up backsides of cows trying to determine whether they were pregnant or not; nor the tedium of TB testing. Give me Miss Millichip any day – even if it meant contending with that wretched new veterinary dictionary of hers.
It was Beryl who first mentioned the Stockwells – Madge and Rosie Stockwell. Yorkshire lasses – sisters – who’d moved south some 30 years back. They owned a small farm – Hawkshill – tucked into the sides of the Downs between Ashton and Chawcombe.
‘A picturesque place, by all accounts,’ said Beryl, standing by the back door in a fug of cigarette smoke. ‘Bit of a time capsule … rare to find these days.’
I was told the Stockwells had a motley collection of sheep and 12 Jersey cows – remnants of more prosperous times when they managed a large flock and herd of both.
‘Never too sure how Eric came to be involved with them,’ Beryl went on. ‘Something to do with a ewe he found lying on her back when out walking one afternoon. The Stockwells saw him struggling with her. Never like to probe too much as you never know what you might turn up. Best to turn a blind eye to it all.’ That was easy for Beryl with hers, but God knows what she was bleating on about. I reckoned she’d been reading too many tales from the Australian Outback.
Anyway, it seemed an ‘association’ – as Beryl put it – between the Stockwells and Eric had been forged that day, and he’d been attending to their needs ever since, often slipping over there when it was quiet at the practice. She imparted that final piece of information with a look that suggested you couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes – or rather her one eye.
Still, shaggy dog stories or not, I wasn’t bothered. If it helped to keep me away from their animal work, then all to the good as far as I was concerned. In the first five months at Prospect House, that’s how it stayed. I had no involvement with the Stockwells … until one weekend in late November.
The call was from Lucy who was on telephone duty at the hospital that Saturday afternoon. The mere sound of her voice filled me with dread. Not at what was likely to be said – some road accident or whelping bitch – no – just the fact that it was Lucy.
We’d hit another sticky patch in our relationship – like the one a few months back. Lucy was going through one of her self-doubt periods again – not, I think, brought on by any problems in her working relationship with Mandy – that seemed to be fine. But to do with us – her and me. We’d had a couple of rows sparked off by something petty. Isn’t that always the case? Blame it on the pressure of work. We both got stretched at times, both got snappy … me so more than her. During our last row, I’d told her to clear out if she didn’t like it; move back to Prospect House. I think she would have if it hadn’t been for the animals. As it was, she volunteered to do more and more phone cover which meant staying overnight and weekends in the hospital flat. We were barely speaking except when duty called. Like this very minute.
‘There’s a cow down at Hawkshill Farm,’ she said bluntly.
Come on, Lucy, I thought, you can do better than this. Who are we talking about? As I asked the question, bells began to ring. Wasn’t it the Stockwell’s farm mentioned by Beryl? Yes, Lucy abruptly confirmed it.
A cow down, eh? Not very specific. Could be due to a number of things, such as … uhm … er … I glanced up at my bookshelf as