Reaching the cockerel, my worst fears were realized. The motionless bird was unmistakably dead, and with tyre marks clearly discernible across his newly elongated neck, it would not require a forensic pathologist to identify the cause of his demise. I stood there frozen to the spot, numb with disbelief, replaying the last few minutes, cursing myself for not getting out of the car to chivvy the flock along to avert this very scenario. Looking down at the cockerel, I saw he was a young, stunning-looking Light Sussex–Maran cross. Or at least he had been. I cursed him for selecting me and my vehicle as his chosen method of extinction. It was a completely unintentional accident, but I felt wretched, and this was the worst possible start to a five-hour-plus farm visit for a client I had never met before. Jackie’s words rang in my ears: ‘He’s a lovely chap if he likes you, but can be quite a character if he doesn’t. I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.’
Somehow I wasn’t so sure, now. Even if I was escorted off the farm there and then, the best I could hope for would be the relentless gibes I would receive on every farm visit for the next month, since the story would certainly be retold at the Wednesday night skittle league, in which many of our clients participated. It would doubtless spread across the county and farming community like wildfire … I looked around surreptitiously. No one had come out of the farmhouse to greet me or to see what was going on. Maybe they weren’t in the kitchen, maybe they weren’t even in the house – maybe this whole event had passed them by completely, and they didn’t even know I had arrived? On the other hand maybe they were even now peering out of one of the windows, watching and waiting to see how I would react.
I was on the horns of a dilemma. Should I pick up the deceased cockerel or leave it where it was? Maybe I could throw it in among the trees, out of sight, where a fox would inevitably remove it in the night. Or should I present it to Mr and Mrs Howard and fess up to my accidental killing of their undoubtedly highly prized cockerel? I knew what I should do, but every fibre of my being wanted to absolve myself of the crime and when the cockerel’s absence was finally noted in a day or two, the blame would squarely be put at the feet of Mr Fox. Furthermore, the prospect of ringing their front door bell and greeting Mr or Mrs Howard for the first time, introducing myself as the new vet and then highlighting my skills at ending rather than saving life by handing over one of their stock that I had so efficiently assassinated, did not exactly fill me with joy.
Still undecided, I found myself bending down and picking the cockerel up. At the same moment, my quandary was independently resolved when a voice suddenly called out from behind me.
‘Good morning, young man. You must be the vet that’s come to do our TB test.’
I jumped up, startled, and turned around in the direction of the declaration, the deceased cockerel limply hanging in my left hand. Like a naughty little boy caught red-handed with something nefarious, I tried hiding the cockerel behind my back.
‘Yes,’ I replied somewhat sheepishly, struggling to find the words to explain why I was holding his dead cockerel.
‘What you got there?’ was the question that naturally followed as he walked across the gravel drive towards me.
‘Um … I’m afraid, that I, er … appear to have had a bit of an accident … with, um, your cockerel. It seems I accidentally ran him over as I was coming down the driveway. I’m – so – incredibly – sorry,’ I mumbled, preparing myself for the berating I knew I was about to receive.
‘Oh? Ha, well that was very skilled of you! Which one is it, let’s have a look at him.’ Shocked and unsure of this response, I dutifully obeyed. Reaching Mr Howard, I handed over my accidental quarry. Mr Howard studied the bird for a moment.
‘Oh, this fella! Don’t you trouble yourself at all about that. We’ve got too many of them. The missus keeps pestering me to knock a few on the head – this one in particular she’ll be delighted to see the back of, the savage little brute. He was probably attacking your wheels, which is why you ran him over. No, I reckon you’ve done us a favour there – but don’t you go charging us, mind!’
Reeling from this unexpected reaction, I didn’t quite get Mr Howard’s joke.
‘Charge you for what?’ I enquired, confused.
‘You know, for the humane dispatch of my killer cockerel,’ he said, laughing.
‘Absolutely, of course not,’ I said quickly, mustering a smile, hugely relieved that this whole unfortunate incident was not, after all, going to destroy my morning or my reputation across the county.
‘So you must be Jonathan. I’m Giles Howard, pleasure to meet you,’ he said, changing the subject as he switched the carcass into his left hand so he could hold out his right for me to shake.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Howard. Sorry again about the cockerel. It’s not exactly how I like to meet a client for the first time!’ I responded, trying to match his good humour.
‘Honestly, don’t worry about it, it was going to happen sooner or later and, as I say, he was a vicious little thing. The wife will be thrilled, and I see you ran over his head and neck, so the rest of the carcass is fine.’ He walked over to the side door of the house, which opened into a large washroom. ‘Mabel,’ he shouted. ‘The vet’s here, and he’s done us a good turn.’
Moments later Mrs Howard appeared. ‘Morning,’ she said, greeting me and then turning to Giles. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said Jonathan’s done us a favour. He’s run over Sid Vicious for you.’ He held up the trophy. ‘Reckon he’s done a pretty professional job, too. We could have it for dinner.’
‘Glad someone can do your dirty work for you!’ Mabel said with a laugh, then turned to me. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it, but thank you all the same. I’ve been trying to get Giles to sort him out for ages. He seemed to know when I hadn’t got my wellies on, and then came out of nowhere, attacking my ankles. I’ve taken to go outside with a broom to shoo him away!’
Tying some bailer twine around its neck, Giles hung the cockerel among the coats and jackets on the rack by the door out of the reach of the three dogs that had rushed to greet their master ahead of Mabel.
‘Fancy a coffee before we start, Jonathan?’ he asked.
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I replied, still trying to process the emotional rollercoaster of the previous ten minutes.
As I followed them into the kitchen, Mabel chipped in: ‘Giles, how about some bacon and eggs for this young man? He seems like he needs fattening up. I bet he barely has time to feed himself, being so busy.’
‘Sounds like a great idea, and I’ll join him. We need to get our strength up for the job ahead.’
And there it was, I had somehow found myself in favour with this delightful couple, and their kind generosity was abounding. I certainly hadn’t earned it, and I would definitely have preferred not to have started the visit by running over their cockerel, regardless of how vicious it was, but what I had perceived as a terrible first impression was in fact the perfect icebreaker. Tucking into my bacon and eggs and supping on my coffee, complete with fresh Jersey milk, I gushed with gratitude at their kindness, confident the TB test would proceed routinely and without complication.