It's a Vet's Life: (10 page)

‘It is the one though,’ I agree, smoothing the silk at the front and the back. ‘It fits perfectly.’ A thought occurs to me though and I turn to examine my rear in the mirrors.

‘Does my—?’ I begin.

‘Absolutely not,’ Emma cuts in. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your bum.’

‘You have a most shapely derrière,’ says Cara, and I find that the bride is blushing again.

‘Whatever you do, don’t let the groom have a sneak preview,’ says Cara. ‘Remember it’s unlucky if he sees the bride in her dress before the wedding.’ She tips her head to one side and smiles, flashing her fiercely white teeth. ‘I’m sure most grooms take advantage of that superstition to avoid long shopping trips with their brides-to-be.’

‘Mine does,’ I smile back. ‘Alex hates shopping.’ I turn to Emma. ‘Do you think he’ll like it?’

‘Alex won’t be able to keep his eyes – or his hands – off you.’

Pets Win Prizes

IT’S THE DAY
of the Country Show, one of Talyton St George’s annual social events and highlight of the year for many. The weather doesn’t disappoint by breaking with tradition. We’ve had heavy rain overnight and the forecast is for sunshine and showers.

Recalling my very first experience of the event when I wrecked my coolest pair of pumps in ankle-deep red Devon mud, I choose to wear a practical down-to-earth pair of green wellies. Having gradually morphed from a city girl to a country vet, my transformation is complete with a waxed coat. Do I regret it? I don’t need to express myself through fashion any more, but – call me shallow – I do miss it sometimes. Perhaps I’ll make up for it by choosing something special for the honeymoon.

Lucie and Seb are staying with us for the weekend and, although we agreed that Alex wouldn’t be on duty, leaving me with the three children when he’s out on a call, guess what – he is.

Alex and I travel to the showground with George.
Sophia
drives the horsebox, taking Lucie, Seb and Lucie’s pony who’s entered for the Mounted Games as a member of the Pony Club team.

Alex parks the four-by-four in the ‘Officials’ section of the field that’s roped off from the other parking, and close to the entrance of the show where we are allowed to bypass the turnstiles for the general public of Talyton St George and from miles around. Once we’re in, Alex pushing George through the wet grass in the buggy, Fifi Green greets us with a balloon on a stick for George. My maternal feelings kick in and I start worrying about George poking his eye out.

As I bend forward to remove it from his grasp, Alex says, ‘Leave it, Maz. I’m watching.’

‘He might hurt himself.’

‘He’ll soon learn,’ Alex says.

I turn back to Fifi, resisting the urge to comment that I don’t want George learning by experience, not yet anyway.

Fifi’s hair is copper and blonde, with a fixed wave. Her eyelashes have to be false, as are her nails, and probably her teeth. She’s wearing a canary yellow blouse and a navy and yellow spotted A-line skirt, wedge-heeled wellies and a blue beret set at a jaunty angle.

‘I hope you appreciate the hat, Maz,’ she says, noticing me looking at it. It isn’t her usual style. ‘We have guests from our twin town here today. It’s my contribution to the entente cordiale.’

I catch sight of Alex winking at me and try not to giggle. Fifi means well, but she can be over the top sometimes.

Fifi tweaks the scarf at her neck. She’s getting on a
little
bit now, in her sixties, but she’s determined not to show it. I don’t blame her. I hope I’m half as energetic at her age.

‘Where’s your father?’ she says. ‘I told him to be here half an hour earlier than I wanted him, so he’d be on time. Isn’t he with you?’

‘You’ll have to make do with me today,’ Alex says. ‘Father is sick.’

‘Sick? Are you sure?’ Fifi says, her voice rising in surprise.

‘Quite certain,’ says Alex. ‘I heard it from the horse’s mouth this morning!’

‘Oh, dear.’ Fifi sounds somewhat deflated.

‘You can tell he’s feeling rough if he isn’t here. He wouldn’t normally miss this for anything.’

‘Is there anything I can do? I’m sure I can rally the troops to take some chicken soup or crab apple jelly up to the Manor.’

By the troops, Fifi means the good ladies of the WI, of which she is Chairperson.

‘That won’t be necessary, Fifi.’ Alex flashes me a glance, rolling his eyes. ‘I expect Mother’s thrown a bit of bute into his breakfast.’

‘Bute?’ Fifi frowns, wrinkling her brow and I think, Botox can’t have reached Talyton St George just yet, because, if it had, Fifi would have been first in the queue.

‘Bute – it’s an anti-inflammatory drug for horses,’ Alex explains. ‘I was joking, Fifi.’

It takes her a second or two to realise what he’s said, but when it sinks in, she takes Alex’s hand and gives it a tap.

‘Naughty boy. You’re just like your father.’

Not too much like him, I think, amused. I would
never
have agreed to marry someone like Old Fox-Gifford.

‘It’s such a shame he couldn’t be here,’ Fifi says wistfully. I’ve always thought she has a soft spot for Alex’s father. ‘He’s so good at these things.’

Alex is listening, his expression impassive and I wonder what he’s thinking, if he resents being in his father’s shadow.

‘When’s he going to make you a senior partner then?’ Fifi goes on. ‘I’d say you were old enough by now.’

‘Ah, but he’d have to pay me more, Fifi, and you know how tight he is,’ Alex says lightly.

‘Come along then. We’ll have to make do with you,’ Fifi continues. ‘At least we have a representative from each practice.’

Three years ago, I had the dubious honour of judging the class for the Best Pet with Old Fox-Gifford. The next time we sent Drew, the locum. Last year, Emma did it, under sufferance.

‘We’d better make a start. You should have these.’ Fifi hands out ‘Judge’ badges. George takes a fancy to mine and, for the sake of peace and quiet, I let him have it. It isn’t a pin-on one. It’s supposed to thread through a buttonhole. Fifi purses her lips in disapproval, and disappears into the ticket booth to find another one.

‘There you go, Maz. Please don’t let it fall into the wrong hands. The free lunch is exclusively for our show officials. But it’s all right to bring George along, if you need to,’ she adds.

‘Thanks, Fifi,’ I say, not wishing to upset her by letting her know I’m not all that keen on the idea of lunch.

‘I remembered, Maz,’ she says, as if she can read my mind. ‘I’ve asked Elsa to provide a vegetarian option this year. There’s a hog roast for the carnivores.’ She glances from me to Alex and back. ‘It’s a happy pig, Maz.’

‘Was a happy pig,’ I correct her gently.

We follow Fifi along the main avenue, walking between the marquees and stalls with their rails of waxed coats, deerstalkers and boots, and everything you could possibly need for your horse and dog – because most people here are accompanied by either a spaniel, a Labrador or a terrier of some or other variety. There are sober-looking men in country tweeds, selling farm insurance and contracts for maintaining milking machines. There aren’t many takers for the Hen Welfare tombola which is right next to Talyton Animal Rescue’s, but there’s quite a crowd around the next stall, Jennie’s Cakes.

‘Isss …’ George waves his balloon and points towards a shining tractor on display. ‘Isss. There Iss.’

‘George, it’s a tractor,’ Fifi says. ‘Tractor …’

‘It’s Travis,’ says Alex. ‘Travis the tractor from Bob the Builder.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘And I should know. I’m the world authority on those stories. Seb loved them, and George does too.’

We round the corner past the WI tent. I stop and take a look inside to give Frances a wave, but she’s arranging scones on a plate at one of the long trestle tables and doesn’t see me.

‘Horsey,’ George says, pointing with his balloon as we pass the farriery display. Sophia has taught him well.

‘It’s going to be a great day,’ says Fifi. ‘All the organisation will have been worth it.’

The air is sweet with the scent of deep-frying doughnuts and coffee, and the atmosphere electric with the sound of generators and a crackly public address system.

‘Hi, Alex. Hello, Maz.’ Chris, Izzy’s husband, shouts a greeting as he drives a handful of woolly sheep along the next avenue with the help of two collie dogs, only one of whom has its mind on the job. The other comes trotting over to see us.

Chris puts his fingers between his teeth and whistles, but the dog, a striking black, tan and white collie, ignores him. ‘Freddie, get back here!’ Chris yells.

‘Go on, Freddie,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll get the sack, if you’re not careful.’

Freddie was one of ours – Otter House Vets’, that is. Either his owner was completely heartless, or she really thought she couldn’t afford the fees, but she dumped him at the practice soon after I began working there. Freddie was seriously ill, but he pulled through with supportive treatment and Izzy’s nursing care. Izzy took him to Chris’s farm to see if he had any aptitude as a sheepdog. It turned out that he hadn’t, and it doesn’t matter because, without Freddie, Chris and Izzy wouldn’t have got together.

When we reach the Pet Show ring that’s divided off from the main thoroughfare with bales of straw, posts and rope, there are competitors already waiting. My heart sinks a little. There are about thirty of them with all kinds of animals: dogs, cats and rabbits, some on leads, some in carriers. There are rats and hamsters too, a duck, a python and what looks like a tarantula in a box.

There’s Raffles who belongs to the Pitts, Stewart and Lynsey. He’s being shown off by their eldest boy,
Sam
. Raffles is one of ours, but Alex looks after the cows on the family farm. Raffles, though short on legs, is long on character. He would win for being the cutest pet, with his reddish tan coat and fluffy blond knickerbockers.

Saba, the standard poodle, would win for being the most glamorous pet. Her curly black coat is newly trimmed, and her collar and lead studded with what look like Swarovski crystals. Her owner, Aurora, is dressed in black leather trousers, long boots, and a short jacket.

Cheryl from the Copper Kettle, the tea shop, is here too. She used to be one of ours, but moved on to another small animal practice some way away, after an unfortunate misunderstanding. I gave her prize-winning stud cat a closer shave than she thought she’d asked for, when she brought him in to Otter House for a tidy-up.

She’s brought the same cat, Blueboy, a blue Persian, along today. He’s wearing a harness and sitting on a cushion that’s covered with bling. Cheryl wears grey trousers and a waistcoat covered with cat motifs. Cats dangle from her earrings and bracelet. Her hair is short and dark, except at the roots where it’s silvery grey.

‘This is going to be a bit of a marathon,’ Alex says aside to me. ‘How on earth are we going to choose?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, smiling. ‘What did you and your father used to do before Emma turned up and opened her practice? You must have had a system of some sort.’ When he doesn’t respond, I go on, ‘The first and last time I did this, we gave points out of ten for each animal, and Fifi added the two judges’ scores together to give a final score. The pet with the most
points
wins.’ I pause. ‘Or we could decide to go for the cutest, or the most exotic.’

‘Or the one in the best condition,’ Alex says.

‘How do you tell if a tarantula is in good condition?’

‘Count its legs? You tell me, you’re the small animal specialist,’ Alex grins. ‘Come on, we’d better hand George over to Mother and make a start, otherwise we’ll be here all day.’

Sophia joins us with Seb and Lucie on the other side of the ropes. Lucie has her blonde hair tied back with a purple ribbon, and she’s already kitted out in her riding gear: white shirt, Pony Club tie and jodhpurs. Seb, who takes after Alex in appearance, wears a blue checked shirt and slops about in wellies that are at least two sizes too big for him.

‘I’ll look after George.’ Lucie drags the buggy back out of the ring, unclipping the harness and hauling George out. ‘You sit there on the bale,’ she tells him.

‘No,’ he says, and sits down anyway.

‘Lucie has a real knack with little kids,’ I say to Alex.

‘It’s a pity she doesn’t have the same knack with Sebastian,’ he says. ‘Will you be all right there, Mother?’

‘Yes, I’ve roped a couple of the Pony Club mums in to supervise the ponies for the next hour or so. It’s no thanks to your father. He should have been here.’ Sophia turns to Fifi. ‘He’s never had a day off sick, not since he recovered from the bull attack. And that would never have happened, if he hadn’t been so stubborn and gone into the pen with it. Everyone knew he was a rogue.’ I take it she’s referring to the bull, not her husband. ‘They called him Lucifer, after the Devil.’

‘Did you call the doctor?’ Fifi asks.

‘Dr Mackie’s coming out to the Manor after surgery.’

‘He must be dreadfully unwell, if he’s allowed you to call the doctor. Are you sure he should be left on his own?’ Fifi says. When Sophia answers her with a dark stare, she goes on, ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be better soon. Dr Mackie’s such a lovely young man. Did I ever mention he’s done wonders with my bunions?’