It's a Vet's Life: (20 page)

‘They can’t all be booked up,’ Frances says.

‘I bet the good ones are.’ I scratch at a niggling spot on my chin. ‘I wish we’d started planning sooner.’

‘I can help. When I get five minutes, I’ll phone around and give you a list of photographers who are available to save you wasting your time.’

‘Thank you, Frances. That would be great.’ Frances glances towards the car park.

‘Here’s Clive. No Edie again.’ I notice Frances’s sharp intake of breath and the slow, disapproving shake of the head. ‘Poor man.’

‘What do you mean, poor man?’

‘Having a wife who’s a drinker.’

‘Oh, Frances …’ I sigh.

‘She’s an alcoholic,’ Frances goes on.

‘You really shouldn’t listen to gossip.’

‘Edie has her ankle in plaster at the moment.’

‘And?’ I say. ‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

‘She’d had a few too many and tripped over the cat. Fifi told me. She has a friend who works at the Minor Injuries Unit, and she said that Edie came in reeking of drink at ten in the morning.’

‘Sh,’ I say, as Clive pushes the door open. I’m not sure how our clients would take it, finding out how we gossip about them behind their backs.

‘Hello, Clive. How’s Cassie?’

‘She’s here to have her stitches out – the one that’s left. The kittens have taken the rest out for you.’ He smiles. ‘Does that mean I get a discount?’

‘Come on through.’ I usher him into the consulting room. ‘Let’s have a look at her.’

‘She seems well, but she’s lost more weight,’ Clive says, as Cassie shoots out of the box and runs up his chest where she clings with her claws stuck into his T-shirt.

I help him, unpicking her claws from the material, so he can lower her onto the table, turn her over and show me her belly. Cassie stares at me, eyes wide as if she’s assessing me. Friend or foe? She blinks. Friend.

The wound has healed reasonably well, considering the kittens have been sucking at the stitches. All that is left is a thread without a knot. I pull it out with tweezers. Cassie starts purring.

‘She’s relieved to have a break from her babies,’ says Clive. ‘They don’t give her a chance to sleep.’

‘How are the kittens?’

‘They’re growing like mad.’

‘Cassie’s eating well?’ I ask.

‘I think so. Edie would have said … although she doesn’t always notice these things.’ He looks away from me, towards the corner of the table. ‘She isn’t always in a fit state.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘Oh, Maz, I don’t know what to do about it,’ Clive goes on quietly. ‘She’s addicted to drink and can’t, or won’t, see what it’s doing to her. To us. To the business.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I pause. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

‘Thank you. I thought she might come round when Cassie had her kittens, when she had something depending on her, something else to focus on.’ Clive shakes his head. ‘I think she’s getting worse.’

‘Has she seen the doctor, or a counsellor?’ I’m
floundering
. ‘Clive, I know what it’s like to live with a heavy drinker. My father was an alcoholic.’

‘Did he get better?’ Clive asks.

‘I don’t know. It isn’t a story with a happy ending. He left us, walked out on his family and we never heard from him again.’ I shrug resignedly.

‘I didn’t know …’

‘It isn’t something I talk about.’ I swallow back the lump in my throat. I haven’t cried for my dad for years. This is ridiculous. ‘I do wish I’d found him. I’d have loved him to have met George, for George’s sake, not his. I could never forgive him for what he put us through – my mum, brother and me.’

‘It was the drink though?’ Clive gazes at me, challenge in his eyes.

‘I don’t believe that. My father was ill – it’s an illness, isn’t it?’ I pause. ‘It can’t help with you running a pub, being behind the bar …’

‘It’s very hard,’ he admits. ‘Have you finished with Cassie?’ he adds, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Not yet. I’d like to check her over again.’ Cassie stands on the table, purring away and letting me kiss the top of her head. Her gums are pale and she has a murmur I can hear with the stethoscope, a breathy sound of extra turbulence as the blood flows through her heart.

‘Is she all right?’

‘I’m not sure.’ It’s better to admit it than pretend. ‘She’s obviously a good mum, but I wonder if there’s something else going on here.’ I wonder if I’m being paranoid because Clive’s had such bad luck with his dogs before.

‘I’d like to take some blood – just to put my mind at rest.’

‘Go ahead, if you think it’s necessary.’

I call Shannon through to help. Cassie doesn’t like it, but it doesn’t take long.

‘Shannon, if you can run this through the machine this afternoon, I can give you a call at about six, Clive.’

‘Great,’ he says, but I know it might not be, and when I get the results later, they are not good. I call Clive at the pub.

‘I’m afraid there are some changes in the blood,’ I say. ‘Cassie’s anaemic and her kidneys aren’t working properly. Does she drink more than she used to?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed, but she’ll drink out of anything, taps, the birdbath, the toilet.’ Clive hesitates. ‘How serious is this?’

‘Pretty serious. Kidney damage is irreversible. All we can do is support her with drugs and a targeted diet, and retest her in a couple of weeks. If anything changes in the meantime, let me know and I’ll see her before.’

‘What’s caused it? Cassie’s a young cat.’

‘We may never know, but there is a genetic condition that runs in Persian cats, where cysts develop in the kidneys so they don’t function normally.’

‘Can you operate?’

‘No. There’s nothing that can be done.’

‘So …? Does it get worse?’

‘Yes, eventually.’ I can tell from Clive’s tone of voice that he’s upset. I steel myself. ‘Some live longer than others.’

‘If it’s genetic, will the kittens have it too?’

‘I’ll need to take another blood sample to send off to a specialist lab to see if Cassie is carrying the gene for polycystic kidney disease. If she isn’t, the kittens are in
the
clear. If she is, we can test the kittens, or wait and see. People don’t always want to know the whole picture.’

‘Oh no, that is the worst news. I’m gutted … How am I going to tell Edie? It’s just our luck, isn’t it? Sometimes it feels as if life’s just one long bloody slog.’ His voice fades then returns, sounding brighter. ‘It’s finally happened,’ he chuckles blackly. ‘I’ve become a grumpy old man.’

‘Let me know if you need to talk … about anything. Tell me if or when you want to book Cassie in for the blood test, and keep in touch.’

‘Will do. Thanks, Maz.’

I don’t feel as though I deserve any thanks for delivering bad news. It puts the problem with the wedding photographer into perspective. The fact that ours has cancelled, and Frances has failed to find another local professional with availability for the date in December, is a bit of a nightmare but hardly a matter of life and death.

As I turn into the drive up to the Manor later the same day, I take a deep breath. I’m not expecting peace and quiet. Partway along, where the drive curves through an area of parkland, I find a black pony in a head collar and dangling rope on the loose, tearing towards me at full gallop.

Sophia is running up behind it, followed like the Pied Piper of Hamelin by a charge of children in jodhpurs and Pony Club polo shirts. A woman and another girl chase along, taking up the rear.

I jump out of the car.

‘Block it orf, Maz,’ Sophia yells.

I have no choice. As the pony approaches, I can see
the
sheer panic in its eyes, and the sound of its thundering hooves fills my ears. It’s petrified, and I can’t say that I’m too calm either, wondering which way to jump, because if it maintains its line, it will mow me down, or end up on the road, which doesn’t bear thinking about.

Shouting and screaming at it to stop, I wave my arms, at which, to my short-lived relief, it veers away. But it smashes straight into the fence, crashing through the post and rails and cantering towards the pond where it stops and stands under one of the trees, head down, shivering and shaking.

As I approach, slowing down as I reach it so as not to send it galloping off again, I can see blood and sweat dripping from its chest.

‘Steady there, pony,’ I say as soothingly as I can, having run at speed across the field. The pony rolls his eyes at me, showing the whites. He’s hurt and scared, and I wonder what’s happened to upset him like that. Also, I think how lucky it is that he didn’t have a child on his back when he bolted. I walk up to him slowly and make myself small – apparently, ponies like this because it makes you look less of a threat. I reach out and grasp the rope, then move in and rub the pony’s neck at which the gaggle of children that have gathered with Sophia a few metres away utter a collective sigh of relief.

‘Maz, is he all right?’ Sophia comes striding up, takes one look and says, ‘Have you got your mobile? Call Alexander.’ She turns to beckon the woman and girl who have caught up with us. ‘I should wait there, Jennie. It isn’t a pretty sight.’

It’s too late though. Jennie – of Jennie’s Cakes, from whom I ordered the wedding cake – arrives at the
pony’s
head with her daughter, Georgia, who is a year or two older than Lucie.

‘I don’t care,’ says Georgia. ‘I’m going to be a vet like Alex one day.’

Georgia is very much like her mum, petite and brunette. Of the two though, she is the most upset, bursting into tears at the sight of the blood on the ground. She takes the rope from me, and throws her arms around the pony’s neck.

‘Poor Guinness,’ she cries.

‘We’ve had him three weeks,’ says Jennie.

I’m on the mobile to Alex who turns up with George – luckily, they were at home. Alex hands George over to me, takes one look at the pony and decides we’ll have to box him back to the yard.

‘I’ll sedate him when we get there and have a proper look at that wound. If it isn’t too deep, I can flush it out and stitch it up here. If it’s full of splinters, I might have to refer him to the equine hospital.’ He raises one eyebrow as he talks to Jennie. ‘You don’t have much luck with your ponies, do you?’

‘I can’t quite believe it. This one is insured for vets’ fees though. I learned my lesson after what happened to Bracken.’

‘Perhaps we could negotiate on the wedding cake,’ Alex says, to lighten the mood. After all, his father is paying for it, not us.

‘That sounds good to me,’ Jennie says. ‘I’ll go and get the truck.’

‘Mother’s on the case.’ Alex looks up the drive. Sophia is on her way at the wheel of the Fox-Giffords’ lorry, rattling over the gravel, then bumping off-road across the grass. She stops, jumps out and opens the ramp. Alex loads the pony, and then we all pile in to
the
front, and Sophia drives us the short distance back to the yard.

Although Jennie and Georgia want to stay with Guinness, Sophia has other plans for them. Jennie is on duty in the kitchen, cooking up dinner for thirty Pony Clubbers, and Georgia is to continue setting up her camp bed.

‘I’ll find you another pony for camp,’ says Sophia. ‘We always have a few spares. You can borrow my horse, Jumbo. He’s big, but he’s a good boy. He’ll look after you.’

‘It’s a shame,’ says Jennie. ‘We bought Guinness to jump this summer. Will he still be able to do that after this?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Alex says. ‘There’ll be a few other hurdles for him to clear beforehand, so to speak, but he should make a complete recovery.’ He pauses. ‘Mother, is there any chance of you taking George? I could do with having Maz here as my assistant.’

‘If that’s all right with her,’ I say lightly.

‘If you’re worried about Guinness being a horse, pretend he’s something smaller, like a dog,’ Alex teases.

‘George can join in with the other younger brothers and sisters – Fox-Gifford and a couple of the Pony Club dads are going to play croquet before dinner,’ Sophia says.

‘Thanks, Mother.’

Alex leaves me in one of the stables with the pony while he fetches some kit from the surgery. When he returns, he sedates Guinness.

‘So you’re the vet, and I’m the nurse,’ I observe.

‘You can be a vet too, if you like,’ he says.

‘Not tonight.’ I’m not on duty, and I don’t want the responsibility.

I help Alex as he examines the pony’s wound, and pulls out splinters of wood from the flesh with tweezers.

‘How’s it looking?’ I ask.

‘It isn’t that bad. I’m going to give it a good clean, and leave a drain in so the fluid doesn’t build up. There’ll be less likelihood of an abscess forming that way.’

‘I assume he’ll have antibiotics and anti-inflammatories for a few days.’

‘And stable rest. I guess Mother will let Guinness stay here so Georgia can look after him.’ Alex smiles. ‘It’ll make it easy for me to check up on him.’

When he’s finished, we wait for the pony to recover from the sedation, watching him from a straw bale that Alex dragged into the stable earlier to act as a table for his kit.