It's a Vet's Life: (21 page)

‘If you had an assistant …’ I begin, reaching up behind his neck and letting his hair curl and uncurl around my fingers.

‘We wouldn’t have been doing this together,’ Alex finishes for me.

‘Alex, why don’t we go on a date tonight? George is occupied, studying the gentlemanly pursuit of croquet ready for when he goes off to Cambridge.’ I’m being ironic. ‘We don’t have to go out for long.’

‘I can’t make it, Maz. Stewart called me just before Guinness ran through the fence. I said I’d pop up to the farm. It’s one of the cows. It isn’t urgent, but he doesn’t think it’ll wait until the morning, and, to be honest, I’d rather visit tonight because I’m booked up all day tomorrow.’

‘So, I’m second to a cow, yet again,’ I say, more annoyed than I should be. I’m bitterly disappointed. It shouldn’t matter. We live together. We sleep together. The problem is that I’m beginning to feel as if Alex is using work as an excuse to avoid me. Each time he says he can’t spend time – quality time – with me, it’s like a rejection. When I tackle him about it, he becomes defensive. The more it goes on, the worse it gets.

The pony takes a step forwards and nuzzles at the shavings on the floor.

‘Guinness is looking brighter,’ says Alex, squeezing my thigh. ‘Another ten minutes or so, and we can leave him to sleep it off.’

When we finally leave the stable, Alex kisses my cheek, and I watch him go off to his car, torn between acceptance and regret. With Alex’s attention, the pony will recover. Without it, sometimes I’m scared that our relationship will sicken and die.

If I could capture a single moment, stopper it inside a vial and keep it for ever, I might well choose this one. On the last day of camp, I’m at home with George, lying on the sofa in the Barn. The doors are open to the yard at the front and bright sunshine glances in past a pot of scarlet geraniums. I can hear the soft caw and cluck of a hen as she stalks around the stone floor in her feathery bloomers, searching for crumbs. The peace doesn’t last though.

Lucie comes flying in with three other Pony Clubbers on a scavenger hunt.

George, who’s been snoozing in the travel cot I set up as a trap for him – he’s almost too big for it now – wakes up.

‘Thanks for that, Lucie.’

‘Sorry, Maz. We’re looking for a piece of string. It’s on the list of things to collect.’

‘Isn’t it cheating, coming in here?’

‘No,’ she says, and I smile to myself. In the eyes of the Fox-Giffords, there is no such concept as cheating. Winning is everything, by fair means or foul.

‘There’s probably some string in the kitchen,’ I begin, but Lucie’s ahead of me, scrabbling around in the drawer by the sink.

‘Found it,’ she says, snipping a piece off the ball. ‘Maz, don’t let anyone else have it. We want to win the prize.’

‘It’s a good one then?’

‘Humpy’s bought purple tail bandages from Hack ’n’ Tack.’

Lucie and her team rush out again, leaving George looking perturbed. I sweep him up and find him a drink in his special cup before I stand with him, looking out onto the yard. It’s a good day. Guinness the pony is well on the road to recovery, and Sophia has enlisted me to do a Pony Club badge with the children.

‘A test on dogs – working and hunting breeds – would be marvellous, Maz,’ she said, and when I protested that I didn’t really approve of hunting, she went on to say that I was lucky she hadn’t asked me to do the after-lunch talk on worms. Alex did that one earlier today.

An hour later, I take George out to the yard in his buggy, where he’s surrounded by Pony Clubbers, mainly girls. I have a handful of ‘volunteers’ press-ganged by Sophia to bring their dogs along for the purpose of the badge. Old Fox-Gifford is here too, with Hal as an example of a working Labrador. Once
the
girls have mauled George, who loves them, they turn their attention to the dogs. Sophia calls them back.

‘You can see the dogs in a minute,’ she says. ‘Maz, the vet from Otter House, will talk to you and explain the different kinds of hunting dog.’

‘Hunting? I thought we agreed on working breeds.’

‘Those as well, but we’d like to concentrate on hunting dogs, real dogs. Then I have a little test for you so you can identify the breeds here. If you pass the test, you will receive a badge.’

‘Hello, everyone,’ I begin, but no one appears to be taking any notice.

‘Girls and boys, sit down on the bales and listen to Maz,’ Sophia says, and they all sit down. To my consternation, Sophia does too.

‘I’m expecting to learn something new,’ she says.

No pressure then, I think to myself, amused.

I decide to introduce the subject, ask the audience what they already know about working dog breeds, and then ask the owners to parade their dogs, one at a time.

There’s a brace of tricolour foxhounds that howl almost incessantly. The beagle and the Jack Russell terriers join in, followed by Old Fox-Gifford’s Labs and spaniels. It’s a riot.

In the end, I award all the children badges before they run away to find their ponies for one last ride. Sophia organises them getting tacked up.

As Old Fox-Gifford prepares to head back to the Manor, I join him, pushing George in the buggy. I’ve been meaning to talk to him for a while.

‘I wanted to check how you were getting on with finding someone to help you out while Alex and I are
away
,’ I say. ‘I’d like Alex to have a practice to come back to.’

Old Fox-Gifford hesitates, Hal and a young Labrador bitch at his side, the bitch taken on as an eventual replacement for Hal, and for breeding. She’s called Poppy, which is a shame because, if we ever did have another baby, it’s a nice name for a girl.

Old Fox-Gifford walks towards the paddock where Liberty and her foal are grazing, their excitement at seeing the other horses over. He rubs his back. He looks like a very old man, but I find it hard to feel sorry for him. He isn’t the kind of man I can get close to. We’ve come to a civil agreement – since I operated on Hal to save his life, Old Fox-Gifford stopped the sexist remarks about female vets and he appears to have come to terms with the idea of me and Alex getting married. He loves George too, in his own way.

‘What makes you think I can’t look after the practice? I’ve not been put out to grass yet.’

‘I don’t want Alex to have to worry about what’s going on back here at home.’

‘While you’re enjoying your honeymoon,’ he says. Do I detect a note of lasciviousness, I wonder, rather repelled? ‘He doesn’t have to worry. I’m well able to work. For many years, before Alexander came back from university, I worked day and night, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year. I was never sick or sorry.’

‘Until the bull got you,’ I point out. If I was talking to anyone else, I’d be more tactful, but Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t do what he calls pussyfooting around. ‘Life has changed, hasn’t it?’

‘What are you suggesting? That I’m past it?’ His eyes flash with anger, but no one can stay angry for long in
the
presence of a long-legged filly like Scheherazade who’s cantering around the paddock again, playing and snorting at the dogs, feigning a buck and a kick.

‘I wasn’t—’

‘You were.’

‘All right. I was suggesting that it would make your life easier if you had someone in to give you a hand, some back-up. Alex was called out three times the other night.’

‘I’d have gone on one or other of the calls if he’d asked me, but he didn’t.’

‘It would be better for your clients not to have to wait for a vet, if you were tied up.’

‘They understand. They’re farmers and stockmen, loyal and bonded to the practice, not the fanciful, fickle and ignorant pet-owning general public.’

‘That isn’t the impression Alex gave me.’ Immediately, I wonder if I should have said anything.

‘What has he said?’ Old Fox-Gifford says sharply.

‘Nothing. Not really. I think Guy Barnes was upset when Alex took two hours to get to him the other night because he was busy elsewhere on another call.’

‘That’s up to Guy,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘I was ready to go, but he insisted on waiting for Alex.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t you go reading anything particular into that,’ he says. ‘Guy can be whimsical.’

I don’t know Guy well, but people around here describe him as a steady sort, straightforward and loyal.

‘So what happens if Alex is away and Guy won’t see you?’ I ask, determined not to give up until I have a satisfactory answer.

Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t respond. He has his eyes on
the
foal, and I wonder if he’s comparing his failing body with her agility and youth.

‘You know,’ he says eventually, ‘a good wife doesn’t interfere with her husband’s business.’

‘I’m not married yet and I’m not going to be a wife who’s seen and not heard.’

Old Fox-Gifford smiles.

‘I wouldn’t describe my wife as a shrinking violet,’ he says, as Sophia’s voice rings out across the fields, giving instructions to a ride of six small children and their ponies. ‘A country vet needs a capable and supportive wife, and –’ I almost miss the slight catch in his voice as he goes on – ‘I couldn’t have chosen better.’

Old Fox-Gifford disappears inside the Manor, leaving me standing in the yard, touched that he feels that way, and wondering if he’s ever expressed that sentiment to Sophia.

‘What shall we do now, George?’ I say.

‘Come and have tea and cake with the rest of us,’ Jennie calls across from the gazebo that’s been set up on the lawn, and we end up joining the party to celebrate the end of camp. Afterwards, I help wash up.

‘George, it must be time to find Lucie and Seb,’ I say eventually.

‘I’m here, Maz,’ Lucie says, running up to me. Her eyes glitter with exhaustion, but she’s still smiling. She shakes her head, water arcing from her hair.

‘What happened to you?’ I ask.

She’s covered in dust and muck, and smells of hot horse. Her jodhpurs are filthy. They were probably – I’m hazarding a guess here – cream at the beginning of the week. Her shirt is wet, her Pony Club tie caught around her ear.

‘You look a wreck,’ I chide. ‘When did you last have a wash?’

‘Just now. Josh threw a bucket of water at me. And I threw a wet sponge back. And then Georgia turned on the tap for the hose and everyone joined in. Even Humpy got wet.’ Lucie giggles. ‘She isn’t very happy. She’s given us all a black mark and gone inside to get changed. We’re supposed to be packing up now.’

‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Do you need some help?’

‘Yes, please, Maz.’

I take George along and assist Lucie and some of her friends in sorting their clothes and packing their bags in their tent. I’m not sure how much help we are, but George loves it.

‘So what’s the best thing about Pony Club camp?’ I ask.

There is some debate.

‘The friends, the food and being able to ride all day.’

‘The “funnest” thing is the water fights.’

‘No, it was Sam fainting when Daddy showed us the jar of pickled worms,’ says Lucie.

I chuckle to myself. It happens every year.

The children might be sorry that camp is over, but you can almost see the relief in the ponies’ faces as they’re loaded back into the horseboxes and trailers. They have worked twice a day, jumping and turning endless circles, spiralling in and out again. They’ve galloped cross-country, been on a picnic ride, and had a go at dressage to music and gymkhana games.

The smell of cold baked beans and burnt sausages lingers in the air. A trailer of dirty straw is waiting to be towed away. While helping tidy up, I find a couple of broken buckets and some lost property. There’s a bridle and three brushes – I’m not sure if the latter are
for
children or ponies. I’ve found Lucie brushing her hair with a dandy brush before.

The children have loved it, but what is Sophia’s verdict? I ask her later, when the last of the horseboxes rattles away down the drive, and Old Fox-Gifford is out on the lawn bemoaning the hoof prints.

‘It was a great success,’ she says. ‘This year’s tally was one staked pony, one lame one, a sprained wrist and a broken arm. Some years, it’s been so much worse!’

Alas, Poor Harry

I’VE LEARNED TO
read that when the clients’ eyes glaze over, it’s time to stop. Clive and Edie don’t want a lecture on the pathology of polycystic kidneys, no matter how fascinating the subject is to me. What they’re looking for is reassurance, practical advice and medication.

Sometimes I feel I might need medication myself, I think, as I hear the sound of a woman wailing outside. I know that cry. It’s Allie Jackson, roving reporter for Talyton’s local newspaper, the
Chronicle
, and I don’t know how many times I’ve heard her upset.

Frances pokes her head around the door.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of something.’ She smiles apologetically towards Clive and Edie. ‘Maz, it’s Harry. It’s bad.’

‘We’ll go now,’ Clive says. ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time already. An appointment to see you again, you said?’