The Village Vet (21 page)

Alex goes on to fit a gag, a metal contraption with leather straps with which he can ratchet the pony’s mouth open so he can check her teeth.

‘These haven’t been looked at for a long time, if ever,’ he observes. ‘She’s got some nasty hooks at the back. It’s no wonder she isn’t keen on being led about in a head-collar – she’s really sensitive because the hooks have dug into her gums, forming ulcers, and you probably know yourself how painful they can be.’ He grabs a bucket, fills it with water from the outside tap and takes a rasp to Dolly’s teeth.

The sound of metal grating across the rough edges until the rasp runs smooth makes my toes curl and I’m relieved when, red-faced with effort, Alex drops the rasp into the bucket one last time to rinse off the fragments of enamel.

‘All done,’ he says. ‘Can you stay with her for another half an hour or so? She should be wide awake by then.’

‘No problem,’ I say, thanking him.

‘Is there anything else I can do while I’m here?’

‘I’d normally ask Maz, but seeing that you’re here, would you be able to check a stray cat for a microchip? She’s in the cattery. She’s called Jess.’

‘Will do,’ Alex says.

He returns a few minutes later, excited at having discovered a microchip, which means we have a chance of reuniting Jess with her owner. He promises me he’ll leave me the details in reception, so I can make contact with them.

‘I won’t charge for the cat, and you needn’t worry about the bill for this one,’ Alex says, nodding towards the pony. ‘At the moment, the police are responsible for all of Dolly’s expenses.’

‘Alex, I really don’t want this pony to go back to Frank Maddocks or for auction. No matter how nasty she is, she doesn’t deserve that. Can’t you support Jack in making a case against him? You’re a vet. Can’t you write a report on what you’ve seen today?’

‘I’m willing to support Jack if he has a go, but this pony’s a borderline case. She shows signs of neglect, but she isn’t in immediate danger.’ Alex looks at me with compassion and understanding, as I grow tense with frustration.

‘Then the law’s an ass as far as I’m concerned.’

‘You’re going to come across this all the time, working in rescue. Talk to Jack.’ Alex leaves some treatment for mud fever and instructions on how to use it, but nothing will soothe my concerns for the pony’s future.

When the farrier leaves, Dolly is still asleep so I pick up a bright red brush from the bucket of grooming kit Libby has left outside the stable, and start brushing the tangles out of Dolly’s mane, which comes down below the point of her shoulder in stripes of black and flaxen. It’s very satisfying and takes my mind off everything, even Jack. Dolly begins to wake up from her drug-induced slumber, shakes her head and flicks her mane, and I have to brush it all over again.

I decide to leave her in the stable, giving her a flake of hay to keep her occupied overnight before I take Buster and Tia for a short stroll to the copse. I don’t go all the way round because Tia struggles to put one paw in front of the other. When I turn back towards the bungalow, Buster hesitates, flicking his ears back and uttering a short sharp yelp of alarm. I follow his gaze towards the hedge, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking with unease. Something, or someone, is watching me.

I take a few steps towards the hedge, Buster pulling forwards on the lead, Tia sitting back on hers, until I feel like I’m being stretched in two. Suddenly, there’s an orange flash, like that of the evening sun being reflected in a lens, and a scuffling sound. Buster starts barking hysterically.

‘Buster, it’s nothing,’ I tell him. ‘You have an overactive imagination,’ I add, finding it easier to blame the incident on the dog than analyse it in any depth. Was it a deer? Or a fox? Was there someone watching me, or was it just a falling branch that set Buster off?

On the morning of the Fun Day, a sunny day in the beginning of June, Jack and I are hanging the banner I bought across the gap in the hedge where the cars
come
through from the track. Standing precariously on a chair – so much for health and safety, but desperate times require desperate measures – I take the banner out of its wrapper and hang on to one end while Jack walks the other over to the stepladder on the other side, the banner unfolding to reveal the words … Happy Birthday!

‘Oh no, I’ve got the wrong one,’ I shout. Jack turns. ‘What am I going to do? It’s too late to go and get another one.’

To my consternation, Jack starts laughing.

‘It isn’t funny,’ I say, but his laughter is infectious, and soon I’m laughing too, along with Diane, Wendy and Libby, who turn up to see what the fuss is about. My aunt is disapproving. She likes things to be just so.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. This isn’t a great start. Perhaps I should have gone for a later date to give us more time to prepare as I originally planned. I’d decided against it because I thought we needed to get as many people – potential adopters and volunteers – through the gate as soon as possible.

‘Let’s hang it anyway,’ Jack says, winking at me as if to say, Don’t listen to them, Tess. ‘It doesn’t matter – we’ll turn it back to front and put up some balloons. People are coming here to meet the animals and have a look around the Sanctuary.’

‘And eat cake, I hope,’ I say, turning to look at the trestle tables lined up outside the bungalow and laden with cupcakes, brownies and flapjacks.

It’s a slow beginning to the Fun Day, but by midday our guests are arriving, keen to have the guided tour. Diane, deciding that she’s too exhausted to remain on her feet, sits at the cake table, sampling each variety while she takes payment, and Wendy takes
responsibility
for making tea and squash. Fifi meets and greets the visitors as they turn up, which means Jack gets to do the tours, Libby runs the face-painting and I deal with anything else, which includes reuniting ‘Jess’ the cat with her owner, who turns out to be an employee of my aunt at the garden centre.

‘This is Maddy Carpenter,’ Fifi says, introducing me to a woman in her sixties. Tall with sinewy arms and long bony fingers, and dressed in a green sweatshirt and tight jeans, she reminds me of a Venus flytrap. ‘She’s been in plants for years.’

‘Hi,’ I say, realising that my aunt means the ‘Plants’ section of the garden centre, the covered area outside that’s too hot in summer and like the Arctic in winter, where Maddy’s skin appears to have weathered to the consistency of deeply wrinkled leather.

‘I’ve come for Kitty,’ she says, smiling and lifting the carrier she has with her to show me. ‘The postman picked her up by mistake.’

It takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about the cat we called Jess.

‘Come with me,’ I say, sidestepping a fast-moving child who’s toddling around the car park, making animal noises, and I take her to the cattery where Jack is introducing Teddy to various people, including my mum and dad. Jack seems pleased to see me, and waylays us en route to Jess’s pen.

‘Tessa, help me out here,’ he says. ‘What would you look for when choosing a cat?’

‘It’s easy,’ I say. ‘Generally, dogs aren’t fussy, but cats are pretty discerning creatures. You don’t choose them. They choose you.’ I chuckle as I pass by. ‘I’m not sure that was much help, was it?’

I pause outside Kitty’s pen to unlock the door –
we’ve
padlocked them so they can only be opened by me, Jack or one of the official volunteers, to reduce the risk of escapes.

‘How many times do I have to tell you not to accept lifts from strangers?’ Maddy says in her broad Devon accent. ‘She’s done it before – she hitched a lift in the Argos lorry. Thank goodness I had her microchipped.’

I let Maddy into Kitty’s pen, where she collects the cat up and pushes her head first into the carrier. Kitty has other ideas, reversing straight back out. Maddy tries again. This time, Kitty arches her back so there’s no way she’ll fit through the entrance of the carrier.

‘Would you like me to try?’ I say, stepping in to join her, but she’s already trying to post Kitty in tail first, which doesn’t work either: Kitty digs her claws into her owner’s sweatshirt and uses it as a ladder to scramble onto her shoulder. I help to extricate the cat’s claws from the sweatshirt and lift her down. I turn the carrier on its end, and before Kitty has time to plan her next move, I pop her in, bottom first, and quickly shut the door.

‘Bingo,’ I say.

‘That’s a good trick,’ says Maddy. ‘I’ll try that one next time, because I’m sure there will be one. I keep telling her, if she must have a change of scene, she could at least hop on a bus – that way she can do a round trip and save me picking her up each time.’ She thanks me for looking after her and apologises for interrupting the Fun Day.

‘There are cakes on sale and if you would like to join our happy band of volunteers’ – okay, I admit I’m exaggerating here because they aren’t that happy together – ‘there’s a book in the office where you can leave your contact details.’

‘I’ll have a look at the cakes,’ she says, ‘but I couldn’t help out here. I’d want to take them all home with me.’

I smile to myself because I feel exactly the same.

By four, the Fun Day comes to a close. My aunt awards the prizes to the winners of ‘Guess how many mealworms the baby blackbird can eat at one sitting’ and the ‘Follow the paw-prints treasure hunt’, the winner of the latter being a boy I recognise from earlier in the afternoon, who asked me if we had any crocodiles for rehoming. I suggested he tried a specialist reptile rescue centre. There’s no way I want the responsibility of keeping dangerous animals on the premises. It’s bad enough having slightly touchy characters like Buster and Teddy here, and I suppose I should include Diane and Wendy in that number too because Wendy in particular has been scratchy with me today, over the fate of the tins of dog food that Libby has collected in the box she set up for donations in the Co-op. In Wendy’s opinion, the tins should be shared equally between the Sanctuary and her foster dogs, whereas Libby thinks they should all come to the Sanctuary. I side with Libby, seeing it was her idea. This doesn’t go down well with Wendy, who leaves early to go and let her dogs out.

By five there’s hardly anyone left, just me, Jack, Libby and my parents, Katie having declined my invitation for drinks and some food at the last minute. Dad is helping me out in the kitchen in the bungalow, where I’m cooking a chilli and rice. He grabs a spoon from the drawer to test the chilli.

‘Is it hot enough?’ I ask.

He slaps his lips together and shakes his head.

I throw in another sprinkling of dried chilli. Dad takes another spoonful.

‘No,’ he says. ‘It needs more.’

‘Are you sure?’ I don’t trust his judgement: he has cast-iron taste buds.

He has another taste, and another.

‘What do you think of the Sanctuary?’ I ask him.

‘You’re very lucky,’ he says, confirming what I already know. I’m incredibly fortunate, for, in losing the house and the money I did have, I’ve fallen a long way, yet somehow managed to land on my feet, like a cat. ‘It does smell a little peculiar though,’ he goes on. ‘In the living room, there’s a distinct air of yeast-ridden codpiece.’

‘I don’t know what that is,’ I say, blaming it on the neighbouring farmer and his muck spreader rather than the real culprit, who is unaware of her role in the matter. Tia is still leaking a little, in spite of the drugs that Maz prescribed for her, but I’m hoping that when she loses some weight and her muscles are toned up with more walking, I’ll stop finding puddles and wet patches around the bungalow.

‘I’ve heard from Great-Auntie Marion,’ Dad says, changing the subject. ‘She wanted me to thank you for inviting her to the wedding; she said she had a wonderful time. She also said she’s having tests for cancer. I thought you might like to give her a ring for a chat sometime. She’s afraid the next time the family meets, it will be for her funeral.’

‘How morbid,’ I say, but I make a mental note to call her sometime.

‘Hey, Tess, you have to come and see this,’ Jack says from the kitchen doorway.

‘I can’t at the moment,’ I say.

‘You’ll love it, and it won’t take long. Two minutes of your time, that’s all.’

‘I can look after the chilli,’ Dad says.

‘As long as you promise not to eat it all while I’m gone. It’s no wonder you’ve got a barrel there, rather than a six pack,’ I say, prodding him gently in the belly.

‘All right, I promise, love.’

‘Dad, stop crossing your fingers – you have your hands behind your back.’ Laughing, I join Jack, following him out to the barn where Libby, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, has tied Dolly to the ring outside.

I open my mouth to speak, but Jack raises one finger to his lips and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I remain silent, watching Libby start to brush the pony with a special bristle brush that she bought for her, beginning behind the pony’s ear and running the brush in sweeping strokes across her neck and shoulder, following the lie of her hair before moving down her front leg. As the brush touches the pony’s knee, Dolly stiffens, clamps her ears back and stamps her foot as if Libby is a pesky fly.

Catching my breath, I make to take a step forward ready to warn her to be careful because I remember how Dolly behaved with the vet, but Jack stays me, one hand on my arm.

Libby starts again, neck, shoulder and down the front leg. Dolly is calmer. She moves the brush further down Dolly’s leg to her fetlock, at which she tosses her head, fighting the rope, rears up and slams both feet down just as she did with Alex.