The Village Vet (26 page)

‘I think you’ll be happy with the Nelsons,’ I tell him. ‘Your future now depends on the outcome of the home visit, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have everything you could possibly want and more, a special home for a very special dog.’

I glance into Tia’s kennel, where she’s lying curled up in her bed with her nose buried in her fluffy tail. Visitors constantly reject Tia because of her age and her health problems, and I can understand their worry that they’ll grow to love her and lose her soon after. It’s like adopting a granny: it isn’t a great long-term prospect. She’ll end up spending the rest of her life here, and what kind of existence is that? I try to remain optimistic. It looks as though Buster has found himself a wonderful forever home. Hopefully, there will be someone out there for Tia.

Chapter Twelve

Top Dog

I FIND THAT
clearing the droppings from the paddock is always a good time to take stock. I work in the bright sun, my skin prickling with heat and perspiration even though I’m dressed in only a vest top, shorts and wellies. I use a scraper and a scoop, and a wheelbarrow with a wobbly wheel. Like the mountain of droppings balanced on the wheelbarrow, my position at the Sanctuary is precarious.

DJ has moved on, out of pocket. Diane and Wendy have apparently abandoned their principles and, in spite of what Wendy said when I dropped Max off with her, they show no sign of returning to volunteer on a regular basis. Fifi and the committee are at loggerheads. I have invoices from both of Talyton’s vet practices awaiting payment with interest, and I know for a fact that Jack paid for the last purchase of dog food from Overdown Farmers, and my aunt has been bringing supplies of coffee, tea and milk from the coffee shop at the garden centre. Towie, the kitten, is sitting in the cage in the office, as if she’s on Death
Row
, awaiting a decision on whether I can justify the expense of removing an eye from a feral kitten, who might make a great pet, or might not. You could argue, on a practical rather than an emotional level, that there are many more feral kittens out there, in spite of our trap, neuter and release policy, and the charity’s money – if and when it comes – would be better spent on neutering.

I don’t know what to do. I am working all hours because there are more animals here than Libby and I can cope with, and on top of that, I have a ball to organise and admin to deal with.

And then there’s the problem of what to do about Jack. Now that is a more intriguing challenge. There is no doubt that we are growing closer again, but this time it is different. I don’t think I can honestly say we’re ‘just friends’.

I push the loaded wheelbarrow over to the corner of the paddock where we are creating a muck heap of extraordinary dimensions for a single pony, run the barrow up the plank to the top and tip out the muck. I survey the scene from my vantage point, watching the buzzard that soars in the sky over Longdogs Copse, one of the ferals that is patrolling the hedgerow among the cow parsley, brambles and nettles, and a vehicle, the postman’s red van, which is heading this way on the lane.

Not Jack then, I muse. I check my watch. I haven’t seen or heard from him in all of four hours. I must stop thinking – no, obsessing about him – because if the committee have their way, I could be moving on very soon to who knows where without him.

‘Letter for you, Tessa.’ Ash brings an envelope over to me.

‘Thanks,’ I call from the top of the heap.

‘I’ll leave it here.’ He balances the letter on the gatepost, and with the next breath of a summer breeze, it floats down and settles on top of the water in the trough. ‘Oh dear, you didn’t see that happen, did you?’

‘If it’s another bill, then no, I didn’t,’ I say grinning as he flicks the water from the envelope and brings it over to the muck heap, stopping halfway along the plank to place it directly in my hands.

‘How’s it going?’ he says.

‘Great, thanks. Would you like to offer a home to one of our residents? We’re running short on space.’

‘I’d love to have a dog one day.’

‘What kind of dog?’ I say, wondering if I can tempt him to consider adoption in the more immediate future.

‘One that doesn’t bite the postman, obviously,’ he chuckles. ‘It won’t be for a while though.’ He pauses, colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Is Libby here today?’

‘I’m afraid not. She’ll be sorry she missed you,’ I go on, grabbing the opportunity to play Cupid, and perhaps sell a couple more tickets for the ball. ‘Are you coming to the ball? You must have seen the flyers.’ I’ve posted hundreds, probably more items than Ash posts through letterboxes in a week. ‘You should ask Libby – she’s always talking about you,’ I say, planting the idea in his head.

Blushing furiously, he tells me he’d better get on, before he walks sideways down the plank, attempts the leap over the puddle at the base of the heap and lands with one foot up to his ankle in foul black liquid manure. ‘Oh, shit,’ he swears.

‘You’re right – that’s exactly what it is,’ I say
brightly
. ‘You’re a country postie – you should be wearing wellies.’

‘Too late,’ he says, with a rueful grimace. ‘I’m going to feel a right idiot, going around smelling of muck all day.’

‘You can wash it off before you leave – there’s soap by the hose outside the barn.’ I give him a wave. ‘Bye.’

While Ash is driving away into the hills towards the moor, I open the soggy letter and read it with a sinking heart. The Talyton Animal Rescue Committee is calling an extraordinary general meeting and specifically requests my attendance tomorrow night at 7.30 at Wendy’s house. This is it. This is the end. Diane and her cronies have decided to terminate my term at the Sanctuary because Fifi’s contract isn’t valid. I assume the worst.

The following day I turn up at the meeting, filled with trepidation. Diane sits at the head of the table in Wendy’s dining room, pouring tea and carving slices from a caraway cake before the formal proceedings can begin. Wendy is present, of course, along with Frances, the receptionist from the Otter House vet practice, dressed in a psychedelic tunic top and trademark ash-blonde wig that reminds me of candyfloss twirled around a stick, and four other ladies from Talyton St George. There are hairs in the tea and hairs in the cake, and Max the teacup dog jumps up on my lap for a cuddle, moulting a few more hairs onto my black trousers for good measure.

‘I have someone interested in taking Max,’ Wendy says, noticing his head pop up over the top of the table. ‘Hopefully, he’ll be gone by the end of the week. The others will be relieved to see the back of him – he’s definitely top dog, a bit of a bully, in fact.’

Diane calls everyone’s attention by banging an auctioneer’s gavel against the table.

‘Welcome to what is only the third extraordinary meeting of our illustrious organisation’s history,’ she says, before running through the list of those present and those who have sent their apologies. ‘Fifi Green … Where is she?’

‘Um, I don’t think we invited her,’ Wendy says, pulling out a pen, along with several poop-a-scoop bags and dog biscuits from her pocket, before she starts taking the minutes. ‘In fact, Diane, you expressly told me not to invite her. She’s still in the doghouse.’

‘Isn’t that rather irregular?’ says Frances. ‘She is chair, after all.’

‘There are enough of us. We’re quorate,’ Diane says, ‘seven good women and true.’

I stroke Max, running my fingers through his coat and catching a flea, which I snap in half between my fingernails. Should I mention it to Wendy? I decide not.

‘Firstly,’ says Diane, ‘Fifi’s position, as we’ve said before, is untenable. As chair, one cannot continue to impose one’s wishes on the members of the committee without listening to their views, so, I put forward the motion that this committee has lost confidence in the chair and therefore the chair should be deposed.’

There are a couple of gasps and an ‘Oh no’.

‘Can we do that?’ asks Frances.

‘Let’s vote,’ says Diane, ignoring her. They vote on paper slips, dropping them into a box, which is passed around the table with great ceremony to Frances, who takes them out, counts them and writes notes on another piece of paper that she passes on to Diane. It gives me the impression of a secret society with strange rituals and its own rules.

‘Those in favour, seven,’ Diane says, raising one pudgy hand in triumph. ‘I shall let Fifi know.’

‘Are you going to suggest she remains as an ordinary committee member?’ Wendy asks. ‘It would be a shame for all her experience to go to waste. She’s been good to Talyton Animal Rescue over the years.’

‘She’s very loyal,’ Frances adds pointedly, I think.

‘This is no time for sentimentality,’ says Diane. ‘I move that we nominate a new chair and place our votes today. None of us wants this ship to sail on rudderless, do we?’

‘Can’t we do that at the next meeting?’ says Wendy. ‘That will give us time to canvass opinion.’

‘We must have this settled,’ Diane insists. ‘It’s really important for the future of Talyton Animal Rescue that we have someone with the right credentials at the helm, someone who has served selflessly on this committee for many years, a “people” person – because this isn’t all about the animals, you know – and someone with initiative who isn’t afraid to speak her mind—’

‘You mean you, Diane,’ Wendy cuts in. ‘You’re describing yourself.’

Diane beams at her. ‘So I accept that as your nomination, Wendy,’ she says, continuing quickly before Wendy can respond, ‘Thank you for your insight. You know that, if I’m voted in as chair, I shall serve this wonderful committee well. Are there any other nominations?’ She looks around the table, glaring at each person in turn as if daring them to name anyone else.

They don’t, and Diane is elected unopposed.

‘It’s time I left.’ I get up, keen to escape because I feel that even by being here, I’m being disloyal to my aunt. She’s always been good to me. ‘I have to get back to let the dogs out.’

‘Of course you do,’ Wendy says. ‘How remiss of us. But wait, we haven’t discussed your situation yet. You were supposed to be top of the agenda. Please, sit down and hear us out.’

‘Well, Tessa,’ Diane says, turning to me as I return to my seat, and I feel myself beginning to wilt under her gaze, much like a potential apprentice in the boardroom with Sir Alan Sugar. ‘I have had reports, personal communications’ – the hue of her complexion deepens from pink through to scarlet – ‘that you are a reliable, dedicated and selfless manager, a paragon, in fact.’

I can’t help wondering if she’s being sarcastic as she continues, ‘The lovely Jack Miller—’

‘Please, do stop swooning and get on with it,’ Wendy says, interrupting. ‘Diane, you think you’re such a cougar.’

The other ladies laugh raucously. Diane glares at them, before continuing, ‘You’re just jealous. Some of us have it and some of us don’t.’

‘So, what did Jack say?’ Frances asks.

‘He said that he thought Tessa should remain at the Sanctuary, a recommendation indeed. I have a very high opinion of Jack Miller.’

My neck grows hot at the thought of Jack putting a good word in for me.

However, Diane goes on, ‘There is no escaping the fact that Fifi had no right to give you the position of manager—’

‘I understand,’ I say. I can contain myself no longer. ‘I’ll pack up my things and leave in the morning.’ I pause, my chest tight with disappointment at the thought of leaving the Sanctuary, a place where I feel I belong. ‘All I ask in return is that the committee agrees
to
reinstate the financial support immediately, along with the volunteer rota, because if you don’t the very animals you’re trying to rescue are going to suffer. I can’t and won’t be held responsible for all this intrigue and petty infighting. I came to the Sanctuary in good faith. It wasn’t some plot between me and my aunt. It was her suggestion, yes, but there was no malice intended. She knew I was more than qualified for the job and I was available to work straight away.’

As Diane opens her mouth to speak, I raise my hand.

‘She should have discussed it with you first, but to be honest, I can see now why she didn’t. Some say my aunt is haughty and overbearing and used to getting her own way, but I imagine she didn’t ask your opinion because she guessed what it would be. I thought you were a group of like-minded individuals determined to improve animal welfare, but you’re more like a council of war.’

‘Is that all?’ says Diane, her eyes glinting, no doubt with annoyance at my outburst.

‘It isn’t,’ I confirm, and I go on to talk about Buster, Tia and Dolly. ‘I’m glad I had the opportunity of meeting them, and giving them the chance of a happier life.’ Brushing a tear from my eye, I fight to control the tremor in my voice. ‘I’ll always support the Sanctuary in the future, wherever I am, because it means a lot to me.’ I think of the animals, of the countryside, of Libby and Jack. Of course, I think of Jack. I can hardly stop thinking about him.

There is a long pause, during which Diane clears her throat and turns to Wendy.

‘I think we need to talk about this,’ Wendy says. ‘Do you mind, Tessa?’

I scoop Max up and go to leave the room to let the
committee
members continue their deliberations without me; I’ve no intention of staying.