Trust Me, I'm a Vet (10 page)

‘That’s a bit beyond the call of duty, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve known the Browns for some years now – the wife is housebound and he’s her full-time carer. Life isn’t easy for them. The dog suffers from bouts of diarrhoea which we’ve never got to the bottom of, so to speak. I thought perhaps someone with a fresh eye . . .’

‘Why don’t we do it as a second opinion?’

‘You’re the small-animal vet,’ Alex says, ‘and it’s easier for him to walk down here rather than drive out to us.’ He hesitates. ‘I can give you a translation, if you like – my handwriting’s rubbish.’

‘I’ll look at the notes later.’

‘You’re busy. I understand.’

But for the empty cages in Kennels and the empty seats in Reception, I’d big it up and say, ‘Yes, can’t you see I’m rushed off my feet?’ because I don’t want the Talyton Manor Vets to know that Otter House is struggling.

‘I’m sure it’ll pick up soon . . .’ The way Alex holds my gaze, as if he knows exactly what’s going through my mind, makes me feel uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ he adds. ‘I was called to an emergency, switched off my phone and forgot to put the calls through to my father, not that he would have been up to a caesar on a cat, especially one of Cheryl’s precious Persians.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘The doctor’s prescribed him sleeping tablets – I’m not sure whether they’re for the pain, or for the stress he’s been under since Emma set up here.’

‘That was over three years ago,’ I point out.

‘He doesn’t forgive or forget easily.’ Alex pauses. ‘Anyway, it won’t happen again. My mother had called me out to one of her ponies, one I used to ride, in fact. He was pretty ancient.’

‘Was?’

‘Yeah.’ Alex rubs the back of his neck. ‘He died. Poor old Topper.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Now I feel really bad.

‘You win some, you lose some,’ Alex says softly. A phone rings from his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the number on the screen and excuses himself. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you two weeks on Saturday, Maz.’

‘Saturday?’

‘At the Country Show. Emma put your name down to judge the Best Pet class with my father.’ Alex tips his head to one side, clearly amused. ‘Didn’t she mention it to you before she left?’

She didn’t. I wonder why. There seem to be quite a few useful pieces of info she didn’t mention to me before she left.

‘It’s the highlight of the social calendar,’ Alex goes on. ‘Thanks for the tea, Frances. Goodbye, all.’ He heads outside, crossing the car park to his four-by-four.

‘Such a hero,’ Frances sighs. ‘They don’t make them like that nowadays.’

‘Thank goodness,’ I say. ‘He shouldn’t have done what he did. There was no need.’

Lacking any patients to see, with a heavy sigh, I idly flick through the notes Alex left. I just about had everything under control, apart from my emotions. Why does Alex Fox-Gifford’s presence disturb me so much? He isn’t my kind of man at all. He’s arrogant, pushy, well-spoken, fit . . . Stop right there, Maz Harwood. That’s enough. You’ll be falling in lust with him next, and look what happened last time you fell for someone . . .

I force my attention back to work-related matters. Firstly, there’s the matter of the missing order – I’ve seen what you can carry out on a farm with a bottle of brandy and some baling twine, but I’m not going to make do. However, Izzy’s ahead of me. She holds the phone at arm’s length, her complexion suddenly pale beneath her freckles.

‘There must be some mistake,’ she says. ‘They’re saying they’ve suspended deliveries to Otter House.’

‘Let me have a word.’ I take the phone. There’s no mistake. Emma hasn’t paid last month’s bill, or the three months before that. I don’t understand how this could have happened, but I head out the back and settle the account using my credit card.

‘It’s sorted,’ I tell Izzy a short while later. ‘Normal deliveries resume tomorrow.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ she says. ‘I thought we were going to have to cancel tomorrow’s ops.’ She hesitates, raises one eyebrow. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’ And then I realise there’s no point in trying to hide anything from Izzy – she was probably listening at the door. ‘That must have been one loose end Emma forgot to tie up before she went away.’ Privately, I find it hard to believe that it slipped her mind – there must have been reminders, warnings and a final demand.

‘If you speak to Nigel, he’ll reimburse you,’ Izzy says, ever practical. ‘Oh, and Freddie’s not looking so good – he’s passed a lot of blood.’

I check up on Freddie – he utters a low groan when I murmur his name. I run through the treatment we’ve given him. I wish there was something else he could have, but I’ve run out of options. I’ll give him another few hours, but if he continues to deteriorate, I’ll have to consider whether it’s fair to carry on.

It’s pretty depressing when I’ve already had to put Arnie down today, but that’s how it goes sometimes. It can be difficult to remain positive. The best I can say about Arnie’s demise is at least it wasn’t rabies as Frances suggested, which reminds me that I need to have a word with her.

I join her in Reception.

‘I know you mean well and you’re only trying to help, but you could be putting animals’ lives at risk by giving out advice and making up your own diagnoses,’ I say. If I’m honest, I’m more miffed about her undermining my authority and making me look incompetent in front of Alex Fox-Gifford.

Frances stares at me, her mouth pursed like a cat’s bottom.

‘You’ll put me out of a job,’ I add, more gently.

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ is all she’s willing to say on the matter. I only hope she’ll act on it. I fear there’s some truth in the proverb ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’.

‘Do you know anything about this Country Show?’ I ask her, changing the subject.

‘Of course. Everyone knows about the Show. I’ve won first prize for my chutney five years running.’ She flicks through the diary, and runs her finger down the page for a Saturday in two weeks’ time where there’s a note in Emma’s handwriting. ‘Yes, you are indeed expected. What an honour it is to be invited to judge at old Mr Fox-Gifford’s side, especially when you’ve only been in town for two minutes.’

An honour? It’s a pretty dubious one, in my opinion, although the Country Show sounds as if it could be fun, and I’d be looking forward to it if it wasn’t for the Fox-Gifford factor.

‘Promise me you’ll drop in to the WI’s marquee,’ Frances says. ‘I’ll introduce you to some of our members. Don’t look so worried, Maz, they’re a friendly bunch.’

I’m not worried about meeting Talyton’s Women’s Institute. It’s everything else which is getting on top of me.

Waiting for the start of afternoon surgery, I type up a brief summary of Cheryl’s notes onto the computer, then add my own code for Cheryl herself: S for Scary. If she ever asks to look at her notes, I’ll tell her it’s S for Special.

What code would I give Alex Fox-Gifford? I muse. How about ‘Handle with Care’?

Chapter Six

Muck Sticks

The kennels are empty, apart from Freddie and a ruffled pigeon which, according to Frances’s note on the card, has been brought in by a member of the public in a dazed and confused state. (Whether it was the pigeon or the member of the public who was dazed and confused isn’t clear.)

Izzy and I stop beside Freddie’s cage – we moved him out of Isolation a couple of days ago, considering him no longer infectious.

‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Freddie was so sick, I didn’t think he’d make it.’

‘Neither did I. Oh, what’s this?’ Izzy scans the front of his notes across which I’ve scribbled, ‘Freeloader – for rehoming,’ letting him chase her fingers along the bars before she picks up the tin of food I’ve left open on the shelf beside the cage, and turns out a couple of forkfuls onto a dish. She offers it to Freddie, who gulps it down. ‘Can’t you keep him?’ Izzy goes on.

‘If I took on all the animals I meet needing homes, I’d end up like Doctor Dolittle. I like looking after Miff, and I’ll miss Freddie, but I have to think of the future.’ It’s too uncertain. ‘I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do after Emma comes back.’

‘Aren’t you going to stay on?’

‘No, whatever gave you that idea?’

‘I just thought,’ Izzy mumbles. ‘I got the impression . . . something Emma said . . . oh, I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do.’ I smile. ‘She’s told you, hasn’t she? She’s always wanted us to end up working together.’

I can remember when we first talked about it. It was Emma’s idea, hatched on a snowy winter’s day, the kind of day when it was impossible to ride a bicycle, and believe me I tried. I ended up in a ditch at the side of the Madingley Road on the outskirts of Cambridge, my knees badly scraped, and both my bike’s front wheel and my pride rather dented.

Emma abandoned her bike next to mine and we walked, struggling through the snowdrifts on our way to one of the university farms to take our turn on the student rota for some hands-on experience of lambing.

‘You look as if you’re on your way to a football match, Em.’ I was teasing her, trying to cheer her up. ‘That hat makes you look like a Cambridge United supporter.’

‘Thanks a lot. Some friend you are,’ she grumbled lightly, pulling her bobble hat down over her ears and gazing (enviously, I hoped) at my waxed cap and college scarf on which I’d blown the rest of my budget for the term.

‘At least I’m honest,’ I said, grinning as I gave her a gentle nudge. ‘Is that the barn over there? Beyond the gate.’

‘I guess so.’ Emma sighed. ‘You know, I can think of 101 things I’d rather be doing than practising my midwifery skills on a day like this.’

‘Such as?’

‘Curling up indoors, toasting marshmallows on the fire and watching TV,’ she replied, as we trudged closer to the barn in the cathedral-like silence of the falling snow, and I have to admit as I buried my hands deep into my pockets, it did sound tempting.

It took all our strength combined to slide the door open before we could get inside, where the uproar of bleating and trampling feet assaulted our ears. We slid the door closed behind us, then I found the switch for the strip lights. I bashed the snow off my boots, sending the ewes in the group in the pen nearest us stampeding off to the far corner for safety. One was left behind, a single black-faced Suffolk in a flock of Mules. A translucent green bag dangled from the wet dags at her rear end. She strained a couple of times, but nothing happened.

‘Bagsie not do the Herriot thing,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll hang on to her for you, Maz, while you strip to the waist.’

‘You are joking?’

Emma giggled for the first time that day. ‘Of course.’

I stripped down to three layers, then washed my hands in the soft light in the shepherd’s den, a cubicle divided from the rest of the barn and supplied with hot water. I returned to the pen with lubricant dripping stiffly from the fingers of my plastic gloves, and knelt to examine the ewe.

‘Do you think we should call someone?’ Emma asked, as I groped around blindly, finding first a head, then a neck and shoulders, but no legs: a lamb stuck on its way out through the birth canal.

‘By the time anyone gets here, it’ll be too late.’ In spite of the cold, I was beginning to sweat. It was up to me. I closed my eyes, picturing my lecture notes annotated with sketchy cartoons of lambs trapped inside their mother’s wombs with speech bubbles saying, ‘Help me.’ ‘If I push it back, I should be able to catch its feet and bring them through first. What do you think?’

‘Sounds good to me. I’m glad you know what you’re doing – all I know about lambing is written on a couple of sides of A4 paper.’

‘Same here.’ I glanced at the ewe’s face, her expression anxious, waiting for the next contraction, the next wave of pain. I had to do something for her sake.

Act confident, I told myself, and don’t fiddle.

After five minutes, my confidence ebbed and I got fiddling. The ewe bellowed and heaved. The lamb’s head and shoulders, and then the rest of its body, slid out in a rush of fluid, and landed in a bloodstained heap.

Emma and I stared at it.

‘Is it breathing?’ Emma said.

‘I’m not sure . . .’

‘I don’t think it’s breathing,’ Emma said urgently.

I tore the membrane from its nostrils and mouth, picked it up and swung it by the hind legs, then lowered it down again and rubbed its steaming, close-curled coat with a handful of straw. Suddenly, it shook its head and took its first breath, by which time the ewe had given birth to a second lamb. Emma revived that one, and I dealt with a third which arrived shortly afterwards.

‘Poor cow,’ I observed, ‘fancy having to look after this lot.’

‘Call yourself a vet student, Maz.’ Emma grinned. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a sheep.’

The firstborn lamb made an attempt to struggle to its feet, then nosedived back into the straw. At the second attempt, it sat back on its haunches. At the third, it walked shakily to its mother’s udder, nudged at one of the teats and latched on, sucking and wiggling its tail.

Emma and I watched our babies fondly for a while, sitting on bales of straw and drinking mugs of hot chocolate, the scent of lanolin on our hands.