Trust Me, I'm a Vet (13 page)

‘I really should see him,’ I say. ‘It’s been going on for a while now, hasn’t it?’

‘I’d prefer to see Emma, but I guess you’ll have to do,’ she says grudgingly.

‘This is Fifi Green, President of Talyton Animal Rescue and Lady Mayoress.’ Frances introduces a woman in robes and a chain, and an enormous hat swathed with netting and decorated with artificial flowers. If Gloria Brambles reminds me of a tortoise, Fifi Green reminds me of a Yorkshire terrier: sweet-looking with big brown eyes and long lashes, but full of attitude.

‘She’s also Treasurer to the WI, in other words a professional busybody,’ Gloria says rather tartly. Her voice rings with money and the black pearls around her neck must be worth a fortune, yet her clothes, which are more Jaeger than Primark, seem shabby. The waist of her skirt is pinned with a diamond brooch – to keep it up, I assume. She smells vaguely unpleasant, of cat and sour milk. ‘I’ll remind you that as one of the founder members of Talyton Animal Re—’

‘You no longer have anything to do with TAR,’ Fifi interrupts. ‘The committee voted you off at the last AGM for breaking the rules.’

‘Rules! Pah!’ spits Gloria. ‘I’ve never turned an animal away.’

I feel as if I’ve walked into a long-standing argument. Neither Gloria nor Fifi seem prepared to back down.

‘We can’t foster out to you any more because you won’t give them up to our adopters,’ Fifi says.

‘They were unsuitable, Fifi, and you know it.’

‘We vetted them all. You wouldn’t let my son have those two cats because he didn’t have a cat-flap. And you refused to let my niece and her husband have the goldfish because they were out at work all day.’

‘They didn’t have the right temperament for those fish. They’re very quiet, peace-loving fish . . .’

Before I have a chance to voice my professional opinion that I don’t think fish care who they live with as long as they have food and plenty of space for swimming, Fifi comes back with, ‘I wish you’d be honest, Gloria. The truth is that you can’t bear to let them go. You’re under some delusion that no one can look after those rescues as well as you.’ The Lady Mayoress rests one hand on her well-upholstered hip as if convinced she’s scored a point, but Gloria isn’t about to give up.

‘You don’t care about animal welfare.’ She takes a swing with her handbag, which looks as if it’s from the 1920s and made of crocodile skin. I don’t know whether Gloria means to hit out at her or not, but Fifi totters a couple of steps backwards, out of range. ‘All you’re bothered about is your image.’

‘Ladies, please.’ Frances takes Gloria’s arm. ‘I’d like a closer look at the winning flower arrangements. Connie misread the brief – for “Exotica” she read “Erotica”.’

‘I’m due to officiate at the pet show in a few minutes,’ Fifi interrupts. ‘I’m glad we’ve been introduced, Maz. I can take you to meet Old Fox-Gifford.’ She looks me up and down, her gaze, like Gloria’s, lingering on my feet. ‘Have you met before?’

‘No, but I’ve had words with him.’

‘Then you know what a charmer he is.’ Fifi sighs, apparently oblivious to the exact meaning of what I’ve said. ‘Come with me. It’s this way.’

It is with some trepidation that I follow her round to the next tent, a marquee which opens at the side into a small arena, marked out with posts and rope.

‘Fox-Gifford,’ Fifi calls towards a grey-haired man with a bent back and bow legs, who turns on his stick and touches the brim of his bowler hat. Alex is about forty, so I don’t know why I’m surprised that his father’s quite elderly, easily in his seventies. ‘I’ve brought Maz, Emma’s locum from Otter House, along with me.’

‘So I get to meet one of the mad cows at last,’ I hear him mutter. The lapel of his tweed jacket is covered with badges: ‘Show Committee’, ‘Judge’ and ‘Vet On Call’. His cord trousers are baggy and a bilious shade of mustard. His sideburns are unkempt.

‘Oh, Fox-Gifford, you are a wag,’ Fifi says, looking a little embarrassed on my behalf.

‘Do you see me wagging?’ He hobbles towards me, stops and stares with eyes very much like Alex’s, then sniffs at the air. ‘I hear you’ve been getting used to some nasty countryside niffs.’ His lip curls – I’m not sure whether he’s smirking, or snarling.

‘No thanks to you.’ I stand my ground as he moves closer. ‘You’ve got some nerve,’ I say, then I wish I hadn’t put it like that, because he seems to take it as a compliment. ‘That was no accident.’

‘Maybe, maybe not, but I had absolutely nothing to do with it. And you can’t prove it. My people won’t say anything – they’re as loyal as my old Lab – and anyhow, I don’t understand why you can’t see the funny side. Where’s your sense of humour?’ He clears his throat. ‘Mind you, Emma’s always been a bit of a sourpuss too.’

The back of my neck prickles with irritation, as he goes on, ‘I see you’re offended – well, I call a spade a spade, and I can’t help it if people don’t like it. Still, you came out of the slurry smelling of roses, didn’t you? All that free advertising on the front page of the
Chronicle
.’ He turns to Fifi. ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we? We don’t want to be late for luncheon. Elsa’s doing the food.’

A steward unfastens the rope, allowing the queue of competitors for the Best Pet competition into the ring, where they place their baskets, carriers and cages on straw bales lined up across the centre. I wait with Fifi and Old Fox-Gifford, watching a woman in a short skirt and long boots flash the length of her tanned thighs as she trots up and down with a black standard poodle – one of the tall ones, not the kind you can easily stick on your lap.

‘She’s one of our clients,’ says Old Fox-Gifford.

‘Aurora owns the boutique in town, Aurora’s Cave,’ Fifi says for my benefit.

I’ve seen it. The mannequin in the window wears a red T-shirt with
BITCH
splashed across it in silver.

‘That’s one of the Pitt boys with the Labrador pup,’ Old Fox-Gifford goes on.

‘One of ours, I believe,’ I say. ‘Oh, and Cheryl’s here too.’

‘She was one of ours until you brainwashed her.’

‘You start one end, Fox-Gifford. Maz can start at the other,’ Fifi says hastily. ‘The steward and I will record your scores for each pet – points out of ten, please. The one with the highest combined score wins.’

It seems fair, I think, thankful that I won’t have to make small talk with Old Fox-Gifford.

I adore the rabbit, an angora with long floppy ears, and a harness covered with bling. It sits on a silk cushion sparkling with sequins. A boy stands with him, ducking in now and again with a hairbrush to straighten out its extravagant fur.

‘What’s his name?’ I ask the boy.

‘Dobby. I called him Dobby after the house elf in
Harry Potter
.’

‘If it wasn’t for Dobby, my Paul would be dead.’ I assume that it is the boy’s mother who’s calling out from the ringside. ‘He was diagnosed with leukaemia last year.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘He’s cured now, aren’t you, Paul?’

‘I’m much better now,’ says the boy, and I give him the full ten points.

‘Are you sure?’ whispers Fifi when she comes to record his score on her sheet. ‘He won last year.’

‘It’s such a sad story,’ I say. ‘He’s had leukaemia.’

Fifi laughs. ‘You don’t want to go listening to the Ashfields – it was a kidney transplant last year.’

‘So the boy isn’t ill?’ What’s wrong with these people? It’s only a country show, more
Pets Win Prizes
than Crufts. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a bit of fun.’

‘It’s a sideshow,’ says Old Fox-Gifford from beside me, ‘just like the Otter House Vets. We’re the main event in this town.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Are we done?’

Fifi looks down the score sheet on her clipboard.

‘The Ashfields’ rabbit has the most points.’

‘A rabbit?’ Old Fox-Gifford grinds the end of his stick into the mud. ‘Vermin. We shoot the bloody things on the estate.’

‘Shh,’ warns Fifi, but he doesn’t make any effort to lower his voice.

‘Call in Aurora first. A lovely bitch, that is.’ He points his stick. ‘Look at the pins on that.’

‘What about the rabbit?’ I stick to my guns, an inappropriate term in the circumstances, but I don’t see why Old Fox-Gifford should get his own way on this. It’s supposed to be a joint decision.

‘What about a compromise?’ Fifi suggests. ‘How about Cheryl’s cat?’

‘Absolutely no way,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘It’s boss-eyed, like all her bloody cats.’

‘All right, it’ll have to be the moggie, the tabby one.’ Fifi touches the steward’s arm. ‘We’ll announce the result and give out the rosettes, then we’ll take you off to lunch, Maz. And after that, you must pop along to Talyton Animal Rescue’s stall and have a go at the tombola. There are some fantastic prizes – bottles of wine, bubble bath, oh, and a foot spa. Perfect for someone like you who’s on her feet all day.’

What is the point of me being here, I wonder, when it’s Fifi who gets to choose the winner? It’s kind of her to make me feel welcome, but she does rather take over.

I wonder too about making an excuse to dash back to Otter House to let the dogs out, but decide that might be considered as letting the side down, and in any case, Fifi won’t let me.

‘You can’t possibly leave just yet.’ She grabs on to my arm after the presentation, letting Old Fox-Gifford limp on ahead of us, apparently intent on making the most of his free lunch. ‘I wanted to have a quiet word . . .’ I wait for her to go on. ‘Talyton Animal Rescue have been associated with Talyton Manor vets for a long time, but it’s all getting rather expensive, and I wondered if you could see your way to giving us a better discount.’

It’s a bit of a cheek, I think, to ask me, not Emma.

‘I’ll be straight with you, Maz. Old Fox-Gifford gives us 20 per cent off across the board.’

‘Twenty per cent?’

‘We do have a lot of animals passing through our foster homes, and vets’ fees are our biggest expense.’

Fifi has a point, I muse. I want to help. I tell her I’ll speak to Nigel. I need to have a word with him in any case about the cheque he gave me that was drawn on the practice account. It bounced.

‘Oh?’ she says. ‘Frances gave me to understand that Emma had left you holding the reins.’

‘Yes, the reins, but not the key to the safe, so to speak,’ I say firmly. Fifi doesn’t say any more about it, because we join a long queue inside yet another marquee along with Old Fox-Gifford and a woman I guess to be his wife. She holds herself straight and tall in a tweed jacket and skirt, and green wellies. I chose my outfit of skinny white cropped trousers and a beaded halter-neck top thinking it would look up to date and not too over the top, but I now realise it’s completely out of place in a veritable ocean of tweed. I feel conspicuous – naked, almost – as if everyone’s eyes are on me.

‘Sophia is joining us at the manger,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, nodding at his wife. ‘As District Commissioner of the Talyton branch of the Pony Club, she’s running the Mounted Games in the main arena this afternoon.’

‘Are you holding the camp at the Manor again this year?’ Fifi enquires.

‘Against my better judgement,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘Three of the little buggers left hoof prints all over the lawn last time, put paid to a decent game of croquet for months.’

Somehow, I can’t imagine him playing croquet. It’s far too civilised a pastime.

‘You will do your usual talk on worms after lunch on the second day, won’t you, darling?’ Sophia pats the stiff waves of her grey hair.

‘Can’t you ask Alexander?’ Old Fox-Gifford twists a button hanging by a thread from the sleeve of his jacket, tugs it off and sticks it in his pocket.

‘You know how busy he is.’ Sophia is accompanied by a strong smell of antibiotic and Cheval No 5. She picks a curl of wood shaving from her silk scarf and lets it fall to the ground, before turning to Fifi. ‘The practice has been pretty quiet recently, which isn’t such a bad thing. It’s given us time to find a girl we like and our son approves of. Her family connections leave a little to be desired, but I can forgive her that – she has such lovely soft hands.’

‘That filly has a good bit of flesh on her too,’ says Old Fox-Gifford, hooking his stick over his arm and entering the fray for plates and cutlery.

I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Do the Fox-Giffords still cling to the aristocratic tradition of arranged marriages? I’m confused as an image of Alex’s Superdad pants and his long muscular thighs flashes into my mind. Is this Alex’s second marriage, or did he have his child or children out of wedlock?

‘Are you all right, Maz?’ Fifi asks. ‘You look as if you’re burning up.’

‘It’s the heat.’ I fan my face with my programme. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’ I gaze at the queue ahead which is moving at snail’s pace, wishing everyone would hurry up so I can get some food and make my escape from these terrible people.

‘You aren’t local,’ says Sophia, bringing me back into the conversation.

Is it that obvious? I think, half smiling to myself.

‘I was born in London,’ I say.

‘We keep a small pied-à-terre in Knightsbridge, although Sophia and I don’t get away from the Manor as often as we used to,’ says Old Fox-Gifford, returning with plates and cutlery, which he hands out.