Trust Me, I'm a Vet (14 page)

‘Such a gentleman,’ Fifi whispers in my ear. ‘They don’t make them like that nowadays.’

Thank goodness, I think as Old Fox-Gifford goes on, ‘Ascot hasn’t been the same since they started letting the yobs in.’

‘Whereabouts in London?’ Sophia enquires, in a tone which makes me feel that this is more of an interrogation than a social chat.

‘I spent my childhood in Battersea, near the dogs’ home, south of the river.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Sophia says.

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. I liked it.’

‘Yes, but it’s hardly West Ken, is it, Madge?’ she says.

‘It’s Maz. My name is Maz.’ I’m not sure Sophia hears me over the general hubbub of conversation in the marquee, or whether she’s deliberately ignoring my reply.

‘So, you’re an out-and-out townie.’ Old Fox-Gifford shakes his head in disapproval. ‘Ever been blooded?’ he asks, moving closer so I can see the whites of his eyes.

‘Um, I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, finding myself unable to step back to get away from him for the crush behind me.

‘He’s referring to the custom of smearing the cheeks of new followers with blood from the kill at the end of a hunt,’ Fifi enlightens me, which is a relief because it crossed my mind that Old Fox-Gifford could be referring to some bizarre initiation ceremony for people new to Talyton St George.

‘Have you ever ridden to hounds?’ he says impatiently.

‘I can’t ride.’

The Fox-Giffords’ mouths drop open, and I wonder what I’ve said. Not being able to ride isn’t a crime, is it?

‘I beg your pardon,’ Sophia says, touching her throat in apparent disbelief.

‘You don’t see all that many horses in Battersea,’ I say.

‘I hope you aren’t planning to stay on in Talyton once Emma returns from her jaunt,’ Old Fox-Gifford says.

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’ I feel as if I’m being attacked from all sides.

‘There aren’t enough pet owners in Talyton to keep two vets occupied full-time, even when the new estate’s finished,’ Sophia says.

‘Estate?’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘I wouldn’t let my dogs live there.’

‘No, dear.’

‘I’m not staying,’ I say, but they aren’t listening. Sophia, Fifi and Old Fox-Gifford are talking among themselves again. I might as well not be here.

‘We can’t all choose to live in the country. Just imagine how unbearably crowded it would become,’ Sophia says, rolling her eyes.

‘It’s bad enough already – look at the traffic jams on Sunday mornings when the plebs go off to have breakfast at Fifi’s garden centre,’ says Old Fox-Gifford.

‘That’s a bit harsh when they’re the very same people who turn up at your surgery during the week. Really, Fox-Gifford, you must never bite the hand that feeds you,’ Fifi says coyly.

‘Talyton Manor has to support two families,’ says Sophia, apparently unconcerned that Fifi’s flirting with her husband. ‘There’s us, and Alex who has to provide for his children and ex-wife.’

‘And she’s the very definition of high maintenance,’ Fox-Gifford cuts in.

‘That isn’t entirely fair – Astra’s trying to do her bit,’ Sophia says.

‘By selling herself to the highest bidder, and cheapening the family name,’ Fox-Gifford says. ‘Why, oh why did she talk to that cheap rag
Hello!
, not
Tatler
? Scandalous!’

I glance at Fifi, who shakes her head almost imperceptibly. Perhaps she’ll give me the goss later on . . .

‘Are you going to deny our grandchildren the right to a decent living?’ Sophia says, turning back to me.

‘I’m not staying,’ I repeat.

‘We’ll have to sell orf more land, or turn our home over to the National Trust, or have a rollercoaster built out in the park,’ says Sophia. ‘Talyton Towers. Just imagine. How awfully awful.’

‘I’m not staying,’ I repeat for the third time, but Sophia and Fifi are counting out paper napkins, and Old Fox-Gifford is talking to the woman managing the buffet. She’s curvaceous, blonde and expensively dressed.

‘Elsa, how’s the old boar? Is he showing any more interest in the ladies?’

‘Hardly.’ The blonde giggles. ‘Oh, I thought you meant the old b-o-r-e.’

‘Not Charles,’ Old Fox-Gifford guffaws. ‘The pig!’

‘Oh, him. He’s got until the end of the month and then he’s bacon. If you can’t cure him, Fox-Gifford, I will.’ I notice that no one addresses Old Fox-Gifford by his first name. Is he keeping it secret, like Inspector Morse, I wonder, or hasn’t he got one?

‘I’ll pop out and see him again later in the week, give him a good talking to.’

‘Elsa rears rare-breed pigs,’ Sophia explains.

‘Happy pigs.’ Elsa excuses herself. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Like father, like son, I think. Old Fox-Gifford seems to have plenty of female admirers.

‘Cold beef or ham?’ one of the servers behind the buffet asks me.

‘Er, I’ll have the veggie option, please,’ I say, spotting something resembling asparagus quiche further along the table.

‘One vegetarian,’ the server calls along to his colleague.

‘Vegetarian?’ growls Old Fox-Gifford. His eyebrows form a single fuzzy caterpillar which bristles above the bridge of his nose. All conversation stops, everyone’s eyes turn on me and I feel as if they’re about to serve me up on a plate.

‘Pale, spineless creatures!’ Old Fox-Gifford goes on. ‘Is it any wonder farming’s in such a state?’

Noticing a spare seat at a table across the other side of the marquee, I grab my plate of quiche, add some salad and make my escape, trying to ignore Old Fox-Gifford’s rant about how he holds me solely responsible for the demise of British agriculture as we know it.

‘Absolutely no breeding, eh . . . calls herself a vet when she can’t even ride a horse . . . should never have been admitted to the register . . .’

It’s no wonder Alex turned out how he did with parents like that, I think. They’re worse than mine. Both nature and nurture conspired against him.

I sit down, trying to ignore Old Fox-Gifford, but I can’t help hearing snippets of conversation provoked by his outburst. I can hardly taste the food and I’m sure my face is pinker than the ham being served up to the people of Talyton St George. I can’t wait to get away. If I could jump in my car and drive straight back to London, I’d do it, but I promised Emma I’d look after Otter House, and I don’t break my promises.

I cheer myself up at the Talyton Animal Rescue stall, gambling a few pounds on the tombola, and walking away with a tub of body scrub which appears to have been opened before, and a watercolour print of the Taly Valley at sunset.

I stroll back in the vague direction of the car park, keeping to the gravel path alongside the practice area where several riders are jumping their horses. Sophia is there too, lunging a small pony with a child on top, the pony trotting around so fast you can hardly see its legs. The child, who can’t be more than five, is wearing jodhpurs, a red tabard and ribbons in her hair. She sets her mouth in a determined straight line, hauls back on the reins and digs in her heels.

‘Legs. More legs, Lucie.’

The child flaps her legs, and the pony bucks and throws her up its neck from where she slides slowly onto the ground.

‘Whoa, Tinky.’ Sophia pulls the pony up to a halt. It lowers its head and starts pulling at the grass. The child starts to bawl. Sophia helps her up, brushes her down, gives her a smack on the bottom and sticks her straight back in the saddle.

‘That was your fault,’ Sophia scolds. ‘You let Tinky get her head down.’

The child wipes her face with the cuff of her shirt.

‘Does that mean I’m a rider now, Humpy?’

‘How many times have you fallen orf now?’

The child counts on her fingers. ‘Five.’

‘Two more to go,’ says Sophia. ‘It’s seven times before you can call yourself a proper rider,’ and I find myself thanking my lucky stars I never took up horse riding if that’s the case.

I walk on past the Lacemakers’ Guild and the beer tent. It really is a different world from the one I’m used to. In fact, I wonder whether I might have slipped through a gap in the space-time continuum into a parallel universe. I mean, who on earth thought of making a competition out of shearing sheep?

I stop in front of a stage which is set up in front of the sheep pens. Two men stand waiting.

‘Get set, go.’ How I missed Nigel and his stopwatch up until now, I don’t know. He’s wearing a dazzling white shirt with flounces, breeches and long woollen socks with bells attached.

The men spring into action, each letting a sheep out of the pens behind them, turning it over and grabbing a set of clippers which are plugged into a frame above their heads. The clippers whirr. A generator throbs. The fleeces fall away from the sheep’s skin. The sheep-shearers sweat, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. The one on the left, the one with blond curls and flushed cheeks, is particularly fit. What country maiden could possibly fail to be moved by the sight of his taut tanned torso as his vest parts from the belt of his filthy jeans? What city girl too?

And the one on the right? He has perfect pecs, although when he bows over his sheep, you can see that his hair is thinning on top. I recognise him, in fact. He’s Stewart Pitt – Lynsey’s husband and father of all those children.

‘Maz, you made it.’ Izzy, looking very demure in a crocheted top, safari shorts and wellies, strolls over from the edge of the stage to join me.

‘What’s Nigel wearing?’ I ask.

‘He’s taken up morris dancing.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a tradition here. Any excuse for a pub crawl.’

‘Nige, I’ve finished,’ the blond man shouts as he lets his sheep go. It scuttles about the stage, naked and fearful. ‘Switch the clock off, will you?’

‘Who is that?’ I ask.

‘Chris,’ Izzy says.

‘I didn’t recognise him from the other day. We weren’t properly introduced.’ I saw him only briefly at the practice when he was there cleaning up the slurry. He must be about forty, maybe a couple of years younger, his skin is flushed with exertion and exposure to the sun, and he isn’t as tall as I thought he was, no taller than I am.

Izzy claps and cheers when Nigel declares Chris the winner. In the distance, a roar goes up from the direction of the main arena.

‘I could do with a nurse, Izzy’ – Chris jumps down from the stage and gazes longingly at her – ‘someone to rub some liniment into my poor back.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’ Izzy blushes furiously, and I wonder if her problem with finding Mr Right is that she’s shy with men. ‘Chris, this is Maz, the vet from Otter House. You know, Emma’s locum.’

‘Hi, Maz.’ Chris smiles. ‘I would shake your hand,’ he adds, looking down at his grubby fingers.

‘That’s OK,’ I say, backing off a little. ‘Thanks for helping with the clean-up.’

‘It was no trouble,’ Chris says. ‘I’m sorry for bringing those pieces of render down.’

‘I’m sure it can be fixed,’ I say.

‘It has to be repaired before Emma gets back. I’d hate her to think we haven’t been looking after the place properly,’ Izzy says, glancing at me in a way which makes me realise she still doesn’t have much confidence in me. ‘Um, Chris,’ she goes on, changing the subject, ‘I wonder if I could ask you something. It’s a favour really.’

‘You know I’d do anything for you,’ Chris says lightly.

‘We’ve got a dog in at the surgery, a Border Collie pup, that needs a home.’

‘I could do with another dog. Meg’s getting a bit old to chase sheep now. Alex has given her some pills for her arthritis, but she wears out easily.’ Chris scratches his blond stubble, leaving red marks on his cheek. ‘Why don’t I drop by and have a look at this pup?’

‘Or I could bring him over to the farm,’ Izzy says.

‘Give us your number,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He enters Izzy’s mobile number into his phone, then bids us both goodbye. ‘I’ve got to go now. Stewart and I are going to load the sheep onto the lorry so I can get them back to the farm.’

Izzy looks disappointed. ‘What about you, Maz?’

‘I was just going,’ I say, deciding to leave the subject of the cheque until I see Nigel at work. He’s due into the practice again on Tuesday or Wednesday – I’m not sure which. Nigel’s working week seems to be arbitrary, depending on his other commitments. He has his own business troubleshooting problems with home computers, and is keen to learn how to fish – as well as how to morris dance, it seems.

‘Oh no, you must stay,’ says Izzy. ‘Come and be sociable.’

Thinking I might fall further in Izzy’s estimation if I don’t, I decide to join her. She seems pleased.

‘You never know who you might meet,’ she says brightly.

It is a case of renewing former acquaintances, I discover. Inside the beer tent, Izzy introduces me to the big man with a shaved head who is behind the makeshift bar. He wears a shirt and tie, and seems vaguely familiar.

‘This is Clive – do you remember?’ Izzy says. ‘You and Emma operated on Robbie when you were down for the weekend. Clive, this is Maz.’