Trust Me, I'm a Vet (4 page)

I shut Fang inside it. He arches his back and yowls at his reflection, then backs off, his tail in the air.

‘You wuss.’ I coax him to turn around so that I can scratch him behind the ear through the bars to reassure him. It must be pretty scary for a young cat to be locked in a cage, surrounded by the smell of dogs and disinfectant, especially when he starts losing control of his faculties as the pre-med takes effect.

‘Fang’s owner says he’s been straying away from home,’ Izzy says. ‘She’s hoping this’ll reduce his urge to roam the countryside.’

‘I can think of other cases where castration would come in useful,’ I say, unable to disguise my bitterness as I recall the way Mike wandered back to his ex-wife’s bed. ‘Preferably without an anaesthetic,’ I add, fetching a dozy Fang from his cage.

‘You scrub, I’ll pluck,’ Emma says, once Fang’s lying asleep on the operating table, and I watch her tearing the hair from his balls, wishing there was such a thing as voodoo. She cleans the op-site, gives it a squirt of surgical spirit and opens a foil packet, holding it out to me so I can tweak the blade out, keeping it sterile.

‘Are we ready now, Hacker Harwood?’ Emma adds, using my nickname from vet school.

The procedure’s almost bloodless this time, unlike Emma’s epic battle to save Robbie’s life, which reminds me to ask her how he’s doing.

‘I took his stitches out a couple of days ago. He’s looking great, considering his age and what he’s been through. Clive’s over the moon. Although he did have a little dig about the bill – how did he put it, Izzy?’ Emma shouts in Izzy’s direction.

‘Something about it costing him an arm and a leg for a spleen, but he was joking,’ Izzy calls out, smiling as she dips her head through the hatch between theatre and the prep area where she’s washing up. Once we’re finished, Izzy offers to keep an eye on Fang so Emma can give me the rundown on the computer and the phones.

Fortunately the systems at Otter House are pretty similar to the ones at Crossways so it doesn’t take long, and Emma provides me with a printout of useful notes and numbers.

‘I’m going to put some Post-it notes up before I go home tonight to remind you where everything is,’ she says, ‘and I’ll leave you Ben’s mobile number and his parents’ number in case of emergency. Now, you will remember to feed and walk Miff?’

‘Of course.’

Miff is Emma’s Border terrier, a scruffy-looking little brown dog with a broad, otter-shaped head and a lively expression. Emma’s family has always had terriers and Miff is the latest in a long line.

‘Have you got wellies?’

I shake my head. I haven’t had a pair since vet school.

‘You’ll need wellies.’ Emma frowns. ‘I know, I’ll run you up to the garden centre,’ and, in spite of my protestations that I wouldn’t be seen dead in wellies, I find myself schlepping up and down the aisles of the local garden centre in a pair of bright yellow ones, trying them for size.

‘You can’t be serious,’ I say, looking at Emma.

‘They aren’t supposed to be a fashion accessory, Maz. They’re entirely practical.’

Unconvinced, I pay for them at the checkout, where a middle-aged woman wearing a tabard over the top of a chintzy blouse chats with Emma and takes an age to serve me.

‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ the woman says, gazing at the slight curve of Emma’s belly. ‘When’s the baby due?’

‘There is no baby, Margaret. You heard wrong,’ Emma says, her voice sounding small and sad. ‘Who told you anyway? I bet it was Cheryl.’

‘Oh no, it was Fifi.’ The woman pauses, a flush spreading across her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. My mistake. It’s just that she was so sure . . .’ She changes the subject. ‘Dollar – she’s my dog, a little Westie – she won’t see any vet except Alex Fox-Gifford. She’s very sensitive, you see.’

‘That and Margaret fancies Alex,’ Emma whispers to me as Margaret rustles about looking for a bag for my purchase.

‘You know, you can’t fool me, Em,’ I say later, while she shows me round the flat above the practice, Miff hot on my heels. Realising I’m not carrying any biscuits, Miff trots away and settles herself on the sofa.

‘Well?’ I add, when Emma deliberately doesn’t respond.

‘Off, Miff,’ Emma says, ‘get off.’ Miff ignores her. ‘A typical vet’s dog,’ Emma chuckles. ‘I’ve never had the time or the energy to train her properly.’ She pours two small glasses of wine from the bottle beside the bowl of fruit – Emma’s thought of everything, as usual. She hands one to me and takes the other for herself. ‘Here’s to you, Maz,’ she says. ‘I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to look after Otter House. I hope it’ll be an enjoyable experience.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘and here’s to your holiday. I hope you and Ben have a fantastic time.’ I take a sip of the wine and return to the subject that I’ve been trying to broach and Emma has neatly managed to avoid. ‘That stuff with Margaret today? I got the impression you were upset.’

‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Emma says defensively.

I think for a moment. ‘A little perhaps, but it’s only gossip, and it wasn’t exactly malicious. Water off a duck’s back, no?’

Emma shakes her head, her eyes downcast, staring at her fingers clasped round the stem of her wine glass.

‘I should have told you before.’ She takes a gulping breath, then turns her gaze to me, her dark eyes shimmering. ‘Ben and I – we don’t seem to be able to have children. I can’t get pregnant. I wanted to tell you, but Ben didn’t want me to say anything.’

I can understand that. ‘It’s a man thing, I imagine, not wanting to have aspersions cast on your virility.’

‘It isn’t that.’ Emma frowns, perhaps a little hurt on Ben’s behalf, and I feel bad for thinking meanly of him. What do I know about it? I’ve never wanted children myself. How can I have any idea how it feels?

‘It’s just so stressful,’ Emma goes on. ‘Ever since we got married we’ve had everyone going on and on about when we’d hear the patter of tiny feet. And now everyone in Talyton’s congratulating me on something that never was and probably never will be.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘I’m glad I’m going away. I can’t wait to get away from it all.’

I’m trying to think of a way to tell her how sorry I am when she continues, ‘We’re going to see someone when we get back to talk about investigations and options for treatment, IVF, that sort of thing.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but there are no guarantees, are there?’ she counters. ‘You know, the hardest thing to accept is that you have no control over it. You take the Pill for years, and then you stop and discover you aren’t in charge of your fertility at all.’

She doesn’t have to say any more. I can see that her failure to fall pregnant is completely devastating. I watch her walk to the window and look out on the street below. She takes a swig of wine, then turns back towards me with her ‘vet-in-charge-of-her-destiny’ face on once more, and she doesn’t let her guard down again until she’s about to leave at the end of the day to rush through her last-minute packing, before driving to the airport with Ben.

‘This is it then,’ she says, hesitating in Reception. She grabs a tissue from the box Frances keeps handy on the desk, and blows her nose, and I’m afraid she’s going to cry again, but she regains her composure and attempts a smile. ‘I know I said I couldn’t wait to get away . . .’ She gazes around the waiting area. ‘It’s more difficult than I thought. In fact, I almost wish I was staying.’

I know what she means. I wish she was staying too. It would have been fun to work together.

‘Don’t let the Fox-Giffords give you any hassle, Maz,’ Emma says.

‘Are they really that bad?’ I ask anxiously.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she says, ‘as long as you keep your head down.’

Reassured, I watch her go, and lock the door behind her. I give her a wave through the window as she reverses her car out of the car park and drives off along the road. Miff whines at my feet, wanting to follow.

‘I’m sorry, Miff,’ I say, squatting down beside her and stroking her head, moving my fingertips from front to back, feeling for the contours of her skull, checking for lumps and bumps. Force of habit. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with me for the next six months.’ She doesn’t wag her tail. In fact, she looks like I feel, all hangdog and upset because Emma has gone. I’m wondering what I’m going to have to put up with too, what challenges Emma’s patients and the residents of Talyton St George are going to throw at me.

And then I have to laugh at myself for being so silly. Emma wouldn’t have asked me to look after Otter House if she didn’t think I could cope.

Chapter Three

Perishable Goods

It’s my first day in charge. I should be logging on to the computer in the consulting room at Otter House, but instead I find myself down by the river looking for Miff. It’s such a beautiful morning, I thought she’d like a quick walk, but she’s slipped her collar and done a runner. I followed her into some bushes that I discovered too late were obscuring a ditch, into which I half slid, half fell, ending up thigh-deep in the stinking gloop at the bottom, in the shadow of some Triffid-like nettles and explosions of hawthorn blossom. Fat lot of good my new wellies are now.

‘Miff!’ I yell. ‘Miff!’ I try the softly-softly approach. ‘Biscuit.’ Unsnagging a curl of barbed wire from my jeans, I listen out for her above the whisper of traffic on the bridge over the river on the far side of the meadow. Nothing.

I don’t think she likes me.

I press on through the mud, the like of which you never see in those glossy photos in
Country Living
. (Perhaps they airbrush it all out.) Hanging on to a tree root, I scramble out of the trench and crawl through the prickly undergrowth on the other side to emerge on all fours on a track, where I’m confronted by an enormous horse bearing down on me at speed. I don’t know what it is – a pigeon flapping out of the bushes or my sudden appearance out of nowhere – but without warning, the horse puts the brakes on and spins away, throwing its rider up its neck.

‘Whoa there! Steady . . .’ The rider slips back into the saddle, pulls the horse up and turns it round to face me. The horse, a bright chestnut mare, tries to rear away again, fighting at the bit. The rider – he, for he is most definitely male – stares at me, his mouth taut and eyes stormy beneath the peak of his hat. ‘Get up!’ he growls.

‘Me?’ My cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

‘I can’t see anyone else about, can you?’

Reluctantly, because not only did he almost kill me, but he hasn’t said please, I stand up. ‘Is that better?’

‘Now she can see you’re vaguely human, not some creature out of
Shrek
.’

The mare takes a couple of paces towards me. I notice how the rider flexes and relaxes his fingers on the reins, playing with the bit in her mouth. I also notice that the sleeves of his polo shirt are rolled up, revealing a pair of lightly tanned forearms, and his jodhpurs are so tight across his muscular thighs that it’s positively indecent. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and doesn’t he know it.

His gaze settles briefly on my mud-caked legs and his lips curve into a fleeting smile. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I’m looking for a dog.’ I feebly gesture at Miff’s collar and lead, which hang redundant round my neck.

‘What kind?’

‘A Border terrier.’ In fact, I can hear the frantic yelping of a dog after rabbits, moving in our direction. ‘That’s her, I think.’

‘Border terrorist might be a more accurate description from the sound of it.’

Suddenly, the yelping stops and a small brown dog comes trotting out from the brambles beside us. The mare flares her nostrils and champs her jaws, spattering her sleek chest with foam.

‘Make sure you keep it under control in future.’

‘She isn’t mine,’ I say as Miff creeps up to me, her tail between her legs.

‘Whatever.’ The mare paws the ground with her foot, scraping out a deep gouge in the track. ‘And I’d advise you to check a map next time you decide to go pond-dipping, or bog-snorkelling, or whatever it is you’re up to. This isn’t a public right of way.’

‘Oh? I’m s-s-sorry,’ I stammer. His air of confidence – no, superiority – makes me feel awkward and at a disadvantage.

‘You’re trespassing,’ he goes on. ‘The footpath runs alongside the river, across the other side of the field from here. This is the old railway line.’

‘I didn’t realise . . .’

‘Ignorance is no excuse,’ the rider goes on.

Emboldened and infuriated by his rudeness, I argue back. I wouldn’t normally in this kind of situation, but Miff’s hackles are up, and so are mine.

‘Look, I’ve got the dog back on the lead and I’ve apologised. There’s no need to be so unpleasant – you don’t own this place.’

‘Actually, I believe that I do.’ The rider turns the mare side on and delivers his parting sally. ‘I hope I never see you here again. If my father had caught you, he’d have had you shot – you and the dog.’ He digs his heels into the mare’s sides and gallops away, sending up showers of clinker and dust, and flashes of steel.

I scold Miff gently as I clip her collar – a psychedelic canvas affair which I grabbed off the rack in Reception on my way out – securely back round her neck.