Trust Me, I'm a Vet (42 page)

When I arrive at the Manor, the Fox-Giffords’ pack of dogs come flying towards the car. One of them, an old black Lab, bares its teeth at the window.

‘Good dogs.’ I open the door. ‘What good dogs you are.’ But the softly-softly ‘I’m your friend’ approach doesn’t work. The Lab raises his hackles and growls.

‘Oh, push off!’ I growl back, and the Lab ambles round to the rear of my car and cocks his leg up the wheel while the rest of the pack trots back to the house, showing me the way to the tradesmen’s entrance.

I head towards the barn though, wondering, when I find no one at home, whether I should have phoned first. A busy man like Alex is hardly likely to be sitting around waiting for me to turn up, is he? Old Fox-Gifford’s Range Rover and Alex’s four-by-four are here, and Liberty is back, looking over the door of the stable closest to the house. I walk up to the back door of the Manor – it’s open and the dogs are still milling around.

Hoping that I’m not going to run into Old Fox-Gifford and Sophia, I follow their muddy paw prints across a tiled floor, stepping over the wellies, dog beds and water bowls strewn across my way. There’s a strong scent of wet canine, sweaty horse and boiled cabbage.

‘Alex?’ I call out, walking through another doorway and into a huge kitchen with an Aga, two butler’s sinks and a fireplace big enough to roast a whole cow but which instead houses a fridge and freezer that don’t match. On the table in the centre there’s a preserving pan, a box of cornflakes, a bowl of what smells like tripe and a pot of some horse supplement. I turn the pot so the label faces me – Stroppy Mare. ‘Alex?’

‘I’m here, Maz.’

‘Er, hi. H-h-how are you?’ I stammer, taken by surprise when he appears in the doorway on the other side of the kitchen. If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t let on.

‘Not bad,’ he says, ‘although I’m almost ready to turn vegetarian. The WI – bless ’em – keep turning up with chicken soup, cauldrons of the bloody stuff.’ He steps aside. ‘Come on through.’

I follow him along a wide corridor and into another room.

I gaze around the room, trying to think of something to say. Alex’s presence seems to have rendered me speechless. I notice the double doors that look out onto the lawn with views across the valley beyond, the oil paintings of various Fox-Giffords from the past, and the dogs slumped in a heap on the carpet. I don’t think it’s any old carpet – it could be an Axminster like the one Gloria had in her sitting room, but this one is several acres bigger and slightly better kept. I also notice the dead flowers in the grate, the rather shabby sofa and chairs, and the swirls of dog hairs in the corner nearest me. If the Fox-Giffords really do have a woman who does, she doesn’t appear to do it very well.

There’s something else, something behind the sofa, something breathing. I catch sight of a pair of pricked ears and flared nostrils.

‘Alex, there’s a pony in the house . . .’

He turns towards it. A tubby little Shetland, a black one, straight out of a Thelwell cartoon, nudges at a biscuit tin on a side table, rattling an oil lamp and antique vase.

‘Mind the majolica,’ Alex says. ‘That’s Skye – Mother bought him for the children, but he bucked them off. He’s more of a house pet now.’

‘I didn’t think the Fox-Giffords approved of keeping animals as pets.’

‘Then you’ve been misled.’ Alex grins and my heart flutters. ‘If you open the tin for him, you can give him a mint. That’s what he’s after.’ He picks up his phone and a set of keys from the elaborate marble fireplace. ‘How about dinner?’

Before I can argue with him, he’s arranging a table at the Barnscote. He’s a man who gets things done, I think. I like that. It’s one of the many things I like about Alex.

‘Right, I’ll just let my mother know we’re going out – I expect she’s in the feed room up to her elbows in linseed and bran mash.’ He smiles at me and it’s like the sun has come out. ‘Did I tell you, you look lovely?’ he says quietly.

‘Thank you.’

He hands me his keys. ‘Wait in the car. I’ll be with you in a tick.’

Less than two minutes after we’ve set out in Alex’s car, his mobile rings. He glances towards me, his expression unreadable as Sophia’s voice rings out loud and clear on the speakerphone.

‘Hi, Mother, what’s up?’

I sit, my hands balled together, my heart small and mean as Sophia says, ‘I wouldn’t have called you unless I had to, Alexander, but Stewart’s rung with a calving – he wants one of you over there straight away.’

‘What about Father?’ Alex says, his tone one of annoyance mixed with resignation. ‘He’s on call tonight.’

‘You know he’s in bed. His sciatica was playing him up so I sent him upstairs with some painkillers and a hot toddy. He isn’t in a fit state to calve a cow. In fact, he really shouldn’t be doing the heavy work any more. We need to look for an assistant.’

‘You know Father’s view on that. Anyway we’ll talk about it another time,’ Alex says impatiently. ‘Tell Stewart I’m on my way.’

‘What’s your ETA?’

‘Ten minutes.’ The phone cuts out. ‘I’m sorry, Maz,’ Alex says. ‘The last time my father attended a calving, he couldn’t work for a week.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s one of those things.’ In a way it’s a relief because I couldn’t eat a thing, though I can’t help but wonder whether this is Sophia’s way of expressing her disapproval at Alex taking me out tonight. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’

‘There’s no need for that. I’m sure Lynsey can find you a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

‘I’d feel uncomfortable.’

‘This is about the dog, isn’t it?’ Alex says.

‘I really couldn’t face the Pitts again, not after some of the things Stewart said.’ My palms grow damp as I recall the expression on Stewart’s face when I told him Cadbury was dead.

‘He’ll have forgotten about that by now,’ Alex says. ‘Anyway, I could do with some help getting all my kit up to the cowshed.’ He turns into the farmyard and kills the engine. ‘You’d like to give me a hand, wouldn’t you?’

‘My shoes. I haven’t got the right shoes on for wading about on a farm.’

‘I’m bound to have a spare pair of wellies, and a gown.’ Alex jumps out and opens the boot. He hands me a pair of green Hunters and a boilersuit that’s several sizes too big and rich with the scent of cow.

‘What’s that for?’ I point to the red toy stethoscope on top of the crates of equipment in the back of the car.

‘My mother bought that for Sebastian when he was about three months old – hoping to keep the practice in the family for the next generation.’

I can hear the pride in Alex’s voice when he mentions his son, and I have to admit I admire the emphasis the Fox-Giffords place on family. Alex’s parents obviously spend a lot of time with their grandchildren in spite of the fact that they live away with their mother; and Alex is very protective of his children, which I guess is another good reason for him not wanting to embark on a relationship with no future in it.

‘I saw your parents with your children at the hospital. It was Sebastian who almost gave me away. I was hiding in the sluice.’

Alex chuckles. ‘I won’t ask why.’ He holds out his arm for me to grab on to so I can transfer my feet from my shoes to the wellies without putting them on the ground.

‘Thanks.’ I stand up straight. ‘What happened about Australia? I’ve been meaning to ask.’

‘There’s been a hold-up, thank goodness. Astra and her new man have decided to stay in London – the firm he’s with in the City extended his contract by another year, which gives me more time to work with my solicitor on what happens to Lucie and Sebastian.’ Alex hands me a set of calving ropes and a visit case, and he picks up a caesar kit. ‘Come on, Maz. Hurry up.’

It takes my eyes a while to adjust to the light inside the cowshed compared with the brightness of the summer evening outside. The single bulb that glimmers from a cable inside the ramshackle arrangement of cob, brick, hurdles and corrugated iron doesn’t help much, and the window, which has no glazing, is obscured by a bank of nettles growing outside.

An elderly man in a brown jacket restrains a black-and-white Friesian with a rope halter. Alex introduces him as Ewan, the Pitts’ cowman. The cow bellows, filling the air with the sweet scent of her breath. One of the Pitt boys – Sam, I think – emerges from the shadows in pyjama bottoms, a jumper that’s far too big for him and wellies. Stewart, stripped down to a vest with the arms of his boilersuit tied around his waist, enters the cowshed behind me and Alex.

My heart skips a beat at the flash of recognition as he catches sight of me.

‘Maz?’

I force myself to hold his gaze.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he says, his tone one of curiosity, not anger.

‘Meet my new assistant.’ Alex checks that his shirtsleeves are tucked behind the cuffs of his calving gown. ‘We were just off to dinner at the Barnscote when Mother rang.’

‘You and Maz? Well, I never.’ A broad smile spreads across Stewart’s face. ‘You really know how to show a girl a good time.’ He slaps Alex on the back, then turns to the cow without giving either of us a chance to deny any involvement with each other, so far at least. ‘This is young Pepperpot – it’s her first calving.’

I smile to myself, thanking my lucky stars that I haven’t had the opportunity to put my foot in it. The beast isn’t a cow. She’s a heifer.

Alex slips on a long plastic glove and starts to examine her. She groans with the onset of a contraction. The cowman scratches behind her ear.

‘Cush, cush, my lover,’ Stewart murmurs.

Alex looks across the back of the heifer. ‘He says that to all the girls.’

‘You have to know how to handle them,’ Stewart says. ‘This one’s mother is a devil at milking time.’

Alex stands back slightly as the cow lifts her tail and drops a spattering of dung into the straw. The boy collects an armful of clean bedding from the corner of the shed and sprinkles it over the top.

‘She’s a good-looking heifer, don’t you think?’ Stewart comments.

‘She is,’ Alex says, and I’m not sure whether they’re referring to me or the patient. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go in.’

‘A caesar?’

Alex nods.

‘The calf’s alive?’

‘For the moment – I felt it sucking on my fingers.’

‘Two vets – I hope it isn’t going to cost me double.’ Stewart’s joking, but there’s an edge to his voice. He could easily end up with a big bill for a dead cow and calf. Stewart nods towards his son. ‘Sam, go and tell your mum to put the kettle on. We need hot water, and tea. Milk and sugar all round?’

‘No sugar for me,’ I say quickly. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sweet enough already, eh?’ Stewart teases. ‘I should’ve guessed you two were an item. Alex hasn’t stopped going on about you since you turned up.’

‘We aren’t an item,’ I say coolly.

‘Pity,’ Alex cuts in. ‘Still, it’s your loss,’ he banters. ‘I’d make quite a good catch, wouldn’t I, Stew?’

I’m still blushing some minutes later when Sam returns, struggling with a steaming bucket, and accompanied by Lynsey, who carries her baby daughter in a sling across her front, and a tray. Sam puts the bucket down, the water sloshing out over the edge, and Alex washes his hands in preparation for injecting the local anaesthetic to numb the cow’s flank for surgery.

‘Alex is here with the vet who murdered Cadbury,’ Sam says, and immediately the last few weeks go into rewind, and I’m back in theatre with my hands inside a dead dog. I want to run away and never come back. Sam’s staring at me and I can hardly look him in the eye, but I have to say something. I want him to know how much I regret what happened. I take a deep breath.

‘I’m very sorry, Sam,’ I begin.

‘No, I’m sorry, Maz,’ Lynsey cuts in. ‘She didn’t kill him, Sam. It was bad luck.’ She rests the tray on a bale of straw. ‘You know what Alex said, that it could just as easily happened if he’d done the operation.’

Sam gives me the smallest smile and I feel a rush of gratitude towards Alex for defending me.

Lynsey clears her throat as a sign to her husband to say something, but he’s standing beside the cow, stubbornly staring at his mucky boots.

‘Go on, my lover,’ she says. ‘It’ll clear the air.’

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbles as he turns to me. ‘I’m sorry too, Maz. I said things I shouldn’t have. I was tied up with the farm, and the new baby.’ And the fact his wife was threatening to leave him, I’d guess. ‘By the time I realised that Cadbury was really sick, he was too far gone. I must share the blame.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, wondering if he realises how much his apology means to me. It’s like having a great weight lifted from my shoulders.

‘We buried his ashes in the garden,’ Sam says. ‘I writ his name on a stone and put it on top of the grave: Cads RIP.’

‘We’re looking for another dog,’ says Lynsey. ‘We were going to ask you if you knew of anything suitable, one of the rescues perhaps.’

‘There is one, actually. He’s called Raffles. He’s a funny-looking dog, but he’s very bright. I’m sure you could teach him to do some party tricks. Would you like to come and see him?’

‘Please, Mum,’ Sam cuts in. ‘Please, please, please.’

‘We’ll pop in to the practice tomorrow,’ Lynsey says. She takes me aside as Alex continues with his preparations to make the operation as sterile as it can be. The cowshed with its dusty cobweb hangings and squishy carpet of mucky straw is a far cry from the theatre at Otter House.