Trust Me, I'm a Vet (43 page)

I notice how Lynsey pats and strokes the baby’s back. Every now and then, the baby thrusts her arms and legs out straight and draws them back again, like a pond skater. ‘We’ve called her Frances, for obvious reasons. She’s amazing, so much easier than the boys were. Stewart loves her to bits. We all do.’ Lynsey smiles fondly in her husband’s direction and lowers her voice. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, Maz, but I’ve forgiven him. I knew when I married him that he had a wandering eye.’

It’s more than his eye that wanders, I think, but never mind. It’s Lynsey’s choice.

‘Scrub up, will you, Maz,’ Alex calls. From where he’s checking the sensation in the heifer’s flank with a needle, he gestures to the bucket. ‘We’re almost ready to go. It’s a big calf and it’s breech. Let’s make this quick.’

But I don’t do cows, I think, half panicking as I prepare to assist.

Minutes later, Alex is fishing about inside the cow’s womb, tugging at the calf’s fetlocks to pull it out.

‘Hang on to those for me,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to extend the incision a bit more.’

We work together, and with a rush of fluid the calf emerges. We lower it onto the straw, where it lies very still. Alex starts closing the long incision down the cow’s flank while I clear the fluid and membranes from its muzzle and watch the calf’s chest.

‘It isn’t breathing,’ I say urgently.

Stewart steps forward and hauls the calf up by the hindlegs to side to drain any fluid from its lungs before putting back it down.

‘Anything?’ he says, squatting down beside me.

I shake my head and Stewart swears. Lynsey and Sam look on, tense and silent. Alex keeps on with his suturing, knowing the sooner he finishes, the sooner he can help us. He was right when he said it was a big calf. It would be pretty distressing to lose it now.

I rub the calf’s body with handfuls of straw, trying to stimulate it to take its first breath. I pause and lean my face close to its muzzle to see if I can detect the movement of air through its nostrils. Nothing.

I’m just considering the practicalities of giving a calf mouth-to-mouth when Sam dives down onto his knees beside me and grabs a piece of straw. He sticks it up the calf’s nose, at which it sneezes and shakes its head. ‘That’s done it,’ he says, eyes gleaming in triumph.

‘Well done, Sam,’ I say, watching the calf struggle onto its brisket.

‘Boy or girl?’ Stewart asks, the relief evident in his voice.

Sam pulls the calf’s hindleg back.

‘It’s a heifer, Dad. That means she can stay on the farm and join the herd.’ He turns to Alex. ‘One day, Dad’s going to let me do the milking all by myself.’

‘If we’re still in farming,’ Stewart mutters, but I don’t think Sam or Alex hear him.

‘That’s great, Sam.’ Alex ties off and snips the last knot. ‘I’m all done here. Sam, your next job is to make sure the calf suckles.’

‘Like our baby sister.’ He manhandles the calf towards its mother, then helps it to stand. It wobbles like a drunk then nudges against the cow’s udder, latches on to one of her teats, which is already dripping with the first milk, and sucks noisily.

‘Perfect.’ Alex washes his hands in the bucket and dries them on a towel. I follow suit then help him pack everything away.

‘So, how much longer are you staying in Talyton, Maz?’ Stewart asks as he follows us back to Alex’s car.

‘She came to see me to say goodbye,’ Alex says, his voice taut. ‘She’ll be off soon, back to the bright lights of the city. I’m going to miss her.’

If I’d had any doubts left about the wisdom of staying on in Talyton, they’ve gone, banished by the warmth of Lynsey and Stewart’s welcome.

‘Actually, I’m not going anywhere,’ I say, smiling at the look of surprise on Alex’s face. ‘Emma’s asked me to be her partner at Otter House. I came to tell you I’m staying on.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Alex says. His tone is scolding, but there’s a smile on his lips.

‘I tried to tell you when I arrived at the Manor, but you took over and rang the Barnscote, and I decided I’d wait and tell you over dinner.’

Stewart glances at his watch. ‘It’s a bit late for dinner at the Barnscote now. They keep country hours – I think they close at ten. You could eat with us. Lynsey has a pot of stew keeping hot on the Aga.’

Alex looks at me. His eyes flicker with mutual understanding. Going out for dinner was never going to be about eating . . .

‘Thanks, but we have to get back,’ Alex says. ‘I’ve got the kit to clean.’

It’s dark by the time we’re back on the road.

‘What made you change your mind then, Maz?’ Alex asks, his voice gently caressing.

‘Lots of things. Gloria’s funeral mainly. I realised how much I’d miss everyone, how much I’d miss Emma – and you.’

At the bend at the old bridge, Alex changes down a gear, his hand brushing my thigh. The car shudders. My heart begins to pound with anticipation.

When we arrive at the Manor, the dogs bark, then fall silent. A horse whinnies from the stables.

‘That’s Liberty.’ Alex opens the driver’s door and jumps out. ‘Are you going to stay there all night?’ he adds impatiently, and I slide out the other side and join him on the yard, as Liberty whinnies again.

‘Hi, my beauty,’ Alex calls back.

‘How is she now?’ I follow him across to Liberty’s stable, where a light flicks on, illuminating the front of the stable block.

‘Really well.’ He gives her a mint from his pocket and caresses her neck. ‘I’m going to turn her out this winter to recuperate and bring her back into work in the spring.’ He looks at me. ‘My parents tell me you don’t ride.’

I giggle at the memory of Alex’s parents at the show. ‘They were horrified.’

‘I’ll teach you sometime, if you like.’

I’m not sure about getting up close and personal with a horse as large as Liberty, but the idea of Alex in those jodhpurs of his . . . Well, I wouldn’t say no. I don’t say no. I don’t say anything as Alex takes me by the hand and leads me away from the stable, away from the car and into the shadows cast by the barn.

‘What about the caesar kit?’

‘That can wait. I don’t want to waste any more time –’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, sending tiny quivers of anticipation down my spine ‘– time I could be spending with you.’

‘Oh, Alex,’ I breathe.

‘Since the fire . . .’ He falters, and I realise we haven’t really talked about what happened on the night Buttercross Cottage went up in flames. ‘Since the fire,’ he starts once more, ‘I’ve tried to live every second to the full. I remember the beams coming down and thinking, I’m not going to make it out of here.’

I open my mouth. He touches one finger to my lips.

‘Shh,’ he whispers. ‘You were thinking of Gloria. I didn’t have to go in after you.’ He lets his fingertip trail down my chin, down my throat, stopping just short of the shadowy cleft between my breasts. ‘Maz . . . Can we start again?’

‘You bet.’ I lift my hand and draw him closer until our lips touch, and my spirit soars as I realise that I’ve found what I’ve been looking for, and it’s here in the country, in a sleepy market town, in Alex Fox-Gifford’s arms.

The second novel featuring

the Otter House Vets

by Cathy Woodman will be

published in April 2011.

CHAPTER ONE

It’s a Vet’s Life

When I took the plunge and bought into the partnership in Otter House last year, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I was taking on; a quiet country practice in a peaceful market town. But look at it now.

Frances, our receptionist, is looking fraught behind the desk in Reception which is covered with cards and gifts from our appreciative clients. Her wig – the almond-coloured one which reminds me of candyfloss twirled on a stick – has gone askew, revealing wisps of her scant grey hair.

She takes payment from Mrs Dyer, wife of the local butcher and one of our regulars, for a bag of prescription diet pills and a Christmas cracker dog toy which squeaks when she passes it through the scanner. As it squeaks for a second time, Mrs Dyer’s enormous Great Dane (the Harlequin version which looks as if someone’s taken a white dog and flicked black paint at it) who was trembling on the scales in the far corner of Reception, takes a flying leap towards the desk with Izzy on the end of his lead.

‘Brutus! No!’ Izzy’s eyes flash. The snowflakes on her hairband flash too, and something in the tone of her voice makes the dog stop in his tracks. Brutus might be a big dog – he’s so broad you could use him as a coffee table – but he’s no match for our nurse. He knows exactly who’s boss.

‘He thinks it’s a baby,’ Mrs Dyer announces to everyone else in the waiting area whose pets have taken refuge on laps and under chairs. ‘He adores babies. He just wants to lick them to death.’

I notice how Lynsey Pitt – who’s brought Raffles, a small tan rescue dog short on legs and long on character, for a rather belated second vaccination – holds her baby daughter a little tighter as Brutus shakes his head, sending a glistening spatter of drool over Izzy’s navy scrubs, then pads meekly back to the scales.

Izzy persuades him back on with the aid of a healthy, lowcal treat while Diana, a white Boxer with a big grin on her face, tries to join in. It’s no use Izzy scolding her because she’s deaf and answers to hand signals – and that’s only when she feels like it.

An elderly woman I remember from the talk I gave to the WI back in November on
It’s a Vet’s Life
struggles in through the double glass doors with a cat basket balanced on top of a shopping trolley, followed by a girl who can’t be older than twelve with a small box pierced with holes. Frances greets the woman with the cat and starts inputting her details onto the computer, the postman turns up with parcels to be signed for and the phone starts ringing.

I answer it.

‘Otter House Vets,’ – how I love saying that – ‘how can I help?’ Once I’ve ascertained from the panicking client that I have an emergency on my hands and she’s housebound, I arrange to visit. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

Frances frowns as I put down the phone. I know what she’s getting at.

‘If you book anything else in, Maz,’ she says, surveying the packed waiting area, ‘we’ll all be here till Christmas.’

‘It is Christmas, Frances, pretty much.’ The day before Christmas Eve, anyway, I think, tearing my eyes from the hypnotic lime and yellow swirls on Frances’s top. Emma would prefer her to wear a uniform, saying that the neo-hippy look doesn’t suit anyone, let alone someone in their late fifties like Frances, but I think she brightens the place up and provides a little light relief from the all-blue theme which runs through the practice: blue chairs, pale blue walls and blue-grey, non-slip, easy-clean floors. It’s Emma’s choice – blue’s her favourite colour. ‘I’ve got to go. Will you let Emma know I’m on my way to Talyford?’ I won’t disturb her while she’s consulting.

‘Will do,’ Frances says.

I pick up the piece of paper on which I’ve scribbled down the address, grab my jacket and keys from the cloakroom and dash off. Frances’s voice ringing out across the waiting room, brings me to a halt.

‘Maz, come back. Haven’t you forgotten something?’ I turn to find her holding out the visit case. ‘You’ll forget your head one of these days,’ she adds with mock severity.

I fetch my car, a sporty coupé that I’ve hardly used recently; the drive up to Talyford will do it good. That’s my excuse anyway – it’ll do me good too. I ought to change it for something more practical, but – not that I’m sentimental or anything – it feels like the last connection to my old life as a city vet, working in London.

As I drive out of the car park at the side of Otter House, I glance back at the practice, a solid three-storey Georgian building rendered the colour of clotted cream. It has my name on it, along with Emma’s – my best friend for over fifteen years, and now my business partner – on a brass plaque outside. It’s like a dream, and if I wasn’t driving, I’d have to pinch myself. I still can’t believe my luck.

Emma and I met over a dead greyhound at vet school, and I’d always hoped that we might end up working together. I smile as I recall how one of our professors, who thought himself a bit of a film buff, referred to me as Gwyneth Paltrow on account of my blonde hair, and Emma as Catherine Zeta Jones.

With the heater on full blast, I head out of Talyton St George, following the confusing one-way system which has evolved because the streets aren’t wide enough to take two lanes of traffic. I pass the butcher’s where a queue of shoppers with coats and brollies stand under a striped awning waiting to collect their pre-ordered turkeys and hams, before I emerge from Market Square, between Lacey’s Fine Wines and Lupins, the gift shop, and turn north on the road signposted to Talyford. My windscreen wipers are working full blast as the pelting rain turns to sleet, and I smile to myself as, appropriately, the local radio station, Megadrive Radio, plays an oldie from Wet Wet Wet.

Talyford. There was a clue in the name, I think wryly as I stop at the edge of the murky stream which foams and swirls across the road before it continues its way down the valley to join the river. I guess it’s safe to cross. There’s no way of telling since the depth indicator post has been broken off and chucked in the hedge, but as I’m not sure I’ll find my way into the other end of the village if I make a diversion, I drive on, being careful not to make waves, and reach the other side.