Trust Me, I'm a Vet (5 page)

‘There was no need for you to get me into trouble. I’m more than capable of doing that all by myself.’

Miff waves her tail just once, her brown eyes downcast.

‘Oh, cheer up. I’m not cross with you.’ I’m annoyed with myself for letting that arrogant, testosterone-fuelled – I swear under my breath – get to me. Who is he? The local squire? I try to dismiss him, but he isn’t the kind of man who’s easily dismissed. I was already on edge, wondering what exactly I’ve let myself in for, but now . . . I feel as if I could be back in London, having been subjected to a road rage attack on my way to work.

Country life. Country people. Emma made it all sound so romantic, I think, as Miff and I scurry back along the riverbank and across the footbridge which arches over the rust-coloured waters of the River Taly.

Crossing the green on the way to the town, we pass two men removing the ribbons from the maypole which stands in the middle.

‘Mornin’, my lover,’ one calls out.

I wave back, smiling at his odd, uniquely West Country turn of phrase, then turn right into town, past the end wall of the Duck and Dragon where someone’s sprayed ‘Grockles, Per-lease Go Home’ politely in red paint. (The pub is one of three left in Talyton – apparently, the town used to support eleven.) When I arrive back outside Otter House, I hesitate for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, I finally burst into Reception, only to have my enthusiasm halted by the commanding sight of Frances’s raised palm as she uses the other hand to lift the phone.

‘Talyton Manor Vets – I mean the other ones. How can I help you?’ She listens for a few moments then, ‘Oh, Gloria . . . yes, indeed. Old Mr Fox-Gifford would prescribe exactly that – a few days on a light diet, boiled chicken and rice, and he’ll be as right as ninepins.’

I wait, itching for her to finish. How does it look to a client if your receptionist keeps dropping the name of the competition into the conversation?

Frances puts the phone down and greets me with a brief smile.

‘Frances, I know you mean well,’ I begin tactfully, ‘but I’d prefer you not to give out advice.’

‘The Fox-Giffords expected me to use my discretion,’ Frances says, appearing unconcerned.

‘This isn’t Talyton Manor though,’ I say, but I’m not sure I’m winning. Frances has the same rather glazed expression as Robbie the ex-police dog did just after he’d been hit by that tractor. ‘I’d appreciate it if you called this Gloria person straight back, please, and tell her to make an appointment to see me if her dog —’

‘It’s a cat,’ Frances interrupts, ‘one of her ferals. It’s pretty wild.’

‘OK, but that’s no reason for me not to see it.’ I let Miff off the lead.

‘It bit right through Emma’s thumb last time – she was on antibiotics for weeks.’

‘Frances, just ring her.’ I’m not going to be intimidated by anything, be it feline or human. ‘I’m going to get changed. I’ll be back in five.’

‘Take your time.’ Frances’s reading glasses rest via a chain on the shelf of her bosom. She slips them onto her nose, and taps at the keyboard in front of her with the end of a pen as if she’s afraid of making direct contact with it. ‘There’s hardly anyone booked in for you.’

I go and change my shoes, and return to Reception, fastening the poppers on my paw-print top.

‘Did you get hold of Gloria?’ I ask Frances, who’s reading a newspaper now, the
Talyton Chronicle
.

‘She says she won’t see a strange vet. She’s going to wait until Emma’s back.’

‘Didn’t you explain the situation?’ I’m smarting a little. I know it’s nothing personal – I’d probably be just as choosy if I had pets of my own – but you would have thought that Emma’s clients would have trusted her judgement.

‘I told her Ginge could be dead by then, but she wouldn’t budge. What else can I do? I can’t force her.’

I don’t pursue it any further, and I refrain from asking her to put the newspaper away. It doesn’t do to fall out with your receptionist on your first day.

‘Here’s your nine-thirty,’ Frances says, looking past me. ‘Mrs Moss and her daughter, Sinead. They’ve not been to us before.’

I look at my first customers. Mrs Moss is wearing a green tent-like dress and Sinead’s dark hair has been scraped back into a Croydon facelift. She’s holding an open-topped cardboard box with
THIS WAY UP
and
PERISHABLE GOODS
stamped on the side. I cautiously show them into the consulting room where Izzy’s waiting to assist me.

While Mrs Moss keeps a tissue pressed firmly to her nose, Sinead keeps the box at arms’ length and lowers it carefully onto the table. The stench makes me retch. Steeling myself, I look inside. A tricolour collie pup with an air of desperation in its eyes sits cowed in the bottom, its mouth set in a squiggle, reminding me of Snoopy from the Peanuts cartoon strips. Glistening strings of saliva stretch from its lips to the fringe of a bloodstained baby blanket.

Mrs Moss informs me that the puppy’s name is Freddie, he’s eleven weeks old and they bought him from a farm while they were on holiday in Wales.

‘Has he had his first vaccination yet?’ I ask.

Sinead stands beside her mother, chewing gum and fiddling with her enormous gold earrings. I repeat the question, but the Mosses remain silent, their expressions blank.

‘It’s really important,’ I say, at which Mrs Moss finds her tongue at last.

‘He had some of those homeophobic drops – the breeder showed me.’

‘You mean homeopathic,’ I suggest gently, yet inside I’m churning with anger on Freddie’s behalf, at both the breeder and Mrs Moss for believing this would be enough to protect him from some of the nastier puppyhood diseases. ‘He has parvo – a viral infection.’ I hold back from angrily adding,
Which we could have prevented with a course of conventional, tested vaccine.

Izzy hands me a pair of disposable gloves and disappears, rolling her eyes.

‘I told you.’ Sinead turns to her mother. ‘I told you we should’ve had him checked out.’

‘He was fit enough when we got him.’

I lift the puppy out of the box. ‘Come on, Freddie, let’s have a look at you.’

He shivers and moans when I press his belly very gently to check for anything that might suggest an alternative diagnosis.

‘He’s been passing blood from both ends,’ says Sinead. ‘It’s bad, innit.’ I leave the Mosses in no doubt as to exactly how bad it is, and admit him. I can’t perform miracles though – it’s up to Freddie.

‘Give us a call later and I’ll let you know how he’s getting on.’

‘Leave it,’ says Mrs Moss, as her daughter makes to pick up the box. Neither of them looks back. The door into Reception closes after them and, like magic, the door behind me opens from the corridor which links the consulting room with the pharmacy, Kennels, prep room and operating theatre. Izzy comes bustling in with a tray of equipment.

‘Izzy, anyone would think you were listening at the door.’

‘I was,’ she says with a wicked twinkle in her eye, and I’m relieved that her initial shyness with me has already worn off. She takes a close look at Freddie. ‘Poor little scrap. There’s no way he’s eleven weeks – he can’t be more than six. And the label on the box is apt – he looks highly perishable to me.’

We put Freddie on a drip, dose him with antibiotics and clean him up, then leave him in the isolation cage under the stairs in the corridor on the way to the laundry.

‘Oops, I’m sorry,’ Izzy says when she bumps me with her elbow while hanging her plastic apron on the hook outside the cage.

‘Not your fault,’ I say. ‘There’s hardly room to swing a cat.’

‘Of course, we’d have had a separate ward for patients with infectious diseases if it hadn’t been for Talyton Manor Vets. They called meetings and organised petitions to stop Emma getting planning permission for an extension at the back of the practice. Old Fox-Gifford spent a fortune on whisky – for bribes, allegedly – but why he bothered, I don’t know. A few extra square metres of floor space wouldn’t have hurt anyone.’

Not for the first time, I admire Emma’s determination in setting this place up. Otter House used to be her family home. Her father ran a dental practice here before he died prematurely, struck by lightning on the golf course at Talysands when Emma was thirteen. Her mother passed away here, almost four years ago now, her body ravaged by a particularly aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. It was her dying wish that Emma should have the house converted so she could run a successful vet practice in her home town.

‘I’m sure Emma’s told you I’m more than happy for you to call on me if you need a hand out of hours,’ Izzy says, changing the subject. ‘Do you – oh, perhaps I shouldn’t ask —’

‘No, go ahead.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend, or a significant other? Only, if you want to go out for the evening, I’ll take the phones for you.’

I shake my head, trying to suppress the image of Mike which appears in my mind – my Mike, not the one who screwed me over with his ex-wife, but the one I fell in love with, the man who made me feel special and loved.

‘The nightlife in Talyton won’t be what you’re used to – it’s more bats and owls than clubs, but if you want to meet up and make friends, you could take up rambling, or join the WI, or there’s an ad in the
Chronicle
for the Countrylovers Dating Agency, if you’re looking for someone special,’ Izzy goes on brightly.

I swallow hard against the tide of embarrassment and hurt which rises inside me. ‘I’m definitely not in the market for a lonesome farmer,’ I say lightly.

‘But you are in the market?’

‘No,’ I say firmly. Definitely not. I couldn’t go through all that rejection again. I’ve been there, done that, not once, but twice in my life, and that’s enough for me. I give Freddie one last stroke, then discard my gloves. ‘Er, have you seen my stethoscope anywhere?’

Izzy stares at me. ‘It’s hanging from your neck.’ She grins. ‘Emma did warn me you were a bit dippy.’

‘Did she?’ I say, a little upset by her comment. It’s a bit personal coming from someone I hardly know.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Izzy says hastily.

‘It’s all right.’ It’s true, after all.

‘I guess you can blame the odd blonde moment on the colour of your hair. Is it natural, that peculiar shade of golden retriever?’ Izzy’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’ She giggles. ‘When will I ever learn to keep my trap shut?’

Izzy’s like Marmite, I muse a while later when I’m in the consulting room, checking through the yellow Post-it notes Emma’s left on the drawers and cupboards to show me where everything is. With Izzy, there’s no middle way. You either love her or hate her. Luckily, considering I’m going to be working closely with her for the next six months, I suspect it’s going to be the former.

I smile to myself. Emma did tell me Izzy was frank and straightforward. It isn’t surprising then that she had a chat with Izzy about me. And as for the golden retriever remark, I suppose it is rather amusing.

As Izzy tops up the vaccine supply in the fridge, I return to my computer and the screen flashes to life:

Cadbury. Chocolate Labrador. 21 weeks. Entirely male. Vaccination status? Owner: Mrs L. Pitt of Barton Farm ***

‘Have you any idea what these asterisks mean, Izzy?’ I ask.

She looks over my shoulder. ‘It must be some private code. At the practice where I did my training we used them all the time. NGOR was my favourite.’

‘What’s that?’

‘No grip on reality.’ Izzy grins. ‘TPNN was another – take payment now, or never. I’ll ask Frances to come through.’

Frances joins us, slamming the door behind her and leaning back against it.

‘How I wish Old Mr Fox-Gifford was here.’ Her lipstick is bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth. ‘One look from him could silence the most unruly child.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Izzy asks.

‘One of Lynsey’s is eating a sample pack of rabbit food like it’s a bag of crisps and another is scribbling on the notices on the board. I’ve threatened them all with a spell on the naughty chair, but will they listen?’ Frances waits as if she’s expecting Izzy or me to go and sort them out.

‘I’m not good with children,’ Izzy says quickly.

‘Leave it to me,’ I say. ‘First though, Frances, do these asterisks mean anything, or are they down to a slip of the mouse?’

‘Alex Fox-Gifford says that it’s a universal code, something every vet learns at vet school.’ The tone of her voice rises, as if she’s questioning my competence. ‘The number of asterisks corresponds with the saying “this year, next year, sometime, never”.’

Izzy and I look blank.

‘It’s a warning to take payment at the time of consultation. The Pitts have always been rather slow at settling their account.’ Frances stares at me. ‘Before you say anything, Maz, I’ve checked that the puppy isn’t registered with Talyton Manor Vets.’ She glances towards the door. ‘I’m sending them in before they wreck the place.’

‘Go ahead,’ I say, and the boys – six of them, including a set of twins securely strapped into a pushchair – traipse in with their mother, who has a sandy shoulder-length bob, and shades on top of her head. Clearly an expert in the art of multitasking, she has one hand on the buggy and the other clasping a puppy to her breast – a chocolate Labrador with hazel eyes, and skin which falls in wrinkles over its belly.