Trust Me, I'm a Vet (7 page)

How does he justify his naked ambition, I wonder? He seems to have given himself a promotion in Emma’s absence. I don’t think Nigel and I will get on if he’s going to throw his weight around and make a fuss about the cost of a trolley, although – my conscience pricks me like a large bore hypodermic needle – he does have a point. I haven’t even brought in enough fee income yet to cover it.

The doorbell rings, cutting my conversation with Nigel short and announcing Cheryl’s arrival. I take her through to the consulting room.

‘This is Saffy, one of our precious babies.’ Cheryl lifts a Persian cat out of a carrier and puts her on the table. She has a smoke-blue coat, apprehensive amber eyes and a flat face which makes her look like a cartoon cat that’s walked into a wall. Cheryl holds her firmly by the shoulders and haunches. ‘This is her first litter and her last, because I’m not going to let our darling girl go through this again.’

Saffy – which Cheryl tells me is short for Cheriam Sapphira, Cheriam being the breeders’ prefix, a combination of her own and her sister Miriam’s names – strains feebly, leaking a pool of dark fluid from beneath her tail, suggesting that her kittens are in imminent danger, if they aren’t already dead.

‘I need your permission to do a caesar,’ I say gently, aware of how worried Cheryl must be.

‘Is that really necessary?’ Cheryl’s earrings, black cats dangling from silver chains, tremble just above the neckline of her purple turtleneck. ‘My vet always tries the injection first.’

‘There’s no time,’ I explain, but I’m not sure I’ve really convinced her, although she does sign the consent form.

‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’

I wish I could, but I can’t and don’t make any promises. Cheryl looks at me pleadingly.

‘Alex always gives me some idea . . .’

I stick to my guns. All I’m prepared to guarantee is that every single one of my patients will die – eventually.

‘She wanted to stay,’ I tell Izzy, who arrived soon after Cheryl left. We’re now in the operating theatre with Saffy between us. ‘I told her she couldn’t.’

‘I bet she didn’t take that very well,’ Izzy says cheerfully, checking the resuscitation kits ready for the imminent arrival of Saffy’s kittens. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said it was down to Health and Safety. For my health and her safety. I know she adores her cats, but even so, she’s a bit pushy, isn’t she?’

‘I call her the She-devil,’ Izzy says with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘I can’t believe she had the nerve to bring one of her cats here. She helped Old Fox-Gifford organise the petition to try and stop Emma setting up the practice in Talyton. Emma’s forgiven her – you know what she’s like, a real softy – but I haven’t.’

‘It’s lucky for Cheryl that it didn’t succeed,’ I observe. ‘Where did you used to work?’

‘Talymouth, and before that a practice in Exeter.’

‘So you haven’t moved very far.’

‘I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’ Izzy smiles. ‘You just wait – when you’ve been here a few months, you’ll find that you’ll never want to leave.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ It’s too quiet, too out of the way and far too muddy for me. ‘By the way, I brought a couple of bags in from my car when I arrived the other day. Have you seen them? I thought I left them in the staffroom.’

‘What kind of bags?’

‘Yellow ones.’

‘The clinical waste went out this morning.’ Izzy glances at the watch pinned to her breast. ‘Eight o’clock on the dot.’

‘All of it?’ I say, aghast.

‘Of course.’

‘But that was my stuff – my clothes, some shoes, my iPod. Didn’t you notice the stickers?’

‘Radiation Hazard? I thought it was your idea of a joke.’

‘Not mine. The staff from my last practice’s idea of giving me a good send-off.’

‘You should have said,’ Izzy says sheepishly.

‘Don’t worry. It gives me an excuse to go out and buy a whole new wardrobe next time I’m in London.’

‘You don’t have to go all the way to London. You can get some really nice clothes at the garden centre.’

‘What, macs and gardening gloves? Not quite my style,’ I say, smiling. ‘Here, have a kitten.’

Within an hour Saffy has come round from the anaesthetic, her days as a breeding queen over. There are three kittens. Only one has survived and it’s taking milk while Saffy licks frantically at its blue-cream fur, raising it up into tiny spikes.

It’s adorable. I love kittens.

I must have been about twelve years old when I found a litter of them in the stairwell in the block of flats in Battersea where I lived with my parents and younger brother. They looked like the nightmarish Rat King of one of my father’s poems, a mass of tangled tails and tiny bodies, but they weren’t writhing and wriggling about. They weren’t moving at all.

I never cried, but when thoughts of what they must have gone through, and how much they’d suffered, flashed through my mind, my throat tightened and my eyelids pricked. When I knelt down beside them, a tear dropped onto one of the kittens’ faces and trickled into its ear. It shook its head and opened its mouth; a blink of pink. It was alive, the sole survivor.

‘The kindest thing for it would be to knock it on the head.’ My father, who was sitting at the kitchen table in a donkey jacket which reeked of booze and fags, hardly looked when I took it out from under my jumper to show him. He topped up his glass from the bottle in front of him. ‘Put it out of its misery, ‘Manda.’

‘You can put me out of mine by going out and looking for a bloody job,’ Mum cut in from the sink, where she was in her Marigolds, up to her elbows in bubbles. She was thirty then – a young mum. Her face was already toughened by frequent trips to the tanning salon, her hair in frizzy blonde ringlets, and her bra straps, exposed by her sleeveless blouse, fell in loops down her strong, wiry arms, those of a woman used to manual work.

‘I’m always working, even when I’m sitting here.’ My father, who was ten years older than her with a lean face, bright blue eyes and crows’ feet, drained his glass and thumped it back down on the table. ‘Especially when I’m sitting here.’

‘Can’t Pat give you a couple more shifts down at the Feathers,’ Mum said, ‘and get you out from under my feet?’

‘How do I know?’ My father yawned, reinforcing the message that my mother was boring him with her constant nagging, and stretched out his long legs. ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks.’

‘Go and ask him. No, crawl round on your knees and beg him, otherwise I’m going to have to sell the kids to pay the electric.’

I left them to it. (I used to fantasise that my real parents would turn up out of the blue one day and take me away, reclaiming me from this mismatched pair who were constantly at each other’s throats.) I took the kitten, a tiny scrap of black and white fur with its eyes stuck closed, in a shoebox on the bus as far as the stop outside the parade of shops that I passed every day on my way to school.

Tucked between Tatchell’s Bespoke Tailor’s and Gita’s Saris was the Ark. To the right of the entrance was a brass plaque, engraved ‘J. B. Wilson’ with some letters after it. The sign on the door read ‘Closed’. With the shoebox tucked under one arm, I reached up and pressed the doorbell. Eventually, a nurse – I guessed that’s what she was from the silver buckle on her belt – opened the door.

‘Can’t you read?’ she snapped.

‘This is an emergency,’ I stammered, then realising that she was about to shut the door on me, I took the lid off the box. ‘Look.’

‘Oh, it’s just a baby . . . You’d better come in,’ the nurse said more kindly. ‘I’ll ask the vet to have a look at him.’

‘I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.’ I followed her through a door on the other side of the waiting area into a small room, where the air smelled fiercely clean and chemical.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ she said curtly, and she left me there in the company of the kitten and a poster of a giant flea, before returning with a man in grey trousers and a tunic which fastened across one shoulder. He seemed very tall and very old to me, although looking back, he was probably only just fifty at the time.

He introduced himself as Jack, the vet, and the nurse as Chrissie.

‘I’m Amanda,’ I said, as he lifted the kitten out of the box and glanced at its undercarriage.

‘It’s a boy,’ he announced. ‘I’d say he can’t be more than a week old because his eyes haven’t opened yet. What’s his name?’

I thought of the Rat King and the tangle of tails. ‘King. He’s called King.’

‘This little chap, as you’ve probably guessed, should still be with his mum, but as he isn’t, he needs to be fed with a special milk substitute every two hours.’

‘I can do it,’ I interrupted. I’d bonded with the kitten as soon as I’d realised he was alive and depending on me for his survival. I felt responsible. I felt needed.

‘Don’t you have to go to school?’

‘I can skip school for a few days. I don’t mind.’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Jack said gravely, ‘but I’d hate for you to get into any trouble, so what I suggest is that I keep King here for a while.’

I gazed around the room, at the bottles and pots on the shelves, at the reassuringly long names printed on the labels, as if the longer the name, the more effective the medicine. I wasn’t sure about Chrissie, but I liked Jack’s quiet and reassuring manner. I trusted his opinion. King would be safer at the Ark than at home, but my chest ached at the thought of having to leave him behind. For the first time in my life, I was in love.

‘Do you live far away?’ Jack asked.

‘I have to catch a bus. Does that count?’

‘Oh, most definitely. Why don’t you drop by after school tomorrow?’

My heart leapt. ‘Can I?’

Jack nodded. ‘It’s almost time for evening surgery – you can help Chrissie give the kitten his first bottle before you head home.’

‘How much will it all cost?’ I was thinking of my bus fare.

‘Don’t worry about it now.’ I wonder what Jack thought of me, a skinny blonde girl in a grubby blouse with the top button missing, and a skirt with a hemline halfway up her thighs. Perhaps he guessed from the state of my shoes that I wasn’t from a particularly well-heeled family. ‘We’ll see how it goes . . .’

I bit my lip. I knew what he meant: King might not make it. I had to be realistic, but whatever happened to him now, the path of my life was set. I was going to be a vet like Jack Wilson and nothing was going to stop me.

‘I can’t believe the Fox-Giffords would leave their practice unmanned without good reason,’ says Cheryl when she turns up to collect Saffy and the new arrival later the same night. (I like to send new mums home as soon as they’re round from the anaesthetic so they can feed their babies in peace.)

‘I’m sure there’s a good reason Alex wasn’t answering the phone.’ I don’t want to bad-mouth Emma’s rivals – I don’t want to stoop to their level, for a start. ‘Perhaps he was called out to another emergency.’ I change the subject. ‘Look, I’ll email all the details of the surgery to Talyton Manor Vets tomorrow, and you can arrange to see them for aftercare.’

‘And that’s a check-up in ten days’ time, you say?’

‘Maz! Phone!’ Izzy calls out.

‘Oh, listen to me going on,’ says Cheryl.

‘I have to go. Goodnight and good luck to Saffy and her baby.’ I push the door closed and turn the key in the lock before I go and find Izzy. Nigel is long gone.

‘Who’s on the phone now?’

‘Oh, nobody.’ Izzy grins. ‘I thought I’d provide you with a means of escape from the She-devil.’ She looks down at my feet. ‘Did you know you’re still wearing your slippers?’

‘Am I?’ I glance down at the pair of fluffy dogs with lewd pink tongues. The nurses at Crossways gave them to me last Christmas. I’m not sure I’ve done my image any good, but at least I won’t be seeing Cheryl in a professional capacity again. She isn’t Otter House’s client.

Izzy continues to stare at me.

‘Is there something else?’

‘You know, in my twenty years of nursing, I’ve never met a vet who kisses their patients.’

I’d given the newborn kitten a little cuddle before handing her over to Cheryl.

‘Only the cute ones that don’t bite. I do draw the line at kissing snakes, though I have kissed a lot of other reptiles in my lifetime.’ Well, not that many, I think. There have been two significant reptiles in my life: Mike, and my first boyfriend from my student days, Ian Michelson.

‘I’m going home, if you’re all right here,’ Izzy says. She lives alone, I know that much from Emma. She owns one of the tiny terraced houses on the road out to Talymouth, sharing it with two rabbits, eight guinea pigs, three tortoises and a corn snake which someone found under the bonnet of their car. I guess it must be pretty daunting for a man to share Izzy with all that lot.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, although I’m feeling pretty shattered from having been on my feet for most of the day. ‘I’m off to bed.’ I wish Izzy goodnight, and on my way back to the flat I check on Freddie. He’s lying very still at the front of the cage, his head tipped back and his body pressed up against the bars. Is he sleeping? His eyes are open and staring. I tiptoe forwards, looking anxiously for the telltale rise and fall of his chest. Nothing.