I stroll back in the vague direction of the car park, keeping to the gravel path alongside the practice area where several riders are jumping their horses. Sophia is there too, lunging a small pony with a child on top, the pony trotting around so fast you can hardly see its legs. The child, who can’t be more than five, is wearing jodhpurs, a red tabard and ribbons in her hair. She sets her mouth in a determined straight line, hauls back on the reins and digs in her heels.
‘Legs. More legs, Lucie.’
The child flaps her legs, and the pony bucks and throws her up its neck from where she slides slowly onto the ground.
‘Whoa, Tinky.’ Sophia pulls the pony up to a halt. It lowers its head and starts pulling at the grass. The child starts to bawl. Sophia helps her up, brushes her down, gives her a smack on the bottom and sticks her straight back in the saddle.
‘That was your fault,’ Sophia scolds. ‘You let Tinky get her head down.’
The child wipes her face with the cuff of her shirt.
‘Does that mean I’m a rider now, Humpy?’
‘How many times have you fallen orf now?’
The child counts on her fingers. ‘Five.’
‘Two more to go,’ says Sophia. ‘It’s seven times before you can call yourself a proper rider,’ and I find myself thanking my lucky stars I never took up horse riding if that’s the case.
I walk on past the Lacemakers’ Guild and the beer tent. It really is a different world from the one I’m used to. In fact, I wonder whether I might have slipped through a gap in the space-time continuum into a parallel universe. I mean, who on earth thought of making a competition out of shearing sheep?
I stop in front of a stage which is set up in front of the sheep pens. Two men stand waiting.
‘Get set, go.’ How I missed Nigel and his stopwatch up until now, I don’t know. He’s wearing a dazzling white shirt with flounces, breeches and long woollen socks with bells attached.
The men spring into action, each letting a sheep out of the pens behind them, turning it over and grabbing a set of clippers which are plugged into a frame above their heads. The clippers whirr. A generator throbs. The fleeces fall away from the sheep’s skin. The sheep-shearers sweat, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. The one on the left, the one with blond curls and flushed cheeks, is particularly fit. What country maiden could possibly fail to be moved by the sight of his taut tanned torso as his vest parts from the belt of his filthy jeans? What city girl too?
And the one on the right? He has perfect pecs, although when he bows over his sheep, you can see that his hair is thinning on top. I recognise him, in fact. He’s Stewart Pitt – Lynsey’s husband and father of all those children.
‘Maz, you made it.’ Izzy, looking very demure in a crocheted top, safari shorts and wellies, strolls over from the edge of the stage to join me.
‘What’s Nigel wearing?’ I ask.
‘He’s taken up morris dancing.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a tradition here. Any excuse for a pub crawl.’
‘Nige, I’ve finished,’ the blond man shouts as he lets his sheep go. It scuttles about the stage, naked and fearful. ‘Switch the clock off, will you?’
‘Who is that?’ I ask.
‘Chris,’ Izzy says.
‘I didn’t recognise him from the other day. We weren’t properly introduced.’ I saw him only briefly at the practice when he was there cleaning up the slurry. He must be about forty, maybe a couple of years younger, his skin is flushed with exertion and exposure to the sun, and he isn’t as tall as I thought he was, no taller than I am.
Izzy claps and cheers when Nigel declares Chris the winner. In the distance, a roar goes up from the direction of the main arena.
‘I could do with a nurse, Izzy’ – Chris jumps down from the stage and gazes longingly at her – ‘someone to rub some liniment into my poor back.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’ Izzy blushes furiously, and I wonder if her problem with finding Mr Right is that she’s shy with men. ‘Chris, this is Maz, the vet from Otter House. You know, Emma’s locum.’
‘Hi, Maz.’ Chris smiles. ‘I would shake your hand,’ he adds, looking down at his grubby fingers.
‘That’s OK,’ I say, backing off a little. ‘Thanks for helping with the clean-up.’
‘It was no trouble,’ Chris says. ‘I’m sorry for bringing those pieces of render down.’
‘I’m sure it can be fixed,’ I say.
‘It has to be repaired before Emma gets back. I’d hate her to think we haven’t been looking after the place properly,’ Izzy says, glancing at me in a way which makes me realise she still doesn’t have much confidence in me. ‘Um, Chris,’ she goes on, changing the subject, ‘I wonder if I could ask you something. It’s a favour really.’
‘You know I’d do anything for you,’ Chris says lightly.
‘We’ve got a dog in at the surgery, a Border Collie pup, that needs a home.’
‘I could do with another dog. Meg’s getting a bit old to chase sheep now. Alex has given her some pills for her arthritis, but she wears out easily.’ Chris scratches his blond stubble, leaving red marks on his cheek. ‘Why don’t I drop by and have a look at this pup?’
‘Or I could bring him over to the farm,’ Izzy says.
‘Give us your number,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He enters Izzy’s mobile number into his phone, then bids us both goodbye. ‘I’ve got to go now. Stewart and I are going to load the sheep onto the lorry so I can get them back to the farm.’
Izzy looks disappointed. ‘What about you, Maz?’
‘I was just going,’ I say, deciding to leave the subject of the cheque until I see Nigel at work. He’s due into the practice again on Tuesday or Wednesday – I’m not sure which. Nigel’s working week seems to be arbitrary, depending on his other commitments. He has his own business troubleshooting problems with home computers, and is keen to learn how to fish – as well as how to morris dance, it seems.
‘Oh no, you must stay,’ says Izzy. ‘Come and be sociable.’
Thinking I might fall further in Izzy’s estimation if I don’t, I decide to join her. She seems pleased.
‘You never know who you might meet,’ she says brightly.
It is a case of renewing former acquaintances, I discover. Inside the beer tent, Izzy introduces me to the big man with a shaved head who is behind the makeshift bar. He wears a shirt and tie, and seems vaguely familiar.
‘This is Clive – do you remember?’ Izzy says. ‘You and Emma operated on Robbie when you were down for the weekend. Clive, this is Maz.’
‘I didn’t have a chance to thank you for helping to save the old boy’s life.’ He glances over his shoulder towards Robbie, the German shepherd dog, who lies on a piece of sheepskin, alternately panting and sloshing his nose about in a bowl of water. A couple of Bonios lie untouched beside it. ‘I didn’t think I’d be taking him home again. Actually, you couldn’t have a quick look at him now, could you?’ Clive begins. ‘Drinks on the house?’
Why not? I’ve never consulted in a beer tent before. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘He’s having trouble getting up in the mornings.’ Clive’s smiling, but there’s an edge to his voice. ‘He’s like me – too much beer the night before . . . Seriously though, he’s started knuckling over on his back feet.’
I join Robbie, squatting down beside him. I stroke his head, then run my hands back along his shoulders, rediscovering the scar on his chest.
‘How did he get this?’ I ask, tracing the line of the scar with my fingers.
‘We’re a matching pair.’ Clive lifts the front of his shirt and points to a jagged scar which bisects his paunch from his breastbone and disappears below the waist of his boxers. ‘I was a dog handler in the Met.’ He covers up again. ‘Robbie and I were searching an old factory site for two men after an incident at a petrol station. One turned on me with a knife, slit me down the middle. Robbie went in before he could finish the job off.’ Clive bends d
own and ruffles Robbie’s coat, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘He saved my life.’
I don’t know what it is about this pair, but at this moment I couldn’t speak if I needed to save mine . . .
‘We went back on duty afterwards, but I couldn’t take it any more. I opted for early retirement, Edie – she’s my wife – resigned from her job, and we came down here. We always wanted to retire to Devon to run a pub. It’s been our dream.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘A dream turned nightmare, as it turns out. It’s cost more than double what we expected to restore the mill to its former glory and it’s bloody hard work.’
‘I think I’ll stick with being a vet.’
‘It’s getting better,’ Clive says. ‘It’s just a matter of pulling the punters in now.’
Tell me about it, I muse, as he goes on in a low voice, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve found that it takes a while to get used the pace of life and the people here in Talyton. We only got to run the beer tent this year because it was our pub’s turn. The landlord at the Duck and Dragon, who looks as if he’s been there a hundred years, tried to get the rule overturned at the last town hall meeting, on the basis that Edie and I weren’t born within twenty miles of Talyton.’ He grins. ‘I don’t know what they did – consulted the runes, perhaps – but the ancient tradition decrees that it’s the pub that counts, not the people running it.’
I find myself chuckling at the idea of the runes. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I like Clive. I guess it’s because he understands what it’s like to be an outsider.
I give Robbie a quick once-over, checking his reflexes and pulling him about. I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. I could suggest X-rays and scans to rule out arthritis and other spinal disorders, but from the evidence in front of me – the muscle wastage and weakness – I’d say the diagnosis is pretty conclusive. I’m 99 per cent certain that Robbie has a degenerative disease which results in a gradual paralysis of the back end. It’s merely a matter of time.
‘Well?’ Clive says.
I shake my head.
‘I know the score, Maz. I’ve seen it before,’ Clive goes on. ‘How long?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ I tell him he can pick up some anti-inflammatories from the surgery to see if they help his mobility at all, but I’m not optimistic.
Clive turns away, picks up a cloth and takes a moment to wipe down the bar. His shoulders slump and I notice him glance a moment too long at Robbie before turning back.
‘What are you having?’ he says with a barman’s practised cheeriness.
He serves up a Diet Coke for me and a shandy for Izzy. We take our drinks and sit at a table in the corner of the tent where someone has lifted a flap of canvas to allow in a slight breeze.
‘How did the pet show go?’ Izzy asks.
‘Old Fox-Gifford and I couldn’t agree so Fifi chose the winner in the end. Izzy, what happened to Alex’s father?’
‘You mean the limp? He was gored by the bull up at Barton Farm. It was some years ago. He nearly died. They said he’d never work again, but he’s a stubborn old stick.’ Izzy smiles. ‘Stewart had the bull shot. Lucifer, it was called. The Pitts had to employ the services of the AI man instead. His conception rates were the best in the county – the farmers used to lock up their daughters when he was around.’
‘I thought people like the Fox-Giffords became extinct with the dinosaurs.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Alex’s parents said they’d chosen a girl for him, someone they approved of.’ Izzy’s brow furrows and I continue, ‘A girlfriend with lovely soft hands.’
‘Alex is more than capable of choosing his girlfriends himself. He’s always linked with some woman or another. According to the gossip, his latest squeeze is one of our drug reps. Eloise, she’s called. She visited Otter House not so long ago, bringing lunch for us in return for watching some video about the company’s latest product, something new for diarrhoea. It went down well with pizza.’
‘I bet it did . . .’
‘I reckon Sophia was talking about their new groom. The reference to her hands means she’s a good rider, that she doesn’t pull on the horses’ mouths.’ Izzy laughs. ‘I expect Alex has a woman to do for him as well.’
‘To do what?’ My imagination is running away with me.
‘A housekeeper. Someone who cooks, washes and tidies up.’
‘I see . . . What’s all this about the ex-wife and Hello! magazine?’
‘It wasn’t Hello! magazine. It was one of those celebrity gossip mags that you can pick up for 50p. Astra had a brief but lucrative affair with some toyboy of a professional footballer after she left Alex, much to the Fox-Giffords’ chagrin. She did a photo shoot with him, modelling some designer dresses which were more WAG than Sloane Ranger, if you want my opinion. She also made out that the Fox-Giffords were snobbish, intolerant, old-money types’ – Izzy grins – ‘which isn’t all that far wrong, but it was a bit tactless of her to allow it to go into print when she wanted a decent settlement on her divorce.’ She leans back on her chair. ‘Oh, here come the boys.’
Nigel and Stewart join us.
‘It’s Maz, isn’t it?’ Stewart greets me. ‘Friend of Emma’s?’
‘I’m doing her a favour, looking after Otter House while she’s away.’
‘I’d heard a rumour, but I didn’t realise it was you. Long time no see. How are you?’ He looks past me. ‘Hey, Alex, come over and meet the new vet.’
Alex strolls across. One eyebrow flickers up, just briefly but long enough for me to realise that he’s clocked the state of my shoes.
‘I’ve already had the pleasure,’ he says – rather grimly, I think. His top buttons are undone, revealing a V of lightly tanned skin, and – I can’t stop my gaze following straight down to where his shirt is tucked into the waistband of a pair of cream jodhpurs which are ridiculously snug. You’d have thought he could afford to buy a pair that fit.
‘I’m looking for my father,’ Alex adds. He seems a bit tense.
‘I thought that would be the last thing you’d want to do,’ Stewart teases.
‘He has my kids with him, and Mother wants to get them back to the Manor in time for tea.’
‘He’s probably still in the hospitality tent.’ Stewart turns back to me. ‘Let’s hope Maz knows more about dogs than she does about cattle. I’ll always remember the first day you turned up on the farm.’
Not in front of Alex, I think, cringing, as Stewart blabs on, ‘You didn’t know the difference between bullocks and steers.’
‘What is the difference?’ Clive stacks our empty glasses on a tray.
‘Bullocks have bollocks,’ says Stewart. ‘Steers don’t.’
‘I wish I hadn’t asked,’ Clive says, wincing.
‘And then’ – Stewart laughs and slaps his thigh – ‘when I was teaching you to drive the tractor, you reversed the ruddy trailer into the barn and brought half the wall down.’
‘That was a very long time ago,’ I say hotly, ‘and the wall was falling down anyway.’
‘I can’t imagine you as a driving instructor, Stewart. I seem to recall you rolling your parents’ car off the end of Elm Hill once.’ Alex steps up beside me. (Emma’s taken me to Elm Hill before – it’s on the north edge of the escarpment on the way to Talymouth.) ‘Stewart forgot to put the handbrake on when he was, let us say, entertaining one of his young ladies.’
Alex’s comment on Stewart’s past indiscretions reminds me why I’m so off men, although Stewart does have the grace to blush. He drains his pint and changes the subject.
‘It’s a pity you had that last fence down, Alex,’ Stewart says. ‘I saw your last round.’
‘Yes, that was my own bloody fault, and don’t I know it. I’m never going to hear the end of it from my mother,’ Alex says crossly. ‘That little mare—’
‘You mean the horse, not your mother,’ Stewart cuts in, in a vain attempt to lighten Alex’s mood.
‘She
’s a fantastic jumper, the best I’ve ever had,’ Alex goes on, not smiling, ‘and I went and messed it up for her. I could kick myself, missing that stride at the planks.’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll see you on the British team one day, if your mother has anything to do with it.’ Stewart gives Alex a friendly shove.
‘Pushy mothers – who’d have them?’ Alex grimaces. He doesn’t look anywhere near so good-looking when he does that, and I find myself thinking that my first opinion of him was right. He’s arrogant, self-obsessed and he probably is the womaniser everyone paints him to be. In fact, I’m embarrassed that I asked Izzy about him.
‘I shouldn’t criticise,’ Alex says, his voice softening. ‘If it wasn’t for Mother, I wouldn’t have a horse to ride, and I’d struggle to look after the kids.’
‘Talking of kids,’ Stewart cuts in, ‘I’d better go and find mine.’ He checks his watch. ‘I said I’d meet Lynsey at the bouncy castle at four – she’s going to kill me.’
‘What’s new?’ says Alex. ‘If you see my father, tell him I’m on the warpath.’
‘I’ll see you on the farm on Monday,’ says Stewart. ‘Cheers all. I’m off.’
‘I must go too,’ says Nigel. ‘We’re dancing in the main arena in fifteen minutes. Are you coming along to watch, Izzy?’
‘I can’t, Nigel. I promised Fifi I’d do a stint on the Talyton Animal Rescue stall.’
‘Oh. How about you, Maz?’
‘I really have to get back to the surgery to check on the inpatients,’ I say, not wanting to be left alone with Alex Fox-Gifford. I’m finding it difficult to be civil after the slurry incident, and he seems to be in a foul mood.
‘Have you got many in then,’ Alex asks, as Nigel strolls away, the bells on his socks tinkling, ‘or is it an excuse to get away from here? It’s all right. You don’t have to lie. I loathe these events.’ He pauses. ‘Oh, how was Pippin?’
‘Why did I get the distinct impression you were passing the buck?’
‘All right.’ He taps the end of his whip sharply against his long leather boots. ‘Probably because I was. Sometimes these chronic cases need a fresh approach, and Mr Brown has got this habit of turning a ten-minute appointment into a marathon.’
Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series Page 11
