Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘It does.’ He rumples his hair, which is damp from a shower, I’d guess. ‘I was trying to pay you a compliment.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry if it’s really that difficult.’ I step away from him, trying to keep my distance in front of Izzy, yet he moves in closer, keeping his gaze fixed on my face.

  ‘Well’ – he lowers his voice – ‘what I intended to say was that no matter how rough you look you always look lovely to me.’

  I hear an instrument, a pair of scissors perhaps, clattering into the sink.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say graciously, although I don’t entirely believe him. ‘This way.’ I hurry Alex back into the corridor and along to the staffroom where we can talk out of Izzy’s earshot.

  ‘Did I embarrass you?’ Alex asks.

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiles and changes the subject. ‘Izzy’s like a whirling dervish, isn’t she? Chris Hunter was talking about her the other day – I was taking a look at a couple of his sheep and the new dog. Freddie, isn’t it? According to Chris, you and Izzy saved Freddie’s life.’

  ‘Yep.’ I know what he’s doing – he’s trying to make me feel better, but all it does is remind me of Cadbury and my role in his death. ‘Have you spoken to Stewart or Lynsey yet?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m afraid Stewart isn’t in the mood for any kind of reconciliation. He knows he’s partly to blame, but he isn’t ready to accept it.’

  I stare at the toes of my Crocs. What a bloody mess.

  ‘He’ll come round.’ Alex reaches out and strokes my arm. ‘I know you feel bad now, but it’ll get better, Maz.’

  Thrilled by his touch and reluctant to do or say anything which would spoil the moment, I look up. Alex gazes at me, his gorgeous blue eyes wide with concern. My pulse kicks and leaps like a bucking donkey.

  ‘I’ve done a lot worse,’ he says eventually, breaking the physical contact between us. ‘There was an occasion when I operated on the wrong leg.’

  ‘You what?’ I can’t believe it. Alex Fox-Gifford made a mistake?

  ‘It was one of Fifi and Gloria’s rescues – has no one told you this?’

  I shake my head, and he continues, ‘I was supposed to be repairing a cruciate in a young lurcher. I opened the joint to find the ligament intact.’

  ‘What did you do?’ I say, surprised he got so far before realising his error.

  ‘Grovel, of course.’

  Try as I might, I can’t see Alex grovelling to anyone.

  ‘I must have been distracted’ – his lips curve into a grin – ‘must have been thinking about some girl.’

  I don’t like to imagine him thinking about some girl, not some girl other than me anyway, and especially if that girl’s Eloise.

  Alex glances at his watch. ‘I’d better be getting back to the Manor.’

  ‘Thanks for dropping by,’ I say.

  ‘That’s OK. I had to pick up a prescription for my father anyway. He’s laid up in bed. He isn’t all bad,’ Alex goes on. ‘Since the bull got him, he’s hardly been out of pain. He makes himself look busy, but the truth is he can’t cope with the physical side of the job any more. He isn’t capable of much more than manning the phones, and putting his foot in it on the radio. Oh, and making a nuisance of himself. Much like yourself,’ he adds, smiling.

  I smile back, feeling guilty that I’ve let Alex cheer me up when I’ve just lost a patient in such terrible circumstances.

  I walk through to Reception with him and he stops at the desk.

  ‘Good morning, Frances,’ he says.

  ‘Hello, Alex.’ She touches the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Such dreadful news about the Pitts’ dog,’ she says, shaking her head.

  ‘It could have happened to anyone,’ Alex says. He nods in my direction. ‘Goodbye, Maz.’

  ‘Alex, wait.’ I hasten after him towards the door. ‘Alex.’

  He hesitates. ‘What is it?’ He drops his voice to a whisper. ‘I see you haven’t plucked up the courage to fire Frances yet.’

  ‘I keep hoping that Nigel will find some extra money from somewhere, so we can afford to keep her on. I know she isn’t the best receptionist in the world, but she means well.’ I pause. ‘Alex, did Stewart say what they wanted to do with the body?’

  ‘They’d like cremation and the ashes back,’ he says. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll leave that one with you. I’ll see you around, Maz.’

  I wait until the door swings back behind him and then turn to Frances, hoping that I’ll be saved from having to speak to her right now by a client turning up, or the phone ringing.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind coming to the office for a chat,’ I begin.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ Frances says. ‘Emma and Izzy don’t like me to leave Reception when there’s no one to cover for me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, looking around the empty waiting room. ‘We can talk here. It isn’t exactly busy, is it? Which rather leads me into what I want to discuss with you.’

  ‘And what is that, Maz?’ Frances gazes at me, her head tipped to one side like a dog expecting a juicy titbit. ‘I see young Mr Fox-Gifford came to see you again. He seems to be spending rather a lot of time at Otter House.’

  ‘Frances, it’s nothing to do with Alex,’ I say, slightly exasperated to find there’s no way I can ease Frances gently into the idea that she’s not going to be working here for much longer. ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to pack your things and leave the practice.’ I glance from the red rosette she’s pinned on the noticeboard along with a photo of her and her winning chutney, to the collection box for the families of fishermen lost at sea on her desk.

  ‘Why?’ she says, her expression grave in contrast with the joyful flowers on her tunic. ‘What for?’

  ‘There’s no money to pay your wages after this week. I really am sorry,’ I go on. To my horror, because I’d find it easier to handle the situation if she put up some kind of fight, she starts to weep, big tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘I saw this coming,’ she says, and I’m just wondering how – whether she has supernatural powers – when I remember how she used to open the post. She must have seen the bills and the final demands. She grabs a tissue from the box she keeps for clients who are in distress.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ she sobs. ‘What are you going to do without me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I don’t know anything about anything any more.

  Bad news spreads faster than a tummy bug on a cruise ship in Talyton St George. Stewart talks to everyone. The driver who collects the milk from Barton Farm turns out to be married to the headmistress of Talyton Primary School, and the cowman has two sisters who are members of both the church and the WI. Within a week, the tale of Cadbury’s fate has been repeated along the chain, twisted and elaborated, like a message in a game of Chinese whispers, until it is as if I had strung Cadbury up in front of a waiting room filled with people, taken a knife and stabbed him directly through the heart.

  A few days later, Mr Brown drops by with Pippin.

  ‘I haven’t made an appointment,’ he says.

  ‘That’s all right.’ I’ve plenty of time on my hands – I did have seven clients booked in, but five have cancelled.

  ‘I don’t need one, as such. A word would do.’

  I show Mr Brown and Pippin through to the consulting room where Mr Brown pats the table as if he expects the dog to jump the equivalent of the pole vault without a pole. I pick Pippin up, kiss him on his topknot and stand him on the table myself.

  ‘He’s no better, Maz,’ Mr Brown says mournfully.

  ‘That’s because we haven’t put him on any treatment yet,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ve had the results from the sample we sent off, and they’re all perfectly normal, so I suggest we put him on a course of anti-inflammatory medication.’

  ‘We’ve done all that before. Alex diagnosed inflammation without going to the trouble of taking samples. Do you know how long I ha
d to wait in the rain the other morning for Pippin to spend his twopenny?’

  I’m not omnipotent. I have no control over the weather. As for Pippin’s bowels, I suggest a third opinion. ‘Mr Brown,’ I say, ‘I’ve done all I can here. I suggest I refer Pippin to a specialist at one of the vet schools.’

  ‘Dear Pippin doesn’t travel well. The motion . . .’ Oh no, not more motions. I sigh inwardly as Mr Brown goes on, ‘The motion of my vehicle, any vehicle, makes him bring up froth the colour and consistency of a partially beaten egg.’ Mr Brown stops to clear his throat. ‘Maz, I’ve been reading a book about homeopathy.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’ I begin. Not sure? I’m having a beige moment. Of course I’m sure. ‘I don’t believe in homeopathy. I haven’t seen any evidence to persuade me that it works.’

  ‘There has to be some truth in it,’ Mr Brown says. ‘The library wouldn’t stock books that aren’t true, would they? It wouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘That seems a little naive, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you,’ Mr Brown says, ever so politely. ‘I’m telling you. For your information . . .’ He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, slips a pair of glasses on and reads it aloud, every word. It’s a list of homeopathic remedies from pulsatilla to sulphur. ‘I shall purchase these from the pharmacy on the way home and start Pippin on them at dinner time, as long as you think they’ll do no harm.’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘They’ll certainly do no harm.’ I give up. He’s given up on me. He’s going to ignore my opinion and buy them anyway.

  ‘Thank you, Maz. You’ve been most helpful.’ He slips his glasses off again, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the ‘word’ he wanted with me is coming to an end. My relief is short-lived.

  ‘There is something else,’ he begins.

  ‘Go on,’ I cut in.

  ‘I’ve found a lump on Pippin’s neck.’ He fumbles through the dog’s abundant coat. ‘I tried to pull it off because I thought it was a tick. Ah, here it is. I marked the hair with a touch of my wife’s nail polish so I could find it again.’

  I take a look. ‘It’s a wart, Mr Brown, nothing to worry about. I can remove it surgically, if it bothers Pippin at all.’

  ‘I don’t want to worry you with it, Maz. My wife and I have discussed it at some length and we don’t like the idea of Pippin having surgery.’ He looks around the room and shudders as if imagining Cadbury’s ghost. ‘We don’t want to risk his life.’

  He doesn’t trust me any more, does he? He’s lost faith.

  ‘I’ll phone Mrs Wall – she’ll wish it away for us,’ he goes on. ‘I assume you’ll be leaving us when your colleague returns?’

  ‘Yes.’ If not before, I muse, feeling sad that even Mr Brown, whom I quite liked in spite of his long-windedness, seems to want to see the back of me soon as possible. I watch him leave with Pippin at his side, thinking that there’s nothing for me to stay for. For some reason a vision of Alex, scratched and weary, and holding Tripod in his arms, comes into my mind and refuses to budge.

  The sooner I can leave Talyton St George and return to civilisation, the better. I’ll be able to regain my sanity, and console myself with the thought that I won’t have sold myself cheap. I shan’t be responsible for another notch on Alex Fox-Gifford’s bedpost. I shall be eligible for beatification: Saint Maz, the Unintentionally Virtuous.

  Later I buy sandwiches, a Diet Coke and a packet of custard creams in the Co-op, where I run into Gloria Brambles, struggling to put on a pair of fingerless gloves before she packs packets of frozen fish into a bicycle pannier.

  ‘How’s Ginge?’ I ask. ‘He must be due to see me again very soon.’

  ‘Ah, I’ve put off bringing him because he hates the basket.’ I suspect it has more to do with what happened to Cadbury, I think, as she continues, ‘He seems so much better and I’ve got plenty of tablets left – the ones I collected after you rang me with the results of the blood tests.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re giving him the right dose?’ I say, pretty certain that the course of tablets should have finished by now.

  ‘Quite sure,’ she says abruptly, and I back off, worried that she might just prod me with the end of her stick, which is laid across the belt beside the till. ‘I’ve had cats for more years than you’ve had hot breakfasts, young woman.’ She smiles and her eyes turn to slits and her teeth slide forwards, reminding me of Albert Steptoe. ‘I’ve heard a rumour you’ve had to give Frances the push.’

  I don’t comment. I’m worried about Ginge, and if Gloria won’t bring him to me, I’ll have to go to her.

  On the way back to Otter House, I pick up a paper in the newsagents and join a queue of people trying to buy their way out of their ordinary lives with a pound on the lottery. Sarah, the woman behind the counter, blanks me. As I walk away, head down and feeling cut to the quick, I overhear one of the customers chatting with her husband.

  ‘Serves them right for being greedy . . . milked Talyton’s pet owners dry . . . outrageous . . . only a puppy, he was . . .’

  Clutching my hessian shopping bag – Talyton St George is a plastic-bag-free zone – to my chest, I rush back to the practice. I look up at the scaffolding on the front of Otter House on which two of DJ’s team are standing. (When DJ said he had a team of workers I assumed he meant eleven men at least, but it’s more like a fencing team: three max, including DJ, and only one ever works at a time.) Anyway, one wolf-whistles in my direction, and the other raises his National Pet Smile Week mug.

  I don’t wave back. I’m not in the mood for anything, even a little light-hearted flirting. It isn’t just that Otter House Vets is on the verge of bankruptcy. No one trusts me with their pets. The town is against me. Izzy says we are mud in dog-walking circles. Old Fox-Gifford writes about professional negligence in purely hypothetical terms in his column in the Vet News.

  What can I do? What difference will a couple of puppy parties make?

  Sighing, I push the door open and enter Reception, where Izzy is on the phone. She looks up, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

  ‘It’s Edie,’ she says. ‘Clive’s digging the hole.’

  My heart sinks even further. That can mean only one thing. ‘Tell her we’ll head over now.’

  ‘What about the phones?’ Izzy says rather sharply. ‘I can’t be in two places at once.’

  ‘We’ll have to put them through to my mobile,’ I say, collecting my stethoscope and visit case. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You have checked you’ve got enough of the blue juice?’ Izzy says. ‘Emma always makes sure she has enough of everything before she leaves, so she doesn’t have to dash back. It doesn’t do to end up with a patient that’s only half dead.’

  Sighing inwardly, I open up the visit case. I was right. Izzy doesn’t trust me. She tolerates me because I’m Emma’s friend. It makes for an increasingly strained working relationship, one which I couldn’t put up with for ever.

  I drive Izzy to the Talymill Inn, a little surprised that Edie and Clive didn’t call Talyton Manor Vets instead. I can’t believe they haven’t heard about Blueboy, even if they haven’t caught up with what happened to Cadbury yet, which must mean they still trust me to do my best for Robbie. It isn’t fair that I’m being ostracised by the pet owners of Talyton St George. I’m experienced, caring and I put my patients first. I’m a good vet, and I’m going to make sure I prove to everyone that I don’t deserve to be treated like this.

  As I drive alongside the river, I glance at Izzy. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead. Every so often recently I’ve noticed a small smile playing on her lips. Not only that, she’s started using mascara – not scary black, but a soft touch of blue.

  ‘How’s Chris?’ I ask gently.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You and him? Are you . . .? You must be. You aren’t going round to the farm just to visit Freddie, are you?’

  ‘He’s really nice,’ she says.

  ‘Nice?’

 
She touches her throat, her skin scarlet. ‘More than nice . . .’

  I drive on. The sun is high in the sky on a perfect summer’s day. Lucky Izzy, I think.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to mention that Alex Fox-Gifford called in to ask for a couple of sets of notes,’ Izzy says. ‘I didn’t think there’d be any need to worry about clearing it with you.’

  ‘He didn’t, er’ – my throat seems to have gone dry – ‘ask to speak to me at all?’

  ‘No, although he did ask after Frances,’ Izzy says matter-of-factly, and I wonder if he’s avoiding me.

  ‘Have you heard from Frances at all?’ I say.

  ‘I ran into her in the Co-op the other day. She’s looking for another job, but there isn’t much out there.’ Izzy pauses. ‘She says she misses us.’

  ‘But she does have lots of friends in the WI and the Church,’ I say hopefully, as I turn in to the car park at the Talymill Inn. I hate to think of Frances struggling on alone. ‘I suppose she’s got more time to spend with her granddaughter too.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Izzy says, unfastening her seatbelt, ‘but I don’t think it’s the same.’

  When we get out of the car, I can hear the ominous ring of a shovel against hard ground, reminding me of why we are here. Edie shows us through to the private garden behind the pub.

  ‘Clive, love,’ Edie calls across the lawn to where Clive stands in the shade of a tree, stripped to the waist and with his back to us. ‘Maz is here.’

  He tips a shovelful of earth onto the pile beside him, throws down the shovel and slowly turns to face us. Robbie, I notice, lies beside him.

  We walk over, joining them beside a hole about three feet deep and one dog long. Robbie barks, lifts himself onto his front legs then tries to haul himself up, but his back end slides along behind him. Panting with the effort, he collapses again. All he can do is raise his head and look up at Clive as if to say, ‘Do something’, then, worse still, he looks at me as if he knows something’s up, as if he knows what’s coming . . .