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

by Cathy Woodman

  It Really Really Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet

  ‘I’m running out of time, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got a horse with colic, and I need to refer it to a hospital asap.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I guessed that some time ago. Listen, I need to ask you an enormous favour. I wouldn’t normally dream of bothering you, but this is an emergency.’

  ‘I can take your calls for you,’ I offer grudgingly, ‘but I can’t remember anything useful about cows and sheep.’

  I’m not sure Alex is really listening to me, because he continues, ‘My parents are up in London, I can’t get hold of Lisa, my groom, and old Dickie Pommel is much the worse for wear in the Coach and Horses.’

  ‘Well, can’t Eloise help? She is your girlfriend after all,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Eloise? My girlfriend?’ I hear Alex make a half-choke, half-laugh snorting sound. ‘No way. It’s nothing like that. She isn’t my type at all and anyway we’re just good friends. We go back years. She’s more like a sister. Now, I’m looking – no, begging – for someone to give me a hand getting Liberty over to the referral clinic at Westleigh.’

  ‘Liberty?’

  ‘My horse.’

  ‘The showjumper?’

  ‘Please, Maz. You’re the only person left. You’re my last resort.’

  I make up my mind. ‘OK, put your phones through to us – Izzy will take the calls.’ At least, I’m pretty sure she will. She might not be mine and Alex’s biggest fan, but she’ll do anything for an animal in distress.

  ‘I’m up at the Manor, in the yard.’

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, Maz.’ Alex’s voice seems to catch in his throat. ‘I owe you.’

  I park in the yard beside the lorry which has ‘Talyton Manor Horses’ and a logo of a jumping horse printed in gold across its purple bodywork. The rear ramp is down and there are lights on inside, in spite of the fact that it’s only eight o’clock in the evening and the sun has yet to sink completely behind the hills behind the house.

  I find Alex by the stable closest to the house. As I lean over the stable door to peer in, my hand brushes against his – it’s the slightest touch, but it raises goosebumps over my skin and sends a tiny shiver of longing down my spine.

  ‘How is she?’ I ask.

  ‘Not good.’ Alex opens the stable door and whistles quietly. ‘Steady there, girl,’ he murmurs, but the mare continues to pace tight circles in the straw, her coat dark with sweat, her nostrils flared with anxiety. She stops to paw at the ground and kick at her belly. ‘She’s been down twice already – I can hardly bear to watch.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll stick some boots on her and load her up. As soon as she’s in the lorry, you shut the gates behind her and fasten them quick. I don’t want her throwing herself backwards down the ramp.’

  ‘Have you given her anything?’

  ‘An antispasmodic and a painkiller, but they aren’t touching her.’

  I follow Alex into the stable. He clips a rope onto the mare’s head collar and passes the other end to me. It feels odd to be holding a horse again – I’d forgotten how powerful they are.

  ‘Keep her head up if you can,’ Alex says. ‘I don’t want her going down again.’

  I hang on to the head collar. Gradually, she lowers her head until her nose touches the straw. I lean against her shoulder, trying to haul her head up, and just as I think that I’m beaten, that she’s going to go down, she tenses. A spasm grips her belly and her front legs come up in a half rear, knocking me momentarily off balance.

  ‘Take care, Maz,’ Alex says, his voice gruff with concern.

  ‘I’m OK.’ I stroke Liberty’s neck, noting the dull expression in her eyes, and she calms down again, long enough for Alex to throw a set of travel boots – purple ones to match the livery of the horsebox, I notice – on to protect her legs.

  ‘I’ll take her now.’ I pass Alex the rope and he leads Liberty out of the stable and straight up into the lorry. Quickly, I shut the gates and the ramp behind her. So far, so good. I find myself able to breathe again until all hell breaks loose as Liberty starts throwing herself around and kicking out at the side of the lorry. I don’t know what she’s doing in there, but she manages to put a dent in the panel.

  ‘I’d better get going before she demolishes the box,’ Alex says.

  There’s silence followed by another bang which makes the whole lorry shake.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’ I check the fastenings on the ramp. ‘I’ll ride in the back.’

  ‘You shouldn’t . . .’ Alex says hopefully.

  ‘I know, but I can try to stop her going down and getting cast in the box,’ I point out. I gaze at him. His brow is furrowed with anxiety. I can see he’s torn between protecting me and giving his horse the best chance of survival. He obviously cares for her very much, and I want to do this, because I care for him – and I can admit that now I know there’s no Eloise. ‘Please, Alex.’

  ‘All right then, but make sure you keep the partition between you and the mare,’ he says. ‘I’ll take it very slowly.’

  The journey seems to take for ever, not only because I’m with a horse that’s manic with fear and pain, but also because I can’t see out to get an idea of how far we’ve gone, how much longer it’ll be until we get there.

  Liberty leans back against the rope, which is fastened via a piece of baling twine to a metal ring set in the fabric of the lorry. Her head and neck are outstretched, as if one lurch of the vehicle might dislocate them and tear them apart. The veins stand proud of her skin with the effort of bracing herself, front legs forward and hind legs underneath her belly.

  I can see pools of sweat glistening on the rubber mats under her hooves. Her expression is wild, desperate. She rolls her eyes, the whites gleaming in the artificial light, then utters a long, drawn-out groan.

  ‘Hang on in there,’ I murmur, as I try to keep my feet. I touch her ears – they’re freezing – and make a quick check on her pulse. ‘It can’t be far now.’

  The lorry slows right down and swings left. Liberty leaps forwards in a panic, and bashes her face against the partition.

  ‘Steady there!’ I’m all churned up inside. What if she goes down? Don’t go there, I tell myself, dismissing an image of a dead horse being hoisted from the back of a lorry. Liberty pulls back on the rope again, blood pouring from her nostrils. Her limbs start to fold. Her back begins to sink.

  ‘No! Get up, you stupid horse!’ I bellow at her. ‘You have to stay up.’ I untie the rope and pull with all my weight on it to keep her head high. I pinch her nose and slap her neck. ‘You have to!’

  Liberty rolls her eye in my direction. That’s good. She knows I’m here.

  It might have been only ten more minutes, but it felt like ten hours before the lorry finally stopped moving.

  ‘Let’s get her out of here,’ I hear Alex shout as he lowers the ramp. Two men, in jeans and green sweatshirts, open the gates and guide her out with Alex at her head. I follow, my legs weak from the exertion of the journey, finding myself in a yard outside a modern building with a sign reading ‘Westleigh Equine Hospital’.

  Immediately, we are surrounded. There are the two grooms, the vet with his stethoscope around his neck, his anaesthetist, his houseman and two nurses. Alex introduces me to the vet – he’s called John and he’s worked at Westleigh for the past four years. He has a firm, steady handshake, hopefully the sign of a good surgeon.

  ‘We have to go in. “Watch and wait” is not an option,’ Alex says harshly, trying and failing to hide the fact he’s utterly distraught at the thought he might lose his special horse. ‘I don’t think she’ll make it, whatever we do.’

  ‘Our survival rates here at Westleigh are pretty good,’ John says. ‘Eighty per cent of our surgical colics go on to make a full recovery.’

  I look at Alex, at the tension in the mus
cle in his cheek, and my throat tightens because I know he’s thinking of the other one in five . . .

  ‘I’ll get you to fill in the paperwork, Alex,’ John says. ‘There’s a viewing gallery in Theatre One, if you’d like to stay and watch.’

  ‘I’m expecting to assist,’ Alex says.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean —’

  ‘I won’t interfere,’ Alex interrupts. He strokes Liberty’s neck.

  ‘It’s our policy not to —’

  ‘It’s something I have to do.’

  ‘OK,’ John says, apparently giving way to the steely determination in Alex’s voice.

  ‘Maz is coming too,’ Alex adds, in a tone which brooks no argument.

  ‘All right. Let’s take Liberty round to the box and get her knocked out and prepped.’

  I check in with Izzy before I rejoin the team to scrub in for theatre. All’s quiet at Otter House, and there’s still no word from Emma.

  The two grooms I saw earlier bring Liberty in on an automatic hoist, upside down with her legs hobbled together. The anaesthetist attaches the ET tube onto the anaesthetic machine and connects up the monitoring equipment. The grooms unfasten the hobbles and arrange Liberty on padded boxes and foam wedges, then the nurses clip the hair from her belly and clean her skin. Finally, John parades into theatre, tweaking the fingers of his surgical gloves. Alex follows, masked, gowned and gloved and wearing a hat. All I can see are his eyes, dark with determination and focused on Liberty.

  I stand aside, ready to help out if I’m needed. I can hardly bear to watch, yet as I stand at the edge of the circle cast by the theatre light above John and Alex’s head, my eyes are drawn to the sight of the horse’s gut ballooning out of her belly and the two men working together to unravel it.

  I hear Alex’s raised voice, see the taut movement of his hands as he makes a point rather forcefully during the operation. I don’t know how long the surgery takes: two, maybe three hours. When I check the clock, it’s gone eleven and John is closing the last layer, the mare’s skin. I hear Alex finally exhale and we step out into the cool of the outer room.

  ‘Allow me,’ Alex says, unfastening the tapes at the back of my gown and taking it from me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  Alex stands slightly to one side, his hands in his pockets, his face still etched with worry.

  ‘The surgery went pretty well,’ I say, trying to cheer him up.

  ‘Better than I’d expected,’ Alex says, but he doesn’t sound terribly positive.

  I guess he’s right to be cautious. Nature didn’t design horses to lie down for long periods of time under anaesthetic. Liberty’s made it through her operation, but there’s still a chance that she’ll never get up again.

  Alex and I wait for another couple of hours outside the Recovery Box where Liberty is thrashing about. I hate hearing the scuffle of her hooves on the matting which pads the floor and walls of the box, and the hefty slap of her body as she falls back again, and so does Alex, I suspect.

  ‘Would you prefer to wait in the lorry?’ Alex asks, apparently noticing my distress, but I shake my head.

  Eventually, the horse goes quiet. Alex opens the door to the box and looks inside. Liberty is on her feet at last. We take a few minutes to watch her, then Alex turns to me, a smile of relief on his lips.

  ‘That’s great to see, isn’t it? I’m happy to leave her to John and his staff now.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?’ I ask.

  ‘I think I should get you home. I’ve kept you up long enough,’ he says with a flash of humour.

  Having thanked the team at the hospital, Alex and I return to the lorry. I clamber into the dark cab and take the seat next to the door, leaving the one between us vacant. As I fumble for the seatbelt, I become aware that Alex is looking at me, his expression gentle and questioning. He reaches out his hand, letting it rest on the seat between us, and my heart starts thumping. Forgetting the seatbelt, I slide my hand across the ripped velour until our fingertips touch. The contact sends delicious shivers of desire up and down my spine.

  ‘Maz,’ Alex says, his voice hoarse and caressing. ‘Come here . . .’

  I shift towards him, ending up with his arms around me and our lips locked together in an earth-shattering kiss.

  I don’t know how long it lasts, but it isn’t until lights come on at the front of the hospital that we recover ourselves.

  ‘I think we should go somewhere quieter,’ Alex says with a low chuckle. ‘Does your offer of coffee still stand?’

  ‘Of course.’ Smiling, I leave my hand on his thigh for a moment before moving away. There’s nothing stopping us now, is there?

  Alex switches on the engine and reverses out of the yard. As he drives us back towards Talyton, I phone Izzy to tell her that Alex and I will take the calls from now on.

  ‘How’s the horse?’ she asks.

  ‘So, so. She’s on her feet. Thanks, Izzy. I owe you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Maz. ’Night.’

  Alex pulls in to the side of the road to answer his mobile. ‘Mother? Yes. She’s up, but it’s going to be touch and go for a while. She’s staying at Westleigh for now. Yes, we had to remove a section of her small bowel. Two metres.’ Alex pauses. ‘It’s far too soon to worry about whether or not she’ll ever jump again.’ He wishes her goodnight, drops the phone back onto the dash and drives on through the darkness, then remarks, ‘What the hell is that?’ Keeping his hands on the wheel, he points straight ahead where the horizon glows orange.

  It isn’t a summer sunset. I know that much . . .

  The horizon is flickering beneath a plume of smoke darker than the night sky and spiralling across the crescent moon.

  ‘Who would light a bonfire at this time of night?’ Alex cranes forwards.

  My heart sinks. ‘That’s no bonfire. That’s Buttercross Cottage, Gloria’s place.’ I’m already dialling the emergency services. ‘Oh God, quick, we have to help.’ Moments later we’re outside the cottage, where the thatch at one end is already ablaze.

  ‘Open the gate to the paddock, will you?’ Alex says.

  I don’t need to be asked twice. I jump down and pull at the gate, but it’s chained and padlocked.

  ‘Open it,’ Alex shouts over the sound of the engine.

  ‘I can’t.’ I struggle with the chain. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘Stand back!’ Alex puts the lorry into reverse, drives back a couple of metres then roars forwards straight through the gate, which cracks and splinters then shatters under the wheels. The donkeys trot away heehawing into the night, the dogs howl, the fire spits and crackles, and a siren joins the cacophony.

  Alex leaves the headlamps on. They cut swathes of light through the darkness towards the burning cottage.

  ‘We can put the animals in the lorry when we get them out.’ Alex runs across the paddock ahead of me.

  ‘Gloria?’ I catch up with Alex at the cottage, keeping a wary eye out for the pieces of flying debris which land flaming and smoking at our feet. ‘What about Gloria?’

  Alex bangs at the front door with his fists. He turns the handle and pushes it. It doesn’t budge. ‘It’s locked from the inside.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ The sirens seem too distant, too far away. By the time they arrive, it’ll be too late.

  As if reading my mind, Alex takes a step back, then rams the door with his shoulder. It falls in with a crash, letting out a gust of intense heat and the smell of burning wood and hair. Several dark shapes fly out and disappear into the darkness of the garden, as if carried on will-o’-the-wisps of smoke.

  I stand at Alex’s side, looking through the haze and trying to make sense of the geography of the hallway: the coat stand, the bowler hat. The door into the sitting room beyond is dark against a halo of gold light, a ray of which extends from beneath the door to the runner on the hallway floor.

  ‘We’ll have to try another way in.’ Alex interlinks his fingers
with mine.

  ‘What if Gloria’s in there? I can’t leave her . . .’

  ‘Maz.’ I push past him. ‘Maz, don’t!’

  I’m already at the inner door, choking on a lungful of filthy smoke.

  ‘I know she’s in here!’ I lift the latch on the door, aware that it’s almost too hot to touch. Keeping my hand over my face, I push the door open. Mistake! I might as well have unleashed a dragon.

  A roaring gust of flames, a furious exhalation of incandescent breath, slams down the hallway, but through the smoke and the heat I can just make out a figure slumped across the sofa. Alex pulls me back and presses me against the wall with the weight of his body.

  ‘Gloria. Gloria!’ Eyes streaming, I fight my way out of Alex’s restraint. I can hardly see him for the smoke, but I can feel his hands clawing at my arm, and hear him yelling, ‘Maz, we’ve got to get out. This way!’

  I glance both ways: at the flames and smoke on one hand; at the smoke and the faint outline of the front door, beckoning me to safety, on the other. Can I live with the guilt? It’s a split-second decision. I drop to my knees, take a breath and crawl for it, keeping close to the wall to avoid the fire which has taken root at the base of the coat stand and sent runners of flame up to consume the long coat which hangs upon it.

  I can’t use the same strategy when I reach the sitting room, where the fire has really taken hold, the newspapers and books feeding its frenzy. At first, I’m driven back by the heat of the flames. At the second attempt, I take a different route. In a flash, I’m leaning over Gloria’s inert body, trying to force my arms up under hers so I can drag her off the sofa. She’s much heavier than I imagined.

  Please make this easy for me, I urge her silently. You can be as awkward as you like later.

  As I start to lift her, the skin on the back of my neck begins to prick with unease. Something has changed. It is as if someone has turned the volume up on the surround-sound. There’s a rumbling noise, a fresh surge of flames, screaming . . .

  ‘Maz!’ A pair of hands grabs me about the waist and throws me aside as the ceiling comes caving in above my head. Blackened beams fracture and fall, and an avalanche of masonry and plaster sends up showers of orange sparks and golden dust. The landscape has changed, making me feel disorientated. Where’s the door? Where’s Gloria? Where’s Alex?