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

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ Ben calls, interrupting our conversation, and Emma excuses herself to fetch another bottle of Pimms. ‘Are we celebrating?’ Ben asks as he comes over with a plate of food from the barbecue. ‘Have you come to a decision?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’ Emma is right. I have done some good since I’ve been here, but I’m not sure it’s enough to make up for the bad.

  ‘Of course,’ Ben says, ‘I’ve no objection to you going into partnership with my wife, if that’s what you’re worried about, as long as you don’t live with us again.’ (He’s joking – we shared a house in our final year at university and poor Ben didn’t understand that the only place suitable for drying calving gowns was over the bath.)

  ‘Oh, Ben, I know that,’ I say, touching his arm in thanks.

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, Maz,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen to settle in Talyton if it hadn’t been for Emma and her mum, but now I’m here, it isn’t so bad. The people are great’ – he qualifies that – ‘most of them. The pace of life isn’t as frantic as it is in London, and it’s good to be near the river and the beach.’ Ben hands me a laden plate. ‘I don’t want to put you under any pressure to make up your mind, but I have to think of Emma and the baby. I really don’t want her working full-time in her condition.’

  ‘She could ask someone else,’ I say.

  ‘Maz, she’s asked you.’ Ben fixes his eyes on mine. ‘The decision is entirely up to you, of course. All I’m asking is that you put Emma out of her misery very soon.’ His face relaxes into a grin and the tension dissipates. ‘It shouldn’t be beyond your capability – you’re the vet, after all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Partners in Practice

  ‘Ally Jackson did a great job there, Maz.’ Clive grins as he throws a copy of the Chronicle onto the consulting-room table. It bears the headline ‘Fire Rescue Animals Need Good Homes’, and a note reading, ‘See inside for photos of the many cats and dogs looking for a new start.’ ‘How could we resist Petra after this?’

  I recall Ally’s rather poetic description of Petra as a goddess of dogs, highly strung and very sensitive, in need of that extra special home. Ally has turned out to be a decent wordsmith, after all.

  Izzy brings Petra through, and Clive swaps our piece of string – one of Izzy’s tactics for making potential adopters sorry for them – for a new collar and lead. Petra sniffs his hand suspiciously, her ears back and her body slung low.

  My heart is in my mouth. Will she accept him, or will she reject him like she did Chris?

  ‘Hello there, gorgeous.’ Clive rubs her head. Petra tenses. She’s going to growl, I think, and what could have been a beautiful relationship will be over before it’s begun, but Clive pulls a treat out of his pocket, shows it to her and asks her to sit. Without faltering she obeys him, then takes the treat gently from his hand. ‘Good girl.’ Clive rubs her head again. She whines and wags her tail.

  ‘She’s such a beautiful dog,’ says Edie. ‘She looks even better than she did in the photo.’

  ‘She should have been a show dog – I can just see her in the final judging at Crufts.’ I mix an injection, her second jab. I assume Gloria never got round to having her vaccinations done. I inject it into the scruff of Petra’s neck. There is a look in her eye. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t warm to her like I did to Robbie. I don’t kiss her.

  However, I think there’s room for optimism. She’s young and in good hands – Clive knows far more about training dogs than I do.

  ‘We might see you later, Maz,’ Clive says before they leave with Petra. ‘We’re holding the wake for Gloria up at the Talymill. We thought it was the right thing to do, as she has no relatives left to do it for her.’ He pauses. ‘You see, the good people of Talyton have accepted us at last.’

  I know what he’s hinting at, that there’s hope for me too.

  ‘Bye, Maz,’ Edie says. ‘Let’s get you to your new home, Petra, and show you your toys.’

  After they’ve gone, I check the waiting list on the monitor. Petra was my last appointment and, as usual, I’m running late.

  Emma pops her head round the door.

  ‘Izzy and Frances have gone on ahead. It isn’t good form to be late for a funeral, you know. Everyone’ll talk.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I say, untangling myself from my stethoscope and leaving it on the table. Emma blocks my way out.

  ‘Have you decided yet?’ she asks. ‘Should I get on with organising your leaving do?’ She’s trying to make light of it, I think, but I know her better than that. It means a lot to her and I shouldn’t keep her in suspense, especially – I smile to myself, happy that it’s worked out for her – in her condition.

  ‘I’ll let you know tonight,’ I say, taking off my tunic, which I threw on over a grey asymmetric top and black trousers this morning, and brushing past her. ‘I promise.’

  Ten minutes later and I’m parked on the road outside the church. It could be a cathedral. It could be a film-set for a horror movie. I’m not sure which came first – the church or all those pubs in Talyton St George – but you might speculate that a bishop had it built to punish his intemperate congregation. One night in the crypt and you’d soon dry out.

  The gargoyles’ rabid mouths are dribbling rainwater from an earlier shower, creating dark stains down the stonework; and the churchyard, bordered by toxic yews – toxic to horses anyway, I can remember that much about them from vet school – is chock-a-block with gravestones and memorials with the history of Talyton St George written in their inscriptions.

  If I stay, I’ll become a small part of the town’s history, as an Otter House vet. I’d be like Gillian of Petals, or Cheryl of the Copper Kettle, or Mr Lacey of Lacey’s Fine Wines. I would belong . . .

  I glance at my watch, realising that, as Emma predicted, I’m late. I duck inside the church and take a seat at the back, on one of the chairs behind the pews.

  There are far more mourners than I expected. It looks as if the whole town is there. I can see Izzy and Chris, PC Phillips, Dave the paramedic, Fifi, Frances and her band of volunteers, along with a handful of elderly women dressed in black and scented with camphor and Je Reviens. I can see the Fox-Giffords in the pew at right angles to the rest, one which presumably separates the aristocracy from the common people. Alex is wearing a dark suit which emphasises the width of his shoulders, and a white shirt which contrasts with his lightly tanned complexion. I’ve not seen him in a suit before. It gives him a brooding look. Think José Mourinho.

  He catches my eye and nods a greeting, and a wave of embarrassment washes through me as I recall how I threw myself at him and he pushed me away.

  Old Fox-Gifford, leaning on a stick, wears a navy blazer. Sophia sports a fox fur across her shoulders, a real one, its head still on, the face ghastly and glassy-eyed.

  When the organ plays a piece – Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, I think – signalling that the service is over, I bow my head as the coffin passes, and pay my respects.

  Poor Gloria. I thought I’d be angry with her. I didn’t see how I’d ever be able to forgive her, but now that Alex is out of danger – I glance towards him again – I am incredibly sorry that she felt driven to take her own life.

  I join the throng of mourners and wait while they bury her in the far corner of the churchyard where her husband Tom was laid to rest. There’s space on the headstone for her name and epitaph, proving, I think, that she must have found it in her heart to forgive him his affair with Fifi, and I don’t know if it’s that or the handfuls of the earth clattering onto her coffin, or the seagulls’ mournful cries as they swoop across the sky, but a lump rises in my throat, and Ben is at my side, touching my arm.

  ‘Are you all right, Maz?’ he asks.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he says sternly. ‘Gloria was ill. What began as selfless charity became a compulsion,
a behaviour she couldn’t control.’

  ‘She did love her animals,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I have no doubt, and she really believed she was the best person to look after them but, as Fifi says, she was deluding herself. When the money ran out and she grew more infirm, she couldn’t cope.’ Ben hesitates. ‘We’re all partly responsible for what happened.’

  I know he’s right. Ben was in the position of knowing that there was a problem, but didn’t – or couldn’t because of his professional ethics – communicate his suspicions to anyone else. Fifi and Talyton Animal Rescue gave up on Gloria too easily, and I put her in an impossible situation from which she could see no escape. The thought of living without her animals was worse than dying, so she tried to take them all with her by creating the inferno at the cottage. I think of the insect trapped in the amber on Gloria’s silver chain. The sanctuary was a death trap.

  ‘Dr Mackie, you are coming to the wake?’ Fifi sweeps towards us, a rather frightening vision of purple and black. ‘And you, Maz.’

  ‘I’m going straight back to Otter House,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, you can’t possibly,’ Fifi says. ‘You’re one of us now. You have to come,’ she adds in a tone which brooks no argument.

  I’m touched that Fifi at least wants me there, but – I glance down the path where Alex is walking along with his mother on his arm and his father in front – there are others who aren’t so welcoming. However, there is a part of me, a big part, which persuades me to head to the Talymill Inn with everyone else, and it’s all down to the thought of snatching a few more minutes in Alex’s company.

  ‘What is this stuff?’ Old Fox-Gifford eyes the canapé he’s picked up from one of the trays on the bar.

  ‘It’s olive and anchovy toast, I believe,’ Fifi says. ‘We have these at some of the dos I have to attend in my capacity as Lady Mayoress.’

  Old Fox-Gifford wrinkles his nose. ‘It isn’t vegetarian, is it?’

  ‘Anchovy is a fish,’ Fifi says.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t they stick to good old-fashioned vol-au-vents?’ Sophia says. ‘Everyone likes those.’

  ‘I don’t know what this town’s coming to,’ Old Fox-Gifford says. ‘People should leave their newfangled ways behind, or push orf back to where they came from.’

  ‘Some would say that change is good,’ Fifi says, glancing towards Clive, who’s serving drinks. I wonder about Fifi. Clive’s married, and she must be at least ten years older, but it doesn’t stop her flirting with him, I think, as I move across and pick up a glass of apple juice.

  ‘Maz, wait right there,’ Fifi says, spotting me. ‘I’m going to say a few words.’

  I start to panic, wondering what I’ve said or done to offend her, but she taps her glass with a knife from the bar.

  ‘Friends and fellow Talytonians,’ she says, commanding the room’s attention. ‘I’d like to thank everyone for turning out to say their farewells to Gloria and sending her off in such style. Thank you, Clive and Edie, for putting on such a wonderful spread.’ There’s a ripple of applause from the crowd of people in the bar, which include, I notice, DJ and his team of builders, here for the free lunch, and many of the shopkeepers from the town, along with a deputation from the garden centre, including Margaret the cashier.

  ‘There’s one more person who deserves a special mention.’ Fifi turns to me. ‘I should like to thank Maz for all the work she’s put in, helping with Gloria’s animals, and always with a smile. Thank you, Maz.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ I hear Clive murmur, and to my surprise, Fifi strikes up with ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, and everyone joins in – apart from Alex’s parents, I notice. Alex moves up beside me, slipping his hand behind my back, as if he’s aware that I could do with some moral support. I’m not used to being centre of attention, and I blush as the song draws to a close and Fifi calls on me to make a speech.

  I take a deep breath, wondering what to say, as I scan the crowd, and then I realise that it isn’t all that difficult. I’m among friends.

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without your support,’ I say, tears pricking my eyes. ‘Everyone has helped in any way they can, from vetting new homes for the rescues, to getting their hands dirty and cleaning out kennels and cages, to bringing in pet food for the rescues. I’d like to thank all of you . . .’

  There’s another round of applause, wolf whistles from DJ’s team and a sharp bark from Petra, who’s in Robbie’s old place behind the bar.

  I check my watch. I ought to be getting back.

  ‘Patients to see?’ Alex asks.

  ‘It’s my turn to do the run up to Buttercross Cottage, or what’s left of it. We’ve still got a couple of traps up there, although we haven’t found any waifs and strays for a few days now.’

  ‘Oh?’ His eyes are shadowed with weariness, and I wonder if he’s been sleeping. ‘I guess you want to round up the rest of them before you . . .’ His sentence hangs unfinished, his voice hopeful.

  ‘Well, yes.’ I don’t know what to say. My heart burns, a molten ball of regret, because I’m pretty sure now that he does have feelings for me, that he turned me down out of respect, not because he didn’t want me.

  I wish I could talk to him, tell him about Emma’s offer and how my decision is balanced on a knife-edge, because today, thanks to Fifi, I’ve realised I can belong here.

  ‘I’ll see you around, Alex,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says mournfully, and I walk away, thinking that there’s one obstacle left, one problem that I don’t know how to solve.

  On my way back to the practice, I divert to Longdogs Copse, where someone has fenced off the ruin of Buttercross Cottage and put up signs reading, ‘Keep Out’. I ignore them and walk up to the site. Already green shoots are sprouting from the ashes. Cow parsley and wild flowers mingle with the few surviving rose bushes. There are rabbits nibbling the short grass in the paddock, and birds singing in the trees in the copse beyond. Despite the devastation that has occurred here, I feel a sense of calm.

  Do I really want to go back to London? The stress of seeing forty patients all before lunchtime, the hassle of communicating with clients who are under pressure themselves, the traffic, the throngs of grey people scurrying about like rats across the greasy pavements, always chasing the clock?

  I tramp towards the new fence to reset the trap, and there he is, a very sorry-looking ginger cat sitting hunched up on top of it. Momentarily, I wonder if I should have brought the gauntlets with me, but he doesn’t appear to have much fight left in him. He hardly lifts his head when I call his name.

  ‘Hi there, Ginge,’ I murmur, kneeling down beside the trap. ‘Izzy said you were too savvy to end up in there.’ Remembering what he did to me before, I reach out slowly to touch him. He turns and bares his teeth in a furious hiss, but he doesn’t lash out. He’s so scrawny I don’t think he can any more.

  He lets me take him by the scruff of the neck and pick him up, a bundle of bones and matted hair. I hold him to my chest to take him to the car, where he lies unrestrained in the footwell, howling – it’s a fearsome howl, as if he’s calling to the cat gods on the other side of the grave – for what I’m afraid will be his final journey to Otter House.

  Emma’s at Reception.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asks, looking up from the desk.

  ‘Not really.’ I show her the cat in my arms. ‘One of Gloria’s. Do you remember Ginge?’

  ‘The one who bit through my thumb.’ Emma smiles ruefully. ‘He looks as if he’s on his way out. Do you want me to give you a hand?’

  ‘I’m going to give him twenty-four hours,’ I say.

  ‘I’d say you were being wildly optimistic.’

  I take him through to Isolation where Emma helps me put him on a drip, dose him up with a cocktail of drugs and restart him on his antithyroid tablets. He growls when I put him on a fluffy bed and close the cage door.

  ‘I don’t know what we’ll do with him if he does recover,’ Emma says.
>
  He might hiss at me, he might hate me, but Gloria managed to find room for him in her heart, and if she could, I can too. I said I’d never have another cat after King, but if Ginge does make it, I shall keep him.

  ‘I’ll take care of him,’ I say.

  ‘You? You haven’t got a home to call your own, let alone somewhere you can keep a pet.’ Emma pauses, one hand on her hip. ‘Of course, you would have if you’d only make up your mind to stay on at Otter House. I don’t understand what the problem is. If you’d offered me a partnership I’d have jumped at it.’

  ‘I know.’ I look at Ginge, who’s pressed himself into the corner of the cage. I’d love to say yes, but I can’t. And it isn’t about the money or feeling like an outsider. My throat chokes up with emotion. I’ll have to find a solution because the more I think about it now, the more I want to stay.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Animal Magic

  I sit with Ginge for much of the night, thinking it over. When I fiddle with his drip, he bites me – in the nicest possible way, I hasten to add. It’s a mock bite, without teeth. By the small hours, he’s sitting on my lap, a purring skeleton with bald patches where I’ve had to trim the worst of the knots away. I find it difficult to put him back in the cage, because as soon as he’s confined in there he starts grumbling again. I smile to myself. He’s going to get better – he’s got enough fight left in him.

  I’ve gained Ginge’s trust, but I’m no nearer finding a way of regaining Izzy’s. I’ll have to talk to her. After all, I’ve got nothing to lose.

  It’s too busy first thing. Frances is at Reception, making appointments which seem to be coming thick and fast now Emma’s back. Emma’s in the office with a box of doughnuts to stave off morning sickness, going through the accounts with Nigel, and Izzy’s whizzing around with rows of stainless-steel feeding bowls on her arm, like a silver service waitress. Raffles, some of the cats and the small furries are still with us, waiting for homes. Ugli-dog has gone to one of Talyton Animal Rescue’s long-term fosterers.