Suddenly, the buzzer goes off and there’s a lot of shouting and banging of doors. Frances throws the door into Kennels open, letting in Chris, who’s carrying a dog wrapped in a bloodstained towel in his arms.
‘Emergency!’ she calls. ‘Is there a vet in the house?’
‘Oh God.’ Izzy’s face turns pale and she drops her last bowl onto the floor before springing towards the bench where Chris is unwrapping his bundle. Her voice rises to a scream. ‘It’s Freddie!’
‘Someone’s tipped some rubbish into one of our fields,’ Chris gasps. ‘He’s cut himself. It’s this leg,’ he adds helpfully, although there’s no need to tell me. It’s obvious which leg the blood’s coming from. I unwrap Chris’s temporary tourniquet made from a well-used handkerchief, grab the top of Freddie’s front leg and squeeze it to stem the bleeding, which slows to a steady ooze.
Chris turns to Izzy, as upset as she is over what’s happened to Freddie.
‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t realise the dogs had got out. When I found them, Freddie and Meg were rounding up the sheep, would you believe it? Anyway, I whistled, they came bounding across the field and Freddie caught himself on a piece of glass.’
‘It isn’t your fault,’ Izzy says gently, seeming to have recovered from the shock of Freddie’s arrival. She hands me a swab. I dab at the area, checking for glass. Freddie fidgets – a good sign, I think, because I have no idea how much blood he’s lost – but the bleeding starts up again, spurting arcs of bright, arterial red, which spatter my scrub top, face and hair.
‘We’d better get him knocked out asap,’ I say, applying another tourniquet to Freddie’s leg which stops the bleeding, giving me time to anaesthetise him. Izzy holds Freddie’s head while Chris and Frances look on. Once Freddie’s safely asleep, Izzy releases the tourniquet. I clamp off the severed artery and swab away the blood so I can assess the rest of the damage.
‘How bad is it, Maz?’ Chris asks.
‘He’s cut through a couple of tendons,’ I say. Freddie’s bigger than when I last saw him, but he isn’t fully grown yet. ‘I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to reattach them.’
‘I hope they can be fixed,’ Chris says. ‘Just as he’s proved he has the drive to be a working sheepdog, this happens. He’ll be no good to me if he can only run on three legs.’
‘You will keep him though?’ Izzy says quickly.
Chris smiles wryly. ‘A dog is like a wife – it should be for life.’ He turns back to me. ‘I take it you’re doing the surgery, Maz.’
I don’t answer, aware that Izzy’s staring at me as if assessing my competence and Freddie’s chances if I should end up wielding the scalpel.
I clear my throat. ‘Frances, will you buzz Emma, please. I’d like her to do the surgery.’ I turn back to Izzy. ‘Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll set up in theatre.’
‘Emma can’t do it,’ Frances announces. ‘She keeps dashing off to the bathroom.’ She smiles. ‘I knew it. I knew she was in the family way.’
‘You mean she’s pregnant?’ says Izzy.
‘Why else would she be craving doughnuts and feeling sick?’ Frances says triumphantly. ‘You’ll have to carry on without her, Maz.’
‘Izzy?’ I say.
Izzy’s brow creases with concern for Freddie.
‘I’ll be really careful, I promise.’
‘Go on then,’ she says, and a few minutes later, Freddie is in theatre. Izzy tells Chris to watch the bag on the anaesthetic circuit to make sure Freddie keeps breathing, while she fusses around, making sure I have the right kit.
To be honest, Izzy’s presence makes me nervous. Get a grip, I tell myself as my needle holders slip from my grasp and clatter to the floor.
‘The spare set’s stuck in the autoclave,’ Izzy observes. ‘You’ll have to improvise.’
Chris alters the angle of the light as I hunt for the ends of Freddie’s tendons, which have pinged apart and disappeared under the skin higher up his leg. Izzy holds his leg in a position that brings the ends of the tendons back into view and gives me the best chance of reattaching them. It takes me a while and the whole time I’m aware of Izzy watching over me. I can’t afford to make the tiniest slip.
I can feel sweat pooling in my armpits, and dripping from my forehead and soaking into my surgical mask. I glance up at Izzy’s face, her eyes filled with worry.
‘He is going to be all right?’ she says.
I show the repairs I’ve made. They’re good enough for me, but will they be good enough for Izzy?
‘I know I’ve made mistakes, that I’ll never match up to Emma in your eyes,’ I begin when she doesn’t say anything, ‘but —’
‘No, Maz,’ Izzy interrupts.
No. With that one word, Izzy dashes my hopes of ever winning her round. I can’t possibly stay on at Otter House now. My heart plummets and my eyes mist with tears. I turn away, pretending to look for something on the instrument tray.
‘Maz, I’m not saying you’ve done a bad job,’ Izzy says quietly. ‘I think you’ve done a fantastic job on Freddie’s leg. No, what I’m saying is that it’s true I’ve had my doubts about you – call it my suspicious mind, if you like – but I’ve seen how much you care about the animals, and the clients.’ She clears her throat. ‘Look at how kind you’ve been to Tripod, giving him a home as the practice cat. And Ginge. Most other vets I know would have put him down.’
I turn back to her as she goes on, ‘I think you’re a lovely person, Maz. And a great vet.’
‘Hear hear,’ Chris says.
‘You’re making me blush,’ I say, ‘but thank you.’
Smiling, Izzy looks past me as Emma enters theatre and I start to try and work out how I’m going to find enough skin to close Freddie’s wound.
‘How’s it going?’ Emma asks anxiously, as I begin to suture.
‘Maz has saved Freddie’s leg,’ Chris says.
‘I hear you have some news for us,’ Izzy says, her eyes shining above her surgical mask.
‘Ah,’ says Emma. ‘It’s early days, so I was trying to keep it low-key, but yes, I’m expecting at long last.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I’d give you a hug, but for . . .’ Izzy holds up her bloodstained hands.
‘Save it for later,’ Emma says.
‘Right, there’s a lot of tension across the repair,’ I say as I tie off the last knot a short time later. ‘We’ll keep him in for a couple of days, and splint this leg for a while to give the tendons time to heal.’
‘I’ll do the dressing,’ Izzy volunteers. ‘Chris, you hold Freddie’s leg for me.’
‘I’ll take over the anaesthetic while Maz writes up her notes,’ Emma offers, bringing in a stool to perch on at Freddie’s head. A couple of minutes later, she looks up and stares across the table at Izzy’s neck. ‘What’s that?’
Izzy stops part-way through unwinding a bandage. She smiles coyly as she lifts the diamond ring dangling from a delicate gold chain around her neck.
‘I never thought it would happen,’ she says softly, gazing towards Chris, who’s turned red as beetroot under his tan. ‘I didn’t think I’d meet a man I’d fall in love with, and he’d love me back. Chris and I are getting married next spring, after lambing.’
‘I’m not sure I can take much more good news,’ Emma chuckles, and we both congratulate them at the same time, talking over and across each other.
‘Freddie’s going to be pageboy,’ Izzy says once we’ve calmed down. ‘Maz, you will come back for the wedding, won’t you? We want you to be there.’
I glance at Emma, who’s removing Freddie’s ET tube. She takes a piece of cotton wool and wipes the drool from his face as he lifts his head up, his expression bemused, as if to say, ‘What am I doing here?’
I’ve always respected Emma for knowing exactly where she’s going, and now I’m in a position to follow her example. I know exactly where I’m going. Nowhere.
‘I’m
sorry, Izzy,’ I begin, trying to keep a straight face. ‘I can’t come back for your wedding.’
‘Why on earth not?’ she says.
‘Because . . .’ I’m aware Emma’s looking at me, her lips curving into a smile. ‘Because I’m staying on as Emma’s partner.’
Emma screeches with joy, Freddie tries to roll onto his front and Izzy’s jaw drops.
‘I can feel a party coming on,’ Emma decides, and later in the day, Ben drops off a couple of bottles of champagne, which she puts in the freezer – yes, that one.
At the end of a busy evening surgery, she fetches wine glasses from the flat and calls Frances and Izzy through to the staffroom to join us in a toast. Even Nigel is there to join the celebrations.
‘Frances, you must have some champagne,’ Emma says.
‘Not for me, thank you,’ she says. ‘A little bit of what I fancy always seems to do me in. I’ll have lemonade, like you.’
‘First of all, please raise your glasses to Maz, my new partner,’ Emma says. ‘When I set up the practice, I always hoped that one day Maz would come and work with me.’ She turns to Nigel, who’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and spotty bow tie. ‘Here’s to you, Nigel, for doing your best to keep Otter House Vets afloat.’
‘I reckon I have the toughest job around here, keeping you vets in order,’ he says smugly. Emma winks at me, and Izzy rolls her eyes.
‘And to you, Frances,’ Emma says, ‘for coming back and sticking with us.’
‘Well, as I might have said before, I do love a good crisis.’ Frances’s cheeks glow like the poppies on her tunic.
‘If it hadn’t been for you – and Fifi and her volunteers, of course – I don’t think we’d have managed to rehome so many of Gloria’s animals,’ Emma goes on. ‘Even the little cockatiel’s gone.’
‘He’ll be back,’ says Izzy wryly. ‘He’ll drive his new owners mad with his constant chattering.’
‘Here’s to the team then,’ Emma says.
‘You’ve missed something, Emma,’ I point out.
‘Oh yes. Congratulations to Izzy and Chris on their engagement.’
‘And one more.’ Emma frowns as I go on, ‘A toast to you and Ben, and the baby, of course.’ I take a sip of champagne, but it won’t go past the lump in my throat.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ Emma says with a sob. ‘I’m so happy . . .’
So am I, I think. It’s been a difficult journey, but I’ve made real friends along the way. There’s only one more thing that would make my happiness complete.
‘Please don’t cry, otherwise we’ll all start,’ Izzy says, but it’s too late and Frances has to dash out for her tissue box, which turns out to be empty.
‘It’s that Ally Jackson,’ Frances says. ‘Every time she’s here, she empties it with her blubbering. Last time she broke down over each and every one of the rescues’ stories. I’m surprised she could read her notes.’
I think it’s Emma who recovers her composure first. She offers me more champagne.
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m going out tonight.’
‘With Alex?’ Izzy cuts in.
‘I can think of a million men I’d rather see you going out with,’ Emma begins.
‘It’s a pity you haven’t introduced any of them to me before,’ I say lightly. ‘Anyway I’m not going out with him. I’m going to see him. There is a difference.’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to believe the rumours that have been flying round. Do you really like him, Maz?’ Emma says.
I nod. I can’t describe how I feel about Alex Fox-Gifford. Words aren’t enough.
‘In that case I’d better get over it, hadn’t I?’ Emma smiles. ‘I hope you have a lovely evening. I mean it.’
I’m not sure how he’s going to react, but I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him that I’ll be staying now. I check up on Ginge on my way out. He’s out of the woods, so to speak, but he isn’t all that grateful. Gloria was right – he hates being confined.
‘I’ll let you out with Tripod as soon as you’re fit enough to look after yourself,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll have to have butter on your paws though.’ It’s an old wives’ tale, but I’ll try anything to make sure he doesn’t run away again. Hopefully, like me, he’ll come to realise where he’s better off.
When I arrive at the Manor, the Fox-Giffords’ pack of dogs come flying towards the car. One of them, an old black Lab, bares its teeth at the window.
‘Good dogs.’ I open the door. ‘What good dogs you are.’ But the softly-softly ‘I’m your friend’ approach doesn’t work. The Lab raises his hackles and growls.
‘Oh, push off!’ I growl back, and the Lab ambles round to the rear of my car and cocks his leg up the wheel while the rest of the pack trots back to the house, showing me the way to the tradesmen’s entrance.
I head towards the barn though, wondering, when I find no one at home, whether I should have phoned first. A busy man like Alex is hardly likely to be sitting around waiting for me to turn up, is he? Old Fox-Gifford’s Range Rover and Alex’s four-by-four are here, and Liberty is back, looking over the door of the stable closest to the house. I walk up to the back door of the Manor – it’s open and the dogs are still milling around.
Hoping that I’m not going to run into Old Fox-Gifford and Sophia, I follow their muddy paw prints across a tiled floor, stepping over the wellies, dog beds and water bowls strewn across my way. There’s a strong scent of wet canine, sweaty horse and boiled cabbage.
‘Alex?’ I call out, walking through another doorway and into a huge kitchen with an Aga, two butler’s sinks and a fireplace big enough to roast a whole cow but which instead houses a fridge and freezer that don’t match. On the table in the centre there’s a preserving pan, a box of cornflakes, a bowl of what smells like tripe and a pot of some horse supplement. I turn the pot so the label faces me – Stroppy Mare. ‘Alex?’
‘I’m here, Maz.’
‘Er, hi. H-h-how are you?’ I stammer, taken by surprise when he appears in the doorway on the other side of the kitchen. If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t let on.
‘Not bad,’ he says, ‘although I’m almost ready to turn vegetarian. The WI – bless ’em – keep turning up with chicken soup, cauldrons of the bloody stuff.’ He steps aside. ‘Come on through.’
I follow him along a wide corridor and into another room.
I gaze around the room, trying to think of something to say. Alex’s presence seems to have rendered me speechless. I notice the double doors that look out onto the lawn with views across the valley beyond, the oil paintings of various Fox-Giffords from the past, and the dogs slumped in a heap on the carpet. I don’t think it’s any old carpet – it could be an Axminster like the one Gloria had in her sitting room, but this one is several acres bigger and slightly better kept. I also notice the dead flowers in the grate, the rather shabby sofa and chairs, and the swirls of dog hairs in the corner nearest me. If the Fox-Giffords really do have a woman who does, she doesn’t appear to do it very well.
There’s something else, something behind the sofa, something breathing. I catch sight of a pair of pricked ears and flared nostrils.
‘Alex, there’s a pony in the house . . .’
He turns towards it. A tubby little Shetland, a black one, straight out of a Thelwell cartoon, nudges at a biscuit tin on a side table, rattling an oil lamp and antique vase.
‘Mind the majolica,’ Alex says. ‘That’s Skye – Mother bought him for the children, but he bucked them off. He’s more of a house pet now.’
‘I didn’t think the Fox-Giffords approved of keeping animals as pets.’
‘Then you’ve been misled.’ Alex grins and my heart flutters. ‘If you open the tin for him, you can give him a mint. That’s what he’s after.’ He picks up his phone and a set of keys from the elaborate marble fireplace. ‘How about dinner?’
Before I can argue with him, he’s arranging a table at the Barnscote. He’s a man who gets things done, I t
hink. I like that. It’s one of the many things I like about Alex.
‘Right, I’ll just let my mother know we’re going out – I expect she’s in the feed room up to her elbows in linseed and bran mash.’ He smiles at me and it’s like the sun has come out. ‘Did I tell you, you look lovely?’ he says quietly.
‘Thank you.’
He hands me his keys. ‘Wait in the car. I’ll be with you in a tick.’
Less than two minutes after we’ve set out in Alex’s car, his mobile rings. He glances towards me, his expression unreadable as Sophia’s voice rings out loud and clear on the speakerphone.
‘Hi, Mother, what’s up?’
I sit, my hands balled together, my heart small and mean as Sophia says, ‘I wouldn’t have called you unless I had to, Alexander, but Stewart’s rung with a calving – he wants one of you over there straight away.’
‘What about Father?’ Alex says, his tone one of annoyance mixed with resignation. ‘He’s on call tonight.’
‘You know he’s in bed. His sciatica was playing him up so I sent him upstairs with some painkillers and a hot toddy. He isn’t in a fit state to calve a cow. In fact, he really shouldn’t be doing the heavy work any more. We need to look for an assistant.’
‘You know Father’s view on that. Anyway we’ll talk about it another time,’ Alex says impatiently. ‘Tell Stewart I’m on my way.’
‘What’s your ETA?’
‘Ten minutes.’ The phone cuts out. ‘I’m sorry, Maz,’ Alex says. ‘The last time my father attended a calving, he couldn’t work for a week.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s one of those things.’ In a way it’s a relief because I couldn’t eat a thing, though I can’t help but wonder whether this is Sophia’s way of expressing her disapproval at Alex taking me out tonight. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’
‘There’s no need for that. I’m sure Lynsey can find you a cup of tea and a biscuit.’
‘I’d feel uncomfortable.’
Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series Page 31
