‘I’m sorry I had to drag you away from your party.’
Izzy runs a variety of classes: a slimming clinic and a senior club as well as today’s puppy party, a social gathering for clients with new puppies, in the hope it will encourage them to train their growing dogs to become good canine citizens.
‘It was an emergency. The clients understand – well, most of them do.’ She smiles wryly. ‘Antibiotics?’
‘No, she doesn’t need anything,’ I say, glancing towards Cleo, who’s so upset she’s still growling in her sleep.
‘Not for the cat. For you.’
‘I’m fine.’ I catch sight of the puncture marks from Cleo’s fangs on my thumb, which starts throbbing again.
‘You don’t have to be a hero, Maz.’
‘I didn’t know you cared,’ I say lightly.
‘I don’t,’ she says, half teasing. ‘I’m worried about how we’d manage with you out of action now we’ve got used to you being around.’
‘It’s all right – I’m not planning to take time off at the moment. What about you? Have you settled on the date for the big day yet?’ Izzy’s delayed her wedding once already, saying she and Chris should wait until after lambing. ‘You aren’t getting cold feet, are you?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that with the farm, and work and everything, it’s difficult to choose a day and stick to it.’
‘Well, you won’t have to worry about work. With a bit of luck, we’ll have a new nurse to help you out in the New Year. Emma and I are interviewing Shannon this afternoon.’
‘You know how I feel about that,’ Izzy says quietly. ‘Taking on a trainee will be a load of hassle, like taking on a puppy.’
‘Shannon’s eighteen. I’m sure she comes housetrained,’ I point out, but Izzy isn’t amused. ‘We could take on a qualified nurse, but Emma and I thought you’d prefer to train someone up to do things your way, the way we do things at Otter House.’
‘There is that,’ Izzy says grudgingly.
‘You’ll be able to delegate a lot of the work you do to Shannon – if we take her on.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’m not up to the job.’ Izzy’s smiling, but there’s an edge to her tone that surprises me. I thought she knew she was indispensable.
‘That isn’t what I meant at all. I’d like you to feel free to take time off without worrying about what’s going on here without you.’ When it comes to taking leave, Izzy, Emma and I are as bad as each other. It hasn’t helped that Nigel, our IT troubleshooter and self-promoted practice manager, left us for pastures new back in the autumn. ‘You’re owed at least three weeks from last year, aren’t you?’
‘Emma’s paid me for those.’ Izzy touches the engagement ring she wears on a chain round her neck. ‘I’m putting the money towards the reception. I thought perhaps a buffet, rather than a sit-down meal. What do you think, Maz?’
‘It’s no use asking me. I don’t know much about weddings.’
‘But you and Alex are serious, aren’t you?’ Izzy says, which makes me wonder what exactly serious means. We aren’t living together. We aren’t engaged or anything like that. I suppress a small pang of yearning. I’m more than happy as we are.
‘The in-laws must think so,’ Izzy goes on. ‘They’ve invited you to the New Year party.’
‘In-laws? Sophia and Old Fox-Gifford? No way.’
‘It isn’t such an outrageous suggestion, Maz.’
‘It’s Alex who’s invited me, not his parents.’
‘Well, you really know you’ve made it when you’re asked to see the New Year in up at the Manor.’
‘Weren’t you invited?’ I have to ask. Emma wasn’t, not surprisingly.
‘We declined.’ The expression in Izzy’s eyes softens. ‘Chris and I are always in bed by nine – sleeping, Maz.’
I wish I’d managed to find an excuse not to go, because I’m dreading it. The only part I’m looking forward to is after the clocks have chimed midnight and Alex and I can be alone together. You see, we’re still in the heady, early days of our relationship when we can’t get enough of each other. At least, I can’t get enough of him, and I hope he feels the same way about me.
‘Do you want me to write you into the Accident Book?’ Izzy says.
‘Please,’ I say, knowing she knows full well that I’m just as likely to forget.
I watch her turn on her Crocs and disappear out through the door into the corridor, thinking how much easier it would be if we could just clone Izzy rather than take on someone new. Then, making a mental note to phone the doctor for a prescription for some antibiotics, I carry a rather dazed-looking Cleo to one of the stainless-steel cages that are built in against one wall of Kennels, to continue her recovery. I put her in one of the mid-level cages, not a high-rise, because although she looks like a complete pussycat right now, I’m not sure what mood she’ll be in when she wakes up properly.
I work on through lunch, then head up to the staffroom for a quick coffee to keep me going. Turning away from the DNA-like spirals of metallic paper that loop from corner to corner of the room, I gaze down through the sash window on to the street outside. The sky is dark and flurries of snowflakes drift down past the strings of white lights that twinkle between the elaborate Victorian-style lamp-posts, making Talyton St George look like somewhere out of a fairy tale.
A couple of cars and livestock lorries swish past, then a jingling of bells and clip-clopping of hooves replaces the sound of traffic, and two dapple-grey horses pulling a cart come into view. Father Christmas and some of his elves wave from the cart, which has a banner along the side, advertising Santa’s Grotto up at the garden centre on Stoney Lane.
I wave back.
‘Hey, Emma, Father Christmas is here. Em?’ I turn to where she’s sitting on the arm of the sofa, a three-legged black and white cat and an elderly ginger one having already staked their claim to the seat. ‘Are you listening to me?’
Apparently not. She has a doughnut in one hand and the bell of her stethoscope in the other, pressed to her bump. I watch how, apparently unsatisfied, she lifts the front of her navy sweatshirt, one embroidered with the Otter House Vets logo, and moves the end of the stethoscope over her skin. She catches a lock of hair that has escaped her Santa hat, hooking it behind one ear and leaving a glistening dusting of sugar across her cheek.
‘Emma?’ A tiny pulse of doubt begins to flutter at the back of my throat. ‘Is everything all right?’
She looks up, touching one finger to her lips, and I wait, holding my breath, until her face relaxes into a smile, her cheeks dimpling, her dark eyes creasing at the corners.
‘I know you think I’m obsessed.’ Emma pulls down her sweatshirt and hangs her stethoscope round her neck.
‘Not at all,’ I say, although it is the third time I’ve caught her today, checking up on the baby and listening for a heartbeat. I can understand why she’s concerned – she and Ben have waited many years for this child.
‘I just wanted to be sure,’ Emma goes on. ‘I’m sorry – you must feel like this is the longest pregnancy ever.’
‘It’s worse for you. You’re the one with the heartburn and puffy ankles.’
‘Yeah, I can’t believe I still have more than four months to go.’
‘Why don’t you go home and put your feet up?’ I offer. ‘I can hold the fort.’
‘Maz, you and Ben are as bad as each other. I can just as easily put my feet up here.’ Emma takes a bite from her doughnut. ‘This is so civilised. Imagine, instead of being tucked up here in the warm, we could have ended up as farm vets. Do you remember wrestling with those piglets?’
She means when we were at vet school together.
‘It was more like playing rugby,’ I point out, recalling how the only way to catch one was to tackle it from above, scoop it up all covered in slurry and hug it, squealing and wriggling, tight to your chest, while your partner injected it with an iron-containing preparation to prevent it becoming anaemic.
‘It was pretty disgusting, and freezing cold.’
‘It was more fun than doing meat inspection …’
‘The abattoir.’ Emma wrinkles her nose.
‘Where I didn’t realise that when the supervisor chap invited me into the cold store to look at a carcase, he meant his own.’ I chuckle at the memory. ‘You upheld my honour, turning up when you did.’
‘I knew exactly what he was up to,’ Emma says. ‘He had the hots for you as soon as he clapped eyes on you – in spite of the white overalls and the rubber boots. Still, I think we can safely say that the trials we had to undergo as vet students have made us what we are today.’
‘That’s true. And after that experience it’s no wonder I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Yes, I’ll never forget you trying to cook lentils for the first time. That stew – it was like eating gravel.’
It took some practice, changing my eating habits. I could list the dietary requirements for a cat with kidney failure, but I hadn’t a clue what I needed. In fact, by the end of the following term, I could have done with an iron injection myself. It was Emma who put me straight, buying me a veggie cookbook for my birthday that year, so I could take my turn cooking in the student house we shared.
Emma reaches for an A4 file from the shelf behind her, opens it up and pulls out a handwritten letter and a printed CV.
‘Shannon is Gillian’s daughter. You know Gillian, don’t you – she’s the florist.’
‘At Petals? The one who owns the bulldog?’
‘That’s right. Shannon says here that she loves animals.’ Emma scans the paperwork. ‘She’s got some good passes in her exams.’
I check on my watch, catching sight of the scar that stands proud of my skin like a strip of chewed gum just above the strap. It’s a memento of the fire at Buttercross Cottage last summer, a souvenir of what some might call bravery, others foolishness, when I risked my own life and Alex’s in a vain attempt to rescue one of my clients from her burning house. I try to suppress the images that flash into my brain, and the sensation of panic that shimmies up my spine. The flames. The smoke. The memory of Alex’s hands on my waist, pushing me to safety. Of Alex disappearing beneath an avalanche of beams and masonry.
I wander over to the sofa and stroke the ginger cat’s head. He mews softly, then breaks into a deep, rumbling purr, butting my hand in ecstasy. I notice how thin he is, and make a mental note to run a fresh blood test after the holiday.
‘What time did you ask Shannon to get here?’ I ask.
‘Ten minutes ago, but it’s gone quiet in Reception so there’s no great hurry.’ Emma stands up and walks over to the worktop, where she takes another doughnut from the plate. I take one too. It’s a bad habit. Since Emma started eating for two, I’ve been doing the same.
‘How long shall we give her?’ Flicking crumbs off my paw-print top, I take another look out of the window. When I turn back, Emma’s laughing at me. ‘What? What is it?’
‘You haven’t quite let go of your city ways, have you? Look at you pacing up and down. Chill out, Maz.’
She’s right, I think. It’s been eight months since I moved down from London to East Devon, and you might have thought I’d be used to the country lifestyle and the way everyone seems to keep to Devon time, which is at least half an hour behind GMT. However, I’m not complaining – I picture my tall, dark-haired, lightly tanned and utterly gorgeous man – it has its compensations.
‘Shannon’s here.’ Frances pops her head round the door. ‘Shall I show her in?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Frances,’ Emma says, and a young woman, dressed in black from top to toe, comes stomping into the staffroom. She hesitates, peering through a heavy black fringe, her eyes large with lashings of eyeliner and a hint of fear.
‘Come on in, Shannon,’ Emma says, raising her eyebrows almost imperceptibly in my direction. ‘We don’t bite, do we, Maz?’
I’m not sure I can say the same for Shannon. She looks as if she’s just stepped out of a coffin.
Emma introduces us and tips the three-legged cat off the sofa so Shannon can sit down. Tripod stalks away, mortally offended. Ginge stares over the edge, looking infinitely superior. However, as soon as Shannon sits down, Tripod returns and jumps up onto her lap. Emma tries to shoo him off.
‘He’s all right,’ Shannon whispers, as he butts his head against her chin. ‘I don’t mind.’
I do, though, I think, smiling to myself. Soon after I arrived in Talyton to work as Emma’s locum while she and Ben took a well-earned holiday, I saved Tripod’s life when he was hit by a car, and sometimes I wish he’d show a morsel of gratitude and pay some attention to me, instead of curling up with anyone who walks in off the street.
‘I didn’t want a practice cat’ – Emma pulls two stools up from beneath the worktop – ‘but Maz sneaked him in while I was away.’
‘He’s lovely,’ Shannon says, and I wish she’d make an effort to speak up a bit. Her complexion is pale – at first I thought she was unwell, but it’s make-up – and her lips are dark purple. I catch a glimpse of an ebony stud where her hair parts across her ear lobe, and wonder what Izzy will make of her. I’m not sure what to make of her myself. I suppose she’s a goth, or an emo, I’m not sure which, and now I’m feeling old and out of touch, and I’m only thirty-one.
‘So, what makes you think you’d like to be a vet nurse?’ Emma asks, sitting down.
‘I wanna work with animals,’ is Shannon’s mumbled reply, but there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s exactly how I felt at her age.
‘It isn’t all about the animals. You’ll have to be able to get along with us and the rest of the team at Otter House.’ Emma’s eyes seem drawn to Shannon’s outfit, a black tunic over a black skirt. ‘We’re a happy bunch here. Cheerful …’ Her voice trails off as if she, like me, can feel the pall cast by Shannon’s presence. She’s brought the cold in with her.
‘How do you think you’ll cope with clients who are angry or upset?’ Emma goes on.
A flicker of uncertainty crosses Shannon’s face. She wrings her hands and clicks the joints of her long, lean fingers.
‘I dunno. Mum says the customer is always right.’ Shannon smiles for the first time, revealing a perfect set of teeth, not the vampiric fangs I was imagining. ‘Except when they’re wrong.’
‘I see,’ Emma says slowly when there’s clearly no more forthcoming. ‘How much experience have you had with animals?’ Shannon doesn’t respond with so much as a blink. ‘I’ve met Daisy, your mum’s dog, a few times.’
‘I’ve got a house rabbit called Angel,’ Shannon says eventually.
It’s the first time I’ve interviewed anyone for a job, and it’s more difficult than I thought. I’m not sure Emma’s getting anywhere, so I throw in a couple of questions of my own.
‘What kind of rabbit is he? What breed?’
‘He’s got floppy ears. I dunno what breed he is.’
‘What do you give him to eat?’ I say.
‘Rabbit food.’
I’m not expecting her to reel off the rabbit’s dietary requirements, but I thought she might give some indication that she’d read the back of the packet.
‘Before I give you the guided tour, have you any questions for us?’ Emma says wearily.
‘Um, not really,’ Shannon says, blushing, and I watch them go, Shannon wandering along behind Emma, her shoulders slumped as if she’s trying not to draw attention to herself. She’d be taller than me by an inch or so if she stood up straight.
Can I see her as a vet nurse? She seems painfully shy, but I think, given time and encouragement, her confidence would grow. She’s had experience of serving customers at Petals, and she appears fond of animals.
I think it’s a pretty good start, but Emma disagrees.
‘I’m not sure she’ll fit in,’ she says after Shannon’s gone, ‘and she’s so quiet you can hardly hear her speak.’
‘There isn’t anyone else.’ I put the l
ab report I’ve been trying to make sense of back down on the consulting-room table. We had other applicants, but we weeded them out for various reasons.
‘What about the thing with all the black? I can’t see how she’ll cope.’
I think back to the cat I put down earlier today, its scrawny body lifeless on the table, its owner too upset to speak, as Emma continues, ‘I mean, this job can be pretty depressing sometimes, and Shannon doesn’t come across as having a particularly buoyant personality.’
‘You mean, you think she might top herself?’
‘Not exactly. I guess what I’m saying is that she doesn’t seem tough enough to deal with some of the things we see day to day. She’s got support at home – I’ve known Gillian for years. She did the flowers for our wedding, and for Mum’s funeral …’ Emma’s voice trails off at the memory, I guess, of her mother’s untimely death from an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer almost five years ago now. ‘I’m afraid Shannon might find it all too much.’
‘She must have some strength of character,’ I observe. ‘She isn’t afraid to stand out from the crowd.’
‘You’re being rather naive, Maz,’ Emma says, smiling. ‘You should see her hanging out on the Green with her friends – you can’t tell one from the other because they’re all dressed the same.’
All I can think of, though, is what will happen to Shannon if we don’t take her on. There aren’t many jobs going in the area. She’ll end up serving coffee at the garden centre or frying fish at Mr Rock’s. Where’s the future in that?
‘I think we should give her a chance,’ I say stubbornly. Shannon reminds me of myself as a teenager, quiet and well-meaning, but lacking confidence. If Jack Wilson, the vet at the Ark, hadn’t given me the opportunity to work as a Saturday girl at his practice when I was at school, and encouraged me to study for my exams, where would I be now?
Must Be Love Page 3
