Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Who left that bloody thing there?’ he says, waving his fist.

  Alex hangs on to my hand, holding me back.

  ‘Who moved it?’ Old Fox-Gifford goes on.

  ‘It’s been parked there on and off for the past two weeks,’ Alex says.

  ‘That’s my spot. I’ve had that spot for fifty years.’ Old Fox-Gifford limps up and addresses his son. Tell your floozie-woman not to get in my way in future.’

  ‘Tell her yourself. Maz isn’t in the way at all,’ Alex says. ‘I’m not sure you should still be driving. That’s the second accident you’ve had this month, and it’s getting expensive.’

  ‘You can get it back orf the insurance,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, as Hal the Labrador adds insult to injury by peeing up the wheel of my poor car. He points at me. ‘She can pay for it – she can afford it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to afford it,’ I cut in crossly. Old Fox-Gifford makes my blood boil at the best of times, but this time I’m incandescent. ‘I reckon you did this deliberately, to get back at me, because you can’t stand the idea of me being with your precious son.’

  ‘Maz,’ Alex warns.

  ‘Why are you siding with him?’ I say.

  ‘I’m not taking sides.’

  ‘Alex, you are.’ It feels like he is. I stare at Alex until he turns away, back to his father. I notice how his hands are clenched into tight, bloodless fists.

  ‘Maz, you’re right,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve had enough of this! It’s time we had this out. Properly.’

  ‘What do you mean, son?’ Old Fox-Gifford’s expression turns from smug to aghast as Alex stands up to him.

  ‘I’ve had enough of you.’ Alex pauses – for effect, I believe, because I think he’s determined to savour this moment. ‘I’ve made a decision. If you can’t be polite to my girlfriend, if you really can’t tolerate the idea she’s carrying my baby, my much-wanted and loved child, then I’m ready to quit.’

  ‘Quit? Quit?’ Spittle flies from Old Fox-Gifford’s lips. ‘What do you mean, quit?’

  ‘I’m leaving the practice. And the Barn. Yes, moving out.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare. If you do that, I’ll make sure you’ll never work around here again.’

  Alex folds his arms across his heaving chest. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Alex? Leaving his beloved practice?

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, Father. Like you, I thought it was impossible, that the only way I could get away from you was to leave Talyton altogether, but I’ve realised it doesn’t have to be like that. I have plenty of supportive clients and I’ve already spoken to Stewart and he’s offered me one of his old outbuildings as a base.’

  Has he? I didn’t know, I think, but they are very good friends so it isn’t surprising that they have talked about the possibility of Alex giving up on Talyton Manor Vets. ‘You’re bluffing, Alexander. You can’t give up the family firm. After all we’ve done, after all we’ve worked for?’

  ‘I can do whatever I like,’ Alex says hoarsely. ‘I have my own mind. I’m not your bloody puppet!’

  Realising Alex is deadly serious, Old Fox-Gifford’s shoulders collapse and he seems to shrink.

  ‘How will I manage?’ he whines. ‘Have you thought of that?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Alex says, and I feel so proud of him – and touched – that he’s willing to take such a drastic step for me and the baby. ‘You can carry on just as you wish. I don’t care.’

  ‘It’ll finish your mother off,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, but Alex seems perfectly aware that he’s turning the emotional screw for his own ends.

  ‘It’ll probably kill you first,’ Alex says coolly, although I can see the blood vessels in his neck pulsing with anger.

  Old Fox-Gifford falls silent. I’ve never seen him unable to answer back, and I start to wonder from the way his face is twitching if he’s about to have a fit.

  ‘It’s up to you, Father. Either you apologise to me and Maz, or’ – he pulls his mobile out of his pocket – ‘I’ll phone Stewart and set the ball rolling.’

  Meekly, Old Fox-Gifford holds up one hand. He’s shaking.

  ‘All right, Alexander,’ he sighs. ‘You win.’

  ‘This isn’t about winning.’

  ‘I know … I apologise to you …’ He turns briefly to me, but doesn’t meet my eye. ‘And Maz.’

  It isn’t much of an apology, I think, but Alex deems it enough. For now.

  ‘Thank you, Father. I hope that from now on, you can at least be civil to my girlfriend, if nothing else.’ Alex takes my hand, gives me one of his heart-wrenching smiles, then goes on, almost as if nothing has happened, ‘Where have you been anyway?’

  Still chastened, Old Fox-Gifford clears his throat. ‘I saw a downer cow at Stewart’s – we didn’t get her up.’

  ‘Shame,’ Alex says, and the tension begins to dissipate under the sunny sky, the raucous rooks wheeling back and fluttering down into the trees. Old Fox-Gifford whistles for the dogs and shuffles away, more bowed than ever. Alex slides his arm behind my back, and in response I look up at his face. His expression is soft, quite unlike how he was with his father.

  ‘Thanks, Alex,’ I murmur. ‘You didn’t have to do that for me.’ Tears touch my eyes when he responds.

  ‘I’d do anything for you, Maz.’ He pulls me gently around to face him, and holds me close so I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. ‘You know that.’

  I do now, I think, answering him with a kiss. No one has ever done anything like that for me before. No one has ever been so gallant.

  ‘Now, what about your car?’ Alex begins. I know I could easily buy another one, a more up-to-date model, but that isn’t the point. I’m fond of my car. We’ve been through a lot together, good times and bad, and I’m reluctant to give it up.

  ‘I can get it fixed so you can sell it on.’

  ‘Alex …’

  ‘All right, we’ll keep it – I’ll find room in one of the sheds so it’s under cover. In the meantime, we’ll find you something else.’

  ‘I’m not having some monster gas guzzler.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not having you and my child whizzing about the countryside in –’

  ‘Anything but an armoured tank,’ I finish for him.

  ‘You’ve got it.’ Alex grins, then grows serious again.

  ‘I want it fixed,’ I say.

  ‘All right. I’ll get it back down to the garage.’ Alex sighs. ‘I should have done the on-call last night.’

  ‘Alex, you can’t possibly do every night.’ In spite of myself, a shiver of dread runs down my spine. ‘It’ll kill you.’

  ‘Hey, stop panicking,’ he says.

  I can’t help it. I can’t bring this baby up on my own. I need Alex with me. He’s a great dad. He’ll be able to make up for my failings as a mum. He’ll be able to love this baby when I can’t. He’ll know what to do with it when I don’t.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, darling,’ Alex says tenderly. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be there for you and Bean.’ He slips one hand under my blouse and strokes my bump. ‘Nothing, neither fire’ – he pauses, and I guess he’s thinking back to last year when he nearly died in the fire at Buttercross Cottage – ‘nor flood, will stop me.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Just Married

  It’s a perfect English summer’s day, one to savour and enjoy, but I can’t help wondering how Drew and Shannon are getting on with the Saturday-morning surgery, and whether I should have arranged to see the cat I’m treating for leukaemia tomorrow instead of Monday. I quite like going in on Sundays – I can catch up with some admin while it’s quiet and the only distractions are Ginge and Tripod, who have a penchant for walking across keyboards when you’re trying to type.

  I glance towards Alex, who’s sitting beside me on the picnic bench on the lawn outside the Talymill Inn, his thigh, clad in smart grey trousers with a stiff crease, touching mine. He smiles. I lean into him, rest my head on his shoulder
and close my eyes. The sun warms my face as I breathe the scent of aftershave, bruised grass and river, and listen to the vigorous flapping of pigeons in the trees, the splash of a duck landing on water, laughter and conversation, the clink of glasses and a woman’s voice, shocking in its belligerence, calling for various groups of people to assemble on the lawn by the water for photos.

  As I relax, my bump squirms, reminding me that I’m thirty-one weeks gone, which means I have nine weeks to go, assuming the Bean comes at forty weeks, not the thirty-seven I’ve been warned about. Help! It’s time Emma and I started looking for a vet to replace Drew when he leaves in October, another locum to cover my maternity leave. It won’t be for long – I intend to be back in harness within six weeks of the birth.

  Alex has lined up a nanny, someone Astra’s recommended. She’s working for a family in London until the end of September when the mother’s giving up her high-powered job in PR to stay at home full-time with her little ones. Alex has made this nanny – Robyn, she’s called – sound like a right Mary Poppins and I have this picture in my head of a prim young woman, twirling into Talyton St George with her umbrella. I’m not sure how I’ll get on with her. I’m not sure how we’re going to afford it.

  The photographer, the bossy woman, calls for the friends to join Izzy and Chris.

  ‘The sooner you line up, the sooner you get your snouts in the trough,’ she bellows.

  I open my eyes.

  ‘Where did they get her from?’ Alex says.

  ‘A friend of a friend, I think Izzy said.’

  ‘I guess she’ll get through the photos quickly. I’m starving.’

  ‘As ever. Shall we move inside?’ I rescue a wasp that is twitching at the bottom of my glass – I allowed myself one small drink to celebrate Izzy’s special day, and it’s gone straight to my head.

  ‘Not yet.’ Alex straightens his bow tie. ‘Didn’t you hear? We’re needed for the photos.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I feel such a frump.’ I’ve had to give in to the pressure of my growing waistline and take up wearing maternity clothes. I’ve gone for a ditsy floral dress in dusky pink today – and, woe of woes – flat sandals because it’s impossible to waddle in heels. ‘I feel like an old hippie.’

  ‘Hippo’s not a bad description,’ Alex says.

  ‘I said hippie.’

  ‘I know you did,’ he teases.

  Smiling, I give him a friendly shove before he takes my hand and pulls me up from my seat, and we join the bride and groom, their bridesmaids, family and friends – not forgetting the dogs – for the photos.

  I hardly recognise Izzy, who’s wearing a plain ivory dress with a bolero trimmed with local lace. She’s smiling and blushing, making the most of being a bride at last – she’s waited long enough – while Chris looks somewhat abashed, repeatedly scratching his neck, like a dog trying to get rid of a flea. He’s had his blond curls cut off and looks more like a gentleman about town than a gentleman farmer.

  ‘Chris is petrified,’ Alex whispers.

  ‘He hasn’t had second thoughts?’ I say, concerned for Izzy. If he was going to back out, it would have been better if he’d jilted her at the altar than dumped her after the wedding.

  ‘No.’ Alex grins. ‘He’s worried about what the best man will say in the speech. Mind you, I’d be worried too, with Stewart as my best man.’ He pauses and gazes into my eyes, and I can hear my pulse thrumming in my eardrums at the thought. And then disappointment cuts through me like a knife as a picture of Alex and Astra at their wedding comes into my mind. I wonder what Stewart said about Alex in his best man’s speech back then.

  ‘Smile!’ the photographer shouts. ‘That’s better. Come on, Chris. This is supposed to be the best day of your life.’

  Izzy’s bridesmaids, three little ones and her head bridesmaid, whom she’s known since they were at school together, wear sage-green dresses and pink roses in their hair. They’re hanging on to two collies who are straining at the leash to get to Izzy. We saved Freddie’s life last year when he was abandoned by his owner. The other one is Chris’s sheepdog. They’re dressed up too, in waistcoats the same colour as the bridesmaids’ dresses, with pink ribbons tied to their leads.

  I hide myself behind Emma as the photographer snaps away with her camera.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ she bellows. ‘All done.’

  The crowd disperses, but before Alex and I can move very far we’re intercepted by Fifi Green.

  ‘Hello, Maz. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.’ She’s wearing a tight-fitting shift dress covered with red and turquoise flowers that are unlike any flowers I’ve ever seen, and a tall red hat, swathed with the same material as her dress. ‘You told me a little fib …’

  ‘Did I?’ I can’t remember for the life of me when.

  ‘New Year’s Eve. You didn’t have a taxi. You stayed over.’ Fifi smiles as she looks me up and down, her eyes settling on my bump. ‘I had a little chat with dear Old Fox-Gifford at a town council do. It was most revealing. Oh, and that talk for the WI. I need to pin you down.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry.’ I can feel the heat in my face. ‘What with everything else …’

  ‘I’ll put you down for September.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, cornered between Fifi’s rather threatening dress and the river.

  ‘The baby’s due then,’ Alex says, stepping in. ‘Maz isn’t taking on any more commitments at the moment.’

  Fifi isn’t one to be put off.

  ‘What about you, Alex? I bet you have a few wonderful tales to tell. We could call it “Confessions of a Farm Vet”.’

  ‘My father likes these dos more than I do,’ Alex begins.

  ‘Oh no, we’ve heard all his stories before,’ says Fifi. ‘I’ll pencil you in for September instead of Maz,’ and she swans off to collar the next unsuspecting person.

  ‘I can speak for myself,’ I tell Alex.

  ‘Yeah, but you’d have given in and said yes.’ He holds out his arm. ‘Soft touch.’

  I slip my arm through his and walk through the bar into the next room, a private area where Edie and her staff are putting the finishing touches to a buffet. There are a few guests here too, including Ben and Emma, who are standing in the far corner beside the wedding cake, not talking to each other.

  I’m glad they’re here. I was afraid Emma was going to miss Izzy’s big day.

  Emma catches sight of me and Alex.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, waving us over.

  ‘Hello.’ Ben plants the briefest kiss on my cheek. ‘How are you, Maz? And the baby?’ He shakes Alex’s hand. ‘All well, I hope.’

  ‘I love the dress, Em.’ I haven’t seen it before. It’s cream with a black print, a fitted bodice and slightly A-line skirt.

  ‘Oh, it’s something I picked up when I was in London. It’s all right, I suppose.’ Emma smoothes down the pleat at the front. Her mouth is smiling, but her eyes are not. She’s putting on a brave face, and I’m afraid to ask how it went at the clinic. (She travelled to London two days ago to have her eggs harvested, treated and mixed with Ben’s sperm. Now she’s waiting to see if she’ll be called back to have the resulting embryos transferred, if there are any.)

  ‘We’re waiting for the call.’ Emma checks her watch. ‘It could be anytime now.’

  I’m not sure what to say.

  ‘Doesn’t Izzy look great,’ I begin.

  ‘She scrubs up well,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but her work clothes.’ There’s another awkward gap in the conversation. ‘Have you seen the sheep on top of the cake?’ Ben goes on.

  ‘We ought to throw ours out, Ben,’ Emma says, and it takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about the top tier of her wedding cake, kept by tradition to celebrate the birth of the first child.

  ‘I didn’t know we’d kept it.’

  ‘You did know,’ Emma says, her tone hurt and accusing. ‘It’s in the freezer, and the champagne we kept from the
reception is in the bottom of your climate-controlled wine-storage thingy.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Ben says.

  ‘Remind me to chuck it out when we get home.’

  ‘We’ve kept it this long – it won’t hurt to keep it a little while longer.’

  ‘I don’t see why it’s suddenly so important to you when you’d forgotten we’d kept it in the first place,’ Emma says sharply.

  ‘I don’t want to argue about it,’ Ben says, his voice weary.

  Clive brings the new kitten over to show us, a puffed-up ball of blue and cream fur with big orange eyes.

  ‘We’ve called her Cassandra. The customers voted for the name, to raise a little money for Talyton Animal Rescue.’ Cassandra stares at us rather crossly.

  ‘I can see a pink collar, Clive. I’m surprised at you.’

  ‘Ah, that’s Edie’s doing. I’ve told her it’s just a cat and she isn’t to baby it, but well, what can I do?’ He rubs his nose against the back of the kitten’s neck. ‘The newlyweds’ transport has arrived, by the way.’

  After lunch, Alex, Ben, Emma and I decorate it, an enormous tractor that gleams in the sunshine. Emma and I write ‘Izzy 4 Chris’ and ‘Just Married’, and draw love-hearts on it. Alex and Ben tie on white ribbons and balloons before leaving a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine with glasses inside.

  ‘I’m going down the road to check my phone,’ Emma says. ‘The signal’s not great here.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Ben says.

  ‘No, you stay,’ Emma says, but he goes with her anyway, and I wonder what effect the stress of IVF is having on their marriage.

  On the Monday morning after the wedding, I’m surprised to find that Drew has admitted Brutus.

  ‘Drew’s doing the op,’ Shannon confirms, when I ask her why. ‘Emma’s on the train to London.’

  ‘Oh? She didn’t say anything to me.’