Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘No, no, no.’ I grind my fingertips into the front of my skull. ‘Stop. Let me get this straight. You want to leave?’

  ‘I don’t want to leave …’ Shannon’s voice trails off. ‘I’ve loved it here. It’s made me realise this is what I really wanna do.’

  ‘I don’t want you to leave,’ I tell her. ‘I might have to revise my opinion if anything like this happens again –’

  ‘It won’t,’ Shannon cuts in. ‘I promise. Thank you, Maz.’

  I glance back at Brutus, and my heart feels as if it’s torn into pieces. How long has he got? Who knows? ‘Where are his X-rays?’ I say to Shannon. ‘Come on, you’re going to have to pull yourself together. It’s you and me, and we’re going to have to deal with this.’

  Shannon finds the pictures, including the chest X-rays Drew took yesterday. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find: a miracle, maybe, but there isn’t one, of course.

  ‘Mrs Dyer’s here to see Brutus,’ Frances interrupts, and now I wish I was, like Drew, in a plane far away from Otter House and Talyton St George.

  ‘Why didn’t she phone first?’ I say curtly.

  ‘She wanted to see him.’ Frances tips her head to one side. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, there is, but please don’t say anything to Mrs Dyer until I’ve spoken to her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Frances says.

  ‘Neither Emma nor Drew are here today, so please can you reorganise as many of my appointments as possible, and cancel all the ops.’ I can’t face working today. ‘Show Mrs Dyer into the office.’

  ‘Tea and biscuits?’ Frances says hopefully.

  I shake my head. I feel sick. I want to lie. I want to make up some story about how we found a bigger tumour than the first one in the other leg and we decided to take that one off as a priority, but I can’t. I want to put off the dreadful moment, but what’s the point? She’s going to have to know sooner or later.

  Mrs Dyer breaks down when I give her the news.

  ‘My darling boy,’ she sobs. ‘I knew there was something wrong. I just knew it.’ She collects herself, picking a piece of tissue off her top. ‘Where’s Emma? Why isn’t Emma telling me this?’

  The heat of her interrogating stare seems to sweat the truth out of every pore of my body.

  ‘Emma isn’t here. Drew, our locum, did the surgery. I don’t know why or how he managed to –’

  ‘Kill my dog,’ Mrs Dyer interrupts. ‘That’s what he’s done. He’s as good as finished him off.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I can feel the tears stinging my eyelids, but I have to be strong. I’m supposed to be the professional here, although, considering what’s happened while the practice was under my charge, I feel completely inadequate. ‘I’ll do anything to help.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she says coldly.

  I understand exactly where she’s coming from. I’d feel the same in her position.

  ‘There’s still the option of referring him to an oncologist to see if he’s a suitable candidate for radiotherapy or chemo. I’ll book the appointment. I’ll drive him myself to the referral centre of your choice. The practice will pay all the costs involved.’ I pause, awaiting a response, but Mrs Dyer continues to stare.

  ‘Emma broke her promise to me,’ Mrs Dyer says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat. My hands ball into fists at Emma’s thoughtless stupidity. How could she treat one of her best, most loyal clients and their lovely pet like this?

  ‘I can’t believe you vets. You say you have the animal’s best interests at heart. You say you care, yet … Well, I’m speechless.’ She touches her throat with trembling fingers and eventually goes on, ‘I think I’ll have that tea Frances offered me now.’

  I’m not sure what’s going on, but I buzz Frances and order tea, and we wait in silence until she appears with a tea with sugar for Mrs Dyer, and a hot lemon for me. It only took five minutes, yet it felt like five years.

  ‘I’d like to see Brutus now.’ Mrs Dyer stands up and I escort her into Kennels, where Shannon is sitting on the floor with Brutus’s big head in her lap. Brutus, on hearing his owner’s footsteps, looks up and beats his tail against the bars of the cage behind him. I notice Shannon’s gaze fix on the mug in Mrs Dyer’s hands.

  ‘No food or drink in here – human anyway,’ she says sternly, as if she’s taking over Izzy’s role as head nurse. ‘No exceptions.’

  ‘Er, not now, Shannon,’ I say.

  ‘It isn’t for me anyway,’ Mrs Dyer says with a deep, snorting intake of breath. Her eyes are puffy, her face wet. She kneels down, her skirt splitting at the side, but she doesn’t take any notice.

  ‘Brutus, my lovely boy …’ She offers Brutus the mug. I watch him lap up the tea and lick out the bottom until every drop is gone, making the most of it, like a prisoner on Death Row savouring his last meal. ‘I guess we can forget about the diet now,’ Mrs Dyer says, tugging roughly at one of his ears. ‘From now on, Brutus, you can have absolutely anything you like, sausages for breakfast and liver for tea, all your favourite treats.’ She turns to me again. ‘Izzy said he was going to die from being too fat. She was wrong, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I say, watching Brutus, who’s given up on the mug and is now gazing up at his owner, his expression pleading, as if to say, Get me out of here.

  Mrs Dyer sighs. ‘Oh, I feel so cheated, so let down.’

  I feel let down too, completely and utterly – by Drew, by Emma, by Shannon …

  Later, after I’ve sent Brutus home with Mrs Dyer, considering it’s better that they spend as much of their remaining time together than keep him here at the practice, I close up. Frances and Shannon have gone home and I’m alone at last. I step outside into the garden and take a few deep breaths of fresh air, clearing my lungs of the cloying scent of disinfectant, blood and damp dog. A bat flits from the dusk and disappears again, and right now I wish I could disappear with it, but I can’t. I’ve got a practice to run, staff to manage, patients to treat.

  I’m going to have to face everyone in town gossiping and pointing the finger at us. I’m ashamed and hurt by Emma’s ‘whatever’ attitude to Brutus. He’s a great dog, in both stature and nature. It was clear today that he adores his owner as much as she adores him. He trusts her, as Mrs Dyer trusted us, Otter House Vets, to look after him. I can feel hot tears streaming down my cheeks. We’ve let them down so badly.

  When Emma and I became vets, we swore an oath, promising to endeavour to ensure the welfare of all animals committed to our care. So what happened? I know Emma’s had a tough time, what with losing the baby and putting herself through fertility treatment, but I can’t justify what she’s done. If she wasn’t coping, she could have confided in me. She should have confided in me, then I could have taken over Brutus’s case – with Mrs Dyer’s agreement, of course.

  A cool breeze shimmies through the leaves of the old apple tree at the end of the garden. I cross my arms and pull the sweatshirt I’m carrying over my shoulders tight around me, and gaze up towards the stars. This isn’t all Emma’s fault, of course. She is, or was – I’m not sure at the moment – my very best friend, and I haven’t been doing a great job of being there for her. I should have picked up on her inability to manage her caseload properly. I should have kept a closer eye on Drew. I look down at my bump, that familiar resentment building up inside me once more. I shouldn’t have gone and got myself pregnant.

  *

  ‘I hope you’re looking after that baby of yours, Maz,’ Frances says when I’m waiting in Reception for the day’s ops to turn up, a week or so after Drew’s departure. ‘You look as if you could do with a rest.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ It’s an automatic response. Of course I’m not fine. I’m still upset about poor Brutus. I’m hurt that every time I walk into a shop in Talyton, all conversation stops. I know they’re talking about Otter House Vets behind my back. What’s more, my feet are killing me, I’ve had about three hours’ sleep what
with not being able to get comfortable with the bump in the way and waking up in a cold sweat, dreaming of rows of cages containing dogs with no legs, and all the time I feel as if I’m pushing an elephant up the stairs, trying to keep the practice going single-handed.

  However, like a sick rabbit in the face of a fox, I will not show weakness.

  I sit down on one chair and put my feet up on another.

  ‘I saw Christine Dyer yesterday – when I was buying some mince. I fancied a nice cottage pie for dinner. Anyway, she’s had time to reflect and she doesn’t hold it against you, Maz. She’d already come to terms with losing Brutus when Emma gave her the results of the X-rays. It’s come as a relief to her in a way, because all the decisions about further tests and treatments have been taken out of her hands. All she wants now is for Brutus to die peacefully at home in his bed. Which is what we’d all choose for ourselves, I think,’ she goes on, her gaze settling on one of the seascapes on the wall, and I wonder what memories they trigger.

  ‘Do you mind those pictures?’ I ask. ‘We can take them down.’

  ‘Oh no, I like them. They’re comforting in a strange kind of way.’

  I change the subject back to Mrs Dyer and her dog.

  ‘Did she say how Brutus is now?’

  ‘He’s happy on the painkillers, and he’s eating well – apparently he’s making his way through a whole side of beef. Christine’s realistic, though. She knows it won’t be long, and she’s asked for you to visit when the day comes. Not that she has a choice unless she goes to another practice, since you’re the only vet here most of the time. It’s a shame you have to do it, Maz. You get so upset – it isn’t good for you and your baby.’ Frances pauses. ‘I knew Drew was trouble as soon as I saw him. I don’t miss him in the slightest.’

  ‘There are some that do.’ I’m thinking of Shannon, who’s back to black, her hair having the jet sheen of a young Labrador and her eyes ringed with thick, dark eyeliner. When Lynsey Pitt dropped Raffles in earlier this morning, she said how much she missed Drew’s conversation over breakfast. I miss him too – like a hole in the head.

  ‘Shannon will get over it,’ Frances says. ‘It’s you I worry about. This is a two-vet practice. It’s too much for one.’ She gazes past me. ‘I didn’t know Emma was back today.’

  I glance over my shoulder. Emma is getting out of her car in the car park.

  ‘Neither did I.’ She came in the other day to say she was waiting for the results of a blood test, but didn’t give me any idea when she’d be back to work. I didn’t push her. There wasn’t any point. She made it quite clear she’d be back when she was ready, and on her terms.

  ‘I wish I’d known,’ Frances says. ‘I’ve been turning people away.’

  ‘If you’re stuck, you can always keeping booking them in after seven,’ I say, hating the idea of any of our patients being turned away.

  ‘Hi, Frances.’ Emma enters and strolls up to the desk, then realises I’m here too. ‘Oh, there you are, Maz. Don’t get up.’ She raises her hand as I make to heave myself off the chair.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Emma,’ Frances says hopefully. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s worked this time. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘You’re right, Frances.’ Emma pats her stomach lightly as if it’s a very small dog. ‘The blood test was positive. I know it’s early days, but I’m so excited.’

  ‘That’s the best news I’ve had for a long time,’ I say, joining her.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have said anything,’ Emma goes on, a smile playing on her lips, ‘but I figured you’d guessed anyway.’

  I wonder if it would be different for Emma if she worked in a large organisation where she could sneak away to the clinic, her absence hardly noticed. Here, at Otter House, it’s all so public. It’s going to be a very long nine months.

  ‘It’s a shame about Drew,’ Emma says.

  I told her about Brutus’s op and Drew doing a runner, a couple of days after it happened. I didn’t want to jeopardise this round of IVF for her by upsetting her in any way. I waited until I’d calmed down, then phoned her – she was still in London then. Alex was unusually critical of the way I handled it: he said it was all very well protecting Emma, but she ought to show me some consideration too.

  ‘I don’t understand, though,’ Emma continues. ‘When I’m not here, everything seems to fall apart.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ Frances cuts in. ‘Maz is doing a great job.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be around for the rest of today,’ Emma says. ‘I can’t do any ops, though, so if it’s all right with you, Maz, I’ll do morning surgery.’ She looks over Frances’s shoulder at the monitor, reaches across and presses a button on the keyboard. ‘What’s happened? There’s hardly anyone booked in.’

  ‘I told Frances to keep the numbers down,’ I say resentfully. ‘I can’t operate and consult at the same time.’ I flash Emma a warning glance. ‘No one can, not even a super-vet like you. And before you ask, you can’t have Shannon in with you – I’ll need her in theatre. I’m not putting any more of our patients’ lives at risk.’

  ‘You’re implying that I would?’

  I back down at the challenge in Emma’s voice. Why are we arguing when we’re on the same side? We both want the same thing, don’t we?

  I excuse myself, and head out to Kennels to see if Shannon needs a hand with preparing theatre for the ops. I admit three more patients, then make a start.

  What I haven’t allowed for is the fact Shannon isn’t up to speed yet, and everything takes much longer than it does with Izzy in charge. It takes half an hour to get Raffles, the tan dog with the short legs who belongs to Lynsey, anaesthetised and on his back on the operating table, clipped and scrubbed.

  ‘Are you happy with the anaesthetic? He isn’t going to leap off the table?’ I say to Shannon.

  Pink-faced, Shannon fiddles around, checking the dog’s reflexes, his colour, pulse and breathing.

  ‘No … I don’t think so,’ she says eventually.

  ‘I’d rather you were sure.’

  Her anxiety is infectious. I can feel my hair sticking to my head under my hat. I turn to the stand to sort out my instruments – there aren’t any.

  ‘Where’s the kit?’ I say sharply.

  Shannon looks at me. Her lip quivers. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘Have you got a kit on for the next one – the bitch spay?’

  ‘Um, yes … It’s due out of the autoclave.’

  ‘Bring me that one, then, and put a fresh kit in for the next op. We can always delay for a while – as long as we aren’t still operating at midnight.’

  I stand about for a few minutes, holding up my gloved hands to avoid touching anything while Shannon’s finding me some sterile instruments. I keep my eye on the patient – his breathing’s quickening ever so slightly.

  ‘Shannon, can you come and check on Raffles?’ I call.

  How is it Izzy always manages to be in two places at once?

  There’s a crash and clatter, which I guess is the kit landing on the floor.

  ‘Maz, I’ve dropped it.’

  ‘What about the emergency kit? There must be one in the cupboard.’

  While Shannon’s looking for it, Raffles’s front paws twitch. It’s no good. I can do without him waking up and biting through his ET tube. I reach over and turn the anaesthetic up.

  ‘Shannon, I’ll have to scrub again. I need fresh gloves. ASAP.’

  At last I’m ready to go, my scalpel poised above Raffles’s manhood – or should that be doghood? I make the first cut through the skin.

  ‘Raffles won’t be getting any bitches into trouble from now on,’ I say to Shannon. ‘Lynsey’s being very responsible – Raffles was a rescue dog, and she doesn’t want to add to the stray dog population.’ I smile. ‘Apparently, Stewart wasn’t so keen on the idea, though. It’s a man thing.’

  ‘I can think of someone who should have his bits cut off,’ Shannon says bitte
rly, and I’m glad to see she’s angry with Drew, not merely resigned.

  ‘Castration reduces the desire to stray, but it doesn’t stop it entirely.’

  ‘I was thinking more of doing it without anaesthetic.’ She sighs. ‘I can’t believe I fell for his lies. All that about not having a girlfriend back home.’

  ‘That wasn’t a lie, though, was it? She was his fiancée.’

  ‘I know … I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, Maz. When you’re going on at me, you sound just like my mum, and I never listen to what she says.’

  ‘Men! Mothers! Who’d have them,’ I say lightly, closing up.

  ‘I’ll never go out with anyone else ever again,’ Shannon declares. ‘I’m officially off men for life.’

  How many times have I said that before?

  Relationships – friendships too – need commitment on both sides to work, and Drew never had any intention of committing himself to Shannon.

  Once we’ve finished the ops, I give Shannon a hand with the clearing up, then go and find Emma. She’s at her desk in the office, her face grey in the glow of the monitor.

  ’Em, if you’re not doing anything tonight, let’s go out for a meal to celebrate. My treat.’

  ‘No, Maz. Stop.’

  It’s only now I notice how Emma’s doubled over on the office chair with her hands pressed into her stomach. She sighs like a dying cat, a sound that cuts me through to the core, then stammers, ‘It’s all gone w-w-wrong.’

  I put my arms around her and press my cheek to hers; her hair is damp, her skin cold. She pushes me away, as if she can’t stand the sight of me.

  ‘I’m bleeding,’ she says in a small voice.

  ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean …’ You can bleed when you’re pregnant – it doesn’t automatically mean you’re losing the baby. ‘I’ll call Ben.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘One of the other doctors? Your consultant?’

  ‘No …’

  In tears, I call Ben anyway. He’s with us in less than five minutes.

  ‘I’ll take her home,’ he says, and I watch him lead Emma, who’s almost catatonic, out to his car, and help her into the passenger seat. As he drives her away, I realise exactly how deep our troubles are.