Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

  I trawl the locum agencies again, but it’s the summer, the busiest time of year, and there are more practices looking for cover than there are locums. The baby moves; I stroke my bump. I’ve still got a couple of months. Something will turn up, and in the meantime I’ll have to keep going. I owe it to our staff, to our clients and, most of all, to our patients.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A Shot in the Dark

  The thought of Brutus’s euthanasia hangs like another dark cloud in the stormy skies above Talyton St George, yet for once I’m grateful for the rain. It’s late August and, according to the Chronicle, it’s the wettest summer for twenty years. I get the impression the weather is keeping some of our clients away, which means I can just about manage if I put in extra hours to deal with the admin and queries that crop up every day.

  Emma’s here, but it isn’t the same. I’m not sure it will ever be the same again.

  I’m covering for her on her bad days when she decides she can’t face work and takes off. I assumed she was going home, but I have it on good authority from at least three of the local dog walkers that they’ve seen her down by the river. I worry about her state of mind.

  I worry about Alex too. How long will he put up with me not coming home until the early hours, sometimes not coming home at all?

  I worry about how much longer I can go on like this.

  Alex turns up at Otter House with his father late one evening, about ten minutes after I’ve seen a young rabbit that has suddenly started walking in circles. (I feel like that sometimes, as if I’m not getting anywhere.) I give the poor creature antibiotics and a guarded prognosis, and book it in to see me again tomorrow, then re-reheat the microwave meal I bought in the Co-op this afternoon by way of emergency supplies, by which time there are these two men on the doorstep, dressed in battered wax hats and coats, reminding me of a pair of poachers up to no good.

  Alex has a big black Lab – it’s Hal – in his arms, and a drip bag between his teeth. Drops of water flash and glitter from the dog’s fur.

  ‘Take the bloody bag, Pa,’ Alex mutters.

  Old Fox-Gifford turns stiffly, takes the bag, hooks it over the end of his stick and holds it aloft.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why we’re here, especially on such a foul night,’ Alex says.

  I didn’t deny that it seems a little odd when they have a perfectly serviceable practice of their own.

  ‘Have you got an appointment?’ I say lightly, in an attempt to disguise my true feelings: that I’m not all that delighted to see them. Yes, even Alex.

  ‘I don’t think we needed one since we’re practically family,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, and I’m about to point out that he’s changed his tune, when Hal utters a low moan of pain.

  ‘What happened?’ I let them through, out of the rain, switching lights on as I go.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t let me carry him,’ grumbles Old Fox-Gifford. ‘I can manage, you know.’

  ‘Will you please shut up,’ Alex growls. ‘It’s your fault we’re here.’

  ‘The old bugger was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Old Fox-Gifford says meekly, and it strikes me that the roles of father and son have been reversed since Alex threatened to set up in practice elsewhere. Alex is in charge.

  I show them into Kennels. Alex lays Hal down on his side on a piece of Vetbed on the prep bench, injured foreleg uppermost. Panting, Hal stares into space, his eyes glazed with pain. His leg is heavily bandaged, the dressing dirty and freshly stained with blood. He smells of damp mixed with old dog halitosis, and it’s hard to believe this is the same dog who fathered Saba’s puppies.

  Alex touches my hand.

  ‘I know how busy you are, Maz, and how exhausted you must be, and I know I keep telling you to take it easy, and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I can’t think of any other way,’ he says, the words tumbling out.

  ‘Alex, slow down,’ I say, smiling briefly. ‘I don’t mind. Really.’

  ‘I want you to make him better.’ Old Fox-Gifford’s stick clatters against the bench. ‘I want him back as good as new.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,’ I say, quickly weighing up Hal’s situation. I can’t perform miracles.

  ‘I told you it was no good, son.’ A filthy mixture of dung, mud and blood drips from Old Fox-Gifford’s coat. ‘I told you she was just playing at being a vet. What does she know about dogs?’

  ‘Plenty, thank you,’ I cut in, determined not to let him have one over on me this time. ‘Do you remember Hal’s romantic liaison on the Green? Well, I’ll bet you have no idea what a Labradoodle pup’s worth.’

  ‘That damned woman, Aurora. She sent me a bill for extra food, bedding and cages, not that I’ll ever pay up.’

  ‘She did very well out of it in the end,’ I say, unable to disguise my triumph at getting one over on him for once. ‘She sold twelve puppies for a thousand pounds each. Work that one out.’

  ‘A grand apiece?’ Old Fox-Gifford goes blue around the mouth, staggers a couple of steps and sways.

  ‘Steady there, Father.’ Alex takes his arm.

  ‘That’s bloody outrageous. I should have half of that money.’

  ‘Hush, hush,’ Alex murmurs as if he’s talking to his horse, while Old Fox-Gifford pulls a silver hip flask from his pocket, twists off the lid and raises it to his lips.

  ‘It would pay for Hal’s op, wouldn’t it? I bet it’ll cost me all of my half. Son, I knew we shouldn’t have come here.’

  ‘Will you please be quiet!’ Alex’s voice is thunderous. In fact, he sounds just like his father. ‘It’s time you learned to keep your opinions to yourself.’

  ‘I’ve heard it costs a hundred quid just to step inside the bloody door,’ Old Fox-Gifford continues, ignoring him. ‘It’s a complete rip-orf.’

  ‘Father, I’ve just about had enough of you,’ Alex says icily. ‘Now’ – he pulls a set of keys from his pocket and throws them at his father – ‘get yourself outside and wait in the car. Go! The old bastard,’ Alex snorts when he’s limped out. ‘I’m sorry about that, Maz. He’s embarrassed.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘He is. He pretends he doesn’t, but he loves this dog.’ Alex strokes Hal’s head. ‘It was an accident. The stupid old fool was cleaning his gun when it went off indoors.’ He shudders. ‘It could have been any one of us – Lucie, Seb, the baby … Anyway, I can’t fix this leg. I haven’t got the kit or the expertise.’

  ‘It isn’t like you to admit defeat.’

  ‘I know my limitations.’

  I don’t know about my limitations, but I thought I’d reached my limit when it came to Old Fox-Gifford. I don’t see why I should do him any favours, but Hal’s hot breath on my hand reminds me that if I do agree to operate, it’ll be for Hal’s sake, not his owner’s.

  ‘Who put this on?’ I ask, unravelling the layers of bandage.

  ‘I did,’ Alex says.

  ‘I’ll give you a three out of ten for your bandaging. Shannon can do better than this.’

  ‘Father doesn’t want him put down. Whatever the impression he may have given you before, it was pure bravado.’ I can feel Hal’s shattered bones grating beneath my fingers as Alex goes on, ‘When it comes to the crunch, he can’t bring himself to do it.’

  I give Hal a quick examination, then step back, my stethoscope in my ears, giving me time to think. I gaze into Hal’s eyes. He gazes back. I’m not sure he can see me properly through his cataracts. The wound’s a mess. The bones are in pieces. Is it fair to go on?

  When I put my stethoscope down, I realise Alex is talking.

  ‘He’s a real character. I’d like him to have a chance.’

  It occurs to me that referring Hal to an orthopaedic specialist would give him a better chance than I can offer. I suggest it to Alex, but he shakes his head.

  ‘The weather’s hideous. The motorway’s closed northbound because of a pile-up and they’ve shut the Old Brid
ge because the river’s high. I don’t think he can wait until morning.’ Alex touches my arm. ‘Please, Maz.’

  It’s the last thing I need right now, major surgery on an ancient dog who wasn’t necessarily in the best of health before this accident befell him. I don’t need the extra hassle, and I’m going to worry that Old Fox-Gifford will sue me and spread the word if it all goes horribly wrong.

  I touch Hal’s soft ear, covered with dense short fur, like moleskin. Hal beats his tail once, twice, against the bench. He’s got some fight left in him. He doesn’t want to die.

  ‘All right then,’ I decide, ‘as long as he doesn’t sue me if it doesn’t work out.’

  ‘Hal won’t.’ Alex smiles. ‘I can’t vouch for my father, though. Do you think you can handle it?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can save that leg, but I’ll give it a damn good try.’

  We take a couple of X-rays, and assess the pictures on the viewer.

  ‘You must be able to do something with your Meccano set,’ Alex says.

  ‘I’m going to stick a pin in each end of the bone and join them up with another pin on the outside to give the pieces time to heal, then wrap it all up, give him painkillers and antibiotics, confine him and hope for the best. He won’t be out chasing the girls for a while.’

  ‘Shall I be nurse?’

  ‘Please. I’d rather not call Shannon. She’s working long days while Izzy’s away. She’s exhausted.’

  ‘You look shattered too, Maz. You know, I shouldn’t have come.’ Alex shakes his head. ‘I really should have had a bash at this myself. You should be tucked up in bed.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Planning the surgery on Hal sends a rush of adrenaline through my body. My nerves are on edge, as I wonder if I can really save Hal’s leg. There’s no way I could sleep now.

  I fetch the drugs I need for Hal from the cabinet and get on with the job of repairing his shattered limb. It makes me feel better. I like working with Alex. I like the reassuring regular sigh of Hal’s breathing. I don’t like the way my bump keeps pressing against the table as I operate, or the sound the rain’s making outside, and the repeated bulletins on Megadrive Radio warning of worse weather to come, but soon I’m completely absorbed in the surgery, so absorbed, I miss the warm spurt of a small arterial bleeder against my face, until Alex wipes the blood away with a damp swab.

  ‘I expect you’ve been on your feet all day,’ he says softly.

  It’s true. I have, and if I wasn’t dressed in scrubs and bloodied gloves, and on the other side of the table, I’d fall into his arms and sleep. Yes, sleep. What happened to those nights of unbridled lust and passion?

  ‘Promise me you won’t overdo it – for the baby’s sake as well as your own.’

  I don’t respond. How can I promise the impossible?

  ‘Is Emma planning another round of IVF?’ Alex goes on.

  ‘She hasn’t said.’ How do I explain that I haven’t asked, because as soon as I open my mouth, Emma takes exception? ‘She accused me of making light of her feelings today. She’s very prickly. I’m worried about her. She rushed in to the IVF before she’d allowed herself time to grieve for the baby …’ I stifle an unexpected sob at the thought of Emma’s dead child.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Maz,’ Alex says.

  ‘I can’t help it. I thought I’d dealt with it …’

  ‘Emma must be depressed,’ Alex says.

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ I’ve got both Shannon and Emma going around the practice as if they’re about to slit their wrists, and vets have one of the highest suicide rates among the professions. Is that because of the kind of work they do, the driven and caring characters it takes to do it, or because the means to commit suicide are readily to hand?

  ‘Has she seen a doctor? Other than Ben, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think so, and if she was prescribed anything, she wouldn’t take it, in case it affects her chance of conceiving in the future. I know – it’s irrational. She’s gone completely mad.’ I chew my lip behind my mask. I can taste blood, but I don’t know if it’s mine or the dog’s. ‘I’m not sure I can work with her for much longer before I go mad too.’ I keep having to pick up on her mistakes, silly slip-ups like labelling up a chihuahua-size dose of wormer for a Labrador. It wouldn’t have hurt the dog, but it wouldn’t have worked either. I can’t help thinking what would have happened if it had been the other way round.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Alex.’ I glance up at his face. He’s frowning.

  ‘All you can do is carry on being supportive. All relationships have their ups and downs. I bet one day you and Emma will look back on this and smile.’

  ‘You sound like a right old man sometimes.’ I’m teasing him now, enjoying his reassurance even if I don’t really believe him. ‘Bean will think you’re his granddad.’

  ‘His? You said, “his”. What makes you think Bean’s a boy?’

  ‘I don’t – it just came out. Actually, it’s Frances’s fault. She keeps telling me it’s a boy. It’s something to do with the way you’re carrying the baby.’

  ‘Another old wives’ tale.’ Alex smiles. ‘Has she done the thing with the thread?’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘I’ll show you after – we can use a piece of silk.’

  ‘I expect there’s some in the drawer with the rest of the suture materials.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can remember how it’s supposed to work. You hold the thread over the bump, then watch the way it twirls.’ Alex goes on, ‘Have you thought any more about the cot? Mother was asking …’

  ‘When have I had time to think about cots?’

  ‘There isn’t really anything to think about. Mother says we can have the old one from the Manor. It was mine before Lucie and Seb used it. It’s perfectly serviceable.’ Alex pauses. ‘Unless you want a new one.’

  I press a swab to the blood oozing from the site of one of the pins I’ve fixed into the ends of Hal’s femur. Am I supposed to care? Alex’s silence feels like criticism. I’m not living up to his expectations.

  ‘It would be a good idea to have a new mattress,’ he says eventually. ‘I expect you’ll want to choose the bedding. I’m sure you have strong views on the colour scheme and whether you want ducks or teddies on the cover.’

  He’s pushing me.

  ‘Most women,’ he begins again, but I cut him short.

  ‘I’m not most women, am I? How dare you lump me together with all those airheads who want the changing bag to match the buggy and the high chair and all that.’ I’m more curt than I intend, the dragging ache in my pelvis suddenly in sharp focus. However, I can’t get excited about cots and all the other paraphernalia a baby seems to require. I don’t want this baby. I don’t want anything to happen to it, but I really don’t want it. I know I won’t have any maternal feelings for it. I’ll look at it and think, There goes my life …

  Alex sighs. ‘All right, I’m sorry, Maz. I’ll get a new mattress for it.’

  I start finishing off the op. The repair’s looking reasonable, but there’s a long way to go. There’s a significant risk of infection: the steel shot dragged tufts of hair and skin into Hal’s flesh, and although I’ve picked as much out as I can, there’ll be microscopic fragments left. I decide I can’t do any more except put Hal to bed in a kennel with a heated pad, survival blanket and drip, antibiotics and painkillers, and hope.

  ‘What shall I tell my father?’ Alex asks.

  ‘I don’t think you should tell him anything.’ It’s way past midnight and I’m on my knees at the kennel door. ‘He deserves to be kept in suspense.’

  Grinning, Alex puts out his hand and helps me up, but I struggle, catching my breath as a fresh ache grips my belly, like a boa constrictor squeezing its prey. I feel as if I’ve operated on three dogs, not one.

  ‘Are you all right, Maz?’

  ‘Oh, stop fussing, Alex. It’s nothing.’ I force a smile. ‘One of those Braxton Hicks contractions, not the real thi
ng.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod.

  ‘This only goes to show you’re working too hard,’ Alex goes on sternly. ‘Listen, Maz, you can’t work to the bitter end. You’ll end up having the baby early if you’re not careful.’

  ‘My consultant says I can work for as long as I feel comfortable.’

  ‘You don’t look comfortable.’

  ‘It’s trapped wind – I ate too many onions.’ I pause, reading his expression. Maybe I am protesting too much.

  ‘Come and put your feet up. I can give you a massage, if you like.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I point out. ‘I’m not leaving Hal, not yet.’

  Alex stays for another hour, then pushes off home, at which Hal decides he should be going home too. He keeps snuffling and sighing, then, before long, he starts barking, and he’s still barking at dawn, and I’ve had no sleep. I am not a happy vet.

  ‘Will you please shut up,’ I beg, but he doesn’t hear me. Fathering Saba’s puppies must have been Hal’s one last fling. He’s stone deaf as well as senile and incontinent, making me question whether I made the right call trying to save his leg and keeping him alive. I console myself with the thought that you don’t put down your elderly great-aunts and grannies for the same problems.

  Noticing that Hal’s kennel is flooded with wee, I clear up after him and give him a clean bed. I also give him a small bowl of food, which he gulps down as if he’s never been fed before; then I sit down again, and wait with bated breath. One minute. Two minutes. The barking starts all over again. When I can’t stand it any longer, I escape to the staffroom for an early breakfast – Frances stocked up with cereals and bread for toast when she realised I was sometimes staying overnight.

  As I pour orange juice onto my cornflakes and milk into a glass, I calculate roughly how much longer Hal can stay as an inpatient before he drives us and our neighbours barking mad.

  ‘He’s missing the rest of his pack,’ I tell Shannon when Hal continues barking, even when she’s in Kennels with him, preparing for the day’s operations.