Vets in Love

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘I feel as if I’ve just had one,’ I exclaim in mock protest.

  ‘Make sure you get a couple of sessions in before the next event,’ Shane says. He’s strict. That’s what I pay him for. ‘The horse is ready, but I’m not sure about the rider.’

  I pay him to make me feel guilty too. I need to sharpen up my act if Willow and I are going to break through to the next level. She’s twelve now and if she doesn’t make it in the next two years, I think that will be the end of it and we will go no further. There will be no trip to Badminton for us.

  ‘Hey, stay positive,’ Shane warns as if he’s reading my mind. ‘I can’t stop, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get home – Michaela’s parents are coming over for dinner.’ He grins. ‘She’ll kill me if I’m not there this time.’

  I want to tell him how lucky he is to have someone waiting at home for him, but that would make me sound a bit sad, so I don’t. Instead, I ride around to the yard, say goodbye to him and jump down outside the stable where a tall, blonde woman with greasy hair, much of which has escaped her ponytail, is waiting.

  ‘Hi, Delphi,’ I say as she grabs the end of a hose and turns on the tap.

  Slightly unkempt, with dirty nails and weathered skin, she’s in her mid-forties and fabulously fit. Her short-sleeved lemon-coloured showing blouse exposes her muscular upper arms, and her cream jodhpurs show off her shapely legs, wide hips and large bottom. She exudes, as always, an air of horse, Chanel and superiority. Some people find her difficult, some annoying, but I like her. I respect her for the way she cares for my horse – all the equines in her charge come first, before anything else in her life.

  She had the wash-down area and solarium built recently, but on hot days like today, she prefers the old-fashioned way, washing the horses down with the hose. Willow takes exception though. As I take off the saddle and rest it on top of the stable door, Delphi flicks the end of the hose at Willow’s neck. Willow snorts and fidgets, her skin twitching as she tries to escape the jet of cold water.

  ‘Willow, stop that,’ I say sharply and she settles down, allowing the water to run down her legs and under her belly. ‘I think she likes it really.’ I stroke her muzzle. ‘Drama queen!’

  ‘Was that a successful session?’ Delphi asks. She’s very well-spoken, like royalty.

  ‘Not bad, except Shane’s told me to get down to the gym. I’m not sure when I’ll find the time.’

  ‘Thanks for bringing Dark Star in for me. No one else will. I don’t know why he’s the way he is. I’ve brought him up from a foal, so he should know how to behave.’ Delphi takes the hose away and switches off the tap, while I grab a sweat-scraper to remove the excess water from Willow’s coat before throwing on her cooler. ‘I’ve got one of the vets from Westleigh coming up at the end of this week,’ she goes on. ‘Did you want me to book Willow in for her vaccinations then, or do you want to leave it until after the next event at East Hill? There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘Which vet?’ I say out of curiosity.

  ‘Matt Warren – I prefer his partner, Jimmy, but he isn’t available.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Matt?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with him – Jimmy’s more familiar with the horses, that’s all. His wife’s just given birth to their first child.’ She smiles. ‘It’s lucky Matt isn’t breeding yet because they wouldn’t be able to cope.’

  I smile at the way she talks about him as if he’s some stallion.

  ‘Is he married?’ I ask, trying to maintain an air of casual interest.

  ‘No.’ Delphi opens the stable door for me. ‘I think he has a girlfriend though, the other vet at the hospital.’

  ‘Mel, the houseman?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Come on, Willow.’ I lead her inside and take off her head-collar before leaving her to have a roll on her bed of shavings. Matt is attached, so there’s no surprise there then, except I am a little surprised because he was definitely flirting with me this morning and described the woman in the waiting room as their houseman rather than his girlfriend. It doesn’t show much respect for her, and although I don’t like to tar all men with the same brush, it reminds me of my ex and his lack of respect for women in general. Good men do exist. Shane is one of them, but I have no idea where the rest of them are.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Delphi says.

  ‘About Matt?’

  ‘Do you want him?’

  ‘Want him?’

  ‘Yes, to see Willow?’

  I realise that I’m definitely on the wrong wavelength here. Blushing, I respond that I do.

  After checking that Willow has cooled down and eaten her tea of competition mix, chaff and an apple, I go home, driving around Talyton’s one-way system to get back to the house I’m renting until I find a place to buy. I park the car, a white Audi – not a good colour for a horsey person like myself because it’s always dirty – behind a delivery van that belongs to my neighbour’s man-friend. I can’t bring myself to call him a boyfriend when they’re both in their sixties. I live in a substantial terrace between Frances, the aforesaid neighbour who is the receptionist for Otter House vets and a longstanding member of the WI, and a family consisting of a woman I call Eternally Frazzled Mum and two or three noisy boys.

  The house is perfect for now, but not entirely to my taste. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, dining room and kitchen spread over three floors. Although it’s painted throughout in light creams and white woodwork, it feels dark. Perhaps my feelings about the interior are influenced by the view from the front of the imposing church and graveyard across the road. The church is more like a cathedral, tall and daunting and built from grey stone and adorned with gargoyles that dribble and spit water when it rains. The graveyard surrounding it is bordered with an iron railing and deep green yew trees beneath which nothing grows, and is filled with headstones etched with the history of Talyton St George.

  There are always people coming and going, attending services and placing flowers on the graves. A handful of dog walkers take their pets for a wander around the churchyard – I often see Bridget, the florist and one of my patients, walking her bulldog and Labradoodle in the mornings. When the organist, Nobby Warwick, isn’t playing, the bell-ringers are practising. This evening, the bells are ringing peals from the tower.

  I jump out of the car and step across the pavement to the front door, which not only leans to one side but is so narrow that any furniture has to be taken apart and reassembled inside, or passed through the window. There’s a jam jar on the step, labelled and decorated with an elasticated floral cap, along with a note from my neighbour, reading, ‘Dear Nicci, thank you for watering the plants. Frances. PS I would have popped this inside for you, but you’ve left your door locked.’

  I can picture her writing it, peering through her flamboyant specs, her lips pursed with frustration that in spite of her assurances that this is a low-crime neighbourhood and I don’t need to bother about securing my home when I go out, I still can’t break the habit of a lifetime and give her the chance to have a quiet nose around.

  I pick up the jar and check the label: Home-made Prize-winning Green Tomato Chutney. I take my post indoors too, file it in my ‘to deal with’ pile on the breakfast bar and tuck the chutney away in the cupboard. I cook up some fresh pasta and a creamy sauce, throw on some pepper and Parmesan and sit down to eat at the garden table before calling my sister. Lately, I’ve tried at least once or twice a week to get in touch with her, but the last time we spoke was over two months ago.

  I eat as dusk falls and the bats start swooping around the garden, then I phone my mum.

  I never call my father. He calls me two or three times a year. My parents divorced when I was thirteen and my sister nine. It’s strange because they used to argue all the time and really weren’t suited but, even now, my mum doesn’t seem able to move on. She’s been out with other men, but each one has turned out to be ‘just a friend’. I don’t think she w
ill ever truly accept that her husband walked out on her. He said he wanted his freedom – to travel the world with his new girlfriend, who was much younger than him – but now the girlfriend is his wife and they have teenage children – half-siblings I’ve never met. My father abandoned us to create a new family and, although I can deal with that, I don’t think I’ll ever completely forgive him.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say when she answers the phone. ‘I’m just checking that you’re still up for being groom for the one-day event. It’s a week on Saturday.’

  ‘Of course I am. You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  I’m very grateful to her because without my mum I wouldn’t have made it this far as an event rider. She’s been at my side for years, since I was a Pony Clubber riding borrowed ponies. We make a great team.

  ‘I have news,’ she says, once we’ve finalised arrangements. ‘Someone has asked me out.’

  ‘A man?’ I say, failing to disguise the surprise in my voice.

  ‘Of course, and before you say anything,’ she says quickly, ‘it isn’t serious. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’ I ask, pleased for her and expecting her to say they met through Art Club or mutual acquaintances.

  ‘I’ve joined an online dating agency. Nicci, you should try it – it’s so easy.’

  ‘Too easy,’ I say. ‘Mum, are you sure he’s genuine?’

  ‘We’ve been chatting for a while. In fact, I feel as if I’ve known him for years. His name is Robert.’

  ‘But …’ I’m not being a spoilsport, I’m worried for her, ‘… You hear all kinds of stories. I think it’s a really bad way to meet someone. He could be a cheat, a fraudster, a thief, a con man … I could go on.’

  ‘I did meet someone who turned out to be very short and orange, like an Oompa-Loompa,’ she says drily, ‘but I’ve asked Robert to confirm his height and that he doesn’t use fake tan.’ She chuckles. ‘You really should have more faith in me.’

  ‘You must give me all the details. Where are you meeting him?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, darling. We’re having a drink at the Talymill Inn and then I shall go straight home.’

  ‘You will text me to let me know you’re all right?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I get home,’ Mum says, her tone wistful.

  ‘I want you to text me every hour, otherwise I’ll be worried sick.’

  ‘Nicci, you’ll be going on about safe sex next. I know what I’m doing. I’m older than I like to think.’ She chuckles. ‘I guess the tables have been turned. Now you know what it feels like.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you were seventeen and going out, and I didn’t have a clue who you were with—’

  ‘You did,’ I cut in. ‘I was with my friends.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘All right, but it was a long time ago. Things are different now. We knew the local boys. You’re talking about a complete stranger you’ve met on the internet.’

  ‘Not a complete stranger. He’s a farmer, his wife passed away three years ago and he isn’t in a position to meet women because he’s always busy on the farm.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘One thing I’ve learned over the years is that not every man is like your father,’ Mum says abruptly. ‘Listen, I promise to text you every hour if it makes you happy.’

  We hang up and I gaze around the garden at the tall privet hedges that offer privacy from the plots on either side, at the laburnum which bloomed bright yellow in the spring, and the lilacs that are in flower now, mauve and white varieties with a beautiful scent. When I say the garden is private, it isn’t entirely. The boys next door have a trampoline, and every so often I’m aware out of the corner of my eye of a child bouncing above the level of the hedges between us.

  I smile to myself. I can’t believe I’m worrying about my fifty-six-year-old mother, or that she has more romance in her life than I do – but internet dating? It isn’t for me, although I wouldn’t mind a companion. A dog would be great, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave it alone all day. Or something low maintenance, like a goldfish or a hamster, neither of which have a reputation for being great conversationalists.

  There’s a shout from the other side of the hedge and something whistles past my ear, landing with a thud on the patio behind me.

  ‘You kicked it over the other side, you idiot!’

  I turn to find a battered football on the ground. As I pick it up a child starts crying and the voice of Eternally Frazzled Mum berates one of her sons.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say, trying to see through the hedge. ‘No harm done. I’ll throw it back over.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ says the voice of Eternally Frazzled Mum.

  ‘It’s Nicci,’ I say. ‘I’m off duty now.’

  ‘I’m sorry if we’re disturbing you. I was trying to let the boys run around a bit to wear them out before bedtime. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ I call back, and I don’t feel so alone after all.

  Chapter Three

  Doctor’s Orders

  ON FRIDAY A few days later I receive the good news I’ve been waiting for. Steve Wilde is out of intensive care and expected to leave the hospital in a few days. We – that’s me, Claire and Janet – celebrate with chocolate brownies and custard tarts from the baker’s shop.

  After a quick break, I call in my next patient. I like to fetch them from the waiting room personally, rather than make them jump at the anonymous sound of a buzzer – and after two custard tarts, it’s good for me. I smile to myself at our deception. When we’re promoting good health, we really should be seen to practise what we preach.

  When I step out to reception, I find Ed Pike, the local gamekeeper, struggling with a baby and a dog. I’ve met Ed and the baby before, but not the dog. Janet is clearly struggling with the dog as well, but in a rather different way.

  ‘I’m very sorry, you can’t bring that in here,’ she says. ‘It’s against the rules.’

  I love Janet. She isn’t your typical receptionist; she just isn’t fierce enough. She isn’t the best advert for the practice either because she always looks under the weather – thin and pale, with lank, shoulder-length mousy hair – but she’s the kind of person who will do anything for anyone, and within moments she’s agreeing to keep the liver and white springer spaniel behind her desk.

  ‘Please don’t bring Jack again, Ed,’ she says.

  ‘He won’t do any harm.’

  ‘I know that, but this is a doctor’s surgery, not the vet’s. It isn’t hygienic to have dogs in here.’

  ‘Please, Janet. If I don’t get the baby seen to the wife will kill me.’

  That doesn’t convince me – Ed’s a broad-shouldered, outdoorsy kind of man. I can’t imagine him feeling threatened by anyone, least of all his mild-mannered wife, Ellen, who works full-time in the local dairy, making specialist cheeses, while Ed looks after the children and does part-time gamekeeping and general maintenance in return for a tied cottage on a country estate just outside Talymouth, the coastal resort where I was born.

  ‘Please,’ Ed repeats.

  ‘You’ll get me into trouble.’ Janet is wavering. ‘I’m not a dog-sitter.’

  ‘I forgot I had him with me,’ Ed says. ‘I can’t leave him in the Land Rover in case the sun comes out.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s likely to happen. The rain’s set in for the day.’ Janet leans across the desk to take the dog’s lead. ‘Give him here. I’ll keep him quiet, then no one—’ she glances at me with a little smile on her face ‘—will know any different.’

  ‘Thanks, my lover,’ Ed says, using the peculiarly Devonian term of endearment. ‘You’ve saved my life.’ He moves the baby onto his hip and turns to me. ‘Hello, Nicci. I’ve brought Milo back again.’ He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. I don’t know about Milo, but Ed doesn’t look so great. He stands round-shouldered, weary and overdressed for a summe
r’s day, like an Arctic explorer who’s lost his way. He’s sporting an odd combination of green wellington boots, khaki shorts and layered tops under a shooting vest fastened very tight across his chest. In fact, the vest could be part of him – I’ve never seen Ed without it.

  I’m tempted to feel sorry for him because he left it a bit late to have children, ending up with three under fives – Ivy, Peaches and baby Milo – in his fiftieth year, but I get the impression he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I hold the consulting room door open for him, and as he passes I catch the scent of warm milk and baby sick on his clothes.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask when he’s sitting down with the baby on his lap.

  ‘I’m shattered. We all are. Milo won’t sleep – he’s got a terrible cough again. He sounds like he’s barking.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at him.’

  ‘Have you got kids?’ Ed takes a non-spill cup out of one of the many pockets in his vest and gives it to Milo, who grabs it with his chubby hands and sucks noisily on the spout. He’s about fifteen months old, a funny-looking baby with a big round face, large blue eyes and blond hair crackling with static and standing straight up like a golden halo. His cheeks are chapped and he’s wearing a vest, pink shorts (hand-me-downs from his sisters) and a nappy.

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s bloody hard work. We didn’t think having a third one would make all that much difference. Not that it’s put Ellen off having any more.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘She wants another boy to even up the numbers. I’ve told her one more and that’s it for me. If she wants a fifth, she’ll have to find herself a new husband.’

  I find it strange that some people are intent on having as many children as they can, while others are keen to avoid having any at all.

  I concentrate on Milo, who stares at me when I approach him with the stethoscope, warming the bell in my hand before I slide it under his vest. At first, he looks as if he’s about to burst into tears, but when I tell him how clever he is, he offers up a placatory smile, revealing his gleaming white teeth.