Vets of the Heart

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Well, that’s the last one. Thank you, Shannon,’ Ross says, closing the door behind Mrs King, who brought in Cleo, her cat, wanting advice about fleas. He starts to remove his vet’s tunic, unfastening the poppers at the neck.

  ‘It was almost a pleasure,’ I say, teasing him.

  ‘Aren’t you ever satisfied?’ he jokes back and, even though I know he’s pulling my leg, I blush. ‘I’ve been doing my best to give every client my full attention so they don’t feel rushed, and to the detriment of my health. I’ve heard more than I ever wanted to know about Lynsey Pitt’s children and how she gave birth to one of them here at Otter House, and which TV programmes the greengrocer guy played to his cockatiel to cure its compulsive feather-plucking.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I point out lightly. ‘It means you’re becoming part of the community. Are you off home now?’

  ‘I have a report to write up first. I’d better be getting on with it.’

  I leave him to it, going to make a start on the weekly cleaning routine, starting with isolation and working back through to reception.

  ‘Are you going swimming tonight?’ Ross asks when he’s on his way out of the practice half an hour later, dressed in his leathers with his helmet under his arm.

  ‘I wish.’ I squeeze the water out of the mop as I finish cleaning off muddy paw-prints from the floor in reception – it’s been raining all day. ‘I’m going out with my mum to meet her new man. He’s treating us to a meal at the Barnscote, the posh place to eat around here.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice, I suppose.’ He grins and my heart melts.

  ‘Hardly.’ I can’t explain how I’m feeling because it would sound unreasonable and petty. It’s been eighteen years since I lost my dad – a lifetime; yet I feel as if I’m letting him down by agreeing to meet my mum’s new man. Equally, I’ll be letting Mum down if I don’t go.

  ‘Aren’t you curious to know what he’s like? I would be.’

  ‘They haven’t been together for more than five minutes. I only hope they aren’t going to make a spectacle of themselves—’

  ‘Like you have done on occasion,’ Maz interrupts. I turn at the sound of her voice. I thought she’d gone home.

  ‘Me?’ Inside I’m saying, don’t go there, please, not in front of Ross, but she appears oblivious, continuing, ‘I’ve seen you dancing on the table up at the manor with a bottle of champagne in your hand. You were a wild child.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ My face bums as I recall one particular New Year’s party when my waitressing shift had ended and we finished the open bottles. There were a lot of open bottles. ‘You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?’

  ‘I thought you were such a mouse until then,’ she teases. ‘You hardly spoke for the first few months after you started working here. Have a good evening, both of you,’ she adds.

  ‘And you,’ say. I hope it isn’t too busy.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ She’s on duty tonight. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Mad Maz,’ says Ross once she’s gone. ‘She loves this place, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She does, and she’s pretty hands-on, even with having the children, whereas Emma’s happy to take more of a back seat. They get on well together, presumably because they accept their differences, but I wouldn’t like it, having a partner who doesn’t work as hard as I do.’

  ‘Emma does a lot behind the scenes – the accounts, for example.’

  ‘Yes, but she could employ someone else to do that so she could concentrate more on being a vet.’

  ‘Hey, are you trying to push me out of a job? If Emma put more hours in, they wouldn’t need me.’ Ross picks up the bucket.

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘I want to . . . I’d hate you to think I do less around here than you.’ He grins.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say gracefully, checking my watch. ‘I’d better get going. I don’t want to keep the gorgeous Godfrey waiting. You can tip the water down the sink, by the way,’ add.

  ‘Anything for you.’

  ‘You’re so kind,’ say with a touch of sarcasm.

  ‘I haven’t been out on a date for a while.’

  ‘Am I supposed to commiserate with you?’

  ‘Are you, you know, seeing anyone?’

  ‘No, I broke up with my ex a couple of months ago. Going out on someone else’s date is the nearest I’ve had to a date for ages.’ I can’t help chuckling. ‘I’m so sad!’

  ‘We could go out together, if you like. Maybe we could go out and dance on some tables together some time,’ he suggests, walking alongside me with water splashing out of the bucket all over my clean floor.

  ‘You are joking.’ I stare at him. ‘I meant, you are joking about dancing on the tables. I didn’t mean about going out with you sometime.’ I find the words are sticking to my tongue. ‘As friends,’ I mutter, to clear up any misunderstanding, because somehow his presence manages to throw me into confusion. To hide my blushes, I throw some shapes with the mop, cleaning up after him.

  ‘That’s a date then,’ he says.

  ‘Not a date.’ I gaze at him. His pupils are dark and dilated, reminding me of a cat drunk on a pre-med. I think he means it. ‘Definitely not a date.’

  ‘If that’s what you think’s best,’ he says, his tone one of regret.

  ‘I don’t go out with people I work with,’ I say firmly, although looking at him it’s tempting.

  ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, which suggests that I haven’t offended him by rejecting his offer. ‘Have a lovely evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I wish him goodnight before heading home to meet this man with the looks of George Clooney, the sex appeal of Brad Pitt and the charisma of Barack Obama rolled into one. I walk through the shop, filled with flowers and perfumed drifts of chrysanthemums and roses, to be greeted by Seven, who comes running up to me with a wedge of oasis in his mouth.

  ‘Drop it,’ I say, but he trots in circles around me, just out of reach. ‘Come here.’ I pat my thigh, and he makes a half-hearted approach before backing off again. ‘I thought you were a good boy.’ He looks up at me as if to say, ‘I am.’

  ‘Please don’t eat that,’ I go on, as he drops the oasis on the floor and starts to rip it up. ‘I don’t want to have to call Maz. Why don’t you eat a biscuit like any other dog?’

  At the word ‘biscuit’, Seven stops and looks up, tipping his head to one side and lifting one paw.

  Smiling, I walk on through to the kitchen, aware of him following closely on my heels. If the way to both a man’s and a cat’s heart is through their stomachs, it’s the same with a dog, and I’m giving Seven a biscuit from the tin when Mum appears in a red dress I’ve never seen before.

  ‘Hello, love. What do you think?’ She looks down at her outfit. ‘I couldn’t decide what to wear. I went through my wardrobe the other day, realised I had nothing suitable and ordered this online.’

  I gaze at her. The colour in her cheeks and the way she’s straightened her hair makes her look ten years younger.

  ‘You look fantastic.’

  ‘I like to make an effort. Godfrey always looks smart.’ She gives me a twirl and I notice how the material clings to her curves.

  ‘It’s very different for you – quite a showstopper,’ I say tactfully.

  She bites her lip. ‘I’ll go and get changed if you think it’s tarty.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that. It’s more fitted than the clothes you usually wear, but it’s fine, really.’

  ‘Are you sure? Only I’m not wearing any pants.’ She giggles. ‘I tried but they gave me a VPL.’

  Too much information,’ I groan. I don’t understand you – I’d never risk going out commando.’

  ‘I can’t believe that you’re such a prude,’ Mum exclaims.

  ‘I’d like to credit you for the way you’ve brought me up, but now I somehow doubt it. Are you sure you want me tagging along?’
I’m hoping she’ll say don’t bother, but she insists.

  ‘We need to get going – we’re meeting him at Mr Rock’s at six thirty.’

  ‘What happened to the Barnscote?’

  ‘There’s been a bit of a mix-up with the booking – but never mind, it’s one of those things.’

  I glance down at Seven who is at my feet, holding his lead in his mouth.

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ The look in his eyes fills me with guilt. ‘Hasn’t he had a walk today?’

  ‘He’s having you on,’ Mum chuckles. ‘I took him out at lunchtime.’

  I promise him that I’ll take him out early the next day, and we let him have the run of the shop and downstairs while we’re out – although, if anyone broke in, they’d be more at risk from being licked to death than being savaged. Mum and I walk along to Mr Rock’s, the fish and chip shop, where a Mercedes in metallic brown is parked with its wheels up on the pavement. An old man – I don’t know why this is a surprise to me – with grey hair that’s smoothed down with gel, gold-rimmed glasses, and wearing a crumpled pale beige linen suit, steps out from beneath the awning. He holds out a bouquet of flowers wrapped in pale green tissue paper.

  Now, I would have thought that flowers were the most unsuitable gift you could buy for a florist. Mum spends all day surrounded by them, she dreams of them, sometimes waking in the early hours to sketch an idea she has for an arrangement or colour scheme, but when Godfrey hands her the bouquet, she doesn’t stare at it as if registering the quality of the blooms, the number and arrangement, and the artistic merits. Instead, her face crumples.

  ‘Oh Godfrey’. She holds the flowers in one arm and throws the other around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. ‘No one has ever thought to buy me flowers before. They’re so beautiful.’

  His face flushes, and he goes up one tiny notch in my estimation, even though he doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to either George Clooney or Brad Pitt.

  ‘This is my daughter, Shannon,’ Mum says. ‘Shannon, this is Godfrey.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed – you look like sisters,’ he says, which makes me wonder if he should have gone to Specsavers, considering that we look so different that in the past people have actually wondered if I was adopted. ‘It’s lovely to meet you at last – your mother’s told me a lot about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope,’ I say lightly.

  ‘It must be wonderful being a vet nurse, looking after those cute, fluffy animals.’

  ‘Some of them are cuter than others. The job’s more about looking after the vets, making sure they have a stethoscope to hand when they need one, organising their diaries and even babysitting their kids.’

  ‘She’s been showing the new vet the ropes,’ Mum says. ‘Apparently, he needed taking in hand and given further training.’

  ‘I didn’t say that exactly,’ I say, but I’m not sure either of my companions is listening.

  ‘How marvellous,’ Godfrey responds. ‘Shall we . . . ?’ He opens the door with a flourish and the three of us head inside and sit at a table in the restaurant area. Godfrey moves the chair for my mother and sits down beside her, holding her hand and locking lips with her for a full five minutes. Unsure where to look, I clear my throat and slide a menu towards them. ‘Shall we order?’

  ‘Oh yes, we must’. Mum pulls away from her beau, who slides his arm around her shoulders. ‘What would you like, darling?’

  Darling? I think. How long have they known each other?

  ‘Finding your perfect woman is like finding your dream house. One has to be open-minded. It’s all very well going in with a list of fixed criteria, like “must have great kerb appeal and original features”.’ Godfrey gazes at my mother – he can’t keep his eyes or his hands off her. She giggles and whispers into his ear, and just as I’m wishing I’d stayed at home, I hear the sound of a motorbike pulling up outside, its engine making a deep-throated growl before it cuts out. A familiar figure in black leathers dismounts, removing his gloves and helmet as he enters the restaurant. Ross catches my eye and waves.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say as he approaches our table.

  ‘Looking for something half edible. Same as you, I expect,’ he says. ‘I thought you said you were going to the Barnscote.’

  ‘There’s a private party there tonight,’ Godfrey says. ‘Elsa, who owns the place, was most apologetic.’

  ‘I’ve come to pick up a takeaway – Mrs P, the woman who does and doesn’t do it very well, left a beef stew on the hob, and most of it has stuck to the bottom of the pan. I couldn’t salvage any of it.’ Ross wrinkles his nose. ‘I can see I’m going to have to eat my chips with only the Fox-Giffords’ drooling gun dogs for company.’ He picks up a menu from the adjacent table. ‘What do you recommend?’

  ‘Oh no, you must join us,’ Mum cuts in. ‘It’s all right with you, isn’t it, Godfrey?’

  He looks relieved, as if it’s taken the pressure to perform off him.

  ‘Well, yes, of course. A double date it is.’

  ‘It isn’t a date,’ I say hastily, but Godfrey isn’t listening, and I wonder if he’s deaf as well as short-sighted.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ross says. ‘It’s very kind of you to let me join you. I feel a little embarrassed about gate-crashing your evening.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Godfrey says. ‘You’re Shannon’s young man, I presume?’

  ‘He’s one of the vets – I work with him.’

  ‘This is the one you said you’ve been training,’ Godfrey blunders on.

  ‘No.’ I touch my face – my skin feels like it’s been deep fried. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Ross raises one eyebrow.

  ‘So you aren’t an item?’

  ‘Sadly not. I don’t think she’d have me,’ Ross teases. ‘I don’t know why – ’ he looks in the direction of the wall tiles that are decorated with fish – ‘I’m a great catch.’ He takes the chair beside me and pulls it up to the table, and we place our order of fish, chips, mushy peas and cola. I have a bean-burger.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ Godfrey says, as we wait for Mr Rock’s daughter to mix a fresh batch of batter and fry the chips, ‘a real treat, and it’s on me.’ He turns to Ross. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but my son has just bought a Dalmatian puppy for my grandson – it has bald ears and a spotty belly.’

  ‘It’s supposed to have spots,’ Ross says, deliberately misunderstanding. I cringe at Godfrey’s lack of tact.

  He chuckles. ‘You are a bit of a wag, Ross. What I mean is—’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Ross cuts in. ‘Your son should get the puppy checked out.’

  ‘So it isn’t worth waiting to see if it goes away?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’

  ‘And there’s nothing you could let me have . . .’ He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.

  ‘No,’ Ross says firmly, as a mobile rings at our table.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Godfrey pulls his BlackBerry from his pocket and checks his messages. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to call my client back. The vendor’s had a change of heart.’ He heads off outside and stands on the pavement deep in conversation.

  ‘I’d be pretty miffed if my man took me on a date and spent his time on his phone,’ I observe.

  ‘He can’t help it. It’s business.’ Mum turns to Ross. ‘Shannon tells me that both of your parents are vets.’

  ‘There isn’t room for three of us in the family practice, which is why I’m here,’ he says smoothly.

  ‘It must be in the genes. Unfortunately, Shannon hasn’t inherited my enthusiasm for floristry.’

  ‘My sisters have gone into other careers. One is an optician and the other is a nurse who’s married a consultant otorhinologist – who gets right up everyone’s nose’. He laughs. ‘We aren’t close.’

  My mother looks past him as the food arrives and her man-friend returns. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He removes his
jacket and sits down. ‘I’m selling four houses and the vendor at the top of the chain is having cold feet. It happens all the time. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve done to keep sales from falling through. I was selling a farm at Bottom End one time and at ten a.m. on exchange day, the vendor’s solicitor said that the three rickety old goats that they kept in the yard were no longer included in the sale. The buyers were so fed up – negotiations had been long and hard because the vendor was an eccentric old boy – that they threatened to pull out completely, and I had to source three goats and pay for them from my own pocket to pacify them. It was worth it, though. It was a big sale.’

  He smiles and turns to Ross. ‘I think vets are higher in the popularity stakes than us agents. When I go to someone’s house to value it, they want you to advertise it at a higher price than it’s worth and then it either sells quickly and the vendor gets annoyed because it appears that I’ve done no work for the money, or it takes months to sell and I’m accused of overvaluing it, or not trying hard enough. Having said that, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet,’ he says in a pompous tone that suggests the opposite, ‘but I’m pretty good at my job.’ He looks towards my mother. ‘I’ve made a small fortune out of property during my lifetime.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be a vet,’ Ross says, as Mr Rock’s daughter brings salt, vinegar and ketchup to the table. ‘My first memory is of being in my mother’s arms in a darkened room while she showed me some X-rays. I can still see her face and the reflections in her glasses, and smell her perfume and the chemicals from the developer. It’s strange – it felt quite magical.’ He shrugs. ‘I can’t imagine doing anything else.’

  ‘I bet you have some wonderful stories to tell,’ Godfrey says.

  ‘Most of them are rather gory.’ Ross looks at me with a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

  ‘I don’t think I want to hear those,’ Godfrey responds. ‘I’m not good with blood – just the thought of it makes me feel queasy.’

  ‘Ketchup?’ Ross offers him the bottle. I bite my lip to suppress a giggle.

  ‘No, I prefer mayonnaise, thank you.’ Godfrey mops his brow with a cotton handkerchief from his pocket.