City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “Are we ready now, Hacker Harwood?” Emma adds, using my nickname from vet school.

  The procedure’s almost bloodless this time, unlike Emma’s epic battle to save Robbie’s life, which reminds me to ask her how he’s doing.

  “I took his stitches out a couple of days ago. He’s looking great, considering his age and what he’s been through. Clive’s over the moon. Although he did have a little dig about the bill—how did he put it, Izzy?” Emma shouts in Izzy’s direction.

  “Something about it costing him an arm and a leg for a spleen, but he was joking,” Izzy calls out, smiling as she dips her head through the hatch between the operating theater and the prep area, where she’s washing up. Once we’re finished, Izzy offers to keep an eye on Fang so Emma can give me the rundown on the computer and the phones.

  Fortunately the systems at Otter House are pretty similar to the ones at Crossways, so it doesn’t take long, and Emma provides me with a printout of useful notes and numbers.

  “I’m going to put some Post-it notes up before I go home tonight to remind you where everything is,” she says, “and I’ll leave you Ben’s mobile number and his parents’ number in case of emergency. Now, you will remember to feed and walk Miff?”

  “Of course.”

  Miff is Emma’s Border terrier, a scruffy-looking little brown dog with a broad, otter-shaped head and a lively expression. Emma’s family has always had terriers, and Miff is the latest in a long line.

  “Have you got wellies?”

  I shake my head. I haven’t had a pair since vet school.

  “You’ll need wellies.” Emma frowns. “I know, I’ll run you up to the garden center,” and, in spite of my protestations that I wouldn’t be seen dead in wellies, I find myself schlepping up and down the aisles of the local garden center in a pair of bright yellow ones, trying them for size.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say, looking at Emma.

  “They aren’t supposed to be a fashion accessory, Maz. They’re entirely practical.”

  Unconvinced, I pay for them at the checkout, where a middle-aged woman wearing a tunic over the top of a chintzy blouse chats with Emma and takes an age to serve me.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” the woman says, gazing at the slight curve of Emma’s belly. “When’s the baby due?”

  “There is no baby, Margaret. You heard wrong,” Emma says, her voice sounding small and sad. “Who told you anyway? I bet it was Cheryl.”

  “Oh no, it was Fifi.” The woman pauses, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “I’m sorry. My mistake. It’s just that she was so sure …” She changes the subject. “Dollar—she’s my dog, a little Westie—she won’t see any vet except Alex Fox-Gifford. She’s very sensitive, you see.”

  “That and Margaret fancies Alex,” Emma whispers to me as Margaret rustles about looking for a bag for my purchase.

  “You know, you can’t fool me, Em,” I say later, while she shows me round the flat above the practice, Miff hot on my heels. Realizing I’m not carrying any biscuits, Miff trots away and settles herself on the sofa.

  “Well?” I add, when Emma deliberately doesn’t respond.

  “Off, Miff,” Emma says, “get off.” Miff ignores her. “A typical vet’s dog.” Emma chuckles. “I’ve never had the time or the energy to train her properly.” She pours two small glasses of wine from the bottle beside the bowl of fruit—Emma’s thought of everything, as usual. She hands one to me and takes the other for herself. “Here’s to you, Maz,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to look after Otter House. I hope it’ll be an enjoyable experience.”

  “Thank you,” I say, “and here’s to your holiday. I hope you and Ben have a fantastic time.” I take a sip of the wine and return to the subject that I’ve been trying to broach and Emma has neatly managed to avoid. “That stuff with Margaret today? I got the impression you were upset.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Emma says defensively.

  I think for a moment. “A little perhaps, but it’s only gossip, and it wasn’t exactly malicious. Water off a duck’s back, no?”

  Emma shakes her head, her eyes downcast, staring at her fingers clasped round the stem of her wineglass.

  “I should have told you before.” She takes a gulping breath, then turns her gaze to me, her dark eyes shimmering. “Ben and I—we don’t seem to be able to have children. I can’t get pregnant. I wanted to tell you, but Ben didn’t want me to say anything.”

  I can understand that. “It’s a man thing, I imagine, not wanting to have aspersions cast on your virility.”

  “It isn’t that.” Emma frowns, perhaps a little hurt on Ben’s behalf, and I feel bad for thinking meanly of him. What do I know about it? I’ve never wanted children myself. How can I have any idea how it feels?

  “It’s just so stressful,” Emma goes on. “Ever since we got married we’ve had everyone going on and on about when we’d hear the patter of tiny feet. And now everyone in Talyton’s congratulating me on something that never was and probably never will be.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I’m glad I’m going away. I can’t wait to escape from it all.”

  I’m trying to think of a way to tell her how sorry I am when she continues, “We’re going to see someone when we get back to talk about investigations and options for treatment, IVF, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but there are no guarantees, are there?” she counters. “You know, the hardest thing to accept is that you have no control over it. You take the Pill for years, and then you stop and discover you aren’t in charge of your fertility at all.”

  She doesn’t have to say any more. I can see that her failure to fall pregnant is completely devastating. I watch her walk to the window and look out on the street below. She takes a swig of wine, then turns back toward me with her vet-in-charge-of-her-destiny face on once more, and she doesn’t let her guard down again until she’s about to leave at the end of the day to rush through her last-minute packing, before driving to the airport with Ben.

  “This is it then,” she says, hesitating in Reception. She grabs a tissue from the box Frances keeps handy on the desk and blows her nose, and I’m afraid she’s going to cry again, but she regains her composure and attempts a smile. “I know I said I couldn’t wait to get away …” She gazes around the waiting area. “It’s more difficult than I thought. In fact, I almost wish I was staying.”

  I know what she means. I wish she was staying too. It would have been fun to work together.

  “Don’t let the Fox-Giffords give you any hassle, Maz,” Emma says.

  “Are they really that bad?” I ask anxiously.

  “You’ll be fine,” she says, “as long as you keep your head down.”

  Reassured, I watch her go, then lock the door behind her. I give her a wave through the window as she reverses her car out of the car park and drives off along the road. Miff whines at my feet, wanting to follow.

  “I’m sorry, Miff,” I say, squatting down beside her and stroking her head, moving my fingertips from front to back, feeling for the contours of her skull, checking for lumps and bumps. Force of habit. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with me for the next six months.” She doesn’t wag her tail. In fact, she looks like I feel, all hangdog and upset because Emma has gone. I’m wondering what I’m going to have to put up with too, what challenges Emma’s patients and the residents of Talyton St. George are going to throw at me.

  And then I have to laugh at myself for being so silly. Emma wouldn’t have asked me to look after Otter House if she didn’t think I could cope.

  CHAPTER 3

  Perishable Goods

  It’s my first day in charge. I should be logging on to the computer in the consulting room at Otter House, but instead I find myself down by the river looking for Miff. It’s such a beautiful morning, I thought she’d like a quick walk, but she’s slipped her collar and done a runner. I followed her into some b
ushes that I discovered too late were obscuring a ditch, into which I half slid, half fell, ending up thigh-deep in the stinking gloop at the bottom, in the shadow of a regiment of nettles and explosions of hawthorn blossom. Fat lot of good my new wellies are now.

  “Miff!” I yell. “Miff!” I try the softly-softly approach. “Biscuit.” Unsnagging a curl of barbed wire from my jeans, I listen out for her above the whisper of traffic on the bridge over the river on the far side of the meadow. Nothing.

  I don’t think she likes me.

  I press on through the mud, the like of which you never see in those photos in Country Living. (Perhaps they airbrush it all out.) Hanging on to a tree root, I scramble out of the trench and crawl through the prickly undergrowth on the other side to emerge on all fours on a track, where I’m confronted by an enormous horse bearing down on me at speed. I don’t know what it is—a pigeon flapping out of the bushes or my sudden appearance out of nowhere—but without warning, the horse puts the brakes on and spins away, throwing its rider up its neck.

  “Whoa there! Steady …” The rider slips back into the saddle, pulls the horse up, and turns it round to face me. The horse, a bright chestnut mare, tries to rear away again, fighting at the bit. The rider—he, for he is most definitely male—stares at me, his mouth taut and eyes stormy beneath the peak of his hat. “Get up!” he growls.

  “Me?” My cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

  “I can’t see anyone else about, can you?”

  Reluctantly, because not only did he almost kill me but he hasn’t said please, I stand up. “Is that better?”

  “Now she can see you’re vaguely human, not some creature out of Shrek.”

  The mare takes a couple of paces toward me. I notice how the rider flexes and relaxes his fingers on the reins, playing with the bit in her mouth. I also notice that the sleeves of his polo shirt are rolled up, revealing a pair of lightly tanned forearms, and his jodhpurs are so tight across his muscular thighs that it’s positively indecent. He’s gorgeous, and doesn’t he know it.

  His gaze settles briefly on my mud-caked legs, and his lips curve into a fleeting smile. “What happened to you?”

  “I’m looking for a dog.” I feebly gesture at Miff’s collar and lead, which hang redundant round my neck.

  “What kind?”

  “A Border terrier.” In fact, I can hear the frantic yelping of a dog after rabbits, moving in our direction. “That’s her, I think.”

  “Border terrorist might be a more accurate description from the sound of it.”

  Suddenly, the yelping stops and a small brown dog comes trotting out from the brambles beside us. The mare flares her nostrils and champs her jaws, spattering her sleek chest with foam.

  “Make sure you keep it under control in future.”

  “She isn’t mine,” I say as Miff creeps up to me, her tail between her legs.

  “Whatever.” The mare paws the ground with her foot, scraping out a deep gouge in the track. “And I’d advise you to check a map next time you decide to go pond dipping, or bog snorkeling, or whatever it is you’re up to. This isn’t a public right-of-way.”

  “Oh? I’m s-s-sorry,” I stammer. His air of confidence—no, superiority—makes me feel awkward and at a disadvantage.

  “You’re trespassing,” he goes on. “The footpath runs alongside the river, across the other side of the field from here. This is the old railway line.”

  “I didn’t realize …”

  “Ignorance is no excuse,” the rider goes on.

  Emboldened and infuriated by his rudeness, I argue back. I wouldn’t normally in this kind of situation, but Miff’s hackles are up, and so are mine.

  “Look, I’ve got the dog back on the lead and I’ve apologized. There’s no need to be so unpleasant—you don’t own this place.”

  “Actually, I believe that I do.” The rider turns the mare side on and delivers his parting sally. “I hope I never see you here again. If my father had caught you, he’d have had you shot—you and the dog.” He digs his heels into the mare’s sides and gallops away, sending up showers of slag and dust, and flashes of steel.

  I scold Miff gently as I clip her collar—a psychedelic canvas affair that I grabbed off the rack in Reception on my way out—securely back around her neck.

  “There was no need for you to get me into trouble. I’m more than capable of doing that all by myself,” I tell her.

  Miff waves her tail just once, her brown eyes downcast.

  “Oh, cheer up. I’m not cross with you.” I’m annoyed with myself for letting that arrogant, testosterone-fueled—I swear under my breath—get to me. Who is he? The local squire? I try to dismiss him, but he isn’t the kind of man who’s easily dismissed. I was already on edge, wondering what exactly I’ve let myself in for, but now … I feel as if I could be back in London, having been subjected to a road rage attack on my way to work.

  Country life. Country people. Emma made it all sound so romantic, I think, as Miff and I scurry back along the riverbank and across the footbridge that arches over the rust-colored waters of the river Taly.

  Crossing the green on the way to the town, we pass two men removing the ribbons from the maypole that stands in the middle.

  “Mornin’, my lover,” one calls out.

  I wave back, smiling at his odd, uniquely West Country turn of phrase, then turn right into town, past the end wall of the Duck and Dragon, where someone’s sprayed GROCKLES, PER-LEASE GO HOME politely in red paint. (The pub is one of three left in Talyton—apparently, the town used to support eleven.) When I arrive back outside Otter House, I hesitate for a moment.

  Taking a deep breath, I finally burst into Reception, only to have my enthusiasm halted by the commanding sight of Frances’s raised palm as she uses the other hand to lift the phone.

  “Talyton Manor Vets—I mean the other ones. How can I help you?” She listens for a few moments then, “Oh, Gloria … yes, indeed. Old Mr. Fox-Gifford would prescribe exactly that—a few days on a light diet, boiled chicken and rice, and he’ll be as right as ninepins.”

  I wait, itching for her to finish. How does it look to a client if your receptionist keeps dropping the name of the competition into the conversation?

  Frances puts the phone down and greets me with a brief smile.

  “Frances, I know you mean well,” I begin tactfully, “but I’d prefer you not to give out advice.”

  “The Fox-Giffords expected me to use my discretion,” Frances says, appearing unconcerned.

  “This isn’t Talyton Manor, though,” I say, but I’m not sure I’m winning. Frances has the same rather glazed expression as Robbie the ex–police dog did just after he’d been hit by that tractor. “I’d appreciate it if you called this Gloria person straight back, please, and tell her to make an appointment to see me if her dog—”

  “It’s a cat,” Frances interrupts, “one of her ferals. It’s pretty wild.”

  “Okay, but that’s no reason for me not to see it.” I let Miff off the lead.

  “It bit right through Emma’s thumb last time—she was on antibiotics for weeks.”

  “Frances, just ring her.” I’m not going to be intimidated by anything, be it feline or human. “I’m going to get changed. I’ll be back in five.”

  “Take your time.” Frances’s reading glasses rest via a chain on the shelf of her bosom. She slips them onto her nose and taps at the keyboard in front of her with the end of a pen as if she’s afraid of making direct contact with it. “There’s hardly anyone booked in for you.”

  I go and change my shoes, and return to Reception, fastening the snaps on my paw-print top.

  “Did you get hold of Gloria?” I ask Frances, who’s reading a newspaper now, the Talyton Chronicle.

  “She says she won’t see a strange vet. She’s going to wait until Emma’s back.”

  “Didn’t you explain the situation?” I’m smarting a little. I know it’s nothing personal—I’d probably be just as choosy if I ha
d pets of my own—but you would have thought that Emma’s clients would have trusted her judgment.

  “I told her Ginge could be dead by then, but she wouldn’t budge. What else can I do? I can’t force her.”

  I don’t pursue it any further, and I refrain from asking her to put the newspaper away. It doesn’t do to fall out with your receptionist on your first day.

  “Here’s your nine-thirty,” Frances says, looking past me. “Mrs. Moss and her daughter, Sinead. They’ve not been to us before.”

  I look at my first customers. Mrs. Moss is wearing a green tentlike dress, and Sinead’s dark hair has been scraped back into a Croydon face-lift. She’s holding an open-topped cardboard box with THIS WAY UP and PERISHABLE GOODS stamped on the side. I cautiously show them into the consulting room where Izzy’s waiting to assist me.

  While Mrs. Moss keeps a tissue pressed firmly to her nose, Sinead keeps the box at arm’s length and lowers it carefully onto the table. The stench makes me retch. Steeling myself, I look inside. A tricolor Border collie pup with an air of desperation in its eyes sits cowed in the bottom, its mouth set in a squiggle, reminding me of Snoopy from the Peanuts cartoon strips. Glistening strings of saliva stretch from its lips to the fringe of a bloodstained baby blanket.

  Mrs. Moss informs me that the puppy’s name is Freddie; he’s eleven weeks old and they bought him from a farm while they were on holiday in Wales.

  “Has he had his first vaccination yet?” I ask.

  Sinead stands beside her mother, chewing gum and fiddling with her enormous gold earrings. I repeat the question, but the Mosses remain silent, their expressions blank.

  “It’s really important,” I say, at which Mrs. Moss finds her tongue at last.

  “He had some of those homeophobic drops—the breeder showed me.”

  “You mean homeopathic,” I suggest gently, yet inside I’m churning with anger on Freddie’s behalf, at both the breeder and Mrs. Moss for believing this would be enough to protect him from some of the nastier puppyhood diseases. “He has parvo—a viral infection.” I hold back from angrily adding, Which we could have prevented with a course of conventional, tested vaccine.