City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  It took all our strength combined to slide the barn door open before we could get inside, where the uproar of bleating and trampling feet assaulted our ears. We slid the door closed behind us, then I found the switch for the strip lights. I bashed the snow off my boots, sending the ewes in the pen nearest us stampeding off to the far corner for safety. One was left behind, a single black-faced Suffolk in a flock of mules. A translucent green bag dangled from the wet, matted wool at her rear end. She strained a couple of times, but nothing happened.

  “Dibs not do the Herriot thing,” Emma said. “I’ll hang on to her for you, Maz, while you strip to the waist.”

  “You are joking?”

  Emma giggled for the first time that day. “Of course.”

  I stripped down to three layers, then washed my hands in the soft light in the shepherd’s den, a cubicle divided from the rest of the barn and supplied with hot water. I returned to the pen with lubricant dripping stiffly from the fingers of my plastic gloves and knelt to examine the ewe.

  “Do you think we should call someone?” Emma asked, as I groped around blindly, finding first a head, then a neck and shoulders, but no legs: a lamb stuck on its way out through the birth canal.

  “By the time anyone gets here, it’ll be too late,” I said. In spite of the cold, I was beginning to sweat. It was up to me. I closed my eyes, picturing my lecture notes annotated with sketchy cartoons of lambs trapped inside their mothers’ wombs with speech bubbles saying, “Help me.” “If I push it back, I should be able to catch its feet and bring them through first. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’m glad you know what you’re doing—all I know about lambing is written on a couple of sides of A4 paper.”

  “Same here.” I glanced at the ewe’s face, her expression anxious, waiting for the next contraction. I had to do something for her sake.

  Act confident, I told myself, and don’t fiddle.

  After five minutes, my confidence ebbed and I got fiddling. The ewe bellowed and heaved. The lamb’s head and shoulders, and then the rest of its body, slid out in a rush of fluid and landed in a bloodstained heap.

  Emma and I stared at it.

  “Is it breathing?” Emma said.

  “I’m not sure …”

  “I don’t think it’s breathing,” Emma said urgently.

  I tore the membrane from its nostrils and mouth, picked it up and swung it by the hind legs, then lowered it down again and rubbed its steaming, close-curled coat with a handful of straw. Suddenly, it shook its head and took its first breath, by which time the ewe had given birth to a second lamb. Emma revived that one, and I dealt with a third, which arrived shortly afterward.

  “Poor cow,” I observed. “Fancy having to look after this lot.”

  “Call yourself a vet student, Maz.” Emma grinned. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a sheep.”

  The firstborn lamb made an attempt to struggle to its feet, then nosedived back into the straw. At the second attempt, it sat on its haunches. At the third, it walked shakily to its mother’s udder, nudged at one of the teats, and latched on, sucking and wiggling its tail.

  Emma and I watched our babies fondly for a while, sitting on bales of straw and drinking mugs of hot chocolate, the scent of lanolin on our hands.

  “If we ever get out of vet school alive, we’ll set up practice together,” Emma said.

  “Really?” I was touched that she included me in her vision for the future.

  “Small animals only. Absolutely no sheep.”

  “We’ll have lots of toys to play with and a coffeemaker,” I said, fired up by her enthusiasm and picturing us doing a ward round in our own hospital together, checking up on our patients—lots of them, all with exotic and obscure conditions. (I was a student then, and even though I’d spent plenty of time with Jack Wilson at the Ark, I still thought vet practice would be a series of challenging cases every day, not yet realizing that much of the joy of the job comes with seeing the more mundane, routine cases and getting to know the patients.) As far as I could tell, it was the perfect plan, and I wished I’d been the one to have thought of it. What could be more fun than working alongside Emma?

  “We’ll have blue uniforms,” Emma said cheerfully. “Green doesn’t suit me at all.”

  “I don’t care as long as we have central heating,” I offered. I couldn’t feel my toes. I slipped my feet out of my wellies and wrapped them around my mug in an attempt to restore the circulation. “How long have we got left?”

  “A couple of hours.” Emma checked her watch, scuffling under her multiple cuffs to find it. “This is a very slow night—the ram must have had an off day. I mean it, Maz, about the practice.”

  “I hadn’t really thought about what happens after vet school,” I told her. I guess I’d been so focused on getting a place at university and passing exams that I hadn’t made plans for anything beyond my finals. I suppose I’d always seen myself becoming a single-handed vet in a practice just like the Ark. Meeting Emma and Ian had complicated matters, and I felt a twinge of regret that soon the excitement and camaraderie of vet school would be over and real life would begin. “What about Ian? I’m practically living with him, aren’t I?”

  “I’m not sure I could work with Ian,” Emma said.

  “You’re right.” Although I adored him, I wasn’t blind to his failings. “He’d want everything his own way.”

  “He’ll go on to do a Ph.D. and become a professor,” Emma said. “I can’t see him doing the routine stuff like vaccinations and clipping claws, can you?”

  I shook my head. Ian had already talked of spending a year as an intern at a vet school abroad, making a career in academia. Where did that leave me? Us? We’d been together for over four years. Was it love? I plucked at the bale I was sitting on, scattering pieces of straw on the ground. Was it forever? I hoped so.

  Emma returned the mugs to the den and arrived back with the elastrator, the kind of implement a torturer might have designed to extract a confession from the most stubborn prisoner way back in the Middle Ages. She sat down and stretched a thick latex band across its metal teeth.

  Something rustled in the corner of the barn, near the door.

  “Did you hear that?” I slipped my wellies back on and stood up.

  Emma scanned the barn. “Rats, I expect,” she said, and a tiny shiver ran down my spine.

  “They must be very big rats,” I said hesitantly.

  Emma tipped her head to one side and grinned. “I expect they’ve escaped from one of the labs around here. Come on. Let’s go and castrate some lambs.”

  “If there are any,” I said, accompanying Emma to where the ewes with lambs at foot were penned. I was right. There were six or seven male lambs, and they had all been thoroughly emasculated before we could get to them.

  The sheep bleated and the wind rattled the roof of the barn, ripping at the sheets of corrugated iron above our heads, so we could hardly hear the sound of a big diesel engine rumbling up through the snow outside.

  “Who’s that?” Emma said.

  “I don’t know. The shepherd? The next shift?”

  “They’re not due to start for another hour.”

  “Emma! Maz!” Two voices. Ian and Ben appeared, closing the door behind them. Ian was tall and sandy blond; Ben was shorter, chunkier, and dark-haired. (I imagine that’s one of the reasons Emma and I never fell out—we had completely different tastes in men.)

  Ben came jogging up to us, swinging his arms as if trying to catch hold of any stray warmth in the air. He grabbed Emma and pulled her to him, taking the end of his scarf and wrapping it around her neck. “We came to find you,” he said, turning to me. “Ian.” He waved. “They’re over here.”

  Ian joined us, clapping his gloved hands together and exhaling lungfuls of mist.

  “Hello there, kitten.” He leaned down and pressed his face to my cheek, the contact making my heart skip a beat.

  “You have a cold, wet nose,” I whi
spered.

  “Means I’m healthy.” He might have pinched my bum just then, but I was too well-padded to be sure.

  “We found your bikes abandoned in a snowdrift,” Ben said.

  “Why didn’t you try our mobiles?”

  “We did.”

  Emma pulled a mobile from her pocket. “I have mine with me, but there’s no signal out here.”

  “I left a message on yours, Maz,” said Ian.

  I patted my pockets. “I must have left it back at the house.”

  “Typical.” Ian sighed.

  “Well,” I said lightly, a little annoyed by his implied criticism of my forgetfulness, “you’re just in time. We were looking for something to practice on.”

  Emma held the elastrator above her head. Both Ian and Ben backed off.

  “That looks like a nasty piece of work,” Ben said.

  “You were on the shift before last, weren’t you, Ian?” Emma said. “Only you didn’t save us any lambs.”

  Ian held his hands up. “I’m sorry—I’m not great at counting sheep.”

  “You know the rules,” I said. If there were cows with feet to be trimmed, we did one foot each. When there was a horse to shoot, we drew straws for it.

  “Can we take you home now?” Ben asked.

  “It’s too early yet,” said Emma.

  “We’ll wait so we can give you a lift back.” Ian always joked that he was a man of dependent means, dependent on his businessman-father’s generosity. His father gave Ian a monthly allowance, and paid his bar bills at the end of each term. To be fair, Ian was equally generous in his turn.

  “Is there anywhere we can make tea?” Ian took my hand and lifted the flap on the pocket of his tweed jacket, revealing the silver top of a hip flask. “I’ve brought some Earl Grey too.”

  “You think of everything.” I smiled.

  “Attention to detail,” he said.

  “Attention to detail” was one of Ian’s favorite phrases. He carried it through to the tea making, a bizarre and somewhat unnecessary ritual, I thought, as someone who was used to chucking a tea bag in a mug.

  Suddenly there was a gust of wind and a burst of hail; the lights in the barn went out, and we had to make our way outside to Ian’s Land Rover, following the feeble beam of his torch. I didn’t mind—at the time, I think I’d have followed him anywhere.

  Ian? Why is it I always go for confident, charismatic, and charming men? A small voice inside me tells me it’s because I wouldn’t be happy if they were otherwise. What it can’t tell me is why they love me and leave me. I don’t feel like a victim, although I do wonder whether I don’t fight hard enough to keep them, whether I give up too soon.

  “I should have given up on men after Ian,” I tell Izzy. “I did for a long time.... Well, I did go out on a few dates now and then before Mike, but nothing serious.”

  Izzy stares at me. “You were a bit of a goer then,” she says.

  I don’t take offense. I’m beginning to get used to Izzy’s straight talking.

  “What about you?” I ask, knowing from Emma that Izzy lives alone but in hope of meeting that someone special.

  “There aren’t that many eligible bachelors in Talyton.” Before I can mention the name of the obviously single man attached to Otter House, she rushes on. “Nigel was keen on me at one point, but I made it clear that wasn’t on. I couldn’t stand his fussiness.” Izzy puts a bowl of food down for Miff and another into Freddie’s cage. “If you didn’t marry Ian, what stopped you from going into partnership with Emma?”

  “It’s a long story. Emma and Ben got married and settled in Southampton—Ben was working at the hospital. I ended up working in various practices in London. It wasn’t until I came down for Celia’s funeral …” My voice falters as I remember Emma’s mum, who showed me so much kindness when I was a student, offering me a place to stay during the holidays and bailing me out when I was on the verge of quitting vet school because I’d gotten myself into financial difficulties.

  Even holding down two part-time jobs and living on lentils and economy cornflakes, I couldn’t pay my credit card bills or put a deposit down on accommodation for the following term. It was my fault. The dress that I bought for the May Ball, for example, was an extravagance, but how could I have let Ian down by turning up in front of his friends in jeans and a calving gown?

  I paid Celia back though, every penny.

  “You were saying …,” Izzy prompts.

  “It was just after the funeral when Emma suggested I joined her as a partner in Otter House.”

  “So why didn’t you? I know,” Izzy goes on, excitedly. “There was a man. There’s always a man.”

  “Mike, my boss at Crossways. It was very early days back then, but I always hoped things would go further, and they did …” I’m not sure who sighs the deepest, me or Freddie. Each time I think of Mike, the wound I thought was healing weeps a little. I change the subject. “Isn’t there a local rescue center who’ll take Freddie? What about the RSPCA?”

  “No way,” Izzy says. “I can’t bear the thought of him being dragged from pillar to post, not after what he’s been through. Give me time—a week, maybe two—and I’ll find him a good home.”

  “Maz, you have one waiting,” Frances calls through.

  Consulting room, here I come …

  Pippin. Shih tzu. Gray and white. Four years old.

  Neutered male.

  Problem: has the runs something chronic.

  “So,” says the client, Mr. Brown, “Alex suggested we come to see you.”

  “I thought you’d asked to swap practices.” I’m confused. Alex seemed so genuine, leading me to believe it was Mr. Brown’s idea to change from the Talyton Manor Vets to Otter House.

  “Oh no, not at all. In fact, it’s much easier to park up at the manor than here.” Mr. Brown fidgets on the opposite side of the table. His shirt crackles with static, his trousers rustle, and his shoes break wind. “Listen to me rambling on. You must have Pippin’s personal information already.”

  It’s true. Every detail, apart from some attempts to blot out the most disrespectful comments in Talyton Manor Vets’ notes with correction fluid: “Motionless for 24 hours. Hoorah! Much wind. Diarrhea—esp. verbal.”

  Where are Pippin’s test results? A plan of action for making a better diagnosis than “dodgy tummy”? I realize I’m sounding a bit prissy here, but if Alex couldn’t handle the case, he should have done a basic workup, then sent it to one of the referral centers. I don’t think Alex’s motives for handing this case over to me were entirely altruistic.

  “Have you had a look at the notes from our previous vet?” Mr. Brown inquires.

  “Perhaps you’d like to explain the problems you’re having with Pippin yourself,” I suggest. The notes are thicker than a Jeffrey Archer novel—I’d need at least a week on a beach to get through them. “Briefly.”

  “Well, let me see.... On some days, he passes three motions. Sometimes it’s two, sometimes six or seven.”

  I try not to giggle in the face of such diligent explanation, a feat Pippin makes far more difficult, tipping his head from side to side and peering through his fringe like a Muppet.

  “Yesterday”—Mr. Brown rattles his keys in one of the many pockets on his outdoor trousers—“the first one was what I would call normal.” He goes on to describe the exact consistency and color, from shades of umber to burnt sienna.

  “What do you feed him?” I cut in eventually because, although I have plenty of time until my next appointment, I can see this consultation running on all day.

  “Whatever my wife and I are having—good-quality meat and veg, lightly cooked without added salt. He doesn’t pick up rubbish outside,” Mr. Brown continues, “and he hasn’t got worms. I treated him last month with a multipurpose wormer from Mr. Fox-Gifford.”

  Pippin looks remarkably well, and I wonder if we have a problem here with the owner rather than the dog. I decide that the bringing in of a sample before st
arting him on something to settle his tummy will buy me time to decide on the best approach to Pippin’s case.

  First, find your sample pot.

  Emma’s Post-it notes have all but disappeared, dislodged by the waving tails of passing dogs. I give up hunting along shelves and rifling through cupboards, and ask Izzy, who’s unpacking the latest drug delivery at Reception. At least, that’s what she’s supposed to be doing, but her mind seems to be elsewhere, her gaze fixed on the window that overlooks the road at the front.

  I can hear a heavy vehicle rumbling along Fore Street, nothing unusual in that, followed by a pitter-pat like rain, which is odd, because I caught the forecast on TV this morning and it was supposed to remain dry all day.

  The pitter-pat turns to a splatter. There are bird droppings, giant brown ones, landing on the window, more and more of them, converging and blocking out the sky, blocking out the view entirely.

  An air horn blares, an engine growls, then fades into the distance. The spattering noise stops, and a pungent countryside aroma drifts into my nostrils.

  Izzy wrinkles her nose as Mr. Brown and Pippin join us in Reception to see what’s going on.

  “What a mess,” Izzy breathes.

  “What happened?” says Mr. Brown.

  Shit, I think, and in more ways than one. Feeling slightly sick with apprehension over what I’m going to find, I run out to the road. It’s worse than I could have imagined. The front of Otter House is dripping with slurry. It slides down the windows, drips off the window ledges, pools on the steps, and seeps across the pavement like chocolate from a fountain.

  Shocked, I stand with my hand on my throat, staring at Emma’s lovely practice. How long will it take to clean up? Will there be any lasting damage? Will I be able to keep the business open?

  I can hardly breathe for the stench, and my revulsion soon turns to anger.

  How did this happen? Who could have been so careless? Then it crosses my mind that this might not have been an accident.