City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  Problems with parking, barking, and dog shit everywhere. I recall Old Fox-Gifford’s words and what I thought were empty threats to deal with Otter House in his own way. Could he have put someone up to this? I wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, the more I think about it, the hotter and crosser, and more convinced that Old Fox-Gifford’s behind this incident, I become.

  I head back inside and send Pippin on his way with a sample pot before running my theory past Izzy.

  “What do you think?” I ask her. “Do you believe Old Fox-Gifford could have had a hand in this?”

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised, considering how he’s behaved toward Emma. He didn’t want another practice on his doorstep in the first place, and now he’s miffed because his clients—Cheryl, for example—want to come to us. This is the kind of situation—whether it’s an accident or not—that’ll have him chortling with delight.” Izzy pauses. “What are you going to do now, Maz?”

  “I think I should ring the police and report it, don’t you?” I say, but I’m not sure. I’ve never been in the position of having to deal with a practice drenched in slurry before. It certainly wouldn’t have happened at Crossways.

  “It would be a good idea to report for the insurance, if nothing else,” Izzy says. “I’ll get Nigel to check the policy and start organizing the clear-up.”

  I dial 999, and within ten minutes Talyton’s top, and probably only, crime-buster appears on the scene, wobbling up the hill toward Otter House on a bicycle as if his dad’s just taken off his training wheels. The policeman steers his bike through the slurry, parks it, and introduces himself as P.C. Kevin Phillips. He must be about twenty but, with his uniform hanging in loose folds around his shoulders, could pass for ten. How is this man going to stand up to the Fox-Giffords when he looks as if he couldn’t say boo to a goose?

  He pulls a notebook and pen from his pocket and begins writing notes, the tip of his tongue sticking out from between his lips as he concentrates on forming his letters.

  “There’s no evidence I can see that this is a result of anything more than a careless mistake,” he says eventually. “The slurry wasn’t specifically targeted at Otter House. It hit your neighbors as well, the Copper Kettle included.”

  “Exactly. Old Fox-Gifford has a grudge against Cheryl too.”

  P.C. Phillips slips his pen and notebook back into his pocket, and I try again.

  “Can’t you question the driver of the tractor or something?”

  “Can you identify him?”

  “I didn’t see the driver exactly, but the tractor was a red one.”

  P.C. Phillips restrains a smile. “Have you any idea how many red tractors there are in this neck of the woods?”

  “You must have CCTV somewhere along the route,” I say, in desperation.

  “There are a couple of cameras on Market Square.” He pauses. “I suppose I could take a look at them.”

  At last … “Thank you,” I say.

  P.C. Phillips returns to his bike, mounts it, and proceeds to steer it into the shoulder of the road. He looks back, not once but three times, like a boy taking his cycling proficiency test, before he wobbles off again into the traffic.

  I take another look at the front of Otter House, at the slurry sticking to the plaster and staining the beautiful façade. I’m glad Emma isn’t here—she’d be heartbroken if she could see it.

  I return inside.

  Frances is in Reception with a pained look on her face and a canister of air freshener in each hand. The air is thick with the smell of slurry and lemon sherbet, and I’m pleased to have an excuse to escape to the rooms at the back, where the odors of pet food and disinfectant take over.

  I check out today’s op, one Emma booked in before she left. Yep, there is only one, which is frustrating when I’m used to having a list of seven or eight. It’s a dachshund called Poppy: biopsy and excise mass. I give her a pre-med and a kiss, and slip her back into her kennel. Half an hour later, and I’m in the operating theater, with Izzy there to monitor the anesthetic. A kind of peace descends as I concentrate on removing the lump from Poppy’s flank. (It’s all relative, mind, as the radio burbles on and the phone rings in the background.)

  “Looking at the size of that,” Izzy comments, “it’s more a case of removing the dog from the lump than the lump from the dog. It’s a lipoma, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” I say, “completely benign.” I pick up a pre-threaded needle and forceps and start closing Poppy’s wound.

  “That’s great news—her owner was petrified it was going to turn out to be something really nasty.” Izzy drops a fresh batch of swabs onto the instrument tray, then looks toward the door at the sound of footsteps: clipped, precise, and metallic.

  “Nigel,” Izzy says when he appears in the doorway, twiddling his bow tie. It’s maroon with cream dots, like a diseased liver. “I hope you’re not traipsing wet slurry across my clean floors.”

  Nigel’s response is drowned out by the sound of water spray of paint-stripping ferocity, accompanied by the dull thud-thud-thud of falling masonry.

  “What the—?” The bin rattles at my feet. It sounds like Talyton’s been hit by an earthquake.

  “It’s Chris, the chap I rent my cottage from,” Nigel says as the echo dies down. “He’s brought along a tanker truck and a couple of hoses. That plaster needs some attention. I’ll ask him to turn the pressure down.” He clicks his heels and marches away as a cheap but cheerful jingle introduces the traffic news on the radio. There are reports of severe delays through Talyton St. George, where Fore Street is closed because of an incident and is likely to remain so for the rest of the day.

  “That’s us,” Izzy says. “I’ll be okay here now, if you want to go and find out what’s happening.”

  I snip the threads on the last stitch. “I’m not sure that I do.”

  “Are you going to get in contact with Emma?”

  “I said I’d only get in touch in case of emergency, fire, or flood,” I say. I listen nervously to the gallons of water rushing down the drains outside. “That doesn’t count as a flood, does it?”

  Six months running Emma’s practice for her in the quiet market town of Talyton St. George? It’ll be a doddle. Did I really say that?

  CHAPTER 7

  Smack That Pony

  Give me a day out in London any time. In the city you can be anonymous and wear decent heels. I feel out of place and rather vulnerable in my cheeky red coupe when I join the queue of four-by-fours and horse trailers heading out of Talyton for the Country Show.

  P.C. Phillips, dressed in a fluorescent bib, directs the lines of traffic onto the showground. The Land Rover in front of me shoots past, sending showers of mud across my windscreen. I lower my window.

  “Hi. Have you got hold of those tapes yet? The CCTV?” I ask him.

  “Ah, I was hoping I’d see you,” he says in a manner that suggests quite the opposite. “The cameras weren’t working—not that it matters now. Didn’t you see last week’s Chronicle?”

  I nod, recalling the headline—MUCK STICKS—in the rushed late edition in which their roving reporter interviewed the man responsible for releasing the slurry, an employee of the Fox-Giffords who stated that it was down to mechanical error. There was also a quote from P.C. Phillips saying that any suggestion of tit-for-tat rivalry between Talyton’s vet practices was pure speculation. In my opinion, the whole piece was pure fiction.

  There are warning signs and safety cones directing pedestrians off the pavement and into the path of oncoming traffic outside Otter House this morning, and Nigel’s arranging for scaffolding to be put up next week. The heavy rain overnight has brought more pieces of plaster off and somehow soaked through into the living room of the flat on the top floor. I don’t know how much it will cost to get fixed, and whether Emma’s building insurance will pay for it. It doesn’t seem fair, accident or not, that the Fox-Giffords should get away scot-free.

  “Which way?” I ask. “I’m supposed
to be judging the pets.”

  “You’ll have to park in the area for the general public as you haven’t got a badge.” P.C. Phillips points to the right, across a swath of rust-colored mud.

  Great. I put the car into first gear and let it creep forward, keeping as many wheels as possible on undamaged turf, but after a couple of hundred meters the wheels begin to slip. I put my foot down a touch harder, the tires spin, and I’m well and truly stuck. As I get out, my beautiful lime green pumps disappear into the mud, and just as I’m wondering if I’ll have to wait in the middle of this godforsaken field until it dries out, help rolls up in the form of a knight in a shining tractor.

  There’s a sign in the side window reading YOUNG FARMERS DO IT IN WELLIES, but it’s a very old farmer who looks down at me from the cab.

  “Morning. Dickie Pommel, ex-M.F.H., pleased to be at your service.” He doffs his cap, then jumps down, remarkably nimble for someone in his seventies.

  “Um, what’s an M.F.H.?” I ask.

  “Master of Foxhounds. I was master of the Talyton Hunt for many years.” His weather-beaten face creases into a grin as he examines my car, studies me as if I’m an exotic beast that’s escaped from a zoo, then shrugs. “I see you didn’t have room for your wellies, my lover.”

  He unclips a rope from around the waist of the faded pink hunting coat that he wears with waterproof trousers, attaches it to the tractor and my poor car, and then hops back into the cab of his tractor. Minutes later my car has been dragged, its chassis groaning in protest, to the end of a row of four-by-fours.

  I thank him, silently dreading having to get out of the field later, and head across the mud to the ticket booths. When I explain who I am, the woman selling tickets gives me a badge with JUDGE on it, a pass for a free lunch in the officials’ marquee, and a program.

  “Isn’t this a year out of date?” I ask, checking the front cover.

  “Ah, it’s a printing error,” she says, peering at her pile of programs through half-moon glasses, “not that it matters in the slightest. The program’s pretty well the same every year: Dexy’s Dancing Diggers, the Heavy Horse Display, and Ferret Racing. Talyton Country Show has something for everyone. There’s a great choice of food: an oyster bar, a whole tent dedicated to cheese, Mr. Rock’s fish and chip van. There’s plenty for the shopaholic too.”

  Shopaholic? A vision of acres of department store devoted to the latest fashions and designer shoes enters my mind, only to be replaced by acres of muddy field and canvas marquees as I hear the ticket seller say, “You can buy anything from a riding jacket to sand art. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

  “I imagine it’ll be quite an experience,” I say drily.

  “I’m glad Talyton has another vet,” the woman says. “My Colin—that’s my cat—he’s scared of Old Mr. Fox-Gifford, especially when he’s waving his thermometer about. Colin’s very sensitive about his rear end.” She proceeds to review her cat’s history in full before giving me directions to Pets’ Corner. “The judging’s due to start in half an hour,” she tells me.

  Recalling Frances’s talk of her prizewinning chutney and introducing me to some of the WI, I pop into their marquee on the way. It’s stifling inside, stuffed with the scents of dahlias, crushed grass, and strawberry jam. The tent is crowded. There are trestle tables laden with plates of scones oozing with cream and jam, jars of chutney, some dressed up with gingham caps, others open, their contents dished out on plates with cubes of cheese stabbed with cocktail sticks.

  Pushing my way through the gaggle of women, I catch sight of Frances. Bathed in the white glare of camera flashlights and polite applause, Frances holds up a jar and a red rosette marked FIRST PRIZE. When she sees me, she offers to introduce me to her friends. She holds out her hand to an elderly woman who’s bowed almost double.

  “This is Gloria, Gloria Brambles. Gloria, this is Maz, the vet I told you about.”

  As Gloria eyes me up and down, she reminds me of a tortoise peering out from its shell. Her skin is very pale, the type that easily burns.

  “You’re a strange creature,” she observes. “You’ll catch your death in those flimsy shoes.” I don’t know how to respond to this, but she goes on. “I’ve followed Frances’s advice to the letter, but my Ginge is still out of sorts. I wonder if there’s anything else I can give him to settle his tummy.” The tousled white ringlets of Gloria’s hair release a small puff of powder. Her face is powdered too, and her mouth a gash of pink lipstick. Her eyes are the lightest blue I’ve ever seen.

  “I really should see him,” I say. “It’s been going on for a while now, hasn’t it?”

  “I’d prefer to see Emma, but I guess you’ll have to do,” she says grudgingly.

  “This is Fifi Green, president of Talyton Animal Rescue and lady mayoress.” Frances introduces a woman in robes and a chain, and an enormous hat swathed with netting and decorated with artificial flowers. If Gloria Brambles reminds me of a tortoise, Fifi Green reminds me of a Yorkshire terrier: sweet-looking with big brown eyes and long lashes, but full of attitude.

  “She’s also treasurer to the WI, in other words a professional busybody,” Gloria says rather tartly. Her voice rings with money, and the black pearls around her neck must be worth a fortune, yet her clothes, which are more Jaeger than Next, seem shabby. The waist of her skirt is pinned with a diamond brooch—to keep it up, I assume. She smells vaguely unpleasant, of cat and sour milk. “I’ll remind you that as one of the founder members of Talyton Animal Re—”

  “You no longer have anything to do with TAR,” Fifi interrupts. “The committee voted you off at the last Annual General Meeting for breaking the rules.”

  “Rules! Pah!” spits Gloria. “I’ve never turned an animal away.”

  I feel as if I’ve walked into a long-standing argument. Neither Gloria nor Fifi seems prepared to back down.

  “We can’t foster out to you anymore because you won’t give them up to our adopters,” Fifi says.

  “They were unsuitable, Fifi, and you know it.”

  “We vetted them all. You wouldn’t let my son have those two cats because he didn’t have a cat door. And you refused to let my niece and her husband have the goldfish because they were out at work all day.”

  “They didn’t have the right temperament for those fish. They’re very quiet, peace-loving fish …”

  Before I have a chance to voice my professional opinion that I don’t think fish care who they live with as long as they have food and plenty of space for swimming, Fifi comes back with “I wish you’d be honest, Gloria. The truth is that you can’t bear to let them go. You’re under some delusion that no one can look after those rescues as well as you.” The lady mayoress rests one hand on her well-upholstered hip as if convinced she’s scored a point, but Gloria isn’t about to give up.

  “You don’t care about animal welfare,” Gloria accuses as she takes a swing with her handbag, which looks as if it’s from the 1920s and made of crocodile skin. I don’t know whether Gloria means to hit her or not, but Fifi totters a couple of steps backward, out of range. “All you’re bothered about is your image.”

  “Ladies, please.” Frances takes Gloria’s arm. “I’d like a closer look at the winning flower arrangements. Connie misread the brief—for ‘Exotica’ she read ‘Erotica—’”

  “I’m due to officiate at the pet show in a few minutes,” Fifi interrupts. “I’m glad we’ve been introduced, Maz. I can take you to meet Old Fox-Gifford.” She looks me up and down, her gaze, like Gloria’s, lingering on my feet. “Have you met before?”

  “No, but I’ve had words with him.”

  “Then you know what a charmer he is.” Fifi sighs, apparently oblivious to the exact meaning of what I’ve said. “Come with me. It’s this way.”

  It is with some trepidation that I follow her to the next tent, a marquee that opens at the side into a small arena, marked out with posts and rope.

  “Fox-Gifford,” Fifi calls toward a gray-haired man with
a bent back and bowlegs, who turns on his stick and touches the brim of his bowler hat. Alex is about forty, so I don’t know why I’m surprised that his father’s easily in his seventies. “I’ve brought Maz, Emma’s relief from Otter House, along with me.”

  “So I get to meet one of the mad cows at last,” I hear him mutter. The lapel of his tweed jacket is covered with badges: SHOW COMMITTEE, JUDGE, and VET ON CALL. His corduroy trousers are baggy and a bilious shade of mustard. His sideburns are unkempt.

  “Oh, Fox-Gifford, you are a wag,” Fifi says, looking a little embarrassed on my behalf.

  “Do you see me wagging?” He hobbles toward me, stops and stares with eyes very much like Alex’s, then sniffs at the air. “I hear you’ve been getting used to some nasty countryside odors.” His lip curls—I’m not sure whether he’s smirking or snarling.

  “No thanks to you,” I say, standing my ground as he moves closer. “You’ve got some nerve,” I say, then I wish I hadn’t put it like that, because he seems to take it as a compliment. “That was no accident.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. You can’t prove it. My people won’t say anything—they’re as loyal as my old Lab—and anyhow, I don’t understand why you can’t see the funny side.” He clears his throat. “Mind you, Emma’s always been a bit of a sourpuss too.”

  The back of my neck prickles with irritation as he goes on. “I see you’re offended—well, I call a spade a spade, and I can’t help it if people don’t like it. Still, you came out of the slurry smelling of roses, didn’t you? All that free advertising on the front page of the Chronicle.” He turns to Fifi. “Let’s get on with this, shall we? We don’t want to be late for luncheon. Elsa’s doing the food.”

  A steward unfastens the rope, allowing the queue of competitors for the Best Pet competition into the ring, where they place their baskets, carriers, and cages on straw bales lined up across the center. I wait with Fifi and Old Fox-Gifford, watching a woman in a short skirt and long boots flash the length of her tanned thighs as she trots up and down with a black standard poodle—one of the tall ones, not the kind you can easily stick on your lap.