City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “They had a cozy tête-à-tête after the meeting,” he says. “Eloise can’t keep anything to herself.”

  “Look,” I say, “I don’t care about Eloise, or you, or your father. I want you to leave.”

  “I’ll go then,” Alex says after a moment’s hesitation.

  “That’s right. Go. I don’t know why you came here in the first place.”

  “Because you invited me, remember?” he answers with an infuriating smirk, as if he thinks he’s had the last word. “Good-bye.”

  All I can do when he turns and marches back down the corridor is call after him, “Why don’t you go running back to Eloise?”

  I’m aware that Izzy is staring at me.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you, Maz,” she says—admiringly, I think. However, the fact I seem to have done something right in Izzy’s eyes for once doesn’t make me feel any less upset. Emma warned me about the Fox-Giffords, yet Alex somehow misled me into giving him the benefit of the doubt. I was wrong, and I’m still fuming when I head back to Kennels.

  I try to look on the bright side. At least I’ve done something good today. I’ve saved Cadbury’s life.

  CHAPTER 12

  Baby Baby

  When I wake up in the morning on Friday, I find Nigel has slipped a letter under the door of the flat—Miff has left her teeth marks in it, but it’s just about decipherable.

  Dear Maz,

  Re: the chat we had the other night about ways to save money. Working on the principle last in, first out, it is with great regret that I must ask you to give Frances notice to leave the practice with immediate effect. I know I can rely on your discretion.

  Yours sincerely, Nigel.

  P.S.: Any questions, feel free to call me.

  I head down to Reception to unlock the doors, and pick up the phone, checking no one is around to listen in.

  “Nigel,” I say, once I get hold of him. “Where are you?”

  “I’m having a fishing lesson,” he says. “I assume this call is about my letter?”

  “It’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? How’s Izzy going to cope? We need a receptionist to greet clients and answer the phone.”

  “We’ll have to manage. There aren’t all that many clients anyway, especially after Old Fox-Gifford’s radio broadcast. Frances told me we had three more transfer to Talyton Manor yesterday.”

  It’s pretty worrying, I think, as I go on. “Why do I have to speak to Frances? Isn’t it the practice manager’s role?”

  “It’s better if it comes from you. I’d hate Frances to hold it against me—I mean, I’m going to be living in this town long after you’ve gone. I’d rather she held it against you.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I pause, catching sight of Frances drawing up in the car park in her battered Morris Minor. “How am I going to tell her?”

  “I’m delegating the whole process to you, Maz.” There’s a splash, and Nigel’s voice fades out, then back in again. “I’ve got to go—I think I’ve got a bite.”

  A bite? I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but then I remember that he’s gone fishing. I don’t approve. I can’t see what fun there is to be had in sticking a hook through the mouth of a living creature, but then I won’t eat anything that has eyes, potatoes excepted.

  “Good morning, Maz.” Frances walks in with a spring in her step. “It’s such a lovely day.”

  It seems a shame to spoil her mood straightaway.

  “Erm, if you’re okay here, I’ll go and give Izzy a hand in Kennels.”

  “Of course I’m okay here—it’s like my second home,” she says and beams, and my heart sinks to the very soles of my Crocs as I retreat.

  “Izzy, did you know about this?” I wave Nigel’s note at her. She looks up from where she’s cleaning out Cadbury’s kennel. “About Nigel asking me to fire Frances,” I go on when she stares at me uncomprehendingly.

  “Get rid of Frances? Well, don’t expect me to do extra hours.” She is not happy. “I have got a life outside Otter House.”

  “I know you have, but if we can’t cut costs there won’t be a job for you either.”

  Izzy sits back on her heels, thinking. “All right, when are you going to tell her?”

  “Later,” I say. “Tonight, at the end of evening surgery.”

  “Good luck,” Izzy says. “I can’t see her going without a fight.”

  That’s what I’m worried about.

  I take Cadbury out of the kennel next door and give him a thorough checkup. It’s two days after his surgery, and he really should be picking up by now.

  “He’s getting wise to this,” I say, as he wiggles his bottom away from my thermometer.

  “I’ll hang on to him for you,” Izzy says, snapping off her yellow rubber gloves.

  “Thanks.”

  “He threw up bile a couple of times last night.”

  “Mmm, I’m not sure he’s quite right.” I ruffle his coat with my free hand, and a shower of white flakes settles on the bench. “He could do with some Head & Shoulders for his dandruff.”

  “He’s very thin,” Izzy observes. “Emma usually takes some blood to make sure there’s nothing odd going on,” she adds pointedly, which makes me wonder if she trusts my judgment after Blueboy.

  As a new graduate, I soon learned that when a nurse makes a tactful observation, it’s worth following it up.

  I check the thermometer. Cadbury’s temperature is just a touch high, but it has been since his op.

  “I’ve kept him in long enough—I’m going to send him home today to see if he’s happier there. I’ll ask Lynsey for permission to take some blood when she comes to pick him up.” I pause. “You did count the swabs after the op, didn’t you?”

  Izzy looks at me, shocked. “Of course I did.” She gazes at Cadbury, pointing toward his belly. “You don’t think I’d have let you leave one behind, do you?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you—I just have to be sure I haven’t missed anything.” I’m going to worry now. My dreams will be haunted by a hot chocolate Lab until I’m sure he’s okay. He should be okay. There’s no reason why not. “I’ll make appointments for him to come back every day till he’s better, if necessary.”

  “I’m not sure Lynsey is going to appreciate that in her condition,” Izzy says.

  I’m not being difficult. I’m thinking of how Lynsey will manage to cover the cost if Cadbury stays much longer.

  “Perhaps she can find someone else to bring him in,” I say. I kiss the top of Cadbury’s head, wishing I had someone to brainstorm his case with. I don’t know how Emma copes with it—it’s far more stressful working solo than in a multi-vet practice. “It’s important.”

  There are occasions when I wonder what else I could do. Retrain to be a driving school instructor? Deliver leaflets? Be something in the city? (By which I mean something that isn’t in the country, not a stockbroker or fund manager.) If I hold my hands out in front of me, it’s an effort to stop them shaking at the moment. Too much caffeine. Too much stress.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Lynsey when she struggles in toward the end of the day with one hand on her back and the other on her bump. “Would you like a seat?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She forces a smile. “Really.”

  “No boys today,” I observe.

  “My mother’s looking after them. They’ll be over the moon to see Cadbury again. We’ve missed him.”

  Izzy brings the foreign bodies to show off to Lynsey before bringing Cadbury through. Lynsey doesn’t seem all that interested in superheroes. She’s more interested in the pants. She picks them up, catching at the lace trimming with the ragged edges of her fingernails.

  “They have been through the wash, as well as the dog,” Izzy says.

  Lynsey examines them slowly, stretching the waistband as if testing its elasticity, then fingering the label.

  “Size eight?” she says eventually. “I have never been a size eight in my life.” Her cheeks acquire a deep red hue. “
I’ll kill the bastard!”

  I glance nervously toward Izzy.

  “I expect Cadbury snaffled them up on a walk,” she says.

  “Oh, I know exactly where he picked them up from: the back of my husband’s bloody Land Rover.” There’s an odd popping noise, and suddenly the color drains from Lynsey’s face. She clutches the edge of the consulting room table, bows forward, and groans.

  I grab her arm. “Izzy, fetch a chair, will you?” I say.

  “I can’t sit down,” Lynsey gasps. Sweat droplets bubble across her forehead. “My waters have broken. The baby’s on its way.” She tries to smile through a twisted grimace. “At least I’m in the right place.”

  “You aren’t!” I start to panic.

  “I had a couple of contractions on my way here, but they weren’t all that strong,” she says. “I thought I’d have a few hours yet.”

  “You should be in a hospital.” I think back to my obstetrics notes on delivering kittens, foals, and calves. “With a midwife.”

  Izzy returns with a chair from Reception.

  “Forget the chair. Call an ambulance. Quick!” I tell her. I don’t know what else to do. I keep hold of Lynsey’s arm. She starts panting, then moans, then pants again. What do we need? Buckets of hot water and towels, bottles of obstetrical lubricant, and copious amounts of tea?

  “The ambulance is on its way.” Izzy reappears for a second time.

  Frances pushes in beside her. “Lynsey, dear, I’ll call Stewart and your mother.”

  “Nooo …” Lynsey howls like a lone wolf, then recovers enough to say, “I won’t have that two-timing bastard anywhere near me. Ever. Again.”

  “Oh?” says Frances. “Well, let’s sort you out first. I’ll walk you along to the staff room, where you can make yourself comfortable. Do you think you can manage that?”

  Lynsey nods, biting her lip.

  “Let’s go quickly then, before you have another contraction.” Frances holds her by the hand and rubs the small of her back. “How often are they coming?”

  “I don’t know. I’m losing track.”

  “Every ten minutes? Five? Three?” Frances asks patiently.

  “I’d say they’re about two minutes apart,” Lynsey says.

  “Oh dear,” says Frances.

  “The ambulance will be here any moment.” I glance anxiously at my watch. How long has it been?

  “This baby isn’t going to wait for an ambulance—it has to come up from Talymouth.” Frances looks at me. “This baby isn’t going to wait for anyone. Lynsey’s contractions are already too close.”

  “Frances,” I say in desperation, “it has to …”

  Less than a minute later Lynsey is in the staff room, hanging on to the back of the sofa, with Frances in attendance. Izzy waits in Reception for the ambulance. I fetch clean towels, a damp flannel, and ice cubes from the flat at Frances’s request, but Lynsey doesn’t want them.

  “I feel like I want to push …,” she gasps. The ensuing wail cuts through me like a scalpel blade. I never want a baby. Never.

  “Just breathe—in and out,” Frances says very calmly.

  “I have to push …”

  There’s a knock on the door, and a man strolls in, as if he has all the time in the world. Typical!

  “Thank goodness for the NHS,” I say, looking from the man, who’s short and swarthy, to the big black hairy dog at his heels. “You’re just in time!”

  He frowns, glances past me, then backs out very quickly as Lynsey’s voice rises to a high-pitched scream.

  “The baby’s on its way,” I say urgently. “You can’t just leave.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me, my lover. I’m the builder—your practice manager asked me to call in.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Nigel isn’t here at the moment. Would you mind waiting in Reception for a few minutes?”

  “Not at all,” he says, his eyes darting about as he tries to take it all in. I show him back along the corridor, where he starts looking at the collars and leads that are on display. “How long do you think you’ll be?” he asks me.

  “Not long, I hope.” I glance at my watch again. “I don’t know where that ambulance has got to.” On tenterhooks, I look out of the window. Izzy’s pacing up and down the pavement. She catches my eye and shakes her head, and my heart sinks. I start running through various scenarios in my head. What if the baby needs life support when it arrives? We’ve got oxygen in the operating theater. We’ve got a tiny incubator in Kennels. We’ve got sterile clamps for the cord if necessary. The trouble is, I’m not all that confident about using them on a human baby.

  I’m panicking like mad, until I detect the sound of a distant siren.

  I catch sight of flashing blue lights further along the street, but because of the traffic it’s another couple of minutes before the ambulance arrives outside Otter House.

  “Thank goodness,” I breathe as Izzy shows two paramedics with their paraphernalia into Reception and out through the corridor, following Lynsey’s screams. I head after them and wait outside the staff room with Izzy, my hands over my ears.

  “Maz.” Eventually Izzy grabs my hands and pulls them away. “It’s over. Listen!”

  I hold my breath and listen to the baby’s cry and Frances’s happy shout of “It’s a girl!”

  To my chagrin, my eyes prick with tears, tears of relief and joy.

  “Lynsey …” Stewart comes running along the corridor, his work boots clicking on the floor. “Where is she?”

  I show him to the door.

  “I need to see my wife.” Stewart tries to push past Frances, but she’s like Fluffy, the three-headed dog, guarding the philosopher’s stone. “I want to see her.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you,” Frances says coldly.

  “Why not?” Stewart raises his eyebrows. “What am I supposed to have done this time?”

  “There’s no supposed about it. You’ve been at it again.” Lynsey’s voice comes belting out, slightly hoarse now, like an aged rock star’s. “You’ve been up lovers’ lane with one of your floozies. Who is it this time? Let me guess.”

  “Please, Lynsey, d-d-don’t upset yourself … not now …,” Stewart stammers.

  “I’m not upset. I’m very calm”—Lynsey’s voice trails off, then explodes—“for a woman who’s just given birth and found out that her husband’s been screwing around. You told me you’d been in Aurora’s Cave to buy me a present.”

  “There’s no need to bring Aurora into it.”

  “So it is her.”

  “At least let me see the baby.”

  “Over my dead body!” Lynsey’s voice again. “I’ll look after my daughter. You can take care of the bloody dog.”

  When the paramedics take Lynsey, who’s draped in one blanket, and the baby, who’s swaddled in another, to the hospital for checks, she stops briefly to show off her new offspring.

  “Look.” She pushes the edge of the blanket away from the baby’s face. Her skin is red and wrinkled, her features are squished up, and her skull is pointed, like an elf’s hat. Just for a moment my heart tightens with, dare I admit it, yearning and envy.

  “She looks angry,” I say tentatively.

  Lynsey smiles. “Like mother, like daughter. A chip off the old block.”

  Block?

  “I’m glad you said that.” I touch Lynsey’s arm. “Congratulations.”

  Block. Building blocks. It reminds me that I’ve left the builder waiting with his dog. I hurry along to Reception.

  “I’m sorry to keep you. Is that your pickup on the road outside?” I glance toward the window and past the scaffold poles. The ambulance pulls away, followed by Stewart’s tractor. Cadbury stands inside the cab beside Stewart, looking out with his ears flipping back in the wind.

  “That’s mine.” He stands up and introduces himself, handing over a business card that reads: “D. J. Appleyard & Co., Quality Builders. We don’t make promises we can’t keep.” “I brought Magic in
with me—I didn’t like to leave her in the van in this weather.”

  “You do know you’re parked on double yellow lines?” I ask anxiously. I’ve learned the hard way back in London that parking attendants lie in wait to slap tickets on your windscreen within seconds.

  “You don’t want to worry about that, my lover. You have to be stopped for at least two days before anyone takes any notice around here.” DJ grins. He has nicotine-stained teeth and a nervous tic of the right eyelid that makes him look as if he’s winking all the time. “The pace of life around here is naturally slow.”

  “Oh. Well, let me show you the work,” I say, and he follows me at a snail’s pace round to the front of the house, making me wonder if your metabolism slows down more the longer you live in Talyton. Some people might like it. I find it excruciating.

  “How much will all that cost?” I ask eventually, as DJ ruminates, chewing on gum like a cow chewing cud. “I need a rough idea for the insurance company.”

  He gazes up at the deep scars in the plaster. “As much as it costs,” he says.

  “And how long? A rough idea?”

  “You can’t hurry a proper job, my lover.” He looks at me and winks again. “It’ll take as long as it takes.”

  “Are you going to join us?” Izzy waves a greasy paper bag in our direction. “Doughnuts and tea all round to wet the baby’s head.”

  “I can’t stop,” DJ says.

  “But you will be back?” The thought crosses my mind that I might kidnap him and hold him in a kennel until he agrees to start work immediately.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “When exactly?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe Monday. Definitely no later than the end of next week.” He squints at the sky. “Them clouds are mares’ tails—could mean rain, which will add another couple of days—but don’t you worry, I’ll have it finished before your friend gets back. I did the renovations on the Talymill Inn—did you know? I told Clive my team’d get the mill ready in time for opening, and we did. Trust me. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

  We shake on it. What else can I do? I watch him go, his dog at his heels, then join Izzy and Frances in the staff room.