“There, clean as a whistle,” says Frances. “You’d never know this had been a labor ward, would you?”
“Thank you, Frances.” How can I sack her now? “You were amazing.”
“I was birth partner for my daughter-in-law when Ruby was born,” she says, blushing. “Indispensable’s my middle name.”
“Well, I don’t know how we would’ve coped without you.”
“Chris would have known what to do.” Izzy gazes out of the window. “He’s going to let me help him with the lambing next spring.”
“I’ve never heard a ewe screaming out for an epidural,” I observe.
“Or that she’s going to shoot the ram for getting her into that situation,” Frances says. “Oh, today’s been so exciting—I do so love a good crisis.”
“I’m hoping there won’t be too many more.” Izzy looks up from where she’s stirring milk into three mugs of tea. “Oh, Maz, before I forget, Tripod’s due his second lot of jabs. He’s asleep on the pile of clean bedding in the laundry whenever you’re ready for him. Oh, and I couldn’t find Cadbury’s blood sample to send off.”
“That’s because I forgot to take one in all the panic.” I swear inwardly, Izzy staring at me as if she thinks I’m completely useless. “I’ll take it when he comes back tomorrow—I don’t suppose one more day will hurt.”
Izzy passes round the tea and doughnuts. Frances chooses the one with the hole—for the sake of her figure, she says.
“I noticed that the posters have gone from the window of the Copper Kettle when I was on the way to the baker’s,” Izzy says. “Cheryl must have taken them down.”
“I don’t think it was out of consideration for your feelings, Maz,” Frances points out. “It hinted at unpleasant goings-on and cats’ hairs in the scones.”
“Just like here.” I pick a hair—one of Tripod’s, I suspect, and a side effect of having a practice cat—out of my tea.
“I wonder when Emma and Ben will start a family. She’s devoted herself to the practice,” Izzy says. “I only hope that she doesn’t regret it later, if she should decide not to have children.”
“Do you regret it?” Frances cuts in rather tactlessly.
“I did briefly, when I turned forty, and then I thought, What the hell. It wasn’t meant to be.”
I bite through my doughnut, avoiding eye contact with the others. Lynsey’s baby has opened my ears to the ticking of my biological clock. I didn’t know I had one until now.
“Poor Lynsey,” Frances pipes up. “She’s been through labor, been humiliated by that husband of hers—mind you, I always said he was trouble—and now her hormones are going to kick in.”
“Yes, poor thing,” Izzy agrees.
I keep silent. The only thing worse than washing your dirty linen in public is having someone else do it for you.
I glance toward Frances, who’s pouring more tea. She belongs at Otter House. Like a slightly worn but colorful sofa, she’s part of the furniture. I can’t imagine her working anywhere else now, and I can’t see Talyton Manor Vets offering her her old job back either. In fact, if it wasn’t for those dreadful Fox-Giffords, I wouldn’t be in this position.
“Frances,” I begin. My palms grow clammy as the memory comes flooding back to me of when Mike suggested I hand in my resignation and leave Crossways. It was one of the worst days of my life because, although I knew it was personal, I couldn’t help suspecting that he’d have found a way of keeping me on if he thought I’d really been going places in my career.
“Yes, Maz?” Frances says.
“No, it’s all right.” It will be better to wait until after the weekend, give her the bad news first thing on Monday morning. “It’ll keep.”
CHAPTER 13
Death by Spider-Man
“Stewart hasn’t kept his appointment with Cadbury today. Would you ring him and ask him to make another one ASAP?” I ask Izzy. I’m chickening out of talking to him myself because I feel partially responsible for the marital discord. I should have been more careful. By no stretch of either the imagination or the elastic would those pants ever have fitted Lynsey.
“For Monday?” Izzy says, picking up the phone in Reception while I tidy up after my last appointment of the Saturday morning surgery.
“Today, preferably. Even tomorrow—I don’t mind opening up on a Sunday.” It’s important, possibly more for my peace of mind than for Cadbury. A few more days of worrying about Cadbury, what Cheryl might do next, and how I might persuade a few more clients into the practice, and I’ll be a nervous wreck. However, when Izzy does finally get hold of Stewart, he’s tied up on the farm and the cowman is off sick, so it has to be Monday. I guess it’s all right—Stewart knows his animals.
“Nigel wants to see you,” Izzy says. “He’s in the office.”
“Thanks,” I say, sighing inwardly. I was looking forward to some time to myself.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, Maz, but you look whacked,” Izzy says. “Why don’t I take the phones for you tomorrow night? You could walk Miff along the river to the Talymill Inn, have a bite to eat, and watch Nigel and his morris troupe dancing.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I say, a little surprised.
“You don’t seem to be coping with the pressure, and we don’t want clients complaining because the vet’s half asleep.”
Although put out by her lack of faith in me, I decide that a couple of hours without the phone sounds too tempting an offer to refuse.
“What about you though, Izzy?”
“I’ll be at Chris’s. I’m going to do dinner while he’s out on his tractor. I can’t believe how much there is to do on a farm on a summer’s evening.”
“So you and him?”
“We’re friends,” she says coyly.
“Well, if you really don’t mind,” I say. I can see why Emma has come to depend on Izzy. I hope she doesn’t start looking for another job because of the situation here.
She smiles. “You’d better catch up with Nigel quick—he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Don’t mention the butterflies though—he’s got butterfly strips on his cheek.” She giggles. “He caught himself with his fishing hook, would you believe. He says he’s going to be the compleat angler by Christmas. Complete idiot, more like.”
“Now he knows what it’s like to be a fish,” I say drily.
“And he’s strained the ligaments in his knee, morris dancing. I told him he really shouldn’t take up such dangerous sports.”
Cheered up a little, I find Nigel is in the office, and of course my eyes are immediately drawn to the sticky strips on his cheek, and then to the pile of papers in front of him on the desk.
“Bills,” he says. “I’ve been dealing with them in order of priority. I’m going to have to interrupt Emma’s holiday.” There’s a funny smell in the office, the sickly scent of hot lavender and moldy grain. Nigel rolls up one trouser leg to reveal a shiny white calf covered with sparse gingery fuzz before placing a heat pad across his knee. “She’ll have to come straight back—I can’t see any other way.” He picks up a piece of paper and waves it at me. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
I shake my head. There’s a strangulating pressure on my throat, like someone’s fingers, Cheryl’s maybe …
“This is a letter from Cheryl’s solicitor, threatening legal action against us unless we agree to settle for Blueboy’s loss of earnings and his post-traumatic stress, as well as a manicure for Cheryl after she tore her nail on the front door as she left, and her solicitor’s costs, of course. It has to be the most expensive haircut in history—we could have had Vidal Sassoon himself.” Nigel stabs at the paper halfway down with his finger to show me the figure.
“That much?” My pulse flutters with panic. Where am I going to find that kind of money? Will my indemnity insurance pay out, considering the circumstances? If the Fox-Giffords find out how much she’s asking for, they’ll have a field day. They’ll make sure it reaches the national press as
well as the Chronicle.
“There’s also another piece of correspondence that I took the liberty of opening—a letter from the Royal College asking you to comment on Cheryl’s complaint against you. If I’m not very much mistaken, she intends to have you hung out to dry.”
“It isn’t as if I did any harm.” My mouth feels tacky, as if I’ve just woken with a hangover. “In a way, I was doing the cat a favor.”
“If you can prove that, you’re in the clear. Can you prove it without the consent form?” Nigel removes the handkerchief that’s neatly folded in his shirt pocket with a morris man’s practiced flourish and blows his nose. “I’m inclined to make her an offer.”
“I’ve already tried. It didn’t work.” Nigel’s mustache begins to twitch, and I shut him up quickly. “It’s all right. It was my own money.”
“Did things go better with Frances?” he asks, changing the subject. “You have done the deed?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to tell her,” I admit. “I’m going to do it on Monday. In the meantime I’ve got some ideas to improve the practice income, so there’s no need to bother Emma just yet. I mean, she must have known what was going on before she left …” It’s almost as if she wanted someone to find out. “There’s still time to turn Otter House Vets around before she gets back—all we need to do is get the clients back through the door.”
“Wow, you should have been a rocket scientist. Brilliant.” Nigel tries to stand but fails. (I don’t know about man flu, but he seems to have acquired a serious case of man knee, and I can’t see how he’s going to be able to dance later.) “What exactly do you suggest?”
“How about some free clinics: a slimming club, puppy parties, and checkups for our senior citizens. The consultation would be free, but they’d pay for any extras—blood tests, vaccinations, and diet food.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Nigel says sarcastically, “a sign reading ‘Talyton Manor Vets, branch surgery.’”
By sunday evening I’m feeling a little more relaxed and looking forward to my night out. I haven’t heard anything from Stewart, so I assume Cadbury’s on the mend.
Down by the river I stop on the footbridge to let Miff off the lead. This time she doesn’t run away. She waits beside me as I watch the water flowing beneath my feet, gazing at me with those soft brown eyes of hers as if to say, “Don’t do it, Maz. It can’t be all that bad.” And now that I’m outside, away from Otter House, it isn’t.
It’s a lovely evening. The sun burns orange in the west, silhouetting the hills with neon halos, and the trees cast lengthening shadows across our path as I stroll on with Miff at my heels. A duck skims the water ahead of us, sending up bright splashes, as if it’s showing us the break in the line of trees beyond, where we turn off to enter the garden of the Talymill Inn.
Back in my student days, when I was working at Barton Farm, the pub was done up with a flashing floor, piped music, and a pink elephant slide to attract the tourists. Since then, Clive’s taken it from trashy plastic to smart rustic.
I tie Miff to a picnic table outside and head for the bar, where Clive refuses to take my money.
“Would you like me to have another look at Robbie?” I ask.
“If you wouldn’t mind. Only if it’s not too much trouble.” He glances around at the busy pub. “I don’t seem to have the time to bring him to you.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind making pub calls.” I glance over the bar to where Robbie’s sitting up on an enormous cushion. “How is he?”
“He isn’t so good, are you, son?”
Robbie gazes in the direction of his master’s voice—I’d guess his vision has deteriorated since I last saw him, along with everything else—and beats the cushion with his tail.
“There are things you could try,” I say. “Hydrotherapy, physio, lifting aids, trolleys …”
“A trolley?” Clive grimaces. “What kind of life would that be for a dog?”
“It would save your back.” A woman joins Clive behind the bar. She’s very striking, taller than Clive, with dark eyes, a slightly hooked nose, and long black hair lightened by silver streaks. “I’m Edie,” she says. She holds out her hand to shake mine. The sleeve of her purple dress falls away, revealing a slender white wrist. “You must be Maz, the vet.” She turns back to Clive. “Don’t make the poor girl talk shop while she’s here.”
“Maz doesn’t mind …”
“I expect you’re like us, Maz. You can rarely get away,” Edie says. “And when you do, you have people like my husband going on about their dogs. He’s obsessed with old Robbie. In fact, I’m convinced he loves him more than he loves me.”
“Is it surprising?” Clive teases. “Robbie doesn’t boss me about.”
Edie grows serious. “Robbie’s been messing himself—I don’t suppose Clive’s mentioned that.”
“I clear up after him,” Clive says, his voice defensive. “Everyone has the odd accident when they get to that age, but you don’t put them down because they’re an embarrassment.”
“I’m thinking of Robbie, how he feels losing his dignity,” Edie says quietly. “What do you think, Maz?” she adds, putting me on the spot as I sense the tension between husband and wife. What would I do if Robbie was my dog? At what point does a life become not worth living?
I look toward Robbie, who’s picked up a toy and is holding it hopefully in his mouth, waiting for someone to play.
“I wouldn’t say he’s suffering yet,” I say tactfully, “but you both know Robbie better than I do. You’ll know when it’s time.”
“Thanks, Maz.” I can almost hear Clive’s sigh of relief, although I’m a little afraid that I’ve offended Edie by taking his side when she’s probably really fed up with the mess, especially when they’re running a busy pub. A smelly old dog—I’m sorry, Robbie—is the last thing they need.
“I can hear bells—the morris men are here.” Edie throws Clive a towel. “I’ll have to get back to the kitchen. You’d better get on and change that barrel.”
I return outside to rejoin Miff, who’s delighted to see me, jumping up and squeaking and wagging her tail. If no one else has, at least she’s forgiven me at last for not being Emma.
I sit down with my drink at the table on the lawned area that sweeps down to the river and watch the morris dancers, male and female, wandering about and exchanging rowdy greetings while what seem like hundreds of kids play on the jungle gym.
The morris band tunes up their fiddles to an old accordion, and Clive emerges from the pub with a tray of pint glasses slopping over with bitter. With a tapping of sticks and tinkling of bells, the dancing kicks off. Nigel gives me a little wave when he sees me, skipping back and forth as if there’s nothing wrong with his knee, and twirling a handkerchief in each hand.
Is this really how people in Talyton like to spend their Sunday nights? I wonder.
I miss being able to pop out with friends—admittedly, most of them were staff from Crossways—for a meal. I miss being a student too. Emma used to be a real party animal. She’d throw a party at the drop of a hat. I gaze into the depths of my glass, recalling the time when the guests found knots of catgut in the punch. We’d been at home practicing our suturing techniques on oranges the day before, and Emma had chucked them in without checking them first.
I feel rather exposed, sitting on my own, knowing I’ve not had the best start here. Occasionally, a stranger casts a glance in my direction, and I wonder how many of them have seen Cheryl’s posters, how many of them doubt my professionalism.
My phone rings. I grab it from my bag and check the caller display. It’s Izzy, and before she even has time to explain I can tell from the tone of her voice that there’s something very wrong.
“I’m sorry, Miff,” I say, untying her from the table leg. “We have to go.”
Izzy has everything ready, including a consent form, which Stewart has signed, giving permission for any necessary procedure. Stewart himself is pacing up and down Rece
ption, his lower jaw jutting forward, his mouth set in a grim, straight line, and his fists clenched at his sides.
“Er, hi,” I say, sick with nerves.
Stewart doesn’t speak.
“Maz.” Izzy holds the door into the corridor open for me. “This way! Now!”
The light is out, and it feels as if I’m following her down a long, dark tunnel.
“The bulb’s gone,” Izzy says. “I haven’t had a chance to change it. Quickly—we haven’t got much time …”
She shoves open the door into the operating theater. The light sears the backs of my eyes, and it takes a moment for me to recover my sight. When it returns, everything is all too clear. Cadbury lies on the table with an IV drip up and running.
“He isn’t going anywhere,” Izzy says quietly. “It took me a couple of minutes to find a pulse. I assume you’re going straight in.” This is an order, not a statement of fact.
I give Cadbury the lightest touch of anesthetic and a quick scrub and open him up. The diagnosis is simple: peritonitis and septic shock.
“I’ll need more fluids.”
“They’re warming in the sink,” Izzy says curtly.
“And some soluble antibiotic.”
“All ready—here on the crash trolley.”
“Come on, Cads,” I murmur. “You’re going to make it. You have to.”
“He’s stopped breathing,” Izzy says urgently.
I watch his rib cage. No movement.
“Bag him,” I say.
“There’s no pulse.”
“Start massage.”
“I’ll have to put him on his side.” Izzy rolls him over and immediately starts cardiac massage, pressing rhythmically on his chest. She pauses, gives him a breath of oxygen with the black rubber bag on the anesthetic machine. Pump-pump-pump-pump-pump. Breath. Pump-pump-pump-pump-pump. Breath.
Izzy’s face grows scarlet with effort, but I can see that it’s no use … It’s too late.
Nothing concentrates the mind more than being up to your elbows inside a dead dog, particularly a puppy who should have had twelve to fourteen years of life ahead of him.
City Girl, Country Vet Page 18
