However, I think there’s room for optimism. She’s young and in good hands—Clive knows far more about training dogs than I do.
“We might see you later, Maz,” he says before they leave with Petra. “We’re holding the wake for Gloria up at the Talymill. We thought it was the right thing to do, as she has no relatives left to do it for her.” He pauses. “You see, the good people of Talyton have accepted us at last.”
I know what he’s hinting at, that there’s hope for me too.
“Bye, Maz,” Edie says. “Let’s get you to your new home, Petra, and show you your toys.”
After they’ve gone, I check the waiting list on the computer. Petra was my last appointment and, as usual, I’m running late.
Emma pops her head round the door.
“Izzy and Frances have gone on ahead. It isn’t good form to be late for a funeral, you know. Everyone’ll talk.”
“I’m coming,” I say, untangling myself from my stethoscope and leaving it on the table.
Emma blocks my way out. “Have you decided yet?” she asks. “Should I get on with organizing your leaving do?” She’s trying to make light of it, I think, but I know her better than that. It means a lot to her, and I shouldn’t keep her in suspense, especially—I smile to myself, happy that it’s worked out for her—in her condition.
“I’ll let you know tonight,” I say, taking off my tunic, which I threw on over a gray asymmetric top and black trousers this morning, and brushing past her. “I promise.”
Ten minutes later and I’m parked on the road outside the church. It could be a cathedral. It could be a film set for a horror movie. I’m not sure which came first—the church or all those pubs in Talyton St. George—but you might speculate that a bishop had it built to punish his intemperate congregation. One night in the crypt and you’d soon dry out.
The gargoyles’ rabid mouths are dribbling rainwater from an earlier shower, creating dark stains down the stonework; and the churchyard, bordered by toxic yews—toxic to horses anyway, I can remember that much about them from vet school—is chockablock with gravestones and memorials with the history of Talyton St. George written in their inscriptions.
If I stay, I’ll become a small part of the town’s history, as an Otter House vet. I’d be like Gillian of Petals, or Cheryl of the Copper Kettle, or Mr. Lacey of Lacey’s Fine Wines. I would belong …
I glance at my watch, realizing that, as Emma predicted, I’m late. I duck inside the church and take a seat at the back, on one of the chairs behind the pews.
There are far more mourners than I expected. It looks as if the whole town is there. I can see Izzy and Chris, P.C. Phillips, Dave the paramedic, Fifi, Frances and her band of volunteers, along with a handful of elderly women dressed in black and scented with camphor and Je Reviens. I can see the Fox-Giffords in the pew at right angles to the rest, one that presumably separates the aristocracy from the common people. Alex is wearing a dark suit, which emphasizes the width of his shoulders, and a white shirt, which contrasts with his lightly tanned complexion. I’ve not seen him in a suit before. It gives him a brooding look.
He catches my eye and nods a greeting, and a wave of embarrassment washes through me as I recall how I threw myself at him and he pushed me away.
Old Fox-Gifford, leaning on a stick, wears a navy blazer. Sophia sports a fox fur across her shoulders, a real one, its head still on, the face ghastly and glassy-eyed.
When the organ plays a piece—Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” I think—signaling that the service is over, I bow my head as the coffin passes, and pay my respects.
Poor Gloria. I thought I’d be angry with her. I didn’t see how I’d ever be able to forgive her, but now that Alex is out of danger—I glance toward him again—I am incredibly sorry that she felt driven to take her own life.
I join the throng of mourners and wait while they bury her in the far corner of the churchyard, where her husband, Tom, was laid to rest. There’s space on the headstone for her name and epitaph, proving, I think, that she must have found it in her heart to forgive him his affair with Fifi, and I don’t know if it’s that or the handfuls of the earth clattering onto her coffin, or the seagulls’ mournful cries as they swoop across the sky, but a lump rises in my throat, and Ben is at my side, touching my arm.
“Are you all right, Maz?” he asks.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he says sternly. “Gloria was ill. What began as selfless charity became a compulsion, a behavior she couldn’t control.”
“She did love her animals,” I say.
“Yes, I have no doubt, and she really believed she was the best person to look after them, but as Fifi says, she was deluding herself. When the money ran out and she grew more infirm, she couldn’t cope.” Ben hesitates. “We’re all partly responsible for what happened.”
I know he’s right. Ben was in the position of knowing that there was a problem but didn’t—or couldn’t because of his professional ethics—communicate his suspicions to anyone else. Fifi and Talyton Animal Rescue gave up on Gloria too easily, and I put her in an impossible situation from which she could see no escape. The thought of living without her animals was worse than dying, so she tried to take them all with her by creating the inferno at the cottage. I think of the insect trapped in the amber on Gloria’s silver chain. The sanctuary was a death trap.
“Dr. Mackie, you are coming to the wake?” Fifi sweeps toward us, a rather frightening vision of purple and black. “And you, Maz.”
“I’m going straight back to Otter House,” I say.
“Oh, you can’t possibly,” Fifi says. “You’re one of us now. You have to come,” she adds in a tone that brooks no argument.
I’m touched that Fifi at least wants me there, but—I glance down the path where Alex is walking along with his mother on his arm and his father in front—there are others who aren’t so welcoming. However, there is a part of me, a big part, that persuades me to head to the Talymill Inn with everyone else, and it’s all down to the thought of snatching a few more minutes in Alex’s company.
“What is this stuff?” Old Fox-Gifford eyes the canapé he’s picked up from one of the trays on the bar.
“It’s olive and anchovy toast, I believe,” Fifi says. “We have these at some of the dos I have to attend in my capacity as lady mayoress.”
Old Fox-Gifford wrinkles his nose. “It isn’t vegetarian, is it?”
“Anchovy is a fish,” Fifi says.
“Why on earth didn’t they stick to good old-fashioned vol-au-vents?” Sophia says. “Everyone likes those.”
“I don’t know what this town’s coming to,” Old Fox-Gifford says. “People should leave their newfangled ways behind, or push off back to where they came from.”
“Some would say that change is good,” Fifi says, glancing toward Clive, who’s serving drinks. I wonder about Fifi. Clive’s married, and she must be at least ten years older, but it doesn’t stop her flirting with him, I think, as I move across and pick up a glass of apple juice.
“Maz, wait right there,” Fifi says, spotting me. “I’m going to say a few words.”
I start to panic, wondering what I’ve said or done to offend her, but she taps her glass with a knife from the bar.
“Friends and fellow Talytonians,” she says, commanding the room’s attention. “I’d like to thank everyone for turning out to say their farewells to Gloria and sending her off in such style. Thank you, Clive and Edie, for putting on such a wonderful spread.” There’s a ripple of applause from the crowd of people in the bar, which include, I notice, DJ and his team of builders, here for the free lunch, and many of the shopkeepers from the town, along with a deputation from the garden center, including Margaret the cashier.
“There’s one more person who deserves a special mention.” Fifi turns to me. “I should like to thank Maz for all the work she’s put in, helping with Gloria’s animals, and always with a smil
e. Thank you, Maz.”
“Hear, hear,” I hear Clive murmur, and to my surprise, Fifi strikes up with “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone joins in—apart from Alex’s parents, I notice. Alex moves up beside me, slipping his hand behind my back, as if he’s aware that I could do with some moral support. I’m not used to being center of attention, and I blush as the song draws to a close and Fifi calls on me to make a speech.
I take a deep breath, wondering what to say as I scan the crowd, and then I realize that it isn’t all that difficult. I’m among friends.
“I couldn’t have done it without your support,” I say, tears pricking my eyes. “Everyone has helped in any way they can, from vetting new homes for the rescues, to getting their hands dirty and cleaning out kennels and cages, to bringing in pet food. I’d like to thank all of you …”
There’s another round of applause, wolf whistles from DJ’s team, and a sharp bark from Petra, who’s in Robbie’s old place behind the bar.
I check my watch. I ought to be getting back.
“Patients to see?” Alex asks.
“It’s my turn to do the run up to Buttercross Cottage, or what’s left of it. We’ve still got a couple of traps up there, although we haven’t found any waifs and strays for a few days now.”
“Oh?” His eyes are shadowed with weariness, and I wonder if he’s been sleeping. “I guess you want to round up the rest of them before you …” His sentence hangs unfinished, his voice hopeful.
“Well, yes.” I don’t know what to say. My heart burns, a molten ball of regret, because I’m pretty sure now that he does have feelings for me, that he turned me down out of respect, not because he didn’t want me.
I wish I could talk to him, tell him about Emma’s offer and how my decision is balanced on a knife edge, because today, thanks to Fifi, I’ve realized I can belong here.
“I’ll see you around, Alex,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says mournfully, and I walk away, thinking that there’s one obstacle left, one problem that I don’t know how to solve.
On my way back to the practice, I divert to Longdogs Copse, where someone has fenced off the ruin of Buttercross Cottage and put up signs reading KEEP OUT. I ignore them and walk to the site. Already green shoots are sprouting from the ashes. Cow parsley and wildflowers mingle with the few surviving rosebushes. There are rabbits nibbling the short grass in the paddock, and birds singing in the trees in the copse beyond. Despite the devastation that has occurred here, I feel a sense of calm.
Do I really want to go back to London? The stress of seeing forty patients all before lunchtime, the hassle of communicating with clients who are under pressure themselves, the traffic, the throngs of gray people scurrying about like rats across the greasy pavements, always chasing the clock?
I tramp toward the new fence to reset the trap, and there he is, a very sorry-looking ginger cat sitting hunched up on top of it. Momentarily, I wonder if I should have brought the gauntlets with me, but he doesn’t appear to have much fight left in him. He hardly lifts his head when I call his name.
“Hi there, Ginge,” I murmur, kneeling down beside the trap. “Izzy said you were too savvy to end up in there.” Remembering what he did to me before, I reach out slowly to touch him. He turns and bares his teeth in a furious hiss, but he doesn’t lash out. He’s so scrawny I don’t think he can anymore.
He lets me grasp him by the scruff of the neck and pick him up, a bundle of bones and matted hair. I hold him to my chest to take him to the car, where he lies unrestrained in the footwell, howling—it’s a fearsome howl, as if he’s calling to the cat gods on the other side of the grave—for what I’m afraid will be his final journey to Otter House.
Emma’s at Reception.
“Everything okay?” she asks, looking up from the desk.
“Not really.” I show her the cat in my arms. “One of Gloria’s. Do you remember Ginge?”
“The one who bit through my thumb.” Emma smiles ruefully. “He looks as if he’s on his way out. Do you want me to give you a hand?”
“I’m going to give him twenty-four hours,” I say.
“I’d say you were being wildly optimistic.”
I take him through to Isolation, where Emma helps me put him on a drip, dose him up with a cocktail of drugs, and restart him on his antithyroid tablets. He growls when I put him on a fluffy bed and close the cage door.
“I don’t know what we’ll do with him if he does recover,” Emma says.
He might hiss at me, he might hate me, but Gloria managed to find room for him in her heart, and if she could, I can too. I said I’d never have another cat after King, but if Ginge does make it, I shall keep him.
“I’ll take care of him,” I say.
“You? You haven’t got a home to call your own, let alone somewhere you can keep a pet.” Emma pauses, one hand on her hip. “Of course, you would have if you’d only make up your mind to stay on at Otter House. I don’t understand what the problem is. If you’d offered me a partnership, I’d have jumped at it.”
“I know.” I look at Ginge, who’s pressed himself into the corner of the cage. I’d love to say yes, but I can’t. And it isn’t about the money or feeling like an outsider. My throat chokes up with emotion. I’ll have to find a solution, because the more I think about it now, the more I want to stay.
CHAPTER 23
Animal Magic
I sit with Ginge for much of the night, thinking it over. When I fiddle with his drip, he bites me—in the nicest possible way, I hasten to add. It’s a mock bite, without teeth. By the small hours, he’s sitting on my lap, a purring skeleton with bald patches where I’ve had to trim the worst of the knots away. I find it difficult to put him back in the cage, because as soon as he’s confined in there he starts grumbling again. I smile to myself. He’s going to get better—he’s got enough fight left in him.
I’ve gained Ginge’s trust, but I’m no nearer finding a way of regaining Izzy’s. I’ll have to talk to her. After all, I’ve got nothing to lose.
It’s too busy first thing. Frances is at Reception, making appointments that seem to be coming thick and fast now Emma’s back. Emma’s in the office with a box of doughnuts to stave off morning sickness, going through the accounts with Nigel, and Izzy’s whizzing around with rows of stainless-steel feeding bowls on her arm, like a silver service waitress. Raffles, some of the cats, and the small furries are still with us, waiting for homes. Ugli-dog has gone to one of Talyton Animal Rescue’s long-term fosterers.
Suddenly, the buzzer goes off and there’s a lot of shouting and banging of doors. Frances throws the door into Kennels open, letting in Chris, who’s carrying a dog wrapped in a bloodstained towel in his arms.
“Emergency!” she calls. “Is there a vet in the house?”
“Oh, God.” Izzy’s face turns pale, and she drops her last bowl onto the floor before springing toward the bench where Chris is unwrapping his bundle. Her voice rises to a scream. “It’s Freddie!”
“Someone’s tipped some rubbish into one of our fields,” Chris gasps. “He’s cut himself. It’s this leg,” he adds helpfully, although there’s no need to tell me. It’s obvious which leg the blood’s coming from. I unwrap Chris’s temporary tourniquet, made from a well-used handkerchief, grab the top of Freddie’s front leg, and squeeze it to stem the bleeding, which slows to a steady ooze.
Chris turns to Izzy, as upset as she is.
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t realize the dogs had got out. When I found them, Freddie and Meg were rounding up the sheep, would you believe it? Anyway, I whistled, they came bounding across the field, and Freddie caught himself on a piece of glass.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Izzy says gently, seeming to have recovered from the shock of Freddie’s arrival. She hands me a swab. I dab at the area, checking for glass. Freddie fidgets—a good sign, I think, because I have no idea how much blood he’s lost—but the bleeding starts up again, spurting arcs of bright, arterial
red, which spatter my scrub top, face, and hair.
“We’d better get him knocked out ASAP,” I say, applying another tourniquet to Freddie’s leg, which stops the bleeding, giving me time to anesthetize him. Izzy holds Freddie’s head while Chris and Frances look on. Once Freddie’s safely asleep, Izzy releases the tourniquet. I clamp off the severed artery and swab away the blood so I can assess the rest of the damage.
“How bad is it, Maz?” Chris asks.
“He’s cut through a couple of tendons,” I say. Freddie’s bigger than when I last saw him, but he isn’t fully grown yet. “I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to reattach them.”
“I hope they can be fixed,” Chris says. “Just as he’s proved he has the drive to be a working sheepdog, this happens. He’ll be no good to me if he can only run on three legs.”
“You will keep him though?” Izzy says quickly.
Chris smiles wryly. “A dog is like a wife—it should be for life.” He turns back to me. “I take it you’re doing the surgery, Maz.”
I don’t answer, aware that Izzy’s staring at me as if assessing my competence and Freddie’s chances if I should end up wielding the scalpel.
I clear my throat. “Frances, will you buzz Emma, please? I’d like her to do the surgery.” I turn back to Izzy. “Is that all right with you?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” she says. “I’ll set up in theater.”
“Emma can’t do it,” Frances announces. “She keeps dashing off to the bathroom.” She smiles. “I knew it. I knew she was in the family way.”
“You mean she’s pregnant?” says Izzy.
“Why else would she be craving doughnuts and feeling sick?” Frances says triumphantly. “You’ll have to carry on without her, Maz.”
“Izzy?” I say.
Izzy’s brow creases with concern for Freddie.
“I’ll be really careful, I promise.”
“Go on then,” she says, and a few minutes later, Freddie is in the operating theater. Izzy tells Chris to watch the bag on the anesthetic circuit to make sure Freddie keeps breathing, while she fusses around, making sure I have the right kit.
City Girl, Country Vet Page 30
