I try desperately hard to get ahead. Ha! Last week, I was a lowly assistant, now I seem to think I can run an office single handed and even manage to get away early! Stupid Louisa. In the end, I get away at seven thirty and go straight to the hospital, leaving Elmer to night-stop with Sam.
I negotiate the network of hospital wings and wards with difficulty. I’m just not used to them. Actually, I don’t think I’ve been in one since I was born. After asking half a dozen highly efficient nurse types exactly where Agnes’s ward is, once I manage to get there, I stand there uselessly looking for her, until I hear a weak voice saying my name.
I turn round and lying in a bed that looks enormous with her tiny, frail body in it, is Agnes. I’m deeply shocked. Since when did she get so small? I go and sit next to her and by accident, find myself holding her hand.
I’ve been there all of three minutes when Beamish comes in, looking a little pale himself, I notice. But determinedly keeping the old pecker up.
‘Ah. Louisa. Jolly nice of you to visit. Um. Fancy a little walk?’
I tell Agnes I’ll be back in a few minutes. As we walk out of her ward, Beamish has stopped trying to look as though everything’s okay. Clearly it’s not.
‘Peritonitis.’ He says it quietly. ‘She’s about to go in to surgery any minute.’ He looks at his watch, then adds, ‘If you’d been five minutes later, you’d have missed her. They’ve had her on antibiotics since she came in, but she’s er, not so good. But chin up old girl. I’m sure she’ll be er, fine.’ Then he lapses into silence.
I don’t have anything to say either, so after Agnes is taken to theatre, we sit and wait together. Shock slowly seeps over me. I mean I knew Agnes was ill, but if Beamish is to be believed, it’s serious.
Then I remember. ‘Beamish. Agnes has a daughter. Rachel, Mrs Boggle said. We have to tell her what’s happened.’
He pats my arm. ‘Don’t worry, old thing. All under control.’
An hour later, we’re joined by Miles. And half an hour after that, Emma. Marcus is out in the dark somewhere, in a field with half a dozen firemen and a horse that’s stuck in a ditch.
We keep our vigil in silence, losing track of time until a surgeon comes towards us through double doors, looking serious.
‘Family?’ he asks. We all shake our heads. Maybe Beamish slightly less so.
‘Um, work colleagues,’ he says, standing up and squaring his shoulders. ‘And um, extremely good friends.’
The surgeon surveys our motley little band suspiciously, then for some reason decides that we’re genuine.
‘Well...’ he starts. ‘She’s out of the woods. For now. A particularly vicious peritonitis. I’m not quite sure how she kept going. She must have been feeling terrible for quite some time.’ He shakes his head. ‘She hadn’t seen her doctor?’
But out of all of us, I’m the one who completely gets it - and I feel terrible. If you have a job like Agnes’s, it’s impossible to take time off when no-one else knows how it all works. Especially if your assistant is me.
‘It may be best if just one of you visits tonight...’ he adds. ‘She’s very drowsy still, and on medication for the pain. And hopefully by tomorrow, she should start to feel a little better.’
Beamish stands up, then sits again. It’s obvious this has really knocked the stuffing out of him. He looks at me.
‘Er, why don’t you pop in Louisa? She’ll want to see you,’ he says gruffly. ‘Give her love. Er, from all of us. I’ll come back in the morning.’
When I see Agnes, she’s very drowsy, but already starting to come round. She tells me that the pain has gone. I crouch down by her bed, relieved to see her looking marginally less awful than earlier.
‘They’re all outside,’ I tell her. ‘Except Marcus. He’s in a ditch,’ I explain, and the eyebrows rise weakly.
‘They all send their love. Beamish says he’s coming back in the morning.’ I’m not sure how he’ll swing that one by the ferocious looking sister who monitors all incomers. Visiting hours are strictly 3-7pm. There’s a big sign on the wall that says so.
I bend over and kiss her pale forehead. ‘Hurry up and get better,’ I whisper. ‘We need you.’
Then I take the hint from the nurse who’s glaring at me and leave.
Out in the corridor, I report back to the others. And tell Beamish about visiting hours, but I don’t think he’s listening. There’s unanimous agreement to find somewhere for a drink and a quick bite to eat – not because we feel like celebrating, it’s just none of us particularly wants to go home just yet. We’re used to any number of sick horses, but one of us being ill, least of all Agnes, that’s another matter altogether.
The next morning I start work earlier. When I arrive at the practice, Elmer ignores me. Clearly she’s decided that I’m superfluous to her needs and that it’s much nicer living with Sam.
So I check the answerphone, read the emails and compile the lists of calls. Stella’s in today, so I try to give her clients who are least likely to be upset by her. Okay, so where are the vets? Gosh. It’s only 7.30am. I’m actually doing rather well.
My next job is to compile another list of supplies that need ordering. But then I notice someone wandering around in the yard. I finish scribbling down what I’m in the middle of, then go outside, to find Sam has beaten me to it.
I recognise the figure immediately. It’s that chavvy boy. The one whose skanky dog Elmer went for - I’d recognise its blingy collar anywhere. She’s out there now, sat, by Sam’s side, growling menacingly - but doing exactly what Sam says. He’s obviously a dog whisperer too.
The skanky dog’s looking very sorry for itself. It’s hunched up, and shivery, with saliva drooling from its mouth. Sam crouches down, and strokes it gently, all the time talking quietly.
The boy glares at me. His worn jeans are hanging off his backside in that way that only teenage boys can carry off, exposing boxers and an expanse of lilywhite flesh. ‘Please Mrs, can ya keep yer dog away? Only he’s well sick, is Beckham... Fink me step-dad’s gone an’ poisoned ‘im…’
I grab Elmer by the scruff and drag her away to a stable, while Sam talks to the boy. When I come back, Sam has things under control.
‘I think Zac could be right about poisoning,’ he tells me, then turns to Zac. ‘But don’t worry. One of the vets will be here any minute and they can look at Beckham straight away. Do you want to bring him into the hay store?’
The boy gently encourages his mutt to stagger feebly across the yard, following Sam as right on cue, Marcus pulls up.
‘What’s going on here?’ he asks me, looking at Zac and Beckham.
God help us. Marcus is being thick again. Just when I least need him to be.
‘It’s a sick dog, Marcus,’ I say, nice and slowly. So he understands.
‘But we only do horses.’
‘Does it matter? If Beamish were here, he’d be over there looking at it himself,’ I say firmly. And ping. A light goes on.
‘Yes. Right. Of course,’ says Marcus, and grabbing his bag, he’s safely back into superhero-mode as he lopes across the yard after them.
Marcus quickly confirms that the poor dog has indeed been poisoned, even though the rest of us already know that.
‘How do you think it happened?’ he asks Zac.
‘It’s me step-dad,’ he says sullenly. ‘E’s a right fuckin’ tosser. ‘E ‘ates Beckham. Says he’s a manky old flea bag.’ Then he adds, ‘E ‘ates me too.’
I can see Marcus looking quite angry, probably thinking that he’d like to get Zac’s step-dad prosecuted, or at least give him a good thumping, but it’s first things first, which in this case means attending to Beckham.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘First we have to make him vomit up whatever it is he’s eaten. And then I need to give him charcoal to stop him absorbing anything that’s left. Now, I need to go and check on dosages because I’m a little out of touch on dogs, but it won’t take long and I’ll be right back.’
L
eaving Zac sitting on the floor beside his poor dog, panting and looking most uncomfortable.
‘How old are you Zac?’ I ask him, trying to be friendly.
‘Sixteen,’ comes the sullen reply, muttered under his breath as he shoots a look of pure hate in my direction.
‘Where are you from?’ I try again, trying not to make it sound as though I’m interrogating him.
There’s a pause, then under his breath he says, ‘’Evverside.’
I know exactly where he means. Heatherside is one of those God-awful council developments. Not one of the nice ones, as the name might suggest, with properly laid out quiet streets and gardens, but more like a mish-mash of the ugliest houses you’ve ever seen, all crammed in, with the least desirable, most troublesome tenants concentrated into just three streets. It ought to be called Hell’s Bottom. And it’s miles away. Well, on foot it is. Way further on from where Arian and I used to live, which makes it at least five miles away.
‘Here we go.’ Marcus is back masterfully wielding various syringes, and hearing the phone start to ring, I bolt back to the office.
When the other vets turn up, Emma takes Marcus’s first call, so that he can concentrate on the dog. Fortunately it’s not a busy morning.
Marcus stays with Zac and his dog for quite a while. It even looks like they’re chatting. Then Marcus walks off and makes a call on his mobile, before coming back again. Leaving Beckham in the capable hands of Sam, he brings Zac into the office.
‘Louisa. I’ve just been speaking to Beamish. About young Zac here. It seems that he’d like to do some work. To um, earn Beckham’s treatment...’
Zac turns to him. ‘I don’t want no charity, Mr,’ he says sullenly. ‘And I ain’t goin fuckin’ ‘ome neither.’
‘It’s not charity, Zac,’ says Marcus quietly, and very firmly. ‘Louisa will tell you that we’re one man down at the moment. Normally, there’s two people in this office and she spends part of her day out in the yard, helping Sam. So, my thinking was, that if you helped Sam, Louisa would be free to concentrate on the office. What do you say?’
There’s a begrudging ‘’kay.’
Great. Terrific, even… He sounds so enthusiastic. So now, not only do I have Agnes to worry about, there’s the delights of a bolshy teenager too. I wish Marcus had run it by me first.
But Sam’s horse-whispering skills work like a charm on Zac. Before long, he has him out sweeping the yard and then together they scrub down an empty stable or two. He even gets him to pull his jeans up slightly, so there’s less of the boxers on show. And every so often, one of them checks on Beckham, who Marcus is absolutely certain is going to be just fine.
I’m so wrapped up in everything that’s going on out there that I keep forgetting that I’m not just a lowly assistant at the moment. In Agnes’s absence, I’m actually running this office - and if I don’t get some bills out, none of us will be getting paid.
Since Agnes has been in hospital, which is only a few days, I can’t believe how quickly time is flashing by. What with calls, orders, paperwork, bills, odd things like Zac and Beckham thrown into the mix, there truly aren’t enough hours in the day.
So the afternoon finds me sitting behind the computer, cursing. The confounded stupid contraption which should have been updated years ago, is playing up yet again. The trouble is it’s Beamish’s pride and joy. He honestly believes we have a state of the art office, even though it’s more state of the ark, with a computer you can only describe as vintage.
My loud bugger catches the attention of Zac, who wanders in, still looking at me as though I’m the least trustworthy person on the planet.
‘’Sup…’ he mutters, staring at his trainers, obviously reluctant to even share the same space as me, owning as I do, the most evil and dangerous of all flatcoat retrievers.
‘Oh. Nothing.’ I say. Then, ‘D’you know, actually it’s this stupid machine.’
‘I could ‘ave a butchers...’ Zac shrugs, then stands looking utterly disinterested. Suddenly I remember very dimly that school children are all computer whizz kids these days.
‘You reckon?’
He shambles over and leans down to look at the screen. ‘Wot you tryin to do?’
I get up and explain what I’m trying to do and in no time, he’s sitting, his fingers flying around the keyboard, and two minutes later, the job is done.
‘I fink your ’ard drives well shit,’ he says. Then he gets up again.
‘Wow! Thanks!’ I say, impressed.
‘Actually I fink yer ’ole computer’s…’
‘…well shit?’ I finish for him. ‘I agree with you Zac. Unfortunately the boss does not, so if you have any bright ideas…’
‘Dunno,’ he says reluctantly, then shrugs and swaggers out, shoulders slightly squarer than when he came in.
I just hope he doesn’t go out and nick one.
Thanks to Zac though, I manage to finish my bills and get to the hospital to see Agnes, dropping Elmer home on my way, to make sure Beckham isn’t attacked again.
I make my way to the same ward where we saw Agnes last night. Looking down the beds, I can’t see her anywhere. I check again, and a bossy-looking nurse comes up to me.
‘Excuse me? Are you lost?’ she says, in a most unfriendly manner.
‘I’m looking for Agnes,’ I say. ‘She was here last night. I saw her...’ I’m starting to sound a little crazed. The nurse’s expression becomes more sympathetic, and she takes my arm and leads me gently out of the ward.
Oh God. Agnes isn’t dead is she? Suddenly I’m light headed and my heart is in my mouth, because being here for Agnes is so much more important than the office. As my mind runs away with me, I barely register what the nurse is telling me, which is that Agnes has been moved to intensive care. That there are complications.
On the one hand I’m thinking phew, thank heavens she’s okay, and then suddenly I realise what the nurse was saying. Intensive care. Complications - which doesn’t sound okay at all.
I find it eventually. It’s a strange place, with loads of electronic lights and bleepings, and other strange noises. Agnes is looking tinier than ever, lying back with tubes and lines coming in and out of her arms and nose.
‘Louisa...’ she just about manages when she sees me.
‘How is everything, are you managing...’ She murmurs slowly and so quietly I can hardly hear her. Her eyes are half closed. She looks drugged.
‘Sshh, Agnes. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. We can talk tomorrow when you’re feeling better,’ I say gently, and like last time, I sit and hold her hand until her eyes close and she’s asleep again.
And suddenly I’m terrified.
23
That night I do a lot of thinking. It’s one of those 3am lying-awake jobs again, as I worry about Agnes and whether the practice will survive being at the mercy of my modest assistant-rated skills. But then, I remind myself, no one’s actually complained. Not vets, or clients. At least, not yet.
And then my brain’s whirring about Pete, and Leo of course, by which point it’s only a matter of time before Arian’s back in my thoughts as well, and before I know it there’s a regular maelstrom going on in my head. I think it’s out of sheer desperation more than anything else that my poor brain shuts down at this point, giving me just about an hour of oblivion before the alarm goes off for yet another brand new day.
I wake up feeling as like I’ve just flown back from Australia. I switch my radio on to the rousing sound of Blur’s Woo Hoo, which has the desired effect and gets me out of bed to make some extremely strong coffee, which I take outside to drink with Horace. Lucky for me horses are such forgiving creatures, because it feels as though I’ve hardly been at home. But he bears no grudge for being neglected these last few days, just touches his velvet lips to my cheek and blows gently.
His beautiful shiny coat is growing thicker, a clear sign that the nights are getting colder and that for the end of October, these unseasonally warm days are lull
ing all of us into a false sense of security. I’ve ordered him a rug for the winter, like a weatherproof duvet for horses. His stable is full of straw and he’s looking really well for a horse consigned to death row. He munches the carrots I give him, and then just hangs around, being companionable. Horace is a total darling and I love him. XXX
Not surprisingly, I’m not at my most sparkling this morning. Beamish arrives shortly after me, which I’m not expecting as he’s not supposed to be in today. He spends ages talking to Zac, then looking at Beckham. Beamish loves it when we get different animals in. Then he fiddles about for a while, and has serious vet conversations with Marcus and Miles when they come in. Emma’s already been called out on an emergency.
Shortly before nine, when the others have cleared off, he comes in to find me. Standing there awkwardly, he shuffles his feet then clears his throat. He really looks most uncomfortable. What the blazes is he going to say, I wonder, my imagination of course already ten steps ahead of the game.
Er, Louisa, terribly sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to have to sack you. You haven’t been doing an awfully good job since Agnes was taken ill...Frightfully sorry old girl…
My imagination, as always, is a curse. I’ll end up having to get all the other vets on my side to back me up - and maybe some of the clients... I’m reasonably popular so some of them are bound to. And I’ll just have to prove to Beamish that actually I haven’t been doing too bad a job, at all. My anxiety is clearly showing on my face at this point, because Beamish asks,
‘Er Louisa? Are you alright?’
‘Um. Fine.’ I tell him, trying to put my imaginings out of my head.
‘Excellent. Well, I have some jolly good news. Um well, yes.’ And he stands there, with his chest puffed out, suddenly looking extremely pleased with himself.
The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man Page 13