They tied the dog tightly to the sledge and, for once, Hamish lay still and let them do what they had to without complaint except for a whimper or two when his broken leg was knocked in the process. ‘Good lad,’ Alan said soothingly as they secured him, stroking Hamish gently. ‘There’s my good lad.’
The two men climbed back up the ridge, hauling the heavy sledge complete with Hamish behind them. They had no option but to take it slowly, inch by inch, but eventually they reached the top. The worst part was over. Guy and Alan stood panting at the top and Hamish gave a weak woof, clearly also glad that the painful, jolting progress up the rockface had stopped. There was still a long way to go, but it would be easier from here on in as the route was mainly downhill back to the car. Now the race was on to get Hamish back to the surgery in time to save him.
Chapter Eighty-One
I’m sitting in the bed between my children, Tom snuggled under my arm on one side, Jessica on the other. ‘You must never do that again,’ I tell them as I stroke Jessica’s hair. ‘Mummy was so worried about you.’
‘We thought you were going to hurt Hamish,’ Tom says tearfully. ‘We didn’t want you to do it.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I squeeze my son. ‘I was so cross with him that I lost my temper. I’ll never do that again. I love Hamish.’ Did I really just say that? Yes, I did. And I mean it. Our life might be a damn sight quieter without Hamish in it, but suddenly that doesn’t seem to be an appealing prospect. He’s brought some fun and joy into the children’s lives when they’ve really needed it. ‘I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.’ How true that is now. I’m desperately worried that Guy and Alan won’t be able to get the dog out of that treacherous ravine in time. My blood turns to ice when I think that the children could have fallen down there too. If we were staying here I’d have to make sure that they were better schooled in the ways of outdoor pursuits and safety. As it is, we’re heading back to London where they’re more likely to get hit by a bus or mugged. That doesn’t sound like a great prospect either.
‘They’re here!’ my sister shouts from downstairs. ‘They’re bringing Hamish back.’
I shoot out of the bed, hotly pursued by Tom and Jessica. ‘You have to stay here,’ I tell them, marvelling at how quickly they’re recovering after some well-aimed hot chocolate and plenty of toast. ‘You must rest.’
‘We have to see Hamish,’ Tom says firmly. ‘He saved us.’
‘Okay,’ I relent. ‘But you must wrap up warm and go straight back to bed afterwards.’
Flying downstairs, we gear up in the kitchen, the children putting on layer upon layer over their pyjamas while Serena keeps an eye on their progress. We’re kitted up and are outside just in time to see Guy and Alan hauling the dead weight of Hamish into the yard. Stupid dog that he is, he still tries to bark and wag his tail.
‘Oh, Hamish,’ Jessica cries and runs to him.
Guy and Alan stop where they are and the men wipe the sweat from their brows. ‘Hard work,’ Guy pants.
My children crouch in the snow next to the dog, fussing and petting him.
‘How’s he doing?’ I ask Guy quietly.
‘Not great,’ he admits. ‘But he’s a fighter. We should get him straight back to the surgery. Alan’s going to come with me.’
I reach out and touch Guy’s arm. ‘Come back as soon as you can.’
‘I will,’ he says.
‘I’ll cook you both up the best festive omelette you’ve ever had.’ And I know that I owe this kind, strong man so much more, but I can’t say that now or I’ll cry again.
He laughs. ‘I’ll hold you to it.’
‘Children,’ I call out to Tom and Jessica. ‘Let Guy take Hamish now. He has to go and mend his broken leg.’
‘Please be careful with him,’ Tom pleads as he gives the dog a last, loving stroke.
‘I will,’ Guy assures him.
‘We couldn’t live without him,’ Jessica adds.
And that’s true enough. If Hamish survives – and I just pray that he does – it looks like he’s coming to London with us after all.
Chapter Eighty-Two
When they arrived at the surgery, Guy unlocked the door and flicked on all the lights. Unusually, they had only one patient in residence over Christmas so the place was virtually deserted. He could hear Fluffy, a hedgehog who’d also been brought in with a broken leg, rummaging about in his cage. The little animal had been here for over a month now. He was all healed and it was time for him to leave. But Fluffy had become so accustomed to human contact – Cheryl’s in particular – and his luxury diet of cat food, that Guy just couldn’t see him surviving in the wild now. He should be hibernating, not living in a centrally heated, one-room comfortable apartment with several doting attendants. Who in their right mind would want to go grubbing about for slugs in the cold after this? They couldn’t possibly think of turning him out yet. It was a problem that they’d have to address in the New Year. For now, Guy had more pressing matters to deal with.
For some reason Guy also switched on the lights of the Christmas tree which Cheryl had spent hours lovingly decorating. They twinkled at him – red, green and gold – but failed to make the practice look any more festive. On the desk there were boxes and boxes of chocolates, all brought in by grateful customers. Cheryl had tipped some into a glass dish and, without thinking, Guy automatically unwrapped one and ate it without tasting it either. ‘Chocolate?’ he said to Alan.
The man shook his head.
‘It’s the closest you’ll get to dinner for a while.’ Guy threw him a Quality Street anyway, then flicked on the CD player that was behind the desk. Soon, Cheryl’s selection of Christmas carols drifted out through the speakers. He’d need something to soothe him while he carried out this particular operation. Ridiculously, he felt as if he was going to be operating on his own child. Even worse, it took him back to the day he’d had to put his own dear dog to sleep. Hopefully this operation would have a better outcome.
The mellow sounds of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ filled the reception. Again, it would be some time before he and Alan got any rest. Although he could currently see the attraction in getting very, very merry when they’d finished.
Guy sighed to himself. They’d better get moving. Hamish had coped well so far, but he didn’t want to risk delaying any longer. It seemed unnecessary to call in a practice nurse when Alan was here with him and was sure to make a reliable assistant. ‘Up for a spot of veterinary nursing?’
‘Aye.’ Alan nodded.
‘Let’s get our patient in then.’ They went back to the car and between them carried Hamish into the surgery and hoisted him up onto the table in Guy’s consulting room.
The vet scratched his head. If it was any other patient, he’d have given the dog intravenous fluids to counter the shock and would have left him to stabilise overnight before operating. But this was Hamish and so much more seemed to be resting on his recovery that he didn’t feel able to wait that long.
He scrubbed up and had Alan do the same, both donning green surgical gowns while Hamish waited patiently. Guy fixed Hamish up to a drip while he took an X-ray of the fracture. Thankfully, when he looked at the break in the cold light of a clinical setting it didn’t seem nearly as bad as he’d expected. The dog would need a metal fixator put in place to help it heal, but it was definitely do-able. The fixators might look like medieval instruments of torture, but they worked like magic and it was amazing how well dogs tolerated them, even though hideous bits of metal were left sticking out through their skin while they did their job. Dogs who weren’t Hamish, of course. Although currently, the dog in question was being the model patient.
‘Good lad,’ Guy said, and gave Hamish a loving stroke.
The femoral artery was intact, thank God, which was what he’d been most worried about, and it looked like the majority of the blood loss had been caused by the multiple cuts that Hamish had sustained as he’d tumbled down the rockface. Most of them were super
ficial, and a few stitches would put the worst of them right.
‘I’m going to give him an anaesthetic now so that I can fix this leg, Alan,’ Guy said.
The dog looked trustingly into his eyes. ‘We need you to give this your best shot, Hamish,’ Guy said. ‘And we’ll do the same.’
He gave the dog an injection into his front leg and within seconds Hamish was fast asleep. ‘I need you to hold Hamish tight while I put in this breathing tube. Here, like this.’ He showed Alan what to do and was surprised to see tears rolling down the man’s face. ‘He’ll be fine,’ Guy said. ‘He’ll be just fine.’
Alan wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his scrubs. ‘Aye, Vit.’
There was sweat on his own brow. Alan stroked the dog’s head lovingly.
‘Ready?’
‘Aye,’ the man said. ‘Get on wi’ it, Vit.’
‘Right.’ Guy took an unsteady breath. Never in his life had he wanted a dog to pull through as much as this one. He picked up his scalpel. ‘Here goes.’
Chapter Eighty-Three
Alan and Guy sat in the recovery room watching Hamish sleeping off the effects of his anaesthetic in one of the big cages while they systematically worked their way through a box of Heroes.
‘We’ll spoil our dinner,’ Guy said.
‘Aye,’ Alan agreed and ate another chocolate.
Their surgical scrubs had been dispensed with and all Guy was waiting for now was to see Hamish wake up. This dog was indestructible, he was sure. He’d come through the operation brilliantly. The vet smiled to himself. He liked it when operations had a happy ending. Guy felt a strong bond to this crazed handful of animal and he got up and ruffled Hamish’s floppy ears affectionately. The dog stirred in his drug-induced sleep and twitched his front paws.
Already, he’d phoned Amy to let her know that Hamish was fine. He could picture her now sitting anxiously in front of the Aga at Helmshill Grange with the children by her side waiting for him to come back. It was a nice, comforting image.
‘Did you like being married?’ he said to Alan as he still fussed with Hamish’s ears.
‘Aye,’ the man replied.
‘You’d recommend it?’
‘Reckon so.’
Guy turned to look at his very efficient and capable nurse, but Alan was intently studying the contents of the box of Heroes.
‘Do you miss Mrs Steadman?’
‘Aye,’ Alan said. ‘Every single day.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t really know her.’
‘She was grand.’ Alan looked up and met Guy’s eye. ‘Give it a go, Vit. Reckon you’d be good at it.’
For Alan, that was the equivalent of delivering the Jonathan Dimbleby lecture.
‘I’d like to,’ Guy admitted. ‘I’d like to very much.’ He let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘But what if Mrs Steadman had been in love with someone else, someone who wasn’t actually around but was there in pretty much every way? Would you have waited for her, or would you have given up hope and found someone else?’
Alan’s gaunt cheeks coloured up and he studied his shoes. ‘Don’t know, Vit.’
Clearly that was an emotional conversation too far for the man. Then Alan pointed at Hamish, glad of the distraction. ‘Dog’s up.’
Sure enough, Hamish was rousing from his sleep and looked quite bright, considering his ordeal. He gave them an enthusiastic woof and his tail thumped against the bars of his cage.
‘There’s a good lad,’ Guy said, as he went to pet the dog. ‘None the worse for your ordeal, eh?’
Alan came over to fuss Hamish too. Guy could see that the man was crying and he felt tears on his own face.
‘What a couple of silly old farts we are,’ Guy sniffed.
‘Aye, Vit.’
He put his arm round the elderly man and clapped him on the back. Relief washed over Guy and, more than anything, he wanted to be with Amy. He wanted to be with her right now. Technically, he should stay here for a few more hours and monitor Hamish, just to be on the safe side. But, damn it, it was Christmas. How could he spend the night here? How could Hamish?
‘Fancy risking putting our backs out again?’
Alan waited to find out how.
‘I think we’ll take this fellow home,’ Guy said. ‘No one should be in hospital at Christmas. Not even a dog.’
Alan smiled. A rare event.
‘One other thing.’ He held up a hand to Alan and then rushed out to where Fluffy was still shuffling about in his cage. The little hedgehog stood up on his newly mended back legs and scrabbled at the glass when Guy appeared and let out a grunt in greeting. He could swear that Fluffy was getting more like a dog with every passing day. Guy was sure that Amy wouldn’t mind feeding one more mouth at Christmas. ‘Want to come on an outing, Fluff?’
He picked up the cage and took it back through to where Hamish and Alan were waiting. ‘Let’s go and get our Christmas dinner,’ he said.
Chapter Eighty-Four
‘We just have to wait now and see,’ Guy says. ‘But he looks like he’s going to be fine.’
Alan and Guy have hefted Hamish into the kitchen in a big wire cage. He’s lying inside it looking quite perky despite the horrible metal contraption that’s attached to his broken leg, and his tail is beating time against the bars of his temporary prison. He looks just like Hamish should – ready to be out of there and ripping up the house as soon as he can.
‘Thank goodness.’ I feel like sagging to the floor with relief. The children go crazy, huddling round Hamish and cheering, my earlier attempts to keep them tucked up and resting in bed having failed. To be honest, I’m just grateful that they seem to be none the worse for their ordeal.
It’s late afternoon now and we’ve all been sitting in the kitchen, huddled by the Aga waiting for news. And, at long last, we’ve been joined by Alan, Guy and the star of the moment, Hamish. I hope I’m not speaking too soon, but now our Christmas celebrations can finally start. Which is usually the cue for the roof to cave in or a meteor to hit the yard. I pause for a moment, tensed, but I’m relieved to find that nothing happens. You don’t know how good that feels.
‘Alan made a lovely nurse,’ Guy teases.
Saint Steadman flushes and studies his boots.
Even though Alan isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, he looks drained by the events of the day and his craggy face is paler than it normally is. Despite that, he still insisted that he was the one who went outside into the cold to sort the animals out for me, securing the chickens for the night and tending to the sheep including the expectant mother, the goats and Pork Chop.
I allow myself a little tear and Guy gives me a hug. ‘Thank you.’
‘Glad I could help,’ he says. Guy looks exhausted too and I think it’s about time that I got those omelettes on the go before we all nod off.
‘I have a confession.’ Guy glances sheepishly at Alan. ‘There’s another little visitor here if you’ll have him.’
Alarm bells ring, but I know that I can deny him nothing. He has saved my children and has saved my dog. Even if he’s brought a bloody great boa constrictor to visit then I’ll smile and welcome it.
He goes out to his car again and comes back with a cage with a hedgehog in it. ‘This is Fluffy,’ he tells us. Of course, the children go into raptures.
The hedgehog’s extraordinarily cute, but I still eye it warily. ‘Aren’t they riddled with fleas?’
‘This one is flea-free and very nearly house-trained.’ Guy turns on the charm. ‘He’d make someone a lovely pet.’
‘Oh, Mummy,’ Jessica trills. ‘Can we keep him?’
‘You wouldn’t have to do anything,’ Tom adds, seeing that this is a contributing factor to the residence of all of our charges.
‘For the time being,’ I say evasively. Guy might be the saviour of all mankind, but I will kill him for this. How can we take on a hedgehog now?
So my daughter lets Fluffy out of his cage and he trundles like a mini-tank across th
e kitchen floor. Milly Molly Mandy narrows her eyes and spits at him.
‘Alan, sit down near the fire,’ I instruct. ‘I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for us.’
I kiss him on the cheek and hug him warmly and, this time, he succumbs to my embrace. ‘Can I get you a drink? I reckon you’ve earned one,’ I say.
‘Aye, lass,’ he says, and I pour him out a glass of Selbies’ Strong Ale, a local beer and his favourite tipple according to Guy. He takes off his cap and stretches out in the armchair, luxuriating in the warmth. Milly Molly Mandy eyes his lap covetously and, sure enough, pounces before padding round to find the most comfortable spot and curling up with a contented purr.
I splash out some champagne for the rest of us, even giving Tom and Jessica an inch of fizz in the bottom of two flutes. ‘To Hamish,’ I say. ‘May he get better soon.’
‘To Hamish,’ we all toast and raise our glasses. The object of our good wishes howls his approval.
I throw back my champagne, thinking that I’ve earned it too. ‘I’ll get the dinner on,’ I say. ‘I bet everyone is starving.’ There are assenting murmurs all round.
The chickens have been busy and, thankfully, there are enough eggs for big, duvet-sized omelettes for all of us. I’ve also got a big block of local cheese, so we can have some of that grated in them too.
In an effort to take my mind off the trauma of the day, I spent part of the afternoon setting the Christmas-table in the dining room in lavish style with my fine bone china and crystal glasses that I unpacked for the first time, even though I know I’m going to have to pack them all again straight away for our move. There’s a strategically placed fan heater in there too, to try to chase away the last of the chill. Already there’s a big roasting pan of potatoes browning nicely in the Aga and a pile of vegetables steaming on the top of the stove. I go over to the working end of the kitchen, get my mixing bowl and start breaking the freshly laid eggs into it in batches of three. A moment later, Guy comes up behind me. ‘Can I help?’ he asks.
The Difference a Day Makes Page 26