Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series

by Cathy Woodman

  On balance, it’s been a pretty good day, I think when I’ve seen my last appointment and dealt with the last message in the daybook. I reckon Emma would be proud of me.

  ‘Goodnight, Maz,’ Izzy says on her way out. Frances has already left. ‘I hope it’s a quiet one.’

  It is quiet. The phone remains silent for the rest of the evening, giving me the chance to eat dinner uninterrupted, watch a bit of television and skim through Vet News before I shower, change and fall into bed at eleven.

  An hour or so later, I’m woken by a thumping sound and shouting from outside. Wrapped in my duvet, I crawl out of bed and peer out of the side window. There’s a four-by-four in the car park and a figure standing in the shadows at the entrance. Yawning, and slightly annoyed at someone turning up without phoning ahead first, I pull a sweatshirt over my pyjamas and head downstairs, switching all the lights on as I go.

  When I reach Reception I can see a man standing in the porch with a jacket or something similar bundled up against his chest. As I move closer, I can make out his features and the colour of his hair. It’s Alex Fox-Gifford. All I can think is, what the hell is he doing here?

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Maz,’ he says as I hurry him straight through to the consulting room, having ascertained from the tail which sticks out from the bundle in his arms that he’s bringing a potential patient with him. Blood trickles down Alex’s wrists from scratches on his hands, and his face is pale beneath the bright artificial light as he places the bundle ever so gently on the table.

  ‘Don’t you have your own practice to go to?’ I ask flippantly, then wish I hadn’t. This isn’t the time.

  ‘I hit the poor sod in Market Square.’ Alex unwraps the rest of what turns out to be a black-and-white jigsaw puzzle of a cat. Its ears are flattened against its skull. Its mouth is wide open as it struggles to breathe. ‘It shot out in front of my car and I’m not carrying any drugs,’ Alex continues, ‘otherwise I’d have finished him off myself.’

  ‘Hang on a mo.’ Did I hear him right? ‘What did you say? Finish him off?’ The cat gazes up at me, helpless yet trusting, and my hackles rise with resentment at Alex’s lack of initiative. If I’d run the cat over, I’d be doing my utmost to restore him to health. ‘Let’s not be too hasty.’

  ‘I had a quick look before I wrapped him up. He’s lost most of one leg and he’s in a lot of pain. I thought it would be quicker to stop by here than drive up to the Manor . . .’ Alex looks up, his lips curving into a weak smile. ‘I did say I hoped to see you again soon.’

  ‘You could have just rung me, you know – you didn’t have to half kill a cat,’ I say, feeling sorry now for Alex as well as the cat. They both appear to be in shock.

  I touch the cat’s head – his chunky cheeks are scarred and he stinks of pee, confirming that he’s an entire tom. ‘He looks a bit scruffy and unloved.’

  ‘Like me,’ Alex says, but he isn’t smiling any longer.

  I take a couple of quick chest X-rays – the machine’s new, all-singing, all-dancing, and it’s taken me a while to learn how to use it – and check with the scanner for a microchip. As I suspected, there isn’t one. There’s nothing to identify the poor cat’s owner, even if he has one. I check the radiographs once Alex has put the films through the automatic processor – there’s no evidence of a chest injury at least.

  ‘Good news.’ I show Alex the cat’s jaw. ‘I can wire that and I’ll amputate what’s left of the leg.’

  The cat utters a barely audible meow, reminding me I should get on with the surgery.

  ‘Are you staying?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re going to do it now?’

  ‘There’ll be less risk of complications, osteomyelitis, septicaemia . . .’

  ‘It’s all right – you don’t have to give me a lecture.’

  Biting back my irritation at Alex’s abrupt and rather dismissive attitude, which suggests – to me anyway – that he doesn’t really care about what happens to our patient, I pick up the cat and take him through to the prep area.

  ‘You can’t have qualified all that long after I did,’ Alex says, following close behind.

  ‘Ten years,’ and then I wish I’d kept that piece of knowledge to myself too. A flush of heat creeps up my neck as I confess, ‘I looked you up in the Register.’

  ‘So you know that I didn’t go to Cambridge . . .’ He pauses. ‘I looked you up too. I hated the idea of being accused of nepotism, of relying on the old boy network. My father’s old college did offer me a place, but I turned it down.’

  I take a quick guilt trip around the prep area, collecting up the equipment I’m going to need. I like to pretend that I got into Cambridge on merit, but it was Jack Wilson who opened the door for me. In a way, I relied on the very same network of privilege that Alex avoided.

  ‘What can I do?’ Alex offers.

  ‘There’s no need. I’ll call Izzy.’

  ‘No, don’t disturb her.’ A smile plays on his lips as he goes on, ‘I’ll be nurse.’

  ‘OK, you can set up the drip’ – I hand him a plastic pinny, thinking, what on earth is he doing, flirting with me when he’s dating the drug rep? – ‘while I draw up some anaesthetic.’

  Pretty soon, the cat is out for the count, shaved and prepped, picked up by the spotlight in theatre, like an actor on stage. I’m gowned, masked and gloved, and Alex is perched on a stool the opposite side of the table, checking and rechecking the cat’s condition. I notice how gentle he is. Somehow I imagined him treating a cat as if it was a horse or cow. It’s only now that I notice how subdued he is compared with the last time I saw him. His eyes are ringed with shadows, his hair is messed up and his skin looks sallow.

  ‘Ready to go?’ I ask, returning to the task in hand.

  Alex nods.

  I slip a blade onto a scalpel handle, pick up a swab and gaze at the mangled limb in front of me, working out how best to tackle it.

  ‘I thought this would give me an excuse to get Emma’s Meccano set out, but it’s too far gone to repair,’ I say.

  ‘I never got to play with Meccano when I was a boy.’

  ‘What did you use to play with then?’ I look up from the cat, wishing I hadn’t put it like that, because Alex has a wicked, unsettling grin on his face. I smile back. I can’t help it.

  ‘I used to have a rocking horse. My mother tells me that she caught me with my hand up its rear end when I was about four – I’d been out on calls with my father, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted to be a vet?’

  ‘I was expected to follow in my father’s – and my grandfather’s – footsteps, and take over the practice.’

  ‘You make it sound as if you have regrets.’

  Alex shakes his head. ‘It has its moments, but on the whole I love being out and about. I love my job.’

  ‘I was driving too fast,’ Alex begins again, as I start the first cut. ‘Tonight. I’ve been to see my ex-wife.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say, wondering why he’s chosen to confide in me.

  ‘She’s getting married again,’ he goes on morosely.

  Keeping my eyes fixed on the cat, I cut through a block of muscle and an artery, which starts to spurt pulses of blood. I clamp it off, clamping down my emotions at the same time, because Alex has confused me now. It’s difficult to remain cool and professional when one minute he’s gentle and teasing and the next he’s deadly serious.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Alex goes on, ‘she can marry whoever she likes, as long as it doesn’t affect the children, but she wants to drag them off to Australia with this . . .’ He swears. ‘She knows how to pick them. When will I see them if they’re on the other side of the world? What about my weekends? What about my rights as a dad?’ The table shudders as Alex thumps it with his fist.

  ‘Hey, careful.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – well, she knows exactly how to wind me up, the selfish bitch.’

  ‘How old are your children?’ I ask, fe
eling quite smug at the thought that Alex Fox-Gifford is human after all.

  ‘Lucie’s five and Sebastian’s three, so I’ll miss all their growing up.’ Alex stands. ‘They’ll forget me, they’ll forget they ever had a real dad.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ I carry on cutting and picking out fragments of bone, then I look up and our eyes meet. I know exactly what it’s like to be a child without a parent.

  ‘My father walked out on me and my brother when I was twelve.’ I still find it difficult to talk about it. ‘I’ve never forgotten him.’

  ‘Yes, but how many times did you see him after that? Every week? Once a month?’

  ‘Never.’ I look up to find Alex gazing at me with disbelief.

  One Saturday, my mother and I took the bus to the Ark – we got off one stop early and walked the rest of the way so she could give the impression she’d parked the car in one of the side roads. We didn’t have a car, but if we’d had one, Mum said we’d have had a Porsche with pop-up headlights for weekdays, and a camper van for weekends down at the coast.

  I followed her as she flounced into Jack Wilson’s consulting room in a purple tie-dyed skirt, sequinned top and red patent boots, her hair very short and freshly bleached. Jack looked up from where King was curled up in a basket on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry for dragging you all the way over here, Mrs Harwood —’

  ‘It’s Ms, not Mrs,’ my mother interrupted brusquely, and my heart clenched into a ball as I prayed she hadn’t blown it for me and King.

  ‘You look so much like Amanda,’ Jack went on smoothly, oozing charm as he did with the majority of his female clients. (I think that’s one of the reasons he had such a loyal following. As well as being a good vet, of course.) ‘In fact, I can hardly believe you aren’t sisters.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Wilson.’ Mum smiled, tilted her head and popped her eyes at him, and I wanted to hide away under the table because I knew – and she didn’t – that he was only humouring her.

  ‘Do call me Jack.’

  ‘If you’ll call me Trish.’

  ‘Well, Trish, let me first say that your daughter is an enthusiastic, intelligent and compassionate girl.’ My face burned as I watched my mother glowing in my reflected glory, and Jack went on, ‘and I’m sure she’d make a great owner for King, but —’

  But? My heart sank. I turned away, and whispered King’s name. He raised his head and stretched out one paw. The ruff of fur covering his throat began to vibrate – his purr seemed too loud for such a small cat. He was only about six weeks old and I wondered if he’d ever grow into it.

  ‘I need to be sure that you’re happy to take him on. I’d hate to think of him ending up back on the street.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you come and vet our home?’ My mother stood straight, one hand on her hip, her stomach sucked in and her breasts thrust out.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’ Jack backed off hurriedly to the opposite side of the table, and I wondered momentarily if he was about to press the panic button he’d had installed since he’d been threatened by a druggie with a knife out of hours one evening. ‘Er, you do have some idea yourself of what’s involved?’ He flashed her another of his winning smiles. ‘Looking after a pet can bring a lot of pleasure but it also means making a long-term commitment.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve had pets before.’

  I thought of the two pets I could remember: the school goldfish and a budgie. Both had died. I willed her to shut up.

  ‘Does that mean I can take King home?’ I cut in. ‘Please, Mum.’

  She pursed her lips, and I thought, she’s changed her mind. She could be cruel like that. Capricious.

  ‘The only concern I have,’ she said after some deliberation, ‘is the cost . . .’

  ‘I have money for cat food,’ I said desperately.

  ‘What about the vet’s bills?’ my mother said.

  ‘Amanda can work here,’ said Jack. ‘I could do with a Saturday girl to help Chrissie out. It won’t be anything terribly exciting – cleaning kennels, sweeping floors, that kind of thing, in return for a small wage.’

  My mother couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘We’d better take him home then.’ My hand flew to the handle on top of the basket then hovered above it as Mum went on, ‘On a week’s trial.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t be able to let him go once he gets his paws under the table.’ Jack glanced at me and when Mum’s back was turned, pretended to wipe his brow with the back of his hand.

  Stony-faced Chrissie cried as we left. Mum and I took King home on the bus, and I felt like a celebrity because everyone wanted to pet him and talk to us.

  King settled in well – in fact, from the day he arrived, he padded about the place as if he owned it. He chased shadows, dived into the laundry basket and curled up in our clothes, he patrolled the kitchen worktops and stole the remains of the Christmas turkey – which was great because we didn’t have to eat leftovers for days afterwards. (I wasn’t vegetarian back then.) We all adored him – apart from my father, that is.

  In my opinion, not liking animals is a particularly unattractive trait in a man. I’m not sure how fond he was of children either, and he certainly didn’t like my mother much at the end. Ultimately, the only living thing he truly cared about was himself.

  The last row my parents had was over the cat. My mum accused my dad of kicking King out onto the balcony. My father, who retreated to the sofa, falling back into its sagging embrace as if he’d had a few too many, said he had merely nudged him out of his way with the toe of his boot.

  ‘You love that bloody creature more than you’ve ever loved me,’ Dad said, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  ‘At least it’s grateful,’ Mum said coldly.

  I grabbed King and hugged him to my chest. He licked my hands, his tongue rasping against my skin and his breath smelling of fish. My heart was pounding almost as fast as his. My parents argued all the time, but this was different.

  ‘That cat’s a waste of space. All it does is eat and shit, and eat and shit again.’

  ‘Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.’ My mother’s face flushed to match the scarlet shine of her nails. I could see the jerky rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to go on. ‘I work my guts out to support this family, and what do you do?’

  My father put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. They were trembling, quivering. He couldn’t keep them still. He swore and clasped them together.

  ‘I’m a poet. I write poetry. I write poetry and live among philistines.’ He paused, his brows closing together. ‘Give us a few quid for a drink, will you?’

  ‘I spent it,’ Mum said defiantly, ‘on fish fingers and Go-Cat.’

  ‘You . . . you . . .’ My dad struggled to his feet. ‘That’s it – it’s me or the cat.’

  ‘Then there’s no fucking contest.’

  I’m not sure what happened next. My brother, perhaps hearing the sound of raised voices, came running into the room, howling. At the same time, there was a sharp smacking sound and a cry. I caught sight of my father’s foot, a black sock and battered winkle-picker disappearing out through the door, before the scene froze, my brother on his knees, clinging to my legs, my mother with her hand pressed to her cheek and King heavy in my arms.

  In spite of all her flirting with other men and fighting with my father, my mother was devastated when she realised he’d left for good. She walked miles over the next few months searching the bars and pubs for him, and when she came home I sometimes found her lying on the bed they used to share, sobbing into King’s fur. I’d creep away, knowing that if she saw me watching her, she’d yell and throw her alarm clock or hairbrush at me, anything that was to hand.

  I believe King helped us all – me, my mother and brother – through our grief in one way or another. He didn’t judge anyone. He didn’t spout platitudes. He just was, and that was the greatest comfo
rt of all.

  ‘You must keep in some kind of contact with your father,’ Alex says.

  ‘I would if I knew where he was.’ I start to close the skin, avoiding Alex’s compassionate gaze. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t. It’s too late now. I spent a long time trying to track him down, but it never came to anything.’ I don’t know how I’d feel if I ran into him again. Angry? Relieved to know that I’d no longer have to keep looking out for him, because that’s what I do? What I am certain of is that I’d never be able to forgive him.

  ‘What did he do? As a career, I mean.’

  ‘Sod all.’ I smile at a memory of my dad sprawled on the couch, can in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other, reading some doggerel he’d created on the way back from the pub, in the name of performance art. ‘He was a poet, a street poet – more McGonagall than Keats. Before you ask, I didn’t inherit his way with words, or his work ethic.’

  ‘What did he think about you wanting to be a vet?’

  ‘He disapproved, especially when he realised I’d have to go on to further education. He used to say, “Maz, what’s wrong with the University of Life?”’ The regret and pain combines like a hairball in the back of my throat. In spite of everything, I did love my dad. I loved him, and hated him for abandoning us.

  I force myself to concentrate on the cat, and when I’ve finished there’s a line of neat stitches across the stump of the amputation site and a tiny trickle of blood across the shaved, grey skin.

  ‘Leave him on the gas for a little longer, Alex. After I’ve wired his jaw, I’m going to castrate him to save knocking him out for a second time.’

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to chop anything else off,’ Alex says lightly. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stand back a bit in case your scalpel slips.’

  ‘Are you casting aspersions on my surgical technique?’ I say, feeling more cheerful.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He smiles as I brandish the knife.

  ‘So where did you end up training then?’ I ask.

  ‘Bristol,’ he says, and he carries on chatting as I finish off the surgery.