The morris band tunes up their fiddles to an ancient 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 practising our suturing techniques on oranges the day before, and Emma had chucked them in without checking them first.
I feel rather exposed, sat 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 Reception, 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 theatre. 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 already 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 anaesthetic, 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 ribcage. 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 anaesthetic 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 else 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.
I stop fishing and watch the tears streaming down Izzy’s face as she squeezes the bag, sending oxygen into lungs which will never take another breath.
‘Izzy, you can stop now.’ I take off my gloves. Izzy keeps on. Cadbury’s chest lifts and falls repeatedly as she empties and fills the bag. I walk round the table and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Izz, stop. He’s gone.’ I give her a rough shake. ‘Izzy! You have to stop.’
She stops. Uttering a sob, she tears off her apron, turns on her heels and walks out, her apron trailing to the floor behind her. When I look down, I find I have one of Cadbury’s soft, velvety ears between my fingers. My eyes burn, my throat tightens and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and howl, but I have to speak to Stewart first. How on earth am I going to face him?
It’s a very long way back down that dark corridor. When I step into Reception, Stewart spins round to face me.
‘Well?’ he mutters.
I hang my head. ‘He’s gone,’ I whisper.
‘He’s dead?’
I nod.
‘Fucking hell.’ Stewart runs his hands over his bald patch. ‘I knew I should have taken him straight up to the Manor.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t think saying sorry is the same as making an admission of fault and even if it is, at the moment I don’t care.
‘Don’t tell me it was one of those things. Don’t put the blame on me for missing that appointment. This is your bloody fault.’ Stewart glances around Reception. ‘Old Fox-Gifford’s right – what’s the point of having all this fancy equipment when you can’t even use it properly? Look at you – it’s all about the money to people like you.’
Keep calm, I tell myself.
‘First of all,’ I say, ‘we need to find out exactly why he died.’
Stewart looms towards me, his face crimson with fury. ‘He died because of your bloody negligence.’
‘I’d like to carry out a post-mortem,’ I say, refusing to back off.
‘I bet you would, but I’m not going to give you the chance to cover up your mistakes.’ Stewart pulls his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’m going to get Alex to do it.’
I wait until he’s arranged for Alex to meet him here at the practice as soon as he can. I offer him tea.
‘No way,’ Stewart says. ‘It’d make me throw up.’
‘Would you like to see him?’ My heart knocks against my ribs with the hollow sound of a metronome.
Stewart fixes me with an icy stare. ‘What would I want to see him for? He’s dead, isn’t he? You fucking well killed him.’
I’d already been dreading seeing Alex again, but these circumstances couldn’t have been worse. I’m mortified.
‘I came straight away because I wanted to get it over with.’ Alex looks up from the cadaver on the bench in the prep room, a mask over his nose and mouth. ‘I’ve got a horse to vet for my mother tomorrow morning, a couple of farm calls and a jumping clinic in the afternoon.’
It was gone eleven by the time Alex arrived. He had a brief conversation with Stewart before Stewart left to go back to the farm to take over from his mother-in-law, who he’d left looking after the boys.
‘Is there anything else you need?’ I ask curtly. I sent Izzy home as soon as I found her – she was hiding out in the dark on the old swing which hangs from the tree at the end of the garden.
Alex shakes his head.
‘I’ll leave you to it then . . .’ I back away, unfurling my hands and discovering the crescents of my nails imprinted in the flesh.
‘You must stay,’ Alex says. ‘I don’t want anyone accusing me of planting evidence.’
‘I’d never do that!’ I exclaim, assuming he’s referring to me in particular. Our eyes lock and I wish that it wasn’t like this. I wish I could rewind the past month and start again. No, make that the whole of my miserable life . . .
‘You don’t trust me,’ Alex says gruffly, and he returns to the task of removing the length of Cadbury’s intestines from his body and spreading them across the bench. It isn’t like Silent Witness: it’s far more messy.
Alex points at a section of gut. ‘There’s no problem here where you made your original incision – it’s healed well.’
‘I removed a plastic Spiderman toy and a pair of pants,’ I say, as he keeps searching.
‘Ah, here we are.’ I recognise the lift in Alex’s voice at finding the answer – I don’t blame him. I do the same myself. ‘There’s a reaction in the gut wall here and here, and it’s completely disintegrated here,’ he goes on. ‘That’s allowed the gut contents to leak out and set up a peritonitis. Once the infection got into the bloodstream, that was that.’
‘He must have died in agony.’ I can’t even bring myself to look at Alex. Why didn’t I see how ill Cadbury was? I try to dismiss a picture of Cadbury bouncing into the consulting room on my first day at Otter House, how happy he was, how full of life . . . I can still feel the warmth in the skin he was supposed to grow into, and see the bright shine in his eyes.
‘My theory is that Spiderman is our murderer, so to speak,’ Alex says. ‘The plastic must have pierced the gut as he passed through.’ He drops his scalpel and forceps onto the bench. ‘I’d better make a record of what I’ve found, in case this goes any further.’
‘You mean, when Stewart sues me.’
‘I don’t see why he should – there was nothing wrong with your surgery.’
‘I’d better call Stewart to give him the news,’ I say flatly.
‘Let me handle it.’
‘I can do it.’
‘No, let me. He’s a close friend of mine. I’ve known him since we were at school in Talyton. We went to the primary school round the corner until my parents packed me off to boarding school.’ Alex glances towards the door. ‘I left my camera in Reception, along with my notebook. Would you fetch it, please?’
I return with his gear and stand back while he photographs Cadbury’s remains, wincing as the flash from the camera lights the room, like a scene from a black-and-white horror movie.
‘He shouldn’t have died’ – my voice wavers as it catches in my throat – ‘I knew he wasn’t well, but I didn’t pursue it.’
Alex slips his camera back in its case. ‘You can’t blame yourself, Maz.’
‘But I do. When I sent him home, I was supposed to talk to Lynsey about taking some blood, but the baby came, and I completely forgot, and then Stewart was supposed to bring him back for a check-up . . . Oh, it’s no use trying to find someone else to blame. It was my fault. I should have taken more care.’
‘Nobody’s perfect. You can’t get it right all of the time.’ Alex fishes about inside the empty cavity of the dog’s belly – checking for missed swabs, I presume. ‘Stewart said you were out and about when he called this evening?’ It’s a question, not a statement.
‘I went to see the morris dancing at the Talymill Inn, but I came straight back.’ I don’t know why I feel I have to justify myself. ‘It took me no more than fifteen minutes, and Izzy was here before me to give first aid.’
‘Well, I can’t find anything else here,’ Alex says. ‘Does Stewart want the body back?’
‘I don’t know. It was all so frantic, I didn’t ask.’ I shrug. ‘Anyway, he wasn’t in the mood to give me an answer.’
‘I’ll tidy him up then, just in case.’
I’m very grateful to him. I don’t think I could bear it. I fetch a needle and some nylon so he can close up.
‘I heard about the skimpy knickers, and that Frances practically delivered Lynsey’s baby,’ Alex says.
‘Almost. The paramedics arrived just in time.’ I try threading the needle to save Alex time but I can’t get the nylon through the eye.
‘Allow me.’ Alex takes it from me, his fingers briefly touching mine. He threads it at the first attempt and starts on the task of making Cadbury’s body look presentable.
‘It’s a bit of a cheek to ask,’ I begin after a while, ‘but I was wondering if you would consider taking Frances back.’
‘At the Manor?’ Alex frowns. ‘Why?’
I hesitate. Should I tell him? Why not? He’s going to know everything sooner or later, I guess. Before I even realise, out it all spills: my continuing conflict with Cheryl, the state of Otter House’s finances, having to fire Frances, all the doubt, anxiety and pressure.
‘I feel so isolated here,’ I say, near to tears again.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex says.
‘Sure,’ I say, and then I wish I hadn’t been so sharp.
‘You should have said something sooner. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m a good listener.’
‘Thanks,’ I say grudgingly, because somehow it’s easier to deal with my feelings for Alex when I’m seeing him as a Fox-Gifford and one of the Talyton Manor vets, than as he is now, sounding thoughtful and kind. It’s probably all a front, part of a charm offensive to win me round, then drop me in it, since I can’t imagine he’s going to keep this quiet.
‘I try not to listen to gossip, but there have been rumours . . .’ He pauses, thinking. ‘I can’t give Frances her job back – we’ve managed remarkably well without her – but if I hear of anything suitable, I’ll let you know.’
‘I don’t know how I’m going to tell her . . .’
‘Mmm,’ Alex says. ‘She’s going to find life very hard – poor Frances. She practically supports her granddaughter – her son’s a waster, always in the bookies. Her daughter-in-law does her best, but it’s Frances who keeps them afloat.’ He sighs. ‘Oh dear, bit inappropriate of me to put it like that, considering how she lost her husband.’
‘How did she lose her husband?’
‘He was a fisherman – his trawler went down in a storm. He drowned, along with his four crew.’ Alex shakes his head. ‘I’ll never forget that night.’
I remain silent, wondering how Frances must have felt when her husband didn’t come home.
Alex ties and cuts the last knot, and rolls Cadbury onto his side, then – for my sake, perhaps – covers him over with a drape. He looks up and I force myself to meet his gaze.
‘Cheryl came crawling back to the Manor,’ he says. ‘I thought you might like to know. I told her we weren’t taking on any new clients.’
‘I suppose you saw the posters,’ I say, taken aback that Alex has been so quietly supportive. It’s the last thing I thought he’d do.
‘I couldn’t miss them, could I? It’s all right though – I made her take them down.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘We hold quite a few functions up at the Manor every year.’ Alex strips off his gown and gloves and walks over to the sink to wash his hands. ‘I threatened not to order our cream teas from the Copper Kettle any more and she agreed to let the matter rest.’
‘Why did you do it? I mean, you didn’t have to . . .’
‘It’s my duty to uphold the honour of the profession,’ Alex says with a glint in his eye, then, ‘Oh, Maz, I’m teasing. I did it for you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry about the other day,’ he goes on.
‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have blamed you for what your father did.’
Alex pulls some paper towels from the dispenser and walks back towards me, drying his hands. ‘Will you be OK?’ he says softly.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. If he keeps being nice to me right now, I’ll burst into tears.
‘I’ll say goodnight then . . .’ He moves closer, until I can clearly see the stubble on his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes. For someone who’s always in such a hurry, he seems reluctant to leave.
‘Goodnight, Alex,’ I say, mustering my emotions, ‘and thank you. For everything you’ve done.’
Alex reaches out his hand and cups my chin.
‘What are you doing?’ I stammer as he leans down and presses his lips against mine, sending an unexpected jolt right through me. Trembling, I respond as he deepens the kiss, pulling me against him. Alex Fox-Gifford is kissing me. It’s shocking, breathtaking, amazing. And, in spite of everything, I don’t want him to stop.
Suddenly, though, he pulls away, his breathing ragged as he rests his forehead against mine.
‘Goodnight, Maz,’ he says, stepping right back. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Chapter Fourteen
I Don’t Like Mondays
I don’t sleep. If I’m not thinking of Cadbury, I’m wondering about Alex and the kiss. Do I regret it? I think so, given that I suspect he’s still with Eloise.
By morning, my stomach cramps and my head aches. I don’t feel up to facing anyone, but I have to. I’m the boss. It’s up to me to rally Emma’s team and keep Otter House going.
When I arrive downstairs, armed with a cup of strong coffee, I find Izzy in the prep room.
‘Er, hi,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
She turns to me, her eyelids puffy from crying and lack of sleep. ‘How do you think?’
I nod and, thinking of Cadbury again, it occurs to me that there’s no sign of the body which I left on the bench last night, not knowing what else to do with it.
‘Where’s the, er, you know?’ I ask, wondering – half hoping – that I’ve missed Stewart coming in to collect him.
‘In the freezer.’
‘They haven’t decided what they want to do with it,’ I point out gently.
‘If they want him back, we’ll have to put him outside to defrost. I can’t have dead bodies littering up the practice.’ Izzy carries on with the clearing up, throwing instruments into the sink and slamming the autoclave door shut on the first load. I suspect her desire to hide the body has more to do with not wanting to be reminded of what happened. It also occurs to me that she blames me – in part, at least – for what happened.
‘Can anyone join the party?’ demands a voice from the prep-room door.
Party? I turn. ‘Alex, hi . . .’
Behind me, Izzy starts swirling the instruments around the sink, sending up steam and tiny bubbles of detergent.
‘You look terrible,’ Alex says.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Maz. What I meant was . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I smile weakly. He’s quite right. I’ve had no sleep. I have bags under my eyes the size of suitcases. On the other hand, lack of sleep seems to suit Alex. He doesn’t appear to be having any regrets about kissing me when he’s supposed to be going out with Eloise.
Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series Page 19