‘This is about the dog, isn’t it?’ Alex says.
‘I really couldn’t face the Pitts again, not after some of the things Stewart said.’ My palms grow damp as I recall the expression on Stewart’s face when I told him Cadbury was dead.
‘He’ll have forgotten about that by now,’ Alex says. ‘Anyway, I could do with some help getting all my kit up to the cowshed.’ He turns into the farmyard and kills the engine. ‘You’d like to give me a hand, wouldn’t you?’
‘My shoes. I haven’t got the right shoes on for wading about on a farm.’
‘I’m bound to have a spare pair of wellies, and a gown.’ Alex jumps out and opens the boot. He hands me a pair of green Hunters and a boilersuit that’s several sizes too big and rich with the scent of cow.
‘What’s that for?’ I point to the red toy stethoscope on top of the crates of equipment in the back of the car.
‘My mother bought that for Sebastian when he was about three months old – hoping to keep the practice in the family for the next generation.’
I can hear the pride in Alex’s voice when he mentions his son, and I have to admit I admire the emphasis the Fox-Giffords place on family. Alex’s parents obviously spend a lot of time with their grandchildren in spite of the fact that they live away with their mother; and Alex is very protective of his children, which I guess is another good reason for him not wanting to embark on a relationship with no future in it.
‘I saw your parents with your children at the hospital. It was Sebastian who almost gave me away. I was hiding in the sluice.’
Alex chuckles. ‘I won’t ask why.’ He holds out his arm for me to grab on to so I can transfer my feet from my shoes to the wellies without putting them on the ground.
‘Thanks.’ I stand up straight. ‘What happened about Australia? I’ve been meaning to ask.’
‘There’s been a hold-up, thank goodness. Astra and her new man have decided to stay in London – the firm he’s with in the City extended his contract by another year, which gives me more time to work with my solicitor on what happens to Lucie and Sebastian.’ Alex hands me a set of calving ropes and a visit case, and he picks up a caesar kit. ‘Come on, Maz. Hurry up.’
It takes my eyes a while to adjust to the light inside the cowshed compared with the brightness of the summer evening outside. The single bulb that glimmers from a cable inside the ramshackle arrangement of cob, brick, hurdles and corrugated iron doesn’t help much, and the window, which has no glazing, is obscured by a bank of nettles growing outside.
An elderly man in a brown jacket restrains a black-and-white Friesian with a rope halter. Alex introduces him as Ewan, the Pitts’ cowman. The cow bellows, filling the air with the sweet scent of her breath. One of the Pitt boys – Sam, I think – emerges from the shadows in pyjama bottoms, a jumper that’s far too big for him and wellies. Stewart, stripped down to a vest with the arms of his boilersuit tied around his waist, enters the cowshed behind me and Alex.
My heart skips a beat at the flash of recognition as he catches sight of me.
‘Maz?’
I force myself to hold his gaze.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he says, his tone one of curiosity, not anger.
‘Meet my new assistant.’ Alex checks that his shirtsleeves are tucked behind the cuffs of his calving gown. ‘We were just off to dinner at the Barnscote when Mother rang.’
‘You and Maz? Well, I never.’ A broad smile spreads across Stewart’s face. ‘You really know how to show a girl a good time.’ He slaps Alex on the back, then turns to the cow without giving either of us a chance to deny any involvement with each other, so far at least. ‘This is young Pepperpot – it’s her first calving.’
I smile to myself, thanking my lucky stars that I haven’t had the opportunity to put my foot in it. The beast isn’t a cow. She’s a heifer.
Alex slips on a long plastic glove and starts to examine her. She groans with the onset of a contraction. The cowman scratches behind her ear.
‘Cush, cush, my lover,’ Stewart murmurs.
Alex looks across the back of the heifer. ‘He says that to all the girls.’
‘You have to know how to handle them,’ Stewart says. ‘This one’s mother is a devil at milking time.’
Alex stands back slightly as the cow lifts her tail and drops a spattering of dung into the straw. The boy collects an armful of clean bedding from the corner of the shed and sprinkles it over the top.
‘She’s a good-looking heifer, don’t you think?’ Stewart comments.
‘She is,’ Alex says, and I’m not sure whether they’re referring to me or the patient. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go in.’
‘A caesar?’
Alex nods.
‘The calf’s alive?’
‘For the moment – I felt it sucking on my fingers.’
‘Two vets – I hope it isn’t going to cost me double.’ Stewart’s joking, but there’s an edge to his voice. He could easily end up with a big bill for a dead cow and calf. Stewart nods towards his son. ‘Sam, go and tell your mum to put the kettle on. We need hot water, and tea. Milk and sugar all round?’
‘No sugar for me,’ I say quickly. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sweet enough already, eh?’ Stewart teases. ‘I should’ve guessed you two were an item. Alex hasn’t stopped going on about you since you turned up.’
‘We aren’t an item,’ I say coolly.
‘Pity,’ Alex cuts in. ‘Still, it’s your loss,’ he banters. ‘I’d make quite a good catch, wouldn’t I, Stew?’
I’m still blushing some minutes later when Sam returns, struggling with a steaming bucket, and accompanied by Lynsey, who carries her baby daughter in a sling across her front, and a tray. Sam puts the bucket down, the water sloshing out over the edge, and Alex washes his hands in preparation for injecting the local anaesthetic to numb the cow’s flank for surgery.
‘Alex is here with the vet who murdered Cadbury,’ Sam says, and immediately the last few weeks go into rewind, and I’m back in theatre with my hands inside a dead dog. I want to run away and never come back. Sam’s staring at me and I can hardly look him in the eye, but I have to say something. I want him to know how much I regret what happened. I take a deep breath.
‘I’m very sorry, Sam,’ I begin.
‘No, I’m sorry, Maz,’ Lynsey cuts in. ‘She didn’t kill him, Sam. It was bad luck.’ She rests the tray on a bale of straw. ‘You know what Alex said, that it could just as easily happened if he’d done the operation.’
Sam gives me the smallest smile and I feel a rush of gratitude towards Alex for defending me.
Lynsey clears her throat as a sign to her husband to say something, but he’s standing beside the cow, stubbornly staring at his mucky boots.
‘Go on, my lover,’ she says. ‘It’ll clear the air.’
‘All right, all right,’ he grumbles as he turns to me. ‘I’m sorry too, Maz. I said things I shouldn’t have. I was tied up with the farm, and the new baby.’ And the fact his wife was threatening to leave him, I’d guess. ‘By the time I realised that Cadbury was really sick, he was too far gone. I must share the blame.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, wondering if he realises how much his apology means to me. It’s like having a great weight lifted from my shoulders.
‘We buried his ashes in the garden,’ Sam says. ‘I writ his name on a stone and put it on top of the grave: Cads RIP.’
‘We’re looking for another dog,’ says Lynsey. ‘We were going to ask you if you knew of anything suitable, one of the rescues perhaps.’
‘There is one, actually. He’s called Raffles. He’s a funny-looking dog, but he’s very bright. I’m sure you could teach him to do some party tricks. Would you like to come and see him?’
‘Please, Mum,’ Sam cuts in. ‘Please, please, please.’
‘We’ll pop in to the practice tomorrow,’ Lynsey says. She takes me aside as Alex continues with his preparations to make the operation
as sterile as it can be. The cowshed with its dusty cobweb hangings and squishy carpet of mucky straw is a far cry from the theatre at Otter House.
I notice how Lynsey pats and strokes the baby’s back. Every now and then, the baby thrusts her arms and legs out straight and draws them back again, like a pond skater. ‘We’ve called her Frances, for obvious reasons. She’s amazing, so much easier than the boys were. Stewart loves her to bits. We all do.’ Lynsey smiles fondly in her husband’s direction and lowers her voice. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, Maz, but I’ve forgiven him. I knew when I married him that he had a wandering eye.’
It’s more than his eye that wanders, I think, but never mind. It’s Lynsey’s choice.
‘Scrub up, will you, Maz,’ Alex calls. From where he’s checking the sensation in the heifer’s flank with a needle, he gestures to the bucket. ‘We’re almost ready to go. It’s a big calf and it’s breech. Let’s make this quick.’
But I don’t do cows, I think, half panicking as I prepare to assist.
Minutes later, Alex is fishing about inside the cow’s womb, tugging at the calf’s fetlocks to pull it out.
‘Hang on to those for me,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to extend the incision a bit more.’
We work together, and with a rush of fluid the calf emerges. We lower it onto the straw, where it lies very still. Alex starts closing the long incision down the cow’s flank while I clear the fluid and membranes from its muzzle and watch the calf’s chest.
‘It isn’t breathing,’ I say urgently.
Stewart steps forward and hauls the calf up by the hindlegs to side to drain any fluid from its lungs before putting back it down.
‘Anything?’ he says, squatting down beside me.
I shake my head and Stewart swears. Lynsey and Sam look on, tense and silent. Alex keeps on with his suturing, knowing the sooner he finishes, the sooner he can help us. He was right when he said it was a big calf. It would be pretty distressing to lose it now.
I rub the calf’s body with handfuls of straw, trying to stimulate it to take its first breath. I pause and lean my face close to its muzzle to see if I can detect the movement of air through its nostrils. Nothing.
I’m just considering the practicalities of giving a calf mouth-to-mouth when Sam dives down onto his knees beside me and grabs a piece of straw. He sticks it up the calf’s nose, at which it sneezes and shakes its head. ‘That’s done it,’ he says, eyes gleaming in triumph.
‘Well done, Sam,’ I say, watching the calf struggle onto its brisket.
‘Boy or girl?’ Stewart asks, the relief evident in his voice.
Sam pulls the calf’s hindleg back.
‘It’s a heifer, Dad. That means she can stay on the farm and join the herd.’ He turns to Alex. ‘One day, Dad’s going to let me do the milking all by myself.’
‘If we’re still in farming,’ Stewart mutters, but I don’t think Sam or Alex hear him.
‘That’s great, Sam.’ Alex ties off and snips the last knot. ‘I’m all done here. Sam, your next job is to make sure the calf suckles.’
‘Like our baby sister.’ He manhandles the calf towards its mother, then helps it to stand. It wobbles like a drunk then nudges against the cow’s udder, latches on to one of her teats, which is already dripping with the first milk, and sucks noisily.
‘Perfect.’ Alex washes his hands in the bucket and dries them on a towel. I follow suit then help him pack everything away.
‘So, how much longer are you staying in Talyton, Maz?’ Stewart asks as he follows us back to Alex’s car.
‘She came to see me to say goodbye,’ Alex says, his voice taut. ‘She’ll be off soon, back to the bright lights of the city. I’m going to miss her.’
If I’d had any doubts left about the wisdom of staying on in Talyton, they’ve gone, banished by the warmth of Lynsey and Stewart’s welcome.
‘Actually, I’m not going anywhere,’ I say, smiling at the look of surprise on Alex’s face. ‘Emma’s asked me to be her partner at Otter House. I came to tell you I’m staying on.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Alex says. His tone is scolding, but there’s a smile on his lips.
‘I tried to tell you when I arrived at the Manor, but you took over and rang the Barnscote, and I decided I’d wait and tell you over dinner.’
Stewart glances at his watch. ‘It’s a bit late for dinner at the Barnscote now. They keep country hours – I think they close at ten. You could eat with us. Lynsey has a pot of stew keeping hot on the Aga.’
Alex looks at me. His eyes flicker with mutual understanding. Going out for dinner was never going to be about eating . . .
‘Thanks, but we have to get back,’ Alex says. ‘I’ve got the kit to clean.’
It’s dark by the time we’re back on the road.
‘What made you change your mind then, Maz?’ Alex asks, his voice gently caressing.
‘Lots of things. Gloria’s funeral mainly. I realised how much I’d miss everyone, how much I’d miss Emma – and you.’
At the bend at the old bridge, Alex changes down a gear, his hand brushing my thigh. The car shudders. My heart begins to pound with anticipation.
When we arrive at the Manor, the dogs bark, then fall silent. A horse whinnies from the stables.
‘That’s Liberty.’ Alex opens the driver’s door and jumps out. ‘Are you going to stay there all night?’ he adds impatiently, and I slide out the other side and join him on the yard, as Liberty whinnies again.
‘Hi, my beauty,’ Alex calls back.
‘How is she now?’ I follow him across to Liberty’s stable, where a light flicks on, illuminating the front of the stable block.
‘Really well.’ He gives her a mint from his pocket and caresses her neck. ‘I’m going to turn her out this winter to recuperate and bring her back into work in the spring.’ He looks at me. ‘My parents tell me you don’t ride.’
I giggle at the memory of Alex’s parents at the show. ‘They were horrified.’
‘I’ll teach you sometime, if you like.’
I’m not sure about getting up close and personal with a horse as large as Liberty, but the idea of Alex in those jodhpurs of his . . . Well, I wouldn’t say no. I don’t say no. I don’t say anything as Alex takes me by the hand and leads me away from the stable, away from the car and into the shadows cast by the barn.
‘What about the caesar kit?’
‘That can wait. I don’t want to waste any more time –’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, sending tiny quivers of anticipation down my spine ‘– time I could be spending with you.’
‘Oh, Alex,’ I breathe.
‘Since the fire . . .’ He falters, and I realise we haven’t really talked about what happened on the night Buttercross Cottage went up in flames. ‘Since the fire,’ he starts once more, ‘I’ve tried to live every second to the full. I remember the beams coming down and thinking, I’m not going to make it out of here.’
I open my mouth. He touches one finger to my lips.
‘Shh,’ he whispers. ‘You were thinking of Gloria. I didn’t have to go in after you.’ He lets his fingertip trail down my chin, down my throat, stopping just short of the shadowy cleft between my breasts. ‘Maz . . . Can we start again?’
‘You bet.’ I lift my hand and draw him closer until our lips touch, and my spirit soars as I realise that I’ve found what I’ve been looking for, and it’s here in the country, in a sleepy market town, in Alex Fox-Gifford’s arms.
The second novel featuring
the Otter House Vets
by Cathy Woodman will be
published in April 2011.
CHAPTER ONE
It’s a Vet’s Life
When I took the plunge and bought into the partnership in Otter House last year, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I was taking on; a quiet country practice in a peaceful market town. But look at it now.
Frances, our receptionist, is looking fraught behind the desk in
Reception which is covered with cards and gifts from our appreciative clients. Her wig – the almond-coloured one which reminds me of candyfloss twirled on a stick – has gone askew, revealing wisps of her scant grey hair.
She takes payment from Mrs Dyer, wife of the local butcher and one of our regulars, for a bag of prescription diet pills and a Christmas cracker dog toy which squeaks when she passes it through the scanner. As it squeaks for a second time, Mrs Dyer’s enormous Great Dane (the Harlequin version which looks as if someone’s taken a white dog and flicked black paint at it) who was trembling on the scales in the far corner of Reception, takes a flying leap towards the desk with Izzy on the end of his lead.
‘Brutus! No!’ Izzy’s eyes flash. The snowflakes on her hairband flash too, and something in the tone of her voice makes the dog stop in his tracks. Brutus might be a big dog – he’s so broad you could use him as a coffee table – but he’s no match for our nurse. He knows exactly who’s boss.
‘He thinks it’s a baby,’ Mrs Dyer announces to everyone else in the waiting area whose pets have taken refuge on laps and under chairs. ‘He adores babies. He just wants to lick them to death.’
I notice how Lynsey Pitt – who’s brought Raffles, a small tan rescue dog short on legs and long on character, for a rather belated second vaccination – holds her baby daughter a little tighter as Brutus shakes his head, sending a glistening spatter of drool over Izzy’s navy scrubs, then pads meekly back to the scales.
Izzy persuades him back on with the aid of a healthy, lowcal treat while Diana, a white Boxer with a big grin on her face, tries to join in. It’s no use Izzy scolding her because she’s deaf and answers to hand signals – and that’s only when she feels like it.
An elderly woman I remember from the talk I gave to the WI back in November on It’s a Vet’s Life struggles in through the double glass doors with a cat basket balanced on top of a shopping trolley, followed by a girl who can’t be older than twelve with a small box pierced with holes. Frances greets the woman with the cat and starts inputting her details onto the computer, the postman turns up with parcels to be signed for and the phone starts ringing.
Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series Page 32