‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Emma sighs.
I feel quite strongly about Shannon and I throw in one last good reason to take her on, Tripod’s approval.
‘I’d noticed he’s somewhat fussy about the company he keeps,’ Emma says wryly, and I can see she’s weakening. ‘I suppose it might work. Izzy had a quick chat with Shannon when I was showing her around. She thinks she could probably get on with her.’
‘Keep her in order, you mean.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Why don’t we offer her a month’s trial? That way, if it turns out we’ve taken on a turkey, so to speak, we can let her go.’
‘That seems fair,’ Emma says. ‘I’ll call her. She can start in the New Year.’
Emma leaves via the door at the back of the consulting room, which leads into the corridor that connects the rest of the practice. I slide the door open at the front, catching sight of Frances scuttling off towards the noticeboard, where she busies herself with rearranging a piece of tinsel, her Dame Edna specs perched on her bosom and secured via a chain round her neck.
She clears her throat loudly, then turns towards me.
‘Gillian will be so relieved,’ she says.
‘Frances, have you been eavesdropping again?’
‘I couldn’t help overhearing. You and Emma – your voices carry so.’
Especially when you have your ear pressed to the door, I think, chuckling to myself, but my good humour doesn’t last long.
‘I think it’s very public-spirited of you.’
‘What is?’
‘You taking the youth of Talyton St George off the streets. Shannon’s given her mother such a hard time. Oh dear, oh dear.’ Frances puts her specs on and takes them off again. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. I promised Gillian, but I guess it’s common knowledge.’
Common to everyone but me and Emma, I think wryly, as she continues, ‘That girl and her friends chained themselves to the security fences when the bulldozers moved in to start work on the new housing estate, and, before that, they sprayed graffiti across the butcher’s window in a protest against animal cruelty.’
‘She hasn’t got a criminal record,’ I say. Emma would never have invited her for interview if she had.
‘The young people were suitably contrite and their actions were put down to youthful idealism,’ Frances says. ‘In other words, they were let off.’
I don’t support criminal damage as a way of making your views known, but I’m not against standing up for your beliefs – not that I can imagine Shannon standing up for anything.
‘She doesn’t look as if she’d say boo to a goose.’ ‘She’s sulky, not shy. She has a problem with authority,’ says Frances. ‘If you want my opinion, the poor girl started going wrong when she lost her father. He died when she was eight years old. He had a weakness; a blood vessel burst in his brain. It was very sudden. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he was laid to rest in the churchyard and then, a couple of months later, Shannon and two of her friends were caught trying to dig him up. Now why on earth would a child want to do that?’
I start thinking about my father, how I have no idea whether he’s alive or not, and that familiar knot of anger and grief twists and tightens in my chest. Mine didn’t have the grace to drop down dead so we knew what happened to him. He walked out, disappeared without trace, when I was twelve.
The phone rings before Frances can go on. While she’s answering it – she has two voices, a sharply superior tone for the telephone, and a softer Devon accent for ordinary conversation – I go through the messages in the daybook.
There’s a note updating me on the progress that Jack, a springer spaniel, has made since I removed the plastic bead he’d accidentally snuffled up into his nostril, along with a reminder to find out the cost of giving a rat – Samuel Whiskers, another of my patients – a course of chemotherapy for cancer, and a last-minute request for travel-sickness tablets for Archie Smith – one of Emma’s – who’s heading to Scotland for the New Year.
‘Mrs King will be here in half an hour to collect Cleo,’ Frances says, putting the phone down. ‘I must introduce her to Emma – apparently, she runs antenatal classes from home. Oh, I almost forgot – as second vice chairman of the WI, I’ve been asked to invite you back to give our branch another talk.’
‘Frances, I’m really busy.’ I thought I’d put them off with my no-holds-barred stories of blood and gore – okay, I did exaggerate a little – but it seems I left them thirsting for more.
‘It doesn’t have to be this month. You know, you should join us as a member,’ Frances continues, as I wonder why I find ‘no’ the hardest word. ‘Everyone should know how to press flowers and bake the perfect sponge. Being a career woman is no excuse.’
Talyton’s Women’s Institute are a friendly bunch, much less stuffy than I expected, more Calendar Girls than Jam and Jerusalem, but even if I wanted to learn a few useful domestic skills, I haven’t the time. To make this absolutely clear to Frances, I head straight out the back to return Cleo to her carrier, reversing her in because she won’t go in forwards.
Change is afoot at Otter House Vets. I can feel it in the pit of my belly, in the throb of the pulse in my thumb: Emma’s baby on the way, Izzy getting married and a new trainee – an aspiring vampire with criminal tendencies, no less – about to join the team.
Chapter Three
A Cold, Wet Nose
It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m standing all scrubbed up, made up and dressed up in a little black dress, bolero top and heels in the drawing room at the Manor, wondering where the pony is, because the last time I was in here, one was strolling across the Axminster behind one of the rather shabby sofas.
Maybe it’s been scared off by tonight’s guests – the great and good of Talyton St George and the surrounding area. I recognise many of them now: Mr Lacey from Lacey’s Fine Wines (at extraordinarily fine prices too), the partners from the local solicitors who drew up the partnership agreement for me and Emma, and the Pitts of Barton Farm. Lynsey Pitt gives me a wave. Her husband, Stewart, gives me a wink. A busy dairy farmer and father to seven children, he has a reputation for womanising, but I know he has no serious intentions towards me. He and Alex are like brothers.
The rest of the guests are made up from the Talyton Manor Vets’ clients, various landowners, members of the horsey set and many of the WI.
The electric chandelier casts a dusty gleam over the paintings of previous generations of Fox-Giffords, attired in pink hunting coats and breeches and accompanied by their horses, who stare down superciliously from their gilded frames. There are antiques on every surface and a pack of six or seven dogs are scrapping for a place in front of a log the size of a tree-trunk, which glows and spits in the enormous marble fireplace.
All eyes, though, are on the man who stands to one side of the hearth, brandishing a brandy glass in one hand and a stick in the other. He too seems to glow and spit as he pontificates to his audience, rousing them like a hunter rouses his hounds to bay for blood.
‘We’d all be a lot better orf if we ran those idiots in Westminster to ground, holed ’em up and gassed ’em.’ He’s in full cry now. ‘What do they know about living in the country? They’ve banned our sport and opened up our land to all and sundry.’
Old Fox-Gifford’s clothing, a blazer in a grubby shade of Cambridge blue and mustard cords with bald creases, should give the impression of a man who’s worn out and way past his prime, yet although his legs are bowed and his spine crooked, he seems to have plenty of fight left in him. He has the same fierce blue eyes as my Alex, grey hair and sideburns, and a ruddy complexion, the result of regular weathering, pickling and apoplexy over the past threescore years and ten. It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago, he was gored by a bull while out on his rounds and so badly injured he wasn’t expected to live.
‘What’s the answer?’ Old Fox-Gifford dashes his stick against the floor. ‘Shoot the buggers, I say. Shoot th
e bloody lot of them.’
There’s a round of applause and some shouts of ‘Hear, hear’ before the guests begin to disperse and form small groups.
‘Hellooo, Maz. How wonderful to see you.’
I am pounced upon by Fifi Green, treasurer to the WI and holder of various other seemingly important posts, town councillor and chairman of the committee for next year’s Britain in Bloom competition. Last year, she helped me out in her capacity as president of Talyton Animal Rescue, raising funds and rallying volunteers to look after the animals rescued from the fire at Buttercross Cottage.
Tonight, she is a vision in scarlet. Everything matches, from the highlights in her hair to the bows on her shoes.
‘Hi, Fifi. How are you?’ I say, as she leans in and kisses me on both cheeks.
‘Oh, rushed off my feet as usual.’
‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘I love it,’ she says. ‘I love being a leading light. How are things at Otter House?’
‘Pretty good.’ I smile as I take a tissue from my bag and discreetly wipe away Fifi’s lippy from my face. ‘We seem to be getting busier every day.’
‘Maz, you know very well I’m not talking shop.’ Fifi taps the side of her well-powdered nose. ‘I want all the gossip – about Emma’s pregnancy, Izzy’s wedding preparations … and you and Alex Fox-Gifford. Is it serious?’
‘Fifi! It’s none of your business.’ I know if I say anything, it will be all over Talyton St George by tomorrow. Gossip spreads in this community quicker than foot-and-mouth.
‘Well, Frances tells me about all the goings-on, but I can’t help feeling she censors what she says.’ Fifi gazes at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘Surely you must have something, just one little nugget.’
As I’m wondering about the wisdom of making something up, we’re interrupted.
‘Madge, I expect you’re looking for Alexander?’ says Sophia, Alex’s mother, from beside me. She’s tall and slim, and sports a fox fur, a real one, complete with its face still on and gazing, ghastly and glassy-eyed, around the side of her neck. Her hair is stiff with hairspray, her lips smeared with scarlet lipstick as if she’s been blooded at the end of a hunt. ‘It’s so lovely that you’ve found the time to join our soirée. Whilst Fox-Gifford and I are quite prepared to set aside professional rivalries for one night, I was afraid you might feel unable to do the same, Madge,’ she adds, with a withering look.
‘It’s Maz. My name’s Maz,’ I say somewhat sharply, because Sophia must surely know my name by now.
Her eyes focus on my neckline, and my fingers seek Alex’s Christmas present to me, feeling for the solidity of the platinum chain and the pendant suspended from it.
‘Alex gave Astra a necklace almost identical to that when they were first going out together. Rather vulgar, I thought, and I said so.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ I say, aware of Fifi’s expression of glee at having received her much-wanted nugget of gossip, while Sophia stares at me, her head tipped slightly to one side. I wish Alex had been more careful with his selection of present. He must have known his mother would notice.
‘I’m glad we can be straight with each other, Madge. When you’re in the country, a spade is a spade.’ Sophia is all smiles, but her body language suggests she’s preparing to draw a dagger from her breast. ‘I hope you’ve got it insured.’
Insured? I should have thought. Alex isn’t the kind of guy who’d pop down to Argos for a bit of bling.
Sophia finds me a drink before introducing me to Old Fox-Gifford over a glass of Buck’s Fizz. His dog, an old black Lab with bowed legs like his master, and eyes milky with cataracts, introduces himself, first licking my hand, then shoving his grey muzzle between my legs and lifting the hem of my dress. I try to push him away, but he won’t leave me alone and Old Fox-Gifford won’t call him off.
‘You’ve met Alexander’s friend, Madge, before, haven’t you, darling?’ says Sophia. ‘When you were judging the Best Pet class at the show last summer.’
‘It’s Maz,’ I say.
‘The current floozie?’ Old Fox-Gifford stares at me, eyes narrowed. His breath reeks of pickled onions.
I turn away to hide my offence and hurt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hit a nerve. Besides, it’s difficult to complain about being described as a floozie when you have a Labrador’s cold, wet nose thrust into your crotch. I look around for Alex, hoping for rescue, but I can’t see him anywhere.
‘Have a bite to eat, Maz,’ Old Fox-Gifford goads. ‘You look as if you could do with a bit more flesh on you.’ He raises his stick, calling for a waitress, who turns up with a plate of vol-au-vents garnished with parsley. Rather retro, I think, like his attitude.
‘Oh dear. I’d forgotten you were a veg-et-ar-ian. You’ll have to go hungry.’ He takes a vol-au-vent, bites into it and gives the other half to the drooling Lab. ‘I hear you’re still ripping off the good people of Talyton, selling them processed pet food at exorbitant prices –’
‘Excuse me,’ I interrupt. ‘We do nothing of the sort. We’re realistic about what we charge and the money we make goes back into the practice to buy new equipment and provide a better service. Times change. We don’t taste urine samples to test for diabetes, or use ether any more.’
Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t seem to realise I’m being facetious.
‘What are you suggesting?’ he growls.
‘Madge isn’t suggesting anything,’ Sophia says calmly. ‘All she’s saying is that we’ve all moved on. Alexander’s talking about buying a new X-ray machine.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the one we’ve got.’
‘And the ECG’s broken,’ Sophia goes on.
‘I don’t need to wire my patients up to all kinds of bleeping machines to tell if they’re dead or alive.’
‘Surely you want the best for your own pets,’ I say, as the old Lab nudges his way back between my legs.
‘Ours are working dogs, not pets,’ Old Fox-Gifford brags. ‘They have fresh meat and bones, and a handful of mix. And if they get sick or injured, we don’t drag it out, trying this and that and spending a fortune. A shot of Lethobarb or Euthesate, whatever’s the cheapest at the time, that’s all they get.’
‘Will you please call that dog orf now, Fox-Gifford?’ Sophia says, while I’m wondering how on earth you can work as a vet when you don’t seem to possess even an ounce of compassion.
Old Fox-Gifford pokes the Labrador with the end of his stick.
‘Hal’s just being friendly,’ he says. ‘He likes you, although I can’t think why.’ Then he smiles. ‘I expect you smell of dog.’
Even Sophia looks a little embarrassed by her husband now.
‘Madge, let’s see if we can find Alexander for you.’ She gazes past me towards one of the two shabby sofas in the room, her adoring gaze like a cow’s on her newborn calf. ‘Oh, there he is with Delphi. Have you met Delphi Letherington? No, you can’t possibly have met all of Alexander’s friends yet. Delphi’s a marvellous horsewoman, so talented. She runs the equestrian centre on the way to Talysands.’
The sight of Alex on the sofa in a shirt and tie, with his legs stretched out and his arm across the back, laughing with a long-legged blonde, makes me feel slightly nauseous. I try to suppress my reaction, but Sophia smiles as if to say, I saw that.
‘They make a striking couple, don’t they?’ she says, capitalising on my insecurity. ‘Delphi’s mother was in despair on the day of the wedding – she asked me if I’d have one last go at persuading her against it, but would she listen?’ She shakes her head. ‘Silly girl. She went ahead and married that hideous man. She regretted it afterwards, of course. He was her farrier and it turned out he was shoeing more than one horse, so to speak.’
I take it from this that Delphi – who’s wearing an evening gown in lilac satin with ruffles and flounces (think 1980s Laura Ashley) – is no longer married, and that Sophia’s dreaming of a match between her and my boyfriend.
<
br /> I remind myself that Alex has chosen to be with me. It isn’t easy. My previous boyfriends have had a nasty tendency to dump me for other women. However, I’m not about to let Sophia poison my trust in him. I won’t give her the satisfaction. I gaze towards Alex, who looks up in my direction, smiles a slow heart-stopping smile that I know is meant for me alone, then turns to the woman beside him and excuses himself.
‘You look stunning, Maz,’ Alex says, slipping his arm around my back and pressing his mouth to my ear as he joins me, and Sophia moves away to ‘circulate’, as she puts it. ‘Come with me.’
We stroll out of the crowded drawing room into the hallway, crossing the tiled floor to the foot of a staircase the National Trust would be proud of. I can picture generation after generation of Fox-Giffords sliding down the gleaming oak banister, whooping as they go.
Alex swings me round beneath the mistletoe and holly suspended from the ceiling, and plants a kiss on my lips and another, and another, until …
‘Daddy?’ a small voice cuts in. ‘Daddy! There you are. Seb, I’ve found him.’
Groaning, Alex draws back and slowly drops my hands, his expression a mixture of frustration and apology, before he looks up to where the staircase takes a turn up to the first landing.
With a sigh, I follow his gaze.
Two pairs of eyes stare back. A girl of five or six with straight, pale-blonde shoulder-length hair looks over the handrail, and a boy of about three, who’s a replica of Alex with dark curls and a fierce expression, peers between the balusters.
‘Daddy, is that your girlfriend?’ the girl says.
‘You know very well who she is, Lucie.’
I have met Lucie and Seb before, but only in passing, for example when their mother’s been late picking them up on a Sunday night to take them back to their home in London.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get round to telling you,’ Alex says, turning back to me, and the little bubbles of desire that have been fizzing up inside me start to pop one by one as he goes on, ‘Astra was supposed to pick them up this afternoon, but she’s been delayed on her way back from Verbier. She’ll be here tomorrow.’
Must Be Love Page 4