‘Oh no,’ Emma mutters aside to me. ‘It’s the Captain.’
‘What’s he doing up there? I thought–’
‘Someone’s messed up.’ Emma looks around. ‘Where’s Drew?’
‘Just a minute.’ I touch her arm as one of the fire crew approaches us.
‘You’re the vets here, aren’t you?’ he says.
I suppose it’s obvious – I feel as if everyone’s pointing the finger in our direction.
‘We had a phone call from a concerned member of the public reporting a parrot in the tree in their garden. We got there as soon as we could, but it took fright and flew this way. We can get the ladder up to the roof here, but what can we do to stop it flying off again?’
‘If I’d done the wing clip, we wouldn’t be in this situation.’ Emma’s cheeks are pink. ‘This is sooo embarrassing.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ I say, trying to keep her calm.
I’m not sure I approve of wing clipping anyway – in my opinion, birds are supposed to fly and it doesn’t seem right to stop them. However, the Captain’s been having his wings clipped for years now and I’ve seen him in the shop on his perch or on Mr Victor’s shoulder, curling his neck round to take a peanut from between Mr Victor’s lips, and he doesn’t seem unhappy with his lot.
He seems supremely happy now, though, making the most of his freedom, wolf-whistling from the roof, stalking up and down, and folding and stretching his wings.
’Em, let’s do the inquest later. Our first priority is to get the Captain back in one piece.’
‘We’d better get hold of Mr Victor.’ Emma looks at me and I look at her, neither of us wanting to be the one to give him bad news. ‘We’ll go together.’
While the fire crew are setting up their ladder, Emma and I walk to the ironmonger’s side by side, like two terrified school kids on their way to the headmaster’s office. Unfortunately, Mr Victor has just noticed that his bird has flown.
‘I always leave the back door ajar for a little while of a morning,’ he says, his face scarlet with annoyance and worry, as he grabs an overcoat. ‘He likes a wander around the backyard.’
‘Can you bring some of his favourite food with you?’ Emma says, and Mr Victor heads out through the back of the shop, returning with a bag of fresh fruit and nuts.
When we arrive back at Otter House, he looks up and whistles, at which the Captain whistles back but stubbornly refuses to move from his new perch.
The crowd is growing larger. The traffic edges slowly around the fire engine. The fire crew decide the best way to get the Captain down is to send one of their members up in the bucket at the end of their ladder, with Mr Victor inside too to coax him down with some lychees, but Mr Victor claims he has a medical condition that precludes him from attempting heights of any kind. Emma puts Drew’s name forward, but Mr Victor won’t have Drew anywhere near his parrot ever again.
‘That boy hasn’t got a bloody clue,’ he says, and I can understand why he’s seething. I would be, if that was my parrot up there.
I look at Emma and realise she can’t possibly go up in the bucket in her condition, so it’s down – or rather, up – to me.
I have to have the right gear, a harness and helmet, and I take gauntlets, a couple of towels, a net and some of the Captain’s food with me, and then I’m up and away, suspended above Otter House with one of the fire crew, trying to persuade the Captain to accompany me back to ground level, without looking down.
‘Come on, then, little chap,’ I say softly.
The Captain turns his back and inches away along the ridge.
We move in closer, at which the Captain takes umbrage, becoming a bundle of feathered fury.
‘Fuck off! Fuck off!’ His little eyes flash with anger and he shows off his beak, which could have your finger off in a split second. I’m not sure there’s any point in being nice to him any longer.
‘Fuck off to you too,’ I growl back.
The Captain tips his head to one side.
‘Fuck off,’ he says, more politely this time.
I show him a lychee, holding it on the edge of the bucket.
‘If you want it, you’ll have to come and get it.’
He stretches his neck. I can see he’s tempted.
‘Fuck off,’ he says sweetly, and flies onto the edge of the bucket, where he takes the lychee ever so gently from between my fingers. While he’s distracted, I drop a towel over his head and grab him, tucking his wings against his body and keeping away from his marauding beak.
‘Gotcha.’
The crowd breaks into a round of applause as the fire crew lower the ladder, and I breathe a sigh of relief when my feet are back on firm ground. Shaking, I hand the Captain over to Mr Victor, and I’m still shaking when everyone begins to disperse, a few staying on for the cups of tea Frances is offering in return for donations to Talyton Animal Rescue. The fireman who came up in the bucket with me becomes the spokesman, the hero of the piece, talking to the roving reporter for the Chronicle, who’s turned up on a tip-off.
‘I can tell you,’ he says with a grin, ‘that the operation went without a flap.’
‘You’re not going to print that, are you, Ally?’ I cut in. I know the reporter for the Chronicle well – she’s one of our clients.
‘It’s a great story, Maz,’ she says. ‘My editor loves animals. This’ll be front-page news.’
Great, I think, seeing that Ally’s made her mind up and there’s no point arguing. This kind of publicity will reflect badly on the practice, and it’s no thanks to Drew.
‘Mr Victor said he wanted a light trim,’ Drew explains when Emma and I summon him to the office afterwards for ‘a bit of a chat’ – Emma’s choice of words. I might have used something stronger. ‘I guess it was a bit too light. Look, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘It won’t, because I’m going to see Mr Victor from now on.’ Emma swivels from side to side on the office chair and taps the end of her pen on the desk in front of her. ‘I thought you said you’d dealt with exotics before.’
‘I have, but iguanas are more my thing.’
‘Well, next time you come across something you aren’t sure about, do ask,’ Emma says before she sends him off for lunch, leaving just the two of us.
‘At least we got the Captain back in one piece.’ I pull up a second chair. It feels like old times.
‘You’re right. It could have been a whole lot worse.’ Emma gazes at me, a smile playing on her lips. ‘We could have got him back in pieces of eight.’
‘Ha ha,’ I say dryly, ‘very funny.’
‘Did I handle that all right?’ Emma says, sobering up.
‘I have to admit I was more inclined to send him on his way.’
‘It’ll be hard to find someone else – all the locums seem to want to work in city practices. It was one mistake, Maz, that’s all. We should forgive and forget.’
Emma’s right, but I won’t forget being up in that bucket in a hurry.
‘Did you realise Ginge’s blood-test results were back?’ Emma asks, changing the subject. ‘His thyroid hormone levels are sky high, in spite of all those tablets you’re giving him. You are remembering to give them to him?’
‘Of course I am – well, most days,’ I add, with a twinge of guilt that I’m not the most conscientious owner in the world. ‘I don’t understand the results, though,’ I say, frowning. ‘They should be impossible.’
‘How about going for surgery?’
‘It’s too risky.’
‘You could refer him for treatment with radioactive iodine.’
‘You mean, send him away? Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’ Ginge was almost wild when I took him on, and it’s taken a lot of time and effort to gain his trust. I don’t want to destroy it. ‘Anyway, it would probably kill him.’
‘Do you know who you sound like?’ Emma chuckles. ‘One of those irrational clients you’re always complaining about. Of course he’d be all right.’
> ‘Well, I’m not sure it’s the best thing for Ginge,’ I say, a little miffed. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Don’t think too long – I need you to hold the fort with Drew this afternoon. Ben’s managed to get me in for a scan at the hospital. It’s all right – the baby’s fine,’ Emma says, when I open my mouth to ask why. ‘It’s me – fussy mother syndrome,’ she adds lightly, and I understand why she wasn’t tougher on Drew. If she wasn’t pregnant, if she didn’t need him to cover for her, she probably would have sent him on his way.
‘Promise me you’ll keep a close eye on Drew while I’m not here,’ she goes on, and the question ‘Have you forgotten – it’s my practice too?’ is on the tip of my tongue when she changes the subject back to the baby.
‘Ben and I have decided we’d like you to be godmother, Maz. It’s all right, you can be an ungodly godmother if you like. We don’t mind.’ She hugs her bump. ‘Well?’
‘I’d love to. Thanks, Em.’ I’m honoured. Proud. I’ve never been asked to be a godmother before. Religion is one of the things that doesn’t run in my family. I get up from my seat, reaching out a hand to the desk to steady myself. I feel slightly giddy – it’s been a long time since breakfast.
‘Do you want anything from the Co-op?’ I ask. ‘I’m going to grab a sandwich.’
‘Are you feeling a bit peckish, then? Peck-ish – get it?’
‘Oh, that’s enough of the bird jokes,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘I didn’t realise there were so many.’ Emma giggles. ‘Thanks for the offer, but my lunch is in the fridge – pasta salad and a yoghurt. No more doughnuts. I had a go on the scales in Reception while no one was looking, and I’ve put on pounds.’
‘Isn’t it the baby?’
‘A baby doesn’t put on a stone in a couple of weeks.’ Grimacing, she glances at her watch. ‘I’d better get going – Ben’s picking me up any minute.’
‘All the best,’ I say and, feeling pleased with myself for remembering what Emma said about her last scan, I go on, ‘I hope they warm the gel for you this time.’
Emma stands up and gives me a hug before we make our way to Reception, where she disappears to join Ben, who’s waiting for her in the car park. Frances beckons me over to her desk.
‘What now?’ I say, the words coming out sharp and short-tempered, which I didn’t intend. Trying to apologise, but unable to form any words at all, I walk towards her, my limbs weighed down as if I’m walking through treacle. Frances’s tunic blurs and darkens in front of my eyes and my body starts burning up. I make a grab for something to hang on to, catching at thin air, as everything starts spinning around me, faster and faster like a theme-park ride. Colours grow muddy, grey, then black …
… and I wake up on one of the plastic chairs in Reception with Frances kneeling beside me. She’s smiling, which I find rather unsympathetic, considering what’s just happened.
‘You fainted,’ she says. ‘I wonder what on earth can be wrong with you …’
I can’t help running through a list of differential diagnoses in my head. Low blood sugar? Delayed shock from rescuing a parrot from a great height? Flu? A tummy bug? Something more sinister?
‘You’ve seemed a bit under the weather recently.’ Frances pats my knee, then makes a great, creaking effort to stand up. ‘Stay there while I fetch my vets’ survival kit. It’s tea and ginger biscuits for you. A little bit of ginger is perfect for this situation.’
I smile weakly, but it isn’t long before I’m feeling better. I’m not sure why it has to be a ginger biscuit for this situation as Frances describes it, but it does the trick.
‘Please don’t mention this to anyone,’ I say, as the rush of sugar kicks in. ‘I feel a bit of a fool.’
‘These things are best kept to yourself for now,’ she agrees, and I’m pleased she’s being so considerate because Frances is an inveterate gossip and I wouldn’t want news of my fainting fit reaching the outer reaches of Talyton and the Other Practice in case Alex should come over all concerned and chivalrous. I don’t need the fuss, and besides, it won’t happen again.
‘You make sure you look after yourself, Maz, and listen to what your body’s telling you,’ Frances twitters on. ‘If you need a rest, take one. Drew’s here now. He can make himself useful.’
Thanking her for her concern, and the tea and biscuits, I pop out the back to check what Drew’s up to. I find him, Shannon and Izzy in Kennels with the radio on. Drew is sitting on the prep bench, swinging those long legs of his, Shannon is laughing and holding the mop out in front of her and slinking round it as if it’s a pole and she’s an exotic dancer, and Izzy, of all people, is dancing with Tripod in her arms. She looks sheepish when they eventually notice me and stop.
‘We’ve just been telling Drew about the nightlife here,’ she says.
‘That it’s non-existent,’ Shannon says.
‘Apart from bats and owls,’ Izzy adds.
‘So the girls have set up an impromptu club here,’ Drew says, grinning.
‘I suppose you could call it a kennel club,’ Izzy says, and I realise with a shock that Drew has won her round too with his good looks and masculine charm.
‘If you drive us into Exeter sometime, Drew,’ Shannon says boldly, ‘me and my friends’ll show you the best places to go.’
I make a mental note to have a word with her – Drew’s hardly Crocodile Dundee. He’s more sophisticated than that, much more a man of the world. Furthermore, although Shannon’s clearly besotted with him, he doesn’t appear to feel the same way about her. Interested perhaps, but besotted? No. I wonder if he has a girlfriend somewhere. It would surprise me if he’s unattached.
‘Oh, Shannon’s got something to tell you, Maz.’ Izzy pulls a pot of tablets out of her pocket and rattles it; then as Shannon remains silent, she goes on, ‘She discovered Ginge’s stash of tablets behind the sofa in the staffroom.’
Suddenly it becomes clear. Ginge must be craftier than I thought. He’s been spitting the tablets out after I’ve given them to him. It’s a relief in a way to know he isn’t getting sicker in spite of the treatment; he’s getting sicker without it.
‘Would you like me to give him his tablets from now on?’ Izzy asks.
‘I’ll do it.’ I can feel the heat flooding my cheeks at being revealed as completely incompetent in front of the locum. Snatching the pot from Izzy, I ask if anyone’s seen Ginge, at which I catch the flip-flap of the cat-flap out to the garden.
‘I think he must have heard you,’ Izzy says wryly. ‘Call yourself a vet.’
‘I felt sooo embarrassed,’ I tell Alex when we’re on our way out to lunch the next day, having managed to get away from our respective practices for the afternoon. It’s a very rare event.
‘I bet you wish you hadn’t rescued Ginge now,’ Alex says, indicating to turn into the end of Stoney Lane where a huge sign reads, Greens Garden Centre – for all your Garden, Pet and Household Needs, and underneath, All Day Breakfasts, Lunches and Cream Teas. Sunday Carvery.
‘He is a bit of a pain at times, but I couldn’t have left him to fend for himself.’ I pause as Alex pulls into the car park and parks between two empty coaches. ‘Is this where we’re having lunch, or are you popping in to buy a plant?’
‘I thought I’d get an aspidistra for the Manor.’ Alex’s voice is deadpan, then he turns and grins. ‘Not really. I thought we’d eat here – if you don’t mind. I hope you’re not too disappointed.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, although I did think we might be going somewhere a little more upmarket, and I would rather not run into Fifi, who owns the garden centre with her husband, on my afternoon off. She talks too much.
‘Come on, then,’ Alex says. ‘I’m starving.’
‘As usual,’ I say, smiling, and I accompany him through the courtyard past the pots, fountains and ornaments, and the rows of garden plants, into the brick-and-tile building beyond. The doors slide closed behind us and Alex slips his hand around my w
aist, guiding me along the aisles of furniture, Christmas cards and decorations on sale, and a variety of shoes, floral skirts and fleeces, along with dibbers and trowels. The air is humid with the scent of baking bread, boiled cabbage and forced chrysanthemums. It all seems very confused.
‘Here we are,’ Alex says, and we pass through a set of curtains into an eating area. All the tables are filled with people and there’s a queue at the counter, but Alex nips round the side and has a word with one of the servers, who fetches Fifi.
‘Oh, Alex. And Maz. How lovely to see you both. Together.’ She air-kisses Alex’s cheeks, then mine. ‘Are you eating?’
‘That’s the plan if there’s a table,’ Alex says. ‘We are in rather a rush, though.’
‘Of course. You’re both busy vets.’ Fifi glances around the room, her hairstyle too bouffant to be elegant. ‘I’ll ask that couple over there to move. They’ve been here for nearly two hours and all they’ve bought is two coffees.’
‘No, Fifi. You don’t have to do that,’ I say, wondering if the couple in question are taking refuge from the cold weather. I can remember doing that as a student, spending hours in coffee shops and eking out one or two drinks because my digs were so cold and I couldn’t afford the heating. But Fifi is on a mission in her pale cream twinset and pearls. The couple resist, but after a few minutes of conversation they agree to move to the end of a long table occupied by a coachload of OAPs.
‘There you are, Alex,’ Fifi says. ‘It’s all yours. It’s so nice to have some young people in for a change.’
We aren’t that young, I muse, but I guess it’s all relative: most of Fifi’s customers seem to be over seventy-five.
Alex takes my jacket and hangs it over the back of my chair; then we sit down, Fifi hovering beside us.
‘What shall we have?’ he says, picking up the menu.
‘I’d recommend the seasonal vegetable soup starter,’ Fifi says, ‘followed by the mixed grill or a baked potato with prawns and Mary Rose sauce. We tried upgrading the menu once, but our clientele didn’t appreciate it at all. You should have heard the fuss when we stopped serving chips and baked beans with everything.’ She lowers her voice. ‘They’re plebs, that’s the trouble. They don’t appreciate fine dining, not like yourself, Alex.’ I notice she doesn’t include me, but I don’t mind because Alex is looking at me, one eyebrow raised, and I have to suppress a giggle.
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