Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Perhaps you should invite them to come and stay too,’ she says, which isn’t such a bad idea, I muse. Except, knowing Old Fox-Gifford’s other dogs, they’d all be barking too.

  ‘I’d better give the old fart a call and let him know his dog’s still alive,’ I say, staring at Hal, who barks on, oblivious to my disapproval. ‘You didn’t hear me say that, Shannon.’ It’s just that I find it hard to show him any respect, considering how he’s treated me.

  ‘He’s been in already,’ Shannon says.

  I catch sight of my distorted stainless-steel frown in the back of a cage as Shannon goes on, ‘Old Fox-Gifford came to see Hal. He was feeding him custard creams.’

  ‘Who let him in? You know the rules, Shannon. No member of the public is allowed in here, unless Emma or I say so.’

  ‘He isn’t exactly a member of the public, though,’ Shannon points out. ‘He’s a vet, and anyway, I didn’t let him in. Frances did.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have …’ The more I think about it, though, the more likely it seems. Frances used to work for the Talyton Manor Vets and it appears she’s still loyal to them.

  ‘And by the way, Maz,’ Shannon goes on, ‘he asked me to get you to call him. He wants to speak to you.’

  I sigh inwardly. I have no great inclination to speak to him. He’ll only find something to criticise or complain about. However, I do phone him at the surgery.

  ‘Good morning, Maz,’ he says, sounding surprisingly cordial. ‘I’m sorry I missed you when I came in to visit the old dog. Your young nurse says he’s been howling the place down.’

  ‘He has been a little vocal,’ I say, playing it down because the last thing I want is Hal going home just yet.

  ‘He’s a loyal one, that one. The best dog I’ve ever had,’ Old Fox-Gifford says. ‘And I wanted to say how – uhum – grateful I am for your expertise. I thought you might have had to cut that leg right orf.’

  ‘There’s still a chance of that,’ I say. ‘There’s a pretty high risk of infection, especially around the implants.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. Only to be expected,’ he mutters.

  I can hear the lack of his usual bluster in his voice and I feel just a teensy bit sorry for him. He doesn’t sound like a grumpy old vet right now. He could be any one of my clients, desperately worried about their pet.

  ‘Can I pop in again sometime?’ he goes on.

  ‘Yes, as long as you call first to check it’s convenient,’ I say, not wanting to make it too easy for him. ‘I’ll let you know how he is later, after evening surgery.’ Having said goodbye, I cut the call. I can hardly believe it. Old Fox-Gifford actually thanked me. However, it doesn’t predispose me to think any better of him – he hasn’t mentioned the baby.

  ‘Old Mr Fox-Gifford was desperate to see Hal,’ Frances says a few minutes later, when I tackle her about letting him in to see the dog. ‘He loves him to bits.’

  ‘He shot him to bits last night,’ I say, ‘but it does appear that he’s fond of him. I’ve said he can see him again as long as he contacts us first.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s spying, do you?’ Frances’s eyebrows are like the trace from an ECG: her pencil must have slipped this morning.

  ‘Who knows what goes on in that man’s mind?’

  ‘Maz, you’re talking about your future father-in-law.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not. Alex and I aren’t considering marriage.’

  ‘It isn’t good for a child to see its parents living in sin.’

  ‘Frances! At least our child will see its parents living together.’

  ‘But it isn’t right,’ she goes on.

  ‘In your opinion,’ I say. We’re all different. Yet I have a strange, hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach when I think of marriage and commitment, and I remember Izzy’s wedding and how happy she was. Oh, Maz, you’re going mad. Am I beginning to regret my harsh views on marriage? Am I going to rue making such a fuss about it in front of Alex? Deep down, is there part of me that hopes he’ll overrule the objections I’ve voiced in his presence, and propose?

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A Double Dose

  Thoughts of marriage don’t linger long. The next day, I’m with Emma and Frances in Reception. Emma’s looking fed up already, and she’s only just stepped inside the door. What have I done now? I wonder. What is it with me and partnerships?

  ‘Don’t tell me that dog’s still here.’ Emma turns to me. ‘I thought we’d decided he had to go home.’

  I bite my tongue. I want Hal confined for a good six weeks to give that leg time to heal, and I’m not sure I can trust Old Fox-Gifford to do that. He’s been in to see Hal again – at eight this morning, on his way to look at a pet pot-bellied pig with apparent bellyache. He brought a box of chocolate biscuits for everyone at the practice and was surprisingly charming – almost, but not quite, likable.

  ‘Old Fox-Gifford can look after him himself.’ Emma takes off her mac, sprinkling water across Shannon’s clean floor in Reception. ‘It’s his dog.’

  Hal utters a high-pitched howl, like the Hound of the Baskervilles.

  ‘He sounds like he’s in agony,’ Frances says. ‘Are you sure he isn’t in pain?’

  ‘I’ve got him maxed out on painkillers,’ I say, a little hurt that she thinks I’d leave an animal in pain and distress. ‘I can’t give him any more.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave him with you,’ Emma says. ‘Maz, you’d better get it sorted before everyone ends up with a headache.’

  ‘Christine Dyer wants a visit this morning,’ Frances says. ‘She says she can’t bear to watch Brutus struggle any longer.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Emma says.

  ‘Actually, she’s asked for Maz.’

  ‘So you’re her pet vet now,’ Emma says. ‘Well, good luck to you.’

  ‘I’ll take Shannon with me.’

  ‘I need Shannon here,’ Emma says. ‘I’m not operating without a nurse.’

  ‘If we go now, we’ll be back within the hour.’ Why does she have to make my life more difficult than it already is? Why does she have to take her misery out on me? What have I done to deserve this?

  All right, I’ve got myself pregnant, said some insensitive things, perhaps not been as supportive as I might have been …

  I gaze at Emma, at the dark circles around her eyes and her taut, bloodless mouth, but she looks away.

  ‘You’d better get going,’ she says flatly, and I leave as soon as I’ve set up a pheromone-releasing plug-in close to Hal’s kennel, hoping this will shut him up.

  ‘Can’t you take Frances with you?’ Shannon says.

  ‘Frances isn’t a nurse, and she’s got creaky knees.’ I picture her struggling up from kneeling on the floor beside Brutus. ‘I understand you’re upset about what happened, but it’s your job.’

  ‘I know, but …’ Shannon pauses. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  Shannon and I meet Mrs Dyer in the sitting room at the back of the butcher’s shop, where Brutus is lying on an old sofa with a huge marrowbone, watching TV.

  ‘Hi, Brutus,’ I say. He gives me a cursory glance, then turns his attention back to the screen where a dog’s advertising sausages.

  ‘He loves all the daytime shows, don’t you, Brutus?’ Mrs Dyer’s eyes are red and her voice furred with grief. She sits on the floor beside the dog, stroking his head with a screwed-up tissue in her hand. She looks up as her husband joins us, dressed in a white coat and striped apron, a boning knife in one hand and a steel in the other.

  ‘Hello, my lover,’ she says. ‘This is Maz, and Shannon, of course.’

  ‘Ah yes. We know Shannon well.’ I notice Shannon blushing as Mr Dyer, his jowls wobbling, goes on, ‘All that about how me and the missus are murderers, how the cash I take in this shop is blood money.’ He gives his knife two strokes on the steel, and wipes the blade with the cloth tucked in his pocket.

  ‘I said I’m sorry,’ Shannon says, ‘but I don’t believe in killing animals f
or meat.’

  ‘We know where all our meat comes from, which farm.’ Mr Dyer touches the knife blade briefly to his arm, leaving a patch of skin bare of hair. ‘We know the animals are well looked after, and slaughtered quickly and cleanly.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any difference to me,’ Shannon says. ‘It’s still murder.’

  ‘Shannon, that’s enough, thank you.’ It doesn’t seem right talking about killing animals when we’re here to finish off the Dyers’ dog. I talk through the procedure, hoping Brutus doesn’t understand, but I can see he’s apprehensive, that he’s picked up on his owners’ distress.

  ‘We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?’ Mrs Dyer says.

  Her husband nods.

  I wish he’d put the knife away, but he holds on to it as if it’s a comfort, while Shannon and I put Brutus to sleep. It’s a little cack-handed, because I have to be careful not to put any extra stress on his front leg when I’m injecting him.

  Brutus slips peacefully into unconsciousness.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Mr Dyer says, when I’m checking for a heartbeat.

  ‘My poor darling …’ Mrs Dyer throws herself across the body as Shannon and I step away.

  Crying quietly, Shannon packs the visit case and I wait, wiping a tear from my eye and wondering how differently Brutus’s life might have turned out if it hadn’t been for Drew.

  ‘We’re taking him straight up to the crematorium,’ Mr Dyer says. ‘We’re having a private ceremony later this week. Christine’s arranged it all with the chap at the pet cemetery. The vicar’s agreed to say a few words and all.’

  ‘Would you like some help moving him?’ I ask, and Mr Dyer looks at me.

  ‘You in your condition and your slip of a nurse? No, I’ll get one of the boys to help me.’ He disappears, then comes back with a large carrier bag. ‘This is for you, Maz.’

  ‘Everyone likes a nice piece of ham,’ Mrs Dyer says. ‘You can have some in a sandwich, or with a hard-boiled egg, or warm it up with parsley sauce.’

  Aware of Shannon’s expression of disgust, I accept it gracefully. This is definitely not the time to stand up for your principles. I can always share it out between Emma and Frances.

  When we return to Otter House, I’m not sure if I can hear Hal howling, or whether it’s a lingering ringing in my ears from the last couple of nights. I’ve been staying in the flat to look after him. Alex isn’t overly impressed at my devotion to duty, but – I smile to myself – it’s good to know he misses me.

  ‘It’s Hal,’ Shannon confirms for me.

  ‘Has he been barking the whole time we were out?’ I ask Frances, who’s at the desk, phone in one hand, pen in the other.

  ‘Some of the neighbours have been in to complain. Apparently, they’ve been in touch with Environmental Health, who’ve promised to come out as soon as they can to assess whether the noise is a statutory nuisance.’ Frances pauses for breath. ‘In which case, they can serve an abatement notice, which means if Hal continues to bark, you and Emma can be fined up to twenty thousand pounds and the practice closed down.’

  ‘Closed down?’

  ‘That’s what they said. I’ve checked on the interweb and it’s true. They can shut us down. Emma’s absolutely furious.’

  That’s just what we need, I think, heading out the back with Shannon, where Hal is still barking. The plug-in diffuser continues to emit calming doggy pheromones to no avail. A cat that Emma’s admitted since we’ve been gone is hiding under a Vetbed with just her tail showing, twitching with annoyance.

  ‘Hal, will you shut up,’ I growl, but Hal takes no notice. I glance at the inpatient record card clipped to the front of his kennel. He hasn’t had anything apart from a painkiller and antibiotic since early this morning. I don’t like doing it, but I’m going to have to sedate him, because my eardrums are aching and I can’t hear myself think. Because he isn’t helping himself, thrashing about in his kennel. Because he’s upsetting everyone – patients, staff and our neighbours – and I can’t contemplate the idea of Otter House being shut down.

  Kneeling carefully to protect my bump, I slip some sedative into Hal’s drip, and write it up on his card, then send Shannon in to Emma to tell her I’m free to take over in the consulting room while she makes a start on the ops.

  ‘You took your time,’ Emma mutters as we pass in the corridor. ‘It isn’t fair, you using your pregnancy as an excuse for slacking.’

  I stop short, but she’s already gone, slipping into the cloakroom and closing the door. I haven’t been slacking. I’ve been killing myself keeping the practice going.

  I grab a glass of water and a couple of biscuits from the staffroom, then, my legs heavy with weariness, I go back to Reception.

  ‘Mrs Tarbarrel’s here, Maz,’ Frances says. ‘One of the kittens is off colour.’

  Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve checked Mrs Tarbarrel’s kitten over, and diagnosed a mild tummy upset, I send her out to Frances to settle up for the consultation. Frances isn’t there.

  ‘Maz, Maz! Come quickly!’ Frances is behind me, entering the consulting room by the rear door, and it doesn’t take me more than a millisecond to recognise this is more than one of her usual flaps. ‘I would have asked Emma, but she’s started operating. It’s Hal …’

  I hurry out to Kennels with her. When we reach Hal’s kennel, he’s flat out and barely breathing. I open the door, and prod him with my pen. There’s no response. His tongue is blue.

  ‘Thanks, Frances.’ For once I’m grateful to her for interfering. ‘Go and look after Mrs Tarbarrel. I’ll handle this. Shannon,’ I yell. ‘Bring the crash kit. Now!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I hear Emma call back from theatre, but I haven’t got time – Hal hasn’t got time – to discuss what’s happened.

  ‘Leave the kit on the prep bench. Let’s get Hal over to the oxygen.’ I shout orders to a bemused Shannon. I know I shouldn’t be lifting such a big dog in my condition, but Shannon can’t lift him on her own, so we do it together, on the count of three, being careful not to touch the pins sticking out of his leg. I tube him and put him on oxygen, draw up the reversing agent and inject it to counteract the sedative I gave him earlier.

  ‘Come on, old boy,’ I urge him, as his breathing deepens and his tongue turns from blue to purple. I check his blink reflex. Nothing. ‘Don’t you dare die on me …’

  ‘What happened?’ Shannon stands at Hal’s head, her face pale with worry.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I run through the possibilities – did I miscalculate the dose? Did Hal have an odd reaction to the drug? I give him another shot of the reversing agent. Yes, I know you can have too much of a good thing, but I can’t think of anything else to do.

  ‘Shannon, have you finished out there?’ Emma calls through.

  Shannon looks at me.

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  A few minutes later, Emma joins me. She stares at Hal.

  ‘I didn’t give him all that much,’ she says. ‘I only wanted to stop him barking, not knock him out cold.’

  I watch Hal’s tongue turning from purple to a healthier pink as the implication of what Emma’s just said begins to sink in.

  ‘You sedated him?’

  ‘Yes, after Cheryl left.’

  ‘You didn’t write it on his card. Emma, how could you?’

  ‘I didn’t have a pen on me.’

  ‘What kind of an excuse is that?’ My bump is aching. I feel sick and tired. Drained.

  ‘I told you to send that bloody dog home,’ Emma says defensively. ‘I don’t know why you agreed to operate on him here in the first place.’

  ‘Because Alex asked me to. Hal needed my help.’ I’m close to tears. ‘After all he’s gone through, you have to go and do this to him. Who knows what a double dose of sedative is going to have done? His kidneys will probably pack up next.’

  ‘Well, no one will ever be able to prove what caused it, if that’s what happens,’ Emma says. ‘And I’m not going to
get all stressed out worrying about it. Hal’s your patient. I’d never have agreed to take him on. You deal with it.’

  ‘Thanks for your support,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I can’t deal with everything any more. I’m thirty-five, nearly thirty-six weeks pregnant. I’ve hardly had any sleep in the last forty-eight hours.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What about my baby?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You’re so bloody selfish.’

  ‘You didn’t even want it, Maz,’ Emma spits back. ‘Remember!’

  I remember to recheck Hal’s reflexes. His colour is back, but he isn’t responding. I’m not sure why I was so worried about his kidneys – I’m thinking brain-death now. I keep the oxygen flowing in. How I wish I could go back and start the day again.

  I glance back at Emma. She’s staring at me blankly, her arms folded across her chest. I don’t think she cares any more.

  Keeping my hands on Hal’s warm body, his heartbeat bumping sluggishly under my fingertips, I make up my mind to be honest with her, to tell her how it is.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ I say. ‘This baby thing – it’s become an obsession.’

  ‘What gives you the right to make that judgement?’

  ‘I’m speaking as your friend. I’m being honest. You’re chasing around after something which, let’s face it, you might never achieve.’

  ‘How can you say that? I’ve got every chance. Frances says so. My consultant says so. Everyone says so, except you. Yet you – you don’t want me to be happy.’ Emma’s dark eyes flash with anguish and despair.

  ‘Emma, please …’ I try to calm her down. ‘I imagine all this is making you very depressed. Have you talked to someone? Seen a doctor?’

  ‘Yes, every day.’ Emma swears. ‘And I hate him because he’s just like you, Maz. He keeps saying, What if? What if it never happens? And I want to punch him in the face for even thinking it because I need him to be positive. I need him on my side.’

  ‘You need to keep a sense of perspective,’ I tell her.

  ‘I need a baby,’ she says in a very small voice.