‘My God, you’ve killed him,’ screamed Mr Holder, easing Carl down onto the table.
I, too, was screaming – internally, silently – his words reverberating through me. Outwardly, my feelings contracted into one word: ‘Shit!’ I snatched a pair of scissors off the trolley and cut the bandage off, yanking it away. I quickly prised his mouth open, a sticky stream of saliva pouring out as I did so. His tongue was flopped back, engorged and blue. I reached in and pulled it forward. Behind, there was a pool of mucus. Still holding the tongue, I stretched across to the adjacent trolley and jerked a wodge of cotton wool from its glass container, which, in my haste, caused it to tip over and be dragged to the edge of the trolley, toppling over to smash on the floor. I snapped at Mr Holder, ‘Here, hold the upper jaw,’ instructing him how to do it, while I pulled downwards on Carl’s tongue, forcing his mouth to open wider, thereby allowing me to reach into the back of the throat with the ball of cotton wool and scoop out the accumulated mucus that had been blocking his epiglottis, preventing him from breathing. I prayed there would be a sudden intake of breath. There wasn’t. Shit!
Quickly checking his airway was now clear, I let go of his tongue, told Mr Holder to still hang on to Carl’s muzzle to help keep his neck extended, and moved round to his chest. I executed a quick, firm push with both hands down on his chest. There was a gurgle as air and some fluid was forced out of his lungs. I hoped there would be a reflex intake of air. There wasn’t. Damn! Damn! Damn! I checked his tongue. It was getting bluer. Sod it! I slid a finger and thumb each side of his chest. No heartbeat. Bloody hell! I almost squealed with panic.
I shifted my finger and thumb back a little. Was that something? Yes … a heartbeat … feeble … but a heartbeat. Carl was still alive. Just. I picked him up in my arms. ‘I’m taking him down to the theatre,’ I gabbled, pushing past a distraught Mr Holder. ‘You wait here.’
‘Mandy,’ I cried out loud, leaping down the steps and tearing down the corridor. ‘Mandy, where are you? I need help.’ I elbowed my way into the prep room where she was setting up the instruments for the morning’s ops. ‘Mandy. Get me a tube. Quick.’
She dropped the pack of instruments she was holding, and ran round to pull open the drawer of endotracheal tubes, decisively picking out one and rapidly smearing it with grease. I snatched it out of her hand. She, without the need to be instructed, swiftly manoeuvred the corgi’s head round and opened his jaws to allow me to pull his tongue forward, expose the epiglottis and push the tube through it into the windpipe. Only it wouldn’t go. It slid over the top of the epiglottis and started to disappear down the corgi’s throat. I tried again. Same thing happened. Shit! Shit! Shit!
‘Paul,’ said Mandy quietly, ‘just take your time. You’re an expert at doing this.’
I drew a deep breath, controlled myself, and slipped the tube once more over Carl’s tongue. This time, it engaged with the top of his trachea and I was able to slide it down his windpipe. Mandy was ready with the blue plastic connector and fitted it without a word.
‘Right, into the theatre,’ I said. ‘Quick. Quick.’
Mandy ran ahead of me across to the anaesthetic machine and twisted the oxygen knob to ‘On’. I almost threw Carl’s inert body on the table. She connected him to the oxygen supply and I gave his chest a pump. We waited. Nothing. I gave his chest another pump. ‘Come on … come on … breathe, you bugger,’ I urged.
‘His colour’s getting better,’ said Mandy, rolling back his tongue.
But still nothing. I felt his chest. His heartbeat was stronger.
‘Come on, you sod, breathe,’ I repeated.
There was a slight movement of Carl’s chest. A twitch … a tremor of muscles. Suddenly, there was an almighty expansion of his ribcage as he took a large gulp of oxygen. There was another gulp. And another. Then, gradually, his breathing settled into a steady rhythm. ‘Thank God for that,’ I gasped.
Leaving him under the watchful eye of Mandy, with instructions to disconnect him from the anaesthetics machine and transfer him to a kennel for observation, I raced back up to the consulting room, my heart still thudding, my whole body still shaking, to inform an equally agitated Mr Holder that his corgi would be OK.
The look of relief on his face was quickly replaced by a scowl, his forehead wrinkling, as he exclaimed, ‘You’re not going to hear the last of this, young man. I consider your handling of Carl abominable. Disgraceful. Completely incompetent.’
‘I’m sorry but …’ I got no further as Mr Holder threw out his arm, pushed me to one side, and marched off down to reception, where I heard him tackle Beryl, demanding to be seen by one of the senior partners. I scurried after him, but stopped in the doorway behind him, Beryl catching my eye over his shoulder, with a look that said, ‘Let me deal with this, Paul. You get on with your appointments.’
With the waiting room noisy with yowls, snarls, dogs panting and the occasional chirrup, I thought it best to take her advice, but throughout the next hour, as I dealt with a couple of booster vaccinations, a case of otitis – the dog frantically flapping his ears as he was dragged in – and some post-operative removal of stitches, I was all the while thinking of what was going to happen over my handling of Carl.
The backlog of clients to be seen meant I over-ran into my coffee break, and it wasn’t until nearly 11.20am that I managed to see the last case for the morning. Feeling very apprehensive, I made my way back down to the office. Crystal was there, sitting behind the desk, mug of coffee, half drunk, in front of her, flicking through a Daily Telegraph, which she neatly folded and placed on the desk as I entered. There was no sign of Beryl. And Eric, I knew, was out on a visit.
She saw me look round. ‘I told Beryl to go and have another cigarette,’ she said. ‘Take a seat, Paul.’
I glanced at my watch, knowing I was expected down in the prep room to start the morning’s routine ops. ‘Mandy’s still keeping an eye on Mr Holder’s corgi,’ she added, as if reading my mind. ‘An unfortunate business that. Tell me exactly what happened.’
I slid onto the seat opposite, feeling like some errant schoolboy about to get the cane – in more sunny circumstances, such a thrashing might have been quite a pleasurable experience in Crystal’s dainty hands – but not under the dark cloud currently hovering over me. I explained about the warning notes on the dog’s case history and how I felt it prudent to restrain the corgi by muzzling him. Only he’d swallowed his tongue and nearly asphyxiated.
‘Mr Holder is saying that muzzling shouldn’t have been necessary,’ said Crystal when I’d finished. ‘According to him, Carl’s always been a well-behaved dog.’ She looked across, her steely-blue eyes fixed on me. I felt like an entomological specimen, squirming in front of her, about to be pinned down. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘I do accept it was up to you to make a professional judgement. Perhaps in this case, it was the wrong one.’ A cough just outside the office door made her pause. ‘Beryl, is that you?’ she called out.
Beryl slithered into view. ‘Was just going back up to reception,’ she said, with another little cough. This time, one of embarrassment at having been caught eavesdropping.
‘Well, as you were no doubt listening,’ said Crystal, ‘you might as well come in and tell Paul yourself about the mix-up.’
Mix-up? What mix-up? I thought, swinging round in the seat and rising to my feet.
Beryl shuffled in, one hand stuffing her packet of cigarettes back in her bag. She stood there looking extremely uncomfortable, shoulders hunched under the black cardigan, hanging loosely from them as usual. I guessed from the deep, uniform colour of her raven-black hair that she’d recently re-dyed it; now it had the effect of highlighting her pasty, white face with startling intensity, a face ill-disguised by the thick layer of make-up trowelled over forehead and cheeks. She looked at me, her face lowered, her good eye focusing, it seemed, on my feet, while her glass eye swung upwards to gaze at the ceiling. Disconcerting, as always. Although more disconcerting was what she said. �
��I’m sorry, Paul. Seems there was a bit of a mix-up over the records. I gave you the case history of Carl junior, the corgi that can be vicious, whereas you actually saw Carl senior, his placid dad.’ Beryl gave a little shake of her head. ‘I really am sorry, Paul. It’s not like me.’
Crystal looked across at her. ‘Well, these things happen, Beryl. But not often, I might add,’ she continued, switching her gaze to me. ‘Beryl’s been here … what …’
‘Over 12 years,’ interrupted Beryl, a note of pride creeping into her voice.
‘Yes, 12 years,’ echoed Crystal, ‘and is very well known and respected by our regular clients. In fact, I’m not sure what we’d do without her.’
‘She’d be missed terribly,’ said a voice behind Beryl, and a young woman appeared, slid her arms round Beryl’s waist and drew her back to squeeze her tightly, digging her chin into her right shoulder.
Beryl squirmed sideways as the young woman let go, and turned to exclaim in a delighted voice, ‘Jodie. What a wonderful surprise. I didn’t know you were back.’
Although still to be introduced, this Jodie was a wonderful surprise for me, too. A young lady in her early twenties, slim, of average height, pert nose, freckles, and two features that gave her identity away– cornflower-blue eyes and a halo of Pre-Raphaelite copper curls – Crystal, her mum, to a tee.
Crystal got up and came round the side of the desk and the two of them kissed. ‘You managed to get some sleep then,’ she said. ‘Jodie’s just flown in from Costa Rica,’ she added, by way of explanation to Beryl and me.
‘Fine … yes … no problem,’ replied Jodie, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she smiled across at me.
Crystal stepped back. ‘Sorry, darling, this is Paul. Paul, my daughter, Jodie.’
Jodie and I both held out our hands and, as they touched, and I looked into those wonderful eyes of hers, I was instantly smitten, holding her hand a fraction longer than etiquette demanded.
‘Oh, right, so this is the new vet?’ said Jodie, with another dazzling smile. ‘Hope Mum’s not putting you through the mill too much,’ she went on, staring at me mischievously. ‘We all know she can be a bit of a dragon.’
‘No, no, not at all,’ I stuttered, feeling myself go red, like some love-sick, knock-kneed schoolboy and averted my gaze.
Jodie gave Beryl another hug, with the promise to catch up with her later, and told her mother she’d just pop into Westcott and then return home to sort herself out. ‘Nice to have met you, Paul,’ she added, her cheeks dimpling. ‘I’ll be around for a while so maybe you and I could get together over a glass of wine and you can spill the beans on how they’ve been treating you.’ She smiled again, and waved delicately, ‘Bye for now.’ With that, she whirled out of the office.
Physically, I remained rooted to the spot, glowing; but, mentally, I was already skipping up onto the Downs clutching the hand of the new ‘Maria’ in my life. Odl-layee … Would the hills ever resound to the sound of our music? I wondered.
The clipped tones of Crystal soon had me rapidly descending from my Down-land dream as she referred back to my encounter with Mr Holder, telling me that he’d calmed down enough not to pursue his original intention of reporting me to the Royal Veterinary College, but would instead make sure I never set eyes on his dogs again by switching to the rival practice on the other side of town. Ouch. Duly chastised, I finished my morning, working through the list of spays and castrates, my mind wandering at times to images of frolicking on the Downs with Jodie, as I grappled with yet another set of reproductive organs.
That lunchtime, Beryl and I ate our Bert’s baguettes out in the back garden where there was a rickety wooden bench, sheltered from the wind but positioned in quite a suntrap. A pleasant enough spot, providing you watched where you trod as you walked over to it, since it was on the main exercise path for the hospitalised dogs; and each end of the bench was a scenting stop for the dogs, so daily got liberally showered with urine, making the bench reek. But smell and faeces apart, it was at least somewhere for Beryl to sit and have a smoke when the weather permitted.
I was two-thirds of the way through my cheese and pickle baguette before I asked the question. ‘I guess you’ve known Jodie a long time?’
Beryl, having finished hers, had her mouth open, and was picking at her bottom molars with one of her red talons, attempting to extricate a lump of cheddar. Having successfully dislodged it, she flicked it onto the worn grass before answering. ‘Goodness, yes. Ever since she was eight years of age. Lovely little girl. And still is, of course. Has set many a young man’s heart on fire.’
Too true, Beryl, too true, I thought, mine smouldering away in my chest. With a little gentle probing, which I hoped didn’t sound too obvious, I learnt that Jodie was the Sharpe’s only child. She’d been given a private education, first at St Bartholomew’s in Westcott and then over at Brigstock’s College for Girls, before going on to Exeter University, where she studied English Literature, gaining a 2:2.
I asked Beryl whether Jodie had ever wished to be a vet, and Beryl shook her head, saying that there had been the usual run of family pets and she did have a pony at livery when she was in her early teens, but then lost interest. Boys had taken over. It seems she did do the rounds with her dad and had helped in the hospital, cleaning out kennels, exercising dogs when they were short-staffed, so knew a thing or two about the routines. She’d even helped on a couple of emergency call-outs, so Beryl believed. But her passion was more for books.
She’d just come back from Central America, as I’d heard her say. Some place in Costa Rica, where she’d spent a year teaching in a school way out in the jungle. Couldn’t imagine her staying in Westcott too long, mused Beryl, lighting up her second cigarette. Too high-spirited a girl. Beryl took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the towering clump of rhododendrons through which the path to the Green tunnelled, and which looked magnificent, laden, this time of year, with deep violet blooms. That bank of rhododendrons was a remnant of when Prospect House had more formal grounds, rather than the scraggly rose beds out the front, bordering the drive, or the block of flats adjacent to the main house, built on the site of the old Victorian coach house, long since demolished.
She paused, tapped some ash off her cigarette against the side of the bench and said, ‘I’m sorry about this morning, Paul. Not like me to make such a mistake.’
I tried to reassure her that I didn’t hold any hard feelings against her, thinking privately that I’d rather save those for Jodie. But she wasn’t that convinced. Nor was I – about Jodie that is. From what I’d just heard, she’d be way out of my league, even if there was a chance to get to know her better. But that chance did come, and not so far in the future, as it happened. And the rhododendrons, at which I was now staring, played their part. A really big part.
Meanwhile, there was Lucy. Literally, there was Lucy. She’d appeared from the kennels with Carl on a lead, walking him slowly towards us, and stopped as she drew level with us.
‘How is he now?’ I asked, looking up at her, screwing my eyes against the sun, shading them with a hand. I couldn’t really see her face but her voice sounded pretty glum when she answered, ‘Seems to have recovered,’ before moving on.
Beryl took another drag on her cigarette and then held it to one side, as, with her left finger and thumb, she picked off a bit of baguette stuck to her tongue. ‘Ooo-er,’ she commented, staring at Lucy’s receding figure. ‘Bit down in the dumps, aren’t we?’
‘Well, it’s to be expected,’ I said with a rush, surprising myself at my sudden support for Lucy, and went on to explain what had happened to Nelson. Of course, Beryl was full of sympathy and again apologised for adding to my woes with that morning’s mix-up, concluding with the hope that the rest of the day would go better. It didn’t.
For a start, just before geeing myself up to start the afternoon list of appointments, I bumped into Mr Holder who had come to collect his corgi. I knew then what ‘
looking daggers’ really meant. The look he gave me as I walked into reception, unaware that he was waiting there, consisted of a whole canteen of high-quality, finely-honed, razor-sharp implements hurled with deadly accuracy in my direction. I reeled back, mentally lacerated, and spun round to disappear down to the consulting room, expecting any minute a real dagger to come whistling after me and lodge between my shoulder blades.
The appointments weren’t exactly easy either, and I had great difficulty in assessing what the problems were in several cases – none of which helped my battered self-confidence. All very depressing.
The Standard poodle was a good example. There was an inauspicious start, when the owner, a Mrs Stanton, informed me in rather an imperious manner, ‘I usually see the lady doctor, but, as she’s fully booked, I’ve been forced to see you instead.’
Forced, eh? Charming. What a morale booster.
The poodle was limping. I thought it was lame in its right hind-leg as it walked round the consulting table. The owner said she thought Mimi was favouring the left one, although I should know as I was the vet. When I flexed Mimi’s right knee there was no reaction; but when I did the same with her left one, she yelped. Mmm.
‘Seems there’s a problem in her left knee,’ I said. ‘Possibly a rupture of the ligaments.’
‘Possibly?’ she queried, her tone rather sarcastic.
I ignored her.
Mimi was given an anti-inflammatory injection and a course of pills, with instructions to book an appointment with me in a week’s time – with a view to surgery if there was no improvement. I heard her out in reception making her appointment – categorically stating it had to be with Dr Sharpe, and not that young vet, thank you very much.
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 18