Kevin chipped in, saying that I might be better doing the op over in the shelter, in the dry, and away from the public; and it was then that I became aware of the gaggle of people at the perimeter of the paddock, and several up on the footbridge above me, staring down through the drizzle with intense interest.
There was sufficient netting still trapped under Ollie to enable the three of us to drag him across the now sodden paddock and into the shelter, where, at least, there was some dry bedding to haul him onto; and it was away from prying eyes. With Ollie part levered onto his back by wedging a straw bale each side of him, Jodie set to work, without any prompting from me, first plucking the few small feathers that surrounded the wound and then cleaning the skin with antiseptic scrub she’d brought over with the surgical kit. Kevin, meanwhile, had dashed back to get a bucket of hot water and, having returned with it, I was able to give my hands a good scouring; that was the limit of our sterility. Not good. But then I reasoned if the gazelle’s horn had sliced through into Ollie’s abdomen as suspected, then infection would have already been introduced.
With drapes clipped round the edge of the gash, I used the finger and thumb of my right hand to retract the central section of the jagged, torn skin on each side. I eased my left forefinger through the exposed tissue beneath, gradually pushing it deeper and deeper with a sawing movement, feeling the knots of damaged muscle contract round it, feeling them resisting my probing. Suddenly, all resistance stopped. With a loud pop, my finger was inside Ollie’s abdomen. Verification that the antelope had indeed ruptured the ostrich’s abdominal wall. Now what? Did I just stitch up the torn muscles, so closing the abdominal wall? It was tempting. Oh, so tempting. But it would have been done without knowing whether any internal damage had been inflicted by the antelope’s horn. Possibly it hadn’t. In which case, with appropriate antibiotic cover, Ollie should pull through OK. But if there had been damage – say a rupture of part of the intestine – this was going to lead to peritonitis and Ollie would die a slow, lingering death.
I let out a deep sigh. Just what should I do? I started to panic, realising I was dithering. Come on, Paul. Make up your mind. What if I opened up Ollie’s wound and rummaged round inside, checking his abdominal organs as best I could, and then found nothing wrong? He’d have been put through all that extra stress for no reason, especially as the extra time required to do it might necessitate topping up his anaesthetic – a risk in itself. Whatever I did, there were risks involved. Perhaps I should look inside. Oh, how I wished for Crystal to be here, giving me the wisdom of her advice.
Her voice – or rather the same sweet-sounding tones of her daughter – came to my rescue. Jodie tactfully said, ‘I’m sure Mum would think the same as you and check inside.’
Right. That was it. Without further ado, I picked up a scalpel from the instruments that Jodie had tipped onto an outspread drape, and widened the wound until I could slide a hand in. I felt the warmth and feel of Ollie’s internal organs: the smoothness of his spleen; the rounded outer lobes of his liver; the slippery lengths of his intestines, grey loops of which were coiling out from the wound and which I had to ease back in gently for fear that the whole gut might start tumbling out. As my hand swam through the peritoneal fluid the organs were immersed in, my movements made some of it slop over the edges of the wound and run down Ollie’s pimply skin. Usually this fluid is clear, possibly slightly tinted yellow, but, with mounting concern, I noticed that Ollie’s was streaked with thin ribbons of green.
‘Uh, uh,’ I said, grimly. ‘Don’t like the look of this.’
‘What is it, Paul?’ asked Jodie, picking up on my anxiety.
‘This green staining. It means there’s a leak from the gut. The gazelle must have punctured it.’ There was a sharp intake of breath from Kevin and a simultaneous whistle through his teeth. ‘We’ve got a battle on our hands,’ I added, my voice full of foreboding.
The task in front of me seemed insurmountable. There were metres and metres of intestine within Ollie’s abdominal cavity and, somewhere along that length, there was a tear in the gut wall. It only needed to be small – barely the size of a pin head – but that would be enough to cause faecal matter to seep out and contaminate the whole of the abdomen. I had to find and repair it.
‘Well, here goes,’ I muttered.
I cautiously hauled on one section of small intestine, pulling on it, hand over hand, as if I was reeling out a coil of hosepipe. It lay on the drape like the inner tube of a tyre. From it fanned a translucent, gleaming sheet of mesentery containing threads of pulsating dark red blood vessels. That section of gut seemed undamaged. I eased it back. The next loop of intestine I pulled out was stained green, growing greener the more of it I exposed; and as the final segment of it dropped out onto the drape, the damage was clear to see.
‘Christ,’ I swore, staring down at the mess in my hands. The tip of the gazelle’s horn had sliced through the gut wall so that it was almost completely severed in two, only being held in place by its attachments to the surrounding mesenteric folds. Out of the two ends bubbled green faecal froth. Already tense from anaesthetising and opening up Ollie, the sight of the ripped gut sent my heart pounding even more, my hands shaking more, my breathing more rapid. The odds seemed stacked against saving the bird. And so it proved.
‘Paul.’ It was Kevin, speaking softly. ‘Paul,’ he repeated. ‘I think Ollie’s stopped breathing.’
I scrabbled across the straw on my knees to where Kevin was stooped over Ollie’s head, cradling it in his hands. Ollie’s pupils were dilated, the eyes wide open. I touched the corner of one. No blink reflex. His long neck was completely flaccid, draped down over Kevin’s knees. I ran my hand quickly down to the bird’s chest, hoping against hope that I could pick up a heartbeat. There wasn’t one. His skin was cold. His chest devoid of movement. With a sound like a bottle of washing-up liquid being squeezed, Ollie’s head dropped down and his beak slowly gaped open in the final throes of death.
‘Damn,’ I seethed, turning back to push the now blue loops of damaged bowel back in and roughly stitch the abdomen up, fighting back the tears threatening to well up, not daring to say any more for fear of choking on my words.
Both Kevin and Jodie were understanding, Kevin saying kindly that I’d done my best, a sentiment echoed by Jodie, who added that Ollie would have been unlikely to have survived such trauma. But I still felt that I could have done better. Maybe I’d overdosed the bird with anaesthetic? After all, I had been pretty gung-ho about the actual dose required. Perhaps I should have been quicker in tracking down the damaged gut? Maybe then the bird would have been less likely to have gone into shock. OK, if Ollie had survived the operation, there would still have been the peritonitis to deal with. That would have been a challenge. But at least the challenge would have been there. Now all I had was a dead bird lying in the straw in front of me. No challenge. I rose to my feet, disconsolate.
‘Hey, Paul …’ It was Jodie, speaking gently. ‘Stop it.’ She had grasped my right wrist and was shaking it, her head slightly tilted, her eyes looking intently into mine. ‘These things happen. Now you get washed and I’ll clear this lot up.’ She let go of my wrist and I did as I was told. Once I’d dried my hands on the towel Kevin had provided, he came over and took one hand in both of his.
‘Thanks for trying, mate,’ he said, blinking away the moisture behind his pebble glasses, while sniffing and whistling through his teeth. He then turned brusquely away to push a couple of straw bales round and over Ollie’s corpse to hide it temporarily from public view.
On the way back to Prospect House, I drove in silence, my thoughts going over the events of the past hour, wondering yet again if I could have managed the situation better. It was Jodie who broke the silence first, by reminding me again that I couldn’t have done any more than I did.
‘Really, Paul, you shouldn’t berate yourself.’
‘I know, I know,’ I replied as we turned into the drive of the hospital. ‘But I
just can’t help wondering …’ I braked and switched the engine off, turned to look at her and added, ‘You know, despite the outcome, I really appreciated you coming along. Thanks.’
Jodie smiled, her Cupid’s-bow lips parting, her cheeks dimpling. ‘Paul,’ she said firmly, ‘you don’t have to thank me, honest. Any time you need help just give me a ring. If I’m around … well …’ She shrugged.
On impulse, I blurted out, ‘Are you around tonight?’
Jodie’s eyebrows rose, her eyes sparkled, full of mischief, and she purred, ‘Would this be business or pleasure?’
I felt myself go red. ‘Uhmm … pleasure actually. You mentioned having a drink some time.’
‘Yes. I did indeed. And yes … that would be great.’
‘Let’s say, six o’clock, after I’ve finished evening surgery. Or is that too early for you?’
‘No, six would be fine. In fact, why don’t we have a bite to eat then as well? Unless you’ve got to get back.’
What was there to get back for? Lucy had left and I’d be heading back for a ready-meal for one. ‘Sounds a good idea to me,’ I replied, without a moment’s hesitation, and arranged to meet Jodie in reception at the agreed time.
When I finished evening surgery, I skipped into reception feeling almost light-hearted despite the events of the day. Beryl was still behind the counter, tidying up, switching the computer off, stacking appointment cards. That surprised me. She’d usually gone by now. Then I realised why she was still there.
I was pierced by one of Beryl’s odd-ball looks, akin to that of a ferret about to scare the wits out of an already witless rabbit. ‘Jodie’s waiting for you down in the office,’ she said, in a manner which clearly meant ‘What’s going on here then?’
‘Oh, is she?’ I replied, trying to sound surprised, as if Jodie had been passing by on a whim.
Beryl wasn’t fooled. ‘Be careful, Paul. Be careful,’ she warned. ‘You could be playing with fire.’ She hitched up the sleeves of the black cardigan, draped, as usual, over her hunched shoulders, and pulled the collar round her scrawny neck; and when I smiled at her, she gave a toss of her raven-winged hair and tutted. ‘It’s not a laughing matter.’ She ferreted under the counter and dragged up her voluminous, black leather handbag, which she put on the counter in front of her; and then, placing both hands on it, she tapped her fingers against it like fluttering moths and said, ‘I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.’
She clicked the bag open and withdrew a stick of crimson lipstick and a small mirror and proceeded to apply a further layer of red to her already layered lips, turning from the mirror once she’d finished, to look at me askew and add, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She smacked her lips together, dropped the items back in her bag and clicked it closed decisively. ‘OK?’
I wasn’t sure if she was seeking approval of her scarlet lips or referring to my association with what she apparently saw as a scarlet woman. So I simply nodded and half smiled, gestures I felt covered both possibilities.
Jodie, at that moment, bounded up from the office and greeted me with a cheery, ‘Hi. How was surgery?’
Before I had a chance to reply, Beryl interjected. ‘Busy as usual. Paul’s quite in demand these days.’ I saw her shoot Jodie a reproving look which she deflected with a ‘Ready for a drink then, no doubt?’ aimed at me. I bit the bullet and fired back with a ‘Sounds good, Jodie,’ and we both watched Beryl ricochet out of reception as a result. Bull’s-eye.
We decided that a drink and a bite to eat round at the Woolpack would be the easiest option. Besides which, Jodie had promised to call in and say hello once she was back in the UK. Seems she knew Brenda and Bernie Adams, the proprietors. And yes, their Labrador, Peggy, she was equally familiar with. A bit on the fat side, she remembered. Still is, I said, despite the fact we attempted a slimming programme. Didn’t work for the dog, but did the trick for Brenda. Lost quite a few kilos.
Jodie laughed at the idea that Brenda had followed Peggy’s diet. Although that hadn’t actually happened. It was the motivation that had done the trick. All jovially done – in keeping with the ‘mein host’ geniality of the Adams, which was reflected in Bernie’s response to seeing Jodie walk into the bar, us having taken the footpath to the side of Prospect House down through the dimly-lit tunnel of rhododendrons – those vestiges of the house’s Victorian gardens – and along the eastern edge of the Green to the pub.
‘My, my … just look who it is,’ bellowed Bernie, squeezing his way out from behind the bar to give Jodie a bear-hug embrace. ‘So how’s my girl then?’ he added, stepping back, his hands still on her shoulders, his face beaming. Jodie assured him she’d never felt better. It was a sentiment I heartily agreed with. I thought she looked radiant with those sparkling, cornflower-blue eyes, with the merest touch of laughter lines to their corners, and the lightly tanned complexion of her cheeks, dimpling as she smiled. The sentiment was shared by Brenda, who had responded to Bernie’s bellowing that ‘their girl’ was there by bustling out from the back, depositing the tray of glasses she’d been carrying, and hurrying round to greet Jodie in an equally effusive manner as her husband. It seemed hugs and kisses were the order of the day – and I hoped it could soon be my turn.
First, though, it was drinks on the house. Just the one glass of white for me, I insisted, although later I was persuaded that a second glass wouldn’t do any harm. It didn’t – it just loosened my tongue in more ways than one. Jodie also had two, the second with the shepherd’s pie chosen from the blackboard menu – the pie homemade by their chef, said Brenda – while I was told the sea bass I’d gone for was freshly caught off Westcott pier.
Although the pub was quiet – only two other couples were eating in the restaurant area – such was the level of conversation, the animation, the ease with which Jodie and I communicated with each other, we could have been in the middle of an earthquake and not noticed (although I was conscious of a major tremor of seismic proportions developing deep within me). Only once, when Jodie asked how I found working at Prospect House, did I remind myself I was talking to the bosses’ daughter here, and carefully worded my response, couching it in positive terms to the effect that it was giving me a good grounding in how a small animal hospital should be run. Sounded good. Jodie thought so, too, to judge from the smile she flashed me (more tremors).
I was asked what clients I’d seen. There was laughter at the mention of Miss McEwan and her mynah’s ‘dirty dick’ (provoking a seismic surge on my Richter scale); encouraged, I told her about the church fête at which I’d been coerced into judging the pets. What a marvellous story, she said when I’d finished, and hoped I was keeping a note of all the anecdotes as they’d make the basis for a great novel. You know, a modern-day James Herriot sort of thing. I wish …
Then it was my turn to learn more about her. How, having had an interest in animals, she had gone through the usual parade of pets as a child, including the hamster, the goldfish, the rabbit and a frisky young cat, too frisky for its own good and, as a result, it ended up under the wheels of some visiting friends’ car. Despite tagging along to case visits made by her parents and helping out in the hospital on Saturday mornings, she found herself drawn more to the arts; so she did English, Spanish and Art at A-level, before going on to study English Literature at Exeter University.
After a further course to get the necessary teaching qualifications, she decided – a rather spur-of-the-moment decision – to undertake some VSO work and chose a project over in Costa Rica to put her newly-acquired teaching skills to the test. And now she was back, not quite sure where to go from here. Probably supply teaching until she decided.
With the second glass of wine – a large glass, I have to admit, which perhaps eased me more fluidly into what happened next – came the second phase of my tongue loosening, which constituted an act of a far more tactile nature than the mere exchange of words. It occurred on the walk back from the Woolpack in the middle of that tunnel of rhododendrons.
I’m not quite sure what got into me. Actually, that’s not true … I did know. Lust. Those groin-based tremors finally got the better of me. We were halfway along the path where the rhododendrons cast their deepest shadows – and where the Council had failed to ensure there was sufficient public lighting to illuminate, and so prevent, the goings-on of whoever stopped at that spot to partake in acts that would be certain to get other tongues wagging, if not those of the participants.
All had been above board when we left the Woolpack amidst cries of ‘Come back and see us soon …’ and I had a spring in my step, inasmuch as the word ‘spring’ evokes the thrust of nature and the arousal of sap in trunks – oh, yes, indeed. Our animated conversation on the pub’s banquette had been punctuated by moments of flirtation; ‘accidental’ touching of each other’s shoe, a hand brushed against a thigh, eye contact that said ‘I fancy the pants off you …’ which was reciprocated by the other, in a ‘Yes please, how soon?’ sort of way.
We walked side by side along the pavement, very virtuously, our arms swinging close to each other, occasionally touching. We turned from the Green at the lamp post on the corner, where the path up through the rhododendrons started. Still virtuous … still well mannered. Polite. In that vein, we managed to progress up the first third of the path, our arms touching more and more as we got deeper into the shade, the light getting weaker, my pulse getting stronger, our pace getting slower, until we began to see the light at the end of the tunnel ahead of us start to get stronger, where the floodlit porch of Prospect House glowed. Which meant the more we went on walking, the brighter the path would become.
It seemed we instinctively knew we had reached the exact spot equidistant from the two ends. The exact middle of the tunnel. The exact place where it was darkest. The exact place to indulge ourselves. We ground to a halt, turned and, without a word, ground into each other as if there were no tomorrow, as if we were 16-year-olds who didn’t know better. But we were adults who chose not to know better, who knew exactly where we were, even if it was in the middle of a public footpath up from the Green. And so there we were, at it, in that tunnel of rhododendrons, and we continued at it by virtue of a quick hop over the railings and a plunge deep into the bushes. ‘God I needed that …’ was Jodie’s panted response when we’d finished and I’d pulled my chinos back up.
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 23