‘I’m sorry, I tried to persuade her to leave it at home.’ Emma looks up as Alex comes down the stairs in a check shirt and dark trousers, his hair wet from the shower. ‘You made it then,’ she smiles. ‘Ben and I are really looking forward to an evening out.’
‘I’m not sure about bringing kids up on a diet of fairytales,’ Alex observes. ‘It’s like feeding them false hope of the happy-ever-after.’
‘You’re such an old cynic,’ Emma says.
‘Less of the old, thank you.’
‘Once upon a time, a handsome prince swept me off my feet,’ Maz joins in.
‘My mum read them to me and I turned out all right,’ Emma says. ‘I wish she’d been here to read to my little girls. She’d have been such a wonderful grandma.’
‘She would,’ Maz confirms softly. ‘She was a lovely lady.’
It’s another half an hour before the adults are off to their party, but I’m grateful because Maz manages to get the babies off to sleep in their cots upstairs, with the monitor set up so I can hear them snuffling . about, and I’m left to entertain George and the twins who are very excited about having a sleepover. They’re sharing a room – the barn is pretty crowded and I’m surprised that the Fox-Giffords don’t move their growing brood into the manor house next door.
I make chocolate milkshakes for George, Lydia and Elena, and let them share the packet of biscuits Maz has left for them. It’s a mistake, I suspect, because the sugar appears to go to their heads and they’re off, running up and down. George is screaming like a cat with its tail caught in a door.
‘Please calm down,’ I beg them. ‘You’re frightening the mice.’
‘What mice?’ George stops in his tracks.
‘I not like mice.’ Lydia bursts into tears and her twin rushes up to comfort her.
‘There aren’t any,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just a saying.’
‘So we can carry on playing.’ George picks up a trolley of wooden bricks and tips them all over the floor.
My heart sinks. It’s going to be one of those nights.
A loud rap at the door sends George running over to open it.
‘Hello, Ross,’ he says, letting him in. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to see you and Shannon.’ Ross flashes me a smile. ‘I can hear you from the manor.’
‘Please, will you play crocodiles with me? The twins don’t like that game.’
‘I’d love to – let’s have a go at sleeping crocodiles. You have to lie down very quietly and pretend to be a crocodile waiting to attack.’
‘Okay,’ George says. ‘You have to lie down too.’
‘I can do that,’ Ross says, looking around for somewhere comfortable. ‘Why don’t you take the fluffy rug over there while I have the sofa?’
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I ask.
‘I’m all right, thanks. I’m on call so I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay.’
I notice how the twins join George on the mat, not wanting to miss out, and Ross stretches out on the sofa with his hands behind his head and his feet over the arm.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I ask him as I clear up the dirty glasses. ‘We could go to the beach for a swim, unless you have other plans.’
‘Are you sure? The last time I swam in the sea was in Thailand.’
‘I can’t promise you crystal-clear waters, but I can give you a lift.’
‘I was going out on the bike to meet a mate of mine, but he’s in hospital with suspected appendicitis, so he won’t be going very far. That would be great, if you don’t mind me tagging along – I don’t really want to be on my own tomorrow.’
‘I’ll pick you up from the manor in the morning. I’ll text you a time.’
‘Thanks, I really appreciate it.’
‘Stop talking,’ George moans. ‘You’re spoiling the game. Crocodiles can’t talk.’
Ross falls silent for a few minutes, but he can’t do quiet for long.
‘Sometimes I play this game with my nephew,’ he begins.
‘I’m not playing this game any more,’ George pipes up. ‘It’s boring.’
‘I’ve got a couple of games on my phone,’ Ross says, sitting up, and soon he’s surrounded, showing them his fancy mobile, which occupies them for a good twenty minutes.
‘I’m thinking of subcontracting the babysitting to you,’ I say. ‘You’re a natural.’ However, it doesn’t last because he’s called out to the surgery to see a farm dog suspected to have eaten rat poison.
He wishes us all a goodnight and I watch him from the window, walking across the yard under the moonlight, back to the manor to pick up his helmet and leathers.
‘Please don’t wake the babies,’ I breathe as his motorbike roars out of the yard. I listen for a moment after he’s gone. There is a god after all, I think, as the monitor continues to transmit the sound of contented snuffles and snores. I persuade George and the twins to change into their pyjamas in return for a story.
‘Just the one,’ I remind them as the twins and I settle on the double airbed on the floor, Elena on one side and Lydia on the other, while George bounces on his bed.
‘Again,’ Lydia says, and somewhere during the third or fourth reading, when Snow White eats the poisoned apple and succumbs to a deep sleep, the twins do too, and George and I stay up chatting and playing robots versus crocodiles until his parents return home. I enjoyed the evening, but I can’t help feeling that I would have had much more fun if Ross could have stayed for longer.
Chapter Ten
Life’s a Beach
I have yet to find my handsome prince, but my mum has found hers; the next morning, he is knocking on the bathroom door.
‘Are you going to be in there much longer?’
‘Five minutes,’ say.
‘As long as that? I’m in a bit of a rush. I have things to see, people to do,’ he adds jovially. ‘And I could do with availing myself of the facilities with some urgency before I leave the building.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Sometimes I wonder if Godfrey’s bathroom demands are part of a campaign to persuade me to move out. I grab my toothbrush and paste and go to the kitchen to clean my teeth before picking up my bag and leaving for the manor. Ross is waiting for me there at the bottom of the drive. I suppose I was expecting to see him in his scrubs or leather jacket, but he looks different, dressed in a grey, zip-up sweat top, cargo shorts and leather sandals – cool ones, like a surfer-dude would wear.
‘Hi,’ I say, lowering the window. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’
‘Thanks for the lift.’ He smiles as he gets into the car and throws a small rucksack onto the back seat. ‘Sophia has linseed and barley simmering on the range again, there’s some filthy horse rug in the washing machine, and I found a dead mouse in my shoe – after I put my foot in it. I couldn’t wait to get away.’
‘I know the feeling. I know he can’t help it, but I really don’t think I can accommodate Godfrey and his prostate for much longer. He’s driving me mad.’ I glance towards Ross as he settles beside me. He seems to be in a hurry, as usual, just like he is at work. I think we’re going to have an interesting day.
‘How was the babysitting after I left?’ he asks.
‘It was fun – I’ve learned Snow White off by heart.’ I smile. ‘Did you have a busy night?’
‘I readmitted the rabbit that Maz operated on a couple of days ago, the one with the abscess. It’s a bit of a worry really. Izzy’s hand-feeding him and I’ve given him some drugs to try to get his gut moving, but you know what rabbits are like. They’re always sicker than they look.’
‘I hope he’ll be okay.’ I grind the gears by mistake. I’m not sure why, but the situation is making me nervous. What if we haven’t got anything left to talk about?
‘I’ll feel bad if he pops his clogs, but it’s Maz’s problem – she’s working today and I’m going to enjoy my time off.’ He gazes out of the window. ‘Let’s get going while the sun’s still shining.’<
br />
Although it’s the last weekend in June and another three weeks until the schools break up for summer, the road to Talysands is jammed up with holiday traffic and we have no choice but to sit behind a caravan travelling at about ten miles an hour for most of the journey. Ross fiddles with the radio to find some music and then sits, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.
‘By the time we get there it’ll be time to come back.’
‘It’s early yet and the beach doesn’t close.’ I glance at him. The muscle in the side of his cheek is twitching. I start to feel a little irritated.
‘Why do people think it’s necessary to drag caravans around with them when they go away?’ he blurts out. ‘I don’t understand. They don’t need all that gear with them.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a caravan holiday. You can go wherever you want.’
‘What, in this traffic?’ he exclaims. ‘If I had my bike, I could drive straight past all this lot.’
‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Why don’t I just drop you back at the manor and you can do just that?’
‘Are you telling me to get on my bike?’ I can hear the hint of a smile in his voice.
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ The caravan in front stops altogether. I put the handbrake on and turn to my passenger. ‘We’re stuck in a traffic jam. So what? We have the whole day ahead of us. Just chill, will you? It’s exhausting.’
A shadow crosses his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was being an—’
‘Well, you are,’ I cut in. ‘Anybody would think you were still at work.’
‘Okay, point taken.’
‘You really need to learn to relax.’
‘Are you offering to teach me?’ The sound of hooting breaks into my consciousness and a grinning Ross gives me a nudge. ‘Move on, Shannon. You’re holding up the traffic now.’
Flushing, I let the handbrake off and put the car in gear but, as I make to drive away, the engine stalls. I restart it, inwardly thanking him for not making some cheeky comment about my driving, and continue in the slow-moving queue down the hill to the resort. At the bottom I turn off and drive under the railway bridge, past the amusement arcade and shops selling brightly coloured buckets and spades, windbreaks and body-boards. Ross opens a window and rests his hand on the roof of the car, letting in the scent of the sea mingled with fresh doughnuts and chips, while we look for a parking space.
‘There’s one,’ he says.
‘I won’t fit in there.’ I drive on past the rows of cars with sunlight glinting from their bonnets, looking for what I consider to be a wide enough gap – I haven’t the best sense of spatial awareness when it comes to parking. Eventually, I find a space near the dunes where the heat is shimmering from the tarmac. Ross grabs his rucksack; I pick up my bag and lock up. When I look up, my companion is striding across the slatted wood pathway through the sand and spiky clumps of marram grass. He turns and shades his eyes.
‘Are you coming or not?’ he calls.
‘I thought we might have a coffee . . .’
‘Let’s swim first. We can have coffee any time. Let’s not waste a minute.’ His voice fades as he looks out to sea, and I wonder if something is bothering him. It’s as if he’s trying too hard to have fun. ‘I thought you loved swimming.’
‘I do,’ I say, and I join him to walk through the dunes, across the promenade and down the steep stone steps to the beach. I take off my canvas shoes while he sets up his territory among the encampments of sun-tents, windbreaks and deckchairs, with his rucksack and towel, fitting us in between what appears to be a focus group of three adults debating how best to build a sandcastle, and a couple lying side by side on sunbeds, reading ebooks.
‘Come on. What are you waiting for? Get your kit off.’ I avert my gaze as Ross strips down to his shorts. ‘What’s wrong?’ he adds.
‘Nothing,’ I respond. Feeling shy I turn away to slip out of my T-shirt and skirt, revealing my black Lycra go-faster costume beneath. When I turn back, I’m grateful to find that Ross is already down at the water’s edge, where the waves are gently caressing the sand. The sun is shining and the sea is calm and blue, giving the illusion of a tropical beach – but this is the Devon coast.
‘That’s going to be cold,’ I observe as I reach his side, a flock of goose bumps leaping to attention across my skin.
‘Imagine it’s a hot bath. That works for me.’
‘You must have a very good imagination.’ I sense the lightest touch on my wrist and the brush of his fingers as he gently takes me by the hand. With a tiny shiver of surprise and uncertainty, I turn to face him.
‘Hey, you’re as jumpy as a rabbit.’
‘I’ll be all right once I’m in. It’s the thought of it.’ I take the first step with him, wincing as the water swirls around my ankles. ‘I told you,’ I exclaim, trying to resist as he steps behind me, places his hands on my hips and drives me towards the breakers where the next wave breaks across my knees.
‘It’s freezing,’ I gasp, but I’m laughing at the same time, enjoying the pressure of his fingers against my flesh. Another wave breaks over my hips, pushing me back against his body as his arms wrap around my waist and carry me kicking and screaming into the deeper water. He lets me go, laughing with me.
‘You see, it isn’t so bad when you don’t faff around,’ he says.
I drop my shoulders under the surface and dip my head, breathing out bubbles of joy as I re-emerge with water up my nose and salt on my lips.
‘Last one to the rocks buys the ice creams.’ I dive and resurface a couple of lengths ahead, listening to him coughing and spluttering. I roll onto my back and call back, ‘You aren’t supposed to drink it.’
‘I’m going to get you . . .’
‘Catch me if you can!’ I swim crawl, pacing myself so that I reach the rocks, a sandy red outcrop adorned with a wig of seaweed near the cliffs at the west side of the bay, with scarcely any change to my breathing. I skirt the edge, finding a suitable place to scramble out, scraping my feet on the barnacles and limpets on the way to the top, where I sit on a patch of sun-warmed stone, looking down at Ross who’s clambering up the slope to join me. ‘The ice creams are on you!’
I watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the water glistening as it trickles down his broad chest and the slabs of his six-pack. He bends his neck and shakes his head, scattering silver droplets from his hair like a dog.
‘How do you do that?’ He sits down beside me. ‘You’re like a fish.’
‘It’s taken hours of practice. If you work out the number of miles I’ve done in the pool, I’ve probably been to the moon and back.’
Our thighs are almost touching, driven together by the contours of the rock, so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin as we dry off in the sun.
‘This is such a beautiful place. It reminds you how lucky you are to be alive.’ All I can hear is his breathing, my pulse and the waves lapping at the rocks as I wait for him to continue speaking.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him eventually. ‘You don’t seem your usual self.’
‘I’m okay . . .’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t sound convinced.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have inflicted myself on you today. I should have gone out on the bike, taken myself off somewhere.’
‘Oh, Ross, what is it?’
‘I lost my best friend two years ago today.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I pause, wondering if he wants to talk about it.
‘My friend, Zac . . .’ He struggles to utter his name. ‘We were out riding our bikes – the weather was like this, and we were out exploring with plans to meet Heidi and his fiancée, Luisa, for a pub lunch.’
I feel sick for him. I can kind of guess where this is going.
‘We might – or might not – have been going too fast, I’m not sure,’ he goes on. ‘I remember this long winding road without much traffic. We overtook a couple of cars, slowed down thro
ugh a village – I can still see the sign someone had set up by the pond, saying “Drive Careful, Ducks”.’ His voice grows harsh as he continues, ‘As we left, we sped up – it’s all part of the fun, and Zac had the better bike at the time, and he was just ahead of me, that’s when I think we touched the speed limit. I pulled back, but he kept accelerating up the hill and around the next bend . . .
‘I was just close enough to see the lorry pull out in front of him. The bike went underneath, he came off and was flung across the road onto the verge. He survived the impact and, who knows, he might still be here today – he would have been – if a driver who drew up to help hadn’t made a terrible mistake, completely misjudging the situation. There was no reason for anyone to interfere. He was complaining of pins and needles in his leg, and some aches and pains, and the ambulance was on its way, but this idiot – he said he was a first-aider at work, but it turned out he hadn’t kept his qualification up to date and, of course, he’d had no preparation for dealing with the aftermath of an RTA.’
He means a road traffic accident.
‘I told him to sit with him and not let him move while I checked on the lorry driver – I thought he was having a heart attack from the shock. He was in a right state, even though it wasn’t his fault. He’d been delivering grain to a local farm, checked both ways as he pulled out of the drive, but hadn’t seen the bike until it was too late. I called for a second ambulance and, when I looked round, the car driver was removing Zac’s helmet.’ Ross swears under his breath. ‘I could have punched him. When I tackled him, he said Zac had been panicking, that he couldn’t breathe.’
‘I can understand why he did it.’ Resuscitation starts with the ABC, airway, breathing and circulation. ‘If he wasn’t getting enough oxygen . . .’
‘Zac had broken his neck, and the act of taking off his helmet displaced the bones and damaged his spinal cord. He was paralysed.’
‘That’s terrible.’ I don’t know what to say. I’m still pretty sure that I’d have done the same thing as the driver, given the situation.
‘He died from pneumonia three months later. I saw him every day, but I felt so impotent and useless not being able to do anything. He had no movement from the neck down, and little feeling. He would never walk again, never make love or ride a bike . . . He wanted me . . . he asked me about euthanasia.’ Ross gazes at me, his eyes glazed with tears. Quickly, he brushes them away. ‘It’s the salt,’ he mutters.
Vets of the Heart Page 15