City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “She’s one of our clients,” says Old Fox-Gifford.

  “Aurora owns the boutique in town, Aurora’s Cave,” Fifi says for my benefit.

  I’ve seen it. The mannequin in the window wears a red T-shirt with BITCH splashed across it in silver.

  “That’s one of the Pitt boys with the Labrador pup,” Old Fox-Gifford goes on.

  “One of ours, I believe,” I say. “Oh, and Cheryl’s here too.”

  “She was one of ours until you brainwashed her.”

  “You start one end, Fox-Gifford. Maz can start at the other,” Fifi says hastily. “The steward and I will record your scores for each pet—points out of ten, please. The one with the highest combined score wins.”

  It seems fair, I think, thankful that I won’t have to make small talk with Old Fox-Gifford.

  I adore the rabbit, an Angora with long, floppy ears and a harness covered with bling. It sits on a silk cushion sparkling with sequins. A boy stands with him, ducking in now and again with a hairbrush to straighten out its extravagant fur.

  “What’s his name?” I ask the boy.

  “Dobby. I called him Dobby after the house elf in Harry Potter.”

  “If it wasn’t for Dobby, my Paul would be dead.” I assume that it is the boy’s mother who’s calling out from the ringside. “He was diagnosed with leukemia last year.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “He’s cured now, aren’t you, Paul?”

  “I’m much better now,” says the boy, and I give him the full ten points.

  “Are you sure?” whispers Fifi when she comes to record his score on her sheet. “He won last year.”

  “It’s such a sad story,” I say. “He’s had leukemia.”

  Fifi laughs. “You don’t want to go listening to the Ashfields—it was a kidney transplant last year.”

  “So the boy isn’t ill?” What’s wrong with these people? It’s only a country show. “I thought this was supposed to be a bit of fun.”

  “It’s a sideshow,” says Old Fox-Gifford from beside me, “just like the Otter House Vets. We’re the main event in this town.” He rubs his hands together. “Are we done?”

  Fifi looks down the score sheet on her clipboard.

  “The Ashfields’ rabbit has the most points,” she says.

  “A rabbit?” Old Fox-Gifford grinds the end of his stick into the mud. “Vermin. We shoot the bloody things on the estate.”

  “Shh,” warns Fifi, but he doesn’t make any effort to lower his voice.

  “Call in Aurora first. A lovely bitch that is.” He points his stick. “Look at the legs on that.”

  “What about the rabbit?” I stick to my guns, an inappropriate term in the circumstances, but I don’t see why Old Fox-Gifford should get his own way on this. It’s supposed to be a joint decision.

  “What about a compromise?” Fifi suggests. “How about Cheryl’s cat?”

  “Absolutely no way,” says Old Fox-Gifford. “It’s cross-eyed, like all her bloody cats.”

  “All right, it’ll have to be the cat, the tabby one.” Fifi touches the steward’s arm. “We’ll announce the result and give out the rosettes, then we’ll take you off to lunch, Maz. And after that, you must pop along to Talyton Animal Rescue’s stall and have a go at the raffle. There are some fantastic prizes—bottles of wine, bubble bath, oh, and a foot spa. Perfect for someone like you who’s on her feet all day.”

  What is the point of me being here, I wonder, when it’s Fifi who gets to choose the winner? It’s kind of her to make me feel welcome, but she does rather take over.

  I wonder too about making an excuse to dash back to Otter House to let the dogs out but decide that might be considered letting the side down, and in any case, Fifi won’t let me.

  “You can’t possibly leave just yet.” She grabs on to my arm after the presentation, letting Old Fox-Gifford limp on ahead of us, apparently intent on making the most of his free lunch. “I wanted to have a quiet word …” I wait for her to go on. “Talyton Animal Rescue have been associated with Talyton Manor Vets for a long time, but it’s all getting rather expensive, and I wondered if you could see your way to giving us a better discount.”

  It’s a bit of a cheek, I think, to ask me, not Emma.

  “I’ll be straight with you, Maz. Old Fox-Gifford gives us twenty percent off across the board.”

  “Twenty percent?”

  “We do have a lot of animals passing through our foster homes, and vets’ fees are our biggest expense.”

  Fifi has a point, I muse. I want to help. I tell her I’ll speak to Nigel. I need to have a word with him in any case about the check he gave me that was drawn on the practice account. It bounced.

  “Oh?” she says. “Frances gave me to understand that Emma had left you holding the reins.”

  “Yes, the reins, but not the key to the safe, so to speak,” I say firmly. Fifi doesn’t say any more about it, because we join a long queue inside yet another marquee along with Old Fox-Gifford and a woman I guess to be his wife. She holds herself straight and tall in a tweed jacket and skirt, and green wellies. I chose my outfit of skinny white cropped trousers and a beaded halter top thinking it would look up-to-date and not too over the top, but I now realize it’s completely out of place in a veritable ocean of tweed. I feel conspicuous—naked, almost.

  “Sophia is joining us at the manger,” Old Fox-Gifford says, nodding at his wife. “As district commissioner of the Talyton branch of the Pony Club, she’s running the Mounted Games in the main arena this afternoon.”

  “Are you holding the camp at the manor again this year?” Fifi enquires.

  “Against my better judgment,” says Old Fox-Gifford. “Three of the little buggers left hoof prints all over the lawn last time, put paid to a decent game of croquet for months.”

  Somehow, I can’t imagine him playing croquet. It’s far too civilized a pastime.

  “You will do your usual talk on worms after lunch on the second day, won’t you, darling?” Sophia pats the stiff waves of her gray hair.

  “Can’t you ask Alexander?” Old Fox-Gifford twists a button hanging by a thread from the sleeve of his jacket, tugs it off, and sticks it in his pocket.

  “You know how busy he is.” Sophia is accompanied by a strong smell of antibiotic and Cheval No. 5. She picks a curl of wood shaving from her silk scarf and lets it fall to the ground before turning to Fifi. “The practice has been pretty quiet recently, which isn’t such a bad thing. It’s given us time to find a girl we like and our son approves of. Her family connections leave a little to be desired, but I can forgive her that—she has such lovely soft hands.”

  “That filly has a good bit of flesh on her too,” says Old Fox-Gifford, hooking his stick over his arm and entering the fray for plates and cutlery.

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Do the Fox-Giffords still cling to the aristocratic tradition of arranged marriages? I’m confused as an image of Alex’s Superdad pants and his long, muscular thighs flashes into my mind. Is this Alex’s second marriage, or did he have his child or children out of wedlock?

  “Are you all right, Maz?” Fifi asks. “You look as if you’re burning up.”

  “It’s the heat,” I say, fanning my face with my program. “I’ll be all right in a minute.” I gaze at the queue ahead, which is moving at snail’s pace, wishing everyone would hurry up so I can get some food and make my escape from these terrible people.

  “You aren’t local,” says Sophia, bringing me back into the conversation.

  Is it that obvious? I think, half smiling to myself.

  “I was born in London,” I say.

  “We keep a small pied-à-terre in Knightsbridge, although Sophia and I don’t get away from the manor as often as we used to,” says Old Fox-Gifford, returning with plates and cutlery, which he hands out.

  “Such a gentleman,” Fifi whispers in my ear. “They don’t make them like that nowadays.”

  Thank goodness, I think as Old Fox-Gi
fford goes on. “Ascot hasn’t been the same since they started letting the yobs in.”

  “Whereabouts in London?” Sophia inquires, in a tone that makes me feel this is more of an interrogation than a social chat.

  “I spent my childhood in Battersea, near the dogs’ home, south of the river.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Sophia says.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I liked it.”

  “Yes, but it’s hardly West Ken, is it, Madge?” she says.

  “It’s Maz. My name is Maz.” I’m not sure whether Sophia hears me over the general hubbub in the marquee or whether she’s deliberately ignoring my reply.

  “So, you’re an out-and-out townie.” Old Fox-Gifford shakes his head in disapproval. “Ever been blooded?” he asks, moving closer so I can see the whites of his eyes.

  “Um, I don’t know what you mean,” I say, finding myself unable to step back from him for the crush behind me.

  “He’s referring to the custom of smearing the cheeks of new followers with blood from the kill at the end of a hunt,” Fifi enlightens me, which is a relief because it crossed my mind that Old Fox-Gifford could be referring to some bizarre initiation ceremony for people new to Talyton St. George.

  “Have you ever ridden to hounds?” he says impatiently.

  “I can’t ride.”

  The Fox-Giffords’ mouths drop open, and I wonder what I’ve said. Not being able to ride isn’t a crime, is it?

  “I beg your pardon,” Sophia says, touching her throat in apparent disbelief.

  “You don’t see all that many horses in Battersea,” I say.

  “I hope you aren’t planning to stay on in Talyton once Emma returns from her jaunt,” Old Fox-Gifford says.

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” I feel as if I’m being attacked from all sides.

  “There aren’t enough pet owners in Talyton to keep two vets occupied full-time, even when the new estate’s finished,” Sophia says.

  “Estate?” says Old Fox-Gifford. “I wouldn’t let my dogs live there.”

  “No, dear.”

  “I’m not staying,” I say, but they aren’t listening. Sophia, Fifi, and Old Fox-Gifford are talking among themselves again. I might as well not be here.

  “We can’t all choose to live in the country. Just imagine how unbearably crowded it would become,” Sophia says, rolling her eyes.

  “It’s bad enough already—look at the traffic jams on Sunday mornings when the plebs go off to have breakfast at Fifi’s garden center,” says Old Fox-Gifford.

  “That’s a bit harsh when they’re the very same people who turn up at your surgery during the week. Really, Fox-Gifford, you must never bite the hand that feeds you,” Fifi says coyly.

  “Talyton Manor has to support two families,” says Sophia, apparently unconcerned that Fifi’s flirting with her husband. “There’s us and Alex, who has to provide for his children and ex-wife.”

  “And she’s the very definition of high maintenance,” Fox-Gifford cuts in.

  “That isn’t entirely fair—Astra’s trying to do her bit,” Sophia says.

  “By selling herself to the highest bidder and cheapening the family name,” Fox-Gifford says. “Why oh why did she talk to that cheap rag Hello! and not Tatler? Scandalous!”

  I glance at Fifi, who shakes her head almost imperceptibly. Perhaps she’ll give me the goss later on …

  “Are you going to deny our grandchildren the right to a decent living?” Sophia says, turning back to me.

  “I’m not staying,” I repeat.

  “We’ll have to sell more land, or turn our home over to the National Trust, or have a roller coaster built out in the park,” says Sophia. “Talyton Towers. Just imagine. How awfully awful.”

  “I’m not staying,” I repeat for the third time, but Sophia and Fifi are counting out paper napkins, and Old Fox-Gifford is talking to the woman managing the buffet. She’s curvaceous, blond, and expensively dressed.

  “Elsa, how’s the old boar? Is he showing any more interest in the ladies?”

  “Hardly.” The blonde giggles. “Oh, I thought you meant the old b-o-r-e.”

  “Not Charles,” Old Fox-Gifford guffaws. “The pig!”

  “Oh, him. He’s got until the end of the month and then he’s bacon. If you can’t cure him, Fox-Gifford, I will.” I notice that no one addresses Old Fox-Gifford by his first name. Is he keeping it secret, like Inspector Morse, I wonder, or hasn’t he got one?

  “I’ll pop out and see him again later in the week, give him a good talking-to.”

  “Elsa rears rare-breed pigs,” Sophia explains.

  “Happy pigs,” Elsa says before she excuses herself. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Like father, like son, I think. Old Fox-Gifford seems to have plenty of female admirers.

  “Cold beef or ham?” one of the servers behind the buffet asks me.

  “Er, I’ll have the veggie option, please,” I say, spotting something resembling asparagus quiche farther along the table.

  “One vegetarian,” the server calls along to his colleague.

  “Vegetarian?” growls Old Fox-Gifford. His eyebrows form a single fuzzy caterpillar, which bristles above the bridge of his nose. All conversation stops, everyone’s eyes turn on me, and I feel as if they’re about to serve me up on a plate.

  “Pale, spineless creatures!” Old Fox-Gifford goes on. “Is it any wonder farming’s in such a state?”

  Noticing a spare seat at a table on the other side of the marquee, I grab my plate of quiche, add some salad, and make my escape, trying to ignore Old Fox-Gifford’s rant about how he holds me solely responsible for the demise of British agriculture as we know it.

  “Absolutely no breeding, eh … calls herself a vet when she can’t even ride a horse … should never have been admitted to the register …”

  It’s no wonder Alex turned out how he did with parents like that, I think. They’re worse than mine. Both nature and nurture conspired against him.

  Even from where I sit, I can’t help hearing snippets of conversation provoked by Old Fox-Gifford’s outburst. I can hardly taste the food, and I’m sure my face is pinker than the ham being served up to the people of Talyton St. George. I can’t wait to get away. If I could jump in my car and drive straight back to London, I’d do it, but I promised Emma I’d look after Otter House, and I don’t break my promises.

  I cheer myself up at the Talyton Animal Rescue stall, gambling a few pounds on the raffle and walking away with a jar of body scrub, which appears to have been opened before, and a watercolor print of the Taly Valley at sunset.

  I stroll back in the vague direction of the car park, keeping to the gravel path alongside the practice area where several riders are jumping their horses. Sophia is there too, lunging a small pony with a child on top, the pony trotting around in circles so fast you can hardly see its legs. The child, who can’t be more than five, is wearing jodhpurs, a red tunic, and ribbons in her hair. She sets her mouth in a determined straight line, hauls back on the reins, and digs in her heels.

  “Legs. More legs, Lucie.”

  The child flaps her legs, and the pony bucks and throws her up its neck, from where she slides slowly onto the ground.

  “Whoa, Tinky.” Sophia pulls the pony up to a halt. It lowers its head and starts pulling at the grass. The child begins to bawl. Sophia helps her up, brushes her off, gives her a smack on the bottom, and sticks her straight back in the saddle.

  “That was your fault,” Sophia scolds. “You let Tinky get her head down.”

  The child wipes her face with the cuff of her shirt.

  “Does that mean I’m a rider now, Humpy?”

  “How many times have you fallen off now?”

  The child counts on her fingers. “Five.”

  “Two more to go,” says Sophia. “It’s seven times before you can call yourself a proper rider.” I find myself thanking my lucky stars I never took up horse riding if that’s the ca
se.

  I walk on past the Lace Makers’ Guild and the beer tent. It really is a different world from the one I’m used to. In fact, I wonder whether I might have slipped through a gap in the space-time continuum into a parallel universe. I mean, who on earth thought of making a competition out of shearing sheep?

  I stop before a stage that is set up in front of the sheep pens. Two men stand waiting.

  “Get set, go.” How I missed Nigel and his stopwatch up until now, I don’t know. He’s wearing a dazzling white shirt with ruffles, breeches, and long woolen socks with bells attached.

  The men spring into action, each letting a sheep out of the pens behind them, turning it over, and grabbing a set of clippers that are plugged into a frame above their heads. The clippers whir. A generator throbs. The fleeces fall away from the sheep’s skin. The sheepshearers sweat, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. The one on the left, the one with blond curls and flushed cheeks, is particularly fit. What country maiden could possibly fail to be moved by the sight of his taut, tanned torso as his undershirt parts from the belt of his filthy jeans? What city girl too?

  And the one on the right? He has perfect pecs, although when he bows over his sheep, you can see that his hair is thinning on top. I recognize him, in fact. He’s Stewart Pitt—Lynsey’s husband and father of all those children.

  “Maz, you made it.” Izzy, looking very demure in a crocheted top, safari shorts, and wellies, strolls over from the edge of the stage to join me.

  “What’s Nigel wearing?” I ask.

  “He’s taken up morris dancing.” She smiles. “It’s a tradition here. Any excuse for a pub crawl.”

  “Nige, I’ve finished,” the blond man shouts as he lets his sheep go. It scuttles about the stage, naked and fearful. “Switch the clock off, will you?”

  “Who is that?” I ask.

  “Chris,” Izzy says.

  “I didn’t recognize him from the other day. We weren’t properly introduced.” I saw him only briefly at the practice when he was there cleaning up the slurry. He must be about forty, maybe a couple of years younger; his skin is flushed with exertion and exposure to the sun, and he isn’t as tall as I thought he was, no taller than I am.