City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  On the way back to Otter House, Izzy sits in the passenger seat, hugging the bottles of wine that Edie forced upon us in way of thanks.

  “I hope Clive’s going to be all right,” I say.

  “Of course he’ll be all right. He’ll have to get on with it—he has a pub to run.”

  “What kind of bereavement counselor would you make?”

  “A practical one.” Izzy reaches across and turns up the radio.

  Recognizing the track, I tighten my grip on the wheel—it’s the Killers.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sanctuary

  I worry about Clive for the next couple of days. Even in the short time that’s passed, I feel as if Clive’s become more of a friend than a client. I try to focus on work: an anorexic tortoise, a budgie with an overgrown beak, and a spaniel with a heart murmur who can no longer keep up with his master on their cross-country runs. It keeps me distracted, but it isn’t enough to keep Otter House solvent.

  I’ve just finished a cat spay when Izzy bursts back into the room. The look on her face tells me she has more bad news.

  “Maz, that was Nigel on the phone. He says to warn you that the bailiffs are coming in tomorrow to seize some of the kit.” Izzy’s voice falters. “The X-ray machine and the practice car …”

  “They can’t do that. Emma isn’t here. Surely they have to speak to her first.”

  “I wonder if this is what she wanted all along, to be away when it all kicked off,” Izzy says quietly. “She was a fantastic boss at first, really keen and enthusiastic, but over the past year or so she seemed to lose it. I don’t know why. She seemed preoccupied, less in control, but I thought she was coping. Maz, I feel so let down.”

  “I don’t believe she expected it to go pear-shaped while she was away.” Emma’s my best friend—she wouldn’t have left me in the lurch like this either, not deliberately. “Izzy, it was a bad situation to begin with, but I’ve made it worse.”

  “Why didn’t she ask Ben to help?” Izzy says. “He’s a doctor—he must be loaded.”

  “Emma has her pride. There’s nothing she can’t do. At least, that’s how it used to be.” My instinct is to bail her out, but she’s in debt to the tune of thousands of pounds, not hundreds, and I don’t think even Ben could have helped. I make up my mind. I know I planned to stay to prove the pet owners of Talyton St. George wrong, to show them I really am a good vet, but it now seems impossible. We can manage to keep going without the car, but not the X-ray machine.

  “We close the practice down tonight,” I go on.

  “Close Otter House?” Izzy stares at me, her expression one of desolation. “What about our patients? What will they do without us?”

  “I have no choice, Izzy,” I say firmly. “I’ll contact Talyton Manor Vets and make sure they can take on more clients. If they can’t, I’ll check with practices further afield. Just as important, I’ll make sure you receive your wages in full, and write you a great reference to help you find another job.”

  “What a complete and utter disaster,” Izzy sighs.

  “I’m really sorry, Izzy,” I say. “I’ll get in touch with Emma as soon as I can, and ask her to come back. In the meantime, I’ve got a couple of loose ends to tie up …”

  I text Emma, asking her to call me ASAP, then behind Frances’s desk—which, I have to remind myself, isn’t Frances’s desk anymore—I find the last of Emma’s yellow Post-it notes: condolence cards. I take a card out of the drawer. There’s a picture on it of a black Labrador, which doesn’t seem appropriate, so I nab a piece of printer paper instead and write a short letter, stick it in an envelope, pick up some more of Ginge’s tablets and my car keys, and head out again.

  “Call me if you need me, Izzy,” I tell her on my way out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the Talymill Inn.”

  “You’re not taking to drink already?” she says. I think she’s only half joking.

  “Not yet. I’m going to see Clive.”

  The Talymill Inn is overrun with grockles—probably too late now to have picked up the local lingo—who’ve stopped on their way to the beach to wait for a break in the weather. I squeeze the car into a space between a motor home and a minivan with a stripy windbreak and surfboards tied to the roof bars.

  Inside, Edie looks up from behind the bar as I approach.

  “Hi,” she says, forcing a smile. “I assume you’re here to collect your stethoscope.”

  “I wondered where I’d left it—I’ve been using one of Emma’s.” I pause. “Actually, I came to see Clive.”

  “You’ll be lucky to get anything out of him—he’s gone mad.” Edie runs her hand through her hair. “He’s talking about packing it all in, just as the business is looking up. Last month the pub broke even for the very first time.”

  “He’s bound to be depressed. Perhaps he should speak to someone?”

  “You mean a doctor?” Edie shakes her head. “He won’t even talk to me about it. I can’t see him talking to a stranger.”

  “Er, where is he?”

  Edie lifts the board to let me behind the bar and shows me along the corridor past the kitchen and out to the private garden. I stop on the back doorstep. Clive is arranging a blue tarpaulin over Robbie’s grave, weighing down the corners with stones.

  “Clive,” I call softly.

  He turns to face me, showing no surprise that I’m here.

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of him getting wet,” he mutters. “Bloody stupid, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so.” What can I say? Sorry? It’ll get better with time? I start to peel up the front of my T-shirt. “I’ll show you my scar.”

  Clive raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve always believed in the principle that the showing of one scar deserves another.” I reveal a couple of inches of my midriff.

  “That isn’t a scar,” Clive says haltingly. “That’s a tattoo.” He tips his head slightly to one side. “Quite a fetching tattoo, at that.”

  “I had it done on impulse, the day I heard that my cat died.”

  Jack Wilson is retired now, but I visit him and his wife when I can. King passed away peacefully soon after my last visit, at the age of eighteen, under the apple tree Jack chose as his final resting place, which is why I decided to have an apple with an arrow through it tattooed on my belly.

  “Did it hurt?” asks Clive.

  “Yes, but I needed it to hurt.”

  He nods as if he understands. “And now?”

  “It hurts if I think about it too much—it isn’t just about King, it’s about the memories I have when I think of him, family stuff …”

  “I know what you mean—with Robbie, it’s like the end of an era, the end of my old life up in London, the job.”

  “Edie says you’re thinking of giving it all up.”

  Clive shrugs. “That’s how I feel at the moment, but I guess it’ll pass.”

  The wind takes a deep breath and catches one corner of the tarpaulin, raising it off the bare earth. I pick up a stray half brick from the path and hand it over to Clive. Silently, he places it on the tarpaulin, then turns to me. “Thanks, Maz. Thanks for coming.”

  As I leave, I think, Who am I to lecture anyone about not giving up?

  Back in the car, I remember that I still have my condolence letter in my pocket. I take it out, tear it up, and drop the pieces in the glove box before making my way to Buttercross Cottage, Gloria’s place.

  I’m not ready to face Stewart yet, although I will call on him later today, or tomorrow, before I leave Talyton for good. And it will be for good, because I don’t want to be reminded of my failures. Actually, I’m lying to myself. What I mean is I don’t want to be reminded of Alex and what might have been …

  I find myself traveling down a particularly narrow and twisty lane, which peters out into no more than a farm track with grass growing along the middle of it. The ruts deepen, the hedgerows press in from either side,
and the overhanging branches of trees grope at my car’s paintwork until the track becomes impassable. I pull into a gateway and walk the rest of the way down a slope where the track opens out onto an expanse of rough lawn in front of a house. The rain has stopped again, leaving the fresh scent of bruised grass and wet earth in the air, and water droplets that sparkle like diamonds scattered through the hedges.

  To my left is a wood, Longdogs Copse I assume, and to the right is a small paddock that contains a little grass, a tin bath of green soup, two cracked buckets on their sides, and two elderly donkeys, one wearing a head collar with FRISKY on it and the other with feet so overgrown that it looks as if he’s wearing slippers.

  The house is nothing like the cottages you see on the boxes of Devon fudge in the window of the gift shop. There’s grass growing out of the dark, moldy thatch, and the chimney stack leans at an almost impossible angle. The walls have sloughed off their outer layers like dead skin, leaving earthy scars of cob and brick repairs. The small garden at the front is a tangle of honeysuckle, roses, raspberry canes, and brambles. One of the small windows upstairs has been carelessly boarded up, and splinters of glass glint like tears on the path below.

  The front door can’t have been painted for years, and when it was last done the job was left unfinished, as if the painter didn’t care. The top half is a grimy white, the texture of crackled glaze, while the bottom half is scumbled blue, as if someone’s taken a dry paintbrush to it. On the doorstep, beside a crate of empty milk bottles, an ancient feline, lying on its chest like the Sphinx, guards a stack of damp circulars, newspapers, and post. It isn’t Ginge.

  As soon as I rap at the door, there’s a riot of barking and something repeatedly hurls itself at the other side. From the depths of the cottage, maybe from the buildings beyond, another dog joins in, howling, then another, and another.

  I knock again. The barking continues, but no one answers. I can’t believe that Gloria doesn’t know I’m here with that racket going on. I step aside and press my nose to the window. Through a layer of dust and a shabby net curtain, I can see a small, ghostlike figure in pale robes approaching.

  “Gloria,” I call. “It’s Maz, Maz the vet.”

  The hinges groan and the wood scrapes across the step as she opens the door a mere inch or two. Something snuffles about at her feet.

  “I’ve brought Ginge’s tablets.” I hold out the packet. A gnarled hand reaches for them, but I snatch them back. “Gloria, I’d like to come in for a minute.”

  One eye gleams from the darkness beyond. “Another time. I’m not dressed.”

  “I can wait.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve got some biscuits in the car.” I flung them in, thinking I might have them instead of lunch. “I’ll fetch them while you sort yourself out, then perhaps we can share them over a coffee.”

  “I’m very busy … I haven’t fed the dogs yet.”

  “Let me give you a hand.” I pause. “Gloria, I really need to see Ginge. Today.”

  “Oh, all right. Go and fetch those biscuits. I’ll put the kettle on,” she says and slams the door shut.

  Ten minutes later she’s back at the door, dressed in a dark green house coat with stains down the front, fleece-lined boots, and stockings the color and sheen of caramel, an outfit that is apparently satisfactory for receiving a visitor.

  “Come in, young woman,” she says grudgingly, eyeing the packet of custard creams I’ve fetched from the car. “I’ve shut the dogs out.”

  I take a step across the threshold. The stench is overwhelming. Even when I breathe through my mouth so I can’t smell it, I can still taste it. Like a wine connoisseur, I can’t help analyzing the flavor: cat’s pee and dog’s mess, talc, smoking coals, the vanilla scent of old books, undertones of mildew and dry rot, with an added hint of blocked drains. All in all, it’s like licking out a pot of fish paste that’s gone off.

  I follow Gloria as she shuffles off down the hallway, passing a coat stand on which hangs a long coat and a bowler hat, both gray with dust.

  “They belonged to my husband.” She waves one hand toward them. “I don’t like to get rid of anything.”

  The sitting room is stacked with piles of newspapers and books, some of which almost reach the low beamed ceiling like enormous stalagmites. There’s a sofa, a couple of chairs, a log smoking in the grate—in spite of the fact it’s summer—and a rug in front of the fire. Gradually, my eyes become accustomed to the gloomy conditions and I start to make out other shapes. The rug is moving. Everything is breathing and shifting about. The space is alive with cats: a black cat feeds her litter of kittens; a white cat sits on top of one of the stacks, washing its face; on the sofa, a silver tabby uncurls itself, stretches, then curls up again.

  How many are there? Five? Ten? I lose count.

  “Take a seat if you can find one.” Gloria clicks her tongue and mews, shooing the silver tabby off the sofa and pushing the papers and rubbish along to make me a space. When I don’t move, she says, “Sit!” sharply, as if she’s talking to a dog.

  I sit down carefully and wait for Gloria to fetch the coffee, a little unnerved by the number of pairs of reflective eyes staring at me. The possessor of a particularly striking green pair, a black cat, moves closer and jumps lightly onto my lap. I tickle its chin and run my hand along its back. It’s quite skinny and scabby, but I couldn’t honestly say that it was a welfare case. I lean down and scratch my ankle. How do you define suffering anyway?

  “I forgot to ask how you take your coffee,” Gloria says, returning with a tray of cups and saucers and silver spoons.

  “Black’s fine. Black, no sugar.” It doesn’t really matter. I have no desire to drink it. I dread to imagine what state the kitchen is in.

  Gloria puts the tray on the pile of old newspapers closest to me, hands me a cup, and takes the other for herself. She tips another two cats off the armchair nearest the fireplace and sits down.

  I scratch my ankle again.

  While Gloria concentrates on eating the biscuits, I take a surreptitious look at the carpet—it’s literally jumping with fleas, and I’m being eaten alive, yet Gloria is oblivious.

  I don’t know where she puts the biscuits, but within minutes they’ve disappeared. She creases the packet, making careful folds as if she’s doing origami, then, appearing to lose patience, crumples it into a ball, which she drops onto the floor at her feet. The black cat with the bright eyes pounces on it, picks it up, and carries it away, tail held high.

  I feel as though I should start a conversation, but I don’t know what to say. I can hardly say, “Nice place you have here,” can I?

  “That’s Tom.” Gloria nods toward a photograph on top of the mantelpiece, which is cluttered with ornaments. “That was taken on our wedding day. And these”—she pulls herself out of the chair and points to some urns—“these are the dogs we had together.” She picks one up, rubs it on her sleeve, and peers at the plaque on the front. “I can’t read it.” She holds it in front of me. “What does that say?”

  “Julius.”

  “Dear Julius. He was Tom’s favorite, a handsome springer spaniel who had a penchant for chewing Tom’s slippers.” She puts Julius back and picks up another urn, but I’m more concerned with the living than with the dead. The more I see here, the more I want to see Ginge.

  Without a by-your-leave, I collect up the cups and take them through to the kitchen. It looks like a scene from How Clean Is Your House? before Kim and Aggie get their rubber gloves on. There are cats on the cooktop, the work surfaces, and the windowsill. One licks at the fat congealed in a frying pan, and another investigates the fridge, the door of which is propped open by a dish that seethes with flies.

  “How many cats do you have altogether, Gloria?”

  She’s right behind me and not looking too happy at my intrusion.

  “Twenty-seven, not including the kittens,” she says eventually. “That’s just the house cats. There’s a small cattery out the b
ack. I have another eleven out there. And then there are the ferals—I’ve lost count of them.”

  “I’d like to see the cattery.”

  “There’s no need for you to waste your time.” Gloria’s neck stiffens. “Why exactly are you here?”

  “I told you—I’ve brought Ginge’s tablets. I thought I’d save you a trip,” I say lamely. I edge around the kitchen, wondering how I can get out through the back door to see what horrors lie behind it. It’s very noble of Gloria to have rescued all these animals, but it’s beginning to look as if they now need to be rescued from Gloria.

  She blocks my way.

  “Go back to your surgery, young woman!” Her voice rises to a plaintive wail, like that of a cat in distress. “I’ll call the police.”

  “Not a good idea, Gloria. The first thing they’ll do when they see the state of this place is call the RSPCA.” It occurs to me that is exactly what I should do, but something in Gloria’s eyes holds me back. It’s heartbreaking, like the gaze of an animal caught in a snare. I notice that she’s powdered not only her face and her hair but her earrings too. “I want to help you.”

  I push past her and open the back door, ignoring her appeals to leave her alone. Two terriers, a white Westie and a black Scottie, come flying at me from the other side of a small concrete yard, jumping up and barking. They’re over the moon to see me, as if they know I hold the key to their escape.

  “You’re all mouth and no trousers, aren’t you?” I squat down beside them. “Who are they?”

  “Mac and Tosh.” Gloria’s voice is thick with resentment. “Boys, go to bed.” Wagging the stumps of their tails, they retreat to a cardboard box filled with skanky newspaper. “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she goes on. “I haven’t had time to clean up after them yet today.”

  Not just today, I suspect, observing the scummy water bowl and heaps of dog dirt, skidded through here and there with paw prints. It’s disgusting. Squalid.

  “They’ve been here with me for about eighteen months. They came from a broken home. Terribly sad.”

  “You couldn’t find new homes for them?” I say, my throat tightening with a different kind of sadness. The yard is like a prison. Their only contact with the outside world is Gloria, an old woman who can’t possibly give them the attention and walks they need. I’ve no doubt she loves them, but …