City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “I’m looking for”—I can hardly keep my voice steady enough to say his name—“Alex Fox-Gifford.”

  “Are you next of kin?” she asks kindly, assessing me with calm gray eyes. When I don’t respond, she goes on as if I’m one instrument short of a full set. “Are you a relative?”

  I say the first thing that comes into my head. “I’m his fiancée.”

  “I’m Debbie,” she says, apparently satisfied with my answer. “Go on through then,” she continues, once she’s warned me what to expect. “He’s second on the left.”

  I hesitate a couple of feet from the bed, thinking that this person can’t be Alex. He looks like Alex, but he’s lying so still. I step closer. His lips are the same deathly pallor as his cheeks, his chin is pricked with dark stubble, and there’s a bruise on his temple. His hands lie limp across the sheets.

  “Oh, Alex …,” I whisper. I reach out and run the tips of my fingers down the side of his face. His skin is cool. There’s no response, not even a flutter of the eyelids. He isn’t even breathing for himself—a machine is doing it for him.

  “You lazy sod,” I accuse him lightly, my teeth aching with the effort of not breaking down and crying. “Can’t you try a bit harder?” My hands tighten with a desire to thump him, to slap him across the face and dig him in the ribs to make him open his eyes and answer me back with some sarcastic remark. “Why didn’t you listen? I would have been all right.” I glance away at the series of images of Alex’s skull that are up on a monitor on the wall. They blur and fuse. I wouldn’t have been all right. It would have been me lying here, hovering somewhere between life and death. It should have been me.

  I pull a chair to the side of the bed and sit down, and I don’t know how long I stay, staring at his face, before I sense someone standing behind me. I turn to find Izzy, her expression grave.

  “We should go,” she says quietly.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “We really should go now. We can come back later.”

  I strain forward, studying Alex’s face again. Is that the tiniest flicker of those long dark lashes? I’m so tired I can’t trust my eyes.

  I take his hand, tangling with the cannula and drip tubing taped across the back, where the veins snake small and blue. There are freckles of silver nitrate stain on his thumb, and dried blood outlines one fingernail. I squeeze his fingers tight until the skin loses its mottled pattern.

  “Alex!” His name catches in my throat. “Alex. Wake up!”

  “Maz, stop. He can’t hear you.” Izzy places her hand over mine. “I’ve been talking to the nurse—they’ve put him to sleep.”

  “Put him to sleep?” I gasp. It is as if the ceiling and the whole world are falling in around me, and I can smell the smoke and feel the fierce heat of the flames.

  “Maz?” Izzy’s voice breaks through to me. “They’re planning to let him wake up later. They’ll know more then.”

  Tears streaming down my face, I glance out of the window at the sky, where the wind is teasing white strands from candy-floss clouds and spinning them away. “They’ll know more then.” What exactly will “they” know?

  What would have happened if I’d followed my head, not my heart? What if I’d done the right thing and called the RSPCA in straightaway? What if I hadn’t tried to deal with everything myself, to make up for what happened to Cadbury?

  All these thoughts and more flash through my brain as Izzy drives me back.

  “I want to stop off at Buttercross Cottage on the way,” I say.

  “What on earth for?”

  “I need to check. I want to be certain. I mean, Ginge might come back and find no one there.”

  “You’re rambling,” Izzy says gently. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Will you stop asking me that?” I say irritably. “Yes, I’ve had a drink and something to eat.” Two black coffees, half a cheese roll, and a double dose of painkillers. “Yes, I’m …,” I start, and then I give in. Delayed shock is kicking in. “No, I feel like crap.”

  “I’ve been wondering if we should contact Emma. I know you tried the other day, but I think we should try again. You’re going to need some help—you won’t be able to scrub up for a while.”

  It’s true. My toes curl at the thought of taking a nailbrush to my hands and arms.

  “I know she won’t like it, but I’d like to ask her if we can take on a relief.”

  “A relief to cover for the relief,” I say drily as Izzy hands me her mobile.

  I leave a message on Emma’s voice mail.

  “You could try phoning Westleigh too—find out how Liberty is,” Izzy says.

  John the vet is tied up, but he rings me back five minutes later.

  “I thought Alex would be in touch first thing,” he says. “Talk about fussy clients, he was completely over the top and now …,” he goes on lightly.

  “Alex hasn’t been in touch because he’s been in an accident,” I say. “There was a fire. He’s unconscious. That’s why I’m calling, not him.”

  “I’m sorry,” says John, sounding contrite. “How bloody awful.”

  “How is the horse?” I ask, although it almost seems irrelevant now. Who knows if Alex will wake up, let alone ride again?

  “She’s doing well so far,” John says. “She needs to stay with us for a while, so tell Alex not to worry about her.” He pauses. “He is going to be okay, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, my voice sounding distant, as if it’s coming out of someone else’s mouth. I cut the call and stare at the mobile and then at the blood-tinged fluid seeping through the paw-print bandages on my arms. I just don’t know.

  Liberty isn’t out of the woods yet, and neither is Ginge if he managed to flee the fire and hole up somewhere in Longdogs Copse.

  Izzy parks just inside the paddock, not being as concerned about the paintwork of the practice car as I am about mine. We set out across the grass toward the remains of the cottage, which reminds me of the wreck of the Mary Rose when I visited it once with Emma and Ben: vapor rising from the glistening timbers, the atmosphere incredibly peaceful. And sad.

  “Ginge,” I call. “Ginge!”

  “I don’t think he’ll come rushing over to greet us—we aren’t exactly his favorite people,” Izzy says.

  “He can’t live wild out here, not in his condition. I’ll come back later and set up a trap. One of the squeeze cages at the practice will do.”

  Izzy puts her arm on mine. I tear it away, acutely aware of the pain and unable to bear any contact. “Maz, he’s probably dead,” she says gently.

  “He’s alive,” I say, and I think of Alex again, his face pale against the pillow, and I can’t speak anymore. If Alex dies, nothing will ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER 18

  Vet Rescue

  “I’m a pretty birdie, yes, I am.” An insufferably cheery cockatiel—a bird bigger than a budgie and smaller than a parrot, with gray and white plumage, a tuft of yellow feathers on the top of its head, and an orange circle behind its eye—greets me with a whistle as I walk through into Kennels the following morning. “I’m a pretty birdie, yes, I am.”

  “Hi, Izzy.” I check the inpatient card on its cage. “Jude? What kind of name is that?”

  “One of the firemen found him in the back of Gloria’s barn,” says Izzy. “I chose the name. He and Jude Law are both such pretty things.” She smiles. “Oh, and the same chap brought the Siamese cat in.” She points toward one of the high-rise cages, where a cross-eyed Siamese cat peers out from beneath a piece of vet bedding.

  “I’m a pretty birdie, yes, I am.” The cockatiel pipes up again. “I’m a pretty birdie, yes, I am.”

  I’m beginning to understand why Gloria didn’t keep him in the house.

  “Like certain other men I know, he has far too high an opinion of himself,” Izzy says. “I’ll cover him up for a while.” She picks up an old towel and drops it over the cage. Jude falls silent. “Result.”
/>   “What are all those cages doing on the bench?” I ask, trying to concentrate on the animals and the practice instead of going frantic with worry about Alex, although I can hardly think about anything else.

  “They’re Gloria’s small furries. The firemen found them unharmed when they were damping down after the fire. I’ve cleaned them out, and given them fresh sawdust and toilet-roll insides. Frances is going to print up labels for them all and make some posters to put up around town. There must be some families out there who can give a couple of mice and gerbils a good home.”

  “Where are we supposed to work though? It’s complete chaos.”

  “It’s organized chaos,” Izzy says, ever the optimist. “I have a list.” She pulls a clipboard out from under an empty cat carrier. “First, I’d like you to have a look at the Siamese. Second, I thought it would be a good idea to X-ray Raffles again, because yesterday’s images were inconclusive. Then you can go and see your appointments—and there are quite a few today—while I give Petra a bath. If you like, I’ll change your dressings too.”

  “What about Ginge? I don’t want him stuck in that trap for any longer than necessary.”

  “If he falls for it,” Izzy says. “I imagine he’s too savvy for that. Anyway, there’s no need for you to go—Fifi and some of her volunteers are going to the cottage this morning to see if they can catch any of the other cats. The firemen saw several about, but they all ran away, except for the Siamese.” She takes him out of the cage, bringing the bedding with him attached to his claws. She puts him on the draining board, the only free surface left. “They’ll bring Ginge back, if he’s there.”

  Wincing as I straighten my arms, I run my hands over the Siamese. He’s an elderly gentleman with long white whiskers and terrible breath. His teeth are dripping with pus, and his gums are yellow with ulcers, telltale signs of chronic kidney failure.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Izz?”

  She nods as he lies purring gamely but effortfully in her arms. “’Fraid so. I think he’s too far gone.”

  “I’m not being mean, am I?”

  “I’ll fetch the juice,” Izzy says, and five minutes later the old Siamese is at peace, with Izzy and me the only ones to mourn his passing.

  Izzy wraps him up in an old blanket, and I head off to Reception, aware of the ache in my arms: it’s there all the time, a constant throb made worse by any movement, however small. I don’t feel so great this morning. After I did manage to get to sleep last night, I woke up with a raging thirst, and now I feel weak and sick and sweaty.

  I turn in to the consulting room, where I remove the dressings. It’s a slow process. I pick at the edge of the last nonstick pad, which is well stuck on, then, scolding myself for being a wuss, I take a deep breath and rip it off in one go.

  “Are you in there, Maz?” Frances comes bursting through anyway, waving a copy of the Chronicle with the headline VET RESCUE in one hand and a box of cat food in the other. Tripod accompanies her, I notice, his eyes fixed on the box.

  “Is that brunch?” I shuffle around in one of Emma’s cupboards for some more bandages; hot pink is the only color left.

  “If you like beef in gravy. The residents of Talyton are rallying round, bringing us gifts of pet food and offers of homes, and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’m not sure I’ll have enough appointments for everyone today.”

  Worrying that I’ll be too busy to visit Alex, I wind the bandage around my right arm first, then start on the left. I hope I’ll be able to keep going.

  “DJ would like a word,” Frances adds. “He’s in Reception.”

  “What’s up?” I ask the builder a moment later. As always, Magic, his dog, is waiting patiently by his side.

  “It’s more about what’s coming down, my lover.” He smiles. “I’ve noticed some cracks in the plaster at the side of the house. I’d hate it to come down on one of your clients, so I wondered if we could put up some extra scaffold and make a proper job of it, not a bodge.”

  “How much more is it going to cost?” I wish Emma was here—she’d know what to do for the best.

  “A little more than the front—because,” he quickly adds, “of the difficulty of working over and above the glass extension.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Ah, that, my lover, will be—”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupt, “as long as it takes.”

  “You’re getting the idea. I’ll go and get started.” DJ sticks his hand in his pocket. “By the way, me and the lads had a whip-round this morning”—he pulls out a wad of notes and a few coins—“for the animals you saved from the fire.”

  “Thanks, DJ.” I’m touched. Everyone’s being so kind. It reminds me of Alex and his kindness to me when I lost Cadbury. I can hear his voice. Maz, I did it for you …

  I close my eyes, trying to get a grip on my emotions when all I want to do is collapse in a sniveling heap. I can hear Magic’s nails pattering across the floor toward the exit and the tap of DJ’s boots; the clattering of stainless-steel bowls somewhere from out the back; a phone ringing; a dog barking, Petra perhaps. I can smell boiled chicken, fresh coffee, antiseptic wash, and greasy dog. It’s comforting.

  I open my eyes again. Alex was right. I didn’t kill Cadbury. It was bad luck, and in spite of everything that’s happened, I still love my job, and if it should ever turn out that I have nothing else left, at least I have that.

  “Otter House Vets, how can I help?” Frances is on the phone behind the desk. I notice that she’s repersonalized her workspace—the rosette is back, along with a photo of Ruby, and it reminds me that I must have a word with Nigel to see if there’s any way we can find the money to pay her wages and take her back on. She’s been wonderful, identifying those clients who really do need to bring their animals in, and those who want to see what’s going on and be part of the event that is coming to be known as the Great Fire of Talyton.

  I return to Kennels to catch up with some notes. Izzy is at the far end of the room, brushing Petra in preparation for a bath in Emma’s innovative dog-washing station, a shower cubicle with a sunken tray. There’s a patter of dog claws, and Miff comes flying in, huffing and puffing as if she’s trying to tell me something.

  “Who let the dog out?” I call.

  “I did.” A perfumed shadow falls across my paperwork.

  I look up. “Oh, Emma! Is it really you?” My heart lightens. “You’re back.” I stand and put my arms up to hug her, but the pain forces me to sit down again. “Am I pleased to see you! It’s gone a bit mad here.”

  “So I see,” she says drily. The break has done her good. Her hair is sleek and shiny, like something out of a Pantene ad, and she has a tan, set off by a red dress that shows off her curves.

  “I’m sorry about the mess.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Maz.”

  “And I wish I hadn’t cut your holiday short.”

  “I did get your texts,” she says, “but we were on our way home anyway. Ben made the decision—I’ve had a dodgy tummy for a couple of weeks. He said he’d be happier if we came home early.”

  “Em,” I start, but a drumroll of hammering from outside the building takes over.

  “I told you there’d be trouble if you got involved with Talyton Manor Vets,” Emma says over the noise, and I realize she knows about the slurry, as she goes on, “and I come back to discover that you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy. Frances caught me on the way in—she mentioned you just happened to be out and about with Alex when Gloria’s cottage went up in smoke.” She hesitates. “How is he?”

  I shake my head, not daring to speak in case I dissolve into tears.

  “I saw the headlines on the billboards outside the newsagent’s.” Emma doesn’t say any more about it, either to save my feelings or so as not to offend the dying, perhaps both. Instead, she stares at my arms. “What about you?”

  “I got out with superficial burns, that’s all.”

&nbs
p; “Superficial hogwash,” Emma says. “Let me have a look.”

  “I’m fine.” I’d rather she didn’t see my wounds, the wet, raw welts where the skin was burned right through to the flesh underneath, but Emma takes both my hands and leads me to the sink, where she grabs a pair of scissors and starts to snip at the dressings. I can’t argue with her anymore. I can’t speak for the pain.

  “I’m going to ring Ben,” she says. “You’ll be no use to anyone if you go down with some hideous infection. What’s more, you won’t be able to wear short sleeves at the wedding—those burns will scar if they’re not looked after properly.”

  “The wedding? I’m not getting married.”

  “Not yours, unless there’s something you’re not telling me,” Emma says lightly. “Izzy’s.”

  “I didn’t know she was getting married,” I say, a little hurt she hasn’t told me.

  “Frances told me about the dog that brought Izzy and Chris together.”

  “Freddie,” I cut in.

  “That’s right. The goss in Talyton is that they’ll be married within the year.”

  “It’s just talk,” I say, but Emma tips her head to one side and goes on.

  “Ah, but there’s no smoke without fire.”

  “You’re as bad as the rest of them,” I tell her.

  “Then you’d better give me the true version of events,” she says.

  “Oh, Emma, so much has happened, I hardly know where to start.”

  “I think it’ll have to wait. We’ll talk later,” Emma says, as Fifi sweeps into Kennels with two of her volunteers, both weighed down with cat baskets. She certainly knows how to delegate.

  Izzy looks up from the dog-washing station, where she’s bathing Petra, who isn’t having any of it. There’s foam up the walls and in Izzy’s hair—everywhere except on the dog.