City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “We’ve got another nine for you,” Fifi says.

  “We’ll have to double them up,” I say. “Even then I don’t know how on earth we’ll fit them all in.”

  “You’re very busy,” Fifi observes. “It’s just like ER.”

  “Except there’s no George Clooney,” Izzy calls out.

  “Did you find a ginger cat,” I ask, “a skinny-looking thing?”

  Fifi looks toward the volunteers, who shake their heads, then turns back to me. “Good news though, Maz. At last night’s emergency meeting, the committee agreed to offer all the practical and financial support available to treat and rehome Gloria’s animals. It was a unanimous decision.”

  I thank her.

  “I let my personal feelings come between me and my duty to protect lost and abandoned animals. I shouldn’t have done,” Fifi continues. “I could have handled things very differently.”

  So could I, I think.

  “Gloria and I used to be great friends.” Fifi dashes a teardrop, like one of the diamonds on her necklace, from her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Fifi,” Emma says, touching her hand to comfort her as she goes on.

  “At least this way I can make amends.”

  “Maz, could you throw me another towel?” Izzy calls.

  I fetch one from the cupboard under the sink.

  “Make that two!”

  “Is that Petra?” Fifi frowns. “I thought she’d gone to a family in Talymouth. I suppose that was another of Gloria’s stories.”

  “Do you know where she came from?” I hand Izzy the towels. I’m not sure who’s wetter, Izzy or the dog.

  “A breeder gave her to us when she was a few months old because she didn’t quite make the grade as a show dog. I can’t understand why—she’s so glamorous.”

  “She will be when she’s had a blow-dry and pedicure,” Izzy says.

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to rehome her several times over, but I think I shall have first refusal,” Fifi goes on.

  Fifi and Petra? In my opinion, they’re completely unsuited.

  “I’ve already found Petra a home,” I say quickly. She needs a calm and experienced handler, and I know just the person. “I’m sorry, Fifi. There’s another very cute little dog who needs a good home though.” I show her Raffles, but I can see she isn’t impressed.

  “No,” she says, “he isn’t my kind of dog.”

  I’m glad. On second thoughts, I’m not sure that Fifi is Raffles’s kind of person.

  “Hi, all …” It’s Ben, and he’s wearing a bright yellow polo shirt and smart trousers. “Emma sent for me.”

  “It’s a house call then?” Izzy cuts in.

  “An Otter House call.” Ben smiles. His hair is short and receding from his broad, tanned forehead, and his nose is crooked, evidence of his enthusiasm for rugby.

  “Good to see you back,” Izzy says, giving him a damp hug. “How was the holiday?”

  “Fantastic—I’ve got hundreds of photos to bore you with later.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you only got halfway round the world, not all the way,” Izzy says.

  “Dear Dr. Mackie”—Fifi joins the conversation—“promise you won’t leave us to go flying off round the world again. I’ve been dying to have another word about my”—she glances down at her feet—“my little problem.”

  “Save me,” Ben whispers; then, “Not now, Fifi. I’m taking Maz to the hospital.”

  “Oh? There’s nothing seriously wrong, is there?”

  “We won’t know until we get there,” Ben says, keeping a straight face. I don’t know how he does it. He should have been an actor. “Come on, Maz. Let’s go.” His hand is on my back, steering me past her.

  “Our lady mayoress treats me as if I’m her personal physician. I’ve told her the bunions would soon clear up if only she’d wear sensible shoes.”

  “No woman wants to be told to wear sensible shoes,” I point out.

  Ben chuckles, but in the car on the way to the hospital he goes all serious and lectures me on the stupidity of trying to self-medicate with antibiotics from the surgery shelf, and the correct doses for acetaminophen and ibuprofen—apparently, I’ve been overdoing it.

  “I’ve made you an appointment with Richard—I play squash with him now and then,” Ben says when we arrive at the hospital. “He agreed to fit you in straightaway. Hey, Maz, are you paying any attention to me at all?”

  “I’m sorry. I did hear what you said.” Some of it anyway—I was thinking about Alex. “Thanks, Ben. You’re very kind, although all this fuss is completely unnecessary.”

  “We’ll let Richard be the judge of that, shall we? You’re obviously not going to take any notice of me,” he adds wryly.

  “I’m going to go and see how Alex is first.”

  “You are not,” says Ben. “You’re due to see Richard in five minutes. You can see Alex afterward.”

  I hesitate.

  “I promise,” Ben says firmly. “Now, I’m going to chase up some lab results for one of my colleagues back at the surgery—I’ll see you later.”

  After an hour, during which Richard inspects my burns and has a nurse redress them, I’m allowed home with the appropriate antibiotics and stronger painkillers, along with appointments to return for regular dressing changes and instructions not to go back to work. Not work? That’s like asking the sun not to rise.

  I find my way to Intensive Care.

  Debbie, the nurse at the desk, is much friendlier now she knows who I am.

  “Is there any change?” I hardly dare ask.

  “Mr. Summerson, his consultant, may reduce the level of sedation later today. Alex is breathing without help and his condition is stable, that’s all I can say at this point. As you well know, these things take time.”

  I bite back tears. I’d hoped the news would be better than this.

  “Can I …?”

  “Go on through.”

  I hurry toward the unit, but before I reach Alex’s bedside the sound of voices—like a town criers’ convention let loose in a library—makes me hesitate. I turn to see the Fox-Giffords at the nurses’ station I’ve just left. Quickly I step out of the line of sight through the doors between the corridor and the rest of the unit.

  “His fiancée?” says Sophia. “Our son doesn’t have a fiancée.”

  “He had his fingers badly burned when he last got hitched,” Old Fox-Gifford observes, a rather inappropriate remark, I think, considering the present circumstances. “He’ll never marry again.”

  “Besides,” Sophia says, “he would run it past us first. She might be some gold digger, and we have to protect our estate.”

  “Oh?” Debbie sounds doubtful. “She was pretty convincing.”

  “So?” Old Fox-Gifford asks sharply. “Who exactly is she?”

  “Maz, of course. The vet from the Otter House surgery. I didn’t recognize her the first time she came in, but I remember her now. I took my cat there for his booster.”

  I feel a twinge of guilt that I don’t recall either Debbie or her cat, but then I’ve seen lots of new people since I arrived in Talyton. I can’t possibly remember them all.

  “What!” Old Fox-Gifford growls like an injured cat. “The bitch who’s put Alexander in this damned place! When I see her, I’ll … I’ll …”

  “Do calm down, dear,” says Sophia. “Not in front of the grandchildren. If it weren’t for Madge, Alexander wouldn’t have managed to get Liberty to the hospital in time.”

  “We must bring Liberty to see Daddy,” pipes up a child’s voice, and I feel ten times more guilty than before. I’m not the only person in the world who’s suffering. If Alex dies, his parents will have lost a son, and his children will know what it’s like, as I did, to grow up without a father. They’ll probably lose contact with their grandparents too.

  “I don’t think Liberty would like it in here, darling,” says Sophia. “She’d spook at just about everything.”

  “Can we go and
see Daddy now?”

  My sense of panic deepens. If the Fox-Giffords find me here, they’ll have me escorted off the premises. I look for somewhere to hide—under a bed, behind one of the banks of life-support machines, on a chair behind a curtain? I’m just working out how I can scramble onto an empty trolley and cover myself with a sheet when I overhear Debbie saying, “Just a moment please, Mr. and Mrs. Fox-Gifford. If you wouldn’t mind waiting out here for a couple of minutes while I check his vitals.”

  With her back straight and stiff she marches onto the unit, takes one scathing look at me, and points her finger in the direction of the washdown room.

  “I’ll tell them you’re gone, that you must have slipped out past me while I was on the phone,” she says.

  It isn’t the greatest place to wait, but I can look through the porthole window in the door and eavesdrop on some of the Fox-Giffords’ conversation. There are two children, a girl—the one who fell off the pony at the show—and a boy, who’s no more than a toddler, with black curls and green dungarees.

  Sophia lifts the boy onto Alex’s bed. “Say hello, Sebastian.”

  “Hello, Daddy.” Sebastian puts out his hand to grab at the tube in Alex’s nose. Just in time Sophia catches his arm and hugs him to her chest. “Daddy ’sleep?” Sebastian asks with wide, curious eyes.

  “He isn’t asleep,” the girl says. She’s well-spoken and sounds quite mature for her age. “He’s in a jug an’ juice coma.”

  “It’s a drug-induced coma,” Sophia corrects as she touches the corner of her eye.

  “Wake up, Daddy,” the boy says happily, as if it’s a game.

  “He won’t wake up just yet,” Sophia explains.

  “Will he wake up for dinner?” says the girl. I hear the tone of her voice change. “He’ll die if he doesn’t have any dinner, won’t he?”

  “We don’t know what will happen …” Sophia’s voice fades.

  “He might never wake up,” Old Fox-Gifford says bluntly. “He might never work again.”

  “Husband of mine, you are insufferable.” Sophia’s voice rises to a high-pitched wail. “No matter if he can’t work again. What if he isn’t able to ride?” She puts the boy down, and he comes toddling straight toward the door to my hiding place. Ducking down, I lean back against the door, bracing myself with my knees bent against the series of small pushes that follow. Go away. Please.

  “Come here, Sebastian. Leave that door alone,” Sophia calls. “Do as you’re told, darling.”

  “We must be off. It’s time to let the hounds out,” says Old Fox-Gifford, “and the horses need their grub.”

  “We’ll buy some sweeties on the way home,” Sophia says, at which there’s one last shove at the door.

  “Sophia, you’re too bloody soft with him,” Old Fox-Gifford says. “That boy needs to feel the force of the rod to break his spirit.”

  “It didn’t work with Alexander, did it?” Sophia’s voice fades out again, along with the sound of footsteps, and I breathe a sigh of relief that they’ve gone. However, my relief is short-lived.

  “You have some explaining to do,” Debbie says, opening the door to the washdown room.

  “I lied. I’m sorry, but …” I pull a piece of crumpled tissue from my pocket and blow my nose. “I’m responsible for what’s happened to Alex. It’s my fault.”

  Debbie takes a small step back, as if she’s worried for her own safety.

  “I thought I could get Gloria out in time. I almost got her … but the fire … Alex saved my life. He’s a hero.” I break down, sobbing. “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t bear not to see him. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I shouldn’t do this, but Alex needs someone like you right now, a good friend, not that dreadful family of his.” Debbie puts her arm around my waist and leads me over to the bed. “Come on. You can have five minutes.”

  “But what do I do?” I say, starting to panic. Last time I was overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of the hospital and the sight of Alex lying helpless and surrounded by equipment and machines. Now it seems more familiar, and I feel I should be doing something. “Can he hear me?”

  “Possibly,” Debbie says. “Best to treat him as though he can.”

  “What shall I say?”

  “I don’t know.” She gazes at me with those cool gray eyes of hers. “You know him a whole lot better than I do.”

  But I don’t, I think, when I sit down beside Alex and slide my hand across the sheet that covers him and under the tubing of his drip, being careful not to dislodge it, so I can carefully interlink my fingers with his. Gently I tighten my fingers, but there’s no answering pressure, no sign that he can feel my touch.

  I don’t know anything about this man. What music does he like? What’s his favorite film? His favorite book? How have I got the nerve to let Debbie describe me as a good friend when I’m still very much a stranger?

  “Hi,” I whisper, leaning closer, so I can see the curve of his ear. “Hi,” I repeat, a little louder this time, but all I can hear is the faint sound of his breathing. I can’t hear his voice; I’m already unsure exactly how it sounded. His scent of aftershave, cows, and penicillin has disappeared too. Now his skin smells of disinfectant and alcohol, all too clean, as if even the little of Alex I did know, or thought I knew, has gone.

  With every heartbeat a pain within me grows, a crushing ache in the center of my chest, as I realize too late why I’m here at his side and what compels me to stay for as long as I possibly can. I gulp back a sob, but it’s too late. Tears track hot down my cheeks and drop onto the sheet.

  It wasn’t just lust, or the fact I was lonely in Talyton and on the rebound from Mike. It isn’t because I’m grateful to him for looking after me when Cadbury died, and standing up for me against Cheryl. It isn’t because I feel guilty for rushing in to try to save Gloria from the fire.

  It’s because I’m falling in love with him, and—I stare through a blur at the way his long, dark lashes curl against his pale skin—now he’ll never know how much he means to me.

  CHAPTER 19

  Small Miracles

  I can’t sleep. I’m so wound up, what with realizing too late my feelings for Alex, Emma coming back, worrying about the animals rescued from the fire, and coping with the searing pains in my arms, and the panic attacks that come upon me when my eyes close and the darkness takes over, and my mind fills with smoke and the roar of flames.

  As I walk downstairs from the flat, I hold my hands out in front of me. They’re shaking, and a layer of skin like tissue paper is peeling from my fingers.

  “I thought you were told not to come back to work.” Emma hands me a coffee and an open packet of biscuits as I sit down on the sofa in the staff room. “That’s what Ben told me. He also said you spent a long time with Alex Fox-Gifford.”

  “Is there any news?” I ask, afraid that I’ve missed something in the past few hours when I’ve been lying awake, listening to the creaks and clunks that the house makes at night, as if, like me, it’s shifting about, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “About Alex?” Emma shakes her head. “Frances says that she’s spoken to Fifi, who’d spoken to Sophia—she said there’s no change.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maz, we need to have that talk, if you’re up to it.”

  “What, about the inpatients?”

  “Izzy and I came in early—we’ve dealt with them. They’re doing well, even Ugli-dog and Raffles.” Emma’s expression is serious. I notice she’s drinking fruit tea. She never drinks fruit tea. “You know, I never meant to leave you in the lurch. It was unforgivable.”

  “But I’ve forgiven you …”

  She goes on. “I’ve had some problems with cash flow recently—”

  “Hey, that’s my line,” I cut in.

  “You used it all the time at vet school—I remember it well.” Emma’s smile is brief, like the sun breaking through rain clouds. “Anyway, I thought I’d sorted it. I thought the takings would cover
the bills as they came in, at least until I got back.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons. Pride mainly, and I didn’t want to put you off.” Emma takes a sip of her tea, wrinkles her nose with disgust, and tips it away down the sink. “I hadn’t even told Ben because I didn’t want to worry him with it. I didn’t want him subsidizing my business. We’ve sacrificed enough for Otter House already—quality time together, our marriage …” She turns toward me. “We’re all right now though. We needed that time away. It’s given me a sense of perspective.”

  “I don’t understand—you always made out that the practice was a success.”

  “It’s a girl thing. I wanted to prove I could do it myself.” Her shoulders sag. “This only goes to prove that I can’t.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish—what you’ve done to get this far is amazing.”

  “But in the process I’ve come this close”—she holds up one finger and thumb with the tiniest gap between them—“to losing the thing that’s most important to me—my marriage. I’m so lucky to have Ben. He’s stuck by me through this baby thing, even when I’ve been a moody old mare, which is most of the time. He deserves better than that.”

  “What will you do then? Will you give up the practice?”

  Emma shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t do that.” Tripod, who’s snoozing at the other end of the sofa, looks up at the sound of my raised voice.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s your dream. Your life.” Otter House Vets is the culmination of all she’s worked for.

  “It’s a part of my life. As Ben has pointed out, it doesn’t have to be the whole of it.” Emma leans back against the counter.

  “What about Izzy? What will she do? Where will she go? There aren’t that many jobs around here. She’ll have to travel.”

  “I know, I know.” Emma chews on her lip, then turns back to me. “I don’t know why you’re so appalled. Izzy told me you were about to close the practice down the day before the fire. I did get your messages, but what you said didn’t sink in somehow.” I open my mouth to speak, but she goes on. “Nigel told me what you did—how you changed your mind and settled the outstanding bills out of your own pocket to stop the bailiffs turning up. He told me how you even had to sack Frances. I wish I hadn’t put you in that situation.”