City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  To be honest, Izzy’s presence makes me nervous. Get a grip, I tell myself as my needle holders slip from my grasp and clatter to the floor.

  “The spare set’s stuck in the autoclave,” Izzy observes. “You’ll have to improvise.”

  Chris alters the angle of the light as I hunt for the ends of Freddie’s tendons, which have pinged apart and disappeared under the skin higher up his leg. Izzy holds his leg in a position that brings the ends of the tendons back into view and gives me the best chance of reattaching them. It takes me a while, and the whole time I’m aware of Izzy watching over me. I can’t afford to make the tiniest slip.

  I can feel sweat pooling in my armpits, and dripping from my forehead, and soaking into my surgical mask. I glance up at Izzy’s face, her eyes filled with worry.

  “He is going to be all right?” she says.

  I show her the repairs I’ve made. They’re good enough for me, but will they be good enough for Izzy?

  “I know I’ve made mistakes, that I’ll never match up to Emma in your eyes,” I begin when she doesn’t say anything, “but—”

  “No, Maz,” Izzy interrupts.

  No. With that one word, Izzy dashes my hopes of ever winning her round. I can’t possibly stay on at Otter House now. My heart plummets, and my eyes mist with tears. I turn away, pretending to look for something on the instrument tray.

  “Maz, I’m not saying you’ve done a bad job,” Izzy says quietly. “I think you’ve done a fantastic job on Freddie’s leg. No, what I’m saying is that it’s true I’ve had my doubts about you—call it my suspicious mind, if you like—but I’ve seen how much you care about the animals, and the clients.” She clears her throat. “Look at how kind you’ve been to Tripod, giving him a home as the practice cat. And Ginge. Most other vets I know would have put him down.”

  I turn back to her as she goes on. “I think you’re a lovely person, Maz. And a great vet.”

  “Hear, hear,” Chris says.

  “You’re making me blush,” I say, “but thank you.”

  Smiling, Izzy looks past me as Emma enters and I start to try to work out how I’m going to find enough skin to close Freddie’s wound.

  “How’s it going?” Emma asks anxiously as I begin to suture.

  “Maz has saved Freddie’s leg,” Chris says.

  “I hear you have some news for us,” Izzy says, her eyes shining above her surgical mask.

  “Ah,” says Emma. “It’s early days, so I was trying to keep it low-key, but yes, I’m expecting at long last.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. I’d give you a hug, but for …” Izzy holds up her bloodstained hands.

  “Save it for later,” Emma says.

  “Right, there’s a lot of tension across the repair,” I say as I tie off the last knot a short time later. “We’ll keep him in for a couple of days, and splint this leg for a while to give the tendons time to heal.”

  “I’ll do the dressing,” Izzy volunteers. “Chris, you hold Freddie’s leg for me.”

  “I’ll take over the anesthetic while Maz writes up her notes,” Emma offers, bringing in a stool to perch on at Freddie’s head.

  A couple of minutes later, she looks up and stares across the table at Izzy. “What’s that?”

  Izzy stops partway through unwinding a bandage. She smiles coyly as she lifts the diamond ring dangling from a delicate gold chain around her neck.

  “I never thought it would happen,” she says softly, gazing toward Chris, who’s turned red as beetroot under his tan. “I didn’t think I’d meet a man I’d fall in love with, and he’d love me back. Chris and I are getting married next spring, after lambing.”

  “I’m not sure I can take much more good news,” Emma says with a chuckle, and we both congratulate them at the same time, talking over and across each other.

  “Freddie’s going to be page boy,” Izzy says once we’ve calmed down. “Maz, you will come back for the wedding, won’t you? We want you to be there.”

  I glance at Emma, who’s removing Freddie’s ET tube. She takes a piece of cotton wool and wipes the drool from his face as he lifts his head up, his expression bemused, as if to say, “What am I doing here?”

  I’ve always respected Emma for knowing exactly where she’s going, and now I’m in a position to follow her example. I know exactly where I’m going. Nowhere.

  “I’m sorry, Izzy,” I begin, trying to keep a straight face. “I can’t come back for your wedding.”

  “Why on earth not?” she says.

  “Because …” I’m aware Emma’s looking at me, her lips curving into a smile. “Because I’m staying on as Emma’s partner.”

  Emma screeches with joy, Freddie tries to roll onto his front, and Izzy’s jaw drops.

  “I can feel a party coming on,” Emma decides, and later in the day, Ben drops off a couple of bottles of champagne, which she puts in the freezer—yes, that one.

  At the end of a busy evening surgery, she fetches wineglasses from the flat and calls Frances and Izzy through to the staff room to join us in a toast. Even Nigel is there to be part of the celebrations.

  “Frances, you must have some champagne,” Emma says.

  “Not for me, thank you,” she says. “A little bit of what I fancy always seems to do me in. I’ll have lemonade, like you.”

  “First of all, please raise your glasses to Maz, my new partner,” Emma says. “When I set up the practice, I always hoped that one day Maz would come and work with me.” She turns to Nigel, who’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and spotty bow tie. “Here’s to you, Nigel, for doing your best to keep Otter House Vets afloat.”

  “I reckon I have the toughest job around here, keeping you vets in order,” he says smugly. Emma winks at me, and Izzy rolls her eyes.

  “And to you, Frances,” Emma says, “for coming back and sticking with us.”

  “Well, as I might have said before, I do love a good crisis.” Frances’s cheeks glow like the poppies on her tunic.

  “If it hadn’t been for you—and Fifi and her volunteers, of course—I don’t think we’d have managed to rehome so many of Gloria’s animals,” Emma goes on. “Even the little cockatiel’s gone.”

  “He’ll be back,” says Izzy wryly. “He’ll drive his new owners mad with his constant chattering.”

  “Here’s to the team then,” Emma says.

  “You’ve missed something, Emma,” I point out.

  “Oh yes. Congratulations to Izzy and Chris on their engagement.”

  “And one more.” Emma frowns as I go on. “A toast to you and Ben, and the baby, of course.” I take a sip of champagne, but it won’t go past the lump in my throat.

  “Thank you, everyone,” Emma says with a sob. “I’m so happy …”

  So am I, I think. It’s been a difficult journey, but I’ve made real friends along the way. There’s only one more thing that would make my happiness complete.

  “Please don’t cry, otherwise we’ll all start,” Izzy says, but it’s too late and Frances has to dash out for her tissue box, which turns out to be empty.

  “It’s that Ally Jackson,” Frances says. “Every time she’s here, she empties it with her blubbering. Last time she broke down over each and every one of the rescues’ stories. I’m surprised she could read her notes.”

  I think it’s Emma who recovers her composure first. She offers me more champagne.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’m going out tonight.”

  “With Alex?” Izzy cuts in.

  “I can think of a million men I’d rather see you going out with,” Emma begins.

  “It’s a pity you haven’t introduced any of them to me before,” I say lightly. “Anyway, I’m not going out with him. I’m going to see him. There is a difference.”

  “I wasn’t sure whether to believe the rumors that have been flying round. Do you really like him, Maz?” Emma asks.

  I nod. I can’t describe how I feel about Alex Fox-Gifford. Words aren’t enough.

 
; “In that case I’d better get over it, hadn’t I?” Emma smiles. “I hope you have a lovely evening. I mean it.”

  I’m not sure how he’s going to react, but I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him that I’ll be staying now. I check up on Ginge on my way out. He’s out of the woods, so to speak, but he isn’t all that grateful. Gloria was right—he hates being confined.

  “I’ll let you out with Tripod as soon as you’re fit enough to look after yourself,” I tell him. “You’ll have to have butter on your paws though.” It’s an old wives’ tale, but I’ll try anything to make sure he doesn’t run away again. I hope that, like me, he’ll come to realize where he’s better off.

  When I arrive at the manor, the Fox-Giffords’ pack of dogs come flying toward the car. One of them, an old black Lab, bares its teeth at the window.

  “Good dogs.” I open the door. “What good dogs you are.” But the softly-softly I’m-your-friend approach doesn’t work. The Lab raises his hackles and growls.

  “Oh, push off!” I growl back, and the dog ambles round to the rear of my car and cocks his leg up the wheel while the rest of the pack trot back to the house, showing me the way to the tradesmen’s entrance.

  I head toward the barn though, wondering, when I find no one at home, whether I should have phoned first. A busy man like Alex is hardly likely to be sitting around waiting for me to turn up, is he? Old Fox-Gifford’s Range Rover and Alex’s four-by-four are here, and Liberty is back, looking over the door of the stable closest to the house. I walk up to the back door of the manor—it’s open and the dogs are still milling around.

  Hoping that I’m not going to run into Old Fox-Gifford and Sophia, I follow the muddy paw prints across a tiled floor, stepping over the wellies, dog beds, and water bowls strewn across my way. There’s a strong scent of wet canine, sweaty horse, and boiled cabbage.

  “Alex?” I call out, walking through another doorway and into a huge kitchen with an Aga, two butler’s sinks, and a fireplace big enough to roast a whole cow but that instead houses a fridge and freezer that don’t match. On the table in the center there’s a preserving pan, a box of cornflakes, a bowl of what smells like tripe, and a pot of some horse supplement. I turn the pot so the label faces me—STROPPY MARE. “Alex?”

  “I’m here, Maz.”

  “Er, hi. H-h-how are you?” I stammer, taken by surprise when he appears in the doorway on the other side of the room. If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t let on.

  “Not bad,” he says, “although I’m almost ready to turn vegetarian. The WI—bless ’em—keep turning up with chicken soup, cauldrons of the bloody stuff.” He steps aside. “Come on through.”

  I follow him along a wide corridor and into another room.

  I gaze around the room, trying to think of something to say. Alex’s presence seems to have rendered me speechless. I notice the double doors that look out onto the lawn with views across the valley beyond, the oil paintings of various Fox-Giffords from the past, and the dogs slumped in a heap on the carpet. I don’t think it’s any old carpet—it could be an Axminster like the one Gloria had in her sitting room, but this one is several acres bigger and slightly better kept. I also notice the dead flowers in the grate, the rather shabby sofa and chairs, and the swirls of dog hairs in the corner nearest me. If the Fox-Giffords have a cleaning woman, there’s not much evidence of her efforts.

  There’s something else, something behind the sofa, something breathing. I catch sight of a pair of pricked ears and flared nostrils.

  “Alex, there’s a pony in the house …”

  He turns toward it. A tubby little Shetland, a black one, straight out of a Thelwell cartoon, nudges at a biscuit tin on a side table, rattling an oil lamp and an antique vase.

  “Mind the majolica,” Alex says. “That’s Skye—Mother bought him for the children, but he bucked them off. He’s more of a house pet now.”

  “I didn’t think the Fox-Giffords approved of keeping animals as pets.”

  “Then you’ve been misled.” Alex grins, and my heart flutters. “If you open the tin for him, you can give him a mint. That’s what he’s after.” He picks up his phone and a set of keys from the elaborate marble fireplace. “How about dinner?”

  Before I can argue with him, he’s arranging a table at the Barnscote. He’s a man who gets things done, I think. I like that. It’s one of the many things I like about Alex.

  “Right, I’ll just let my mother know we’re going out—I expect she’s in the feed room up to her elbows in linseed and bran mash.” He smiles at me, and it’s like the sun has come out. “Did I tell you, you look lovely?” he says quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  He hands me his keys. “Wait in the car. I’ll be with you in a tick.”

  Less than two minutes after we’ve set out in Alex’s car, his mobile rings. He glances toward me, his expression unreadable as Sophia’s voice rings out loud and clear on the speakerphone.

  “Hi, Mother, what’s up?”

  I sit, my hands balled together, my heart small and mean as Sophia says, “I wouldn’t have called you unless I had to, Alexander, but Stewart’s rung with a calving—he wants one of you over there straightaway.”

  “What about Father?” Alex says, his tone one of annoyance mixed with resignation. “He’s on call tonight.”

  “You know he’s in bed. His sciatica was playing him up, so I sent him upstairs with some painkillers and a hot toddy. He isn’t in a fit state to calve a cow. In fact, he really shouldn’t be doing the heavy work anymore. We need to look for an assistant.”

  “You know Father’s view on that. Anyway, we’ll talk about it another time,” Alex says impatiently. “Tell Stewart I’m on my way.”

  “What’s your ETA?”

  “Ten minutes.” The phone cuts out. “I’m sorry, Maz,” Alex says. “The last time my father attended a calving, he couldn’t work for a week.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s one of those things.” In a way it’s a relief, because I couldn’t eat a thing, though I can’t help but wonder whether this is Sophia’s way of expressing her disapproval at Alex taking me out tonight. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  “There’s no need for that. I’m sure Lynsey can find you a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

  “I’d feel uncomfortable.”

  “This is about the dog, isn’t it?” Alex says.

  “I really couldn’t face the Pitts again, not after some of the things Stewart said.” My palms grow damp as I recall the expression on Stewart’s face when I told him Cadbury was dead.

  “He’ll have forgotten about that by now,” Alex says. “Anyway, I could do with some help getting all my kit up to the cowshed.” He turns in to the farmyard and kills the engine. “You’d like to give me a hand, wouldn’t you?”

  “My shoes. I haven’t got the right shoes on for wading about on a farm.”

  “I’m bound to have a spare pair of wellies, and a gown.” Alex jumps out and opens the trunk. He hands me a pair of green wellies and a coverall that’s several sizes too big and rich with the scent of cow.

  “What’s that for?” I point to the red toy stethoscope on top of the crates of equipment in the back of the car.

  “My mother bought that for Sebastian when he was about three months old—hoping to keep the practice in the family for the next generation.”

  I can hear the pride in Alex’s voice when he mentions his son, and I have to admit I admire the emphasis the Fox-Giffords place on family. Alex’s parents obviously spend a lot of time with their grandchildren in spite of the fact that they live away with their mother; and Alex is very protective of his children, which I guess is another good reason for him not wanting to embark on a relationship with no future in it.

  “I saw your parents with your children at the hospital. It was Sebastian who almost gave me away. I was hiding in the washdown room.”

  Alex chuckles. “I won’t ask why.” He holds out his arm for me to grab on to so I ca
n transfer my feet from my shoes to the wellies without putting them on the ground.

  “Thanks.” I stand up straight. “What happened about Australia? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  “There’s been a holdup, thank goodness. Astra and her new man have decided to stay in London—the firm he’s with in the City extended his contract by another year, which gives me more time to work with my solicitor on what happens to Lucie and Sebastian.” Alex hands me a set of calving ropes and a visit case, and he picks up a cesarean kit. “Come on, Maz. Hurry up.”

  It takes my eyes a while to adjust to the light inside the cowshed compared with the brightness of the summer evening outside. The single bulb that glimmers from a cable inside the ramshackle arrangement of cob, brick, hurdles, and corrugated iron doesn’t help much, and the window, which has no glazing, is obscured by a bank of nettles growing outside.

  An elderly man in a brown jacket restrains a black-and-white Friesian with a rope halter. Alex introduces him as Ewan, the Pitts’ cowman. The cow bellows, filling the air with the sweet scent of her breath. One of the Pitt boys—Sam, I think—emerges from the shadows in pajama bottoms, a sweater that’s far too big for him, and wellies. Stewart, stripped down to an undershirt with the arms of his coverall tied around his waist, enters the cowshed behind me and Alex.

  My heart skips a beat at the flash of recognition as he catches sight of me.

  “Maz?”

  I force myself to hold his gaze.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he says, his tone one of curiosity, not anger.

  “Meet my new assistant.” Alex checks that his shirtsleeves are tucked behind the cuffs of his calving gown. “We were just off to dinner at the Barnscote when Mother rang.”

  “You and Maz? Well, I never.” A broad smile spreads across Stewart’s face. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.” He slaps Alex on the back, then turns to the cow without giving either of us a chance to deny any involvement with each other, so far at least. “This is young Pepperpot—it’s her first calving.”