It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘Why couldn’t you have stood on your own two feet that quickly?’ I say to George. He was a lazy baby.

  ‘He doesn’t have to run away from predators,’ Alex observes. ‘He’s got two parents to watch out for him.’

  The foal’s head disappears up between Liberty’s hind legs where she latches on to a teat and starts sucking noisily.

  ‘She sounds like your father drinking his tea out of the saucer, Alex.’

  ‘At least we’re not going to have to worry about feeding her. She’s just like George in that way. I’ll check the afterbirth, and then we’ll leave them in peace. I’ll pop out again in an hour, or so.’

  Alex picks up the afterbirth, the red-grey membrane left of the placenta which supported the foal while it developed in the womb, and lays it out on the floor. It reminds me of one of George’s sleepsuits, a little larger and cut off at the waist, with the feet still on.

  ‘It’s all here,’ Alex says, meaning there’s none left inside the mare to make her sick. ‘I’m a bit paranoid – I might have seen lots of foalings, but it’s different when it’s your own.’

  I let Alex slide his arm around my shoulders and kiss my cheek.

  ‘I suppose I’d better tell the parents. Mother’s been on edge as usual.’

  Alex has always said he thought his mother would have loved him more if he’d been born a horse, I muse, as he looks at me expectantly, and I realise he’s hoping I’ll go, so he can stay with the new mum and foal. He doesn’t really want to leave them just yet.

  ‘All right, I’ll go,’ I sigh.

  ‘You couldn’t fetch me a clinical waste bag on the way back, could you?’

  ‘You’d better give me a clue where to find them,’ I say, amused. Neither Alex nor his father is exactly tidy.

  ‘They should be in the usual place. There’s a box on the shelf beside the radiator.’

  Taking George with me, I head outside, up the steps and into the surgery. I don’t need a key – the door isn’t locked. I hesitate just inside, gazing around the room they call the office which leads on through another door into the consulting room/operating theatre, and a box room which contains a couple of old cages and an awful lot of junk. A fly buzzes frantically from behind the blinds. I open the window and let it out, along with the smell of cow and mothballs. I can find the radiator and the shelf beside it, but there’s no box of orange tiger bags. I survey the rest of the chaos.

  ‘It’s time your daddy and grandfather had a good clear-out,’ I tell George. He wants to get down, but I don’t dare let him. Old Fox-Gifford’s shotgun is out on the desk, lying across Alex’s laptop. The gun’s supposed to be locked up in the cabinet in the house when he isn’t using it, but he prefers to keep it to hand in case he comes across some poor unsuspecting squirrel or magpie, both of which he classes as vermin.

  Giving up on ever finding a bag, I take George across the yard to the back door of the Manor, or what Sophia calls the tradesmen’s entrance, from which a pack of dogs come chasing out, whining and barking, as if they’ve never set eyes on us before. When I first met this motley assortment of Labradors and spaniels, my legs turned to jelly, but I know them better now. They are literally all bark and no bite.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ I growl at them, in an imitation of my father-in-law to be, and they calm down, milling around my legs and sniffing at George’s feet. I glance down to where one of the spaniels is cocking its leg over a pot of scraggy geraniums. Something white, a letter, among the red blooms catches my eye. I retrieve it very carefully. It’s unopened, marked as being from the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons and addressed to Alex’s father.

  ‘The postman must have dropped it,’ I tell George as I lower him to the ground so he can walk. Together, we make our way through the rear lobby, stepping over cast-off shoes and green wellies. It’s cooler inside the house, almost cold, until you reach the kitchen where a wall of hot air hits you.

  Alex’s mother, dressed in an ice-blue blouse, grubby cream breeches and flat, lace-up shoes, is taking a kettle off the Aga that makes the room snug in winter and far too warm in summer.

  There was a time when I couldn’t imagine having any kind of relationship with Sophia, but now she’s stopped calling me Madge and she looks after George for us one or two days a week, and because we have the Fox-Gifford men in common, we are on warmer terms. I can’t say we’re friends – we’re very different, coming from contrasting backgrounds – but we are both self-reliant and share a love of animals, foxes excepted. Sophia hates foxes with a passion.

  I hesitate beside the huge oak table. There are several dog bowls, filled with tripe and biscuits, lined up on it. The stench makes me gag.

  ‘Hi, Sophia.’

  She turns to face me, tall and slim, her face lined and her grey hair stiff with hairspray.

  ‘Hello, Maz, and darling George. I’m just putting the sugar beet to soak for the horses.’ She tips the water from the kettle into a bucket on the floor. There’s a pan of linseed bubbling over on top of the Aga too. She doesn’t believe in feeding prepared foods. ‘Can’t stop. Everything wants feeding.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I thought you might like to come and see the new arrival.’

  ‘Liberty’s had her foal.’ Sophia’s tired face lights up. ‘Oh, why didn’t you say?’

  ‘We had a bit of a crisis – it was presenting backwards. Alex had to pull it out in rather a hurry.’ I watch her wipe her hands on a raggedy tea towel and fling it down on the table where it lands in the tripe. She leaves it where it falls, and grabs an old coat from the pegs on the way out through the lobby, as Old Fox-Gifford comes limping along with his stick from the corridor beyond. He’s wearing a striped shirt with cord trousers that have faded to a peculiar shade of red, similar in colour to a huntsman’s jacket.

  ‘What’s this? What’s going on here?’ he says gruffly.

  ‘Maz says Liberty’s had her foal,’ Sophia says.

  ‘Good. Good. But why didn’t anyone come and tell me?’ Old Fox-Gifford dashes his stick against the floor.

  ‘Maz has just explained there was an emergency.’

  ‘All the more reason to have called me,’ Old Fox-Gifford mutters, his expression one of annoyance. ‘I could have delivered it.’

  ‘There was no time,’ I explain again, but Old Fox-Gifford isn’t listening, as usual.

  ‘Foalings are my forte,’ he goes on, his complexion growing darker and ruddier, his sideburns bristling. ‘Alexander knows that. What was he thinking of?’

  Emergency or not, I doubt Alex would have called on his father for assistance this time. When Liberty’s first foal, Hero, was born last year, Old Fox-Gifford couldn’t help interfering and telling Alex he was getting it all wrong.

  ‘It wasn’t a personal slight,’ Sophia says, somewhat snappily. I’ve noticed recently how she humours Old Fox-Gifford’s opinions far less than she used to. ‘Alexander dealt with it.’

  ‘Oh, I found this in the flowerpot outside,’ I say, remembering the letter in my hand. ‘I don’t know how it got there.’ ‘It’s something from the Royal College. What are they hauling you up for?’ I add, referring to the fact that this august institution plays a role in policing the veterinary profession.

  ‘Nothing.’ Old Fox-Gifford snatches it from me and stuffs it into his trouser pocket without looking at it. ‘I’m in no trouble whatsoever, never have been and never will be.’

  ‘Maz isn’t implying that you are,’ Sophia says, defending me.

  ‘I was joking,’ I say, surprised by his reaction.

  ‘Not funny,’ he snorts.

  Hal, the old black Lab, the one I operated on a couple of summers ago when Old Fox-Gifford shot him in the leg by mistake while cleaning his gun, sticks his nose into my crotch.

  ‘Go away,’ I tell him. He’s blind and completely deaf, perfectly good excuses for not taking any notice of me, I suppose. ‘Go on. Push off.’

  ‘Leave the poor old dog alone.’ Old Fox-Gif
ford smiles as he goes on, ‘It’s one of the few pleasures he has left,’ but he prods him with the end of his stick anyway, and Hal limps away, lame on all four legs now. In fact, I can’t believe how he’s gone on this long. Like Old Fox-Gifford who’s in his seventies, he’s pretty well indestructible.

  Back outside, we stand admiring the new arrival and it reminds me how we all admired George in very much the same way. George wants to run off around the yard, but I’m nervous to let him go with all those dogs wandering about, and he doesn’t want to stand around while we talk horses.

  ‘Let me take George,’ Sophia says, holding out her hand. ‘Come to Humpy.’ The children call her Humpy. I’d prefer George to call her Granny to save him from future embarrassment, but she refuses to countenance it. ‘Here, my preciousss …’

  George takes her hand willingly and accompanies her around the yard, where he shows her the wheels on Alex’s car, patting them, and returning with streaky, black cheeks. I am grateful to Sophia though. Without her, I wouldn’t be able to work as many hours as I do. My mother lives too far away to do any babysitting. She has been to visit a couple of times, but her home, her life, is in London, not here. I too used to consider myself a Londoner – I grew up on a council estate there, a world away from Talyton St George.

  We did have a nanny – she lasted all of two weeks. She seemed perfect, but Sophia expressed disapproval from the start. According to her, I should have chosen a plain girl so as not to lead Alex into temptation; utterly ridiculous, I hasten to add, and not the reason she left. It was more about the Barn being too small for us all, and the nanny being more like Peyton Flanders in The Hand that Rocks the Cradle than the magical Nanny McPhee. I had assumed that being a qualified nanny meant she knew more about looking after a baby than I did, but I was wrong.

  ‘I’d better get on,’ Sophia says, as the horse in the stable next to Liberty’s starts banging against the door.

  ‘The dogs want their grub too,’ Old Fox-Gifford observes.

  Smiling at the way that the animals take precedence in the Fox-Gifford household, I reach for George’s hot, sticky hand, ready to take him indoors, just as a mobile rings. Old Fox-Gifford struggles, with his stick hooked over one arm, to get at the phone in his pocket. It could be one of the originals, a black brick of a thing that he holds to his ear.

  ‘Fire away. I say, fire away.’ He stares at the phone and stabs randomly at a few buttons. ‘What’s wrong with this bloody thing?’

  ‘I’ve told you, you need a new one,’ Alex says, and I can only look on, amused at the contrast between the way Alex and his father run their practice, compared with me and Emma, as Old Fox-Gifford barks rather abruptly at the person at the other end of his mobile.

  ‘What’s up?’ Alex asks when Old Fox-Gifford peers at the mobile to work out how to switch it off. I’m sure he needs glasses, but he’d never wear them.

  ‘It’s Jim over at Sandy Down.’

  ‘What does he want this time?’ Sophia raises one thin eyebrow. ‘You were there only this morning, weren’t you?’

  ‘I checked on a couple of calves. He wants me to have another look so he can sleep soundly in his bed tonight.’ Old Fox-Gifford smiles. ‘I told him to have a warm bath and a whisky – that’ll help him sleep. Stupid bugger.’

  Sophia glares at him. Not in front of George.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Alex says.

  ‘What for?’ Old Fox-Gifford growls back, his tone immediately defensive.

  ‘To save you going out again.’ Alex glances down at his father’s feet. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s wearing slippers, grey moccasins. ‘You look as if you’ve signed off for the day,’ he adds, making light of it.

  ‘I dashed out when your mother told me about the foal. No, Alexander. I’ll go.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to change out of your slippers first?’

  ‘I keep a pair of boots in the car.’

  ‘We can go together,’ Alex suggests.

  ‘I can manage. I’m not –’ he opens his mouth to utter a curse, but apparently aware of Sophia’s expression, thinks better of it – ‘dead yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’ Alex begins, but Old Fox-Gifford cuts him off.

  ‘In my day, I didn’t have a regular day orf each week to be with my family.’

  ‘Indeed. You were never here when Alexander was a baby,’ Sophia says, but he chooses to ignore her.

  ‘You can’t do without me, Alexander, so I’ll thank you to stop patronising me and let me get on with my work. Jim’s my client. He’s asked for me, so it won’t be much good you turning up there instead, will it?’ With that, Old Fox-Gifford turns and shuffles off to his dented old Range Rover, climbs in still in his slippers, turns the engine, then with a roar and scrunch of gravel, reverses out onto the drive at speed. He accelerates forwards, leaving behind a trail of oily smoke.

  Later, when George is upstairs asleep in his cot in the nursery, Alex and I are sitting together on the sofa. The old ginger tabby lying perched on the arm of the sofa at my feet, stretches out one paw and digs his claws into the leather. I give him a half-hearted ‘look’, but he takes no notice. It’s too late to salvage the remains of the sofa anyway, and I suppose I should offer to buy a replacement – Ginge is my cat, the furniture belongs to Alex.

  ‘Alex, tell me, why did you offer to go out for your father? It’s your weekend off. Time for us.’ I reach out and stroke his knee. ‘I’m not nagging, I’m worried about you. You’ll run yourself ragged.’

  ‘Maz, please, don’t fuss.’ Alex massages the nape of my neck, undoing the knots of tension that have twisted and tightened there during the past week. ‘You know what it’s like.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘It’s a vet’s life.’

  ‘I don’t know what it’s like though. We run our practices in different ways. We have support staff. We have another vet, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘But that’s expensive, as you’ve said. And you lose a certain amount of control.’

  ‘It isn’t about control, Alex. It’s about teamwork. At Otter House, we’re a team.’ A great team, I think, my chest tightening with affection and pride.

  ‘Clients choose Talyton Manor because they know they’ll get the personal touch. They can be sure they’ll see either me or my father.’

  ‘How can you function though, if you’re permanently knackered because you’re always on call?’

  ‘I keep you happy though?’ Alex whispers, letting his arm slide around my shoulders and holding me tight.

  ‘Yes, you do …’ I turn and kiss him on the lips. He makes me very happy, but we’re like tightrope walkers, constantly straining to keep our balance. Keeping home and work commitments in equilibrium was difficult enough, but having accidentally thrown a child into the mix, Alex and I have made life more complicated than it might have been.

  ‘It’ll get easier, Maz.’ Alex gives me an extra squeeze and I find myself melting into his embrace. ‘You know, you’ll make someone a fantastic wife someday.’ His voice is warm and teasing. ‘If you ever get around to getting married,’ he adds with more edge.

  ‘Is that a hint that I should be getting on with the arrangements?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘We haven’t set a date.’

  Alex proposed after George was born, after the floods, and we decided to get married as soon as possible. It didn’t happen though – life took over. Alex was working all hours, I was tied up with George and returning to work, and then there was the fiasco with the nanny, and – there’s no excuse really – we just didn’t get round to it. ‘What about next summer?’ I go on, thinking that that will give me plenty of time to organise a wedding.

  ‘I reckon we should get married at Christmas,’ Alex says.

  ‘This Christmas?’ I glance at the ring on my finger. It’s antique gold set with a sapphire and two diamonds. Alex bought it for me when we had a couple of days in London, visiting my mother with George.

  ‘Why not?’


  ‘Because it’s only, what, six months away?’ I pause. ‘It isn’t the best time, is it? Most people – like our guests – are pretty busy in the run-up to Christmas.’

  ‘Well, it’s no use waiting for a good time because there never will be one. We’re always busy.’ Alex nuzzles my hair. ‘Maz, I love you …’

  ‘Love you too …’ I murmur, my heart lurching with a yearning desire. We don’t tell each other we love each other anywhere nearly enough. ‘How about next spring?’

  ‘It’s the lambing season, not good for me,’ Alex points out. ‘And any time in the summer, you’re busy.’

  He’s right. What with people wanting last-minute vaccinations before they put their pets into boarding kennels so they can go away and the extra appointments taken up by holidaymakers travelling with their animals, summer is the busiest time of the year for Otter House.

  ‘So, December it is,’ Alex says. ‘How about the third Saturday of the month? I’ve checked the date in the diary. It would mean we could have Christmas with the three children and go on honeymoon after that. Any more objections?’

  ‘It’ll be pretty cold …’ I say lightly, because I cannot believe that we’ve set a date at last. I didn’t think, until just before Alex proposed, that I was the marrying kind, but my pulse thrills at the idea of being Mrs Fox-Gifford …

  ‘You can borrow one of Mother’s fur coats.’ Alex is joking. He knows I’d never wear natural fur, on principle. ‘Go on, Maz. It would make it extra special.’

  ‘Christmassy, you mean,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Well, yes. We can have candles, holly, carols … snow.’

  ‘Snow?’ I give Alex a nudge in the ribs. ‘Does it ever snow in Talyton?’

  ‘Talyton isn’t exactly renowned for its white Christmases. In fact, I can’t remember a single one.’ Alex grins ruefully, pulling me so close I can hardly breathe. ‘So, Maz, I’m sorry if it feels as if I’m neglecting you and George, and with Father not being as young and fit as he was, I can’t do much about my working hours, but one thing I promise you –’ he presses his lips to mine – ‘we’ll be married by Christmas.’