It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  Chapter Two

  Before George

  BG, BEFORE GEORGE, everything was so … orderly. As it is, I feel as if I’m always rushing about like a headless chicken. Fastening my tunic, one of those fun ones with cartoon animals printed on a lilac background, I abandon a half-finished mug of black coffee in the staffroom at Otter House, and head for the consulting room where I switch the computer on and load the waiting list. I was hoping – I glance up at the poster of a flea, and correct myself – itching to catch Emma to tell her my news, but it’ll have to wait. She hasn’t turned up yet.

  According to Frances, our receptionist, she’s stuck in traffic which has to be a euphemism meaning she’s overslept. There isn’t any traffic in Talyton at this time on a Monday morning, unless it’s the school holidays when there can be queues of cars and coaches carrying holidaymakers to the coast at any time of day, causing gridlock through the narrow one-way streets.

  I notice that I’m still wearing my engagement ring. I slip it off and slide it onto my necklace, a discreet gold chain that I bought for the purpose. Knowing how good I am at losing stethoscopes, I worry about something as small as the ring.

  I call the first client of the day in from Reception to join me. It’s Clive, who runs the Talymill Inn down by the river with his wife Edie. He’s in his late fifties, but is looking older. He places a plastic box on the rubber-topped table, as if it’s a box of eggs, opens the front and calls for the cat inside.

  ‘Cassandra, out you come. Cassandra … Cassie, love …’ His voice, that still bears a hint of an East London accent, rises unnaturally high, but no amount of sweet-talking will persuade Cassie to venture out. Clive picks up the carrier and gently tips it to slide the cat out, but she remains resolutely lodged inside. He tries another tack, taking a small tub of cat treats out of his pocket and shaking it, but there’s no response. Cassie isn’t stupid.

  ‘That’s the difference between dogs and cats,’ I observe. ‘You can tell a dog what to do, but you have to ask a cat.’ Clive has always had dogs before: ex-police dog, Robbie, and a rescue called Petra whom Alex and I had to put down a couple of summers ago when she turned on Edie for no obvious reason. ‘Shall I get her out for you?’ I continue, amused, but Clive is dismantling the carrier.

  He lifts the upper section off, exposing the cat who sits on a purple cushion, cowed and wary. As Clive’s big hands reach down to make a grab for her, she takes a leap to the edge of the table, but it’s too late. Clive sweeps her up and hugs her to his chest.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he chides.

  Client and pet are a mismatched pair: a burly ex-policeman with a friendly smile and a twinkle in his eye, and a fluffy blue and cream Persian cat with a rather cross expression. Clive’s scalp is taut and smooth, and his paunch is swollen, straining the buttons on his black shirt. Cassie, who has more than enough hair for both of them, sports a diamanté collar, and looks as if she’s been groomed to within an inch of her life.

  ‘What brings you here? I haven’t seen you around for a while.’

  ‘Missed me, have you, Maz?’ Clive smiles, hanging on to Cassie as she struggles to leap from his grasp. ‘You could have come and found me. You know where I am.’

  It’s light-hearted banter. I’ve known him for three years now, since I operated on Robbie, and I’m a soon-to-be-married woman and he pretends to be the put-upon husband, but he isn’t. He’d do anything for Edie.

  ‘How’s Edie?’ I ask. ‘I thought she might have come along too.’

  ‘Oh, she had a heavy night last night. Busy, behind the bar, I mean.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to hear you’re still so popular,’ I say, filling the rather awkward silence as Clive appears to be deciding whether or not to unburden himself. I like Clive, and have a lot of respect for him and Edie the way they’ve worked on restoring the Talymill Inn, but I’m a vet, not an agony aunt.

  ‘To be honest, we’re too busy,’ Clive says. ‘Sometimes, I feel like we’re victims of our own success. We were supposed to be retiring down here to lead a quieter life, yet it hasn’t quite worked out that way. We’re working harder than ever, and I’m beginning to think about giving it up.’ I raise one eyebrow in question. ‘You know what it’s like,’ he goes on. ‘You can’t get the staff. Or you can, but they aren’t up to the job. What about you and Emma?’

  ‘We’re not taking on new clients at the moment. Our assistant starts today, but it’ll be a little while until he’s up to speed. He’s a graduate straight out of vet school. I hope he’s going to be happy here.’

  ‘You’ve made quite a few changes since I was last here.’

  ‘We had to have the whole place redecorated after the flood.’ It was chaos, I think, smiling at the memory of how we coped, tripping over each other, seeing our patients in an old mobile home in the car park while the work was done. In the process, we chose a pale lilac and white theme instead of the blue Emma used to favour.

  ‘I was expecting to see Cassie before now,’ I say, putting it tactfully in case Clive has taken her to a different vet to be spayed. I can’t have seen her for over a year.

  ‘Oh, we haven’t had her done yet. Edie doesn’t like her going outside. She’s afraid she’ll wander off and get run over on the main road, so we’ve had a bit of the garden fenced off to make a run. She can’t get out, but we’ve had the odd tom get in.’ Clive chuckles. ‘The last one came in a couple of days ago. That’s why I’m here. Edie’s worried about Cassie’s eye. There was a bit of a fight, and we thought she might have scratched it.’ Clive thrusts the cat in front of my face. ‘Can you see it?’

  I can see a pair of big orange eyes, one of them looking a little teary.

  ‘The left one,’ I say.

  ‘Edie thought the right.’

  ‘It looks like the left to me. Let’s have her down on the table.’

  Clive lowers her.

  ‘Stay,’ he says. Unfortunately, Clive doesn’t understand ‘cat’, and the cat doesn’t understand ‘dog’. He lets go and Cassie flies off, landing with a soft thud on the worktop and padding across the keyboard, sending the waiting list on the monitor into oblivion.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Clive lifts her back onto the table.

  ‘It’s all right. I can get it back.’ I move over and click the mouse to call up Cassie’s records. ‘Hang on this time, Clive.’ Briefly, I wonder about calling one of the nurses in to help, but they’re busy in Kennels, caring for the inpatients, and Cassie isn’t a ‘care’ cat, as in one to watch out for. I think Clive can manage her – if only he stops treating her like a small dog.

  I examine both of Cassie’s eyes, and add a drop of orange dye into each one to check for scratches.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I pronounce as we stand in the dark, in the glow of the UV lamp. ‘There’s no sign of a scratch.’ I switch the light back on. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Edie wanted her checked over,’ Clive says. ‘She’s put on a bit of weight.’

  ‘You know, you really should have her spayed if you’re not intending to breed from her. If you leave it to chance, you’ll end up with hundreds of kittens, and there are more than enough needing homes without adding to the feline population.’ I think back to Gloria Brambles and the Sanctuary the first year I was here, how she collected all the waifs and strays, including my cat. I acquired Ginge after the fire in which Gloria succumbed and Alex almost lost his life, going in after me as I tried – and failed – to save her.

  ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told Edie that, but will she take any notice?’

  I pick up my stethoscope – actually, it’s Emma’s, but I’ve mislaid mine again – and have a listen to Cassie’s chest before I feel along her belly with my fingertips, checking for any abnormalities. There are some: three marble-sized objects floating about inside her.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Clive asks, reading my expression.

  ‘She isn’t putting on weight.’ I kiss Cassie on the top of her head and
a few loose strands of fluff tickle at my nose. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘I told Edie that’s what it was. She’ll be over the moon. She’s always worrying about the cat.’ Clive utters a self-mocking sigh. ‘I wish she’d worry about me.’

  He doesn’t mean it, I think. He and Edie always seem so close, and I wonder if Alex and I will be the same after however many years of marriage. I’d like to think so.

  ‘How pregnant is she? I mean, how many are there? How long until she pops them out, and what should we look for when she’s ready?’

  ‘One at a time, Clive,’ I say, amused. I can tell he’s looking forward to the arrival of Cassie’s kittens at least as much as he claims Edie to be. It’s quite touching. They haven’t got any children. Clive confided once that it wasn’t because they didn’t want any. It never happened, something he regrets deeply.

  I didn’t understand before, but now I’ve got George … well, he’s taught me a lot, about happiness and what life’s really about.

  ‘I can’t tell you exactly how many kittens there are. I can feel three, but there may be more. I reckon she’s about three to four weeks gone, so she’ll give birth in five to six weeks’ time.’

  ‘Not long to prepare the nursery then,’ Clive remarks drily. ‘If anything goes wrong, we’ll be straight here.’

  ‘Call first though. Not that you’ll have any problems,’ I add. Clive and Edie had more than enough trouble with their dogs. Cassie has to be third time lucky. ‘In you go.’ I direct her back into her carrier, into which she hastily slinks. ‘Who’s the dad? Do you know?’

  ‘Edie will know. She’s had the water pistol out ready for any tom she disapproves of.’

  ‘Remember to call me if you need to,’ I say, as Clive picks up the carrier. I don’t know why I’m being so insistent on this when I’m so sure Cassie will be fine. It’s odd. Call it a gut feeling, but something about her doesn’t seem quite right. Is she a fraction thinner than she should be? Is there something about the look in her eyes? I’m not sure. I can’t put my finger on it.

  ‘Thanks, Maz,’ Clive says. ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing today.’ It didn’t take me long, ten minutes max. Clive isn’t having it though, and eventually we agree a fee to cover the eye exam. Clive walks up to Frances at Reception to settle up, at the same time as our new vet, in a striped shirt and cream chinos, comes elbowing his way through the double doors, his arms wrapped around a glass vivarium.

  Will is moving into the flat at the top of Otter House. He starts work tomorrow, an event I’m looking forward to with some trepidation. I can’t help being apprehensive, considering what happened with our locum a couple of summers ago, but Will has great references from his tutor at vet school, and the principals of the practices where he’s gained his hands-on experience so far. He’s personable and polite, a bit geeky, maybe. He reminds me of Prince Harry, but with specs, tall, freckled and sandy-haired. I hope he’ll fit in.

  He stops at Reception, resting the vivarium on the desk in front of our receptionist. Frances takes one look at the tank and screams, at which Will utters a polite apology.

  ‘A scorpion?’ Frances exclaims, backing away until she’s pressed against the filing cabinet. ‘Don’t you have to have a licence to keep that?’

  ‘It depends on the species,’ Will says, his brow furrowed with concern. ‘It won’t hurt you.’

  ‘That scorpion is more frightened of you in that top, than you are of him,’ I say, joining them. Frances, who is in her sixties, is wearing one of her jazzy tunics that might have come from the 1960s. She’s always refused to wear a uniform.

  ‘Of course not, I’m not scared,’ she says. ‘It’s just that it’s making the place untidy.’

  I smile to myself. Will’s going to have to work hard to regain Frances’s respect. Planting a scorpion on her desk, her territory, and half scaring her to death is not the best way to get into the receptionist’s good books on your first day in a new job.

  ‘At least we know Will likes animals,’ I say, when he’s picked up the vivarium and carried it off through the door into the corridor on his way to the flat.

  ‘Those creatures are not animals. They’re insects,’ Frances says, revealing a trademark smear of lippy across her teeth. From where I’m standing, the auburn wig is doing a pretty good impression of natural hair. I decide against arguing the point. If Emma fails to turn up, I’ll be seeing the appointments and operating. I can’t afford to waste any time.

  ‘Emma’s here,’ Frances observes, as a silver Saab turns up and takes over Clive’s parking space.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ I say, as Emma walks in, looking cool and summery in a red cotton skirt and white top. Her brunette hair is tied back in a sleek chignon.

  According to one of the professors at vet school where we met, she is Catherine Zeta-Jones to my Gwyneth Paltrow. In spite of all she’s been through in the past few years, she gives the impression of being happy and in control of her life, whereas I feel decidedly mumsy and out of kilter. I made an effort this morning, but didn’t get around to straightening my hair that’s developed an annoying kink in it since I had George.

  ‘I’m not that late,’ Emma smiles. ‘I overslept.’

  ‘What came in?’ I ask, knowing Emma was on call with Izzy last night.

  ‘Nothing in the end. I fielded a couple of phone calls – one was a wrong number. It turned out they wanted Talyton Manor Vets, not us. It was something about a cow, and I told them we don’t do animals larger than a Great Dane, unless it’s the direst of emergencies.’

  ‘That must be the call that woke me up,’ I say ruefully. ‘They rang Alex after they’d called you.’ I hesitate. ‘You said there were two calls. What was the other one?’

  ‘One of ours. Aurora was worried that Saba was going to make herself bald from scratching, and it was keeping her and her boyfriend awake. It kept me awake too,’ Emma says ruefully. ‘Which is probably why I overslept this morning.’

  ‘I thought we’d got our clients better trained.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t be too cross with her. She’s a good customer. Has she been in? I told her she could turn up first thing and we’d fit her in.’

  ‘She hasn’t been in yet,’ I say, glancing around the waiting room, even though I know there’s no one here.

  ‘I expect she’s having a lie-in,’ Emma sighs. ‘She doesn’t open up until eleven.’ Emma’s referring to Aurora’s shop, a fashion boutique that’s a little avant-garde for Talyton St George. Many might assume that there isn’t much demand for luxury lingerie here before eleven o’clock in the morning, some that there is no demand at all, but, having found a pair of Aurora’s skimpy briefs inside a dog before, I know differently. Behind the facade of scones, jam and clotted cream, and tight-knit community, Talyton St George is a hotbed of lust and desire. At least, that’s what the local gossips would like everyone to believe. They thrive on intrigue, both real and imaginary.

  ‘It’s all right for some not having to get up in the morning,’ Emma goes on. ‘I’m shattered.’ She picks up the post from the desk in Reception and tidies the stand of collars, leads and toys. ‘What did Clive want?’

  ‘Oh, he brought Cassie for a check-up. She’s … pregnant.’ As soon as I utter the word, I want to take it back. I look away, fiddling with the end of Emma’s stethoscope which is still around my neck. I guess I’m always going to find it awkward talking about pregnancy and babies of any kind, with Emma.

  ‘That’s nice.’ Emma hesitates, raising one eyebrow. ‘I’m assuming it was planned.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She had a one-night stand with some feral tomcat. Allegedly.’

  ‘Did you have a good weekend off?’ Emma says, changing the subject.

  It’s my turn to hesitate now. ‘The foal arrived safely, thanks to Alex. It was a close-run thing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘There’s something else. I can tell from the w
ay you’re smirking, Maz.’

  ‘Actually, I’m really excited,’ I admit. ‘Alex and I have set the date for the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fantastic news.’ Emma throws her arms around me and gives me a hug. ‘At last.’

  ‘When is it? What’s the date?’ Frances joins in. I’d forgotten she was listening.

  ‘The third Saturday in December. This December,’ I add, aware that both Emma and Frances are staring at me, Frances open-mouthed, Emma with a frown.

  ‘December?’ they say at the same time.

  ‘We’ll have to check with the vicar first, of course.’

  ‘It isn’t the best time of year for photos,’ Emma says. ‘Have you thought about that?’

  ‘I’m sure you can have goose bumps airbrushed out,’ I say lightly.

  ‘What if it rains?’

  ‘It’s just as likely to rain in June or July as it is in December. We can do the photos indoors if necessary.’

  ‘Well, you and Alex mustn’t keep putting it off,’ Frances sighs. ‘I’ll just have to get hold of a decent coat for the occasion.’

  ‘A set of thermals will do. Oh, it’s lovely, Maz. I can’t wait.’ Smiling, Emma opens the door into the corridor for me, and we walk through to Kennels, or the Ward as we sometimes refer to it. ‘By Christmas, you’ll be a married woman.’

  ‘I shan’t feel any different.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you’d been with Ben for ages.’ They were together for most of our time at vet school. Ben was studying medicine. Now he’s one of Talyton’s GPs. ‘You were like an old married couple before you ever walked down the aisle.’

  ‘I didn’t feel any differently about Ben. It was more about celebrating our love for each other in front of family and friends.’ Emma smiles. ‘Oh, that sounds a bit …’