It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘You must have got the wrong person. My Alex hasn’t had the snip.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Clive blushes furiously. ‘I wasn’t thinking about anyone in particular. I’m sorry. No, I’d heard a rumour about some sheep, a ram.’

  ‘Oh? It’s the first I’ve heard.’

  ‘I must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Ignore me. I’m always putting my great big foot in it. What’s it called? The practice of dontopedalogy?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I say goodbye and go out to meet up with Alex, by which time Seb doesn’t want a drink, but is demanding a go on the bouncy castle further along the walkway. While he’s having a quick bounce, I ask Alex about the vasectomy rumour.

  ‘It was an odd thing to say,’ I point out.

  ‘You know what this place is like. You’ve lived here long enough.’ Alex gives me an affectionate dig in the ribs, making me slosh the coke. ‘There is some truth in the rumour though. Robert over at Headlands Farm booked a couple of rams in for the snip. Father missed one of the teaser rams.’ Alex means one of the rams that the farmer uses to see if the ewes are ready for breeding. ‘Anyway, it didn’t become apparent until the lambing season back in March when, instead of all being black-faced lambs, there were a large proportion of white ones. It caused a few laughs, I can tell you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ I say, a little hurt. ‘It can’t have been all that funny. Wasn’t Robert annoyed? He must have lost quite a lot of money,’ I add, but Alex diverts, grabbing a hat from a stall and sticking it on my head.

  ‘Suits you, Maz.’ Alex chuckles. ‘What do you think of Mummy in a hat, George?’

  George holds out his hands for a hat too. Alex drops one onto his head, but it’s far too big, slipping down over his eyes and making him cry. Alex whips it off and puts both hats back while I console George with some of Seb’s coke, and I’m thinking, sugar rush, he’s never going to sleep tonight. Seb comes off the bouncy castle, his hair stuck up with static, and then he wants the drink and we take ten minutes to find his wellies, by which time the commentator is announcing the start of the Mounted Games in the main arena so we have to fly.

  There are five teams representing different branches of the Pony Club. Each team consists of four children on ponies with a reserve. Lucie’s team wear purple vests over white shirts and shiny boots. It’s starting to look as though Lucie is getting too big for her pony, the bay, Tinky Winky, but the other members of her team have their legs down around their ponies’ knees.

  There are several races, all relays: the flag race; walk, trot and run; mug race; Farmer’s Market; bending poles. The sun is shining now and I can feel my nose beginning to burn. I plaster George with sunblock, but he won’t keep his hat on for more than two seconds at a time.

  The ponies gallop up and down, the riders with their reins up short, and legs flapping. Lucie’s expression is one of intense concentration. She’s taking it very seriously.

  For the last race, she is the final member of the Talyton team to set off. She sets off at a trot as the member with the baton comes galloping in from the course, and my heart is in my mouth at the changeover, but it’s perfect and Lucie is away, weaving in and out of the poles. She turns the pony on a sixpence at the end of the course, and weaves back at full gallop, just pipping the team who comes in second at the finishing post, and belting on out of the arena altogether into the collecting ring.

  ‘Another win for the local team, Talyton St George Pony Club,’ the commentator announces over the tannoy as the crowd cheers.

  ‘Wow, they’re good,’ I say. ‘You’ll be doing that in a couple of years, Seb.’

  ‘And George will be,’ Alex says proudly. ‘You know, I think they’ve won.’

  They have, and there’s more applause when all the teams regroup to collect their rosettes. Lucie can’t stop smiling when her team collects the trophy from Sophia, District Commissioner of the branch. I watch how Lucie sticks the rosette into the bridle below her pony’s ear, just as her teammates do, and then they’re off for their lap of honour, galloping around the ring, arms in the air and ponies completely out of control.

  ‘It’s a shame my father couldn’t be here to see that,’ Alex says. ‘He’ll be gutted he missed it. Mother’s been trying to win that trophy back for years. We won it way back when I was fifteen, the last year I was eligible to compete.’

  ‘A very long time ago,’ I say teasingly.

  ‘Thanks for that, Maz.’ He smiles as he watches his mother speaking on her mobile as she walks out towards the collecting ring in the distance. ‘I expect she’s giving Father the news – and reading him the riot act for not being here to see it.’

  ‘It’s been a great day so far.’ I check my watch. ‘It must be time to go home soon though. I’ve got so much to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Washing. You know, the boring stuff that has to be done.’

  ‘Oh, Maz.’ Alex slides one arm around my waist and rests his chin into my shoulder. ‘It can wait. It’ll have to wait because Mother’s invited us for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, Alex.’ I’m disappointed. ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘I said yes.’

  ‘You could have run it past me first.’

  ‘Mother had already arranged it. Mrs P has put a meal together.’

  ‘Thrown one together, more likely. I wonder what it is this time,’ I say, my appetite completely disappearing. Mrs P cooks, cleans and irons for the Old Fox-Giffords in return for accommodation in one of the tied cottages on the estate. I’ve heard her described as ‘the woman who does’, but you only have to see the state of the Manor to know that she doesn’t do what she’s supposed to terribly well.

  ‘Maz, Mother’s only trying to help. We’ve all been out for the day, we’ve got the three children … It’s her way of lightening the load.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ It’s sweet of her, but the idea of having dinner with Alex’s father, listening to him air his opinions, is not appealing. ‘It’s meat and two veg, I guess.’

  ‘No, actually. Mrs P has prepared roast pork and a nut rissole.’

  ‘That’ll be interesting. Do you think I should grab a sandwich first?’

  ‘Mother will expect you to set a good example to the children – you’ll have to clear your plate.’ Alex kisses me on the cheek, and I realise I can’t possibly back out, even if I could engineer a minor ailment for George and an excuse to stay at home with him. When I marry Alex, I shall be marrying into the Fox-Gifford family. They have expectations, and although I’m sure I’ll never be able to meet them – because I don’t ride, shoot or fish, and in their eyes, I’m still a townie – I shall do my best for my husband. My husband? I wonder if, after the wedding, I will ever get used to saying that. I kiss Alex back. My husband and I …

  Chapter Six

  Catch-22

  WHEN WE EVENTUALLY return to the Manor ready for dinner, Sophia is on the warpath. There is a note from the doctor stuck on the door, saying, ‘Sorry I missed you,’ and Old Fox-Gifford is out with the dogs. He comes back soon after, his gun slung over one shoulder, joining us in the drawing room where Seb is sitting on one of the sofas taking the battery out of a remote-controlled car, and George is playing with his toy tractor, following the pattern on the Axminster. Having given him a mint from the tin on the side table, Lucie and Alex are shooing Skye, the Shetland pony, who ambled in through from the garden, back outside.

  ‘So you thought fit to join us at last, Fox-Gifford,’ Sophia says sarcastically. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘Granpa, we won!’ Lucie interrupts, running over to Old Fox-Gifford, as Alex closes the French windows before the pony can push his way back in. ‘We won the Mounted Games.’

  ‘Congratulations, Lucie,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, patting her on the shoulder when she throws her arms around his waist.

  ‘I wish you’d been there,’ she says. ‘We won almost every race, our hando
vers were perfect, and I didn’t drop the mug in the mug race this time.’

  ‘Oh, well done. I wish I’d been there too.’

  ‘It seems to me that you could have been,’ Sophia cuts in. ‘You tell me you’re dying and I come home to find you out with the dogs. You could have at least been here when the doctor came.’

  ‘The old dogs needed their afternoon constitutional,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘They like their routine.’

  ‘Granpa, did you tell a lie?’ says Lucie, stepping back, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  ‘I felt a bit peculiar this morning. By this afternoon, I felt much better. It must have been something I ate.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Alex says. ‘You have a cast-iron stomach.’

  ‘All you had to do was call the doctor to let him know not to waste his time, then you could have come along to the show for the rest of the afternoon. You’ve missed Lucie’s moment of triumph, and Talyton Pony Club’s finest hour,’ says Sophia, gloating. ‘You will be there for the championship.’

  ‘Will you, Granpa?’ Lucie says.

  ‘I hope I’ll be around to see it …’ Old Fox-Gifford utters a long, drawn-out sigh.

  ‘One minute you’re saying you’re fine. Now you’re making it sound as if you’re about to …’ Sophia glances towards the children.

  ‘Go on, say it,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘Pop orf. Yes, I’m feeling better than I did this morning, but I could pop orf at any moment. I’ve had my time – I don’t want to hang about, useful to neither man nor beast.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Sophia. ‘Granpa’s being very silly.’ She addresses this particularly to Lucie who’s looking worried. ‘He isn’t going to die. He isn’t even sick, because, if he was, he would have been here waiting for Dr Mackie, not rampaging through the countryside with the dogs.’

  ‘Granpa isn’t sick,’ Seb agrees. ‘If he was sick, he’d be like this.’ He coughs and retches and puts his hands around his own neck as if he’s trying to strangle himself.

  ‘No, Seb,’ says Sophia.

  George has already picked up on it though, and he’s coughing and spluttering like Seb.

  ‘Boys, let’s have some decorum,’ Sophia goes on.

  ‘What’s decorum?’ asks Lucie.

  ‘Self-control, darling,’ she says.

  Shortly afterwards, we settle in the dining room, seven of us at one end of the magnificent table that stands in the centre on a brightly patterned Persian rug. George is strapped into the highchair, the one Alex had as a baby that’s been kept up in the loft for the grandchildren. I have thrown a jumper over my shoulders because it’s cold in this room. The fire is never lit in here, and there’s an all-pervading smell of damp and school dinners.

  Mrs P stays on late to serve roast pork and nut rissole. There’s watery soup of indeterminate origin to start with.

  ‘What do you think this is?’ I whisper to Alex, when Mrs P has disappeared, rattling out through the door with her trolley and soup tureen.

  ‘We could send some off to the lab to find out –’ Alex trickles the soup from his spoon back into the bowl – ‘but your fancy analyser machine probably won’t be able to pick anything up. Whichever substances are in there are in too low a concentration to be detected.’

  ‘Daddy, stop playing with your food,’ Lucie interrupts sternly. ‘He must shut up and eat up, mustn’t he, Humpy?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, Lucie,’ says Sophia. ‘Mind you don’t splash that lovely rosette.’

  Lucie has her Mounted Games rosette on the table in front of her. It’s red, white and blue with long ribbons. She keeps touching them and laying them straight.

  ‘There’s potential for a clash with the wedding,’ says Sophia happily, apparently unable to let the subject of the Mounted Games drop. I’m not sure who is most excited about it, Lucie or Sophia. ‘Of course, the team has to come first. You can’t let the other members down.’

  ‘Mother, this is my wedding you’re talking about,’ Alex says. ‘Lucie will be bridesmaid.’

  I can see that Lucie’s torn now. We wanted to ask her on her own, not in front of everyone. Bridesmaid or Mounted Games at the National Horse Show in December? It’s a difficult call.

  ‘I did go to your last one,’ says Sophia.

  ‘I didn’t,’ says Lucie. ‘I wasn’t born then.’

  ‘You might not get another chance at the championship,’ says Sophia. ‘I’m chef d’équipe and I’ll be needed. What time is the wedding?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, Mother. Maz and I need to see the vicar.’

  ‘If you make it early in the day, we can follow the ponies on,’ says Sophia.

  She can’t be serious, I think, but she is. I abandon the soup and break off a piece of bread roll for George.

  The nut rissole is chewy and the potatoes cold, but it’s food and we’re hungry. Alex makes much of Mrs P who beams with pride at his praise for her culinary talents. He isn’t being patronising. Secretly, he adores her. She’s been part of his life since he can remember.

  ‘I want ketchup,’ says Seb.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ says Mrs P.

  ‘Real ketchup. Not healthy stuff like Mummy buys,’ Seb continues.

  ‘What do you say, Seb?’ says Sophia.

  ‘Thank you, please,’ he says, giggling, at which George grins and throws the piece of bread roll I gave him over the edge of the highchair, where it’s pounced upon and snarled over by Old Fox-Gifford’s dogs.

  ‘Off that!’ Old Fox-Gifford grabs his stick from where it’s leaning against the table and pokes at the horde of hounds. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘It’s too late, Father,’ Alex says, looking on amused. ‘Hal will have digested it by now.’

  ‘The old boy got it then?’ Old Fox-Gifford’s eyes sparkle with glee. ‘He’s still top dog.’

  ‘Here, top dog,’ Seb says, dropping half a potato and creating a second skirmish.

  ‘Not at the dinner table,’ says Sophia as the dogs go quiet, and the dust and hairs settle once more. ‘Manners maketh man.’

  ‘He’s just a boy, Humpy,’ says Lucie. ‘A stupid little boy.’

  ‘Lucie, please don’t start,’ Alex says.

  ‘Is there ice cream for dessert?’ Seb asks, his mind on food rather than retaliating against his sister.

  ‘Ice cream and peaches from a tin,’ says Sophia.

  ‘Hurrah,’ says Lucie. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Mine too,’ Old Fox-Gifford says gruffly.

  ‘You’re an old fraud,’ Sophia tells him. ‘Last week, you said it was apple pie and custard.’

  ‘Perhaps my tastes have changed, dear Sophia,’ he says.

  ‘You do it to be difficult, giving poor Mrs P the runaround over her desserts. No sooner does she get the recipe right than you order something else.’

  With a sigh of annoyance at his wife’s nagging, Old Fox-Gifford picks up his glass and drains the brownish claret, straining the bits between his teeth and wiping his mouth with a stained white napkin. This is the only place where I’ve seen napkin rings of monogrammed silver in daily use.

  Seb is collecting the rings and stacking them up into a tower in front of George who, with one swipe of his arm, knocks it back down again. I make to take them away, but Sophia stops me.

  ‘It’s all right, Maz. The boys can have them to play with.’

  ‘They’re precious though, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles. ‘There was an occasion when we thought one of our guests had walked orf with one as a keepsake, but we found it in Hal’s bed. It was when he was a pup. He chewed it to pieces, left some in his bed and swallowed the rest.’

  ‘It’s no wonder his teeth are in such a state,’ Alex comments. ‘In fact, I’ve been wondering about offering him up as a guinea pig for Maz and Emma’s new vet to practise on.’

  ‘Hal’s a dog,’ says Seb, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘I wasn’t talking literally,’ says Alex.

  Seb look
s at him quizzically.

  ‘It’s a metaphor,’ says Lucie. ‘We’ve been doing them at school.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It was a flippant comment.’ Alex looks at me, eyes sparking with humour.

  ‘Are you casting aspersions on our assistant?’ I say archly.

  ‘Well, you were the one who told me he needed more experience in handling birds, for example. Apparently, everyone got into a bit of a flap when he let go of a cockatiel and couldn’t catch it again,’ he goes on in explanation.

  ‘Will’s all right,’ I say. ‘It was a case of first-day nerves, that’s all. It could have happened to anyone.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have happened to me,’ Old Fox-Gifford says smugly. ‘When I qualified, we were omnicompetent from day one. These young vets have been force-fed a diet of scientific facts. They haven’t a clue about the art of veterinary medicine.’

  ‘I think we can learn from each other,’ I point out. ‘Will’s like a walking textbook – he knows about the current treatments for various conditions.’ I refrain from adding that he isn’t sure how to apply them, but I’m sure that will come with time.

  I’d like Alex to tackle his father about taking on an assistant like Emma and I have, but I know he won’t, so I decide to raise the subject for him. Old Fox-Gifford is on his second or third glass of claret now and seems quite mellow.

  ‘Have you thought about what would happen to the practice if you were ill for more than a couple of days?’ I ask him.

  ‘It was a couple of hours,’ Old Fox-Gifford says defensively. ‘And I know what you’re going to say. Alexander and I are self-sufficient. We don’t need more staff.’

  ‘If you won’t take on an assistant, you could employ a receptionist. You used to have Frances here.’

  ‘And why did she leave?’ Old Fox-Gifford says.

  ‘Because you hit her in the face with a pen,’ says Alex.

  ‘I wasn’t aiming directly at her.’

  ‘I’d appreciate you having someone else to take the phones.’ I can laugh about it – I’m still in possession of a sense of humour. There are days when I’m with George at home, and I’m left to answer the phone, providing advice if Alex is tied up on a call. Several times, I’ve told clients with sick cats or dogs to come to the Manor, and seen them myself on Alex’s behalf.