‘Seb, you’ll have to help George again.’ Alex picks up a knife, as the two boys huff and puff all over the cake, eventually extinguishing the candles to the applause of our guests.
Alex cuts the cake as practice for cutting the wedding cake.
‘That’s a neat job,’ I say, smiling as he dissects it into equal-sized slices.
‘I’m not a bad surgeon.’ Alex has time to eat his slice before his mobile rings, and he’s called out, leaving me to say goodbye to our guests, and clear up after everyone, and collect up Seb and Lucie’s belongings ready for their mother to pick them up and take them back to London tonight, in time for school tomorrow morning. Once that’s done, I give George a bath, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ again, several times, at his request.
It’s a foul night. The rain is beating against the windows. George is awake, sniffling. As well as being high on sugar, he has a cold. The bedroom smells of eucalyptus oil. George ends up in bed with me and I don’t hear Alex when he gets back. In the morning, I find him asleep on the sofa under a horse blanket with his boots on.
‘Alex?’ I touch his shoulder.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you. I didn’t get in till gone four.’
‘Tea?’ I ask.
‘Coffee, four sugars,’ he says. ‘Thanks, darling.’ When I turn back, he’s asleep again. I let him be.
I check with Old Fox-Gifford and Sophia who are eating breakfast in the kitchen at the Manor that reeks of kippers, wet boots and the horses’ garlic supplement.
‘I’ve left Alex sleeping,’ I say. ‘I wondered whether you could postpone his morning visits so he can catch up.’
‘I’ll do them,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, giving me a long stare. ‘I wouldn’t like anyone to be under the impression that I’m not pulling my weight.’
Chapter Fourteen
For Richer, for Poorer
ON A DARK and windy night in the middle of September, I go out on a visit to see Sally, the golden retriever. She’s recovered from the surgery to remove the lump which turned out to be completely benign, but she can’t go for more than a couple of months without seeing either myself or Emma for some minor ailment.
Tonight, Penny, by her own admission, has over-reacted, because Sally has been up to her old tricks, stealing food. Sally almost died when she did this once before with the Christmas dinner. This time, she gobbled up a pheasant that Declan, Penny’s husband, had left to hang in the shed.
By the time I arrive, although Sally looks very sheepish, she has no more than a touch of tummy ache. I recommend starving her then giving a bland diet for a couple of days.
‘Have you sent out your invitations yet, Maz?’ Penny asks when I’m leaving the Old Forge in Talyford.
‘Not yet,’ I say, a little embarrassed, because I really should have done by now.
‘You’d better hurry up.’ Penny spins her wheelchair away from the front door to let me out. ‘There isn’t much time …’
‘Tell me about it,’ I say, amused. ‘I’ve been trying to pin Alex down to do them with me. You and Declan are invited, by the way, in case we don’t get around to them.’
‘Thank you,’ Penny says. ‘We accept. It’s going to be amazing. Talyton’s Wedding of the Year. Everyone’s talking about it.’
I return to the Barn at nine, looking forward to checking in with George, wandering into his room to watch him sleeping. At least, I hope he’s sleeping, and not giving Alex too much trouble.
I jump out of the car and head across the yard. The lights are off, a good sign, although the stable lights flick on as I walk past. Liberty doesn’t whicker at me for once. I reckon she’s lying down – unlike George, she loves her bed. I go straight into the house, kicking off my shoes and abandoning my sweater at the bottom of the stairs. On the landing, I hesitate at George’s bedroom door, listening for his breathing.
He isn’t here. I can tell without checking his cot. Alex must have given in and taken him to bed, but when I reach our room, there’s no one there either. In spite of the fact that I know George is perfectly safe with Alex, my heart starts to beat faster. Where are they?
I open a curtain and look out. I don’t know how I missed it, but Alex’s car isn’t in its space on the yard, which can mean only one thing. He’s gone out on a call.
He must have taken George with him because Sophia is out at some Pony Club meeting. Something must have happened. Old Fox-Gifford needed help with a calving, or two urgent calls came in at once. When I take a second glance, I realise Old Fox-Gifford’s Range Rover is there on the yard, so I can only assume that he and Alex have gone out together. Not for the first time, I wish our lives weren’t so complicated …
I’m just about to text Alex, when headlights appear on the drive. He’s back. Smiling, I fly downstairs, turn the lights on, and flick the switch on the kettle. Alex ambles in, looking pretty wrecked, his hair messed up, blood and muck on his trousers, and his hands in his pockets.
‘Hi,’ I say, greeting him.
‘Hi, darling.’ There’s no energy behind his voice. He sounds completely exhausted, but my concern for him vanishes as the blood drains from my body.
‘Alex, where’s George?’
‘George?’ Alex frowns.
‘Yes, George.’ At first it crosses my mind that he’s pulling my leg, pretending he’s forgotten his son’s existence, but the muscle in the side of his cheek tautens, and his eyes widen in pure panic.
My heart beats a tattoo of galloping hooves.
If Alex hasn’t got George with him, where is he?
‘What have you done with George?’ I take a grip on Alex’s forearms. ‘Come on, Alex, you must remember.’
He groans. ‘I forgot. I must have left him behind.’
‘Where?’ I want to shake him.
‘I must have left him at the Pitts’.’
‘Oh, Alex, how could you?’
‘Maz …’ Alex tries to put his hands up. ‘Lynsey will be looking after him. There’s no harm done.’
‘No harm done? You could have left him anywhere, in some bloody cowshed, in the middle of a field …’ I can’t help swearing. Alex tries to hold me, his arms enclosing mine, but I’m not having it. ‘How could you forget the most precious—’
‘Maz, I didn’t mean to, did I? You know I’d never …’ Alex tries to hold my gaze, but I turn away. ‘I’ll go back and get him. Right now.’
‘No, you won’t. I’ll get him.’ I tear myself away from Alex’s grasp. All attempts at being understanding and reasonable have, like the velvet bats that dart among the buildings out in the yard, long deserted me. All I want is to have my son back safe and sound. I grab my keys, slip into my shoes and leave Alex standing there.
I drive like a demon, arriving at Barton Farm to find George in the kitchen with Lynsey. ‘George!’ My joy at finding him falters when I recall the circumstances of our reunion. George looks at me from the chair at the oak table, where he’s sitting perched on a foam cushion so he can see over the top, as if I’m mad. Lynsey’s daughter, Fran, who’s three years old, is kneeling on another chair beside him, helping him draw on a piece of scrap paper. He’s having a lovely time.
Lynsey sits twisting her sandy-coloured hair back into a hairband. Her arms are strong and her wrists thick. She’s wearing jeans and what looks like one of her husband’s shirts. She has seven children, Fran being the youngest. I don’t know how she does it.
‘I hope we haven’t disrupted Fran’s bedtime routine,’ I say.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have much of a routine,’ Lynsey says. ‘If I put her to bed too early, the boys only wake her up. Coffee, Maz?’
‘I’d better not, thanks. I had coffee with Penny not very long ago. I’ll never get to sleep if I have any more. And I ought to get George home – he’s supposed to be in bed, not gallivanting around the countryside. I could kill Alex.’
‘Oh, don’t be too hard on him, Maz. I was always leaving one or other of mine behind. They didn’t come to an
y harm.’ Lynsey pauses. ‘Fran, don’t do that.’ She extracts the felt tip pen from her hand where she’s been drawing squiggles on George’s face. ‘He’s a guest, not one of your brothers.’ She stands up and fetches a couple of yoghurts from the fridge, giving one to Fran and one to George. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she says apologetically.
‘Not at all. Thank you for taking care of him. I imagined him abandoned in the dark in some filthy old cowshed.’ I cover my eyes briefly, trying to dismiss my fears.
‘Alex left him here while he and Stewart went down to see one of the cows. We couldn’t get her up. Alex did though. He gave her some magnesium and she was up like a shot. It worked like magic.’
‘Why did it take two vets to deal with a downer cow?’ I ask, confused.
‘Two? I know he’s got a pushy grandad, but I didn’t think George was a qualified vet yet,’ Lynsey chuckles.
‘Wasn’t Old Fox-Gifford here too?’
‘No …’
‘Oh? He’s supposed to be on duty, not Alex.’ In the homely kitchen far away from the Barn and Otter House, I begin to relax. ‘Alex was supposed to be looking after George because I was called out.’
‘It all sounds very complicated, Maz.’ Lynsey raises one untamed eyebrow. ‘Looking after George, organising a wedding and running two practices – I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is it getting on top of you both? Do you think you might need to ask for some extra help of some kind?’
‘Another vet would be good, but Alex and his father refuse to consider that option.’
George leaves his yoghurt and yawns. I go over and pick him up, sit back down again and let him snuggle against me.
Lynsey clears her throat. ‘You don’t think Alex is covering for his father, do you? It’s just that the gossip among the farmers around here is that Old Fox-Gifford appears to be giving up the reins. There are also rumours flying round, completely unfounded probably.’ The way Lynsey qualifies the completely unfounded part makes me wonder how much is rumour and how much fact. ‘About whether or not he should still be working at his age.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’ How much has Alex been concealing from me? I feel betrayed. I knew something was up.
‘There was the horse he vetted not so long ago for one of the Pony Club mums,’ Lynsey says. ‘You must have heard about that.’
I don’t know whether or not to pretend I have, to save face because I feel like a fool. However, Lynsey goes on to explain anyway, that Old Fox-Gifford passed the horse as sound, missing the fact it was half blind with a cataract in one eye.
My instinct is to defend Talyton Manor Vets.
‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ I say, my voice sounding shrill.
‘Old Fox-Gifford’s made a few recently.’
‘He’s always been prone to making gaffes.’ In the next breath, I wonder what I’m defending him for.
‘He’s been a good vet, but it seems to us that it’s time for him to retire gracefully.’
‘You’ll have to convince him first.’
‘Stewart’s had a word with Alex.’ Lynsey bites her lip. ‘We thought you might give Alex a nudge too.’
‘Will do,’ I say rather stiffly because, if Alex has been keeping his problems to himself, he’s hardly likely to listen to me. In fact, he hasn’t been listening to me. I shift on my chair. George is asleep now, heavy and warm in my arms. I press my lips to the top of his head. ‘Thanks for looking after him, Lynsey, and for the chat.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, Maz. I like a bit of drama now and again. It’s pretty quiet on the farm sometimes … even with Stewart and all the children. And talking of children, I expect you’ll be wanting a brother or sister for George soon.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, smiling.
‘One more doesn’t make much difference,’ says Lynsey. ‘Believe me.’
‘I’m not sure that I do.’
‘Well, I went on to have six more after Sam to give that theory a proper test, and I’d say it holds true.’ She pauses. ‘I hear Emma’s having twins.’
‘Yes, they’re due in the New Year, so I can’t have another baby yet, even if I wanted one. Lynsey, I have more than enough on my plate already.’
I head for home, wondering how on earth to deal with my stubborn father-in-law to be, and his equally stubborn son.
‘Alex, we need to talk,’ I tell him when I’ve arrived home and put a sleepy George straight to bed.
‘You do, you mean?’ Alex raises one eyebrow. He’s still in his dirty clothes. In fact, although he’s sitting on the sofa, he’s playing with his keys and looks as if he’s just about to go out again.
‘I’d like us both to talk, Alex. You know, have a conversation like we used to.’
‘Is this about the wedding?’
‘No, although it would be good to have a chat about the preparations some time. It’s about your father. This thing about covering for him – it has to stop.’
Alex frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know very well what I mean. Lynsey let it slip – she didn’t mean to.’
‘And?’ Alex picks up his mobile from the arm of the sofa.
‘Don’t move.’
‘Look, Maz. It isn’t a big deal.’
‘Alex, can’t you see – it’s a big deal to me. To us,’ I say miserably. ‘You’ll end up doing it all, which is exactly what your father’s aiming for. It isn’t right. It isn’t bloody fair.’
‘So, what do you propose I do about it?’
‘Speak to him, Alex.’ I touch his hand. His skin is cool and slightly roughened by frequent exposure to harsh soap. He refuses to use moisturiser because he’s a real man!
‘I’ll get around to it sometime.’
‘That isn’t good enough.’ I’m angry and frustrated by his response. ‘The longer you let it drag on, the more resistant he’ll be to the idea of taking on another vet. That’s the only way forward, Alex. Unless you dump some of your clients.’
‘That’s quite an appealing proposition, but it’s like committing financial suicide. All right,’ he sighs. ‘I hate to say it, but you do have a point. I can’t go on like this.’
‘I don’t want to have to take someone else on honeymoon because you’re tied up here,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Unless Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom are free.’ I move around behind Alex and slide my hands down over his chest. I lean down and press my cheek against his, his stubble imprinting my skin.
‘I’ll see what I can do. I don’t know why you’re getting so wound up about the wedding. We’ve booked the reception—’
‘Although we never did go out for dinner at the Barnscote.’
‘We can do that any time.’
‘Elsa has phoned me several times at work to talk about menus,’ I point out. ‘I had no idea choosing the food and wine was so involved. Sparkling wine or champagne for the speeches and cutting the cake?’
‘Champagne, of course,’ Alex says.
‘Stuffed peppers, or a pasta dish for the vegetarians?’
‘I’ll leave that decision to you. Come on, Maz. You must be almost there. We’ve met with the vicar and booked the church. We’ve got some ideas for the music.’
‘Yes, and whatever you say, I’m not having that one that goes, “Here comes the bride, all fat and wide”.’
‘You say you’ve bought the dress,’ Alex goes on.
I nod. ‘And Lucie’s.’ I smile as I recall her cantering about in the bridal shop in a deep scarlet gown with puff sleeves and a full skirt.
‘I’ve really got to get going, Maz.’
‘Going? Where this time?’
‘To visit Guy over at Uphill Farm – he’s got a cow down now. There must be something in the water.’
He’s being ironic. These cases are random and sporadic.
‘But you will talk to him?’ I say, as Alex stands up. ‘Promise?’
‘I promise. Anything for a quiet life.’
‘Thanks, Alex.�
�� I’ll be checking up on him, though, to make sure he really does talk to Old Fox-Gifford. Once he’s made his father see sense, they can go ahead and employ a locum or assistant and that will be one more task I can tick off the wedding planner: find cover for Alex for honeymoon.
We hold a practice meeting in the staffroom a couple of days later. Everyone is present: Emma, Izzy, Shannon, Will and Frances. Will sits at one end of the sofa, Shannon at the other and Miff between them. Tripod has disappeared – I can’t help suspecting that he finds meetings rather dull. Frances, who takes the minutes, has her swivel chair from Reception, while I sit perched on the edge of the worktop and Emma, who sets the agenda, takes the stool. Izzy leans against the worktop, having bought filled rolls from the baker to keep us going over lunchtime.
Today, Cheryl’s request to re-register at Otter House is number one on the list of items to be addressed. Of course, I should have been able to deal with it without bothering the rest of the team when she came in two weeks or so ago, but Cheryl isn’t one to take no for an answer.
‘Should she be allowed back on our books, or not? That is the question,’ Emma says. ‘On the plus side, Cheryl was once so impressed with Maz that she named a kitten after her.’
‘Thanks. I’d forgotten about that.’ I’m blushing at the memory. The kitten, delivered by Caesarean, was called Cheriam – that’s Cheryl’s stud prefix – Maz.
‘Aw, sweet,’ says Shannon.
‘It wasn’t because the kitten reminded her of you?’ says Izzy.
‘Hey, are you trying to tell me something?’ I rub my chin, feeling for imaginary (I hope) whiskers.
‘The kitten was sweet. Cheryl isn’t. She would have had Maz struck off over Blueboy, if she’d had the chance.’ Emma glances towards Will who is nodding off, with his eyes half closed and a mug of tea on the verge of tilting into his lap. ‘Will. Will!’
He jerks awake. ‘Otter House Vets …’ he garbles as if he’s answering the phone. ‘Oh no,’ he goes on, pulling himself together. ‘I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.’
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