‘We really must liven these meetings up somehow,’ Izzy says lightly.
‘What I was saying, Will,’ Emma continues, ‘is let Maz’s experience be a lesson to you. When a client asks you to dematt their cat, make sure you get them to sign for exactly what they want done.’
‘Blueboy’s coat was so knotted I couldn’t possibly have done anything else but clip it all off,’ I say in my defence.
‘Yes, but you should have made that clear to Cheryl before you went ahead and did it,’ says Emma.
‘Emma, I know that …’
She smiles ruefully.
‘It’s done now,’ I continue. ‘I thought we’d seen the back of her.’
‘She never was what I’d call a bonded client,’ says Emma. ‘She came to us from Talyton Manor Vets and she’s been to at least two other practices further afield since she left us. I told her we had to have her records for the cats’ welfare – that’s how I found out.’
‘So, she’s easily impressed and rapidly disillusioned,’ says Izzy. ‘Do we really want her back?’
There’s a long silence. Will utters a low snore, and Frances rescues the mug from his hand, putting it safely on the worktop.
‘Let’s not all rush in with an opinion at once,’ says Emma. ‘Maz?’
‘You know how I feel. It’s a “no” from me.’
‘And from me,’ says Izzy.
‘Me too,’ says Shannon. ‘I remember those posters she put up in the window at the Copper Kettle, dissing Maz and the practice.’
‘What about you, Frances?’ says Emma. ‘You have to deal with her as well.’
‘It’s up to Maz,’ she says.
‘Will?’ Emma tries him again, but he’s sound asleep with his head tipped back and jaw dropped open.
I smile to myself. I didn’t sleep much the first year I was in practice – I was always on tenterhooks, wondering what I was going to see next and whether or not I could handle it.
‘About Cheryl,’ I say hesitantly. ‘My gut instinct is, as I’ve said, not to let her come back, but, in her defence, she seemed genuinely sorry, and she has quite a few cats which is good for our business.’
‘And, you know,’ says Emma, ‘like Mr Kipling, she does make rather delicious cakes. She might bring some along.’
‘I don’t think they’re as good as Jennie’s cakes,’ says Izzy.
‘That’s why Jennie’s doing the cake for the wedding,’ I say as Izzy continues, ‘I love her cider cake. Have you tried it?’
‘We’re wandering off the subject,’ says Emma sternly. ‘We can talk about cake any time. How about we register Cheryl and her cats with conditions?’
‘What, like making her sign a code of conduct?’ I say.
‘Something like that.’ Emma pauses. ‘Look at it this way. If she’s with us, she won’t be slagging us off to the other vets in the area.’ She checks her watch. Time is ticking by. ‘So, are we all in agreement? Cheryl comes back on probation.’
‘Agreed,’ I say. Izzy nods while Frances scribbles a note in her pad.
‘I’ll give Cheryl the news,’ says Emma.
‘Any other business?’ I ask.
‘Your wedding, and the birth of my babies,’ Emma says. ‘If by any mishap, these two events coincide, how are we going to manage staffing? Is one vet – i.e. Will – enough?’
‘It could be, if he isn’t asleep all the time,’ Izzy observes.
Chapter Fifteen
Ten Weeks and Counting
COCKY’S BACK. THIS time though, he’s here for a check-up and I don’t need to get him out of his cage because his skin is looking better and his feathers are beginning to regrow.
‘I thought I was going to have to invest in a feather transplant,’ says Peter. ‘They can do hair in humans. Can they do feathers in birds?’
‘I can’t imagine so.’
‘Perhaps you should try, Maz. It would be a feather in your cap if you succeeded.’
‘Very droll,’ I say, amused. Peter’s jokes are at about the same standard as Izzy’s, but he has brought along a box of fresh fruit and veg as a thank-you – and in lieu of cash. I forgot to charge him last time, and I can’t bring myself to backdate payment.
‘You were wrong about Cocky needing the company of his own kind. I’ve been leaving the wildlife documentaries on for him while I’m out and about, and he’s totally hooked. I reckon he thinks he’s in with a chance with the birds on the telly, so he’s looking after himself properly.’ Peter puts his face close to the cage. Cocky hops along the perch, tips his head to one side, and says – or more accurately, whistles – the words, ‘Hot stuff.’
‘Did he just say what I thought he said?’ I ask. ‘I’m impressed. I haven’t met many talking cockatiels.’
‘He’s talking about me.’ Peter grins. ‘I’ve spent a long time teaching him to repeat the odd phrase.’
‘Peter, if you want my opinion, I think you need to get out more.’ I am aware of the noise level rising outside in Reception. Peter looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
‘Mr Fox-Gifford,’ Frances shouts in her receptionist’s tone of voice, clipped, firm and no-nonsense. ‘You will have to wait or make an appointment at a mutually convenient time to see Maz, just like everybody else.’
There’s the sound of a scuffle and a yelp.
‘That dog must be properly restrained, or you’ll have to take him back out to the car,’ says Frances. ‘There’s always one who doesn’t read the sign: all dogs must be kept on leads.’
‘It’s that bloody rabbit winding him up,’ Old Fox-Gifford barks.
I have heard enough.
‘I’m sorry, Peter. I’m going to have to deal with this.’
I open the door to find Old Fox-Gifford in a deerstalker, blazer and old school tie, standing with the hook of his walking stick through Hal’s collar. Hal, the ancient black Labrador, pants and rasps, trying to get to the client who’s standing in the corner, her back pressed against the wall beside the pet food stand, and holding a rabbit in a carrier above her head.
‘Get that dog outside, Old Fox-Gifford.’ I glare at him, then before he can open his mouth to argue, continue, ‘Otherwise I won’t agree to see you.’ I am not sure why he is here. Is it about Alex? Has he had a word with him, and let on that it was my idea?
Peter carries Cocky out of the consulting room and, having said goodbye to him, I turn to the rabbit’s owner. She’s one of the newer residents of Talyton – I noticed on the computer that she has an address on the new estate. ‘I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. Take Bob straight through.’ I hope he hasn’t suffered a heart attack, I think, feeling somewhat panicky myself.
I check the rabbit over. Fortunately, he’s fine. Distracted by the smell of the carrots in the box that Peter has left on one end of the table, he lets me give him his routine vaccinations without flinching. I apologise again.
‘Oh, he’s just a grumpy old man. He was extremely rude to your receptionist.’ Bob’s owner smiles. ‘He looks like some old tramp, and he smells odd too.’
‘Does he?’
‘Couldn’t you smell it?’ Her nose twitches, much like the rabbit’s. ‘It’s like a mixture of eucalyptus and creosote.’
‘Mothballs,’ I say, not wanting to admit that this old tramp is my future father-in-law.
‘I notice these things,’ she goes on. ‘I love perfumes and essential oils. Some of them can be very soothing.’
Perhaps I should try some, I think.
Once Bob, the rabbit, is safely out of the way, I call Old Fox-Gifford in from where he’s standing outside, leaning on his stick and chatting amicably to Frances. I’m surprised. He was livid when she came to work at Otter House.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask him, as he shuffles stiffly into the consulting room, with Hal following slowly behind on a borrowed rope lead.
‘Hal has met with a bit of an accident.’
‘What’s he done now?’ Hal beats his tail against the table le
g and presses his nose into my crotch. There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with him.
‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to Sophia or Alexander. In fact –’ Old Fox-Gifford stoops forwards and touches the side of his nose – ‘we must keep this between ourselves …’
‘That’s no problem. I do understand the rules of client confidentiality.’
‘I ran the old dog over.’
‘You what?’
‘I didn’t intend to. The silly old bugger was sunning himself. He didn’t hear me, and I didn’t see him until it was too late. I drove right over him.’
‘It doesn’t look as if he’s suffered any serious damage.’ I frown as I stroke the top of Hal’s head. Why bring him to me? Old Fox-Gifford’s a vet with years of experience. ‘He’s scraped his nose, that’s about all.’
‘I can see that.’ Old Fox-Gifford sounds slightly exasperated with me for pointing it out. ‘I’m worried about his insides. I thought you, being the small animal expert, could make sure there’s no internal bleeding.’ He falls silent and utters a cough. ‘I’ve checked and I can’t feel anything specific, and I would have asked Alexander, but he’s out and I wouldn’t want to bother him.’
With the fact that he’s run the dog over, I muse.
‘I’d hate the old boy to drop dead,’ he goes on. ‘He’s the best dog I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a few.’
I call Izzy through to help me lift Hal onto the table where he stands, trembling so violently that he makes the table vibrate. I give him a kiss and a biscuit to calm him down, before I check him over – all over – picking up a film of grease on my fingers from his grubby coat. Every now and again, I glance at Old Fox-Gifford who stands in the corner, his hand trembling too, on the end of his stick. For a moment, I feel sorry for him, an old man who’s lost confidence in his own judgement, and then I remember he’s just admitted to running over his dog.
‘That could have been one of your grandchildren,’ I say eventually, having ascertained that Hal shows no signs of being about to bleed to death, and decided that I’ll keep him in under observation for a few hours to make absolutely sure.
Old Fox-Gifford looks down at the floor.
‘Should you be driving at all?’ I go on when he doesn’t respond. I realise I shouldn’t have raised such a sensitive subject in front of Izzy, but then there’s no point in being anything but direct with Old Fox-Gifford.
‘I’ve been driving for over fifty years,’ he says, rounding on me suddenly. ‘This was an accident. If Hal hadn’t been lying there, I’d never have run him over. It’s the dog’s fault. He was in the bloody way.’
‘So that will be your excuse in court, will it? It was the other driver’s fault that he was on the right side of the road, your Honour. The pedestrian stepped out at the wrong time …’
‘That’s ridiculous. Hal was on private property. My land.’ Old Fox-Gifford hesitates. ‘What do you think anyway? How is the old bugger?’
‘There’s nothing obvious, but I’m going to keep him in for observation until tonight to be on the safe side.’
Izzy frowns at me. I know what she’s trying to say, that last time Hal stayed here, he barked the whole time, but I choose to put Hal first. He’s a wreck, and I’ve been itching to get my hands on him to tidy him up. Now I have the perfect excuse.
‘While he’s here,’ I add, ‘we’ll cut his claws and give him a bath.’
‘Dogs shouldn’t be bathed. It strips the oils out of their coats, takes away their waterproofing and shine.’
Izzy helps me get Hal back down onto the floor.
‘Shall I take him straight through?’ she asks.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, and I wait until the door closes behind her and the dog before I continue talking to Old Fox-Gifford. ‘I won’t charge you, seeing as you’re family. All I ask is for you to listen to Alex when he talks to you.’
‘About what?’ he says suspiciously.
‘What we’ve talked about before, the arrangements for cover for our honeymoon,’ I say, not wanting to reveal too much. Old Fox-Gifford’s response is a snort of derision, so I don’t hold out much hope. Alex is going to have to be completely frank with him.
Once Old Fox-Gifford has left the practice, Izzy and I set to work on Hal. He barks non-stop, sending Tripod skedaddling away, and Miff asking to be let out the back door into the garden. She used to be able to squeeze through the cat flap, but she’s recently acquired a middle-aged spread, as if she’s coming out in sympathy with Emma and her pregnancy.
We brush, bath and blow-dry Hal. We give him a pedicure, scrape as much of the brown concrete-like tartar from his teeth as we can without having to sedate him, and rinse his mouth out. We clean the wax from his ears and start him on ear drops. We clean his eyes and start him on eye drops. Finally, I run a blood test to check his kidneys and liver are working okay, before starting him on medication for his arthritis.
‘That was like a full MOT.’ Smiling wryly, Izzy washes her hands afterwards. ‘I suppose it’s what I should expect with him belonging to a vet. They never practise what they preach. Look at Miff. She’s getting fat.’ She pauses. ‘How is Ginge? Are you taking care of him?’
‘When he wants me to,’ I say. ‘It’s all right, Izzy. I give him his tablets every day for his thyroid.’
‘Do you brush him now he’s too old to look after himself?’
‘When he lets me.’
‘You see. If a client said that to you, you’d say they shouldn’t let that stop them.’
‘I know … Izzy, now you’re making me feel guilty.’
‘There’s a freebie came with the order today,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s a detangling comb – take it home and use it on your poor cat.’
‘I’ll do that, but if I’m off work with cat scratch fever, I’ll blame you,’ I tease. ‘You did get the invite to the wedding, didn’t you? I’ve sent them out at last.’
‘Yes, Maz. I thanked you, if you remember.’ Izzy reddens. ‘I haven’t replied formally though yet, have I?’
‘You don’t have to write to me,’ I say. ‘A verbal yes or no will do. I’m trying to refine the menu for the reception.’
‘It isn’t easy when you have all these different diets to cater for,’ says Izzy. ‘We had a demi-vegetarian, whatever that is, two pescatarians and a vegan to accommodate at our wedding.’
‘Tell me about it. I asked people to let me know about their preferences and some of Alex’s relatives have come back with info like, don’t like gravy or mushrooms, and eggs disagree with me, so no egg, thank you.’
‘What on earth will you give them then?’
‘Oats, hay and water, or a tin of dog food, I reckon. They’re part of the horsey set.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m not sure how to seat them either. I don’t know whether to sit them all together, or dilute the Fox-Gifford effect by spreading them out.’ I pause. ‘I never thought it would be this complicated.’
‘Well, you have to think about these things,’ Izzy sighs. ‘You don’t want any fights breaking out.’ Suddenly, she chuckles. ‘Maz, you should see your face. Lighten up. Your wedding day’s supposed to be the best day of your life. And it will be,’ she adds firmly.
Old Fox-Gifford comes to collect Hal. I don’t offer because I don’t want him barking in the car on the way home, blasting George’s eardrums and wrecking his hearing, in case he might want to be a musician one day like Russ Jackson. I give Old Fox-Gifford the dog and a bag of treatments. I doubt any of them will end up in or on Hal, but I can pop in now and then to treat him. It isn’t great practice, but it’s better than nothing.
As Old Fox-Gifford leaves, Izzy offers to help him lift Hal into the back of his Range Rover, but he declines. We watch him from Reception, opening the boot and pulling out a plank that he leans against the bumper before encouraging Hal to walk along it up the gentle slope and into the car.
‘That’s pretty cool,’ says Izzy.
‘That isn’t,’ I observe, as Old Fox-Gifford reverses at speed out of the parking space, slams on the brakes within inches of the wall, and shoots out of the drive across the pavement and straight into one of Talyton’s legendary Victorian-style lamp posts. He reverses again, hitting the pillar this time.
‘Izzy, did you see that?’ I gasp, but Izzy’s already off out through the door, running down to the street and waving at Old Fox-Gifford’s Range Rover that’s disappearing off away along Fore Street and out of town, smoke pouring out of its exhaust. It’s been battered, mistreated like a welfare case, and now it looks terminally ill, but it can move.
‘He’s driven off,’ Izzy says somewhat unnecessarily when I join her on the pavement. ‘He can’t do that. It’s like a hit and run.’ We turn to examine the lamp post more closely. It’s leaning. I give it a shove, but it doesn’t move. ‘That could have been a pedestrian,’ Izzy continues. ‘It could have been one of us.’
‘Fifi won’t be happy when she finds out one of her precious lamp posts has been damaged. The Council will have to pay.’
‘We’ll have to pay through our taxes,’ Izzy corrects me, ‘unless Old Fox-Gifford owns up.’
‘Let’s own up for him. I’m going to call the police.’
‘Maz, I admire your public spirit, but are you sure that’s wise? He’s your future father-in-law. He’ll have disowned you before you marry into the family.’
‘He isn’t all that fond of me anyway. I’ll take the risk. He really shouldn’t be behind the wheel any longer. He’s dangerous.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to have a quiet word with him, ask him to think about what he’s doing and see if he’ll pay up for the repairs?’
‘If I report him, he’ll be investigated and declared unfit to drive. He won’t be able to argue about it. It will be official. Sorted.’ If he can’t drive, he can’t be on call, or go out on his rounds. Old Fox-Gifford will be forced to face up to retirement, which means he’ll have to take on another vet to help Alex out. The people of Talyton – and George, of course – will be safe to venture out on the roads. The Range Rover will be allowed to rust in peace.
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