It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘Talyton Manor Vets has always been a real family affair. There can’t be many of those left.’ Emma gives me an affectionate nudge. ‘It’s the end of Old Fox-Gifford’s reign, but the dynasty continues.’

  ‘Alex is hoping that at least one of his children will inherit from him …’ Mentioning Alex’s name, having been thinking about him and what he said, all last night, I find I can’t continue.

  ‘Are you all right, Maz?’ Emma says gently.

  ‘I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep.’ I hold up one hand. ‘Please don’t be nice to me, otherwise I’ll get … upset.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Emma touches my shoulder. ‘You can tell me.’

  I start to cry. ‘Alex has cancelled the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, Maz, I’m sorry. After all that effort you’ve put in.’ I notice through my tears that Emma has a small smile on her lips. ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’

  ‘How do you work that one out?’ I sob.

  ‘Christmas isn’t a great time for a wedding. Hey, you’ll be able to rearrange it for late spring or early summer.’

  I shake my head.

  Emma frowns. ‘Maz, didn’t you say postponed?’

  ‘No, cancelled. The wedding’s off.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. Why?’ When I don’t answer, Emma goes on, ‘He shouldn’t have made that decision now – he’s in mourning, it’s probably the most stressful time of his life … Shall I talk to him?’

  ‘That’s where I went wrong, Em. I tried talking to him and he—’

  ‘Broke down,’ Emma finishes for me.

  ‘No, he didn’t. He was … I’ve never seen him like it before. I feel as if I don’t know him.’

  ‘Give him time. He’ll change his mind.’ Emma tries, and fails, to reassure me.

  ‘It’s too late for that. He texted me this morning to confirm that it was up to me to cancel the reception and everything else. He’s too busy.’ It’s going to be a painful and humiliating experience. ‘All that other stuff about not wanting to employ an assistant, or a locum for the honeymoon. I can’t help thinking that he had cold feet and couldn’t bring himself to tell me the wedding was off. His father dying … it’s given him the perfect excuse.’

  ‘Oh, Maz.’ Emma’s eyes glitter, and her upper lip trembles, and knowing she’s sad for me, upsets me more. I end up blubbering into her scrub top, her arms around me and her bump between us.

  ‘Why don’t you take the day off?’ Emma asks gently, when I eventually extricate myself.

  ‘I’d rather stay here.’ I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and blow my nose. ‘It might stop me from going mad. And anyway, I’m going to meet the family at the church at lunchtime.’

  ‘Maz, poor you,’ says Emma.

  In Kennels, I glance along the cages. There are three inpatients: a cat, a dog and a custard-coloured rat. I start with the rat, taking its own cage and record card across to the prep bench.

  ‘This is Bella,’ says Emma. ‘The owner’s a Twilight fan. She has Robert at home – in separate accommodation, I hasten to add. Anyway, Will did a lumpectomy yesterday and Bella took a while to come round so he decided to keep her in for observation.’

  ‘It says a “mastectomy” here,’ I say, reading the card.

  ‘That’s the technical term, I believe.’ Emma is being sarcastic.

  ‘Did he send it off for histology?’

  ‘The client’s coming back to him on that one. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to afford it from her paper round.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s all right. I told him to do his best to talk her out of it today and he seemed to see the logic in that. If the lump returns, it’ll be the end of the rat anyway. If it doesn’t, then great … Either way, we’ve saved the client an awful lot of pocket money.’ Emma pauses as I open the front of the cage. ‘By the way, she nipped Will.’

  ‘She isn’t going to nip me.’ I dive in quickly to catch the rat by her shoulders, making sure she can’t twist her head round. I take a look at her wound underneath. It’s clean and dry, and there are no stitches. ‘That’s a neat job.’

  ‘Will used subcuticular sutures,’ says Emma, by which she means ones under the skin. ‘There’s no need for a collar or body stocking to stop Bella chewing them out.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’ I put Bella back inside her cage and slip the catch shut while Emma writes up the notes. We make a good team. I used to think Alex and I were good together too … I bite back a tear. I can remember feeling absolutely gutted when my previous boyfriend, my ex-boss, dumped me to return to his ex-wife, but it had nothing on this sensation of devastation and loss.

  I’m aware that Emma is staring at me.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she says.

  I fetch the cat next, picking up the drip bag from the hook outside his cage.

  ‘Is this Blueboy?’

  ‘He came in yesterday. He was a bit slow to come round, so we decided to hang on to him overnight too.’

  ‘You’ve shaved him.’ He looks ridiculous, as he did before, with a fluffy face, paws and bottlebrush tail, and the rest of his coat short and smooth.

  ‘Cheryl gave us express permission, in writing and in triplicate. She’s decided not to use him any more. She’s retiring him from both showing and stud duties.’

  ‘What was the result of his blood test?’

  ‘He’s negative for the PKD gene, so it must have been Cassie’s mother who was affected, and she’s dead, so that’s it.’

  ‘The best possible outcome then.’

  ‘Not quite. Cheryl’s looking for a new stud cat.’ Emma smiles. ‘It isn’t great for the cat population, but it’s good for our business, I suppose. Anyway, I reckon Blueboy’s good to go, which leaves us with Tolstoy here, a dog with literary aspirations.’

  ‘Isn’t he another one of Saba’s puppies?’ I ask, taking him out of the big kennel where he stands wagging his tail in rather a subdued manner. ‘He looks just like Seven, apart from not having the harelip.’

  ‘This is an odd one,’ says Emma, taking the record card when I hand it over to her. I pick Tolstoy up and lift him onto the bench, where he stands trembling and looking quite pathetic. ‘He’s been off-colour, nothing spectacular, just less keen than usual on his food, and not wanting to play.’ She sticks a thermometer under his tail, at which he promptly sits down. ‘That isn’t very helpful, is it?’ Tolstoy turns his head and licks her on the nose.

  After a minute or so, she checks the thermometer.

  ‘Thirty-eight degrees. A marked improvement on yesterday.’ Emma takes charge of the patient, and checks the rest of him over, while I draw up a dose of antibiotic.

  ‘Is Tolstoy going home?’ I ask.

  ‘With an appointment to see one of us on Friday,’ Emma confirms.

  ‘That will be Will … Is that okay?’

  ‘We have to start trusting him with more at some stage soon.’ Emma touches her belly. ‘Very soon. What’s he on? The dog, I mean, not Will.’

  ‘Amoxicillin.’ I hand her the syringe. It feels like the old days. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier.’

  ‘You’re ultra-efficient today.’

  ‘I have to be.’ With Alex returning this morning only to shower and change, it’s been down to me to keep life as normal as possible for our son. ‘I’ve had to pack all the paraphernalia George needs and drop him at nursery on the way here,’ I go on, ‘and get myself ready, although that comes last now. Just you wait, Em.’

  ‘I’m waiting,’ she says, amused.

  I carry on consulting, while Will operates and Emma does some paperwork in the office.

  At lunchtime, I leave Otter House, walking briskly to the church and hurrying up the path to join Alex, Sophia, George, Lucie and Seb in the churchyard to see the new memorial for Old Fox-Gifford. The wind is whistling around the graves and blowing Lucie’s red umbrella inside out.

  When I see Alex, his hands in the pockets o
f his waxed coat, my heart misses a beat. Is he going to tell me it’s all been a mistake? He destroys the faint surge of hope that rises in my breast, acknowledging me with a nod and a curt, ‘You made it then. I thought you might have been tied up at work.’

  ‘You hoped, you mean,’ I say bitterly, taking him aside until we’re close to the high wall under the canopy of one of the yews. ‘You would have preferred me to stay away.’

  Alex shrugs. I notice that he hasn’t shaved.

  ‘Perhaps you should move out of the Barn for a while,’ I say, because, having seen him again, I don’t know how I’m going to cope with living under the same roof at the moment.

  ‘That’s ridiculous, and you know it.’

  ‘If you don’t like me enough to commit to marrying me, I can’t see the point in staying together,’ I say miserably. To my regret, because I didn’t want to give Alex any satisfaction in seeing what he’s done to me, tears like acid pour down my cheeks. The idea of marriage was not all that important to me until Alex proposed, when it suddenly seemed a great idea. We were living together, we had a baby and marriage made perfect sense. The idea of cohabiting seems worthless now.

  ‘Alex, I don’t understand what’s happened, what I’ve done—’

  ‘I’ve had enough of inquests,’ he says sharply. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  I follow him back to the grave, arms folded across my chest, my feet dragging. I feel as if I want to hit him, to get some kind of reaction, any reaction, instead of his long cold stare.

  Lucie is stroking the black granite headstone that has been erected on Old Fox-Gifford’s grave. It is of fitting proportions, engraved with his name, qualifications and dates. There is no tribute. Sophia points out that this is because what he requested was far too long-winded to fit.

  ‘So, I decided to leave room for me instead,’ she says.

  ‘Humpy, you’re not going to die,’ says Lucie. ‘Are you?’ she adds doubtfully.

  ‘We all have to die one day,’ says Sophia.

  ‘But you will wait until after the National Horse Show,’ Lucie says.

  ‘Lucie, I plan to be here for a very long time. Until Scheherazade has grown up and had foals of her own, and those foals have had foals.’

  ‘And those foals have had foals,’ adds Seb for good measure.

  I can understand why the children are feeling insecure. It’s hard enough when your grandfather dies, but for him to have chosen death himself … It must make them question how much he valued them, if he could do that. It seems the ultimate act of selfishness to me.

  Perhaps he didn’t want them to see him failing though.

  Lucie places a bowl of flowers on the grave. Seb leaves a picture of Hal, one he’s drawn. All serious, George drops a toy tractor onto the ground beside it, and we stand for a moment in silence. I glance towards Alex. His mother is holding his arm while he stands there, impassive, apart from the muscle twitching in his cheek. He appears to be fine, while I’m in pieces. I gaze up at the clouds, at the rain sweeping in, and wonder when – and if – Alex will break.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For Better, for Worse

  A FEW DAYS later, I take advantage of a break at work to cancel the wedding reception at the Barnscote. I should have done it before, but I’ve only just been able to bring myself to phone Elsa, partly because I’m afraid I’ll break down and be unable to speak, partly because I’d hoped against hope that Alex would say he’d made a mistake, a rash decision as a result of losing his father, and change his mind.

  ‘Are you sure, Maz, only …?’ says Elsa.

  ‘Quite sure,’ I say sharply to cover up my distress. This is the last thing I’d planned, the last thing I ever wanted. ‘You have our deposit. If there’s anything outstanding, let me know.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ There’s a moment’s silence. ‘Are you looking for another venue?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry too, but I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘I understand,’ she says, but I don’t think she has any idea. ‘If you want to book up for a Christmas lunch or dinner, do let us know in plenty of time. Our tables are filling up fast.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ I have no intention of celebrating Christmas this year, any year, although I’ll have to put on a brave face for George’s sake. Following on from speaking to Elsa, I contact Jennie about the wedding cake. She tells me not to worry about it, considering the circumstances, and says she’ll have no problem selling the tiers on as individual Christmas cakes.

  I slip my mobile into my pocket and wander back to Reception, hoping to find something to distract me.

  ‘Hey, Maz, look at this,’ says Frances, waving me over.

  There’s one of those gift bags containing a bottle of some kind on the desk at Reception, the pattern on the bag competing with Frances’s tunic top for the accolade of most garish. Frances slips her Dame Edna specs onto her nose and peers at the label.

  ‘Oh, it’s for Will,’ she says, surprised. ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘He has a fan,’ I say. ‘Who is it from?’

  ‘It says, “From Jack Pike, with thanks and lots of licks.” Look, he’s signed it with a paw print.’

  ‘A muddy one?’

  ‘No, dipped in paint, I should imagine. Oh, how sweet.’

  Jack Pike is a liver and white English springer spaniel. His owner, Ed, is a huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ kind of man.

  ‘He’s the one Will referred for an MRI,’ I say.

  ‘Indeed,’ says Frances. ‘Didn’t you hear? They found a tumour on the brain scan. He’s had treatment and he’s in remission.’

  Frances looks at me, smiling. ‘I believe you’ll have to eat your words, Maz. Didn’t you say it was excessive referring Jack to the specialist?’

  ‘Expensive.’ Unnecessary too, or so I thought. I was wrong. Obviously. A prompt referral has saved Jack’s life. I wonder how Ed, who’s married with two children, managed to afford it.

  ‘There’s a present for you, Will,’ I say, taking it through to Kennels. Shannon is holding Cleo, the tortie and white ‘care’ cat on the prep bench while Will looks down its ear.

  I hesitate, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

  ‘Will, don’t you realise you’ll end up having to knock her out?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Will mutters.

  ‘Can’t you see anything yet?’ Shannon says impatiently.

  ‘No … No, it’s pretty dark down here.’

  ‘You haven’t got some wax or something blocking the end?’ With one hand, Shannon reaches for the pot of cotton buds on the shelf and removes the lid, keeping hold of Cleo who is becoming increasingly annoyed, twitching the end of her tail and making small, but threatening, noises in her throat. Izzy’s been training Shannon well. It never ceases to amaze me how nurses are so proficient at multitasking.

  Will examines the otoscope and pokes a cotton bud into the cone that he’s taken out of Cleo’s ear. ‘It’s no different.’

  Shannon starts to giggle.

  ‘I know what you’ve done – you haven’t turned the brightness up on the light.’

  Will fiddles for a moment.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says.

  ‘Has the light dawned at last?’ Shannon says, and I wonder if I should have a word with her about her sharp tongue. She’s beginning to sound remarkably like Izzy. She’s judging Will too harshly. He’s the vet whereas Shannon is an, as yet, unqualified nurse.

  I wonder if this situation has more to do with Shannon and what happened – or didn’t happen – between her and Drew, our former locum, than Will himself. She’s over Drew – it happened over two years ago now, but maybe … She hasn’t had a boyfriend, as far as I know, although she’s often out and about with her girlfriends.

  ‘Eureka,’ says Will.

  ‘What is it?’ says Shannon. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Any second now and Cleo’s going to loop the loop.’

  ‘Ear mites,’ Will says triumphantly, at w
hich Shannon picks up one of the bottles from the shelf and hands it over to him.

  ‘I assume you’ll want this then.’

  ‘Well, yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you want to flush first?’ she asks.

  ‘Um …’ Will deliberates for a minute or so. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘All right then, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I think so … Yes, I am sure.’ I think he’s forgotten I’m here. I clear my throat.

  ‘There’s a present for you, Will,’ I repeat. ‘I’ll leave it here while you finish off. I don’t want to be witness to a bloodbath.’ I don’t know why I say that – a picture of Old Fox-Gifford reaching for the trigger of his gun flicks into my head. I take a breath and stay, deciding that I need the distraction. It’s been three weeks since it happened and the memory is as fresh as ever.

  ‘Thank you, Maz.’ Will turns his attention back to Cleo, squeezing the drops into one ear, while Shannon rolls her eyes at me. She really must stop doing that. Will massages the first ear, Cleo mewing and scratching with her back leg. He lets go and the cat immediately shakes her head, spattering ear drops everywhere.

  ‘Ugh,’ says Shannon, grabbing a piece of paper towel to wipe her face. ‘Why didn’t you cover the ear with cotton wool like Maz does, so when they shake their heads, the drops stay in?’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ Will stammers, gazing ruefully at the greasy spatters down his top.

  ‘I’d even got the cotton wool ready for you. Honestly, now I’m going to smell of ear wax all day.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Shannon. I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Will. You’ll only make a mess of that too.’

  ‘I’m impressed, anyway,’ I join in. ‘Will’s managed to tame the cat with the worst reputation in the practice. How did you do it?’

  ‘Ah, tact and patience,’ he says, grinning. ‘I’ve learned a lot from Izzy. I’ve been respectful and treated Cleo as an individual. As a result, we have an understanding.’