by Rebecca Shaw
“But you’ve years of life in you yet, you know that. Years we could spend enjoying our life together.”
“Not while I’m alive. That sounds like Megan dishing up. Tell her I want wine tonight. Go on, tell her. Quick man, before it’s too late.”
Rhodri moved his special table to one side so Mr. Jones could lever himself up without any hindrance and said, “I’ll go ask her about the wine.”
“When I need my vocabulary correcting, I’ll let you know.”
They ate their meal at the dining table, Mr. Jones at the head with Megan to his right, and Rhodri to his left. Rhodri wasn’t well versed in the appreciation of furniture, but he could tell that the Jones family had dined off this very table for many, many years. The wood had a patina that only years of use and care could have produced. The chairs were the same—they invited you to sweep your hand across them for the sheer pleasure of touching the wood. In some ways it was a delight to dine in such splendor, in others an irritant because with the table came Mr. Jones.
“Not enjoying your food? Young man like you, you should be wolfing it down.”
“I am enjoying it. Having to cook for myself makes me very appreciative of Megan’s cooking. You’re lucky, Mr. Jones. Just wish I—”
“Rhodri!” Megan stopped him short of annoying her father again with one of his innocent remarks. “It’s Myfanwy. Her feet—she’s limping. Can you take a look?”
Rhodri shook his head. “I really shouldn’t; I’m not a farm vet. They won’t like it.”
Mr. Jones snorted his disdain. “Oh, God! Professional etiquette rearing its ugly head, is it? You’re a vet, aren’t you? So get on with it.”
Rhodri addressed his reply to Megan. “It puts me in a very awkward position. Can I get Dan to come? Is it urgent?”
“No. It’s not urgent. Is he back at work then, after the baby?”
“Yes, he’s back and full of being a father, though he says he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since Rose got home.”
Megan smiled. “Yes, of course. I imagine the baby will be just as beautiful as Rose.”
“God help it if it looks like Dan.”
Rather wistfully, Megan suggested that if the baby was half as beautiful as Rose, he’d do all right. “She’s not just beautiful, there’s a vibrancy about her…I wish…”
Her hand lay on the table while she spoke and Rhodri covered it with his. “I agree Rose is beautiful and Dan’s a lucky man, but you’re just as beautiful and I’m just as lucky as Dan.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Jones sneered, looking pointedly at Rhodri’s hand holding Megan’s. But Rhodri didn’t remove it until he was good and ready and not before he’d taken her hand to his lips and kissed it reverently. The thought crossed Mr. Jones’s mind that Rhodri needed taking down a peg or two and that he was just the chap to do it. Matters were getting dangerously close to being taken out of his control and he wasn’t having that.
Chapter
• 3 •
Rhodri was spending ten minutes he really couldn’t afford at this time of the morning, searching for Harry Ferret. He’d let him out for his early morning run while he got ready, and the little devil had disappeared. It was partly his own fault because he’d left the kitchen door open by mistake. Experience had taught him not to leave the house without getting Harry back inside his outdoor cage. Left all day with the freedom of the house spelled total disaster, so he had to find him before he went to work and time was running out. Rhodri muttered to himself while he crept about in an attempt to sneak up on him unawares, but those bright brown ferret eyes and wickedly twitching whiskers were nowhere to be seen.
Ah! The bathroom! Yes! Got yer! Harry loved nothing better than a tussle with the toilet paper, and Rhodri found yards of it spilling all over the floor. “You little devil, you!” Harry gleefully nibbled on Rhodri’s ear and babbled his own brand of ferret talk to show his appreciation of Rhodri’s tolerance.
With Harry safely fastened in his run in the garden, Rhodri checked his appearance in the mirror in the hall, made sure the house was secure, and ambled out to his car. He sniffed the air and found it gentle and summery, as it should be at this time of year. A hint of damp, though, which might presage rain later in the day. Before putting on his shades, he adjusted his rearview mirror, winked at himself, and agreed with no one in particular that he was handsome in his dark Welsh way with his thick, jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and a sensuous mouth second to none. He shoved the car into reverse and backed out onto the road, jerked into first and set off to the practice, arriving with only minutes to spare.
The car park was already filling up with clients’ cars, so he was definitely much later than he liked to be. He raced in through the back door and into his consulting room, slapped his shades down on a high shelf along with his keys, took his freshly laundered white coat from the back of the consulting room door, buttoned it up, picked up the top file from the pile on his desk and saw his first client was Venus Costello, a cat. His heart sank. Not Miranda again.
When he put his head around the door into reception, he saw it was filling up nicely with clients, and Rhodri took on board the pleasurable buzz and excitement of a morning doing what he liked best. “Good morning, everyone. Venus Costello, please!”
Mrs. Costello stood up and bounced into his consulting room with a bright, “Good morning, Rhodri. I was expecting it to be Graham…”
“Very heavy cold, poor chap, can’t make it today.”
“Oh, dear, I am sorry. I do hope it isn’t anything serious; there’s so much flu about.”
“Don’t worry your head about him; he’s tough. I’ve no doubt he’ll be back tomorrow hale and hearty. Now, it’s time for Venus’s booster, is it?” He peered into the basket and saw Venus sitting with her back to him.
“Yes, it is. She’s used to Graham, really. He’s always seen to her. By the way, I’ve bought another budgie to replace Beauty—well, no, not replace, but you know what I mean. I’ve called him Toots. Beauty’s wife, the shameless hussy, has taken to him immediately. Had I better come back when Graham’s better—they have such a rapport with each other?”
“Don’t fret yourself, Miranda, I’ve done this thousands of times, there’s nothing to it. She’s used to coming here, isn’t she? Now, I’ll get myself organized and you get her out when I’m ready.” Rhodri checked Venus’s card and prepared the syringe.
Though the door to her carrying basket was open, Venus didn’t move, so Miranda put in her hands to lift her out. Venus gave an angry howl as she was placed on the examination table, shot Rhodri a belligerent glare as he approached with the syringe, and took to her heels. She leaped from the table to the desk and hid behind the computer. “Ah! Right. Miranda, you get her. I’ll only panic her.” But Venus saw straight through his subterfuge, and as Miranda, speaking in her softest, most caring voice, put her hand in behind the computer, Venus leaped out onto the top and began racing round the consulting room as if the Hound of the Baskervilles were on her tail. She hurtled about over every level surface she could find, from desk to chair, from chair to table, from table to shelf, to computer, to printer, to fridge at such a speed she was almost a blur.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” whispered Miranda, her earrings tinkling vigorously and her hands covering her mouth in horror and helplessness. “What are we to do?”
Rhodri was at a loss for words. He couldn’t face another crisis with Miranda, not so soon after the episode with Beauty. He dodged past Venus, as she shot from table to desk, to lock the door into reception, but as he did so, Venus sent his shades flying from the top shelf and he trod on them. Biting back an angry response, he raced to lock the door into the Staff Only section of the building. “We mustn’t panic! Stand quite still and so will I, and she’ll get tired. I’ve locked the doors so no one can come in by mistake; if she gets out of here we’ll never catch her.” He put down the syringe and, dodging the flying figure of Venus, went to stand with his back to the wall and advised Miranda to do
the same. “Keep quite calm and don’t speak. It’s the only way.”
After a few minutes, with great relief, they noticed a definite slowing of Venus’s mad race to avoid the needle, and when Rhodri saw her pause for a moment on top of the waste bin, he quickly stepped forward with an old towel he kept for securing cats who took pleasure in clawing a vet’s hands to shreds, and flung it over her. “There we are!” he whispered in triumph. Rapidly, he expertly wrapped Venus so that only her head was visible. She struggled but couldn’t make her escape. Rhodri tucked her under his arm and gently stroked her head, speaking softly to her, so that gradually the fight in her dissipated, leaving her yowling in protest but not struggling.
Very, very quietly Rhodri said, “Now, hold her like I’m doing, firm but not tight; no, no, don’t take the towel off—that’s it—firm but not tight. All I need to get at is her scruff. Gently does it, gently. Slowly.” Venus eyed him viciously, made to struggle free, admitted defeat, and allowed him to inject her. “Well done, Miranda, well done. Put her in the basket.”
Mrs. Costello was a shattered wreck by this time. “Oh! Rhodri! Oh! What an experience. She’s usually so amenable.” She tried to still her beating heart by fluttering her heavily ringed hands on her chest. “I feel quite faint.”
Rhodri tossed the used syringe into the waste bin. “I think next time you come we’d better make sure it’s Graham who sees her. She obviously feels more relaxed with him.”
“I’m so sorry. So sorry to have caused such an upset. I’d no idea she would react like this.”
Rhodri patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry! No problem.”
“You’re so kind. Has she scratched you?”
Rhodri shook his cuff down over his wrist to cover a nasty claw mark. “She has not, no.” He turned to put the information into his computer. “Are you all right, now?”
“I’m a little shaken, but I’ll sit down in the waiting room for a while before I leave. Thank you, Mr. Hughes, for being so kind.”
“All in a day’s work. Good morning, Miranda.” He lifted Venus’s basket from the examination table and handed it over.
In a caressingly sweet voice Miranda said, “Come along, Venus, you naughty girl. What are you? A naughty girl. Yes, you are.”
With the door unlocked, Miranda left, and Rhodri picked up the next file and got on with his morning’s work.
Mrs. Costello went to the reception desk to pay her account, and to her delight saw it was Kate on duty. “Oh, Kate, my dear…”
“Mrs. Costello! You look quite flushed. Is everything all right?”
“Well, my dear, this naughty Venus of mine took a dislike to Mr. Hughes and has been flying around the consulting room like a cat possessed.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Exactly! Mr. Hughes was so clever; he knew exactly what to do.”
“Has he managed to give her a booster?”
“Oh yes, eventually. We had to lock the doors to make sure no one opened them or else we’d never have caught her. He really is a wonderful vet; I feel so embarrassed that Venus was so ungrateful.” Miranda looked at Kate and thought yet again what a lovely looking girl she was, with her hair so nicely arranged, her fine dark eyes, and her cheerful expression, so thoughtful and kindly. Just the kind of daughter she would have liked if only…“Now, dear, tell me how much I owe.”
With her account settled, Miranda asked if Kate minded if she sat in reception for a while till her heart stopped racing.
“Please, feel free.”
Once her heart had stopped beating so fast, Miranda got into conversation with a client who had driven fifty miles for a consultation with Mungo Price. “We never noticed there was anything wrong with him when we got him at eight weeks old, but as he’s grown, we can see there’s a definite deformity in his hind legs. We’ve been referred here; apparently he’s very well known in the veterinary world for his orthopedic work.”
“I can assure you that if Mungo Price can’t fix him, no one can.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh yes, they’re all quite marvelous here. Quite marvelous. Rest assured, I’m certain Mr. Price will be able to help. I must be off now. ’Bye, Kate!”
Kate waved her good-bye without speaking because she was on the phone taking a message from a client. “Of course, of course. I’ll check who’s the nearest and let them know. Absolutely, yes, before lunch.”
Kate put down the receiver and groaned. They were already very shorthanded and could well do without any emergency calls this morning. She checked all the farm calls for the morning, then the map on the wall behind her. That, thought Kate, means ringing Dan, definitely not Colin; he’s too far away to ask him to divert to the Chesham Chicken Farm. The manager had been well-nigh hysterical when she’d spoken to him, heaven alone knew what the matter was.
Dan protested. “Can’t Colin go? I’m not au fait with chickens.”
“No, he’s too far away.”
“Oh! Well. Never been there—could be interesting. I’ll be half an hour though. If Bridge Farm rings, tell them I’ll be there to do the TB testing in about an hour and a half.”
“That’s fine, Dan, so long as you get to Crispy Chicken before lunch.”
“Right!”
WHEN the manager opened the door to the second of the huge chicken sheds, Dan was stunned by the sheer number of birds inside. Hundreds upon hundreds of white-feathered birds scurrying about almost shoulder to shoulder; the ones nearest began scrabbling to escape him by climbing over the heads and shoulders of their compatriots. And the noise! He was deafened by it. They might claim they were free to roam, but…he guessed there was barely a square foot of space for each bird. They appeared to move collectively in great surges, as though they were all of the same mind. They looked perky enough, though, from where he was standing. The shed was well ventilated, he had to admit to that. Huge extractors were stirring the air so that the smell, which would normally have been overpowering from so many birds, was just tolerable. The floor on which they stood was inches thick in wood shavings. Dan asked himself how on earth they managed to keep it so fresh looking. Good management, he supposed.
The manager said, “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About the way they’re kept.”
“They’re clean, they look healthy enough—bright, active—but at the same time, I can’t help but feel sorry for them.”
The manager studied Dan’s face. He saw the strength in his features, the no-nonsense eyes, and the power of his personality. He’d be no easy pushover, this one. “Haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”
“Fairly new. We’re very shorthanded—sickness, holidays, et cetera—today, so I’ve come instead of Colin. Name’s Dan Brown.”
“I’m Bryan Buckland. I remember now; you’re the one who upset Lord Askew! It was all around town.”
They shook hands.
“Quite right, but it’s all been resolved.”
“So I heard. You’ve made quite a coup there, I understand. Difficult beggar to get on with, though.”
“Can be. But we’ve reached an agreement.” Dan laughed and Bryan Buckland laughed too, thinking Dan must be the first ever to know how to handle his lordship.
With no time for social niceties, Dan got down to business. “So how many a day do you lose on average?”
“Ah! Well, that’s the point. In a shed this size we usually find perhaps five a day absolute max. I can live with that, profit-wise, but these last few days it’s gone from five to ten then fifteen then between twenty or thirty, and this morning it was forty-two. That’s bad news.”
“Show me them.”
The poor pathetic remains were piled into a trailer standing outside the door, ready for taking away to an incinerator. “Obviously it’s in our best interests to destroy dead birds quickly. I’ve held these back for you to see.”
Dan didn’t want to touch them with his bare hands for fear of passing any disease on elsewher
e. With his ears still clamoring from the noise in the shed, he poked them around with a stick. “Can’t tell from looking. We need equipment and expertise I haven’t got. Postmortem and such. You should seek advice from the state veterinary service. They’re equipped to deal with situations like these.”
“If they start poking their noses in—”
“If they don’t, you might find yourself losing the whole lot. In such close quarters, whatever they’ve got will pass around like wildfire; then where will your profit be?”
Bryan Buckland was obviously nervous. He bit his lip, looked at Dan, looked at the dead birds and asked, “No idea what it is then?”
“I’m not a poultry man and certainly not qualified to make decisions about such a large-scale operation as yours. You need an expert. But it’s my opinion it could be Newcastle disease; it certainly can’t be ruled out. However, you’re probably more able to assess the problem than I am. You do realize it’s a notifiable disease? If I’m proved right, it would mean every bird would have to be slaughtered in this shed and the other two. Are they following the same pattern?”
Dan thought the manager looked sly. “No, no, no. They’re all right.”
“They soon won’t be if you’re not careful. When will these be ready for dispatching?”
“Another six days.”
“Exactly?”
The manager nodded. “It’s all fine-tuned, this business. One day’s feed too many and the profit margin starts on the slippery slope.” His right forefinger made a downward plunge. “So you can’t help me?”
“I’m afraid not. Wish I could.” Dan dug in his pocket and brought out a card with names and telephone numbers on it written in his flamboyant handwriting. “This chap here, look, ask for him; I’ll write the number down for you.”
“No need to bother; I have Mike Allport’s number.”
“In that case, then why have you called us?”
The manager gave Dan an apologetic stare. “Didn’t want to get officialdom involved if I could help it.”