The Village Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Your face is a picture. I’m pulling your leg, metaphorically speaking.’

  ‘I’d rather you concentrated on the road,’ I say firmly.

  ‘I’m trying to cheer you up, hence today’s awfully big adventure.’

  ‘This isn’t going to take too long, is it?’ I say anxiously. ‘Only I’ve got so much to do.’ I have a list ranging from contacting the bank manager at the branch in Talyton St George to arrange an overdraft to rewriting my CV. Thanks to Nathan, I need money. I need a job, and fast.

  ‘Trust me. This is all to your advantage.’

  ‘So, where are we going on this magical mystery tour?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ My aunt drives us past the garden centre on Stoney Lane.

  ‘I thought you might be going to ask my opinion on the latest fashions,’ I say.

  ‘Well, you weren’t much use the last time. You have absolutely no style, Tessa.’

  I bite my lip, suppressing a chuckle at the memory of standing in the country clothing section of the garden centre that she owns with my uncle, Fifi holding pleated skirts and khaki fleeces up against me. Clogs with ladybirds on them, chintz blouses and quilted jackets are not my cup of tea, but they must suit the clientele – the place is a goldmine.

  ‘Oh, I hope you’re as excited about this as I am,’ my aunt goes on.

  ‘I could be if only you’d tell me where we’re going.’ I’m smiling now, the most light-hearted I’ve felt since I discovered the extent of my debts. Nathan and I bought a house with a mortgage the size of the EU debt mountain, because although he said he had the funds to buy it outright, he wanted to keep them as liquid assets to invest in his business. Nathan insisted that both our names were on the paperwork, a touching gesture that made sure I had a vested interest in our home. It transpires that he cancelled our direct debit to the building society within a month of us moving in, and because he didn’t have any funds in the first place, guess who is liable for the debt? It’s me. And who not only paid for the wedding reception and all those bottles of bubbly that our guests drank their way through in my absence, but for the honeymoon too? Yes, me again.

  When I returned to the house to collect some clothes after the wedding, I discovered more unpaid bills, along with demands for immediate repayment with interest, and another day later, the bailiffs came and seized my lovely car because Nathan had failed to keep up with the hire purchase payments.

  We were going to have a dog and start trying for a baby. I wonder if he meant that now, if they weren’t all lies too.

  ‘How is it going, living with your mum and dad?’ Fifi asks as she drives along the country road out of Talyton St George. She turns into a long, narrow lane with passing places and has to pull in for a herd of about sixty black and white dairy cows on their way out from milking at one of the farms nearby. As they pass, one stops to investigate the bonnet of my uncle’s new Volvo, leaving the damp imprint of her nose. Two more pause to raise their tails and deliver spattering pools of dung beside the wing.

  I’m a boomerang kid, winging my way back to live with my parents at the age of twenty-eight. A week ago, I had my own house. Now, I have a massive debt to repay and nowhere else to go.

  ‘I’m grateful to them for providing a roof over my head, but they’re driving me mad,’ I say.

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be the other way round.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for socialising. They’re always out in the evenings – which does mean that I get the television to myself – and then I lie awake wondering when they’re going to come home. Inevitably, just as I’ve fallen asleep, they come falling through the front door, and the following morning when I’m about to hit the snooze button on the alarm, they’re up and about, laughing and squealing, and fighting over the last painkiller, and who puts the coffee on.’

  ‘Can’t you move back into your house – temporarily, I mean? I don’t see why Nathan should have the monopoly on it.’

  ‘Until it’s repossessed?’ I bite my lip. It’s a lovely house, a family home with five bedrooms, a study and landscaped gardens on the new estate in Talyton St George.

  ‘You have as much right to live there as he does.’

  ‘It triggers too many memories.’ I have been back three times to collect my belongings, and each time I felt faint and sick. The house is a symbol of Nathan’s deception.

  ‘I think we might be able to help each other out, Tessa,’ Fifi says.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I do have a plan.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To respond to every ad for vet nursing vacancies and hope someone offers me a job as soon as possible.’

  ‘But we don’t want you moving out of the area again,’ Fifi says, rather crestfallen.

  ‘I’m not tied to Talyton St George any more. The house will be sold and that will be it.’

  ‘What about your dad? He was delighted when you came back to live here.’

  ‘From the way Dad carried on, anyone would have thought I’d been living on the other side of the world. I wasn’t far away, twenty miles at the most. He does exaggerate sometimes.’

  ‘Most times,’ Fifi smiles.

  ‘If I move out of the area, I can come back to join everyone for Christmas, for the Country Show, for the tar barrels and the wassailing.’ Talyton St George has retained so many quaint – some would say bizarre – traditions.

  ‘Neither of the practices here have got any vacancies. I’ve asked,’ my aunt says. ‘It’s always useful to have contacts. Maz and Emma are such lovely people – Maz is committed to animal welfare, she’s been very supportive of Talyton Animal Rescue.’

  Aunt Fifi is chairperson of the local charity and has been since I can remember. I used to help out when I was younger, and that’s what really inspired me to go into vet nursing.

  ‘Otter House vets have two nurses already, and Talyton Manor vets, the large-animal practice, don’t seem to have need of one at all. I tried to convince Alex Fox-Gifford, the principal, that he did, but he wasn’t having any of it,’ Fifi says, flicking the left-hand indicator on the car, and turning right into a narrow lane that I recognise from my volunteering days back when I was in my teens. It’s a particularly narrow and twisty lane which peters out into no more than a farm track where the hedgerows press in on each side and overhanging tree branches catch at the car’s paintwork.

  ‘I thought I’d show you our new rescue centre,’ Fifi says. ‘I wanted to bring you here before, but—’

  I cringe as I hear the chassis catch and scrape along the grassy ridge that runs along the middle of the rutted track.

  ‘We’re going to have to do something about the access,’ Aunt Fifi comments as I keep a grip on my seatbelt and bite my lip to stop myself criticising the speed of her driving. ‘The builder’s truck is making it so much worse, especially when it rains, but it’s a pity to have to spend money on asphalt when we could use it on refurbishing the rest of the kennels.’ My aunt slams the brakes on as a rabbit crosses our path, and drives on more circumspectly until the track ends and a tall hedge of dog rose, hazel and brambles rises up in front of us, reminiscent of the impenetrable wall of thorns that grew up around the castle in the fairy tale of ‘Sleeping Beauty’.

  Fifi parks alongside a white truck loaded with pieces of wood and pots of paint, and printed with the logo, DJ Appleyard: Quality Builder; for all your requirements along the side. Emerging from the car, my aunt takes a call on her mobile from someone she knows on the local council, promises she’ll phone them back and shows me a ragged gap in the hedge. Stepping through to the other side, I find I don’t recognise the place even though I’ve been here before many years ago, and it’s quite a shock to me.

  To our left is the wood, Longdogs Copse, and to the right is a small paddock which is completely overgrown with weeds: docks, rosettes of ragwort and nettles. Beyond, there are some outbuildings, a barn open at one end, a shed, a row of cat pens and what we used to call the n
ew kennel block. In the middle of the open space between them is the main building on the site. Buttercross Cottage, a quaint cob and thatch house with diamond leaded windows and flowers around the outside, has gone, destroyed in a fire one night three or four years ago. In its place stands an unprepossessing modern box of a bungalow with large windows, slate-grey render and a brown front door.

  ‘That’s a bit of an eyesore,’ I observe.

  Aunt Fifi has the grace to look a little embarrassed. I suspect she had something to do with it. She has influence, you see, she knows exactly how to run and therefore to manipulate the systems set up to maintain a fair and democratic community. If she isn’t on one of the committees in Talyton St George, she’ll have a crony who is.

  ‘It’s one of those things. Sometimes, I wonder if this place is cursed.’ Fifi pauses. ‘Gloria died in the fire, taking some of the animals with her. Alex Fox-Gifford, the vet, ended up in hospital. It was a terrible disaster.’

  I remember Gloria Brambles, a strange old woman with pale skin, white hair, fingerless gloves, and a piece of amber containing some kind of insect hanging around her neck, both insect and owner trapped by circumstance. I used to help her out as a teenager when she ran the Sanctuary, supported by the volunteers and funds from Talyton Animal Rescue. My parents refused to allow me a pet because of their busy lifestyles and the cost, and Gloria took pity on me. She taught me a lot.

  After Gloria’s husband died, she began to shun the company of humans and turn towards the animals. She collected them compulsively and, because she couldn’t bear to give them up for rehoming, she either invented various ailments for them, claiming they were too sick to go to new homes, as if she had Munchausen’s by proxy, or she listed criteria for potential new owners that they couldn’t possibly meet. She fell out with the volunteers, suggesting that they didn’t know what they were talking about when it came to cleaning out kennels and walking dogs, and my Aunt Fifi stopped visiting altogether.

  Ultimately, Gloria loved the animals too much. The Sanctuary fell into disrepair and the animals sat and suffered, until Maz tackled her about the welfare of the animals in her care. The night before Fifi and a party of volunteers were due to help remove some of the animals from the property, Gloria set fire to the cottage. She is supposed to have said that if she couldn’t have the animals, then no one else could either.

  I shiver at the sudden chill in the air.

  Fifi says that she should have realised Gloria was too frail and infirm to look after the animals on her own. She should have insisted on the volunteers going in, or called an animal welfare inspector like Jack, or Andrea from the RSPCA, or arranged for a regular visit by a vet, but it was Gloria’s property, so what could she do?

  ‘Gloria didn’t leave a will, which is odd, considering that her husband was a solicitor and she was an educated and intelligent woman. Everything went to the state when it could have come to us.’ By ‘us’, my aunt is referring to Talyton Animal Rescue.

  ‘I think she lost the plot,’ I say.

  ‘The people who bought the land after the fire were given planning permission for an avant-garde steel-framed house. We had reservations on the Council, but with the site being so far out of Talyton itself, who was going to worry about it? It’s good to move with the times, and who was to say that this building wouldn’t be admired as a valuable part of Talyton’s heritage years into the future?’

  ‘Where is it, though?’ I say wryly. ‘Where is this amazing building?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the family failed to complete the build. They had some problems – a divorce, I believe – and ran out of money.’ Fifi smiles. ‘And that’s where Talyton Animal Rescue has been able to step in. Do you recall the author Chastity Stubbs?’

  ‘The romance writer?’

  ‘Talyton’s answer to Barbara Cartland,’ says Aunt Fifi.

  ‘I remember trying to read one of her novels. Dad used to leave them in the bathroom as reading material. She was pretty prolific, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She published four works a year from the time she was twenty-eight – the same age as you are now – to her seventy-eighth birthday when she put down her pen and retired.’

  I wonder briefly if I should follow her lead, but I’m too cynical about love and the happily-ever-after to go there again. There will be no more silly romances for me. I recall the book was about a heroine who was as thick and wet as Dartmoor mizzle and one of those impossibly handsome yet arrogant alpha-male heroes who you would like to hit, not hit on.

  ‘What has Chastity Stubbs got to do with the Sanctuary?’ I ask.

  ‘Although you didn’t think much of her books, others loved them and she made a fortune from her writing. Sadly, she died recently in a nursing home down at Talymouth. She never married, maybe because of all that romance in her life. She never had children because, in spite of the hot sex—’

  ‘Aunt Fifi.’ I admonish her with a grin.

  ‘She was ahead of her time. Some of the love scenes were rather steamy. She didn’t stop at the bedroom door, which is probably why she was so successful. Anyway, Chastity left her estate to Talyton Animal Rescue with the express wish of re-establishing a rescue centre here for the benefit of all creatures, great and small. Although’ – Fifi smiles again – ‘we’ll have to draw the line if anyone turns up with a giraffe or an elephant.’

  ‘I didn’t know about the legacy.’

  ‘Tessa, I’m sure I’ve mentioned it to you, although you’ve more than likely forgotten. You have been otherwise occupied for the past few months.’

  ‘Please don’t remind me of what a fool I’ve been.’

  ‘We’ve all made fools of ourselves from time to time. And talking of fools, where is DJ?’ She hesitates, looking around. ‘When we took him on as our builder, it was because he promised me faithfully that he’d complete the project – finishing off the house, renovating the kennels and constructing two stables in the end of the existing barn – by the end of April. Look at it. It’s the beginning of May and it’s … it’s a building site.’

  We walk between a cement mixer and a stack of bags of builders’ sand, two of them torn and spilling their contents onto the wasteland that surrounds the bungalow. Fifi stops, pushes the front door open and ushers me through.

  ‘I should have known better, of course – I’ve never heard anyone say he’s finished work for them on schedule.’

  ‘Lastminute.com,’ I say, smiling. I’ve seen DJ around Talyton before, working on extensions and roofing jobs.

  ‘But he was cheap, and available, or so he said at the time.’

  ‘Have you come to check up on me again?’ A short, swarthy, dark-haired man in his fifties and dressed in paint-spattered overalls appears around the doorway – there is no door – at the far end of the narrow hallway. He winks several times as he approaches, paintbrush in one hand, mug in the other, but I don’t read anything into it – it’s a nervous tic.

  ‘I thought your son was coming to help you today,’ Fifi says.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be here tomorrow. Something’s come up. He’s gone to price another job.’ DJ grins. I think he’s enjoying winding her up.

  ‘When are you going to finish the bungalow and be ready to make a start on the kennels? We have animals waiting. Our foster homes are full to overflowing. How long is this going to take?’ Fifi asks, sounding strangely rattled. She’s used to people taking orders without argument.

  ‘As I’ve said before, Fifi, it’ll take as long as it takes, no less and no longer.’

  ‘That isn’t good enough. I notice the radiators haven’t been fitted yet.’

  ‘They’ll be done tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Fifi echoes.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ DJ repeats, as though he believes that if he says it often enough, it will become reality.

  ‘I’m going to show my niece around,’ Fifi says.

  ‘Mind the paint,’ DJ warns her. ‘It’s wet in places.’ And he winks again, deliberately I think
this time, as we pass him and head into the room beyond.

  ‘What do you think, Tessa?’ my aunt asks as she peruses the walls, which are painted a dull shade of mushroom. Not waiting for me to form an opinion, she goes on, ‘You can use it as either the living room or main bedroom. We thought the room at the front would make a useful office combined with a reception area. There’s another room slightly smaller than this one, a kitchenette and a bathroom. It’s basic, but there’s everything there that you need.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll need someone living on site.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ Fifi reaches out for my arm. ‘So, if you can beg, steal or borrow a bed and a microwave, you can move in tomorrow.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Oh, darling, why did you think I brought you here? I can’t find you a job as a vet nurse, so I’m offering you the position of manager in return for rent-free accommodation, the use of a vehicle and a salary of …’ She mentions a figure that’s much less than I could earn if I returned to practice. ‘I can’t offer you any more than that. Chastity was a generous benefactor, but the money has to be eked out.’

  ‘It’s such a shock.’

  ‘I can’t say that it’s the answer to all your prayers. It won’t be much help with your financial position, but it does solve the immediate problem of finding somewhere to live.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I gaze around at the house. It isn’t up to much, that’s true, but it’s close to home and, as my dad would say, beggars can’t be choosers. Finding new homes for stray and unwanted animals would be a fresh challenge, something different and potentially very rewarding, and it would give me the time and space to decide what to do in the longer term, but I hope this isn’t special treatment. ‘I don’t want you offering me this opportunity because you feel sorry for me,’ I continue.

  ‘Tessa, you would be doing me and Talyton Animal Rescue a great favour. You’re a qualified nurse, you care for animals and their welfare, and you’re good with people.’

  ‘I’m not so good at reading character,’ I say ruefully.

  ‘Some people are more devious than others,’ Fifi says, and I wonder if she’s thinking of Nathan or herself. ‘If you can run a vet practice, you can organise the Sanctuary.’