The Village Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  Special Delivery

  IT’S THREE DAYS since we caught Dolly and brought her to the Sanctuary, and we haven’t been able to get near her since. The trick with bucket isn’t working because, with all the grass in the paddock, she isn’t hungry. Libby tries to tempt her over with a carrot, but Dolly isn’t stupid.

  ‘That didn’t work,’ Libby says, coming over to join me where I’ve taken it into my own hands to sweep up some of the builder’s sand that DJ hasn’t got around to clearing up yet. ‘Do you want a hand moving some of those tools?’ she goes on.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind. DJ hasn’t shown up yet.’ It’s gone eleven and I’m not sure he’s going to today.

  ‘He’s started work on another job,’ Libby says. ‘I saw his truck parked outside one of the houses in Silver Street this morning.’

  ‘Oh, great. That’s just what I need, and it explains why he isn’t answering his phone.’ I pause. ‘We’ve got the Fun Day at the beginning of June – less than a fortnight away. It isn’t going to be much fun if this place looks a mess.’

  ‘It won’t. We’ll all muck in,’ Libby says, picking up a shovel that turns out to be in two pieces. ‘Where shall I put this?’

  ‘In the far end of the barn or in the shed. Anywhere as long as it’s out of sight.’

  We’re partway through our task when the postman turns up in his red van. He isn’t our usual postie, I notice when he jumps out with a sheaf of letters. He’s much younger, for a start, in his mid-twenties and good-looking, with short brown hair, hazel eyes and a lightly tanned complexion.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’m Ash. I should have been here hours ago – I have a special delivery for you.’

  I notice how he automatically turns to Libby, not me, and I feel like I’m butting in when I introduce myself.

  ‘I’m Tessa, the manager here … And this is Libby, one of our volunteers,’ I go on, when Libby just stands there, staring at him in his navy T-shirt and shorts with a standard reflective Royal Mail waistcoat over the top. Perhaps I should go on to clarify that she’s our only volunteer, because, like DJ, Diane and Wendy haven’t shown up either. Perhaps I should also give her a nudge: she’s making herself look completely transparent, playing with a lock of her hair and popping her eyes at him, but it seems that Ash is equally taken with her.

  ‘I feel like I’ve met you somewhere before,’ he says eventually. ‘I live down at Farley’s End.’

  ‘I’m from Talyton St George,’ says Libby, with a small frown.

  ‘I’ve probably seen you in town then. There’s no reason for anyone to visit Farley’s End – there’s nothing there except a farm, five cottages and a derelict chapel.’

  ‘Were you ever a Young Farmer?’ Libby asks.

  ‘The post,’ I cut in.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Ash hands me the letters, at least a tree’s worth, forwarded from my parents’ house and defaced by my dad’s handwriting (I never did sort out my change of address when I moved in with Nathan). I think it is Dad’s way of letting me know that I’m neglecting him, and I make a mental note to invite him over with Mum sometime soon, perhaps for the Fun Day and dinner afterwards. I’m well practised in preparing meals for the animals, but my cooking isn’t so hot, and I tend to make a dog’s dinner out of even the easiest of Delia’s recipes.

  Ash turns back to Libby. ‘Didn’t you use to go swimming at the pool in Talymouth? I was a lifeguard and a Dolphin.’

  Libby blushes. ‘That’s right. I remember now. I used to hang around there with my friends.’

  ‘Um, is there anything I have to sign for, only I’d like to get on,’ I say. ‘Ash, you said you had a special delivery for us?’

  ‘I almost forgot,’ he says, turning towards his vehicle. ‘It’s in a box in the van. Oh no, it isn’t.’ I follow his gaze, alerted by the lilt of panic in his voice. There’s a cat, a black and white one, standing on the driver’s seat with its paws resting on the edge of the part-open window. ‘It must have forced the lid open. I thought I’d stuck it down well enough.’

  ‘Don’t open the door,’ I tell him as he makes for the van.

  ‘I thought Postman Pat was a fictional character, but look at you and your black and white cat. You’re just like him.’ Libby grins.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have the silly hat and three fingers on each hand,’ Ash counters. ‘It’s all right – I’ve heard all the Postman Pat jokes today. My mates have been winding me up since they found out I’d picked up a cat on my round. I found it in the back of the van – it must have jumped in and hitched a lift somewhere. The trouble is I’m not sure where to deliver it back to, so I thought I’d bring it here. Can you take it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Libby, would you mind getting one of the carriers from under the desk in reception?’ She bustles off and returns with a white wire basket, and we spend five minutes coaxing the cat into it before we can settle it into the cattery in the pen opposite Teddy’s. I check it quickly – it’s a girl. Hopefully, someone will notice she’s missing and give us or the local vets a call, or, if she’s lucky, she’ll be microchipped and we’ll be able to reunite her with her owner. It doesn’t look as though she’s been living rough – she’s too well fed.

  Once Ash has gone, Libby clips a record card to the cat’s pen.

  ‘I’ve given her a temporary name,’ she says.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘In tribute to Postman Pat, it has to be Jess.’ Libby looks at me. ‘At least that’s cheered you up, Tessa.’ She returns to tidying up after DJ, while I remain in the cattery to spend half an hour or so with Teddy. I tell everyone that it’s all about his rehabilitation, helping him to be the best pet he can be, but it’s more about me taking time out for a sneaky cuddle.

  When the phone rings, I tuck it awkwardly between my chin and shoulder, so I can keep hold of Teddy while I answer the call.

  ‘Talyton Animal Rescue here.’ Teddy butts his cheek against my face – he’s been much happier since he came back from the vet’s. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I can’t hear you very well.’ The woman at the end of the line sounds mature and well spoken. ‘There’s a lot of interference.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I try to persuade Teddy to go back into his pen. ‘It’s a cat purring.’

  ‘A cat?’ she says dismissively as he turns to make a run for it before I can close the door.

  ‘Hey, come here.’ I grab the phone with one hand and rugby-tackle the cat, grasping him around his middle before pushing him back into his pen, closing the door and slipping the bolt across. ‘I’m sorry about that – Teddy loves his cuddles.’

  ‘Cuddles?’ I can hear the disgust in the caller’s voice. ‘Never mind, I wanted to ask you if you take in dogs.’

  ‘We do, although we don’t have much kennel space available at the moment.’ DJ still hasn’t completed the work in the kennel block. ‘Did you want to come and meet the animals we have up for rehoming?’ We haven’t all that many yet: Buster, Teddy and a pair of crazy spaniels.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t want to rescue a dog. I want to hand one over to you.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’ I make every effort to sound sympathetic, but I guess I’m always going to find it hard to understand how anyone can give up their pet, except in the most extreme circumstances.

  ‘It isn’t mine. It’s my mother’s. She’s going in to hospital for an operation, and it’s unlikely she’ll ever return to her house. The nursing homes I’ve looked at won’t take pets.’

  ‘There’s no way you can take your mother’s dog on?’ I say. Ask a silly question …

  ‘I work full-time and I can’t possibly take on a dog, any dog – and besides, Tia is used to having someone at home at all times. It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘Perhaps you could kennel the dog until you’re absolutely sure your mother isn’t going home,’ I suggest. ‘That way there’s a chance they can stay together.’

  ‘No, I’ve made my mind up. The dog has to go.’
>
  I bite my tongue. It seems very harsh, and I wonder why she won’t try harder to care for her mother’s dog. I would in her position.

  ‘You could have a dog walker drop in once a day while you’re at work.’

  ‘Tia doesn’t walk any more, and to be blunt with you, she isn’t my kind of dog. If I was going to go to the bother of having one, I wouldn’t choose Tia. I’d opt for one with – how should I put it – a bit of personality.’

  I’m worried now. The dog needs rescuing from this dreadful woman, but how am I going to rehome a dog of Tia’s description?

  ‘You’d better bring her over,’ I say with reluctance. ‘I’ll be here all day.’

  ‘Can’t you collect her?’

  ‘Have you got a car?’ I say impatiently.

  ‘I’m not taking the risk – Tia suffers from travel sickness, even on the shortest of journeys. And I can’t possibly force her to walk to you. As I’ve said, she doesn’t do walks any more.’

  ‘How old is she?’ I ask.

  ‘Eleven or twelve, thirteen maybe. I don’t know – she’s just a dog.’

  It crosses my mind that Tia might be better off being put down. It’s horrible to contemplate, but sometimes it’s the fairest option. However, I don’t want to force this woman into making the decision. She sounds as if she has absolutely no compassion for either the dog or her elderly parent.

  ‘She’s blind and doesn’t hear very well, and I’ve no idea if it’s because she’s deaf, or completely senile like my mother. Well, tell a lie. My mother isn’t completely senile – sometimes I think she puts it on to avoid talking to me.’

  Give me strength, I think as she piles on problem after problem. I repeat my request that she bring the dog, but in the end I agree to send Jack with the van as soon as possible. The caller is not someone who is used to being denied.

  After clearing the kennel next door to the crazy spaniels, I take five minutes out, choosing a dry spot on the lawn at the back of the bungalow, where I lie down on my back and squint up at the leaves on the cherry tree. The sun filters between them, warm on my skin. It’s a beautiful day.

  I stretch my arms, admiring the muscles I didn’t know I had before working at the Sanctuary. I’m wearing a vest with lace trim, jeans rolled partway up my calves and a pair of particularly unsexy steel-toecapped walking boots. The position of manager is both character-and body-building.

  On hearing a vehicle coming up the track, my heart misses a beat, but regains its normal rhythm when I look past the side of the bungalow to the car park and realise that it’s my aunt, not Jack.

  ‘Well done, Tessa,’ she says, brandishing a copy of the paper when I meet her out the front. ‘You should have gone into PR. Look at this.’ She opens the Chronicle at page two and shows me the results of my interview with Ally, who, true to her word, came out a couple of days ago with a photographer to take pictures of some of the animals. Teddy the cat was a natural poser, gazing into the camera while I held him in my arms, whereas Buster hated it, looking away before deciding he’d had enough, slumping down on the floor with his nose tucked under his paws. ‘The ducklings are gorgeous,’ Fifi goes on, and I have to agree with her, they really have the ‘ah’ factor. ‘If they don’t persuade people to come and have a look around at the Fun Day, nothing will.’

  I was hoping the photo of Buster would make someone fall in love with him, but I’m doubtful now. He looks like a grumpy old man.

  ‘So, how is it all going?’ Fifi asks when we’re finally alone together, having dropped Libby off at the Co-op, where she’s been called in to do an extra shift, and brought me to the garden centre for a cream tea. It is one of her many missions in life to get some weight back on my bones, to turn me from what she describes as a skinny chicken into a fat bird.

  ‘I thought you might have come up to find out,’ I respond, wishing to let her know that I’ve missed her help without sounding as though I’m criticising her lack of input. We are sitting at one of the tables in the coffee shop, surrounded by fronds of greenery and beside a stand of special offers – impulse buys of handy items you never thought you needed, like grippers to attach to your shoes so you can walk safely on ice, and fleecy sacks you can wear while chilling out on the sofa in the winter, shopping trolleys and support stockings.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been rushed off my feet as usual. I’ll drop by to do some more office work one day next week.’ She pauses, gazing at me, her eyelashes long and thick with mascara and her lips an unnatural matt pink. ‘Have Diane and Wendy been along to volunteer recently?’

  ‘They turn up occasionally. They seemed keen to start with, but their enthusiasm appears to be waning. Libby’s often about though.’ I smile to myself. I reckon she’ll be staying on at the Sanctuary for a long time yet, and not just because of her interest in the pony.

  ‘And Jack? Is it working out between you?’

  ‘I couldn’t do it without him,’ I say generously.

  ‘I see. So you are managing to work with him, after all?’ A smile plays on my aunt’s lips. ‘I knew you two would get along.’

  ‘We get along for the welfare of the animals. We’re very … professional.’ I find myself blundering on in my eagerness to prove that there is not and never will be anything between me and Jack, in spite of my aunt’s apparent determination that there will be hearts and flowers.

  ‘Jack’s a lovely boy,’ she continues. ‘He’s always thinking of others before himself. He was called out to the Old Forge up at Talyford the other night. There was a fire, and Penny – you know Penny, with the assistance dog – was trapped in her studio. According to the gossip in the butcher’s, Jack forced the window at the back and carried her out over his shoulder, would you believe it?’

  Do I believe it? I know from experience that you have to take some of Talyton’s spicier pieces of gossip with a pinch of salt, but this one seems genuine.

  ‘When did this happen?’ I ask.

  ‘On Monday night.’

  ‘Jack didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? As a retained firefighter, he would say that it’s what he’s paid to do for the members of our rural community.’ My aunt smiles again and adds with more than a trace of irony, ‘Why should he mention it to you anyway, Tessa? I wouldn’t expect Jack to make small talk to me when our relationship was on an entirely professional footing.’ She changes the subject. ‘How’s DJ getting on?’

  ‘When I managed to get hold of him, he mentioned that he hasn’t been paid,’ I say as tactfully as I can manage.

  ‘That’s Diane’s fault,’ Fifi flashes back. ‘She’s treasurer. She’s withholding the funds.’

  ‘Can she do that?’

  ‘She thinks she can.’

  ‘But DJ’s doing the work, so he’s fulfilling his side of the contract. You can’t not pay him.’

  ‘I’m doing my best in the face of adversity.’ Fifi taps her spoon against the side of her teacup. ‘Diane has always been a subversive influence on the committee and she’s always had her eye on taking over the role of chair, not because she’ll be any good at it, but out of envy.’

  ‘Let’s forget Diane for a moment. I’m worried that DJ will push off without finishing everything. The stables look great, but he hasn’t hung the doors in the kitchen in the bungalow, or completed the last five kennels (there should be a row of ten), or lined the shed so it’s useable. I’d like it all to be done before the Fun Day. It isn’t long now and we’re nowhere near ready to show it off to the public. I don’t have time for DIY when I’m tied up with the animals.’ I am beginning to panic. ‘Is Diane being a pain about the money to get at you for taking me on here? Because that’s the rumour, according to Jack.’

  ‘I’m still chair of Talyton Animal Rescue. No one can do anything without my say-so.’

  ‘Fifi, do you think I should leave? My leaving would solve the problem.’

  ‘Don’t even think of it. We’d never find anyone else of your calibre, and be
sides, we need someone there now. There are animals at the Sanctuary that need full-time care. I can’t let you abandon them.’

  ‘I could stay until the committee finds a replacement.’ It would break my heart, but I would do anything to save the Sanctuary, and with the committee members falling out with my aunt, I can feel it beginning to fall apart.

  ‘You are not going anywhere, dear niece. There’s bound to be some unrest among the volunteers – people don’t like change. One day, they’ll see sense, and in the meantime, we must go ahead with the fund-raising events for this summer, otherwise the summer ball will end up as a winter one, and that will clash with the highlight of the hunt’s social calendar, the Hunt Ball. I thought we’d go for September.’

  ‘How can we go ahead with arranging a ball if the rest of the committee isn’t onside?’ I spread a dollop of clotted cream onto my scone before scooping jam from the dish on the tray in front of me. I was going to choose carrot cake because it sounds vaguely healthy, but as Fifi noted while I was deliberating at the counter, the garden centre’s carrot cake should carry a warning: may contain traces of carrot.

  ‘We’ll worry about that later,’ Fifi says. ‘If we wait, everywhere will be booked up.’

  ‘We need a half-decent venue that isn’t too expensive,’ I explain. ‘You know everyone so I thought you might be able to strike me a good deal. I thought maybe I could look at the Talymill Inn, the Dog and Duck or the Cricket Club, or we could keep it simple with a hog roast at the church hall.’

  ‘Oh no, you can’t possibly expect everyone to make a splash unless you book somewhere far more exclusive,’ Fifi says disapprovingly. ‘And a hog roast? That will not do. That will not do at all. You’ll be telling me you want to hold a disco in a barn, like the Young Farmers. Tessa, I am not wading through mud in my best shoes and sitting on a straw bale with a paper plate of greasy pig and slimy coleslaw. Ugh!’

  ‘What about here, at the garden centre? You could donate the fee to Talyton Animal Rescue.’ I warm to my idea. ‘You know what you’re doing. You’ve held dances here before.’