It's a Vet's Life: (11 page)

‘You have mentioned that before, Fifi,’ Sophia says curtly, ‘on more than one occasion. Now, shouldn’t you be getting on, Alexander? I can’t possibly miss the Mounted Games.’

‘Come on then, Maz.’ Alex takes my hand. ‘Into the lion’s den, or unto the breach, or whatever the saying is.’

Fifi organises the competitors into a line, asking those with pets of a convenient size to stand them on the straw bales, before Alex and I walk up and down, the picture of unity, the perfect couple in love. I squeeze his fingers. He smiles.

‘I like that one,’ I say quietly, pointing out a small, scruffy grey-black terrier. ‘That’s Lucky, one of ours.’

‘I know Lucky,’ Alex says, reminding me that although the dog is registered with Otter House, the family to whom he belongs have other animals, cattle, ponies and chickens, registered with Alex’s practice. ‘I’ve never quite trusted him, and I have to admit that he reminds me of a rat,’ Alex goes on in a whisper. ‘And you can’t choose on the basis that he’s one of your clients. That isn’t fair. I prefer the tarantula.’

‘That isn’t one of yours?’ I say in disbelief.

‘It isn’t – I’m not biased.’

It’s supposed to be fun, I muse, but every pet owner believes their pet is the best, and I can feel the tension as Alex and I walk up and down the line, unable to make a decision. Sensing the weight of their
expectation
, I wonder how anyone can make a decision, when each pet is equally precious in the eyes of its owner.

Aurora is posing for Alex’s benefit, but I’m reassured at his response. He looks away from her legs, giving me a wink and a look.

Lucky doesn’t help his chances of winning by snapping at Alex when he moves to stroke him.

‘You know he doesn’t like strange men, Alex,’ says the lanky teenage boy who’s with him. He’s about fifteen or sixteen, and wears his jeans down around his thighs, showing off his stripy pants.

‘Thanks for that, Adam.’ Alex grins.

‘I didn’t mean strange as in weird or anything,’ Adam says hastily. ‘If you remember, Lucky was abandoned on the motorway before we adopted him. You can’t blame him really.’

‘It isn’t a particularly endearing quality though, biting first and asking questions afterwards,’ Alex says. It’s just like a reality show on television. A good sob story can do wonders for your chances.

‘Your father never has any difficulty coming to a decision,’ Fifi interrupts. ‘Come on, Maz.’ She touches my elbow. ‘You will have to make the casting vote, otherwise we’ll miss out on lunch.’

Alex looks at me. ‘What were the criteria for Best Pet again?’

‘I’m torn between Raffles and Lucky.’

‘The scruffy one? It tried to eat me.’ Alex rubs his chin. ‘I’m inclined towards the spider.’

‘That wouldn’t be your father’s choice,’ I say, amused. ‘He’d class it as vermin.’

‘The girl seems to know a lot about tarantulas, where they come from and how to keep them.’

‘I’m not sure, Alex. Picking the spider might cause a bit of a stir.’

He chuckles. ‘Let’s do it then.’

It wasn’t such a good move. The girl with the spider is delighted with her red rosette and the perpetual challenge cup that she keeps for a year, but Cheryl immediately lodges an objection with Fifi who calls me and Alex over to adjudicate.

‘Blueboy has won prizes at the National,’ Cheryl says. ‘He’s a champion, yet he’s been placed beneath a bug. It’s a disgrace.’ She’s looking at me when she says this. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. ‘Look at Blueboy. Look how beautiful he is.’

Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder in this instance. Blueboy has squinting orange eyes and a grumpy expression, very much like Cassie’s, who happens to be one of his many daughters. His hair is long and lustrous though, bathed and conditioned.

‘Cheryl, this show is for the children,’ says Fifi.

‘Where does it say that in the rules?’ says Cheryl.

‘It doesn’t. It’s common sense. We should use this opportunity to let our young people shine. It’s supposed to be fun.’

I can tell from Cheryl’s expression that it’s only fun when you win.

Fifi continues, ‘Cheryl, please accept defeat gracefully. Blueboy is no less of a show cat, and this is hardly the National Cat Show, or whatever you call it.’

‘That’s true.’ Cheryl begins to back down. ‘It’s a pretty tin-pot affair really. And the judges are hardly qualified.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Fifi says, defending us. ‘They are vets.’

‘What do they know?’ Cheryl shrugs her bony
shoulders
, and turns to me again. ‘I thought you’d like to know that Clive dropped by to ask my advice about Cassie. It seems to show a distinct lack of trust in veterinary advice, if you ask me, but that’s by the by. They’ve ruined her, of course. It’s such a shame they didn’t come to me.’

‘What do you mean, they’ve ruined her?’ asks Fifi.

‘Mating her with a common moggie. She’ll never be able to produce a pedigree litter in future.’

‘It won’t make any difference,’ I say, with restraint.

‘Her blood is tainted,’ Cheryl insists.

I look to Alex for a second opinion.

‘Maz is right,’ Alex says firmly. ‘There’s no reason why she shouldn’t breed a pedigree litter next time, so long as she’s bred to a pedigree cat. The rest, well, it’s an old wives’ tale.’

Cheryl’s cheeks flush deep scarlet. ‘You vets know absolutely nothing about Persian cats. I despair of the profession today. Persians are a special breed.’

‘I despair too,’ Alex says quietly into my ear, as Cheryl retreats. ‘Cat breeders aren’t merely a special breed, they’re a different species.’

‘Oh, Alex, you are a one,’ Fifi giggles, overhearing. She organises the competitors into making a lap of honour around the ring to the applause of the audience that has gathered and I take a moment to speak to Alex.

‘Do we have to go for lunch? Your mother wants us to have the children back so she can run the Mounted Games team.’

‘I feel as if we should put in an appearance,’ Alex says seriously.

I rest my hand on his arm. ‘We’ve done our bit. I’d rather spend the rest of the day with George, and watch Lucie compete.’

‘We are pillars of the community. We are obliged to schmooze.’ The corners of his eyes begin to crease and his mouth curves into a boyish grin.

‘You’re winding me up,’ I say, laughing.

‘You bet I am.’ He grabs my hand and links his fingers through mine. ‘I fancy stout and oysters –’ he lowers his voice and whispers in my ear – ‘and you.’

‘Careful,’ I warn. ‘I hope you’re not going to get overexcited.’

‘What’s going on here then?’ Fifi rejoins us. ‘Oh, young love,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t wait for the wedding. It’s December now, isn’t it?’

I think she knows very well when it is, and somehow, even though Alex and I haven’t got around to writing the guest list yet, she’s made the assumption that she’s invited.

‘Just a word of advice for you, Maz,’ she goes on. ‘Don’t forget to use your contacts. We have an excellent variety of potted trees at the garden centre, if you should choose to follow the royal couple’s example of bringing nature into the church.’

‘It’s a kind thought, but I don’t think so, Fifi. The church is spacious, but it’s hardly Westminster Abbey.’

‘I do hope you’re going to choose some special touches to make the day your own. You have to consider the wedding photos.’

Photos? The photographer. I haven’t booked a photographer yet. I start to panic. There is so much to do. I feel as I did just before my finals at vet school, that shaky, sick sensation that I haven’t done nearly enough work to pass the exams.

‘We’d better be off, Fifi,’ Alex says. ‘We have to rescue Mother – she has all three of her grandchildren on her hands.’

‘You aren’t joining the Show Committee for lunch then? That’s a shame – Old Fox-Gifford always makes a point of joining us.’

‘You know what he’s like – he’ll never turn down a free lunch,’ Alex says.

We join Sophia and the children. George refuses to go back in the buggy, so Alex gives in and carries him on his shoulders, prompting Seb to play up in the most spectacular fashion, even though Alex promises him a turn later.

‘Everyone’s watching. That naughty little boy,’ says Sophia, ‘that’s what they’re thinking.’

‘I not little,’ Seb protests in baby language, something he reverts to frequently, even though he’s nearly six. ‘I not naughty either.’

‘Well, you are,’ Sophia insists sternly. ‘Humpy says so.’

‘Humpy says so,’ Lucie echoes. She adores her grandmother.

‘Alexander, can you manage here? Lucie and I need to get the pony warmed up. The Games are in the arena at one sharp.’

‘Don’t forget, Daddy,’ Lucie says, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

‘I’ll be there. I promise. See you later.’

Alex and I take the boys around the showground, letting them explore the cab of one of the shiny new tractors. Alex has half a stout and several oysters at the oyster bar, and I taste so many local cheeses that I can’t tell the difference between them any more. Seb and George have ice creams and I indulge in a guilty pleasure of mine: melt-in-the-mouth candyfloss freshly spun. We all end up with sticky faces and sticky fingers – thank goodness for baby wipes.

‘I wanna drink,’ says Seb, as we pass the beer tent on our way to the main arena for the Mounted Games.

‘Please …’ says Alex.

‘Please …’

‘I’ll get you one,’ I offer. Anything for a moment’s peace. I can see why parents pander to their kids. I thought I’d be a strict mother, but sometimes it’s easier to follow the path of least resistance. ‘You stay out here with the buggy, Alex. You don’t want a drink, I take it?’

‘I’d love a beer, but I’d better not, not that I expect to get called out today. Everyone’s here at the show.’

‘I’ll be back in a mo’.’ I give George a wave before I head inside the beer tent where the air is thick with the scent of wet clothes, malt and mothballs. I’m not sure why. Maybe the older generations of farmers have pulled their best tweeds out of storage for the occasion. I head past the tables to the bar beyond, where Clive is serving.

‘Hi, Clive. How are you?’

‘Well, thanks, Maz. Edie’s looking after the pub, and the cat, of course. What can I get you?’

‘Just a coke to take out, thank you. Last of the big spenders, that’s me.’

He pours a coke and hands it over.

‘What’s this I hear about a vasectomy gone wrong?’

‘A what?’ My neck grows hot with embarrassment. It seems a strange subject for Clive to raise even though we’re on good terms.

‘You know. You’re a vet,’ he says awkwardly.

‘You must have got the wrong person. My Alex hasn’t had the snip.’

‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Clive blushes furiously. ‘I wasn’t thinking about anyone in particular. I’m sorry.
No
, I’d heard a rumour about some sheep, a ram.’

‘Oh? It’s the first I’ve heard.’

‘I must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Ignore me. I’m always putting my great big foot in it. What’s it called? The practice of dontopedalogy?’

‘Something like that.’ I say goodbye and go out to meet up with Alex, by which time Seb doesn’t want a drink, but is demanding a go on the bouncy castle further along the walkway. While he’s having a quick bounce, I ask Alex about the vasectomy rumour.

‘It was an odd thing to say,’ I point out.

‘You know what this place is like. You’ve lived here long enough.’ Alex gives me an affectionate dig in the ribs, making me slosh the coke. ‘There is some truth in the rumour though. Robert over at Headlands Farm booked a couple of rams in for the snip. Father missed one of the teaser rams.’ Alex means one of the rams that the farmer uses to see if the ewes are ready for breeding. ‘Anyway, it didn’t become apparent until the lambing season back in March when, instead of all being black-faced lambs, there were a large proportion of white ones. It caused a few laughs, I can tell you.’

‘You didn’t tell me,’ I say, a little hurt. ‘It can’t have been all that funny. Wasn’t Robert annoyed? He must have lost quite a lot of money,’ I add, but Alex diverts, grabbing a hat from a stall and sticking it on my head.

‘Suits you, Maz.’ Alex chuckles. ‘What do you think of Mummy in a hat, George?’

George holds out his hands for a hat too. Alex drops one onto his head, but it’s far too big, slipping down over his eyes and making him cry. Alex whips it off and puts both hats back while I console George with some of Seb’s coke, and I’m thinking, sugar rush, he’s
never
going to sleep tonight. Seb comes off the bouncy castle, his hair stuck up with static, and then he wants the drink and we take ten minutes to find his wellies, by which time the commentator is announcing the start of the Mounted Games in the main arena so we have to fly.

There are five teams representing different branches of the Pony Club. Each team consists of four children on ponies with a reserve. Lucie’s team wear purple vests over white shirts and shiny boots. It’s starting to look as though Lucie is getting too big for her pony, the bay, Tinky Winky, but the other members of her team have their legs down around their ponies’ knees.