It's a Vet's Life: (14 page)

‘Good. I’ll leave you to it.’ I retreat to the staffroom, worrying about Will. He’s only been here two or three weeks, yet he looks shattered and his confidence seems to be fading. I hope he isn’t going to burn out a couple of months down the line.

I make a cold drink and take my sandwiches out of the fridge, and just as I’m about to sit down, Frances appears in the doorway.

‘Maz, please can you have a word with Mr Brown. He’s trying to pay his bill in apple crumbles.’

‘That’s a new one on me,’ I say, leaving my lunch on the worktop.

I join Frances and Mr Brown in Reception. Mr Brown, who’s dressed in his usual brown cardigan and nylon trousers, stands at the desk with his dog’s lead looped around his arm. Pippin is a grey and white shih-tzu. He reminds me of a muppet when he sits with his head to one side and peers through his fringe.

‘What’s this about apple crumbles?’ I ask.

Mr Brown gestures towards three foil-topped casserole dishes on the desk.

‘I didn’t have enough money on me when I brought Pippin to see your assistant on Friday. We don’t have a lot going spare at home,’ he says ponderously, and I recall that he cares for his disabled wife. He doesn’t work.

‘Really, this isn’t necessary,’ I say.

‘I’m a pretty sound cook,’ he says. ‘It’s a WI recipe – they gave me cookery lessons. Soused mackerel with mashed potatoes is my speciality dish, but my apple crumble comes a close second. That’s according to my wife. I am not one for blowing my own trumpet.’

‘I’ve no doubt that they are delicious,’ I say, ‘but you needn’t have worried. There must have been an error. I’ll alter the bill.’

‘I expect it’s the new boy,’ Mr Brown smiles. ‘He was very nice. He was kind to Pippin and he paid attention to what I was saying. Some people don’t, you know.’

Sadly, some of them don’t have the patience, I muse.

‘How is Pippin?’

‘He’s quite well at the moment, thank you,’ Mr Brown says. ‘However, he did have a touch of his usual tummy problem this morning.’ He proceeds to detail the riot of colour that Pippin created on the lawn, and how he couldn’t pick it all up …

‘Mr Brown,’ I say, as tactfully as I can, ‘you’re putting me off my lunch.’

‘Oh dear, Maz. Am I holding you up? I’m holding you up.’ Mr Brown pauses. ‘Keep the apple crumbles as a gift. I’ll be in to collect the dishes at the end of the week.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ says Mr Brown. ‘Come on, Pippin. Let’s allow the lady doctor to have her lunch in peace.’

As he walks out with Pippin, Frances lifts one corner of the foil on one of the dishes. ‘That would pass muster with the WI.’

‘I’ll go then,’ I say.

‘Oh, before you do,’ Frances says, ‘I wanted to tell you, and no one else. Emma’s pregnant.’

‘No?’ My heart starts to beat faster. Could she be? Could Emma’s luck have changed at last?

‘I know these things.’

‘Frances, has Emma told you this, or is this to do with your sixth sense and psychic powers?’ I can’t believe she would have told Frances before me, but maybe she hasn’t …

‘She’s pale and tired and she has that “look” about her. It’s difficult to describe, but it’s like a … translucence.’

‘I admit she looks weary, and –’ it occurs to me that I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake here – ‘she’s gone off doughnuts. Oh-mi-God.’ I clasp my hands together with joy.

‘There you go,’ Frances says, eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘There’s the proof.’

‘Have you asked her?’

‘I don’t need to. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.’

I shan’t ask her either. I’d hate to upset her, asking if she’s pregnant, if she isn’t. The signs are all there, but I can’t see how she can be – she hasn’t had time off for IVF, the route she’s had to go down before in her quest to have a baby. However, even this slight doubt can’t suppress the excitement that is bubbling up inside me. If Emma really is pregnant, it’s the best news ever.

Much later, I leave Will starting evening surgery. I scan through the list of appointments and, reassured that there isn’t anything too challenging for him, I say farewell to Izzy who’s staying on to work with him, before I walk along to Petals to talk flowers with Bridget.

Seven is delighted to see me, rushing across the shop floor and jumping up. Daisy is more circumspect,
wandering
up for a sniff and returning to the dog bed under the counter.

‘Hi, Bridget,’ I say.

‘Hello, Maz. Would you like a glass of wine?’

I hesitate.

‘It’s all right. It’s low-alcohol, low-calorie …’ She laughs. ‘How can you call that wine? I’ve got a bottle of the real thing somewhere if you prefer.’

‘No, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, if there’s one going.’ I’m suddenly reminded of the state of Bridget’s kitchen. Tea made from boiled water sounds safer from a microbiological point of view than wine in one of those grubby glasses.

We settle down with tea and crisps, sitting at a fretwork table, on chairs with floral cushions, at the back of the shop. There’s a price list propped up like a menu at a pub, and the air is filled with the scent of crushed dahlias, cut stems and perfumed sweet peas. Seven plants his bottom on my feet.

‘They’re pretty,’ I say, pointing out the clouds of pink, white and purple blooms.

‘Unfortunately, they’d be difficult to get hold of for your wedding in December,’ Bridget says. ‘What theme have you opted for? You have chosen the dress?’

‘Oh, yes, I have the dress. It’s quite simple, a mermaid shape in ivory with a few sequins.’ The more I think about it, the more I love it. I’ve tried it on several times on the quiet, and I can’t wait to wear it on the big day.

‘That’s a good start. What colour are the bridesmaids’ dresses?’

‘I haven’t really decided yet. At least, Emma hasn’t.’ I smile. ‘She seems to be making all the decisions.’

‘So you haven’t brought a swatch of material along with you?’ Bridget shakes her head in disapproval. ‘Aren’t you leaving it all to the last minute?’

‘I’ve still got over five months,’ I say, counting down to December in my head.

‘That isn’t long in the scheme of things.’

I don’t understand why time should pass so much more quickly when you’re planning a wedding than normal.

‘Most brides are ready a year before,’ Bridget goes on. ‘Do you want to go down the traditional route, or the modern?’ She grins. ‘Here, have a flick through the photos.’ She hauls a huge file of pictures onto the table. ‘Let’s see if any of these bridal bouquets inspire you.’

I feel like a fish out of water. I haven’t been to all that many weddings, which is surprising because I do have friends who are married, not just Emma, and Izzy who got hitched two years ago now. However, I was often working weekends, and for various reasons, when I asked to swap duties, I was made to feel indispensable.

‘There will be flowers in the church because it’s close to Christmas,’ says Bridget. ‘You could tie it in with the Christmassy theme: holly and ivy.’

‘Holly? Won’t that be prickly?’ I’m concerned for the person catching the bride’s bouquet, the one who, by tradition, will be the next woman to be married.

‘I can see it now, Maz. A bouquet of evergreens interspersed with scarlet and cream. Depending on the colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses, of course. It will look stunning.’ Bridget passes me the bowl of crisps. I decline, and, flicking through the files, she takes a handful for herself. I want to tell her to look after her health – for Shannon’s sake, if not for her own – but I
bite
my tongue. ‘What do you think?’ She shows me a photo of an evergreen bouquet.

‘I’m not sure,’ I say, realising that I should have been paying more attention to the bridal flowers at the weddings I have been to. ‘It’s … Bridget, to be honest, I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.’

‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’ she says, amused. ‘And I won’t let you leave until you’ve made a decision. We don’t want you falling behind on your “to do” list.’

Bridget is right, I think, when I’m driving home. I can’t afford to fall behind on the dreaded list that’s beginning to take control of my life. My head is filled with flowers and foliage. Anemones, calla lilies or amaryllis? Eucalyptus, ivy or twisted willow? Bridget took me through every combination, and more. At least, that’s what it feels like. I’ve made my decision on the bouquet and the bridesmaids’ flowers, and the arrangements for the church and the tables at the reception … I’m exhausted. I can’t imagine how I can possibly make any more decisions when I have so much else going on.

A Higher Love

THREE WEEKS LATER
, and I’m in the staffroom at work, confirming the booking for the photographer on my mobile.

‘I’ll send a cheque for the deposit,’ I say.

‘That’s great,’ the photographer says. ‘I’ll be in touch nearer the time to go through any special requests you might have. Bye, Maz.’

When she cuts the call, I want to cheer. Another job I can cross off the list.

‘Maz. Maz.’ Frances is in the staffroom right beside me, waving the practice phone. ‘It’s Saba.’

‘I’ve heard everything now,’ I say drily. ‘A poodle that’s learned to talk.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Frances says. ‘It’s Aurora about Saba. She’s fallen forty metres down a cliff. Tom, the coastguard, is there. Saba’s in a bad way, but not so bad that she’ll let him near her to rescue her. She isn’t keen on men.’ Frances hands me the phone and Aurora takes over, her voice laced with panic.

‘Maz, I don’t know what to do. I’d go down myself,
but
I’m afraid to move her. Can you come straight out? Saba needs you.’

‘What about the RSPCA inspector? She’s more qualified to abseil down a cliff than I am.’ I’ve had a go once before, supposedly for fun, but my vertigo kicked in, and all I could do was close my eyes and hang on.

‘She’s on holiday,’ Aurora says. ‘Tom’s tried her.’

‘I’ll be with you asap,’ I say, realising that without me, Saba won’t be going anywhere. ‘Where are you?’

‘On the cliffs at Talymouth. If you stop in the car park, we’re about five minutes from there on foot. Keep to the path.’

I pack the visit case, muzzle, sedatives – for the dog, although I just might need them – and blankets before I hit the winding road to Talymouth. On my way through the seaside town, past the pastel-coloured Regency hotels and B&Bs, to the seafront, I try not to think about what I might be letting myself in for. Forty metres down doesn’t sound too bad, but when you realise that the cliffs are about one hundred metres from top to toe – I try not to think about it – it’s a long way to the rocks at the bottom.

I park in the car park, ignoring the ticket machine. There’s a warm breeze, whisking up dust and ice-cream wrappers. Seagulls call and white horses dance on a blue-green sea. As I walk down the sandy path along the top of the cliffs, Aurora runs towards me in a sequinned vest and tiny shorts.

‘Maz, she’s this way,’ she calls, pointing back to the coastguard’s Land Rover that’s parked behind some scrubby gorse bushes. ‘Thanks for coming. I didn’t have her on the lead. She ran after a rabbit and went over the edge.’

Tom, the coastguard, greets me with a handshake and a smile. He’s well-built with prematurely grey hair, and, in spite of the July heat, dressed in orange waterproof clothing. I’d describe him as rugged.

‘Believe me, I’d rescue that dog if she’d let me, but I’d rather keep my face,’ he says in a strong Devon accent. ‘She won’t let me near her.’

‘Is she hurt?’ I ask.

‘She’s lying down, so I’m assuming she’s injured herself.’

‘Oh, Saba,’ Aurora wails, at which there’s an answering whine.

‘Let’s get you kitted out then,’ Tom says.

Soon, in a helmet, harness and boots, and, having been given a crash refresher course in abseiling, I’m dangling from a rope above the rocks at Talymouth. Tom is alongside me with a pack containing a safety bag, splints, tape and shots of painkiller and sedative, in case Saba needs them. I feel a rush of excitement followed quickly by fear. I’m a mum. I can see danger in eating a grape whole, the jeopardy in an inch of rainwater and the peril of the hot tap, but these are nothing compared with the risks of hanging one hundred metres up by what looks more and more like a thread to me.

‘Hang on there, Maz,’ Tom says. ‘Take it slowly.’

‘Slowly? I want it to be over with as quickly as possible. I am not good with heights.’

‘Now is not the time to tell me that,’ Tom smiles. ‘I think the dog’s paralysed, and I don’t want you getting stuck halfway down because you’re paralysed with fear. I’ll have to rescue the two of you.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘I could ask that Aurora to help, but I think she’s afraid she’ll break a nail.’

‘That’s rather sexist of you,’ I say lightly, trying to ignore the rapid knocking of my heart.

‘Silly woman,’ Tom says. ‘Aurora, I mean. Not you. How many times do we tell people through the press, and down on the beach, to keep their dogs on leads when they’re up on the cliff path? This is the third dog in three weeks.’