It's a Vet's Life: (19 page)

Frances gives me a figure.

‘Will must have made a mistake,’ I say. ‘It’s all right, Frances. I’ll have a word.’

‘That isn’t all,’ she says, stalling me. ‘A couple of our regulars have gone over to the other side.’

‘What do you mean? They’ve died?’

‘They’ve registered with Talyton Manor Vets because they reckon Will overcharged them.’

‘I see …’ I phone Clive to delay having to broach what might be a delicate subject with Will. The practice is mine and Emma’s, but Will is a fellow professional and he’s entitled to some respect.

I wouldn’t be too happy if my boss had told me, in my first job, what I could and couldn’t do, although, in retrospect, he did tell me off for not giving enough injections. At the time, his clients were accustomed to expect a shot of long-acting antibiotic with a touch of an anti-inflammatory – my boss’s euphemism for steroids – or a shot of vitamin B, or a tonic to boost appetite and the immune system. He had quite a way with words, and he made his living, and acquired a couple of sports cars, on the back of those shots.

Clive answers the phone.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

‘I wanted to check whether or not I should bring Cassie to the surgery,’ he says. ‘The kittens have been pulling her stitches out. Edie tried making her a boob tube to cover them, but it hasn’t worked. She made holes in strategic positions so the kittens could feed.’

‘Is the wound closed, or open?’ I ask, amused at the thought of Cassie in clothes.

‘It looks closed and there’s a dry scab on it.’

‘Is Cassie well in herself?’

‘She’s the same as ever.’

‘In that case, we can leave it for now. If the wound starts weeping, or there’s any redness or swelling, bring her straight down.’

‘Thanks, Maz. I’ll see you for the appointment to have the rest of the stitches out.’

‘Okay, Clive. I’ll see you then.’

I decide to go upstairs to the flat to talk to Will; he has a corn snake curled around his fingers when he opens the door.

‘Hi, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your lunch break.’

‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘Yes, please. If that’s okay,’ I add, when he hesitates.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t tidied up,’ he says, letting me through.

I look around at the tanks filled with exotic creatures – there seem to be more than ever.

‘It looks pretty tidy to me,’ I say, comparing it with the state of the Barn.

‘Would you like a drink? Squash or coffee?’

‘A cold drink would be good, thanks.’ I move towards the window, as Will fetches a glass from the open-plan kitchen area. There are photos on the shelf alongside me, Will and his parents, I guess, standing outside the door of a house, wisteria falling around Will’s shoulders.

‘Where do your family come from?’ I ask when he hands me the drink.

‘Berkshire. My father’s a banker. I decided I didn’t want to end up commuting into the City every day. That’s why I chose to be a vet.’ He sighs. ‘Now, I can almost see the appeal of sitting idle on a train for a couple of hours, morning and evening.’

‘Girlfriend? Significant other?’ I say tentatively.

‘Not at the moment. My last girlfriend found a snake under the duvet on her side of the bed.’ Will blushes. ‘It bit her leg, and that was the end of it. It was a case of giving up her, or the snakes, and the snakes won out.’ He grins ruefully. ‘I thought it would be simple enough finding a girl who appreciates snakes, but it turns out I was wrong.’

‘She wasn’t a vet student then?’

‘She was studying for a degree in mediaeval history. She gave it up after a year when she found that pole dancing was a far more lucrative career.’

Will’s a dark horse, I muse. I can’t imagine him frequenting night clubs, let alone dating a pole dancer, although I remind myself she was probably a perfectly respectable woman. Just because she discovered a somewhat questionable route to financial independence doesn’t mean she’s a slapper.

‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ he asks.

‘It’s about the cat with the abscess. The owners have complained to Frances about the cost and I wondered if there could have been some mistake.’

‘I charged a consultation fee, time for lancing an abscess, antibiotics, a shot of painkiller, and the lab fee.’

‘Lab fee?’

‘I sent off a sample for culture and sensitivity.’

‘Why?’ I notice a heap of dead chicks defrosting on the draining board and shudder. ‘Is that your lunch over there?’

‘It’s for the pythons,’ Will says, frowning. ‘I sent a sample to the lab because it’s the correct approach, the right thing to do.’

‘Will, I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, but
sending
off a sample isn’t going to make any difference to the cat’s welfare. This is a first-opinion, not a referral, practice. We don’t do the bionic vet here.’

‘What do you suggest?’ he says coolly.

‘We’ll drop the lab charge. I’ll adjust the rest so it’s closer to what I charged the first time. It seems as if I’m interfering and undermining you, but unfortunately, I set a precedent when I treated the cat the first time. Is that okay?’

‘I suppose it’ll have to be.’ Will shrugs. ‘Don’t people want the best for their pets?’

‘On the whole. It’s just that they can’t always afford to pay for it.’ I smile. ‘Thanks for the drink and the chat. I must get back downstairs. No rest for the wicked and all that.’

‘I’ll be down later,’ Will says.

Much later, the inpatients are all up and ready to go home, and I’m on tenterhooks, waiting for Emma to return from the hospital.

She turns up in Kennels as I’m typing up the last of the notes and Izzy’s washing the instruments in the sink. The autoclave is on, emitting the familiar and reassuring scent of steaming cotton.

‘Well?’ I ask.

‘Come with me,’ she says in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I have something to show you.’

I follow her into the corridor and beyond to the office where we’re less likely to be disturbed. It’s difficult to keep anything private. At Otter House, the walls have ears, so to speak, and those ears usually belong to Frances. Once we’re inside, Emma closes the door behind us.

‘I wanted to show you first. Well, Ben’s seen them. Obviously.’ She’s grinning, touching her stomach with
one
hand, and holding out a series of scan photos in the other.

‘All’s well, I take it,’ I say tentatively. I feel as if I can breathe now. The baby’s healthy.

‘It’s early days – 13 weeks, according to the measurements – but so far, so good.’

‘Let me see.’

‘They’ll make you go all broody,’ Emma teases, snatching the photos to her chest. ‘You’ll want another one.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I recall the sleepless nights, the anxious moments when George did go quiet and I’d wonder if he was still breathing, and the endless steaming and mashing of fresh fruit and veg to give him the best possible start. ‘No, definitely not.’ I watch Emma’s expression, and smile to myself. Little does she know. ‘I’m so pleased for you and Ben,’ I add, taking the photos from her.

‘Oh, it’s sucking its thumb in that one,’ I say, my heart melting. It reminds me of George and he seems so grown up now. ‘It’s cute.’ I don’t want another baby. Aah, maybe I do … But not while Emma’s on maternity leave. ‘Do you have any idea if it’s a boy or girl, or is it too early to say?’

‘I’ve said I don’t want to know,’ Emma says, and I wonder if there’s something she isn’t telling me.

‘Are you sure everything’s okay?’ I ask quietly.

‘It’s fine, but there is a minor complication. If you look at the pictures, there’s one baby sucking its thumb.’

‘Yeah, I got that.’

‘Look at that one again, and count the heads.’ She pauses as I take this in. There are two heads, which means …

‘There are two babies,’ Emma goes on. ‘I’m carrying twins.’

‘Oh, that’s amazing. Fantastic,’ I say, hugging her. ‘Wow, there aren’t any twins in your family, are there?’

‘I don’t know quite where they came from, Maz. Oh, I’m so happy.’

‘How will you cope?’ I say, recalling how much time and energy one single baby can consume.

‘I don’t mind. I’ve wanted to be a mum for so long that, if the doctor had said there were eight babies in there, I wouldn’t have cared.’ Emma smiles. ‘I’ll have a nanny. No, maybe after your experience, I won’t. Ben and I can afford to get some help in, someone to do the garden and the housework, if we need it.’

‘You really must take care of yourself. You must say if you want to cut your hours. Don’t push it.’

‘Thanks, Maz. I appreciate it,’ she says, and I feel a twinge of shame at how I reacted when she told me she was pregnant with Heather, the baby she lost. It wasn’t until I had George that I understood. It was a slow realisation. I was a reluctant mum at first, with George turning up out of the blue because I missed a single contraceptive pill.

‘If there’s anything I can do …’ I go on.

‘You can tell me exactly what I’ll need to buy, what you found useful, what you needn’t have bothered with. Oh, I’m so excited …’ Emma’s voice trails off. ‘And nervous. No, not nervous. Petrified.’

‘Oh, Em –’ I reach out and touch her back – ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – it’ll be all right this time.’

‘I hope so, but I can see that when I should be enjoying this pregnancy, I’m going to worry the whole time.’

‘Are you going to tell everyone now you’ve had
your
scan?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I don’t have to mention it to anyone, not even Alex, if you don’t want me to, although I’ll find it hard to keep it a secret.’

‘I’m going to tell the staff here and you can tell Alex, of course, and I don’t mind if other people know, but I want to keep it all very low key.’

Frances comes bursting into the office.

‘Maz, Mrs Tarbarrels is here for her appointment.’ She stops abruptly. ‘Oh, Emma, are those what I think they are?’ Emma holds the scan photos behind her back, but it is too late. Frances is on the case. ‘That’s wonderful news, dear. Congratulations.’ Frances moves across and gives Emma a hug.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say. Frances is right. It’s wonderful news, but it’s going to seem like a very long six months.

In Sickness and in Health

IT’S ALMOST THE
end of July and Alex is working longer than ever, reinforcing my concerns that we will never be ready for the wedding. It’s also the school holidays and Lucie and Seb are here for two weeks while Alex’s ex-wife travels off to Mauritius, or St Lucia, somewhere exotic. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to take her children on holiday with her. I still can’t imagine leaving George behind while Alex and I go on honeymoon.

Their stay has been planned to coincide with Pony Club camp, an annual event at the Manor, thanks to the Fox-Giffords’ hospitality. By tonight, the place will be overrun with children and their ponies for five days of chaos, fun and water fights. It all kicks off this afternoon.

I gaze out of the window onto the street at Otter House, glad to be at work. Sophia has all three children today, and I worry about how she’s coping. Frances is arranging flowers in a vase at Reception, practising her techniques for the WI meeting tonight.
She
looks up from the sweet peas and foliage. The scent combines oddly with the fragrance of dog wee that emanates from the direction of the glass doors where some pesky patient of ours must have cocked his leg.

‘Maz, no news is good news,’ Frances says, when I check my mobile for messages for the umpteenth time. ‘Sophia is very capable. If she can break the spirit of some of those wild horses she’s had over the years, she can manage three children.’

‘I don’t want her breaking their spirits though.’

Frances smiles. ‘I expect she’s locked them all in a stable.’

I hope she’s joking. She is joking, of course. I can’t help grinning back.

‘That’s better. I’m sure they’re all fine.’ Frances answers the phone.

‘It’s for you, Maz,’ she says. ‘It’s the photographer. Are you free to speak to her now?’

My heart sinks a little. What can she want? I thought I’d sent the deposit, confirming the booking, and it’s too soon to be running through exactly which photos I want for the wedding. I take the phone and the woman on the other end gives me a longwinded excuse for why she is no longer available for the third Saturday in December.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, promising to send the deposit straight back. ‘I wish you all the best for your special day. Goodbye.’

‘Bad news?’ Frances says sympathetically.

‘Yes, the photographer’s cancelled. She’s emigrating. Frances, what am I going to do?’

‘Find another one? There’ll be others.’

‘But I chose this one. She was highly recommended.’
I
feel slightly panicky. ‘I rang a couple of others when I first contacted her, and they were already booked up for the date of our wedding.’