It's a Vet's Life: (30 page)

With the fact that he’s run the dog over, I muse.

‘I’d hate the old boy to drop dead,’ he goes on. ‘He’s the best dog I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a few.’

I call Izzy through to help me lift Hal onto the table where he stands, trembling so violently that he makes
the
table vibrate. I give him a kiss and a biscuit to calm him down, before I check him over – all over – picking up a film of grease on my fingers from his grubby coat. Every now and again, I glance at Old Fox-Gifford who stands in the corner, his hand trembling too, on the end of his stick. For a moment, I feel sorry for him, an old man who’s lost confidence in his own judgement, and then I remember he’s just admitted to running over his dog.

‘That could have been one of your grandchildren,’ I say eventually, having ascertained that Hal shows no signs of being about to bleed to death, and decided that I’ll keep him in under observation for a few hours to make absolutely sure.

Old Fox-Gifford looks down at the floor.

‘Should you be driving at all?’ I go on when he doesn’t respond. I realise I shouldn’t have raised such a sensitive subject in front of Izzy, but then there’s no point in being anything but direct with Old Fox-Gifford.

‘I’ve been driving for over fifty years,’ he says, rounding on me suddenly. ‘This was an accident. If Hal hadn’t been lying there, I’d never have run him over. It’s the dog’s fault. He was in the bloody way.’

‘So that will be your excuse in court, will it? It was the other driver’s fault that he was on the right side of the road, your Honour. The pedestrian stepped out at the wrong time …’

‘That’s ridiculous. Hal was on private property. My land.’ Old Fox-Gifford hesitates. ‘What do you think anyway? How is the old bugger?’

‘There’s nothing obvious, but I’m going to keep him in for observation until tonight to be on the safe side.’

Izzy frowns at me. I know what she’s trying to say,
that
last time Hal stayed here, he barked the whole time, but I choose to put Hal first. He’s a wreck, and I’ve been itching to get my hands on him to tidy him up. Now I have the perfect excuse.

‘While he’s here,’ I add, ‘we’ll cut his claws and give him a bath.’

‘Dogs shouldn’t be bathed. It strips the oils out of their coats, takes away their waterproofing and shine.’

Izzy helps me get Hal back down onto the floor.

‘Shall I take him straight through?’ she asks.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, and I wait until the door closes behind her and the dog before I continue talking to Old Fox-Gifford. ‘I won’t charge you, seeing as you’re family. All I ask is for you to listen to Alex when he talks to you.’

‘About what?’ he says suspiciously.

‘What we’ve talked about before, the arrangements for cover for our honeymoon,’ I say, not wanting to reveal too much. Old Fox-Gifford’s response is a snort of derision, so I don’t hold out much hope. Alex is going to have to be completely frank with him.

Once Old Fox-Gifford has left the practice, Izzy and I set to work on Hal. He barks non-stop, sending Tripod skedaddling away, and Miff asking to be let out the back door into the garden. She used to be able to squeeze through the cat flap, but she’s recently acquired a middle-aged spread, as if she’s coming out in sympathy with Emma and her pregnancy.

We brush, bath and blow-dry Hal. We give him a pedicure, scrape as much of the brown concrete-like tartar from his teeth as we can without having to sedate him, and rinse his mouth out. We clean the wax from his ears and start him on ear drops. We clean his eyes and start him on eye drops. Finally, I run a blood
test
to check his kidneys and liver are working okay, before starting him on medication for his arthritis.

‘That was like a full MOT.’ Smiling wryly, Izzy washes her hands afterwards. ‘I suppose it’s what I should expect with him belonging to a vet. They never practise what they preach. Look at Miff. She’s getting fat.’ She pauses. ‘How is Ginge? Are you taking care of him?’

‘When he wants me to,’ I say. ‘It’s all right, Izzy. I give him his tablets every day for his thyroid.’

‘Do you brush him now he’s too old to look after himself?’

‘When he lets me.’

‘You see. If a client said that to you, you’d say they shouldn’t let that stop them.’

‘I know … Izzy, now you’re making me feel guilty.’

‘There’s a freebie came with the order today,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s a detangling comb – take it home and use it on your poor cat.’

‘I’ll do that, but if I’m off work with cat scratch fever, I’ll blame you,’ I tease. ‘You did get the invite to the wedding, didn’t you? I’ve sent them out at last.’

‘Yes, Maz. I thanked you, if you remember.’ Izzy reddens. ‘I haven’t replied formally though yet, have I?’

‘You don’t have to write to me,’ I say. ‘A verbal yes or no will do. I’m trying to refine the menu for the reception.’

‘It isn’t easy when you have all these different diets to cater for,’ says Izzy. ‘We had a demi-vegetarian, whatever that is, two pescatarians and a vegan to accommodate at our wedding.’

‘Tell me about it. I asked people to let me know about their preferences and some of Alex’s relatives
have
come back with info like, don’t like gravy or mushrooms, and eggs disagree with me, so no egg, thank you.’

‘What on earth will you give them then?’

‘Oats, hay and water, or a tin of dog food, I reckon. They’re part of the horsey set.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m not sure how to seat them either. I don’t know whether to sit them all together, or dilute the Fox-Gifford effect by spreading them out.’ I pause. ‘I never thought it would be this complicated.’

‘Well, you have to think about these things,’ Izzy sighs. ‘You don’t want any fights breaking out.’ Suddenly, she chuckles. ‘Maz, you should see your face. Lighten up. Your wedding day’s supposed to be the best day of your life. And it will be,’ she adds firmly.

Old Fox-Gifford comes to collect Hal. I don’t offer because I don’t want him barking in the car on the way home, blasting George’s eardrums and wrecking his hearing, in case he might want to be a musician one day like Russ Jackson. I give Old Fox-Gifford the dog and a bag of treatments. I doubt any of them will end up in or on Hal, but I can pop in now and then to treat him. It isn’t great practice, but it’s better than nothing.

As Old Fox-Gifford leaves, Izzy offers to help him lift Hal into the back of his Range Rover, but he declines. We watch him from Reception, opening the boot and pulling out a plank that he leans against the bumper before encouraging Hal to walk along it up the gentle slope and into the car.

‘That’s pretty cool,’ says Izzy.

‘That isn’t,’ I observe, as Old Fox-Gifford reverses at speed out of the parking space, slams on the brakes within inches of the wall, and shoots out of the drive
across
the pavement and straight into one of Talyton’s legendary Victorian-style lamp posts. He reverses again, hitting the pillar this time.

‘Izzy, did you see that?’ I gasp, but Izzy’s already off out through the door, running down to the street and waving at Old Fox-Gifford’s Range Rover that’s disappearing off away along Fore Street and out of town, smoke pouring out of its exhaust. It’s been battered, mistreated like a welfare case, and now it looks terminally ill, but it can move.

‘He’s driven off,’ Izzy says somewhat unnecessarily when I join her on the pavement. ‘He can’t do that. It’s like a hit and run.’ We turn to examine the lamp post more closely. It’s leaning. I give it a shove, but it doesn’t move. ‘That could have been a pedestrian,’ Izzy continues. ‘It could have been one of us.’

‘Fifi won’t be happy when she finds out one of her precious lamp posts has been damaged. The Council will have to pay.’

‘We’ll have to pay through our taxes,’ Izzy corrects me, ‘unless Old Fox-Gifford owns up.’

‘Let’s own up for him. I’m going to call the police.’

‘Maz, I admire your public spirit, but are you sure that’s wise? He’s your future father-in-law. He’ll have disowned you before you marry into the family.’

‘He isn’t all that fond of me anyway. I’ll take the risk. He really shouldn’t be behind the wheel any longer. He’s dangerous.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to have a quiet word with him, ask him to think about what he’s doing and see if he’ll pay up for the repairs?’

‘If I report him, he’ll be investigated and declared unfit to drive. He won’t be able to argue about it. It will be official. Sorted.’ If he can’t drive, he can’t be on call,
or
go out on his rounds. Old Fox-Gifford will be forced to face up to retirement, which means he’ll have to take on another vet to help Alex out. The people of Talyton – and George, of course – will be safe to venture out on the roads. The Range Rover will be allowed to rust in peace.

I head back inside and pick up the phone.

When I get home, there’s a police car parked outside the Manor. I don’t investigate. Now that I’ve had time to reflect on the drive back, I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing.

I park beside Alex’s four-by-four, and my spirits lift at the prospect of an evening together. As I pass the stables, Liberty whickers from over her door, and the foal’s muzzle and tips of her ears appear over the top. I wander on through the yard to the Barn where, just inside the open door, I pick up a chicken and toss her gently back outside.

‘Pesky chook – when will you ever learn that this is not a chicken house?’ I say, as she flaps her wings and her ruffled feathers settle. ‘Hi, George. Hi, Alex,’ I call. ‘Where are you?’ I hear footsteps – Alex’s – upstairs. I catch sight of George toddling towards me around the back of the sofa with a piece of blue tubing from a stethoscope around his neck. He sticks the end in his mouth and bites it.

‘George, no.’ I squat beside him and try to extricate it from between his teeth. ‘That isn’t very nice, is it? Yuck.’

He’s immensely strong, and it’s only with a struggle that I get it away from him, at which he screams and plonks himself down on his bottom, kicking at the floor in his sandals.

‘Hasn’t Daddy found your slippers?’ I hide the prized stethoscope behind my back, edging towards the bookshelves where I sneak it onto one of the higher shelves out of George’s reach. ‘Where is your Daddy? What are you doing here home alone?’

‘He isn’t.’ I turn at the sound of Alex’s voice. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, naked apart from a towel wrapped around his middle, his hair dripping. ‘Darling, how was your day?’

‘Have you been in the shower?’

‘Well, yes. I didn’t think you appreciated the fragrance of retained placenta with dinner.’

‘Why didn’t you take George up with you?’

‘He didn’t want to come. He said no.’ Alex shrugs. ‘He’d made his mind up.’

‘He’s two years old, Alex. You’re supposed to make his mind up for him.’ I pause, noticing the police car disappearing out of the yard. ‘Do you know what the police were doing here?’ I find that I can’t bring myself to admit that they could have been here because of me.

‘Father says it’s a social call about various parish matters, such as the best way to manage the youths who drink cans on the Green, and set fire to the recycling bins.’

‘Have you spoken to him then?’

‘About?’ Alex raises one eyebrow.

‘Are you being deliberately vague?’

‘Oh, Maz … I saw Father briefly when I collected George after work this evening, that’s all.’

‘I can’t do everything, you know. Alex, I’m babysitting our lovely new assistant—’

‘Which is why I really don’t need one,’ Alex interrupts. ‘I haven’t the time or the patience for that.’

‘You could take on someone who’s been qualified
for
a few years. You don’t have to employ a graduate straight out of vet school. But that’s beside the point. As I said, I can’t keep doing everything: work, look after George—’

‘I look after him too.’

‘If you can call what you were doing while he’s strangling himself with a stethoscope looking after. Not only that, I’m organising our wedding, and it’s supposed to be your responsibility to book the honeymoon and cover for your practice while we’re away. I’m still trying to firm up the menu with Elsa, an impossible task when your guests are so finicky about their food.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes, yours, although they might as well be mine seeing as you didn’t help me out with the invitations in the end.’

‘I stuck the address labels onto the envelopes,’ Alex says.

‘What about the seating plan?’

‘I can do that.’

‘You say you’ll do it, but you won’t.’

‘I’ll get it done in my own time. I’m not going to kill myself trying to keep to the deadlines on your wedding planner. Maz, there can’t be much left to do.’

‘There’s loads. I haven’t booked any transport yet, or broken in my shoes, or settled on the music for the church, or the entertainment for the reception.’ I move through to the kitchen area, sit down at the table and rest my head in my hands. A wave of exhaustion tinged with frustration washes through me. A tear trickles hot and wet down my cheek. ‘Alex, I don’t think I can do it all any more.’

He steps up beside me.