It's a Vet's Life: (43 page)

‘I hope Alex’s new assistant is half as good.’

‘He’ll have to be twice as good to get the approval of the farming community,’ I point out lightly. ‘I’ll bet they test him out. There’ll be a few jokes at his expense, I’m sure.’

‘He seems … charming.’ Lynsey checks her watch. ‘I must get going soon. How is George?’

‘He’s fine, thanks. He’s at nursery today.’

‘Is he looking forward to the wedding?’

I smile at the memory of Alex picking George out of the cot when the alarm went off today, swinging him around, and singing, ‘Mummy’s getting married in the morning.’ George was chuckling, while my heart melted at the sight of my two boys together.

‘George knows he’s going to dress up and walk behind me with Emma, Lucie and Seb, but he doesn’t really understand why. I hope he doesn’t decide to say no and sit on his bottom halfway down the aisle. I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘You’ve watched too many Wedding Day Disaster programmes,’ Lynsey says.

‘I haven’t watched any,’ I smile. ‘It’s my overactive imagination.’

‘Oh, everyone has last-minute nerves. It’s perfectly normal.’

‘I wonder if Alex is feeling the same.’

‘I expect so. He has more to be nervous about than you. Stewart’s spent the last few days writing his speech.’

Stewart is best man. Tact is not his strongest point.

‘It’s all right, Maz. I’ve told him to tone it down, or else he’ll have me to deal with.’

A scary thought. I imagine Lynsey is a formidable woman when roused. I remember her ire when she gave birth in the practice, having discovered that her husband had been having an affair. Yes, really. It’s a long story.

‘The forecast is for snow here tomorrow.’

‘Snow! Really?’ I feel like a child again, filled with excitement at the thought of snowmen and snowballs, and, best of all, snow swirling down from the sky like Nature’s confetti for my wedding.

‘Light snow, but it rarely settles here in Talyton. I can’t recall a white Christmas and I’ve lived here all my life.’ Lynsey checks her watch again, and I think, I really must be getting on too. ‘Have you heard about the weather further north? It’s been on the news.’

‘I haven’t been paying much attention recently,’ I have to admit. ‘I’ve been too busy.’

‘It was on this morning. There have been several inches of snow in the Midlands – the motorway’s closed at Bristol.’

‘Izzy did mention a weather warning this morning, but I didn’t take any notice,’ I say, remembering. ‘I hope all our guests can make it.’ Most of them are local, but a few, including my mother, are travelling longer distances. ‘I guess this means the Pony Club Mounted Games will be cancelled. Sophia was still planning to drive Lucie and the pony there after the wedding tomorrow, so they were ready for the competition on Sunday.’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ Lynsey says. ‘Alex told Stewart he wasn’t happy about it. Won’t Lucie be disappointed?’

‘A little, I suspect, but she didn’t want to miss out on the reception.’

‘Where’s Emma?’ Lynsey begins again. ‘I haven’t seen her for a while.’

‘She’s taking it easy, I hope. Doctor’s orders – proper ones from the consultant at the hospital, not Ben’s. The babies are due in three weeks’ time, or thereabouts.’

Lynsey checks her watch for a third time. Her eyebrows fly up, disappearing under her windswept hair.

‘I have to dash. I was meant to collect the boys from school five minutes ago. I’ll be hauled into the head’s office for another talking to. See you tomorrow, Maz.’

‘Tomorrow …’ I echo, as she leaves. I feel sick with anticipation and the proverbial nerves. What have I forgotten? Will the organist stay out of the pub? Will the cupcakes arrive at the venue in one piece? I dismiss my worries. They are ridiculous. This is between me and Alex, a public celebration and confirmation of our love for each other. As for the rest, they’re merely the trappings of tradition, and yes, although they’re lovely and special, they are trivial.

As long as the people turn up – they are what matters.

We aren’t busy, so I spend time chatting with Frances in Reception.

‘How long are Lucie and Sebastian staying with you?’ she asks.

‘Until Boxing Day. Their mother’s going to take them back to London when Alex and I fly out on our honeymoon.’ I pause.

‘Shouldn’t you be having your hair done, or something, Maz?’ Frances goes on.

‘It’s all organised for tomorrow. Don’t worry. Everything is under control. I have my planner printed off and I’m gradually ticking the boxes.’ I pause, optimistic now. ‘Nothing can possibly go wrong.’

‘I admire you for how you’ve coped. There was more than one occasion when I thought this wedding wasn’t going to go ahead.’ Frances pulls a tissue from the sleeve and dabs at her eyes. ‘Oh, I always cry at weddings … You and Alex. It’s soooo romantic.’

‘You know, I think we should close up early.’ I move to the window and look outside. It’s gone four and the town is beginning to close up too. The Christmas lights are on, twinkling between the lamp posts. The odd flake of snow drifts down from the leaden sky. Peter, the greengrocer, waves as he walks past, pushing his bike with an enormous turkey-shaped package perched on the handlebars. A family strolls the other way, one of the children clinging on to a Santa balloon. A gust of wind snatches it out of his hand and it flies upwards, spinning away across the roofs of the houses.

Although I feel sorry for the child, my heart soars too. By this time tomorrow, I shall be married.

‘When is Will due back?’ Frances asks.

‘He’s taking the phones from ten.’

‘I can’t believe you, Maz. It’s the night before your wedding and you’re on call.’

‘Only till ten,’ I say lightly, ‘and it’s really quiet. People are going home for the night, lighting fires and wrapping presents. The forecast is for snow. They won’t want to turn out later.’

‘Shannon says that Will’s gone out with one of her friends.’

‘Oh, it isn’t serious. Shannon told me that her friend,
one
of the trainee vet nurses on her course, is merely saying she has a special interest in geckos because she wants to say she’s going out with a vet.’

‘That’s a bit mean, isn’t it?’ says Frances.

‘Yes, but it could be a double bluff, couldn’t it? This friend might not want Shannon to know how she really feels.’

‘Maz, I’m sure you’re making it more complicated than it is.’

‘Relationships are complicated,’ I say, thinking about mine and Alex’s, the ups and the downs over the past few months, and now …

‘You’d better get going. You need your beauty sleep,’ says Frances.

‘Thanks for that. Go on. Go and dust down your hat for tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Maz. I can’t wait. I adore a good wedding. It reminds me of mine …’ She picks up her coat. ‘It’ll be pretty chilly in church, and you don’t want everyone to freeze to death, so don’t be late, dear.’

‘I don’t intend to be. Now, go home, Frances. I’ll lock up before I collect George.’

‘Don’t forget him now.’

‘As if.’

Frances pauses at the door, tying a scarf around her head. ‘By tomorrow night, you and Young Mr Fox-Gifford will be husband and wife.’

‘Less of the young,’ I say with mock sternness. ‘My husband is becoming quite the old man at times.’

‘As he should be. That is the way of the world.’

‘Goodnight, Frances.’ I start to close the door behind her, then remember. ‘Oh, you didn’t say. Are you bringing company tomorrow? I need to let Clive know
final
numbers.’ I don’t really. I’m being nosy. ‘You are bringing Lenny?’

‘No, Maz.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame …’

‘Lenny will be bringing me, if you don’t mind. He is a gentleman.’

‘You’re both very welcome.’ I kiss Frances on the cheek. ‘Thanks.’

‘What for?’ she says, surprised.

‘For … being you,’ I say. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Maz.’

I watch Frances walk to her car and drive away. I slide the top bolt across, followed by the bottom one, at which Emma’s Saab comes careering up to the path leading to the entrance, the front bumper stopping just short of the planter of evergreen shrubs. Emma gets out, holding a bundle of towels to her chest. She stumbles to the door. I unlock as quickly as I can, open up and take the bundle that she presses into my arms.

‘Maz, it’s Miff. Help me. I think she’s dying.’

My heart beating so fast that it aches, I carry the bundle through to Kennels, throw on all the lights and lay it on the prep bench. It’s a dog-sized bundle, bloodstained, and panting.

‘What happened?’ I ask, carefully unwrapping what is left of Miff, uncertain and scared of what I’m going to find.

‘I was walking her on the Green. She was attacked. A big black dog. At least, I think it was a dog. It all happened so quickly. It went for her, snapping at her chest and legs. She tried to get away, but it grabbed her by the neck and shook her. Oh, God, it was awful.’ Emma presses her hand to her mouth. ‘I had to hit it over the head before it would let go, then it ran off,
yelping
. Oh, poor Miff. Look at her eyes … Her colour’s terrible.’

I can’t disagree. It’s shocking. Miff’s lying on her side, gasping for air, her tongue pale and blue, her beautiful brown eyes bulging out of their sockets, reminding me of a goitrous frog. In fact, they are out of their sockets, popped out by the attacker when whatever it was picked her up by the scruff of her neck. It isn’t a good look, but I’ll deal with them later, if I can stabilise her. If …

I grab a stethoscope, the first one that comes to hand, and listen to Miff’s chest, assessing the wounds over her ribcage that are leaking blood into her wiry coat at the same time. There are no breath sounds on her left lung, and much gurgling on the right.

‘Shall I call Izzy?’ I ask.

‘No time.’ Emma fetches a couple of bags of fluid from the cupboard, and rips the wrapping from a giving set, ready to set up an intravenous drip. My partner is huge now, her bump barely covered by an outsized mac. Her ankles are swollen, and her complexion pale.

‘Emma,’ I say, concerned, ‘you shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Miff’s my dog, and this is an emergency and there isn’t time to get anyone else.’

‘All right,’ I say, trying to calm her. ‘Let’s get on with it, but you monitor and I’ll operate.’ I get onto my mobile while helping Emma set up the drip. I call Alex.

‘Two things. Can you pick George up from nursery and take him home to give him his tea? And will you ring the dog warden to see if they can trace that black dog, the one that’s been on the loose for a while? It was
on
the Green not long ago – it might be a good time to catch it. I’m going to be tied up here for some time. It’s Emma’s dog. I haven’t got time … I’ll explain later. Thanks, darling.’

We get Miff lightly anaesthetised and tubed, and Emma takes over ventilating her, effectively breathing for her using the bag on the anaesthetic circuit, while I make an untidy job of clipping the hair away from Miff’s wounds and spraying them liberally with surgical spirit. We hardly speak – we don’t need to, we’re so used to working together.

‘How’s she doing?’ I ask, as I scrub up and throw a gown on.

‘Not good,’ Emma mutters. ‘Hang in there, Miffy. Please.’ A tear drops onto the drape that covers Miff’s neck, and I remember how Miff is extra precious because she was Emma’s mother’s dog. ‘Shouldn’t we X-ray first?’ I detect a note of self-doubt in Emma’s voice.

‘Better not to waste any time,’ I say shortly. ‘Let’s see if we can stabilise her breathing first.’ Because I’m thinking, if we can’t, we can’t ventilate her forever, although Emma will want to try, and how much brain damage will Miff have already suffered, and is it really worth going on with this? I’m fond of Miff too, though. I’ve looked after her several times while Emma’s been away. While there’s life there’s hope …

‘Maz, she’s on her way out …’ Emma’s voice breaks with grief.

‘Don’t give up on her just yet. Keep going with that bag.’ I pick up forceps and scissors and enlarge one of the wounds on Miff’s chest. It doesn’t look much, about the size of a dog’s tooth across, but it’s deep. I follow its track through the layers of muscle between
the
ribs, and pssst, there’s the sound of air leaking out of Miff’s chest and the tiniest draught. I can see Miff’s uppermost lung, salmon pink in colour, collapsing away into the depths of her ribcage. Emma squeezes the bag and the lung comes up again.

‘Her colour’s looking better.’ I glance at Miff’s tongue that lolls out of her mouth, past the tube that carries the lifesaving oxygen into her windpipe. ‘She’s still with us.’

‘In body, if not in spirit,’ Emma says stiffly. She opens a pack of sterile suture material and drops it onto the instrument tray for me. I use it to close the different layers of the wound one by one, then hold my breath, listening for the pssst sound.

It doesn’t come. My hopes rise ever so slightly. Emma stops squeezing the bag. Miff’s chest rises, quivers and falls again, then after what seems like minutes, not seconds, rises again, falls and settles into a jerky, but constant, rhythm. Her colour, though pale, turns gradually from blue to pink. Emma glances at me. I know what she means, that this looks more promising.