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Authors: Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn

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7

 

 

Oh my Lord.  The parents are coming
for Sunday lunch.  
Today.
  I’ve put it off
as long as I can, and I’m steeling myself for the recriminations I know will be
all too forthcoming from my mother.  Dad will probably - and wisely -
drink a little too much wine and fall asleep in the garden.  I’d like to
do the same.  My mother isn’t easy at the best of times.

I’m cooking leg of lamb, locally farmed,
with jersey royals and asparagus. Mum’s bringing pudding.  She insisted
and I know better than to argue.  It’s probably sherry trifle made from a
packet, the only sherry, most likely, being in its title.

Still, I tell myself.  In a few
hours it will all be over.  
For a few more weeks, or
even months if I’m particularly lucky and maintain my air of elusiveness.

Elmer barks ferociously when she hears
their car.  My mother’s never been a fan, but Elmer’s oblivious to this.
 She grabs hold of Mum’s skirt and wags her whole body delightedly before
they’re even through the door.  My mother brushes her off distastefully.

‘Darling.
 It’s not as nice as Plum Tree Cottage is it?’ she says sharply, her beady
eyes glancing critically around in her search of something to slate, even
though I spent a large part of yesterday cleaning and tidying.

‘Hello poppet.’ Dad at least looks
pleased to see me.  ‘Nice place you’ve got here.  I like it.’

Mum hmmph’s her disapproval.  I
kiss the cold cheek she proffers.

‘Come through to the kitchen and I’ll
pour us some wine.’  

Already I’m tense as anything and they’ve
been here precisely thirty seconds.  I haven’t offered a guided tour, nor
do I intend to.  She’d take it as an opportunity to rip my new
surroundings to shreds.  For some unknown reason, my mother can rarely
find it in her to say a good word about anything.

‘I see Arian let you keep the table?’ is
the first thing she says, as she looks around the kitchen.  I instantly
rise to the bait.

‘Mum. It was always
my
table.
 Granny gave it to
me,
remember?  He didn’t even like it.’
 

There’s a warning note in my voice. Mum
just adored Arian. I’ve tried to work out what it was, exactly, that endeared
him to her so. Was it his glamorous job?
His salary?
His swanky car?
 Probably all of the above, thinking
about it.  And the fact that he cheated on her only daughter seems neither
here nor there, because my mother, as I concluded some time ago, is an out and
out snob.

‘Come and see the garden,’ I suggest,
taking me safely out of reach of the newly sharpened carving knife lying
temptingly within reach on the worktop.

We walk outside.  The garden’s
looking pretty.  Arching boughs of roses are in bloom and there are clumps
of herbs which release their scent when you brush against them.  None of
it’s my doing, of course.  I don’t know the first thing about gardening.  
But the air is fragrant and it’s peaceful, so I show it off proudly
nonetheless.

‘And this,’ I add as Horace nickers at
us and wanders over to the fence, ‘is Horace.’

Dad smiles from ear to ear. ‘So glad
you’ve found yourself another one,’ he says quietly, stroking Horace’s soft
nose gently.  I know he’ll pay for it later.  Poor Dad’s horribly
allergic to horses, but he’s never able to resist them.

Mum stares at me.  ‘Arian wouldn’t
have approved.  He always said it was difficult to go away if you kept horses.’

‘Well,’ I say, stroking Horace myself to
keep from exploding.  ‘Arian isn’t here, is he?  He’s somewhere else,
shacked up with the trollop who shares his rather questionable morals, so I
think I’m entitled to my horse.’  

I kiss Horace’s nose and storm back into
the cottage, leaving my mother standing there speechless.

No-one mentions Arian after that.
 Not for a while, at least, as Mum whinges on about Margaret at the WI who
wants to change where they go for their Christmas lunch this year, and moans
about absolutely everything.  She tells me the lamb is overdone and that
it should be pink in the middle, even though I’ve never known her serve up any
meat that isn’t so dry it practically chokes you.  But she eats every last
thing on her plate and even manages seconds, so it obviously isn’t too
bad.  Dad, as predicted, drinks too much red wine and nods off, absolutely
the only way he’s stayed married to my mother for so long.  As he begins
to snore, right on cue she starts again.  She just can’t help herself.

‘Darling?
 Have you tried calling Arian?  You have to work at marriage you
know. Maybe you should try counselling?’

I sit at the table resting my head in my
hands, wondering how much more of her insensitive comments I can take.

‘Men can be fragile creatures you know.
 They do expect certain things...’  

Oh no.
Please no
.  Do not
let my mother be talking to me about sex.  That just about does it, and
it’s like the top exploding off a pressure cooker.  This time, I don’t
mince my words.

‘Look Mum, I know I’m not perfect, but
none of us are.  And you seem to have conveniently forgotten that it was
Arian
who chose to have the affair and
Arian
who chose to leave.  Without
any attempt whatsoever to communicate my shortcomings to me, or any attempt to
put things right.  I’m not sure you’ve really grasped this at all, because
the conversation we’re having is clearly one you should be having with Arian,
don’t you think?’

I think she’s got the message, as that’s
the final word - thank God. It’s nice to know who you can rely on when the
chips are down.

By the time they leave, I’m drained.
 I slump down on the sofa, utterly exhausted, in my lowest mood since I
moved in here.  Even Elmer’s picked up on the vibe and she’s exhausted
too, lying flat out, twitching slightly and producing blood curdling yelps as
she dreams about murdering small mammals, not even waking when I accidentally
tread on her.

Later on, when Emma calls me to suggest
going out for a drink, I nearly say no, until I decide not to let my mother
ruin my day.  And a nice girly chat is probably just what I need.  I
agree to meet her at the Hope and Anchor in about an hour.

In an effort to raise my flagging
spirits, I run myself a bath and pour in what remains of my most expensive bath
oil while turning up Owl City loud enough to have Elmer fleeing for her
bed.  But it has the desired effect and half an hour later, I’m feeling
human again and looking forward to seeing my friend.

But when I walk in to the pub and see
Marcus there as well, I nearly change my mind.  Then I see that the Ben
that Emma fancies is there too. 
Oh bugger
.  They’ve seen me.
 

I pin on my brightest smile and join
them.  And actually, after a large glass of wine, it’s quite an enjoyable
evening, marred only by the fact that Marcus is there.  The trouble is,
he’s still too good looking and confident.   
And
way too good at everything, even at being nice like when he came round to mine
the other evening.
 Men like that make me feel like a blob. 
After all, I’m five foot four of not terribly slim, not terribly accomplished,
mouse-haired, soon-to-be-divorced woman, while he’s done so many awfully
interesting things, which he tells Ben about now, in depth, as they have a
man-conversation about extreme sports and who won the footy last weekend.

I tell Emma all about today’s
visitation.  She’s suitably horrified.

‘Honestly Lou.  Your mother could
have been a little more supportive, don’t you think?’

I explain to Emma that I’ve always had
the feeling that until I married Arian, I had been a constant source of
disappointment to her.

Emma’s thoughtful,
then
says wisely, ‘I shouldn’t take it too personally.  It sounds like your
mother is inherently incapable of approving of anything.’

‘Exactly,’ I agree.  ‘Except for my
wonderful ex-husband of course, whose arse, for some reason, the sun shines out
of…’

Emma and I get a little bit tiddly and
giggly.  Oops.  I really shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of
wine, but it has been an exceptionally tough day, even by current standards.

Marcus keeps giving me odd looks, as if
I’ve got a bogey on the end of my nose.  I keep checking it just to make
sure.  And predictably, Emma’s mobile bleeps one of Jerome’s poxy,
overpriced updates at her, which has her jumping out of her chair, then dashing
outside to analyse its deep and meaningful message in private.

Which leaves me, Ben
and Marcus.
 Marcus goes to the bar to get
another round of drinks in, leaving me and Ben, who’s very handsome and looks
like Brad Pitt, with gorgeous eyes and a lovely smile.  
Lucky
Emma.
 I gaze at the lovely smile a bit. Then he says,

‘Erm, I don’t know Emma that well yet,
but she seems to do that rather a lot...’

I like the ‘yet’.  I make a note to
self to tell Emma he said that.  I’m guessing he’s referring to her
disappearing act.

‘She does,
doesn’t
she,’ I say bluntly.  ‘Has she told you why?’

He looks at me quizzically, but then
Marcus comes back and neither of us mentions it.

‘How’s your horse, Louisa?’ he asks me.
 
A nice safe topic of conversation.
 Hopefully I can manage not to say anything to scare him off this time.
 It seems I’m developing rather a talent for it.  And it’s something
I’d rather not become known for.  If I’m not careful, I’ll end up being
one of those mad old women who people cross the road to avoid.  
S
cary Louisa?
Ooh, I wouldn’t talk to her if I
were you…she’s a bit of a funny one you know…
as if I had two heads and
fangs and barbecued adulterous ex-husbands.

I tell Ben all about Horace and how he’s
ended up living with me.  And then I discover he used to go out with Daisy
Mitchell and knows Horace really well!  He must know Daisy pretty well too
in that case, so I better watch my mouth. This horse world is far too jolly
small, I can tell you.  I need to become more like Agnes and learn to be
supremely discrete.  That would surprise everyone - but my thoughts are
interrupted as Emma rejoins us.   
Looking rather
worried.

‘You okay, Em?’ Marcus asks her, concern
showing on his face.  If only he knew why she looked like that.

‘Fine,’ she says vacantly.  Ben
clearly doesn’t know what to make of these unexplained absences.  He
probably thinks she’s on drugs or something.  Right at this minute, she
looks like it.  Not surprisingly, after that, the evening goes rather
flat.

Although my home is the nearest to the
pub, I don’t invite everyone back for coffee. After all, tonight I am a girl on
a mission.  Alone with my flatcoat and my computer, I lock my door and get
to work.

To start with, I google
Jerome Castello.
 There are endless listings for
the man, aside from his daily predictions.  He’s been published, it seems,
in just about every newspaper imaginable and is quoted all over the place. What
I’m looking for is some personal information about him, but there’s hardly any
to be found.  I spend a whole obsessive hour, at the end of which I’m on
page thirty three of the search listings about him.  And then I stumble
across something rather interesting.

It’s actually a forum, and the entry I
read is written by a man whose wife was just like Emma. 
Addicted and dependent, unable to make the most basic decision on
her own.
  Interestingly, this man found Jerome’s home address
somehow and wrote to him.  Give him his due, Jerome actually met with the
man and his wife, and after that, things got better.

Perhaps that’s the answer for Emma.
 

I decide that’s what I’ll do.  I
keep
googling
and then on page fifty-four of the
search listings, bingo!  I hit gold.  Jerome’s postal address, and
hang on, he’s not called Jerome Castello at all.  His real name is Jimmy
Crook.  Ha
ha
!  How apt.  I put
together a letter, diplomatically addressed to his famous name of course, about
how my poor misguided friend needs his help, and put it in an envelope ready to
post.

8

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Monday morning. Beamish has called
a meeting of all of us, not just the vets. Only Mrs Boggle is allowed to be
excused.  I wonder what’s
up?

‘Um, it won’t take er, long,’ he assures
us.  Just as well.  There’s a mammoth list of calls and the phone
keeps ringing.

He clears his throat.

‘Erm, I’d like you all to know that
after a long deliberation, I’ve um, made a decision to er, partially
retire.’  We all look at each other in astonishment.  The only person
who looks unsurprised by his announcement is Miles.

‘As you all know, um, my health hasn’t
exactly been, well, perfect, lately...’
So it’s not just a whisky habit
then.
 ‘…and the old er, quack has advised me to slow down. So, um,
seems I don’t have too much choice in the matter.’  Poor old Beamish looks
rather forlorn. What a bummer.

‘Um, Miles, I’m delighted to say, has
agreed to er, take on the role of senior partner and in my um, absence, he is
at the helm.’  Everyone looks at Miles, who smiles awkwardly, lanky legs
stretched out in front of him, looking uncomfortable.  ‘You will however
have the pleasure of my company on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. So it’s
very much business as usual.  Erm, that’s all.’

Except it’s not, is it.  Oh, I can
see we’re all thinking the same thing.  We’ll never cover the
workload.  We’re going to need
another
new vet.  

 

After
Beamish’s
bombshell, we’re all shell-shocked.  But actually, it turns out he’s
sixty-five, which is much older than he appears. It probably won’t be long
before he retires altogether.  This clinches it, I decide.  Emma
has
to sort herself out, because one thing this practice doesn’t need is a vet with
personal problems. I’m not entirely sure she’ll share my enthusiasm.  And
nor does she know, my letter’s winging its way to Jerome as we speak.

Agnes goes out for lunch with Beamish.
 Probably a rather swish one, I imagine, as they’re gone a jolly long
time. 
Hmmm… maybe they’ve gone to that little French bistro for an
intimate five course dejeuner followed by café and cognac…Or that new Italian I
really like which serves the most divine antipasti, all washed down by a bottle
of montepulciano…
But my daydreaming is interrupted as the phones keep
ringing and there’s general firefighting to be done.  I’m just putting
down the phone when Marcus comes in briefly.  He’s got an x-ray due in
shortly.

‘Bit of a shock, wasn’t it?’ he says
thoughtfully, about
Beamish’s
announcement. ‘I wasn’t
expecting that at all. Trouble is we’re flat out already.  I’m not sure
how we’re going to cover everything.’ 

My guess is they’ll do what they always
do when we’re a vet short, and end up working dawn till dusk.

I agree with him, tentatively suggesting
that possibly we’ll need a new vet before long.  

‘I just hope Emma isn’t going anywhere,’
he adds, ‘only I’ve been wondering about her lately.  She does seem quite
distracted.’

I’m saved from avoiding an explanation
by the timely arrival of his client, a pretty female one, naturally, with fair
hair that looks like she’s just stepped out of a salon, which she probably has
and all in preparation for her vet appointment.  Her equally pretty show
pony prances along beside her.  

Agnes arrives back at a quarter to four,
cheeks slightly flushed and looking very smiley, all things considered.
 Seems they had a jolly nice lunch in the jolly expensive, traditional old
English Wheatsheaf.   
Lucky Agnes.
 
 Beamish has gone home, so it seems we’re into the one-vet-down thing
right away.  And we’ll have to break the news to some of our longer
standing clients, who’ve known Beamish right since the beginning.  Perhaps
I’ll impress Agnes by putting together a very official looking newsletter we
can circulate to our clients, with a nice smiley picture of Beamish and an
authoritative one of Miles - if there is one.  

One of the first clients that the Lower
Shagford
horse fraternity grapevine connects with is Sylvie
Williamson.  
But of course.
 I would expect
no less.  She arrives at the practice in her enormous brand new supercharged,
super-shiny range rover, elegantly dressed in a linen suit, and bearing a
large, embossed envelope, which she entrusts into the safe hands of Agnes.

‘We’re having a little party at the
stud,’ she tells us, ‘and I thought, in the circumstances, it might be rather
lovely if all of you could join us.’

My ears prick up.  What, all of
us? 
Even me?
And Mrs Boggle?  The large
embossed envelope, addressed to ‘all the staff’, contained an equally large
embossed invitation, to a summer party at the Amberley Stud, Sylvie’s pad.
 Golly.  I bet it’s not a ‘little party’ at all.  Probably the
social occasion of the year, if not the decade.  How exciting!  I’ve
never actually been there, though I’ve heard so much about it, I feel I know
every inch of the place.

I commit the date to memory.  
Easy.
 It’s the 4
th
of July, American
Independence Day.  I’m not missing this one for anything.  I feel
excited already!  Agnes senses my reaction, and gives me one of her looks.

‘Thank you very much, Sylvie. I’ll see
to it that
everyone
is made aware of your kind invitation.’  
The
everyone
is emphasised, so that Sylvie goes away
satisfied that Beamish will definitely be informed.  I’m sure he’ll be
there too.  Even he can’t wriggle out of this one.

Agnes is so clever.  
Wonderful with the clients.
 I can’t wait to tell Emma,
though one of the vets will have to be on call, I suppose.  I hope it’s
not her. 

‘Louisa? Could you photocopy this and
make sure there’s one for everyone?’ Agnes asks me.  
‘Oh,
and could you let me have an extra copy to give to Beamish?
  I
could drop it in to him on my way home.’

That makes me sit up.  So Agnes
‘drops in’ on Beamish does
she
?   Hmmm… how
interesting.  My imagination races away with me.  I’ve absolutely no
idea if there is or has ever been a ‘Mr Agnes’.  Or maybe she’s never met
the
one
.  Then another thought wallops me between the eyes. 
Golly…perhaps
she and Beamish are secretly dating and share romantic moments when none of us
are watching…  Maybe they’ll get married and I can help her plan the
wedding…

‘LOUISA?’  Agnes’s stentorian voice
brings me abruptly back to the present.

As I work the photocopier, for a
fleeting second I entertain the idea of leaving Marcus out.  Then I decide
I’d never get away with it.  Everyone will be talking about Sylvie’s
party.  Best just hope it’s him that ends up on call.

Then there’s another bombshell.  I
call Leonie, just to see how things are, and they’re not.   She’s
having a total meltdown and on the other end of the phone, is in pieces.


Pete saw the doctor this morning.
 Oh Lou, I just can’t believe it
,’ she wails.  ‘They say he’s
suffering from depression...  I don’t know what we’re going to do. 
People who get that never get over it, do they?  He won’t be able to work,
we won’t have any money and we’ll lose our house...’ and there she is, sobbing
her heart out.

I try to take in what she’s telling me,
because I’m having trouble getting my head round this.  Ever since I met
Pete, without fail, he’s always jolly old Pete with a ready smile and a
joke.  He
can’t
have depression. 

‘What happens now?  What does Pete
think?  And where is he?’ All these questions come into my head at once.

‘He’s upstairs, lying on our bed, gazing
miserably up at the ceiling, refusing to talk to me.  He did say that he
has to see a specialist the day after tomorrow, but that’s about all.  
Oh
Lou, it’s the first time in all the years we’ve been together that he’s pushing
me away.  I can’t bear it
...’  She’s sobbing again.

I think fast.  I’m not sure what to
say to her.  I’ve never really come across depression.

‘Why don’t you ask if you can see the
specialist with him?  Tell him that way you won’t need to badger him with
questions...’ I suggest hopefully.  It might work, who knows.

‘And if all he’s doing is lying on the
bed, why don’t you come and have supper with me tonight?  It might do you
good to get out for a while.’

She’s silent,
then
says, ‘Thanks Lou, I know you’re probably right, but I think I’ll stay at home.
 I don’t really want to leave him, even if he isn’t speaking to me.’

I kind of guessed she’d say that because
that’s Leo all over.  ‘Well, would you like me to come over to you?’

‘Thanks, but can we leave it?
 He’ll go mental if he knows I’ve said anything.  Honestly, he’s a different
person, Lou.’

It certainly sounds like it.  And I
wish I could help - but I’ve no idea how to help them.

‘Leo,’ I say in the end, meaning every
word.  ‘Call me, won’t you, any time, day or night, if you need me. Okay?’
 Then I add, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’

I rest my head in my hands, knowing that
however worried I’m feeling, Leo’s feeling a hundred times worse.  I go to
my computer again and type ‘depression’ into the search bar.  Lord. 
Look at the number of pages here.  I don’t know where to start.

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