The Village Vet (17 page)

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say at the same time as Jack looks up, registering my presence, his expression like that of a shocked sheep. He tugs his trousers up to cover his modesty, blushing furiously to the roots of his blond hair.

‘I was just checking the damage,’ he says quickly. ‘I thought she might have drawn blood.’

‘Would you like me to have a look for you,’ I say brazenly. ‘I can give you a professional opinion.’

‘No, thanks, Tess. I’m okay. Dolly’s bruised my pride more than she has my’ – he fumbles rather sweetly for an appropriate description of the affected area – ‘bottom.’

‘I bet you’ll be tender for a couple of days.’

‘Yeah.’ He fastens his fly and the buckle on his belt, before exiting the lorry with me. ‘I thank my lucky stars that the pony wasn’t wearing shoes.’

Dolly is still at the paddock gate and we manage to persuade her through by rattling a couple of mints in the bottom of the bucket. Jack unclips the lead-rope, leaving the head-collar on so we can catch her for the vet when he comes.

‘Perhaps we should have left her in one of the new stables,’ I say as Libby joins us with glasses of orange squash. ‘That’s what they’re there for.’

‘She’s used to being out,’ Jack says. ‘We don’t want to make too many changes at once, otherwise she’ll get colic.’

‘What happens next?’ Libby asks. ‘Can she go straight up for rehoming?’

‘I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,’ Jack replies. ‘Mr Maddocks will be given a week to come and claim the pony and pay a release fee. If he can’t, or won’t, the police will send her to the horse sales, where
she
’ll be auctioned to the highest bidder. That’s how they defray their costs.’

‘I don’t see how you can possibly let Dolly go back to that man,’ Libby says, staring at her brother, and I echo her feelings on the matter.

‘Believe me, I’m doing my best,’ Jack says gruffly. ‘Let’s concentrate on making her safe here before we worry about what happens to her in the future. Have you checked the fences, Tess?’

‘I’ll do it now, and I’ll fill the trough.’

‘Let me do that,’ Libby says. ‘I want to look after Dolly. I’ve always wanted a pony, but Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me have one.’

‘You can, if she stays,’ I observe, watching Dolly whinnying and galloping about, her mane and tail flowing behind her. ‘I don’t think she likes it here.’

‘She needs some company,’ Jack says, addressing me.

Don’t we all, I muse, afraid that I am beginning to crave Jack’s company a little too much. I gaze at him more fondly than I thought possible after what he did at my wedding. The drama and excitement of catching the pony is not the only thing that made my heart beat faster today.

Chapter Eight

Special Delivery

IT’S THREE DAYS
since we caught Dolly and brought her to the Sanctuary, and we haven’t been able to get near her since. The trick with bucket isn’t working because, with all the grass in the paddock, she isn’t hungry. Libby tries to tempt her over with a carrot, but Dolly isn’t stupid.

‘That didn’t work,’ Libby says, coming over to join me where I’ve taken it into my own hands to sweep up some of the builder’s sand that DJ hasn’t got around to clearing up yet. ‘Do you want a hand moving some of those tools?’ she goes on.

‘I wouldn’t mind. DJ hasn’t shown up yet.’ It’s gone eleven and I’m not sure he’s going to today.

‘He’s started work on another job,’ Libby says. ‘I saw his truck parked outside one of the houses in Silver Street this morning.’

‘Oh, great. That’s just what I need, and it explains why he isn’t answering his phone.’ I pause. ‘We’ve got the Fun Day at the beginning of June – less than a fortnight away. It isn’t going to be much fun if this place looks a mess.’

‘It won’t. We’ll all muck in,’ Libby says, picking up a shovel that turns out to be in two pieces. ‘Where shall I put this?’

‘In the far end of the barn or in the shed. Anywhere as long as it’s out of sight.’

We’re partway through our task when the postman turns up in his red van. He isn’t our usual postie, I notice when he jumps out with a sheaf of letters. He’s much younger, for a start, in his mid-twenties and good-looking, with short brown hair, hazel eyes and a lightly tanned complexion.

‘Hi,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’m Ash. I should have been here hours ago – I have a special delivery for you.’

I notice how he automatically turns to Libby, not me, and I feel like I’m butting in when I introduce myself.

‘I’m Tessa, the manager here … And this is Libby, one of our volunteers,’ I go on, when Libby just stands there, staring at him in his navy T-shirt and shorts with a standard reflective Royal Mail waistcoat over the top. Perhaps I should go on to clarify that she’s our only volunteer, because, like DJ, Diane and Wendy haven’t shown up either. Perhaps I should also give her a nudge: she’s making herself look completely transparent, playing with a lock of her hair and popping her eyes at him, but it seems that Ash is equally taken with her.

‘I feel like I’ve met you somewhere before,’ he says eventually. ‘I live down at Farley’s End.’

‘I’m from Talyton St George,’ says Libby, with a small frown.

‘I’ve probably seen you in town then. There’s no reason for anyone to visit Farley’s End – there’s nothing there except a farm, five cottages and a derelict chapel.’

‘Were you ever a Young Farmer?’ Libby asks.

‘The post,’ I cut in.

‘Ah, yes.’ Ash hands me the letters, at least a tree’s worth, forwarded from my parents’ house and defaced by my dad’s handwriting (I never did sort out my change of address when I moved in with Nathan). I think it is Dad’s way of letting me know that I’m neglecting him, and I make a mental note to invite him over with Mum sometime soon, perhaps for the Fun Day and dinner afterwards. I’m well practised in preparing meals for the animals, but my cooking isn’t so hot, and I tend to make a dog’s dinner out of even the easiest of Delia’s recipes.

Ash turns back to Libby. ‘Didn’t you use to go swimming at the pool in Talymouth? I was a lifeguard and a Dolphin.’

Libby blushes. ‘That’s right. I remember now. I used to hang around there with my friends.’

‘Um, is there anything I have to sign for, only I’d like to get on,’ I say. ‘Ash, you said you had a special delivery for us?’

‘I almost forgot,’ he says, turning towards his vehicle. ‘It’s in a box in the van. Oh no, it isn’t.’ I follow his gaze, alerted by the lilt of panic in his voice. There’s a cat, a black and white one, standing on the driver’s seat with its paws resting on the edge of the part-open window. ‘It must have forced the lid open. I thought I’d stuck it down well enough.’

‘Don’t open the door,’ I tell him as he makes for the van.

‘I thought Postman Pat was a fictional character, but look at you and your black and white cat. You’re just like him.’ Libby grins.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have the silly hat and three fingers
on
each hand,’ Ash counters. ‘It’s all right – I’ve heard all the Postman Pat jokes today. My mates have been winding me up since they found out I’d picked up a cat on my round. I found it in the back of the van – it must have jumped in and hitched a lift somewhere. The trouble is I’m not sure where to deliver it back to, so I thought I’d bring it here. Can you take it?’

‘Yes, of course. Libby, would you mind getting one of the carriers from under the desk in reception?’ She bustles off and returns with a white wire basket, and we spend five minutes coaxing the cat into it before we can settle it into the cattery in the pen opposite Teddy’s. I check it quickly – it’s a girl. Hopefully, someone will notice she’s missing and give us or the local vets a call, or, if she’s lucky, she’ll be microchipped and we’ll be able to reunite her with her owner. It doesn’t look as though she’s been living rough – she’s too well fed.

Once Ash has gone, Libby clips a record card to the cat’s pen.

‘I’ve given her a temporary name,’ she says.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘In tribute to Postman Pat, it has to be Jess.’ Libby looks at me. ‘At least that’s cheered you up, Tessa.’ She returns to tidying up after DJ, while I remain in the cattery to spend half an hour or so with Teddy. I tell everyone that it’s all about his rehabilitation, helping him to be the best pet he can be, but it’s more about me taking time out for a sneaky cuddle.

When the phone rings, I tuck it awkwardly between my chin and shoulder, so I can keep hold of Teddy while I answer the call.

‘Talyton Animal Rescue here.’ Teddy butts his cheek against my face – he’s been much happier since he came back from the vet’s. ‘How can I help?’

‘I can’t hear you very well.’ The woman at the end of the line sounds mature and well spoken. ‘There’s a lot of interference.’

‘It’s all right.’ I try to persuade Teddy to go back into his pen. ‘It’s a cat purring.’

‘A cat?’ she says dismissively as he turns to make a run for it before I can close the door.

‘Hey, come here.’ I grab the phone with one hand and rugby-tackle the cat, grasping him around his middle before pushing him back into his pen, closing the door and slipping the bolt across. ‘I’m sorry about that – Teddy loves his cuddles.’

‘Cuddles?’ I can hear the disgust in the caller’s voice. ‘Never mind, I wanted to ask you if you take in dogs.’

‘We do, although we don’t have much kennel space available at the moment.’ DJ still hasn’t completed the work in the kennel block. ‘Did you want to come and meet the animals we have up for rehoming?’ We haven’t all that many yet: Buster, Teddy and a pair of crazy spaniels.

‘Oh no, I don’t want to rescue a dog. I want to hand one over to you.’

‘Can I ask why?’ I make every effort to sound sympathetic, but I guess I’m always going to find it hard to understand how anyone can give up their pet, except in the most extreme circumstances.

‘It isn’t mine. It’s my mother’s. She’s going in to hospital for an operation, and it’s unlikely she’ll ever return to her house. The nursing homes I’ve looked at won’t take pets.’

‘There’s no way you can take your mother’s dog on?’ I say. Ask a silly question …

‘I work full-time and I can’t possibly take on a dog, any dog – and besides, Tia is used to having
someone
at home at all times. It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘Perhaps you could kennel the dog until you’re absolutely sure your mother isn’t going home,’ I suggest. ‘That way there’s a chance they can stay together.’

‘No, I’ve made my mind up. The dog has to go.’

I bite my tongue. It seems very harsh, and I wonder why she won’t try harder to care for her mother’s dog. I would in her position.

‘You could have a dog walker drop in once a day while you’re at work.’

‘Tia doesn’t walk any more, and to be blunt with you, she isn’t my kind of dog. If I was going to go to the bother of having one, I wouldn’t choose Tia. I’d opt for one with – how should I put it – a bit of personality.’

I’m worried now. The dog needs rescuing from this dreadful woman, but how am I going to rehome a dog of Tia’s description?

‘You’d better bring her over,’ I say with reluctance. ‘I’ll be here all day.’

‘Can’t you collect her?’

‘Have you got a car?’ I say impatiently.

‘I’m not taking the risk – Tia suffers from travel sickness, even on the shortest of journeys. And I can’t possibly force her to walk to you. As I’ve said, she doesn’t do walks any more.’

‘How old is she?’ I ask.

‘Eleven or twelve, thirteen maybe. I don’t know – she’s just a dog.’

It crosses my mind that Tia might be better off being put down. It’s horrible to contemplate, but sometimes it’s the fairest option. However, I don’t want to force this woman into making the decision. She sounds as if she has absolutely no compassion for either the dog or her elderly parent.

‘She’s blind and doesn’t hear very well, and I’ve no idea if it’s because she’s deaf, or completely senile like my mother. Well, tell a lie. My mother isn’t completely senile – sometimes I think she puts it on to avoid talking to me.’

Give me strength, I think as she piles on problem after problem. I repeat my request that she bring the dog, but in the end I agree to send Jack with the van as soon as possible. The caller is not someone who is used to being denied.

After clearing the kennel next door to the crazy spaniels, I take five minutes out, choosing a dry spot on the lawn at the back of the bungalow, where I lie down on my back and squint up at the leaves on the cherry tree. The sun filters between them, warm on my skin. It’s a beautiful day.

I stretch my arms, admiring the muscles I didn’t know I had before working at the Sanctuary. I’m wearing a vest with lace trim, jeans rolled partway up my calves and a pair of particularly unsexy steel-toecapped walking boots. The position of manager is both character-and body-building.

On hearing a vehicle coming up the track, my heart misses a beat, but regains its normal rhythm when I look past the side of the bungalow to the car park and realise that it’s my aunt, not Jack.

‘Well done, Tessa,’ she says, brandishing a copy of the paper when I meet her out the front. ‘You should have gone into PR. Look at this.’ She opens the
Chronicle
at page two and shows me the results of my interview with Ally, who, true to her word, came out a couple of days ago with a photographer to take pictures of some of the animals. Teddy the cat was a natural poser, gazing into the camera while I held him
in
my arms, whereas Buster hated it, looking away before deciding he’d had enough, slumping down on the floor with his nose tucked under his paws. ‘The ducklings are gorgeous,’ Fifi goes on, and I have to agree with her, they really have the ‘ah’ factor. ‘If they don’t persuade people to come and have a look around at the Fun Day, nothing will.’