The Village Vet (20 page)

‘That she’s a good girl, and then I let her think that coming in was all her idea, and I took my cap off because she didn’t like it.’

‘Mr Maddocks’s son was wearing a cap,’ I say. ‘I wonder how he treated her.’

‘I don’t like to think about it,’ Libby says. ‘Shall I give her some hay and water?’

‘Good idea.’ It will help her to settle if she hasn’t been in a stable before. ‘I have to go and make some phone calls, if you’re okay here.’

‘And I have things to do,’ says Jack, walking away.

‘I’m fine,’ Libby says. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Dolly for a while, then I’ll go and feed the birds.’

‘I expect they’re cheeping for elevenses by now.’ I smile ruefully. ‘The baby birds are our most demanding residents, continually calling for room service, but they won’t be here for ever. We won’t know what to do with ourselves when they fly the nest.’ I’m joking. I’m sure we’ll have plenty to do through autumn and winter, finishing off the projects that DJ has abandoned. He texted me this morning to confirm that he’s had enough.

‘Where’s Jack going?’ Libby changes the subject at the sound of the van starting up and driving away.

‘I don’t know,’ I say somewhat sharply. ‘I’m not his keeper.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you were. All I—’

‘I know,’ I cut in. ‘I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment with DJ going and the vet’s bills coming in.’ And I braved it to look at my bank account last night, not a good idea as it turned out. ‘Look, I’ll catch up with you later. I need to have a word with Diane and Wendy.’

They’ve turned up to help today, and I don’t want
them
disappearing off to have their hair done, or let the dogs out, before I’ve spoken to them about various issues that have arisen – the Fun Day and rehoming criteria for a start. Everyone seems confused, telling potential adopters completely different stories, some that they can’t have a kitten if they have children under the age of five, others that they can. It isn’t good advertising for the Sanctuary. It puts people off.

‘Your aunt and I didn’t used to agree about the rehoming criteria for the rescues,’ Diane says, dunking a biscuit into her second or third mug of coffee as we sit with Wendy outside the barn in the sunshine. ‘I always supported Gloria’s view that there should be no compromise.’

‘Surely there’s no such thing as the perfect home though,’ I say. ‘You have to make allowances, otherwise the animals will end up here for the rest of their lives.’

‘That’s what happened when Gloria was here,’ Wendy points out. ‘Many of the dogs and cats ended up staying here, a few because they had special needs, so to speak, but most because she couldn’t bear to let them go.’

‘She was a wise woman,’ Diane says. ‘These poor creatures have already had tough times. What is the point of letting them go to homes where they aren’t going to be looked after properly? I’ll give you an example. We wanted to rehome a dog with a chronic ear infection who needed long-term medication and, although the potential owners assured me they could pay for it, I felt from the state of their house that they’d struggle and the dog would suffer as a consequence.’

‘You can’t make judgements like that,’ I say. ‘They could be too busy to keep the place tidy, not penniless.’

‘Ah’ – Diane peers helplessly into her mug, into which her biscuit has disappeared – ‘but being busy is another barrier to taking on an animal. If they’re too overstretched to tidy their house, then they’re too busy to walk a dog, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Well, we can’t be too strict,’ I say. ‘If we don’t rehome our current intake, we can’t accept any more, and that’s that.’

‘There are still more outbuildings for conversion,’ Diane argues.

‘That isn’t the point,’ I say, frustrated by her attitude. ‘If we have too many animals, we can’t look after them properly. And don’t tell me we can always enlist some more people to help – we have too few volunteers as it is. What’s more – and I don’t want to get involved in the politics of it all – we can’t convert any more buildings. We haven’t got a builder: DJ’s left.

‘Blame it on your aunt,’ Diane cuts in. ‘You need to have a go at her.’

‘I’ve already spoken to her.’ I rang this morning after I read DJ’s text. ‘She says she has no authority to unfreeze the money. It’s down to the committee.’ I believe that, like the charity’s assets, Fifi has been frozen too – frozen out. ‘Diane, I’d really appreciate it if you could pay DJ, with interest, and persuade him to come back to finish the projects he signed up for before Saturday. It’s a health and safety issue for our visitors. If the place isn’t tidied up, I’ll have to cancel the Fun Day.’

Diane takes this very calmly. I’m afraid that she has nothing in her life apart from pursuing her ambition to take over as chair of Talyton Animal Rescue, whereas my aunt has too much and is in danger of losing her position because she hasn’t the time to sort it out. I
allow
myself a smile. There’s no way that Diane and Fifi will ever agree because they both want the same job.

‘I can’t talk to DJ,’ Diane says. ‘He was Fifi’s choice. She’s made a habit of riding roughshod over the rest of us, and it has to stop.’

I sigh inwardly. The stress is getting to me. If I were a bird, I’d be pulling my feathers out.

Unfortunately, the vet can’t be with us until late afternoon, by which time Jack has taken Libby home for her shift at the Co-op. Alex Fox-Gifford, tall with silvering dark hair and fierce blue eyes, arrives at four in his checked shirt and navy cords, carrying a stethoscope and visit case.

‘Hi,’ he says, ‘how’s it going?’

‘Well, thanks. How’s business?’

‘Brisk, although we’re always busy this time of year. Maz has been telling me that you’ve been turning up at Otter House so often recently that you should take out a season ticket.’

Alex and Maz are married, Talyton St George’s golden couple, according to my aunt.

‘I wish there was something that could cut the cost … I’m not complaining,’ I go on hurriedly, ‘I know what’s involved, running the surgery, paying for staff and buying drugs.’

‘I expect you’re keeping them in doughnuts,’ Alex says.

‘I don’t have any doughnuts, but I do have biscuits. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

‘I’d better not. I’m planning to be back in time to pick up George from nursery.’ George is Alex’s son. ‘Where’s this pony?’

‘She’s this way, in the barn. Jack arranged for the
police
to seize her when she was reported straying on the roads. You know Mr Maddocks, the owner, don’t you?’

‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Frank Maddocks on many occasions. He will keep tethering his animals on our land. My father used to keep hassling him until he moved them off, but I just don’t have the time or the inclination.’

When Alex and I reach the stable, Dolly takes one look at us and turns her bottom in our direction, the end of her tail trailing through the straw.

‘I’ll keep out of the way until you’ve caught her,’ Alex says.

I grab the lead-rope that Libby’s left hanging beside the door, and walk in, outwardly confident and inwardly petrified, my heart knocking against my ribs.

‘Come here, Dolly.’ My voice emerges as a high-pitched squeak. I’m not particularly confident around ponies. I had some riding lessons at the riding school, but to my parents’ relief I didn’t catch the pony bug.

‘Dolly?’ I stick my hand in my pocket and rustle a sweet wrapper, which makes her turn to face me with her ears pricked. I take out a mint and hold it in the palm of my hand. Dolly takes a step forwards, extending her neck until I can feel the breath from her flared nostrils, followed by the slightest touch of her lip when she picks up the mint and crunches it between her teeth. I take out a second one and, as she reaches out for it, clip the rope onto the ring under her chin.

‘Gotcha,’ I say quietly and, with a sense of triumph, I lead her towards the stable door. ‘All right, Alex. Here she is.’

‘Thanks, Tessa.’

When Dolly spots Alex on the other side of the door,
she
stops dead and utters a loud snort as if to say, ‘Uh-oh, it’s the vet!’

‘How does she know?’ I say. ‘Has she met you before?’

‘I’ve never treated her. Frank doesn’t have a vet – he does everything himself with various pills and potions, drenches and medicine balls that he creates from recipes he finds in ancient veterinary texts … I wonder if she doesn’t like the smell of cows?’ Alex adds, sniffing at his sleeve. ‘I’ve been vaccinating some calves.’

He opens the stable door, at which Dolly spins round, taking me by surprise and showing Alex her heels.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, turning her back to face him. ‘Did she get you?’

‘She tried to take my kneecaps out,’ he says, grimacing as he flexes and stretches one leg. ‘Have you a bridle for her?’

I shake my head. Jack’s taken the chifney.

‘In that case, it might be a good idea to wrap the lead-rope around her nose to give you a bit more control.’

Fumbling with the rope, I loop it around Dolly’s nose, pull it tight and hang on to it, digging my heels into the straw.

‘I’ve got her,’ I say, more confident that I can hold her now, but Dolly has other ideas. When Alex approaches a second time, she rolls her blue eye at me and shakes her head, tearing the rope through my hands before charging at him, stopping dead to rear up and slam her front feet down just centimetres from the toes of his boots.

Standing his ground, Alex growls at her, ‘That is not
funny
, pony,’ and to my amazement, she takes a step back.

I apologise for not being able to hold her, checking the stinging tracks of the rope burns across my palms.

‘I think she has it in mind to kill me,’ Alex says darkly. ‘I knew I should have sent Justin, my assistant, in my place. Let me go and draw up some sedative.’

‘How on earth will you get that into her?’

‘I have a cunning plan.’ Alex chuckles. ‘Don’t panic – I’ve never had a pony beat me, and I’m not going to let Dolly break that record after all the years I’ve been in practice. She’s a nasty piece of work, much like Frank Maddocks, a real witchy mare.’

As manager of the Sanctuary, I feel responsible for Dolly’s disgraceful behaviour, and I realise how a parent must feel having a naughty child: somehow, it reflects on you.

‘What will happen to her if she’s like this?’ Suddenly, I feel quite low, as I did with Buster. I don’t expect Dolly to be in the slightest bit grateful, but I didn’t imagine she would be so aggressive and, frankly, unlovable. ‘I suppose she’ll end up being put down.’

‘Tessa, give her a chance,’ Alex says. ‘There are plenty of ponies that don’t like vets, and I should know.’

‘I don’t like going to the dentist,’ I say, ‘but I don’t try to kill him.’

Alex returns from his four by four with a needle and syringe loaded with sedative.

‘If you can get hold of the end of the lead-rope and walk outside so you can hang on to her over the stable door, I can shoot this into the muscle at the side of her neck.’ Seeing my hesitation, Alex goes on, ‘You can
feed
her some more mints to keep her mind off the needle.’

His plan works and the sedative goes in, although the needle stays embedded in her neck when she jumps away.

‘I can retrieve that when she’s sleepy,’ Alex says. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Do you think it will work?’ I ask anxiously. Sometimes animals are so wound up that no amount of sedative will have the desired effect.

‘If we’re quiet and don’t disturb her,’ Alex says, and we wait in complete silence until Dolly lowers her head and starts to doze, her eyes half closed, sweat forming in silvery beads across her coat – a good sign that the sedative is taking effect. Alex opens the stable door and ushers me in to stand at Dolly’s head.

‘I could have given her a bit less,’ Alex observes as he checks her over, listening to her chest, examining the scabs on her legs and frowning when he looks at the state of her feet.

‘I’ve called the farrier,’ I say. ‘He’s coming out this evening as a special favour.’

‘I would let him know she’s dopey now – leave it too long and she’ll be back on form. I suppose the alternative is for me to leave you some sedation for when he comes, but you mustn’t give her another dose within twenty-four hours.’ Alex stops abruptly. ‘I apologise. I’m talking to you like you’re a client, not a vet nurse.’

‘I’m not all that clued up on ponies, but I have looked up mud fever because I’m assuming – although I know I’m not qualified to make a diagnosis – that’s what’s causing the scabs on her legs.’

‘That’s correct. I’m going to run the clippers over
them
to remove all that feather, so you can get her skin really clean. I’ll record her details so the police can apply for a passport, I’ll microchip her and give her a first vaccination. Jack said that as far as he can find out, she hasn’t been registered or vaccinated before. Oh, and I need to check her teeth as well.’

Alex records the mare’s markings on a sheet: her patches; the broad and crooked blaze down her face; the positions of the distinctive whorls where there’s a change of direction of the lie of the hair, like human fingerprints. He fills in the rest of her details: mare, approximately ten years old; breeding unknown. He scans for a microchip but there isn’t one, so he injects a chip about the size of a grain of rice under the skin in Dolly’s neck as I stand beside her, sensing the steam rising from her body and wondering what other indignities she has been subjected to throughout her life.