The Village Vet (8 page)

‘A year?’ I say slowly. ‘I’m not sure.’ I start to backtrack as doubts come scuttling like rats into my mind. ‘I haven’t got any experience of running a rescue centre. I don’t want to let you down.’

‘I’m certain you wouldn’t. Tessa, do think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Tomorrow morning will do.’

‘That isn’t much time.’

‘We have animals waiting to move in. Our foster homes, as I said to DJ, are full. Other local rescue charities are chock-a-block. We are desperate. In fact, for the first time, we’re thinking the unthinkable.’ Fifi looks at me, her eyes growing bright with tears. ‘We’ll have to choose between them. Imagine that.’

‘It won’t come to that.’ I rest my arm around my aunt’s narrow shoulders. ‘No vet I know will agree to put down a healthy animal, unless they’re a danger to people or other animals.’

‘It could happen,’ my aunt insists. ‘In all the years I’ve been on the committee, it’s never been this bad. Look at the dog you took to Otter House.’

‘What about him?’ I feel a frisson of panic. ‘I thought he was fully recovered and ready to go home.’

‘He hasn’t got a home, he’s fit and healthy, and he’s stuck at Otter House.’

‘It’s been three weeks.’ Guilty for thinking of my own troubles and forgetting about the dog, I recall the soft expression in his eyes and the beat of his tail against the front of the cage when I dropped in to the vet’s to see how he was a few days after the wedding.

‘Wendy, our foster carer, offered to take him in, even though she has her full complement, a complete pack, but he tried to kill them all, so Maz had to take him back. She’s rung round all the other rescue charities and put him on their waiting lists, but for now, he’s …’ Fifi pauses. ‘Well, I suppose you’d call it kennel-blocking, taking up a bed that could be used for a sick patient. With that and his history of being a danger to other animals, I’m worried he’s going to end up on Death Row, or the equivalent. Apparently, he’s a strange dog. He’s two or three years old at a guess, and because he’s a Staffordshire bull terrier type, he’ll be hard to rehome because of their association with pit bulls and other fighting dogs. You see, Tessa, that’s where you come in. That poor dog needs your help – and he isn’t the only one.’

‘Look, this is all a bit sudden,’ I say, torn. ‘I do need time to think, Fifi. I can’t give you a decision tomorrow – give me a few days.’

‘I know you’ll want to talk it through with other people, but I could really do with an answer as soon as possible.’

‘I’ll have a chat with Mum and Dad,’ I tell her, but by the time Fifi’s dropped me home after some dinner with my uncle at their house, my parents have gone out for a meal with friends.

I wait up for them for a while, making lists of the pros and cons of taking up Fifi’s offer, and keen to share my news, but they don’t arrive back until after midnight, by which time I’ve just fallen asleep. My mother decides to make pancakes with golden syrup, and my father knocks on my door to announce the fact.

‘Come and join us, Tessa,’ he shouts. ‘No more hiding in your room like a princess in the tower.’

‘Dad, you’ve woken me up,’ I say, pulling the duvet up over my head. Suddenly, the Sanctuary appeals to me, a rural and isolated spot where I can retreat and find some space to think, somewhere that gives me a reason to get up in the mornings, somewhere I can make a difference, but I do join my parents in the kitchen over pancakes and a nightcap and discuss my options.

‘I don’t know what you were doing anyway, giving up your job like that.’ Mum pours herself a second small brandy. She’s changed into a white robe acquired from a stay in a hotel and pink fluffy moccasin slippers.

‘I didn’t give it up – it gave me up.’ It was maternity cover, so I knew it wasn’t going to last, although in my optimism I imagined there would be some way I could stay on.

‘I’m referring to the job before that one, Tessa,’ Mum says sternly while Dad tosses the last pancake and fails to catch it, an action that results in loud guffaws of laughter and much clowning around with a bowl of suds and a mop. His laughter is infectious, and soon
I
’m laughing too, which gives me welcome respite from my preoccupations with money, or lack or it, and the uncertainty over my future.

I need a roof over my head and to work, but should I stay with what I know, vet nursing, or take a chance and accept the position at the Sanctuary?

Chapter Four

Horses for Courses

THE NEXT DAY
, Saturday, I call Katie and arrange to meet for a drink in the afternoon.

‘Where are you off to, Tess?’ Dad asks, looking up from the paper as I grab my shoes and a bag. When I explain, he says, as always, ‘Have fun, Princess. Make sure you’re back by midnight—’

‘Or else you’ll turn into a pumpkin,’ I finish for him. Smiling, I kiss him and go, meeting Katie outside the house. We stroll through town down to the river to make our way to the pub, Katie in full make-up, skimpy top and leggings while I’m in an oversized T-shirt and jeans. After Katie’s given me a dressing-down for not dressing up, I tell her about Fifi’s offer.

‘You aren’t going to take her up on it?’ Katie says. ‘You’d be mad to. You’ll end up a glorified kennel maid and general dogsbody. A full-time position with part-time pay: that sounds to me like someone’s taking advantage.’

‘Talyton Animal Rescue’s a charity.’

‘That’s no reason not to pay a living wage.’

‘There’s accommodation and use of a van.’

‘A van, after that gorgeous Mini that Nathan gave you.’ Katie chuckles. ‘How cool is that? Not!’

‘And I’d be working with animals, which I love,’ I go on, as we’re crossing the bridge that carries the traffic from Talyton St George towards the coast. Renamed the Centurion Crossing, it’s the recreation of the old stone bridge that was washed away in Talyton’s great flood of three years ago. We walk down the slope on the far side and join the path that runs along the riverbank.

‘I suppose there’s no harm in saying you’ll do it for a while until something better turns up,’ Katie says eventually.

‘Ah, there’s a hitch. Fifi wants me to sign up for a year minimum, so I can get the new centre off the ground. It isn’t all about the animals. We’ll be organising campaigns to raise money and attract volunteers too.’

‘You said “we” as if it’s a foregone conclusion and you’ve already made up your mind,’ Katie says, raising one eyebrow.

‘I’ve promised her my answer tomorrow.’

We make our way over the open field to the old railway line and clamber over the stile into the next field, where we come across a horse grazing beside the footpath. She’s tethered to a post with a rope and chain in full sun with no shelter or shade, and has mown a circle of grass down to bare earth. As we move closer, I realise that she’s more of a pony than a horse, a piebald cob, all black and white patches, with a long mane and an unbelievably thick tail that touches the ground. When she catches sight of me and Katie, she lifts her head and peers out through her forelock.

‘She could do with some layers in that fringe,’ Katie observes dryly.

‘And a decent pedicure,’ I go on, noticing how her stripy black and white hooves are long and ragged like an old man’s fingernails. Her legs are swollen and some of the feather is coming off, and I can see her ribs and bony haunches. The lack of muscle and fat has given her a ewe neck that looks as if it’s been set on upside down. I take another step closer and she backs away, turning her bottom towards us.

‘I can’t see any water,’ I say.

Katie shrugs. ‘I expect her owners come and give her a drink now and then.’

‘She’s a horse. She should have access to fresh water at all times.’

‘Well, you know best, Tessa. I can hardly tell one end of a horse from another.’

‘One end bites, the other one kicks,’ I say, smiling. I grow serious once more. ‘I’m going to have to report this.’

‘Are you sure? It isn’t really any of our business.’

‘I can’t leave it, can I? She looks as if she’s being neglected.’ I pull my mobile from my pocket, make an internet search for the number of the animal welfare officer, and I’m waiting for someone to answer when Katie gives me a sharp nudge. I look towards the stile where a large man, brandishing a stick, and a teenage boy in a cap are climbing over, yelling curses in our direction.

‘I don’t like the look of this,’ says Katie. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘It’s the Maddockses.’ I cut the call. Frank Maddocks, his girlfriend and his son live in a mobile home on a couple of acres of land behind Overdown Farmers, the
wholesalers
on Talyton St George’s modest industrial estate. He’s a wheeler-dealer, poacher and smallholder, and I wouldn’t like to meet him alone on a dark night.

‘Leave my property alone!’ Mr Maddocks shouts. He’s about forty years old, dark-haired and at least six foot three. He stops right in front of me so I can see the pockmarks in his unshaven cheeks, and pounds the earth with his stick. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ His belly trembles beneath his check shirt and his jeans hang halfway down his thighs, the fabric ruckled over the tops of his brown work-boots. ‘Too close and she’ll give you both barrels up the arse.’

‘We were just passing by, weren’t we?’ Katie tugs at my sleeve. ‘Come on, Tessa.’

I stand my ground. ‘She has no water,’ I point out. ‘How would you feel if you had nothing to drink?’

‘She had a bucket last night. Some little toerag must have nicked it.’ As Mr Maddocks approaches the pony, she puts her ears back and reverses until there’s no slack left in the tether.

‘She’s in pretty poor condition too,’ I persist, even though Katie has transferred her grip to my arm and is trying to drag me away. ‘You can see her bones.’

‘That’s because you’re used to seeing fat ponies. This’ – he raises his stick and the mare flinches – ‘is a working pony, not a field ornament, and don’t tell me she has nothing to eat. There’s grass everywhere.’ He laughs, mocking me.

‘She can’t reach it,’ I say, shaking Katie off.

‘That’s because of the tether,’ he says sarcastically.

I’m just about at the end of my tether with him, I think, trying to work out how to deal with him.

‘And I’m here now to move her along to a fresh piece,’ he goes on.

‘What about her legs?’

‘That’s a touch of mud fever, and she’s under treatment for it – I use my own mixture, castor oil and zinc quite regular.’ Mr Maddocks stares at me through narrow, deep-set eyes that remind me of a Dobermann and my heart thuds faster. I don’t like him. He’s a bully.

‘I can report you, you know,’ I say, aware that Katie is casting me warning glances as if to say, Shut up for goodness’ sake.

‘But you won’t, will you’ – he moves so close I can feel his spit on my face – ‘because for a start you know you haven’t a leg to stand on, and secondly’ – he lowers his voice to a whisper – ‘I know where you live, my darlin’. Your father’s that poncey bloke, the weird one who makes a living dressing up as a woman.’ He chuckles, revealing his stained and broken teeth. ‘Hardly mutton dressed as lamb, is he? Ram dressed as mutton, more like. Anyway, you mind yourself.’

‘Katie, did you hear that?’ I look around wildly to find Katie backing away along the footpath. ‘He’s threatening me.’

‘I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m a peaceful man, a gentle giant.’ Mr Maddocks gives his son a nudge with the end of his stick. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s right, isn’t it, Lewis?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ the boy mumbles, keeping his hands in the pockets of his shorts and his eyes averted.

‘Please, Tessa,’ Katie begs. ‘Let’s just go.’ As we walk away, she says, ‘You aren’t going to call animal welfare now – if you do, he’ll know exactly who dobbed him in.’

‘I can’t just leave it. What if the pony died because we turned a blind eye? I could never forgive myself.’

‘Well, at least wait until we’re at the pub. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

At the pub, Katie heads for the bar to buy two white wines while I sit outside in the beer garden at one of the picnic tables and make the call to the local animal welfare officer. There’s an emergency number because it’s after midday on a Saturday, and as I start to leave a message so they can call me back later, a familiar voice cuts in. It’s Jack Miller.

My instinct is to cut the call because he is the last person I wish to speak to, but the pony’s welfare is at stake so I have no option but to continue, keeping my emotions in check and suppressing my rising resentment as memories of my wedding day come flooding back. Jack might have saved me from making a terrible mistake, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about what he did. He had no right.

‘Tess,’ he says. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

‘This isn’t a social call,’ I say sharply. ‘I’m phoning about a pony that’s tethered down by the river.’ I pause. ‘I didn’t think you worked for animal welfare any more. I thought you’d resigned.’

‘I was lucky – when I came back from my travels I walked straight back into a job with Talyton Animal Rescue.’

‘Does my aunt know anything about this?’ I ask, suspicious now that Fifi has been up to her usual tricks, interfering in other people’s lives.