Trust Me, I'm a Vet (18 page)

‘I know all about that,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve had pets before.’

I thought of the two pets I could remember: the school goldfish and a budgie. Both had died. I willed her to shut up.

‘Does that mean I can take King home?’ I cut in. ‘Please, Mum.’

She pursed her lips, and I thought, she’s changed her mind. She could be cruel like that. Capricious.

‘The only concern I have,’ she said after some deliberation, ‘is the cost . . .’

‘I have money for cat food,’ I said desperately.

‘What about the vet’s bills?’ my mother said.

‘Amanda can work here,’ said Jack. ‘I could do with a Saturday girl to help Chrissie out. It won’t be anything terribly exciting – cleaning kennels, sweeping floors, that kind of thing, in return for a small wage.’

My mother couldn’t argue with that.

‘We’d better take him home then.’ My hand flew to the handle on top of the basket then hovered above it as Mum went on, ‘On a week’s trial.’

‘Oh, you won’t be able to let him go once he gets his paws under the table.’ Jack glanced at me and when Mum’s back was turned, pretended to wipe his brow with the back of his hand.

Stony-faced Chrissie cried as we left. Mum and I took King home on the bus, and I felt like a celebrity because everyone wanted to pet him and talk to us.

King settled in well – in fact, from the day he arrived, he padded about the place as if he owned it. He chased shadows, dived into the laundry basket and curled up in our clothes, he patrolled the kitchen worktops and stole the remains of the Christmas turkey – which was great because we didn’t have to eat leftovers for days afterwards. (I wasn’t vegetarian back then.) We all adored him – apart from my father, that is.

In my opinion, not liking animals is a particularly unattractive trait in a man. I’m not sure how fond he was of children either, and he certainly didn’t like my mother much at the end. Ultimately, the only living thing he truly cared about was himself.

The last row my parents had was over the cat. My mum accused my dad of kicking King out onto the balcony. My father, who retreated to the sofa, falling back into its sagging embrace as if he’d had a few too many, said he had merely nudged him out of his way with the toe of his boot.

‘You love that bloody creature more than you’ve ever loved me,’ Dad said, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘At least it’s grateful,’ Mum said coldly.

I grabbed King and hugged him to my chest. He licked my hands, his tongue rasping against my skin and his breath smelling of fish. My heart was pounding almost as fast as his. My parents argued all the time, but this was different.

‘That cat’s a waste of space. All it does is eat and shit, and eat and shit again.’

‘Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.’ My mother’s face flushed to match the scarlet shine of her nails. I could see the jerky rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to go on. ‘I work my guts out to support this family, and what do you do?’

My father put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. They were trembling, quivering. He couldn’t keep them still. He swore and clasped them together.

‘I’m a poet. I write poetry. I write poetry and live among philistines.’ He paused, his brows closing together. ‘Give us a few quid for a drink, will you?’

‘I spent it,’ Mum said defiantly, ‘on fish fingers and Go-Cat.’

‘You . . . you . . .’ My dad struggled to his feet. ‘That’s it – it’s me or the cat.’

‘Then there’s no fucking contest.’

I’m not sure what happened next. My brother, perhaps hearing the sound of raised voices, came running into the room, howling. At the same time, there was a sharp smacking sound and a cry. I caught sight of my father’s foot, a black sock and battered winkle-picker disappearing out through the door, before the scene froze, my brother on his knees, clinging to my legs, my mother with her hand pressed to her cheek and King heavy in my arms.

In spite of all her flirting with other men and fighting with my father, my mother was devastated when she realised he’d left for good. She walked miles over the next few months searching the bars and pubs for him, and when she came home I sometimes found her lying on the bed they used to share, sobbing into King’s fur. I’d creep away, knowing that if she saw me watching her, she’d yell and throw her alarm clock or hairbrush at me, anything that was to hand.

I believe King helped us all – me, my mother and brother – through our grief in one way or another. He didn’t judge anyone. He didn’t spout platitudes. He just was, and that was the greatest comfort of all.

‘You must keep in some kind of contact with your father,’ Alex says.

‘I would if I knew where he was.’ I start to close the skin, avoiding Alex’s compassionate gaze. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t. It’s too late now. I spent a long time trying to track him down, but it never came to anything.’ I don’t know how I’d feel if I ran into him again. Angry? Relieved to know that I’d no longer have to keep looking out for him, because that’s what I do? What I am certain of is that I’d never be able to forgive him.

‘What did he do? As a career, I mean.’

‘Sod all.’ I smile at a memory of my dad sprawled on the couch, can in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other, reading some doggerel he’d created on the way back from the pub, in the name of performance art. ‘He was a poet, a street poet – more McGonagall than Keats. Before you ask, I didn’t inherit his way with words, or his work ethic.’

‘What did he think about you wanting to be a vet?’

‘He disapproved, especially when he realised I’d have to go on to further education. He used to say, “Maz, what’s wrong with the University of Life?”’ The regret and pain combines like a hairball in the back of my throat. In spite of everything, I did love my dad. I loved him, and hated him for abandoning us.

I force myself to concentrate on the cat, and when I’ve finished there’s a line of neat stitches across the stump of the amputation site and a tiny trickle of blood across the shaved, grey skin.

‘Leave him on the gas for a little longer, Alex. After I’ve wired his jaw, I’m going to castrate him to save knocking him out for a second time.’

‘I hope you’re not planning to chop anything else off,’ Alex says lightly. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stand back a bit in case your scalpel slips.’

‘Are you casting aspersions on my surgical technique?’ I say, feeling more cheerful.

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He smiles as I brandish the knife.

‘So where did you end up training then?’ I ask.

‘Bristol,’ he says, and he carries on chatting as I finish off the surgery.

A little while after Alex cuts the anaesthetic, the cat gives a small cough and swallows. Alex sees to the ET tube and unkinks the drip tubing, which has twisted up on itself.

‘What shall we call him? He has to have a name,’ I say as I pull off my gloves.

Alex ponders for a moment. ‘How about Tripod? It’s apt, and you wouldn’t feel too much of a prat yelling it across the garden in earshot of your neighbours.’

‘Tripod it is.’ I stroke the cat’s head. He purrs gamely in response. ‘I’m going to sit up with him for a while. Would you like a coffee?’

‘Please. Black, four sugars.’

‘Four?’ I say, as Alex picks Tripod up. ‘Aren’t you sweet enough already?’

‘What do you think?’ he says, grinning, and I back off, my face warm with embarrassment at having been so forward. ‘Where do you want him?’ Alex sticks the drip bag between his teeth.

‘Over there.’ I point to the empty cage in Kennels where I’ve rigged up a heated pad, and disappear to make two coffees, which we drink while we sleepily watch Tripod snoozing.

He reminds me of King. I did work at the Ark as a Saturday girl, and then every day after school. It was Jack who encouraged me to apply to vet school and it was Jack who took King in when I left for university. In fact, he was the kind of man I’d have liked my father to be.

I clear my throat and take a sip of coffee. ‘I wonder if he did ever have a home.’

‘I’ll ask around,’ Alex says. ‘He could be one of Gloria’s.’

‘I saw one of her cats today.’ I show him my scars.

‘Did she use the “it’s one of my ferals” line?’ Alex raises one eyebrow. ‘She did that once too often when she was with us, pretending the cat wasn’t hers so we’d waive the fee. You do know she’s a bad payer? That’s why we gave her her marching orders. I’m sorry, we should have told Emma when we sent the notes over, but you know what my father’s like.’

‘I’ve just sent a load of blood off to the lab,’ I say, thinking of Emma’s profits.

‘Oh well. I expect she’ll pay up in the end.’

I hope so, I muse, thinking of my bounced cheque as I say, ‘What about Fifi Green? Do you really give her a 20 per cent discount?’

‘Not likely.’ He grins. ‘Is that what she told you?’ Alex sticks his empty mug in the cage alongside Tripod’s, drops his hands to his sides and takes a step back. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m fit for bed. Thanks for tonight, Maz,’ he goes on. ‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you – I’m sorry.’

‘I’m glad I could help.’ I smile ruefully. Alex’s presence disturbs me deeply, and in places that I had decided to forget.

I let him out through the side door and watch him drive away in the dark and pouring rain. Not so long ago Alex Fox-Gifford was not the kind of man I felt inclined to like. Now, I’m not sure what kind of man he is.

Chapter Nine

A Close Shave

The girl behind Reception can’t be more than three or four. She stares at me through big blue eyes and plays with the ringlets of her blonde hair.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘I’m Ruby,’ she murmurs.

I turn to Frances, hoping for some explanation.

‘What else can I do?’ she says sharply. ‘My daughter-in-law is supposed to be at work today and the nursery have turned Ruby away because she’s got a rash, and the doctor doesn’t have a clue what it is.’

‘I got spotty spots.’ Ruby lifts the hem of her joggers.

‘This isn’t a crèche, Frances.’ How’s she going to look after Reception and a child as well?

‘Look.’ Ruby points to her shin. ‘Spotty spots.’

I squat down beside her and take a closer look.

‘Are they itchy?’ I ask, and Ruby bends down to give them a good scratch. ‘Do you have a cat at home?’

Ruby nods. ‘He’s called Chuckle and he’s big and brown and stripy.’

‘Frances, Ruby isn’t infectious. Those are flea bites.’

‘Oh, how embarrassing,’ Frances shrieks. ‘I told her’ – I assume from the tone of her voice, the tone she uses when talking down to certain Otter House clients, that there’s no love lost between her and her daughter-in-law – ‘to take that cat to see a vet about its constant scratching, but would she listen?’

‘You can take her to nursery now,’ I say.

‘I’ll drop her round at lunchtime. It’s all right, Maz. I won’t let her run around unsupervised.’ Frances looks at me disapprovingly. ‘You know, Old Fox-Gifford was more than happy to let her stay in the office and play with his dogs and dear young Alex used to bring her toys and sweets.’

‘I don’t care what Talyton Manor Vets did,’ I say, exasperated.

‘Izzy tells me Alex brought a cat in here last night,’ Frances says. ‘She’s rather put out that you didn’t call her in to help with the op.’

‘I thought she’d be pleased I didn’t wake her.’ I hope I haven’t upset her.

‘Eloise won’t be too happy when she finds out,’ Frances says.

‘You mean the drug rep.’

‘Alex’s girlfriend, that’s right.’

‘I can’t see why she’d be the slightest bit bothered,’ I say. ‘Alex dropped by with the cat, we operated, he went home. End of story, Frances.’

‘Do I hear my name being taken in vain?’

‘Alex?’ I spin round to find Alex letting the door into Reception swing back behind him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to see the cat.’ He looks weary. He’s nicked himself shaving and I find myself wanting to offer him a swab.

‘How’s the lovely Eloise?’ Frances cuts in, apparently determined to extract the latest gossip straight from the horse’s mouth. ‘I thought I saw you two going into the Barnscote for dinner when I was driving past the other day.’

‘It was her treat.’ Alex smiles. ‘The company’s promoted her to Regional Head of Sales.’

‘How marvellous,’ says Frances. ‘You must give her my congratulations.’

‘Will do,’ Alex says. ‘Of course, I always knew she’d go far. Eloise is the complete package – bright, funny and ambitious.’

‘And beautiful,’ Frances adds. ‘She always manages to look glamorous.’

‘Come on through, Alex,’ I say, feeling rather nauseous at the thought of this paragon of a girlfriend.

Outside in the corridor, Alex slips past me and holds the next door open.

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking him through to Kennels.

‘How’s Frances getting on?’ Alex says, on the way.

‘I hope you’re not gloating because you’ve managed to offload your receptionist as well as your more difficult clients,’ I say, stiffening my resolve not to get too friendly with the competition by reminding myself exactly who he is.