Trust Me, I'm a Vet (36 page)

‘Why not?’

‘It’s your dream. Your life.’ Otter House Vets is the culmination of all she’s worked for.

‘It’s a part of my life. As Ben has pointed out, it doesn’t have to be the whole of it.’ Emma leans back against the counter.

‘What about Izzy? What will she do? Where will she go? There aren’t that many jobs around here. She’ll have to travel.’

‘I know, I know.’ Emma chews on her lip, then turns back to me. ‘I don’t know why you’re so appalled. Izzy told me you were about to close the practice down the day before the fire. I did get your messages, but what you said didn’t sink in somehow.’ I open my mouth to speak, but she goes on, ‘Nigel told me what you did – how you changed your mind and settled the outstanding bills out of your own pocket to stop the bailiffs turning up. He told me how you even had to sack Frances. I wish I hadn’t put you in that situation.’

‘It was pretty awful,’ I say, smiling in spite of the tension.

‘She can be rather scary.’

‘It isn’t that.’ I’ve seen Frances’s softer side. ‘She isn’t working for fun – she needs the money. I felt so guilty.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Emma says, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about it.

‘I should have made sure I charged for the work I did, not let people get off without paying. I made that stupid mistake with Cheryl’s cat. Worst of all, I killed Cadbury.’

‘You didn’t kill him – Nigel told me what happened.’

‘Everyone thinks I did,’ I say, thinking especially of Izzy. ‘That’s why you’ve got no clients left.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ Emma says. ‘They’re flooding back now anyway. It’s all over town that we’ve taken Gloria’s animals in and looked after them.’ She hesitates. ‘Friends?’

I nod. Nothing will ever change that.

‘What are you going to do next?’ I ask, referring to her long-term plans for Otter House, but Emma misunderstands me – deliberately, I think.

‘I’m going to get back to work. There are a couple of consults left and three ops, so I’d better get a move on.’ Emma’s gaze settles on the other end of the sofa where Tripod is lying stretched out and belly-up. ‘What’s that cat doing in here?’

‘Er, sleeping.’

‘How did he get in?’

‘Through the cat-flap.’

‘We haven’t got a cat-flap.’

‘We have now . . . Haven’t you seen it?’

‘I must have been too preoccupied to notice.’ Emma sighs. ‘What’s its name?’

‘He’s called Tripod. I knew you wouldn’t be keen on having a practice pet, but it’s difficult to rehome a three-legged cat – most people want a whole one. I did try to resist, but once he’d got his paws under the table, I couldn’t bring myself to evict him.’

Emma tickles Tripod’s chest. He opens one eye, mews and closes it again.

‘You fell on your feet, didn’t you, the three you have left,’ she murmurs, and I think that’s one problem solved. I’m worried though about the much larger one she’s thrown up. I can’t believe she’s thinking of giving the practice up when it’s meant everything to her. What about her loyal clients, and her patients? What will they do without her?

‘I’ll do the consults,’ I offer, remembering that my stethoscope went up in smoke in the fire.

Emma looks at me, a little pale and uncertain, then says, ‘All right then. Frances can run you up to the hospital afterwards. You’ve got an appointment?’

I nod. I reckon the dressings on my arms would last another day, but who am I to argue? I’m just a vet, not a doctor, and anyway, it’s a good excuse to visit Alex, to sit and watch over him, to hold his hand, to pull him through . . . I try to stay focused, positive.

Clive’s arrival cheers me up. He drops by first, dumping a large cardboard box on the table.

‘It’s always a worry when someone turns up with a great big box like that – I’m never quite sure what I’m going to find inside it,’ I say.

‘Our customers organised a collection,’ Clive explains, opening the lid to reveal a jumble of tins and boxes of pet food. He seems more cheerful than when I last saw him.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I say, touched at the gesture. ‘It’s great. Everyone’s really pulling together to help.’

‘That’s something I’ve learned about the good people of Talyton St George this past week,’ Clive says. ‘They can behave like a bunch of mean bitches, prattling on about everybody’s business but their own, but when someone’s in trouble, they have hearts of gold.’ He pauses. ‘That’s why I’m staying on. Edie thought I was going to do a runner – after Robbie . . .’

Don’t cry, I urge him under my breath, otherwise you’ll start me off, thinking of that beautiful day beside the river and the rose petals drifting across the lawn and catching in Robbie’s coat.

Clive pulls a rumpled white handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose.

‘I didn’t think I’d be able to walk back in here, but I’ve done it,’ he says. ‘One day, one step at a time . . .’

‘Why don’t you come and have a look around Kennels as you’re here?’ I say, thinking of Petra.

‘I’ll never have another dog,’ Clive says, one step ahead of me. ‘Robbie was irreplaceable.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you replace him,’ I say, slightly hurt that he could think such a thing and wishing I hadn’t introduced the idea quite so abruptly. I suppose it does look rather insensitive on my part, but Clive and Edie could offer one of those poor dogs out the back a wonderful home. ‘I was wondering if you’d be able to take one of the rescues.’

‘No. It’s kind of you to think of me, Maz, but no. I’ve made up my mind. I’m busy with the pub. I’ve just started a new project to restore the wheel and the race, so we can get the mill working again. Another dog would be too much.’

I’m disappointed. Petra isn’t going to be the easiest dog to find a place for.

‘I heard what happened to Stewart’s dog,’ Clive goes on. ‘You’re a good vet, Maz, and I wouldn’t have had anyone else look after Robbie. I just wanted you to know.’

‘Thanks, Clive.’ I watch him go, stopping for a word with Frances on the way. I wish other people had Clive’s faith in me.

Back in my room I clean the table, wash my hands and log into the computer. There’s no one waiting, according to the list, but there’s definitely someone in Reception.

‘Ooooh!’ There’s a high-pitched howl that makes me think of werewolves. ‘Ooooh, what shall I tell the children?’

I rush out to take a look. Frances is holding a shoebox, Ally Jackson a box of tissues. Ally’s hair is a mess, and her skirt is caught up at the back.

‘There there, dear,’ Frances says. ‘Do you want to take him home with you?’

Ally grimaces. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’

‘I’ll deal with it for you then.’ Frances glances towards me. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late, Maz. Harry has’- she lowers her voice – ‘expired.’

‘Ooooh!’ Ally starts howling again.

Frances reverses out through the swing doors, holding the shoebox out in front of her, then disappears up the corridor.

‘What happened, Ally?’ I ask.

‘I opened the cage to give Harry his half a biscuit this morning – he soooo loves a digestive – and I found him at the bottom of the tube that leads up to his penthouse.’ She stuffs a ball of tissue between her lips and is unable to say any more.

Who declared him dead? I wonder. Ally or Frances?

‘Frances!’ I catch up with her in the laundry room, the shoebox sticking out of the rubbish bin, her finger on the button of the clinical waste compressor. ‘Stop!’

She straightens a little, her finger still on the button.

‘I’ll be back at my post in just a tick, Maz.’

‘Don’t press that button. I want to check on Harry.’

‘Why? He’s dead,’ she says, stepping aside so I can peer over her shoulder into the compressor. ‘Look.’

Harry is curled up on a nest of kitchen roll.

‘Excuse me.’ I reach past Frances, catching the static on her polyester tunic with a crackle. I pick Harry out and hold him cupped in my palm. He’s cool and smooth, like a beach pebble. But I’m pretty certain I can feel the tiniest lift of his ribcage and faintest beat of his heart. ‘He’s alive. Just.’

‘You mean?’ Frances recoils from the compressor, her face white with shock as if she’s seen a ghost, which I suppose, in a way, she has.

I’m beginning to understand why Ally is so attached to him – he has the cutest little nose and whiskers, and he’s a fighter.

‘I’ll talk to Ally,’ I say, and Frances gets the incubator out of the cupboard, so I can pop Harry inside it on my way out.

I suppose you’d describe Harry as being in a state of suspended animation brought on by a drop in temperature. It’s a natural, physiological response to ensure survival in the wild. I doubt it has the same benefit for hamsters in captivity – how many have been buried alive by their well-meaning owners?

I’m being morbid. It’s not knowing about Alex, you see.

I check that Izzy’s happy for me to leave Harry with her and Emma while Frances drops me at the hospital. Emma looks as if she’s going down with some bug she’s caught abroad, Delhi belly or malaria maybe. Gloria’s animals need me. Otter House needs me. Keep strong, I think! I have no choice, and if I’m honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It feels good to be needed.

Frances drops me off and goes shopping while I have my dressings changed and then head to find Alex, my body buzzing with nerves as I wonder what I’m going to find.

‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ I ask, finding Debbie at her workstation, a pen in one hand and a chocolate biscuit in the other.

‘Hi, Maz,’ she says brightly.

‘How is he?’

‘You’ll have to ask him yourself.’

‘He’s awake?’ My pulse flutters with hope. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘Let’s just say it’s looking very promising, but —’

‘It’s early days, one step at a time, etc.,’ I cut in.

Debbie smiles. ‘You could do my job.’

‘I am sure I couldn’t. Animals can’t tell me what’s wrong with them, but at least they don’t answer back.’ I pause. ‘Can I go through now?’

‘You’ll have to wait a few minutes.’ Debbie looks at me quizzically. ‘He has someone with him.’

‘His parents?’

‘She didn’t say exactly, but she’s the third female visitor today. Our Alex is remarkably popular with the ladies.’ Debbie looks at the clock behind her. ‘She’s had her fifteen minutes. I’ll ask her to leave now – we mustn’t wear him out.’

It’s Eloise. When we pass in the corridor I say hi, but she doesn’t acknowledge me, which I suppose isn’t surprising seeing as I’ve only met her once and I’m in a tearing hurry to reach Alex’s bedside.

There’s a figure lying on Alex’s bed, very still and silent, and shrouded with rumpled white sheets, like a corpse.

Is he . . .? I reach out my hand and pull the top of the sheet down to reveal his face. There are no tubes, no machines.

‘I thought, I thought you’d woken up,’ I whisper, wondering how Debbie has got it so wrong.

Biting my lip, I touch the curve of his cheek. It’s cool and prickly with stubble. His complexion is pale and the bruise on his temple has darkened to a greyish-purple. His eyes are closed. However, there’s the slightest movement of the sheet covering his body and his lips part slightly, exhaling warm breath. Even then it takes me a moment to decide that it isn’t wishful thinking on my part and he really is alive.

My shock at finding him like this is replaced by relief then anxiety.

‘Alex, please wake up . . .’

He doesn’t respond, and I don’t know what to do because I have so much I want to tell him, how I’m sorry for misjudging him, for assuming he was just like his father, for being sharp with him when he was only trying to help me out. I want to tell him how my heart beats faster whenever I’m with him, whenever I think about him, how much I . . .

‘Alex,’ I say, ‘I love you.’ I lean down and press my lips against his. One moment I’m looking at his eyelids; the next, I’m looking into his eyes. The pupils darken and dilate. The creases at the corners deepen. ‘Alex?’

I straighten up, gazing at him in wonder.

Alex’s lips, the ones I’ve just brazenly kissed, curve into a smile and my toes curl with embarrassment. Did he hear what I said?

‘I thought you’d had a relapse,’ I say joyfully.

‘I thought I was dreaming,’ he murmurs, and my heart soars, only to come crashing back to earth when he adds, ‘Eloise?’

If I were rigged up to a heart monitor right now, I would be flatlining. He told me he wasn’t involved with her.

‘I’m Maz.’ I stare at him, uncertain. He’s had a knock on the head. He’s been unconscious for some time. Am I speaking to the Alex I knew before, or a slightly different Alex, who’s lost his memory? ‘Don’t you remember me?’

‘How could I forget?’ he says wryly. He rolls onto one elbow and winces. ‘Has she gone?’ He lies back down, massaging his forehead. ‘Thank goodness for that. Don’t get me wrong, she’s lovely, but her constant chattering on and on about her new horse was giving me a headache. I pretended to fall asleep. I’m sorry if I frightened you.’ He grins and I realise that he hasn’t changed at all. ‘I didn’t think you cared . . .’