Trust Me, I'm a Vet (6 page)

‘I’m Lynsey. I rang the surgery about worms not so long ago.’ She lowers the puppy onto the table where he pads about on oversized paws, wagging his body as well as his tail. He’s gorgeous.

‘We had worms once,’ says the oldest boy, who must be about eight.

‘Thank you for that, Sam.’ Lynsey’s jacket is Puffa, her jeans are Next Maternity and her wellies Overdown Farmers, local wholesalers of farm supplies. ‘Boys, please be good,’ she says, looking a bit fraught as two of the boys crawl under the table, one starts investigating the contents of the fridge, and the remaining boy on the loose, Sam, mauls Cadbury affectionately about the head. I turn to the one who’s now pulling boxes of vaccines out of the fridge. He reminds me of my brother when he was about four years old, taking eggs out of the fridge and dropping them one by one on the kitchen floor while my mother was out at work and I was in charge.

‘Will you stop doing that, please.’ I use my best
It’s Me or the Dog
voice, one guaranteed to stop the most aggressive hound in its tracks. (Well, almost.) The boy stares at me, his cheeks glistening with snail trails of snot. ‘Now put them away and close the door.’

He hesitates.

‘Didn’t you see the notice on the board in Reception?’ I ask him. ‘The one that says, “Warning, This Vet Bites”.’

He shakes his head, flicking his hair so that blond strands catch and stick to the snail trails. Keeping his eyes on me, he bends down, picks up the boxes and puts them back in the fridge.

‘Thank you. What’s your name?’

‘Ryan,’ he whispers contritely.

‘OK, Ryan, you can come and help me find out what’s wrong with your dog.’

‘He’s been very quiet for the past couple of days,’ Lynsey says, although Cadbury looks pretty bright to me, bouncing up and down and slobbering across the table. ‘He’s hungry, but he can’t keep anything down.’

Cadbury doesn’t make it easy for me to examine him. He thinks it’s a game, but suddenly he stands quietly, his expression mournful.

‘It’s probably something he’s eaten,’ I say, at which he retches and throws up a sausage of foamy, dark fabric onto the table in front of us. The boys stare, fascinated.

‘Mummy, that’s my sock,’ says Ryan.

I give Cadbury an injection to settle his stomach, then stick on a pair of gloves and rinse the offending object out in the sink. It is indeed a sock. Thomas the Tank Engine beams at us, unharmed.

‘Mum’s been sick like Cadbury,’ Sam observes.

‘I can assure you that it isn’t because I’ve been eating socks.’ Lynsey smiles. I like her. She’s friendly and warm, and not in the least bit fazed by seeing me rather than Emma.

‘Number seven’s on its way – all I have to do is look at Stewart and I’m pregnant, but if it isn’t a girl this time, I’m going to send it straight back. Thanks – Maz, wasn’t it?’ she goes on after I’ve murmured my congratulations, uncertain whether congratulations are in order or not. ‘It’s marvellous having this practice on our doorstep. I can’t believe how smart it is.’

‘It’s cleaner than our house, Mum,’ Sam cuts in.

‘Can’t you keep anything to yourself?’ Lynsey sighs. ‘What was I saying? Oh yes, you and Emma have a much nicer bedside manner than Old Fox-Gifford – he scares the living daylights out of the boys. Ryan’s only just stopped wetting the bed since Fox-Gifford last came out to the farm.’

‘Barton Farm?’ I say. ‘I spent a few weeks there with Mr Pitt —’

‘That would be my father-in-law. Stewart never calls himself that,’ Lynsey interrupts.

‘It was when I was a student, doing my preclinical studies. Emma’s mum put me in touch with them – I stayed here at Otter House with her for the summer.’ I remember Stewart – he was quite a bit older than me. I also remember that he had a bit of a reputation with the ladies – not that he tried anything on with me, I hasten to add, probably because most of the time on the farm I went around in an unflattering green boilersuit and smelled of cows.

‘That must have been before my time. Stewart’s parents have retired, thank goodness. His dad, bless him, he’s one of those people who’s always right, even when he’s wrong,’ Lynsey says. ‘Thanks again.’

‘It’s nothing. It’s my job.’ I love my work, the uncertainty of what you’re going to see next, the adrenaline rush of tackling an emergency, the highs and even some of the lows.

‘One other thing,’ I say, ‘have you thought about castration at all?’

She looks around at her sons and laughs. ‘I think about it pretty often, but Stewart isn’t too keen on the idea. As for Cadbury, I’ll see how it goes. How much do I owe you?’

I check on the computer in the consulting room. Emma has everything itemised, so all I have to do is type in what I’ve done, press ‘enter’ and wait. That’s the theory anyway.

The screen flickers and goes black, then a message box pops up:

Fatal Exception at 00000xxxt2zzx

‘It didn’t like that, did it?’ says Lynsey.

I head out to Reception with her and the boys to find out what’s happened.

‘I didn’t touch it, Maz.’ Frances is on her feet, flapping. ‘Really, I didn’t.’

‘Can’t you reboot it, or something?’

Frances sticks her specs on the end of her nose, leans her hands on the desk and peers at the keyboard.

‘Try the power button,’ I suggest. ‘Switch it off and on again.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘No, but I can’t think of anything else to do, and Lynsey’s waiting for her bill.’ I hesitate. ‘Emma said you were familiar with computers.’

‘I can google like the best of them, but old Mr Fox-Gifford preferred me not to interfere with anything electrical. “Frances,” he used to say, “don’t you dare, on pain of a lingering death, lay a finger on the equipment.”’

‘All right, I’ll ask Nigel to sort it out later.’ I tell Lynsey that we’ll send her an invoice.

‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘I’m a little short this week – I could do with a bit of free credit.’

I help her load Cadbury and the boys into the Land Rover parked outside. Not the most successful start. So far, I’ve taken no money, seen hardly any clients and the computer’s crashed. The responsibility of running my best friend’s practice is beginning to weigh far more heavily on my shoulders than I imagined it would.

I’m missing Crossways, the comforting sounds of the city, the constant swish of traffic, the jets flying in and out of Heathrow, and the rumble and whirr of the trains, and it’s even quieter here in Otter House at night than it is in the daytime. You can hear the house breathing: the creak of a door upstairs as it rocks on its hinges; the intermittent firing up of the boiler; and from out the back, the higher pitched hum of the freezer (for dead animal bodies, not your Ben & Jerry’s).

I turn the radio on for company, then, having checked on Freddie under the stairs, I head back up to the flat as quickly as I can, just in time to grab my mobile, which is ringing out the theme to
Casualty
(one of the nurses I used to work with downloaded it for a bit of a laugh) from beneath a copy of
Vet News
.

It’s Emma.

‘Hi, how’s it going?’ she says.

‘Where are you?’

‘Dubai . . .’ she says, and I remember that she and Ben were planning to visit one of Ben’s doctor friends who’s living out there. ‘Is everything OK? Have you remembered to feed Miff?’

‘Yes, of course. I even took her for a walk before work.’ I tell Emma about the man on the horse, but I don’t mention the ditch. Neither do I mention Miff slipping her collar nor the muddy tummy-prints she’s left on the carpet in the flat. ‘He was so rude. I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is,’ I go on.

‘God’s gift,’ Emma says. ‘That has to be Alex, son of Old Fox-Gifford.’

‘From Talyton Manor? The other practice? So he’s one of the vets there?’ I take a deep breath. ‘He said his father would have had us shot if he’d found us. Me and the dog!’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Emma goes on. ‘I’ve told you before, the Fox-Giffords don’t behave like normal people. They’re like the Triads of Talyton St George. Oh, I hope they aren’t going to give you grief.’

‘Stop worrying, Emma – you’re supposed to be de-stressing. I’ll cope. It’s so quiet here, it’ll be a complete doddle.’

‘Quiet?’ she says, sounding a little hurt.

‘I mean it’s quiet compared to Crossways,’ I say quickly, not wanting to offend her, although I’ve been wondering how on earth she makes a living out of the practice.

‘Actually, things have been a bit slow recently,’ she admits. ‘Talyton Manor Vets introduced discount microchipping and a vaccination amnesty and a load of my clients left to take advantage of it. I guess some of them will drift back eventually.’ She changes the subject abruptly. ‘How are you getting on with Frances?’

‘All right,’ I say non-committally, but I can tell Emma doesn’t believe me.

‘I should have treated taking on a new receptionist more like buying a horse,’ she sighs. ‘I should have vetted her more thoroughly – checked her teeth, at least.’

‘Are you going to keep checking up on me,’ I ask, smiling to myself, ‘only you’re supposed to be on holiday?’

‘I didn’t realise it would be so difficult to let go,’ Emma admits.

‘Let’s make a deal then. Don’t call me again. Go and make the most of your time off.’ I take it from Emma’s silence that she isn’t convinced. It must be difficult for her: she’s invested everything in Otter House – time, energy, money and emotion. ‘I promise I’ll ring you in the event of an emergency – fire or flood, that’s all.’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’

‘Yes, you do, Em. Now, have a fantastic time. Give Ben my love. And don’t worry about Otter House.’ You have me to do that, I think. ‘I’ve told you – I’ll take care of everything. Trust me,’ I add, ‘I’m a vet.’

Chapter Four

Kittens

I’m always a little on edge when I’m on duty, never sure exactly what I’ll be called upon to do, or when. At Crossways I saw everything from an urban fox cub abandoned by its mum to a very sick marmoset. I also treated a puppy who’d snaffled up his owner’s spliffs and a cat who’d been shot with an airgun. However, Emma says it’s pretty quiet here in Talyton St George. Nothing much happens after nine o’clock at night.

I settle down in front of the television to catch up with the news and it can’t be more than ten minutes later when the phone rings. I grab the handset.

‘Hello?’ It takes me a moment to remember where I am. ‘Otter House Vets.’

‘Is that Emma?’

‘It’s Maz, Maz Harwood. Emma’s away. I’m the locum.’

‘It’s Cheryl here – I served you a cream tea at the Copper Kettle a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, one of my queens is kittening. She’s in terrible distress – I need someone to look at her straight away. I can’t get hold of Alex, my usual vet. I’ve phoned several times in the past hour, and driven up to the Manor. The dogs are there, but there are no lights on.’

I recall Emma’s warning about getting involved with Talyton Manor Vets, then dismiss it. This is about the welfare of an animal, not unfair competition.

‘You’d better bring her straight round.’

‘You’re an angel. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

I call Izzy to warn her there’s a heavily pregnant cat on the way to the surgery, fling on a grubby T-shirt and jeans (I seem to have mislaid some of my clothes on the way from the car to the flat when moving in), shut Miff in the flat and head downstairs. I hesitate when I hear noises coming from Reception. I push the door open.

‘Who’s there?’ I call sharply.

‘It’s me, Nigel.’ A man with a tidy ginger moustache, a waistcoat and bow tie looks up from the innards of the computer in Reception. ‘You must be Maz.’ He smiles. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you. I let myself in.’

‘I’d rather you’d let me know you were here.’ I don’t like the idea of people I don’t know creeping around the building while I’m upstairs. So much for Miff being a good watchdog, I think. ‘Do you think you’ll get that computer back up and running by tomorrow?’

‘I’m pretty sure I know what the problem is.’ Nigel taps the box with a miniature screwdriver. ‘It’s the loose hair – it clogs the hardware.’

I hope he’s right. I don’t want to deal with a whole day without access to my patients’ casenotes.

‘Oh, while I remember, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve ordered a new trolley,’ I say. ‘The brakes aren’t working on the old one. It isn’t safe.’

‘I’ve cancelled the order.’ Nigel gazes at me with shifty grey eyes. ‘Frances contacted me to let me know. It isn’t a case of while the cat’s away, the mice can play. There’s no money in the budget for new equipment.’

I can’t say I’m entirely happy about Frances going behind my back and Nigel cancelling my order.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ I say. It’s a rhetorical question, seeing Emma’s given me the responsibility for the running of the practice, but Nigel doesn’t see it that way.

‘Me,
au naturel
. I’m practice manager, in all but title anyway. You’re the locum, temporary staff.’