It's a Vet's Life: (13 page)

‘I wasn’t talking literally,’ says Alex.

Seb looks at him quizzically.

‘It’s a metaphor,’ says Lucie. ‘We’ve been doing them at school.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It was a flippant comment.’ Alex looks at me, eyes sparking with humour.

‘Are you casting aspersions on our assistant?’ I say archly.

‘Well, you were the one who told me he needed more experience in handling birds, for example. Apparently, everyone got into a bit of a flap when he let go of a cockatiel and couldn’t catch it again,’ he goes on in explanation.

‘Will’s all right,’ I say. ‘It was a case of first-day nerves, that’s all. It could have happened to anyone.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened to me,’ Old Fox-Gifford says smugly. ‘When I qualified, we were omnicompetent from day one. These young vets have been force-fed a diet of scientific facts. They haven’t a clue about the art of veterinary medicine.’

‘I think we can learn from each other,’ I point out. ‘Will’s like a walking textbook – he knows about the current treatments for various conditions.’ I refrain from adding that he isn’t sure how to apply them, but I’m sure that will come with time.

I’d like Alex to tackle his father about taking on an assistant like Emma and I have, but I know he won’t, so I decide to raise the subject for him. Old Fox-Gifford is on his second or third glass of claret now and seems quite mellow.

‘Have you thought about what would happen to the practice if you were ill for more than a couple of days?’ I ask him.

‘It was a couple of hours,’ Old Fox-Gifford says defensively. ‘And I know what you’re going to say. Alexander and I are self-sufficient. We don’t need more staff.’

‘If you won’t take on an assistant, you could employ a receptionist. You used to have Frances here.’

‘And why did she leave?’ Old Fox-Gifford says.

‘Because you hit her in the face with a pen,’ says Alex.

‘I wasn’t aiming directly at her.’

‘I’d appreciate you having someone else to take the phones.’ I can laugh about it – I’m still in possession of a sense of humour. There are days when I’m with George at home, and I’m left to answer the phone, providing advice if Alex is tied up on a call. Several times, I’ve told clients with sick cats or dogs to come to the Manor, and seen them myself on Alex’s behalf.

Sophia points out that, as his wife, or almost his wife, it’s part of my role to share the phone duties with him.

‘Actually, Sophia, it isn’t. I have a career. I work long hours. The last thing I should have to do is spend the free time I do have answering the competition’s phones.’

‘You can’t pay someone to take calls overnight,’ Sophia says.

‘There are answering services.’

‘What about the personal touch?’ says Alex. ‘That’s so important. We haven’t got wonderful premises, and we’re a bit rough and ready. The personal touch is our USP.’

‘You could make some improvements to the surgery, just by giving it a good decluttering and a clean,’ I say. ‘I don’t understand how you can work effectively in that muddle.’

‘We’re used to it,’ Old Fox-Gifford says stubbornly. ‘I have a system. I know exactly where to find things. We don’t need a cleaner either. Alexander gives the place a mop-down now and again.’

‘That isn’t a vet’s role,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it more cost-effective to employ your vets to treat your patients, and other people to clean and answer the phones?’

‘Alexander won’t have to clean when he’s senior partner – that’s something for him to look forward to when I’m gone.’

‘Oh, let’s not talk about business tonight,’ says Sophia.

‘What else is there?’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘Apart from dogs, of course.’

‘And horses, Granpa,’ Lucie joins in cheerfully.

Later, after we’ve finished dinner and we’re collecting the children together to take back to the Barn for a bath and bed, Old Fox-Gifford corners me in the drawing room where we have been sitting drinking coffee. Sometimes, I wonder if he has a list of items to tick off in his head, like my wedding planner. Today, he wants to give me the benefit of his opinions on schooling.

‘You do have George’s name down for school.’ He mentions the name of the boarding school Alex attended from the age of eight.

‘He’ll be going to the local primary school in town,’ I say firmly.

‘Much as that’s suitable for ordinary boys, it’s no good for those with brains or sporting aptitude.’ Old Fox-Gifford’s face seems to swell and redden. He tucks one finger in the collar of his shirt and tugs at it as though giving himself room to breathe.

‘It’s changed since then.’

‘Its reputation is worse,’ Old Fox-Gifford insists. ‘They don’t do sport any more. It’s softball, frisbee and dance. Dance?’ he snorts. ‘That isn’t a sport. It’s for pansies.’

There is no point in arguing with his non-PC views. They have been entrenched in his psyche and vocabulary for over seventy years. He isn’t going to change now.

‘There are no losers any more,’ he goes on. ‘Fifi says everyone is a winner at sports day. How can you run a wheelbarrow race without a winner?’

I fold my arms. I am not going to pack George off to boarding school.

‘Education is the most important thing you can give a boy,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘The right school gives him access to the best universities, the most influential contacts, and appropriate social circles, including girls of one’s class.’

‘It didn’t work for Alex then, did it?’ I say, hardly disguising the triumph in my voice.

‘You are an incredibly stubborn woman, Maz. This is about George’s future. If you are worried about the fees, Sophia has funds set aside in trust for the grandchildren.’

‘Look, it’s very kind of you to offer, but if I wanted him to go to a private school, I would find the money myself.’

Old Fox-Gifford stares at me, unblinking.

‘When you marry my son, I’m guessing you’ll skip the part in the vows that says to honour and obey.’

For once, I don’t feel the urge to disagree with my future father-in-law.

‘How is she?’ I ask, watching Daisy wander into the consulting room on Monday morning with Bridget and Shannon. Daisy looks better already, more sprightly, her eyes brighter and her attitude one of mild interest rather than apathy.

‘She’s doing well,’ says Shannon, ‘but guess what, Mum’s been to the doctor and it’s really weird – she’s diabetic, like Daisy.’

‘That’s a coincidence,’ I say.

‘I’ve got an appointment at the hospital later,’ says Bridget. ‘I told Dr Mackie I’d rather come here …’

‘What was his response to that?’

‘He laughed.’

‘Are you still all right about me dropping in to Petals after work tonight?’ I ask.

‘Oh, yes, of course. I’ll be back in plenty of time,’ she says. ‘Just turn up whenever you’re free.’

‘How did you get on with Will over the weekend?’ I ask, checking the computer. ‘You saw him on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.’

‘Fine. I’ve got Daisy’s diabetic record here.’ Shannon pulls out a chart from her bag, and reads off the number of units of insulin Will gave Daisy the previous morning.

‘Did Will show you what to do, Bridget?’

‘I watched him, so I’ve got a vague idea.’

‘Good, because that means you can have a go today.’ I supervise as Bridget tests for sugar, or glucose, in Daisy’s sample, and writes it onto the chart. I decide on a dose of insulin and show Bridget how to draw up the required dose without getting air bubbles in the syringe, and inject it under Daisy’s skin at the scruff of her neck. Luckily, being a bulldog, she has lots of loose skin.

‘I’ll let you have a bottle of sterile water, so you can practise injecting something like an orange at home, before I let you loose on Daisy tomorrow.’ I’m hoping both Daisy and her owner have plenty of that indomitable bulldog spirit.

‘I don’t mind injecting an orange. Oranges don’t have feelings,’ says Bridget. ‘Can’t you do it, Shannon? You know I’m not good with needles. I’m afraid I’ll hurt her.’

‘You have to do it, Mum. I can’t do it at the same time every day when I’m working shifts here. Besides, you’ll have to learn how to inject yourself. Daisy can be your guinea pig.’

‘Thanks for reminding me of that, Shan.’

‘At least you won’t necessarily have to have injections for ever.’ Shannon scratches Daisy’s cheek.

‘Why is that?’ I ask Shannon.

‘Because Mum and Daisy have different types of diabetes,’ she says smoothly.

‘Great. Shannon, you say you don’t know anything, but you do. It’s all up there –’ I tap my head – ‘already.’

‘I suppose so. It’s just that when I’m in an exam, it all disappears, like a computer that’s been wiped.’

I inject Daisy in the scruff of the neck.

‘You see, she didn’t notice.’ I resist the impulse to give Daisy a treat because that would upset her strict routine of diet and exercise. ‘Well done.’

‘What if I make a mistake?’ says Bridget. ‘What if some of it shoots out the other side?’

‘It’s unlikely – the needle’s tiny – but if it does just leave it.’

‘Should I give her some more to make up for it?’

‘Never top up the dose. It’s better to underdose than give her too much, because what happens if we give her too much insulin, Shannon?’

‘Her blood glucose level will fall and she’ll go into a hypoglycaemic coma.’

‘And the treatment for that is?’

‘Sugar. Give her glucose tablets, or a Mars Bar.’

‘Mars Bars are for people, not dogs,’ I say. ‘Why shouldn’t you give a dog a Mars Bar?’

‘Oh, I remember,’ she says after a moment’s thought. ‘Chocolate is poisonous to dogs.’

‘I’d hate to be a dog,’ Bridget smiles.

‘You won’t be eating any more chocolate anyway, Mum.’

‘Ah, I’ve checked that already. You can buy diabetic chocolate, so I’ll still be able to have my daily fix.’

Shannon glances at me, rolling her eyes in mock despair. I reckon Daisy will find it easier to stick to her diet than Bridget will.

Bridget takes Daisy back home, and Shannon helps me with the appointments for the rest of the morning. Partway through though, Izzy turns up in the consulting room in her lilac scrubs, white clogs and plastic apron.

‘Maz, Will’s having a spot of bother in theatre. He says he’s fine, but I’d be much happier if you came to give him some support for a few minutes in between consults.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say, fearing the worst, but Izzy smiles, eyes flashing with humour.

‘He’s spaying a cat, and he can’t find the uterus,’ she explains.

‘Maybe she’s been spayed already.’ I rub my chin and discover a small spot, a sign of stress, perhaps. ‘It does happen.’

‘This cat had kittens not so long ago, so it seems unlikely.’

‘He is looking in the right place?’ I say lightly.

‘Thereabouts,’ Izzy says, apparently unconvinced.

‘Well, he hasn’t had much experience yet.’ It’s Catch-22 – without experience, Will isn’t going to
become
fully competent, but it’s a worry, letting him loose on our patients so he can have a go.

Izzy and I head into theatre where Will stands over the operating table. He’s dressed in a mask, gown and gloves; the exposed skin of his neck and forehead glisten with perspiration. The theatre light shines down on the patient who is lying on her side, invisible under the drapes, apart from an expanse of shaven flank.

Izzy perches herself on the stool at the cat’s head and checks the anaesthetic. She clears her throat.

‘I hope you’re not going to regret shaving so much hair off, Will.’

‘The area has to be sterile,’ Will says, flushing.

‘Clients don’t like it though,’ Izzy points out.

‘There’s a balance to be struck,’ I say gently. ‘Now, would you like me to scrub?’

‘Ummm … I’m …’ Using forceps, Will is concentrating on trying to trace the uterus through a small cut in the cat’s flank.

‘Have you thought that it might be a good move to make a bigger hole?’ I suggest.

‘I don’t want to make it too big,’ he mutters.

‘There isn’t any point in minimising the size of the hole through the skin if you can’t get your forceps in there.’ I’m trying to be tactful, especially with Izzy present, but Will isn’t really listening. ‘Will, stop fishing and make that hole bigger.’

He lays the forceps down on the instrument tray, picks up the scalpel and starts gingerly extending the hole.

‘A bit more,’ I say. ‘Don’t be scared. You can make the incision as long as you need it to be.’

When Will’s finished and Izzy is grinning at me, and
I’m
frowning at her to say, stop it, Will picks up his forceps again, and lo and behold … As he withdraws them from the hole, there’s a tiny pale pink tube, like a strawberry lace, in their grip.

‘I’ve found it,’ he says, both relieved and triumphant. ‘Thanks for the advice, Maz.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘I’ll be all right now.’