It's a Vet's Life: (29 page)

‘That isn’t good enough.’ I’m angry and frustrated by his response. ‘The longer you let it drag on, the more resistant he’ll be to the idea of taking on another vet. That’s the only way forward, Alex. Unless you dump some of your clients.’

‘That’s quite an appealing proposition, but it’s like committing financial suicide. All right,’ he sighs. ‘I hate to say it, but you do have a point. I can’t go on like this.’

‘I don’t want to have to take someone else on
honeymoon
because you’re tied up here,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Unless Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom are free.’ I move around behind Alex and slide my hands down over his chest. I lean down and press my cheek against his, his stubble imprinting my skin.

‘I’ll see what I can do. I don’t know why you’re getting so wound up about the wedding. We’ve booked the reception—’

‘Although we never did go out for dinner at the Barnscote.’

‘We can do that any time.’

‘Elsa has phoned me several times at work to talk about menus,’ I point out. ‘I had no idea choosing the food and wine was so involved. Sparkling wine or champagne for the speeches and cutting the cake?’

‘Champagne, of course,’ Alex says.

‘Stuffed peppers, or a pasta dish for the vegetarians?’

‘I’ll leave that decision to you. Come on, Maz. You must be almost there. We’ve met with the vicar and booked the church. We’ve got some ideas for the music.’

‘Yes, and whatever you say, I’m not having that one that goes, “Here comes the bride, all fat and wide”.’

‘You say you’ve bought the dress,’ Alex goes on.

I nod. ‘And Lucie’s.’ I smile as I recall her cantering about in the bridal shop in a deep scarlet gown with puff sleeves and a full skirt.

‘I’ve really got to get going, Maz.’

‘Going? Where this time?’

‘To visit Guy over at Uphill Farm – he’s got a cow down now. There must be something in the water.’

He’s being ironic. These cases are random and sporadic.

‘But you will talk to him?’ I say, as Alex stands up. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise. Anything for a quiet life.’

‘Thanks, Alex.’ I’ll be checking up on him, though, to make sure he really does talk to Old Fox-Gifford. Once he’s made his father see sense, they can go ahead and employ a locum or assistant and that will be one more task I can tick off the wedding planner: find cover for Alex for honeymoon.

We hold a practice meeting in the staffroom a couple of days later. Everyone is present: Emma, Izzy, Shannon, Will and Frances. Will sits at one end of the sofa, Shannon at the other and Miff between them. Tripod has disappeared – I can’t help suspecting that he finds meetings rather dull. Frances, who takes the minutes, has her swivel chair from Reception, while I sit perched on the edge of the worktop and Emma, who sets the agenda, takes the stool. Izzy leans against the worktop, having bought filled rolls from the baker to keep us going over lunchtime.

Today, Cheryl’s request to re-register at Otter House is number one on the list of items to be addressed. Of course, I should have been able to deal with it without bothering the rest of the team when she came in two weeks or so ago, but Cheryl isn’t one to take no for an answer.

‘Should she be allowed back on our books, or not? That is the question,’ Emma says. ‘On the plus side, Cheryl was once so impressed with Maz that she named a kitten after her.’

‘Thanks. I’d forgotten about that.’ I’m blushing at the memory. The kitten, delivered by Caesarean, was called Cheriam – that’s Cheryl’s stud prefix – Maz.

‘Aw, sweet,’ says Shannon.

‘It wasn’t because the kitten reminded her of you?’ says Izzy.

‘Hey, are you trying to tell me something?’ I rub my chin, feeling for imaginary (I hope) whiskers.

‘The kitten was sweet. Cheryl isn’t. She would have had Maz struck off over Blueboy, if she’d had the chance.’ Emma glances towards Will who is nodding off, with his eyes half closed and a mug of tea on the verge of tilting into his lap. ‘Will. Will!’

He jerks awake. ‘Otter House Vets …’ he garbles as if he’s answering the phone. ‘Oh no,’ he goes on, pulling himself together. ‘I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.’

‘We really must liven these meetings up somehow,’ Izzy says lightly.

‘What I was saying, Will,’ Emma continues, ‘is let Maz’s experience be a lesson to you. When a client asks you to dematt their cat, make sure you get them to sign for exactly what they want done.’

‘Blueboy’s coat was so knotted I couldn’t possibly have done anything else but clip it all off,’ I say in my defence.

‘Yes, but you should have made that clear to Cheryl before you went ahead and did it,’ says Emma.

‘Emma, I know that …’

She smiles ruefully.

‘It’s done now,’ I continue. ‘I thought we’d seen the back of her.’

‘She never was what I’d call a bonded client,’ says Emma. ‘She came to us from Talyton Manor Vets and she’s been to at least two other practices further afield since she left us. I told her we had to have her records for the cats’ welfare – that’s how I found out.’

‘So, she’s easily impressed and rapidly disillusioned,’ says Izzy. ‘Do we really want her back?’

There’s a long silence. Will utters a low snore, and Frances rescues the mug from his hand, putting it safely on the worktop.

‘Let’s not all rush in with an opinion at once,’ says Emma. ‘Maz?’

‘You know how I feel. It’s a “no” from me.’

‘And from me,’ says Izzy.

‘Me too,’ says Shannon. ‘I remember those posters she put up in the window at the Copper Kettle, dissing Maz and the practice.’

‘What about you, Frances?’ says Emma. ‘You have to deal with her as well.’

‘It’s up to Maz,’ she says.

‘Will?’ Emma tries him again, but he’s sound asleep with his head tipped back and jaw dropped open.

I smile to myself. I didn’t sleep much the first year I was in practice – I was always on tenterhooks, wondering what I was going to see next and whether or not I could handle it.

‘About Cheryl,’ I say hesitantly. ‘My gut instinct is, as I’ve said, not to let her come back, but, in her defence, she seemed genuinely sorry, and she has quite a few cats which is good for our business.’

‘And, you know,’ says Emma, ‘like Mr Kipling, she does make rather delicious cakes. She might bring some along.’

‘I don’t think they’re as good as Jennie’s cakes,’ says Izzy.

‘That’s why Jennie’s doing the cake for the wedding,’ I say as Izzy continues, ‘I love her cider cake. Have you tried it?’

‘We’re wandering off the subject,’ says Emma
sternly
. ‘We can talk about cake any time. How about we register Cheryl and her cats with conditions?’

‘What, like making her sign a code of conduct?’ I say.

‘Something like that.’ Emma pauses. ‘Look at it this way. If she’s with us, she won’t be slagging us off to the other vets in the area.’ She checks her watch. Time is ticking by. ‘So, are we all in agreement? Cheryl comes back on probation.’

‘Agreed,’ I say. Izzy nods while Frances scribbles a note in her pad.

‘I’ll give Cheryl the news,’ says Emma.

‘Any other business?’ I ask.

‘Your wedding, and the birth of my babies,’ Emma says. ‘If by any mishap, these two events coincide, how are we going to manage staffing? Is one vet – i.e. Will – enough?’

‘It could be, if he isn’t asleep all the time,’ Izzy observes.

Ten Weeks and Counting

COCKY’S BACK. THIS
time though, he’s here for a check-up and I don’t need to get him out of his cage because his skin is looking better and his feathers are beginning to regrow.

‘I thought I was going to have to invest in a feather transplant,’ says Peter. ‘They can do hair in humans. Can they do feathers in birds?’

‘I can’t imagine so.’

‘Perhaps you should try, Maz. It would be a feather in your cap if you succeeded.’

‘Very droll,’ I say, amused. Peter’s jokes are at about the same standard as Izzy’s, but he has brought along a box of fresh fruit and veg as a thank-you – and in lieu of cash. I forgot to charge him last time, and I can’t bring myself to backdate payment.

‘You were wrong about Cocky needing the company of his own kind. I’ve been leaving the wildlife documentaries on for him while I’m out and about, and he’s totally hooked. I reckon he thinks he’s in with a chance with the birds on the telly, so he’s looking
after
himself properly.’ Peter puts his face close to the cage. Cocky hops along the perch, tips his head to one side, and says – or more accurately, whistles – the words, ‘Hot stuff.’

‘Did he just say what I thought he said?’ I ask. ‘I’m impressed. I haven’t met many talking cockatiels.’

‘He’s talking about me.’ Peter grins. ‘I’ve spent a long time teaching him to repeat the odd phrase.’

‘Peter, if you want my opinion, I think you need to get out more.’ I am aware of the noise level rising outside in Reception. Peter looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

‘Mr Fox-Gifford,’ Frances shouts in her receptionist’s tone of voice, clipped, firm and no-nonsense. ‘You will have to wait or make an appointment at a mutually convenient time to see Maz, just like everybody else.’

There’s the sound of a scuffle and a yelp.

‘That dog must be properly restrained, or you’ll have to take him back out to the car,’ says Frances. ‘There’s always one who doesn’t read the sign: all dogs must be kept on leads.’

‘It’s that bloody rabbit winding him up,’ Old Fox-Gifford barks.

I have heard enough.

‘I’m sorry, Peter. I’m going to have to deal with this.’

I open the door to find Old Fox-Gifford in a deerstalker, blazer and old school tie, standing with the hook of his walking stick through Hal’s collar. Hal, the ancient black Labrador, pants and rasps, trying to get to the client who’s standing in the corner, her back pressed against the wall beside the pet food stand, and holding a rabbit in a carrier above her head.

‘Get that dog outside, Old Fox-Gifford.’ I glare at
him
, then before he can open his mouth to argue, continue, ‘Otherwise I won’t agree to see you.’ I am not sure why he is here. Is it about Alex? Has he had a word with him, and let on that it was my idea?

Peter carries Cocky out of the consulting room and, having said goodbye to him, I turn to the rabbit’s owner. She’s one of the newer residents of Talyton – I noticed on the computer that she has an address on the new estate. ‘I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. Take Bob straight through.’ I hope he hasn’t suffered a heart attack, I think, feeling somewhat panicky myself.

I check the rabbit over. Fortunately, he’s fine. Distracted by the smell of the carrots in the box that Peter has left on one end of the table, he lets me give him his routine vaccinations without flinching. I apologise again.

‘Oh, he’s just a grumpy old man. He was extremely rude to your receptionist.’ Bob’s owner smiles. ‘He looks like some old tramp, and he smells odd too.’

‘Does he?’

‘Couldn’t you smell it?’ Her nose twitches, much like the rabbit’s. ‘It’s like a mixture of eucalyptus and creosote.’

‘Mothballs,’ I say, not wanting to admit that this old tramp is my future father-in-law.

‘I notice these things,’ she goes on. ‘I love perfumes and essential oils. Some of them can be very soothing.’

Perhaps I should try some, I think.

Once Bob, the rabbit, is safely out of the way, I call Old Fox-Gifford in from where he’s standing outside, leaning on his stick and chatting amicably to Frances. I’m surprised. He was livid when she came to work at Otter House.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask him, as he shuffles stiffly
into
the consulting room, with Hal following slowly behind on a borrowed rope lead.

‘Hal has met with a bit of an accident.’

‘What’s he done now?’ Hal beats his tail against the table leg and presses his nose into my crotch. There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with him.

‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to Sophia or Alexander. In fact –’ Old Fox-Gifford stoops forwards and touches the side of his nose – ‘we must keep this between ourselves …’

‘That’s no problem. I do understand the rules of client confidentiality.’

‘I ran the old dog over.’

‘You what?’

‘I didn’t intend to. The silly old bugger was sunning himself. He didn’t hear me, and I didn’t see him until it was too late. I drove right over him.’

‘It doesn’t look as if he’s suffered any serious damage.’ I frown as I stroke the top of Hal’s head. Why bring him to me? Old Fox-Gifford’s a vet with years of experience. ‘He’s scraped his nose, that’s about all.’

‘I can see that.’ Old Fox-Gifford sounds slightly exasperated with me for pointing it out. ‘I’m worried about his insides. I thought you, being the small animal expert, could make sure there’s no internal bleeding.’ He falls silent and utters a cough. ‘I’ve checked and I can’t feel anything specific, and I would have asked Alexander, but he’s out and I wouldn’t want to bother him.’