It's a Vet's Life: (31 page)

‘Maz, I didn’t realise …’ His voice cracks as he strokes my hair and the nape of my neck. ‘What can I do? Apart from read my father the riot act,’ he adds drily. ‘I’m not sure what’s wrong with him at the moment. He’s preoccupied with sorting through the paperwork in the office. He’s done the bare minimum for years, yet now he wants it tidy, attended to and filed away. Can we lighten the load any more?’ Alex continues. ‘I mean, we already have a cleaner.’

‘Yes, Mrs P, the woman who does, but unfortunately not very well,’ I point out.

‘It would be insensitive to ask anyone else,’ Alex says gently.

‘I’d rather she didn’t come in any more because I feel that I have to tidy up before she arrives.’

‘That’s just ridiculous though.’ Alex backtracks quickly, perhaps aware of the way the hairs are bristling at the back of my neck. ‘I don’t mean that you’re ridiculous. I mean that it rather defeats the object of paying her to help.’

‘I know.’

‘Is there anything else? We can’t do much about the work situation now Emma’s pregnant, but we could pay for George to have another day or half-day at nursery so you get a break.’

‘Alex, I don’t like leaving him at nursery as it is.’

He sighs. ‘You see, Maz, when I try to offer solutions, all you can do is throw them back in my face.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do.’

‘I don’t,’ I repeat, sensing another row developing. I don’t want to argue with Alex. I don’t want to fight all the time.

‘What exactly is it that you want? You have to tell
me
, because I haven’t got a bloody clue.’ Alex hesitates. ‘Why don’t we put back the wedding, if it’s stressing you out so much?’

‘Do you mean that?’ I look up at him. He’s serious. I feel sick with disappointment. Alex has changed his mind. ‘I thought you wanted to be married by Christmas.’

‘I do. I did, but not at the expense of everyone’s sanity, Maz. If it takes the pressure off …’ He swears softly. ‘I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?’

I bury my head again, and let the tears roll.

‘It was a suggestion. An idea. That’s all. The last thing I want is to delay the wedding any longer, and you’ve done so much preparation already …’ He bends down and whispers in my ear, his breath warm and conciliatory. ‘Please don’t cry. You do a fantastic job, and I don’t show you how much I appreciate it enough –’ he pauses, and adds sheepishly – ‘if at all.’

I peer through my fingers.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry too. What’s happening to us, Alex?’ I mutter, my voice thick and my chest tight.

‘We’re under pressure,’ he says, a faint smile on his lips. ‘It happens. We’ll get through this. You’ll see. In another couple of months – we’ll soon be counting down in weeks—’

‘I am already,’ I cut in.

‘All right then. In however many weeks—’

‘Ten,’ I say, counting down to the wedding in December.

‘In ten weeks, I’ll have that ring on your finger—’

‘Have you bought the ring yet?’

‘Maz!’ Alex looks hurt. ‘Trust me. I’ll be ready. You
have
to believe me when I say there’s nothing I want more than for you to be my wife.’

I reach out and give his hand a squeeze. I believe him.

Black Dog

IT’S AN ORDINARY
day. I wake up, aware of the musky warmth of Alex’s body to one side, and the soft baby smell of George’s to the other, and wonder how many life forms you can fit into one king-sized bed. I’m not sure how either of them ended up where they are. The last time I heard Alex, he was going out on a call to see a sick cow, and George was asleep in his cot. Alex snores lightly and George snuffles incessantly, while Ginge lies on my chest, clawing, purring and dribbling onto the duvet.

The light filters through the curtains, cancelling out the glow of the alarm clock, and the sound of a car rolling up in the yard impinges on my consciousness. It has to be Lisa, Sophia’s groom, and she starts work at 8.30, which means …

‘Alex.’ I shake his shoulder. ‘We’ve overslept.’

Muttering something unintelligible, Alex sits bolt upright, sending Ginge flying off the bed. George opens his eyes, pauses for a moment to draw breath and bursts into tears.

‘What happened to the alarm?’

‘We must have slept through it.’

‘I’m going to be late.’ Alex jumps out of bed, and scrabbles on the floor for a shirt and trousers. ‘I’m supposed to be at Headlands Farm by nine.’ Alex rubs his cheeks, checking to see if he needs to shave.

‘Oh, Alex,’ I sigh.

‘If I’m late, he’ll probably leave the practice and go elsewhere. He’s pretty fed up about the vasectomy thing. Father swears Robert didn’t point out the ram to him – it was in a separate pen – but Robert insists it was in with the others he wanted doing.’ Alex shrugs. ‘I don’t think anyone knows exactly what happened.’

‘I’m certainly none the wiser. Your stories seem to have conflicting punchlines.’

‘Father is always right. He’s never made a mistake in his life, or admitted to one. I don’t suppose he’ll break the habit now.’ Alex kisses me on the nose. I lie back, holding George in one arm, while stroking Ginge and watching Alex throw his clothes on.

‘Don’t have any illusions, Maz,’ Alex says gruffly. ‘That cat doesn’t love you. He wants his breakfast.’

‘I don’t believe it’s love. It’s more about mutual respect.’

‘So that’s why he’s putting his claws through the duvet cover.’ Although he’s a vet, Alex struggles to find anything to like about cats. ‘Have a good day then. Think of me slogging my guts out.’

‘I’ve got loads to do. You try having George all day.’

I don’t mean it. I love being with George. He chatters all morning, helps me unload the dishwasher, and prepare a casserole for the slow-cooker. By midday, he’s ready for a nap. I put him in his cot with the baby
monitor
turned on, so that I’m free to go and find Old Fox-Gifford.

He’s summoned me, presumably to give me a rollocking over calling the police, but I see it as an opportunity to raise the subject of his future. I feel bad about it. It isn’t really my place to interfere, but someone has to step forward. For the sake of Talyton Manor Vets, Alex, our family, other people’s safety and animal welfare, Old Fox-Gifford should not be practising.

I’m pretty sure I know how he’ll take it, but to soften the blow, I thought I’d suggest he takes on an advisory role as a consultant perhaps, a position in which he can either be proactive, marketing himself to clients, or take a back seat and let Alex look after the practice. It’s time Alex had the chance to shine, as I know he can.

Pulling on a fleece, I cross the yard. It’s close to the middle of October and there’s a blustery wind that alternately whisks up and deposits fallen leaves across the gravel. There’s a slow drip from the eaves of the stable block where a gutter is blocked, and a muddy puddle at the bottom of the steps up to the loft.

Old Fox-Gifford is at the desk in the surgery with paperwork laid out in front of him and his gun lying broken across the top. I notice that Hal is slumped across his master’s feet, and his master is wearing slippers.

I stand at the door, ready to dodge any potential missiles, clearing my throat three times before Old Fox-Gifford becomes aware of my presence.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Alexander isn’t back yet,’ he says, looking up.

‘I’m not looking for him.’ I pause, wondering whether to make my excuses and leave. Why am I so in
awe
of him? It’s ridiculous. ‘I’ve come to see you.’

‘It’s been a long time since a young filly came looking for me.’ Old Fox-Gifford is wearing a shirt under a grey cardigan that’s patched at the elbows, and faded pink cords.

‘You asked to see me, remember?’ I wonder if I should take a seat, except there isn’t one. I clear a couple of dirty mugs from the windowsill and perch. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen to seek you out.’

‘That’s what I like about you, Maz. You’re straight talking –’ Old Fox-Gifford stares at me, sending a shiver of antagonism down my spine – ‘which is why I find it so disappointing that you went behind my back, making false allegations about my driving.’

I don’t deny that I reported him.

‘You rammed into that lamp post, then drove away,’ I say hotly.

‘It was hardly a hit and run,’ Old Fox-Gifford counters. ‘It’s all a fuss over nothing as far as I’m concerned. Yes, I admit I gave the post a bit of a nudge, but there was no damage.’

‘How can you say that? The post is bent.’

‘They’re all bloody bent,’ he blusters. ‘They’re historic – they’re bound to have taken a battering over the years. Like me …’ His voice trails off, almost wistfully, and I wonder if he’s thinking back to happier times. I wonder what he’s expecting me to do – retract my statement? ‘How did you imagine I was going to carry on working if I couldn’t drive? Thanks to you, I’m being banned from motoring on medical grounds.’

‘That sounds fair enough to me.’

‘Fair? How does your pathetic little mind work?’

Relations between us improved when I treated Hal after Old Fox-Gifford shot him by mistake, but they’ve
gone
rapidly downhill again. I’m not surprised though. I’d be pretty angry too, if someone reported me, but I’m not a danger to other road users. Old Fox-Gifford most definitely is.

‘You’ll thank me one day,’ I say.

‘I don’t think so, because now you’re going to get your way, which is what you’ve planned all along – to destroy Talyton Manor Vets. You’re like some shark of a banker, waiting to snap it up in some corporate takeover.’

‘I don’t think so.’ My forehead is tight. Is he paranoid? Insane? Emma and I have enough to do without buying into another practice. And yes, I can deal with kidding goats, but I’m no expert when it comes to large animals.

‘Alexander will be obliged to take on an assistant now, thanks to you. You’ll be able to swan off on that honeymoon you so badly want.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘That’s the trouble with people nowadays. They’re all out for what they can get, celebrity and instant gratification.’

I can’t see what that has to do with me.

‘One day, you’ll be lady of the Manor. All of this –’ he spreads his arms – ‘all of the estate from the north covert down to the River Taly, from the Farley shingle to Dead Man’s Bend, will belong to you and Alexander, along with the mortgages and the myriad hassles that come with it, and I say good luck to you because you are going to damn well need it.’

He pulls a hip flask from the drawer in the side of the desk, unscrews the lid and takes a slug of what I’m guessing is brandy. ‘You’ll be wondering what it’s all about. What it was all for.’

‘If you’re questioning the meaning of life, it seems a
bit
late to me,’ I say, confused. I’m apprehensive too. Old Fox-Gifford’s always seemed bear-like to me and often rude, but I’m used to that. Today, he sounds aggressive, unhinged even, and I’m beginning to fear for my safety.

‘Where’s the boy?’

‘George?’ I say, surprised by this non-sequitur. ‘Sleeping.’ I have the baby monitor in my hand. ‘Was I supposed to bring him along too?’

‘I’m glad you haven’t. He doesn’t have to be party to this.’

This? The emphasis he places on the word is odd. My scalp tenses, the muscles underneath crawling with doubt. The ‘telling-orf’ over me reporting him to the police was low-key, very un-Fox-Gifford like, as if there’s something more sinister going on here. Call it a sixth sense, but I’m on the alert.

‘So we can continue.’ Old Fox-Gifford touches his half-moon glasses that are thick with dust on the end of his veiny nose. He slides a bill onto the spike he uses to keep them secure, the paper wavering as he does so. He picks up another bill and writes a couple of figures into the ledger with a scratchy fountain pen.

‘I can’t believe you still do all of that on paper when you have a computer.’

‘I have no need of a machine. I have it all up here.’ He taps his temple.

‘You’re still needed here,’ I tell him. ‘There’s work for you to do. Have you thought about setting yourself up in a consultancy role?’

He gazes at me, his expression colder than ice.

‘Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. You mean I can potter about here, doing the admin and giving
clients
advice over the phone, like a bloody receptionist.’

‘Receptionists aren’t allowed to give advice.’

‘But they do though, don’t they?’ he says, his mood lightening. ‘Frances was always very good at telling people what to do so they didn’t have to pay to see a vet. Our services won’t be needed soon, what with television and the Internet. Only last week, some idiot came in with a cat with a flea allergy and a book’s worth of pages they’d printed off the World Wide Web on how I was to treat it. As if I was going to take any notice …’

‘What did you do?’

‘Sent them away with a flea in the ear.’ He hesitates. ‘I expect they ended up at Otter House. Did they?’

I nod.

‘And you read all that guff?’