Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Trust Me, I’m a Vet

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Other books by this author

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781409099567

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2010

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Cathy Woodman 2010

  Cathy Woodman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  William Heinemann

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099543565

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  About the Author

  Cathy Woodman began her working life as a small animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is also a sessional lecturer in Animal Management at a local college for land-based industries. Trust Me, I’m a Vet is the first of a series about the Otter House Vets, a practice set in a fictional market town in beautiful East Devon where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her husband, two children, two ponies, three exuberant Border Terriers and two cats in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.

  To my family and friends –

  both human and animal

  Acknowledgements

  I should like to thank my family, my agent, Laura Longrigg, and everyone at MBA, my editor, Emma Rose, and the rest of the team at Arrow Books for their enthusiasm and support.

  Chapter One

  First Blood

  It’s a far cry from Starbucks. In fact, the blue and yellow gingham curtains with matching tablecloths and the paper doilies give the Copper Kettle a rather retro feel. There are no lattes or cappuccinos here. The coffee comes either with milk, or without. The local clientele look decidedly downbeat too with their blue rinses, and floral polyester dresses and macs, and the only buzz about the place emanates from a wasp which crawls feebly about on our table, having woken from its winter slumber a couple of months too early.

  ‘So what do you think, Maz?’ My best friend, Emma, sits opposite me with a cream tea and a piece of simnel cake in front of her because she can’t decide between the two. The sun’s rays slant through the window, emphasising the dark shadows under her eyes.

  ‘I think you’ve been overdoing it,’ I say.

  ‘It did cross my mind to book myself in for a quick eyelid tuck when I looked in the mirror this morning,’ Emma goes on. ‘I look like some old spaniel.’

  ‘Emma, you’re exaggerating,’ I say, smiling. She has the most amazing cheekbones, naturally long lashes, and lips which need little enhancement. ‘The last thing you need is surgery.’

  ‘You’re right. A good night’s sleep would do.’ I watch her pour two cups of tea from the pot, which sports a tea cosy knitted from oddments of wool. ‘Now, where was I?’

  ‘You need a locum to run the practice while you’re away.’ I’m glad she’s decided to take a break at last – no one can say she hasn’t earned it. I pick up a knife, slice my scone in half and scoop up a generous blob of strawberry jam, real jam with the pips left in.

  ‘When you’re in Devon you’re supposed to put the cream on before the jam,’ Emma whispers. ‘You’ll be drummed out of town if anyone notices.’

  ‘As if,’ I say. ‘You are joking?’

  ‘We’re very set in our ways here in Talyton St George,’ she says, her cheeks dimpling and her dark eyes sparkling with merriment as a tractor rumbles past, rattling the teacups. Yes, a real tractor – not one of the Chelsea variety, which I’m more used to.

  I wipe my knife and scoop up a small portion of clotted cream instead, then take a second, more generous dollop.

  ‘Have you been in touch with any of the agencies yet?’

  ‘Of course not. I want you to do it.’ Emma gazes at me through the fringe of her brunette bob, which has grown overlong like an Old English sheepdog’s. ‘I want you to look after Otter House for me,’ she goes on as I choke on my scone.

  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not averse to the idea of helping Emma out, but here in this quiet market town, where nothing ever happens? Let’s just say I wish she’d set up her practice even a tiny bit closer to London.

  ‘All right, I know we disagree on a few things like –’ she struggles to think of an example ‘– like how to pronounce the word “scone”, but we have a pretty similar approach when it comes to work, which’ll suit my staff and clients.’

  ‘I’ve never taken sole charge of a practice,’ I say doubtfully. The idea of being responsible for absolutely everything, from dealing with disputes to handling finances, is daunting. I like being a vet, just a vet.

  ‘If I can do it, you can, Maz.’

  ‘I haven’t had much experience of the business side of things either.’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that. Nigel, who looks after the practice computers, he’s agreed to handle the admin and accounts, so you won’t have to worry about those.’

  ‘I’m really not sure.’

  ‘W
ell, I can’t trust anyone else to look after it.’ I notice Emma stealing a glance at the small child who’s squirming about in a high chair at the table beyond ours and squeezing vanilla sponge between his fingers. ‘It’s like . . . well, it’s my baby.’

  At the word ‘baby’, there’s a sudden hush. Scones hover between plate and mouth, teaspoons between sugar bowl and cup. Cheryl, proprietor of the Copper Kettle, who I could swear was behind the counter slicing freshly baked chocolate cake a moment ago, appears at our table, wiping her hands on her frilly apron.

  ‘Baby? Did I hear someone say they’re having a baby?’ she says. ‘Congratulations, Emma – I guessed you were eating for two.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Cheryl,’ Emma says, her eyes overly bright and her smile forced. There’s something wrong, something she isn’t telling me. She’s only thirty, like me, so there’s no great hurry, but she used to joke about having a family the size of a football team, until setting up and running the practice took over her life. I realise that she hasn’t mentioned babies for a long time.

  ‘So you aren’t?’ Cheryl says, sounding surprised.

  ‘No,’ Emma says sharply, and a spoon chinks against a dish, a cup against a saucer, ‘absolutely not.’ Her voice softens as she goes on, ‘Please, don’t go spreading that rumour around town.’

  I suspect from Cheryl’s crestfallen expression that the rumour has already been spread, and I’m upset for Emma. It must be pretty hard living in a small town where everyone’s talking about you. I know I’d find it difficult to put up with.

  ‘I’m trying to persuade my friend Maz here that Talyton is a much nicer place to be a vet than London,’ Emma tells Cheryl.

  ‘Our babies are registered with the Talyton Manor Vets,’ Cheryl says, referring to the other practice in Talyton, a father and son outfit, a traditional mixed practice treating farm animals and horses, as well as cats and dogs. ‘The Fox-Giffords have generations of experience behind them. We’d never trust anyone else.’

  Emma winks at me. I can tell she’s more than happy with that arrangement. Anyone who calls their pets ‘babies’ is going to be very demanding of their vet, and Cheryl, with her sharp features and short dark hair set in tiny, precise curls, doesn’t strike me as the easiest person to please.

  ‘Cheryl and her sister, Miriam, breed Persian cats,’ Emma explains when Cheryl drifts away to greet more customers, two young families of tourists, or grockles as they’re known in this part of the world. ‘Cheryl and the Fox-Giffords are welcome to each other.’ I know there’s no love lost between Emma and Talyton Manor Vets, but I’m still surprised at the venom in her voice when she talks about them. The Fox-Giffords were openly hostile when Emma’s practice first opened, but I had the impression things had calmed down since then. Obviously not. ‘I hope they don’t start throwing their weight around again,’ Emma goes on. ‘If they start accusing you of pinching their clients and undercutting their fees, just ignore them. Don’t get involved.’

  ‘I haven’t said I’ll do it yet,’ I point out gently. Part of me wants to do it for Emma’s sake. Part of me wants to stay well out of it. I have no desire to get involved in some silly feud between competing practices. The job can be stressful enough without that kind of complication.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Emma pulls a mobile out of her bag – from the ringtone, I’m almost expecting one of those old-fashioned Bakelite telephones, but it’s a blue slimline model – and answers it with, ‘Otter House Veterinary Clinic. Emma speaking. How can I help?’ She listens, chewing one of her fingernails down to the quick, and I think how typical it is of her to be so busy looking after everyone else that she forgets to look after herself.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the surgery,’ she says, ending the conversation and tucking her mobile back into her bag, along with a packet of aspirin which fell out with it when she took the call. ‘It’s an RTA – I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘You don’t have to . . .’

  I grab my blazer off the back of the chair, a cropped number in citrine which I fling over my tunic and skinny jeans, an outfit that might be considered by the residents of Talyton St George as outlandish rather than the latest trend. Emma never has had much fashion sense – what’s left seems to have become mired in an over-attachment to soft lambswool sweaters and timeless navy skirts. She looks like a county cricketer’s wife on her way to make afternoon tea at the pavilion, not a young and savvy professional. I’m not being mean – she needs help and, if I’m going to be the one to do it, I guess I’d better see what I’d be letting myself in for.

  I take out my purse, but Emma gets there first.

  ‘It’s my treat,’ she says, leaving some cash on the table before we hurry back along Fore Street and turn up the drive alongside a smart three-storey Georgian house which is rendered the same colour as the clotted cream I had with scones.

  ‘The client – the one whose dog’s been run over – he’s the chap who bought the Talymill Inn a year or so back, an ex-policeman. He was in the Met,’ Emma says, unlocking one of the double glass doors to the modern conservatory-like extension at the side of the building. ‘The patient’s an ex-police dog.’

  There’s a sign to the right: Otter House Small Animal Veterinary Clinic, dark blue lettering on white, with a logo of an otter, surgery hours and a telephone number. Beneath that is a brass plaque engraved: Emma Kendall MA Vet MB MRCVS.

  I follow her into Reception. It’s a while since I was last here and the whole area has been redecorated. It’s very blue: royal blue chairs; pale blue walls; a blue-grey non-slip, easy-clean floor. And as if there isn’t already enough blue (Emma’s favourite colour, as I now remember), the noticeboard and posters – three seascapes – have navy frames. I barely have time to take in any more because a man in his fifties has come staggering through to join us. He’s well-built with a fair-sized paunch and has gone for the shaved rather than the comb-over look to disguise the fact that he’s bald on top. He carries a big, old dog in his arms.

  ‘This way.’ Emma shows him straight through to the consulting room. ‘Stick him on the table.’ I follow and close the door behind us. Emma grabs a stethoscope and gives the dog, a German shepherd with a belly to rival any fat fighter’s and the distinctive smell of hot dog, earwax, Lynx and stale beer, a quick once-over. ‘I’m very sorry – Mr Taylor, isn’t it?’

  The dog struggles to sit up, panting for air and whimpering in pain.

  ‘It’s Clive. And this is Robbie. It’s my stupid fault. I wasn’t watching out for him.’ He shudders. ‘One minute he was at my feet, the next he was in the middle of the road underneath a bloody great tractor.’ He has an East London accent. His shirt and jeans are smeared with blood and, like the dog, he appears to be in shock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emma says, ‘but I don’t think he’s going to make it. Robbie’s bleeding internally – his gums are very pale.’ She raises the dog’s lip to prove her point.

  ‘You must be able to do something.’ Clive’s voice tremors. ‘You have to.’

  ‘He’ll die if I don’t operate.’ The ticking of the clock above the door seems to grow louder, more insistent, as Emma continues, ‘And very likely, he’ll die if I do.’

  While Emma’s waiting for Clive to absorb this information, I reach out and stroke Robbie’s head, discovering a crinkled ear and a scar to match a longer one on his chest. He turns his eyes towards me and somewhere behind his glazed grey pupils, I catch sight of the dog he once was and perhaps still is. A fighter.

  ‘I want you to give it a go.’ Clive twists a worn leather lead tight around his fist. ‘Can I wait?’

  ‘It could take some time,’ Emma says. ‘A couple of hours, maybe more.’

  ‘Now I feel really guilty because I’ve got to get back to the pub,’ Clive says.

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as I have any news,’ Emma promises.

  ‘Thanks, Emma. Please, do what you can. I don’t care how much it c
osts. He means everything to me . . .’

  ‘No pressure then,’ I say once Clive has left, having signed the consent form and given Robbie one last hug in the sorry knowledge that it could be the very last time he sees him.

  Emma smiles ruefully.

  ‘I think Clive’s right though,’ I say. ‘I’d want to give him a chance if he was my dog.’

  Within minutes, we’re in theatre. Emma stands opposite me, scrubbed, gowned and gloved. On the operating table between us lies Robbie, belly up and almost completely hidden under blue cotton drapes. His tongue lolls out of his mouth alongside the ET tube, which delivers oxygen and anaesthetic to his lungs. Fluid pours at speed from a bag hanging from the drip-stand, down a tube and into a vein in his front leg.

  ‘How’s he doing, Maz?’ Emma’s theatre cap is riding up her forehead, exposing the roots of her hair, and her eyes peer out anxiously above her surgical mask.

  ‘Not great.’ I check and recheck the tension in the dog’s jaw to assess the depth of his anaesthetic-induced slumber. ‘I don’t think he’s going to leap off the table any time soon.’