The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man (13 page)

I get to work at seven, filled with
determination to make Agnes proud of me.   I will keep everything
ticking over as usual in that office if it kills me.  But oh
my gosh
, there is so much to do.

First I look at the diary.  Is this
what faces Agnes every morning?  There’s a list of calls as long as your
arm, and somehow I have to assign them to each vet.  .

Okay.  I take a deep breath.
 I know some of these.  The rest I’ll have to look up.  Then I
group them geographically, and then try to consider which ones will take the
most time.  By the time the vets pitch up at a quarter to eight, there’s a
shambolic sort of list awaiting each of them.

After reading through with much raisings
of eyebrows, they go on their way, more quietly than usual.  No-one’s even
questioned me!  It’s only when they’ve all gone, that I realise that I
haven’t taken any notice whatsoever of Marcus.  In fact I was so
preoccupied, I barely even registered he was there.

Actually, in a funny sort of way, I’m
enjoying the challenge.  So far, I’ve managed to keep on top of
everything, and though I’m working much longer hours, it’s good to know I can
do this.  I miss Agnes terribly though and I’m going to see her tonight,
after work.

I try desperately hard to get
ahead.  Ha!  Last week, I was a lowly assistant, now I seem to think
I can run an office single handed and even manage to get away early!  
Stupid Louisa.
 In the end, I get away at seven thirty
and go straight to the hospital, leaving Elmer to night-stop with Sam. 

I negotiate the network of hospital
wings and wards with difficulty. I’m just not used to them.  Actually, I
don’t think I’ve been in one since I was born.  After asking half a dozen
highly efficient nurse types exactly where Agnes’s ward is, once I manage to
get there, I stand there uselessly looking for her, until I hear a weak voice
saying my name.

I turn round and lying in a bed that
looks enormous with her tiny, frail body in it, is Agnes.  I’m deeply
shocked.  Since when did she get so small?  I go and sit next to her
and by accident, find myself holding her hand.

I’ve been there all of three minutes
when Beamish comes in, looking a little pale himself, I notice.  
But determinedly keeping the old pecker up.

‘Ah.  Louisa.  Jolly nice of
you to visit.  
Um.
 Fancy a little walk?’

I tell Agnes I’ll be back in a few
minutes.  As we walk out of her ward, Beamish has stopped trying to look
as though everything’s okay.  Clearly it’s not.

‘Peritonitis.’
He says it quietly.  ‘She’s about to go in to surgery any minute.’ 
He looks at his watch,
then
adds, ‘If you’d been five
minutes later, you’d have missed her.  They’ve had her on antibiotics
since she came in, but she’s er, not so good.  But chin up old girl. 
I’m sure she’ll be er, fine.’  Then he lapses into silence.  

I don’t have anything to say either, so
after Agnes is taken to theatre, we sit and wait together.  Shock slowly
seeps over me.  I mean I knew Agnes was ill, but if Beamish is to be
believed, it’s serious.

Then I remember.  ‘Beamish. 
Agnes has a daughter.  Rachel, Mrs Boggle said.  We have to tell her
what’s happened.’

He pats my arm.  ‘Don’t worry, old
thing. 
All under control.’

An hour later, we’re joined by Miles.
 
And half an hour after that, Emma.
 Marcus
is out in the dark somewhere, in a field with half a dozen firemen and a horse
that’s stuck in a ditch.

We keep our vigil in silence, losing
track of time until a surgeon comes towards us through double doors, looking
serious.

‘Family?’ he asks. We all shake our
heads.
Maybe Beamish slightly less so.

‘Um, work colleagues,’ he says, standing
up and squaring his shoulders. 
‘And um, extremely good
friends.’

The surgeon surveys our motley little
band suspiciously, then for some reason decides that we’re genuine.

‘Well...’ he starts.  ‘She’s out of
the woods. 
For now.
 
A
particularly vicious peritonitis.
  I’m not quite sure how she kept
going.  She must have been feeling terrible for quite some time.’  He
shakes his head.  ‘She hadn’t seen her doctor?’

But out of all of us, I’m the one who
completely gets it - and I feel terrible.  If you have a job like Agnes’s,
it’s impossible to take time off when no-one else knows how it all works.
 
Especially if your assistant is me.

‘It may be best if just one of you
visits tonight...’ he adds.  ‘She’s very drowsy still, and on medication
for the pain.  And hopefully by tomorrow, she should start to feel a
little better.’

Beamish stands up,
then
sits again.  It’s obvious this has really knocked the stuffing out of him. 
He looks at me.

‘Er, why don’t you pop in Louisa?
 She’ll want to see you,’ he says gruffly.  ‘Give her love. Er, from
all of us.  I’ll come back in the morning.’  

When I see Agnes, she’s very drowsy, but
already starting to come round.  She tells me that the pain has
gone.  I crouch down by her bed, relieved to see her looking marginally
less awful than earlier.

‘They’re all outside,’ I tell her.
‘Except Marcus.
 He’s in a ditch,’ I explain, and the
eyebrows rise weakly.

‘They all send their love.  Beamish
says he’s coming back in the morning.’ I’m not sure how he’ll swing that one by
the ferocious looking sister who monitors all incomers. Visiting hours are
strictly 3-7pm.  There’s a big sign on the wall that says so.  

I bend over and kiss her pale forehead.
‘Hurry up and get better,’ I whisper. ‘We need you.’

Then I take the hint from the nurse
who’s glaring at me and leave. 

Out in the corridor, I report back to
the others. And tell Beamish about visiting hours, but I don’t think he’s
listening.  There’s unanimous agreement to find somewhere for a drink and
a quick bite to eat – not because we feel like celebrating, it’s just none of
us particularly wants to go home just yet.    We’re used to any
number of sick horses, but one of us being ill, least of all Agnes, that’s
another matter altogether.

The next morning I start work earlier.
 When I arrive at the practice, Elmer ignores me. Clearly she’s decided
that I’m superfluous to her needs and that it’s much nicer living with Sam.

So I check the answerphone, read the
emails and compile the lists of calls. Stella’s in today, so I try to give her
clients who are least likely to be upset by her.  Okay, so where are the
vets?  
Gosh. It’s only 7.30am.   I’m actually doing rather
well.

My next job is to compile another list
of supplies that need ordering.  But then I notice someone wandering
around in the yard.  I finish scribbling down what I’m in the middle of,
then
go outside, to find Sam has beaten me to it.

I recognise the figure immediately.
 It’s that chavvy boy.  The one whose skanky dog Elmer went for - I’d
recognise its blingy collar anywhere.  She’s out there now, sat, by Sam’s
side, growling menacingly - but doing exactly what Sam says. He’s obviously a
dog whisperer too.

The skanky dog’s looking very sorry for
itself.  It’s hunched up, and shivery, with saliva drooling from its
mouth. Sam crouches down, and strokes it gently, all the time talking quietly.

The boy glares at me.  His worn
jeans are hanging off his backside in that way that only teenage boys can carry
off, exposing boxers and an expanse of lilywhite flesh.  ‘Please Mrs, can
ya keep yer dog away?  Only he’s well sick, is Beckham... Fink me
step-dad’s gone an’ poisoned ‘im…’

I grab Elmer by the scruff and drag her
away to a stable, while Sam talks to the boy.  When I come back, Sam has
things under control.

‘I think Zac could be right about
poisoning,’ he tells me, then turns to Zac. ‘But don’t worry.  One of the
vets will be here any minute and they can look at Beckham straight away. Do you
want to bring him into the hay store?’

The boy gently encourages his mutt to
stagger feebly across the yard, following Sam as right on cue, Marcus pulls up.

‘What’s going on
here?’ he asks
me, looking at Zac and Beckham.

God help us.  Marcus is being thick
again.  Just when I least need him to be.

‘It’s a sick dog, Marcus,’ I say, nice
and slowly.  So he understands.

‘But we only do horses.’

‘Does it matter?  If Beamish were
here, he’d be over there looking at it himself,’ I say firmly.  And ping. 
A light goes on.

‘Yes.  
Right.
 
Of course,’ says Marcus, and grabbing his bag, he’s safely back into
superhero-mode as he lopes across the yard after them.

Marcus quickly confirms that the poor
dog has indeed been poisoned, even though the rest of us already know that.

‘How do you think it happened?’ he asks
Zac.

‘It’s me step-dad,’ he says
sullenly.  ‘E’s a right fuckin’ tosser. 
‘E ‘ates
Beckham.
 
Says he’s a manky old flea bag.’
 
Then he adds, ‘E ‘ates me too.’

I can see Marcus looking quite angry, probably
thinking that he’d like to get Zac’s step-dad prosecuted, or at least give him
a good thumping, but
it’s
first things first, which in
this case means attending to Beckham.

‘Okay,’ he says.  ‘First we have to
make him vomit up whatever it is he’s eaten. And then I need to give him
charcoal to stop him absorbing anything that’s left.  Now, I need to go
and check on dosages because I’m a little out of touch on dogs, but it won’t
take long and I’ll be right back.’

Leaving Zac sitting on
the floor beside his poor dog, panting and looking most uncomfortable.

‘How old are you Zac?’ I ask him, trying
to be friendly.

‘Sixteen,’
comes
the sullen reply, muttered under his breath as he shoots a look of pure hate in
my direction.

‘Where are you from?’ I try again,
trying not to make it sound as though I’m interrogating him.

There’s a pause, then under his breath
he says, ‘’Evverside.’
                       

I know exactly where he means. 
Heatherside is one of those God-awful council developments.  Not one of
the nice ones, as the name might suggest, with properly laid out quiet streets
and gardens, but more like a mish-mash of the ugliest houses you’ve ever seen,
all crammed in, with the least desirable, most troublesome tenants concentrated
into just three streets.  It ought to be called Hell’s Bottom.  And
it’s miles away. Well, on foot it is.  Way further on from where Arian and
I used to live, which makes it at least five miles away.

‘Here we go.’ Marcus is back masterfully
wielding various syringes, and hearing the phone start to ring, I bolt back to
the office.

When the other vets turn up, Emma takes
Marcus’s first call, so that he can concentrate on the dog.  Fortunately
it’s not a busy morning.

Marcus stays with Zac and his dog for
quite a while.  It even looks like they’re chatting.  Then Marcus
walks off and makes a call on his mobile, before coming back again.
 Leaving Beckham in the capable hands of Sam, he brings Zac into the
office.

‘Louisa.  I’ve just been speaking
to Beamish.  
About young Zac here.
 It seems
that he’d like to do some work.  To um, earn Beckham’s treatment...’

Zac turns to him.  ‘I don’t want
no
charity, Mr,’ he says sullenly. ‘And I ain’t goin fuckin’
‘ome neither.’

‘It’s not charity, Zac,’ says Marcus
quietly, and very firmly.  ‘Louisa will tell you that we’re one man down
at the moment.  Normally,
there’s
two people in
this office and she spends part of her day out in the yard, helping Sam.
 So, my thinking
was,
that if you helped Sam,
Louisa would be free to concentrate on the office.  What do you say?’

There’s a begrudging ‘’kay.’  

Great.
 Terrific, even… He sounds
so
enthusiastic.  So now, not only
do I have Agnes to worry about,
there’s the delights
of a bolshy teenager too.  I wish Marcus had run it by me first. 

But Sam’s horse-whispering skills work
like a charm on Zac.  Before long, he has him out sweeping the yard and
then together they scrub down an empty stable or two.  He even gets him to
pull his jeans up slightly, so
there’s less of the boxers
on show.  And every so often, one of them checks on Beckham, who Marcus is
absolutely certain is going to be just fine. 

I’m so wrapped up in everything that’s
going on out there that I keep forgetting that I’m not just a lowly assistant
at the moment.  In Agnes’s absence, I’m actually
running
this
office - and if I don’t get some bills out, none of us will be getting paid.