Vets in Love (3 page)

‘Thanks for that,’ he says, moving towards the door, where he hesitates. ‘I’ll make another appointment for next week.’

And I think, I didn’t ask you to, but I don’t attempt to dissuade him. I’d like to see him again, purely in a professional capacity, of course. Suddenly, I have a particular interest in shoulders.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ I say.

‘It’s good to meet Talyton’s new doctor at last.’

‘I’ve been working here for eighteen months,’ I say.

‘You’re new to me,’ he says decisively. ‘Goodbye, Nicci.’

‘Goodbye.’ I sink back into my chair when the door closes behind him. I believe this is an occasion when an old-fashioned country doctor might dig out a bottle of whisky from their drawer and turn to drink. I doubt very much that Matt will do as I suggested. I pick up the phone to call the hospital to see if I can find out what’s happening with Steve.

Chapter Two

Horse Sense

WITH SURGERY OVER
for the day, I ring the hospital. Steve is in theatre undergoing a procedure on his coronary arteries in the hope of preventing another heart attack. Confident that although still in a critical condition, he’s in the best hands, I set out for the yard for my daily fix of horse, driving south along the road towards Talysands. I begin to relax at the top of the hill, where I catch the first glimpse of the sea glittering in the early evening sunshine. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, letting go of my work worries. I’m glad I chose to come home and settle here in Devon. I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world.

I turn off the main road into a driveway, passing a sign reading ‘Letherington Equestrian Centre’ and a small warehouse-style building that houses the shop Tack n Hack on one side, and on the other a field divided into sections by wooden posts and green electric tape where several horses are grazing, some of
them looking like warriors, covered from nose to tail and ears to hooves in fly sheets and masks.

I continue past a modern barn half filled with the new season’s hay and into the car park that faces onto the first yard of breeze block and tile stables reserved for the liveries. Beyond is a second yard of older, higgledy-piggledy part-brick and part-cob buildings where Delphi keeps the riding school ponies, and behind that are the indoor school, outdoor school, horse walker and two foaling boxes. There’s also a wash-down area with a solarium – for the horses, not the humans.

Having parked, I grab Willow’s head-collar from the hook outside her stable to fetch her from the paddock, walking between the fence and the hedge entwined with cow parsley, brambles and dog roses. Willow reminds me of a rocking horse with her grey dapples and flaxen mane and tail. I call her name and she raises her head from where she’s been grazing with her muzzle buried in the lush grass. She flicks a fly from one ear and decides I’m not worth bothering about.

‘Do you mean I have to walk all the way over there to catch you?’ I say with a mock sigh as she returns to her favourite occupation – eating like a horse, so to speak. ‘I spend all this money and time on you, so I think the least you could do is pretend you’re pleased to see me.’

She turns her rump to me and swishes her tail as if to say, ‘But I’m enjoying this far too much.’

Willow can detect the sound of a sweet wrapper
from miles away, so when I fish around in my pocket for a mint she makes her way over, pausing only to grab one last mouthful of grass. She stops and sniffs at my hand, then waits for me to uncurl my fingers and reveal the mint on my palm before taking it gently between her lips and crunching it with her teeth. I slip the head-collar on and lead her down to the yard.

There is a long-limbed brown gelding in the paddock next to Willow’s. Dark Star is Willow’s neighbour in the stable block and he’s quite attached to her, so when I lead her away he starts trotting up and down whinnying for her. She doesn’t feel the same way about him, a horse of half her age and experience. She doesn’t look back.

When I tie her to the ring outside the stable, Dark Star continues his pacing up and down the fence until I take pity on him and fetch him in too, letting him into his stable. I remove his head-collar, stroking the white star in the centre of his forehead, and let myself out, keeping a close eye on him, remembering the adage ‘The front end bites, the back end kicks’ – and true to form, Dark Star tosses his head with his ears pinned back.

‘Don’t you even think about it,’ I growl at him, and he backs down as if nothing has happened. ‘You might have the rest of the yard under your thumb – or should that be your hoof – but you don’t scare me,’ I tell him. I watch him for a moment as he settles to chew on some hay. He’s very well bred with a minor fault of a Roman nose, which I think gives him an air
of gravitas, but he’s a strange horse temperament-wise, whereas Willow is a darling, beautiful and kind. I return to her, running my hand down her neck and smiling to myself. There are times when I wish my patients were horses, and wonder why I didn’t train to be a vet.

At the sound of another vehicle arriving in the yard, I turn to see a silver pickup spattered with rust-coloured mud pulling up between my car and a stack of big-bale haylage wrapped in pale green plastic.

It’s Shane, my trainer, and I’m not ready.

I grab a body brush from the grooming kit outside the stable and give Willow a quick brush, concentrating on the areas where the bridle and saddle rest, checking where the girth fits to make sure there’s no dirt that could chafe. The last thing we need is a girth gall that would put her out of action for the rest of the season.

I jog across to the tack room and slip into my long leather boots, zipping them up the back so they fit close to my calves, and tie back my hair before putting on my hat, grabbing a stick, and Willow’s tack, and walking back across the yard with her bridle slung over my shoulder and her jumping saddle in my arms. She has three saddles, one for dressage, one for jumping and a general purpose one for hacking, which sounds like a terrible extravagance, but we have to have the right gear to compete.

I put the saddle on her and fasten the girth straps before slipping the reins over her head, something to hang onto her by if she should decide to wander off
when I remove the head-collar and replace it with the bridle. Willow doesn’t move though.

‘Good girl,’ I tell her. I talk to her like a friend. I’ve had her for six years now and I chose well. It’s a pity I’m not so lucky at picking a good man, someone as loyal and courageous as my horse, someone who respects me as I respect them, and who can stay the distance.

My last boyfriend couldn’t, and I don’t know why he should enter my mind right now, when I promised myself I’d never waste another moment on him.

‘You aren’t keeping me waiting again, VB?’ Shane says cheerfully, using his nickname for me as he comes up alongside. He’s about my height, brown-haired, blue-eyed and skinny, his muscles well defined. ‘How are things?’

‘Good, thanks. How about you?’ I lead Willow to the middle of the yard and Shane follows, striding along in a tatty olive green polo shirt, brown breeches and long boots. He’s been my trainer since I brought Willow to Delphi’s yard when I returned to the area to work as a GP. I’ve known him for years though. We used to be members of the Talyton branch of the Pony Club, but he was a couple of years older than me and utterly fixated on showjumping. He never had a girlfriend and people used to think he was gay, but he’s married now to the greengrocer’s daughter, and everyone jokes that he did it to make sure of an endless supply of carrots.

‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘Ready for a leg-up?’

I bring Willow to a halt, gather up the reins in my left
hand as I’m facing the saddle and bend my left leg. Shane grabs me around the shin, and counts, ‘One, two, three,’ before propelling me into the saddle. He casts an eye over the position of my leg as I slip my foot into the stirrup.

‘I really think you should put those up one,’ he says and I adjust the leathers as we head through the next yard to the outdoor school. I warm up, taking Willow through walk, trot and canter on both reins with light touches of my legs against her sides, while Shane sets up three jumps across the middle.

‘Okay, VB. Bring her down the centre line,’ Shane calls as he slots a cup onto the wing of the last jump at the end of a blue and white striped pole, making a straightforward upright fence with a cross-pole underneath.

Coming around the corner at the end of the school, I ask Willow for a rhythmic canter and aim for the centre of the jump. She flies it.

‘Good,’ says Shane, ‘keep the rhythm and come down on the left rein.’

By the end of the training session, Willow has jumped all three fences raised to one metre twenty. I pat her neck and it’s dark with sweat. I’m sweating too, my face burning from exertion, even though the air is cooler now as the sun begins to go down and the shadows of the fences lengthen across the school.

‘That’s enough,’ Shane decides. ‘Let’s end on a good note. Walk her around and we’ll talk.’

‘You’ll talk, you mean,’ I say brightly. I reach down and loosen the girth and let Willow walk on a long rein
so she can snort and stretch and cool down. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think Willow’s looking great, but you, VB, need to get yourself down to the gym. Your horse is fitter than you are, and that isn’t good enough.’ Shane doesn’t pull any punches, which is why he’s such a great trainer. He tells it how it is. ‘When did you last have a proper workout?’

‘I feel as if I’ve just had one,’ I exclaim in mock protest.

‘Make sure you get a couple of sessions in before the next event,’ Shane says. He’s strict. That’s what I pay him for. ‘The horse is ready, but I’m not sure about the rider.’

I pay him to make me feel guilty too. I need to sharpen up my act if Willow and I are going to break through to the next level. She’s twelve now and if she doesn’t make it in the next two years, I think that will be the end of it and we will go no further. There will be no trip to Badminton for us.

‘Hey, stay positive,’ Shane warns as if he’s reading my mind. ‘I can’t stop, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get home – Michaela’s parents are coming over for dinner.’ He grins. ‘She’ll kill me if I’m not there this time.’

I want to tell him how lucky he is to have someone waiting at home for him, but that would make me sound a bit sad, so I don’t. Instead, I ride around to the yard, say goodbye to him and jump down outside the stable where a tall, blonde woman with greasy hair, much of which has escaped her ponytail, is waiting.

‘Hi, Delphi,’ I say as she grabs the end of a hose and turns on the tap.

Slightly unkempt, with dirty nails and weathered skin, she’s in her mid-forties and fabulously fit. Her short-sleeved lemon-coloured showing blouse exposes her muscular upper arms, and her cream jodhpurs show off her shapely legs, wide hips and large bottom. She exudes, as always, an air of horse, Chanel and superiority. Some people find her difficult, some annoying, but I like her. I respect her for the way she cares for my horse – all the equines in her charge come first, before anything else in her life.

She had the wash-down area and solarium built recently, but on hot days like today, she prefers the old-fashioned way, washing the horses down with the hose. Willow takes exception though. As I take off the saddle and rest it on top of the stable door, Delphi flicks the end of the hose at Willow’s neck. Willow snorts and fidgets, her skin twitching as she tries to escape the jet of cold water.

‘Willow, stop that,’ I say sharply and she settles down, allowing the water to run down her legs and under her belly. ‘I think she likes it really.’ I stroke her muzzle. ‘Drama queen!’

‘Was that a successful session?’ Delphi asks. She’s very well-spoken, like royalty.

‘Not bad, except Shane’s told me to get down to the gym. I’m not sure when I’ll find the time.’

‘Thanks for bringing Dark Star in for me. No one else will. I don’t know why he’s the way he is. I’ve brought him up from a foal, so he should know how to behave.’
Delphi takes the hose away and switches off the tap, while I grab a sweat-scraper to remove the excess water from Willow’s coat before throwing on her cooler. ‘I’ve got one of the vets from Westleigh coming up at the end of this week,’ she goes on. ‘Did you want me to book Willow in for her vaccinations then, or do you want to leave it until after the next event at East Hill? There’s plenty of time.’

‘Which vet?’ I say out of curiosity.

‘Matt Warren – I prefer his partner, Jimmy, but he isn’t available.’

‘What’s wrong with Matt?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with him – Jimmy’s more familiar with the horses, that’s all. His wife’s just given birth to their first child.’ She smiles. ‘It’s lucky Matt isn’t breeding yet because they wouldn’t be able to cope.’

I smile at the way she talks about him as if he’s some stallion.

‘Is he married?’ I ask, trying to maintain an air of casual interest.

‘No.’ Delphi opens the stable door for me. ‘I think he has a girlfriend though, the other vet at the hospital.’

‘Mel, the houseman?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Come on, Willow.’ I lead her inside and take off her head-collar before leaving her to have a roll on her bed of shavings. Matt is attached, so there’s no surprise there then, except I
am
a little surprised because he was definitely flirting with me this morning and described the woman in the waiting room as their houseman
rather than his girlfriend. It doesn’t show much respect for her, and although I don’t like to tar all men with the same brush, it reminds me of my ex and his lack of respect for women in general. Good men do exist. Shane is one of them, but I have no idea where the rest of them are.

‘So what do you think?’ Delphi says.

‘About Matt?’

‘Do you want him?’

‘Want him?’

‘Yes, to see Willow?’

I realise that I’m definitely on the wrong wavelength here. Blushing, I respond that I do.

After checking that Willow has cooled down and eaten her tea of competition mix, chaff and an apple, I go home, driving around Talyton’s one-way system to get back to the house I’m renting until I find a place to buy. I park the car, a white Audi – not a good colour for a horsey person like myself because it’s always dirty – behind a delivery van that belongs to my neighbour’s man-friend. I can’t bring myself to call him a boyfriend when they’re both in their sixties. I live in a substantial terrace between Frances, the aforesaid neighbour who is the receptionist for Otter House vets and a longstanding member of the WI, and a family consisting of a woman I call Eternally Frazzled Mum and two or three noisy boys.