Must Be Love (33 page)

‘I thought they weren’t married.’

‘They weren’t, but bound by lack of money and prospects, they behaved as if they were. They were like a lion and tigress stuck in the same enclosure in a zoo, always misunderstanding each other, always fighting. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to end up like them – not that I’m saying you’re anything like my father, or, I hope, that I’m anything like my mother. All I want is for us and our baby to be happy, and as far as I’m concerned marriage and happiness are mutually exclusive.’

‘You cynic,’ Alex says. ‘Never mind.’ He changes the subject. ‘You know we won’t be able to keep calling it Bean after it’s born. It won’t go down too well with the Pony Club. Have you had any thoughts about names? You can’t put everything off until the last minute,’ Alex goes on when I don’t respond. ‘I’ve got a book somewhere.’

‘I like Bean,’ I say.

‘Bean Fox-Gifford? I don’t think so.’

‘Bean Harwood, you mean.’ I don’t see why not – I took my mother’s name.

‘What about me?’ Alex looks hurt. ‘You can put my name on the birth certificate. We don’t have to be married.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think the baby will forgive us if we go triple-barrelled.’

‘Harwood-Fox-Gifford? Poor child.’

‘It’s like a horse: you put the stallion first. It has to be Fox-Gifford-Harwood, FGH.’ Alex’s fingers brush my neck. ‘Let’s concentrate on a Christian name first. We can start at the As and work through.’

‘Oh no, I’m not going to give it your father’s name if it’s a boy.’

‘Abelard’s already taken: it’s Sebastian’s middle name.’

‘What about following the Beckhams’ example? Why not give him or her the name of the place he or she was conceived?’

‘What, Talyton? Or Barney – we were in the Barn, after all.’ Alex laughs. ‘What about Julian? Or Frederick – we can shorten that to Freddie.’

‘Who says it’s a boy?’

‘What about Julia or Frederica, then?’ Alex says.

I try them out in my head. I’m not sure about either of Alex’s suggestions.

‘What about Chardonnay for a girl?’

Alex looks at me for moment, then realises I’m pulling his leg.

‘Daddy! There you are, Daddy.’ The patter of smallish feet disturbs us, and I smile ruefully at the thought that being with Alex means being with quite a few other Fox-Giffords.

It’s Lucie. She comes and stands over us, all businesslike in denim dungarees, a brown bantam under one arm and holding a basket of eggs out to Alex.

‘Humpy says to give you those for Maz to say welcome to the Manor.’

‘What about the chicken?’ Alex asks, raising one eyebrow.

‘This is Hetty.’ The bantam squawks as Lucie gives her a squeeze. ‘She’s been in the dust and she needs a bath.’

Alex jumps up when Lucie heads off towards the kitchen.

‘Hey, where are you taking her?’

‘Humpy said to do it in the kitchen sink.’

‘Oh, she did, did she? What’s wrong with her kitchen sink?’

‘She says she doesn’t want any mess.’

‘Neither do Maz and I.’

‘Humpy says you won’t mind because your house is in a mess already.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ Alex says, but he can’t argue that one because for once, Sophia is right. His house – our house – is in a bit of a state.

I get up from the sofa, inspired to put things straight before I unpack my boxes. Ever the indulgent father, Alex lifts a stack of dirty plates out of the sink and clears the draining board so Lucie can bathe her hen.

‘Alex, when did you last tidy up?’ I draw a love-heart in the dust on the mantelpiece over the fire.

‘Oh, last week maybe. The woman who used to do isn’t up to it any more. I don’t like to keep asking her.’ He stares at me. ‘I didn’t think you were that precious about housework.’

‘No, but’ – I look around at the mess – ‘isn’t this just a little excessive?’

‘You must be nesting.’ Alex grins.

I reflect for a moment. He’s right. I’ve never felt this way about dust before.

‘I expect you’ll want to make a few changes,’ he goes on.

‘Maz, I hope you’re not going to sleep in my room.’ Lucie dunks her hen into a bowl of warm water.

I promise her I’m not, but avoid mentioning I’m going to share with her dad in case she embarrasses me by mentioning the ‘sex’ word again.

‘Have you got a hairdryer I can borrow?’ she continues. ‘I need to dry Hetty now.’

‘I have a hairdryer, but you can’t borrow it, not for a hen,’ I say, and Lucie pouts mutinously, forcing a tear to her eye, so I add, ‘It blows too hot for a hen’s feathers. If you dry Hetty with it, she’ll end up roasted.’

‘Oh?’ She looks at me, unsure.

‘Go and ask Humpy if you can use hers,’ Alex says.

‘All right,’ she sighs, and off she goes with the chicken draped in a towel under her arm.

‘That gives new meaning to the concept of a chicken wrap. I don’t know why you’re worried about parenting, Maz. You’re a natural.’ Alex glances at his watch. ‘How long do you think it takes to blow-dry a chicken?’ he adds with a wicked grin, and we discover that it’s about as long as it takes to go upstairs, jump into bed and consummate my new status as Alex’s live-in lover.

Chapter Nineteen

Abracadabra

It’s the middle of July and the school holidays have begun for some, and after a fairly quiet month we’re suddenly inundated with requests for passports for pets travelling abroad with their owners, and boosters for those staying back home in kennels and catteries. We have an onslaught of itchy, allergic dogs and a few broken bones. Luckily, we’re fully staffed.

I can’t find my stethoscope – there’s nothing unusual in that. Drew hasn’t seen it. Neither has Izzy.

‘But I have found this,’ she says, when she joins me in the corridor on the way to Kennels. She diverts to the laundry and comes back with Penny’s painting. ‘It was behind the freezer.’

‘Oh? It was a present for looking after Sally. It isn’t really to my taste.’

Izzy holds it at arm’s length. ‘Which way up is it supposed to be?’

‘I don’t think it matters all that much.’ I hesitate. ‘If I wasn’t worried about Penny finding out, I’d donate it to the WI for their next charity auction. I shouldn’t think it’s worth more than a few quid, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.’

‘Penny’s a real artist, Maz, not some dabbler,’ Izzy says, laughing at me. ‘I’ve seen her paintings in the paper. She exhibits in London.’

‘No!’ I try looking at the painting with fresh eyes, but the fact it’s worth something doesn’t help me like it any more.

‘I bet there’s somewhere you could hang it in the Barn. Take it home tonight – don’t forget.’ Izzy pauses as Tripod comes stalking past, mewing for food. ‘Have you been abandoned, you poor neglected creature?’

‘You know I can’t take the cats with me – Old Fox-Gifford and his dogs would finish them off. Anyway, I get to see them almost every day.’

I hope Izzy’s joking, I muse, as she continues sternly, ‘A dog is for life, Maz. A cat is no different.’

I go and join Emma in Kennels. She’s in limbo at the moment, waiting to start the injections for her next cycle of IVF.

‘Your greyhound’s got to go this morning,’ she says. ‘I need the big kennel for Brutus. He’s coming in for X-rays.’

‘I’m not sure she’s ready.’ I’m not sure, either, why Emma thinks her patient should take precendence over mine. Gemma – she’s the greyhound – is recovering from major surgery. I stroll over and open the kennel door, and Gemma hangs back, waiting for me to tell her she can come out. She’s a lanky ex-racer with a soft brindle coat and gentle manner. I check her over. It’s all looking good.

‘I expect you’d rather be at home,’ I say to her, and she nudges my face with her cold, wet nose as if in agreement. ‘I’ll get Shannon to offer her some chicken – lightly boiled, not incinerated. If she eats it, she can go.’

‘As long as she’s gone by ten-thirty,’ Emma says sharply, and I want to say, What’s wrong with you? like I used to do when she was having a bad day, when that was all it took to snap her out of it.

After I’ve sent Gemma home, I catch sight of Brutus hopping three-legged down the corridor to Kennels, and wonder why Mrs Dyer was prepared to let her dog suffer for a whole month rather than risk seeing me or Drew, and then I forget all about him while I’m out on two visits.

‘Emma says can you come and look at this X-ray,’ Izzy says when I get back.

‘Now or later?’

‘Now, this minute.’ Izzy fiddles with the clip on her dosimeter.

‘I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make.’

‘Well, go and tell Emma yourself,’ Izzy says a little wearily. ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with acting as go-between.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I suppose that is what we’ve been doing, Emma and I, relaying messages through Izzy and sometimes Shannon, because it’s easier not to talk to each other. When we’re face to face, I’m acutely aware of my growing bump being in the way. ‘I didn’t realise …’

‘I know things are a bit awkward between you at the moment, but they won’t get any better if you don’t speak to each other. However, I hate to see the practice suffer,’ Izzy says, ‘so I’ve had a heart-to-heart with Chris, and decided that if it’s any help, I’ll give the honeymoon a miss. We can still do the big white wedding.’

‘If you do that, Izzy, I’ll have to sack you. Otter House will still be here when you get back, I promise.’ And as if to prove that everything’s fine between me and Emma, I head out the back to find her.

She’s in theatre with Brutus heavily sedated, his head on the trolley and his tail on the operating table.

‘I had to bring him in here – he’s so big, there didn’t seem to be anywhere else to put him.’ Emma gazes at the X-ray on the viewer, and taps a spot on one of the bones with the end of her pen. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘I’d say it’s a primary bone tumour,’ I reply, which means that whatever Emma suggests – amputation, radiotherapy – the outlook for Brutus is pretty grim. It looks too small and insignificant, this little patch of moth-eaten bone, to have such potentially dire consequences.

‘Bad news, then.’ Emma tugs the film out of the tab at the top of the viewer and sticks it in an envelope. ‘I’d better make a double appointment for Mrs Dyer.’

‘She’ll be devastated.’

‘Yep,’ Emma says. ‘Actually, I think I’ll send it off for a second opinion,’ and I think, Why, what about my opinion? Doesn’t my opinion count any more?

‘I don’t see how it can be anything else.’

‘You know very well that it could be,’ Emma counters.

‘Yes, but the chances are that it’s malignant. You wouldn’t wait for a second opinion if it was Miff. You’d operate tomorrow.’

‘Well, I know how fussy Mrs Dyer is. I don’t want her turning round to me a couple of months down the line to tell me I got it wrong. And anyway, given another couple of weeks, waiting for the radiologist’s report, I’ll be able to fit the op around my IVF.’

‘You can’t do that. Are you mad?’

‘We don’t have to be martyrs, Maz. There are times when you have to put yourself before the practice.’

‘Not before a patient, though.’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing from my once caring and compassionate partner. ‘By the time you get around to operating on Brutus, that tumour will have had more opportunity to spread.’

‘It may have spread already,’ Emma says. ‘Look, Maz, Mrs Dyer’s my client. I’ll handle this in my own way, thank you very much.’

‘I really don’t think you’re doing what’s best for the dog.’

‘Well, I do.’

It’s like she’s punishing me for being pregnant. It’s as if she can hardly bear to look at me because my fecundity is a painful reminder of her barrenness. I refrain from pointing out that the X-ray doesn’t have any ID on it, no name or marker to indicate that it’s the right not the left leg, which is always useful. I don’t think Emma will take kindly to anything I say at the moment.

I grab a Kit Kat and an apple for lunch, keeping half an ear on Megadrive Radio’s report that the Met Office is forecasting a month’s rain to fall in the next four days. The rain has already begun to fall as a soft grey drizzle, what the locals describe as Dartmoor mizzle, and all I can think of is all those mucky paw marks when clients bring their wet dogs into the practice.

I go through to Reception to check the daybook. Frances is sitting at the desk, knitting. I don’t say anything. She’s been putting in extra hours, helping out with some of the admin, while Emma’s been flitting in and out of the practice.

‘What are you making?’ I ask her.

She holds up a length of white knitting.

‘It’s a baby bag. It’ll have a hood so your baby will be snug as a bug at night.’

‘Er, thank you. That’s very kind,’ I say, stroking my bump, but I’m thinking overheating and cot death.

‘Small babies are always kicking their blankets off at night, then they get cold and wake you up. This’ll help him sleep through.’ Frances returns to her task, needles clacking, the skein of wool on the table flicking over and over as she tugs on the main thread. ‘It’s St Swithun’s Day – if it rains today, it’ll rain every day for a month.’

‘It is raining,’ I say, gazing out of the window. There’s a flock of seagulls lining up on the roofs of the houses opposite, a sign of imminent bad weather.

‘Three of your afternoon appointments have already cancelled because of the forecast.’

I don’t understand. A bit of rain never hurt anyone, apart from the odd heroine in a Brontë novel perhaps, and that was just a device for bringing her closer to the hero. And thinking of heroes, I think of Alex and how lucky I am.

A gust of wind rattles the windows and a door slams shut. Raindrops, bigger ones now, patter against the glass.

‘I do hope the boats are all safely home today.’ Frances falls silent for a while, remembering, no doubt, the day her husband and his crew went down in a storm in the trawler the
Emily Rose
. There’s a memorial in the church; their bodies were never found. ‘You won’t remember the last time the Taly burst its banks, will you, Maz? It must have been six or seven years ago, before Emma set up the practice. The water came right into the centre of town. All the shops got flooded. Mr Lacey lost the labels on his wines and had to auction them off as mystery lots. And Otter House –’