Tom poured himself a coffee while Harry plonked a dish of pancakes down in the middle of the kitchen table. ‘Eat up.’ Tom put a pancake on his plate, and another one on Jack’s. Where was Clare? He’d hoped they could walk down to the clinic together.
It was a week now, since Clare had started doing mornings at the surgery. Two hours, that’s all it was, roughly from nine until eleven, but already she’d brought a degree of order to what was formerly chaos.
So far Jack hadn’t been a problem. There was nothing the little boy enjoyed more than spending time with the horses, so Harry took him along on his morning paddock rounds. When Harry was done or Jack had had enough, the pair would come by the clinic. Harry would always take Jack into the room serving as the hospital ward. Here lived the inpatients, and animals recovering from surgery. You never quite knew what you’d discover. Cats and dogs were commonplace, but there were more unusual patients as well. Cleo the scrub python was still there. Being cold-blooded, reptiles were slow to heal, and it would be at least another week before her stitches came out. There was a barn owl with a broken wing, a flying fox with barbed-wire fence injuries and a koala with chlamydia, all waiting for pick up by local wildlife carers. When Jack had finished looking around, Clare would finish up and head back to the house with Jack and Harry.
It had been a wonderful, if frustrating, week. Tom was falling hard for Clare. It seemed he couldn’t properly think about anything else. She moved about the clinic, blonde hair neatly pinned up, exposing the long sweep of her graceful neck, the ridge of her clavicle, the curve of her throat. They’d be discussing the best time for Mrs Madden to bring in her sick peacock, when he was really imagining the taste of her polished skin. He was forever trying to steal little brushes against her. Once he got so distracted by the soft swell of breasts peeking from her open-necked shirt, that he forgot about the syringe he was holding and stabbed himself in the hand. At least he’d be immune to cat flu now.
There’d been no repeat of that night at the pub, when Clare’s smile had been so full of promise. The memory of her hand in his wouldn’t let him go, yet no similar opportunity had since presented itself. The next night Harry had some kind of turn. He insisted he was fine and went about his daily chores the next morning, but Clare didn’t want him to worry about babysitting Jack at night any more.
‘What sort of a turn?’ he asked her.
Clare furrowed her perfect brow for a second. ‘He got up from the table and sort of lost his balance. Said he was seeing double. It was a minute or so before he was right, and then he complained of being tired. It’s not like Grandad to get tired, is it? And I imagine it’s even more unusual for him to complain about it.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Tom said. ‘Harry’s no whinger.’
Since then, Clare had insisted her grandfather have early nights. The old man had argued no end about it, but Tom could see that deep down he was pleased that she cared. Now Clare was no longer free to go out in the evening. He could go to her for dinner, of course, cadge an invitation. But when he’d leased the site for the clinic, Harry had included breakfast in the deal. Tom had been up at the house for his morning meal almost every day for six months now. It might be a bit of a stretch turning up for dinner as well.
Then there were his living arrangements. Tom lodged with Bonnie Black, a widowed young woman in town. Her interfering mother, Blanche, just about lived there too. Tom had moved in to discover that Blanche had appropriated the spacious spare room, and that he’d been relegated to the covered-in verandah
It was fully enclosed with insect screens, but mosquitoes still managed to get in. Tom had patched up any obvious holes. He’d tried everything: repellent, insect spray, mosquito coils left to burn all night. Nothing worked. If anything, his efforts seemed to attract them and he was forced to sleep with a sheet pulled over his head, listening to the frustrated drone of the little bloodsuckers, inches from his ear. Occasionally they dive-bombed him, inserting their proboscis right through the thin linen, and he would be covered with itchy red welts by morning. And on top of that, there were the cane toads. God knows how they got in, but each morning he’d find at least a couple of the ugly creatures somewhere. Once he’d woken up to one beside him on his pillow, like something from the Princess and the Frog fairy tale. But even if he was looking for a prince, he wouldn’t be kissing this frog. The skin of Bufo marinus oozed a poison that irritated skin and burned the eyes. Tom hadn’t heard of deaths in humans, but their venom was potent enough to kill dogs and cats along with any unfortunate wildlife that consumed it. Quolls, goannas, dingos – he’d seen them all succumb to this toxic invader. What would Clare think of waking up next to a cane toad? Even if she was free, and a romantic pub dinner was to lead to something more, there’d be nowhere to take her.
Clare came into the kitchen and sat down beside him. She reached for the golden syrup with a slim, lightly tanned arm. Her singlet top exposed the delicious curve of neck and shoulder, the sheen of her skin, damp from the kitchen’s clammy heat. He imagined how her breasts might look, minus their flimsy wrapper.
‘If you don’t like my pancakes, just say so,’ said Harry. The old man’s words brought him back to earth with a crunch, and Tom heaped up his plate. ‘Don’t do me any favours,’ snorted Harry. He drained his tea and thumped the mug in the sink. ‘Come on, Jack,’ he said. ‘We’ve got horses to feed.’ The little boy scrambled from his chair and raced out the door after him.
‘What’s got into Harry?’ asked Tom. He had an uneasy suspicion that the old man somehow knew of his daydreams.
‘He hasn’t been sleeping—’ began Clare.
Tom’s phone rang. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Clare. ‘Tom Lord here.’
A new client, Willow Moore, was apparently waiting for him down at the clinic. ‘Minnie’s in labour, and I think a pup’s stuck. She’s been trying for hours, but nothing’s happening,’ said an urgent voice.
‘Be right there,’ Tom said.
Clare pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll go change.’
Tom sprinted down the hill. A tattooed young man dressed like a Goth waited beside an ancient Mini Minor. A tearful teenage girl, dressed all in black and carrying a shoebox, rushed to the clinic door as he approached. Tom fumbled in his haste to turn the key. As soon as he stepped inside he could tell something was wrong. A few pamphlets lay on the floor. A tin of cat food had rolled beneath a shelf and the broom had fallen over. The door to the hospital ward stood wide open. Damn, he must have forgotten to check it last night. He hurried in to see what creature might have escaped. Cleo. The scrub python’s cage was empty, and the box that had contained Ginger, a geriatric guinea pig, was on its side. He’d been in overnight with pneumonia. The prognosis had been poor, even with saline, antibiotics and a steroid injection. Tom searched in vain through the spilt straw. No rodent.
Tom went back into the waiting room, keeping one eye peeled for the wayward snake. Willow stood clutching the shoe box, her facial piercings glistening with tears. ‘Where’s the patient?’ he asked. A tortured squeal came from the box. Willow offered it to him with trembling hands. Inside was a distressed piebald rat. Tom heaved a great sigh. It was going to be one of those days.
Tom gently took the rat from Willow. It was a warm morning but Minnie felt cold, a sure sign of shock. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her ears and mucous membranes were pale. Blood oozed from beneath her tail, and every now and then she squealed in pain. He fetched a heating pad and laid the little creature on the examination table.
‘Blade said you’ll just do a caesarean and then she’ll be fine,’ said Willow, her expression hopeful.
‘Did he just?’ Tom looked up to see the Goth boy in the doorway. Curse Blade for raising such unrealistic expectations. Rat caesareans were notoriously difficult and he didn’t have the right small-scale implements. On top of that, it wasn’t feasible to deliver the young and then repair the uterus. A full hysterectomy would be necessary, meaning Minnie wouldn’t be able to produce milk even if the babies could be saved. Without a foster mother, her pinkies would not survive.
‘I’d like to try something first —’ began Tom, then froze. Cleo was gliding along the floor behind the unsuspecting Willow, a telltale guinea-pig-sized bulge in her body. She slid behind the bags of dog food in the corner. He took a deep breath. On the bright side, at least he now knew where she was. ‘Oxytocin injections can stimulate a tired uterus to contract,’ he said, trying hard to concentrate. ‘First I’ll X-ray Minnie to check there’s no extra-large pup stuck in the birth canal, otherwise strong labour could rupture her uterus.’ Willow crossed her legs and turned white. ‘Perhaps you should wait outside,’ said Tom. The girl nodded and left. Tom quickly X-rayed the rat, keeping one eye on the corner. Good. They were normal sized pinkies, well positioned, and only five of them. Now to take a guess at dosage.
Clare came in, looking cool and collected. Tom saw a flash of flickering tongue and pale scales as the snake slid across the room and disappeared behind the filing cabinet. He tried to remain calm. Should he tell Clare? No, he just couldn’t do it. He’d scare her again for starters and look like a complete incompetent again to boot.
Clare pointed to Minnie. ‘What’s that?’
‘Pet rat in labour.’
Clare made a face. ‘Don’t take too long. You’ve got a Mr Baker with his bassets at nine for vaccinations.’
Tom groaned. Brian Baker always insisted on having Tom express his dogs’ anal glands, whether it was needed or not. ‘Better out than in,’ he’d say in a smug voice, then head for his car, offering no help at all. It was normally a simple enough exercise, but not with Brian’s bassets. They howled and leaped and growled, making the procedure downright dangerous for everybody involved. On top of that, Brian’s bassets were simply the smelliest dogs in the world. The place always stank to high heaven after their visits. Clare couldn’t be there for that. She’d never be able to think of him in a romantic way again. He’d have to get rid her.
Tom injected Minnie with the oxytocin, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the tiny rodent and hoping her exhausted frame could withstand the strain of renewed contractions. He placed her and the heating pad in a box, took it to the hospital ward and then went to talk to Clare. He’d taken a few steps when he returned and put a lid on the box, just in case Cleo had designs on Minnie for breakfast.
Clare was behind the counter, entering treatment notes into the computer. ‘You should set some time aside to catch up on these,’ she said in a chastising tone. ‘There’s quite a backlog.’
‘Why don’t you take Jack for a drive in the Bunya Mountains,’ said Tom. ‘I can manage this morning. I’m off on farm rounds at eleven anyway.’
Clare looked up, clearly puzzled. ‘It’s such a busy morning. Are you sure?’
He didn’t answer, pretending instead to examine stock on the shelves.
Clare went through the appointment list. ‘You’ve got the Baker bassets, some crazy man who thinks his wife is poisoning their Siamese cat, a Boxer with toothache, a Newfoundland with indigestion, a kitten with a rash, a litter of puppies for vaccinations and health checks, and a lame goose . . . and there are bound to be walk-ins. Still want me to take off?’
He looked out the window. Brian Baker was pulling up with his dog trailer. Tom dashed for the door and waylaid Brian as he was unloading his hounds.
‘Sorry,’ said Tom, ‘but I’m flat out. Tricky labour. An emergency caesarean might be all that can save the pups. Can we do this tomorrow?’
‘Course we can, Doc,’ said Brian, juggling a tangle of excited bassets. ‘Course we can.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t suppose you blokes know what will land on your doorstep next, eh?’
Tom nodded and smiled. ‘Got it in one, mate.’ This was going better than he’d hoped.
A voice from behind startled him. ‘How’s Minnie?’ It was Willow.
Best to hurry the girl away before she put her foot in it. ‘I’ve given Minnie an injection that will hopefully restart her labour,’ he said. ‘Come and we’ll check on her now.’ Willow nodded, her expression taut with nerves, and started to follow him back to the clinic.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ Brian called out after her. ‘Doc here will save them pups, and their mum too.’
Willow stopped and gave him a grateful smile. ‘I hope so. Minnie’s my favourite rat.’