Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [26]
The wife? I thought momentarily. No, of course, silly, the horse.
‘Has she started foaling down yet?’ I asked.
‘No. But we think she’s about to start any minute now. That’s why we’ve called you out. You don’t think we’d waste your time otherwise, do you?’ George gave another shoulder twitch and shot me and then Lucy a querulous look, his winged eyebrows waving, as he paused, hand on the bolt that secured the lower half of the stable door. The loose-box itself was ablaze with light. He leaned over the door and shouted, ‘Hilary … Dr Sharpe’s stand-in is here.’
I peered in. A middle-aged woman with a face, moist and white like the underside of a fillet of haddock, was pulling on a head collar, determinedly marching round a bay brown mare who was reluctantly shuffling through the paper bedding, a ball of it wrapped round each fetlock.
‘There, there,’ she crooned, stopping to whisper in the horse’s ear. ‘The vet’s here to make you better.’
‘I jolly well hope so,’ said her husband, slamming the bolt back and ushering me in. ‘Even if it’s not Dr Sharpe.’
‘I’ll wait outside until you need me,’ whispered Lucy.
Hilary’s free hand shot out and clutched my arm in a vice-like grip. ‘What is it? You look so worried. What’s wrong with Clementine?’
I made a mental note to practise a reassuring smile in the mirror until I had it down pat. It seemed the Richardsons were in need of great dollops of reassurance. I had to exude confidence, and show my ability to deal with any problem foaling as if it was second nature to me, as if I’d dealt with hundreds of such cases even though this was my first.
‘Nothing’s wrong, Mrs Richardson. Clementine looks fine.’ I smiled in what I hoped was a more confident manner.
‘How can you tell?’ said George gruffly. ‘You haven’t examined her yet.’
‘He’s just saying that to reassure us,’ said his wife, letting go of me to reach across and claw her husband’s arm.
I felt my smile falter. Oh dear. Seems I was overdoing the reassurance bit. But I meant what I’d said; Clementine did look fine. Despite my lack of experience, it was easy to see that the horse was in no sort of distress. There was no fidgeting, no tail swishing or stamping of feet. She looked completely relaxed. Which was more than could be said of the Richardsons – their twitchy movements, sweaty faces and wild eyes made them look as if they were the ones about to foal down at any minute.
Hilary turned to the mare and stroked her muzzle. ‘She’s got a pained look in her eyes. I can tell, you know. Look. Can’t you see?’ She yanked the horse’s head round to me. Startled, the mare rolled her eyes, showing the whites, and then gave a loud snort and pulled away.
George stepped forward and ran a hand down Clementine’s flank. ‘Thought so. She feels warm. Shouldn’t be surprised if she’s running a temperature.’
‘It’s more likely to be the heat,’ I murmured. It was the middle of the summer, a warm, balmy night and there were two electric fires strapped to the rafters, three bars glowing in each. ‘It’s really too hot in here. You should turn those off.’ I pointed up at the fires.
‘Are you quite sure?’ said Hilary, her white face cut sharply by the questioning line of her bright-red lips. ‘It’s just that we didn’t want the foal catching cold.’
‘He won’t, I assure you.’
‘But …’
‘If you’re quite sure,’ intervened George.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I guess you should know what you’re talking about.’ George rubbed his bony hands together in time to his seesawing shoulders. ‘No doubt you’ve attended plenty of foalings like this, eh?’
I forced my reassuring smile and uttered ‘Of course’ just at the moment Clementine turned, looked at me and gave a loud snort. They say horses have finely tuned senses. Thank goodness they can’t talk. ‘Now I’m sure Clementine would like us to leave her in peace for a while. Allow her to get on with things quietly.’
There was a joint intake of breath and simultaneous explosive gasps from both of the Richardsons. ‘What, leave her without help?’ queried George,