Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 16
Rosie barely had time to notice this before the woman was opening the boot and the two of them, as gently as possible, started to lug out the huge dog.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Rosie.
‘It’s Bran,’ said the woman, her voice choking. ‘Oh Bran, darling.’
Holding open the door with his elbow, his newly sterilised hands in the air, was a tall man trying to wipe a large mass of hair off his forehead with his other elbow. It wasn’t a very elegant manoeuvre.
‘Hurry up,’ he was shouting.
The women followed him in and he let the door clang behind him. ‘If Hywel finds out about this, we’re screwed,’ he said as they followed him down a small passage to a sluice room at the back of the building.
‘Did you stop to pick up a hitchhiker?’ continued the man. He spoke very quickly and helped them lay the dog out on his back.
‘She says she’s a nurse,’ said the woman.
The man looked impatient and unconvinced. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m a nursing auxiliary,’ said Rosie.
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ he said, shortly. Fortunately Rosie had seen this kind of thing before in A&E, many times. It was just a stab wound, she told herself. To a dog.
‘How much do you think he weighs?’ she replied. The doctor was already trying to fill a syringe with anaesthetic.
‘Twenty? Twenty-five?’
They both glanced at the woman, but the sight of Bran stretched out and whining piteously was clearly too much for her, and she dissolved in tears.
‘Let’s say twenty-five,’ said the man. ‘We don’t want him waking up and biting us.’
Rosie went round to the back of the dog’s head and made soothing noises while she held his paws apart. The man looked very tentative indeed as he stood over the animal with his needle. Bran chose this moment to wake up and growl, writhing and howling and twisting his body in agony. As soon as the doctor tried to hold down one paw, another would wriggle free, and the dog wouldn’t stay still long enough for him to get the injection in. The woman had gone to pieces completely.
‘God, Jim really picks his time to go foal a bloody horse in Carningsford,’ he muttered to himself.
Rosie, almost without thinking (although trying her best to avoid the biting end), clambered up on to the table and, as she had been taught to do with violent drunks and drug addicts, held down the dog’s thrashing paws in a wrestler’s hold, which allowed the doctor to practically kneel on the bottom one. The woman let out a howl, but quickly the doctor seized the scruff of the dog’s neck and, smoothly, sent the needle deep into the vein.
After a few seconds, the creature started to relax. Rosie checked his breathing and took a quick glance at his pupils, before nodding at the doctor and releasing his front paws. The woman was still standing there, half in shock, trembling and agape.
‘Hetty, do you want to go wait in the waiting room,’ said the man. It was an instruction, not a question. ‘You,’ he said to Rosie. ‘Get scrubbed in and you’re going to have to hold the area for me.’
Rosie boiled up catgut at the same time, while the doctor selected the right fine instrument and crouched down, starting to carefully coax out the wire. She watched, breathlessly, as he extracted pieces of metal.
‘Stupid old fence,’ said the man. ‘It’s rusted to nearly nothing.’
‘Will you be able to get it all?’
The damage, though painful, didn’t seem to be too deep, as he drew out the last poking piece, spiked with blood. The man shrugged.
‘He can have an X-ray at the veterinary hospital tomorrow. But we need to get this little lot sewn up. An infection in there could be very nasty.’
Once the stomach was stitched up, with a large amount of antibacterial powder, they could both relax a bit, and Rosie stood next to him, passing over the catgut and the scissors as he made a very tidy job of the rest of the dog.
‘You’re good at that,’ she observed at one point. ‘I’ve worked with some right butchers.’
‘I always liked it,’ admitted the doctor. ‘I miss a bit of the wet work in general practice.’
He let a smile cross his face. ‘I’m Moray.’
‘Like the eel?’ Rosie said, then immediately felt like an idiot. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Moray. ‘I use it as a diagnostic tool. If you don’t say “like the eel” then you’re obviously suffering from some form of mental distraction or injury.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosie, feeling herself go pink. She noticed the stitch needed trimming and did it unconsciously.
‘So, what – a veterinary nurse just suddenly appeared at the right moment out of the sky?’ said Moray.
‘Oh, no,’ said Rosie, pleased he thought that. ‘No, no. I’m a real nurse. Well, not really. I’m a nursing auxiliary. Or at least, I was.’
Moray raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, that was lucky,’ he said. ‘It got really hairy there before the anaesthetic. Don’t know what we’d have done without you. Do you have a name, Nursing Auxiliary, or are you just going to vanish on your magical raincloud?’
‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you do this kind of thing a lot?’
‘Almost never,’ said Moray. ‘Actually, never. You?’
Rosie shook her head, and they smiled at each other as, slowly, the dog stirred just a little.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to get all this hair out of here,’ said Moray. ‘It won’t go down well.’
And sure enough, when Dr Hywel Evans, head of practice, rolled up forty minutes later, after a telephone call he had completely failed to understand, he was frankly amazed to find a dog on the sluice-room table, out for the count. (Moray and Rosie had slightly overestimated the anaesthetic, despite the giant weight of the dog.) His most junior partner and a total stranger were putting a large bandage on it while a woman cried tears of relief in his waiting room.
Moray turned around just as he entered.
‘I think we got it all,’ he was calling through to the waiting room. ‘But probably worth an X-ray and a check-up just in case.’
Rosie saw Dr Evans had a face like thunder.
‘Hello?’ she said tentatively.
‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded a corpulent, comfortable-looking man in tweed.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Rosie.
‘It’s Bran,’ said the woman, her voice choking. ‘Oh Bran, darling.’
Holding open the door with his elbow, his newly sterilised hands in the air, was a tall man trying to wipe a large mass of hair off his forehead with his other elbow. It wasn’t a very elegant manoeuvre.
‘Hurry up,’ he was shouting.
The women followed him in and he let the door clang behind him. ‘If Hywel finds out about this, we’re screwed,’ he said as they followed him down a small passage to a sluice room at the back of the building.
‘Did you stop to pick up a hitchhiker?’ continued the man. He spoke very quickly and helped them lay the dog out on his back.
‘She says she’s a nurse,’ said the woman.
The man looked impatient and unconvinced. ‘Are you?’
‘I’m a nursing auxiliary,’ said Rosie.
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ he said, shortly. Fortunately Rosie had seen this kind of thing before in A&E, many times. It was just a stab wound, she told herself. To a dog.
‘How much do you think he weighs?’ she replied. The doctor was already trying to fill a syringe with anaesthetic.
‘Twenty? Twenty-five?’
They both glanced at the woman, but the sight of Bran stretched out and whining piteously was clearly too much for her, and she dissolved in tears.
‘Let’s say twenty-five,’ said the man. ‘We don’t want him waking up and biting us.’
Rosie went round to the back of the dog’s head and made soothing noises while she held his paws apart. The man looked very tentative indeed as he stood over the animal with his needle. Bran chose this moment to wake up and growl, writhing and howling and twisting his body in agony. As soon as the doctor tried to hold down one paw, another would wriggle free, and the dog wouldn’t stay still long enough for him to get the injection in. The woman had gone to pieces completely.
‘God, Jim really picks his time to go foal a bloody horse in Carningsford,’ he muttered to himself.
Rosie, almost without thinking (although trying her best to avoid the biting end), clambered up on to the table and, as she had been taught to do with violent drunks and drug addicts, held down the dog’s thrashing paws in a wrestler’s hold, which allowed the doctor to practically kneel on the bottom one. The woman let out a howl, but quickly the doctor seized the scruff of the dog’s neck and, smoothly, sent the needle deep into the vein.
After a few seconds, the creature started to relax. Rosie checked his breathing and took a quick glance at his pupils, before nodding at the doctor and releasing his front paws. The woman was still standing there, half in shock, trembling and agape.
‘Hetty, do you want to go wait in the waiting room,’ said the man. It was an instruction, not a question. ‘You,’ he said to Rosie. ‘Get scrubbed in and you’re going to have to hold the area for me.’
Rosie boiled up catgut at the same time, while the doctor selected the right fine instrument and crouched down, starting to carefully coax out the wire. She watched, breathlessly, as he extracted pieces of metal.
‘Stupid old fence,’ said the man. ‘It’s rusted to nearly nothing.’
‘Will you be able to get it all?’
The damage, though painful, didn’t seem to be too deep, as he drew out the last poking piece, spiked with blood. The man shrugged.
‘He can have an X-ray at the veterinary hospital tomorrow. But we need to get this little lot sewn up. An infection in there could be very nasty.’
Once the stomach was stitched up, with a large amount of antibacterial powder, they could both relax a bit, and Rosie stood next to him, passing over the catgut and the scissors as he made a very tidy job of the rest of the dog.
‘You’re good at that,’ she observed at one point. ‘I’ve worked with some right butchers.’
‘I always liked it,’ admitted the doctor. ‘I miss a bit of the wet work in general practice.’
He let a smile cross his face. ‘I’m Moray.’
‘Like the eel?’ Rosie said, then immediately felt like an idiot. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Moray. ‘I use it as a diagnostic tool. If you don’t say “like the eel” then you’re obviously suffering from some form of mental distraction or injury.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosie, feeling herself go pink. She noticed the stitch needed trimming and did it unconsciously.
‘So, what – a veterinary nurse just suddenly appeared at the right moment out of the sky?’ said Moray.
‘Oh, no,’ said Rosie, pleased he thought that. ‘No, no. I’m a real nurse. Well, not really. I’m a nursing auxiliary. Or at least, I was.’
Moray raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, that was lucky,’ he said. ‘It got really hairy there before the anaesthetic. Don’t know what we’d have done without you. Do you have a name, Nursing Auxiliary, or are you just going to vanish on your magical raincloud?’
‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you do this kind of thing a lot?’
‘Almost never,’ said Moray. ‘Actually, never. You?’
Rosie shook her head, and they smiled at each other as, slowly, the dog stirred just a little.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to get all this hair out of here,’ said Moray. ‘It won’t go down well.’
And sure enough, when Dr Hywel Evans, head of practice, rolled up forty minutes later, after a telephone call he had completely failed to understand, he was frankly amazed to find a dog on the sluice-room table, out for the count. (Moray and Rosie had slightly overestimated the anaesthetic, despite the giant weight of the dog.) His most junior partner and a total stranger were putting a large bandage on it while a woman cried tears of relief in his waiting room.
Moray turned around just as he entered.
‘I think we got it all,’ he was calling through to the waiting room. ‘But probably worth an X-ray and a check-up just in case.’
Rosie saw Dr Evans had a face like thunder.
‘Hello?’ she said tentatively.
‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded a corpulent, comfortable-looking man in tweed.
