Katie Oliver - Who Needs Mr Willoughby?

“Right. I’ll give her a call now. Thanks.” He thrust the messages in the breast pocket of his white lab coat and made his way to the kitchenette. “Anyone else for a coffee before I disappear into the surgery?”

Marianne lifted her cup. “Thanks, but I’ve already got my swill.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He gave her a half smile then turned and strode, whistling, towards the kitchen.

“He seems nice,” Marianne said in a low, surprised voice. “Not grumpy or rude at all.”

“Oh, believe me, he has his moments,” Lynn said, and smiled. “But he’s a good man for all that. He has a real way with the animals…and the locals all love him.” Her smile faded. “He was engaged not so long ago, but it didn’t work out.”

Marianne filed that fact away to take out and ponder later. “What happened?”

“Well, I don’t know, precisely; but I suspect it had to do with the fact that he has little time for a fiancée. Between the clinic and Greensprings he’s got his hands full.”

“Greensprings?”

“His farm. I’m sure you’ve seen it; it’s the stone farmhouse just across the way from the clinic.”

“Oh. I didn’t know the farm belonged to him.”

“Yes, he inherited it from his grandmother. He raises chickens and sheep – for the fleece, not the meat – and sells the eggs at the farmers’ market on Sundays… if he’s not out on an emergency call, that is.”

“Goodness. He is busy,” Marianne said.

Lynn handed her a pad and paper. “He is indeed.” She lowered her voice. “He’ll inherit Delaford too, when his father passes away.”

Marianne’s eyes widened. “Delaford? But – isn’t that the big place on the hill, near Barton Park?”

She’d glimpsed the great stone mansion from her bedroom window at Lady Violet’s and often wondered who lived there.

Lynn nodded. “Matthew wants no part of it,” she confided.

“Why ever not?”

“He and his father don’t see eye to eye, you might say – on a lot of things. Right,” she added briskly, “that’s enough of my gossip. Now I want you to write down what I’m about to tell you and commit it to memory. Don’t ever put Mr Jenkins through to Dr Brandon; he calls at least once a day and he talks nonstop.”

“Why does he do that?”

Lynn shrugged. “He’s lonely, I expect. His wife died last year and he’s all alone out on the farm. I think the sound of Dr Brandon’s voice reassures him, somehow.”

“Oh.”

“And never, ever schedule Fifi the poodle and Billy the cocker spaniel to come in at the same time. They despise each other and they very nearly tore the waiting room up on their last visit…”

***

The morning passed quickly. The clinic was busy, just as Lynn had warned her, with a steady stream of ailing birds, rabbits, dogs, and guinea pigs coming through the door, some scheduled and some not. There were phones to answer and the occasional puddle of dog wee to mop up; appointments to make; and owners to chat with about everything from the fine weather to the state of their pet’s bowel movements.

Before Marianne knew it, four o’clock arrived, and it was time to get her handbag and go home. Every bone in her body ached and her ears still rang with the sound of the door’s bell jangling and the shrilling of the phone lines as she got ready to leave.

Dr Brandon pushed through the surgery door, his lab coat rumpled and a stethoscope hung around his neck. He looked tired. “Are you off home now, Miss Holland?”

“Yes. And please…call me Marianne.”

“What did you think of your first day, Marianne?” he asked as he peeled off one of his surgical gloves. “Will you run screaming off to Barton Park never to return, or will you be back again tomorrow?”

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