Free Must Be Love by Cathy Woodman Page B

minutes watching her recovery.
    ‘She’ll have to go, you know,’ Izzy says. ‘It has to be said.’
    ‘Yes, but not so loud if you don’t mind.’ The saying ‘Walls have ears’ holds particularly true at Otter House.
    ‘I need someone I can rely on. I can’t be responsible for the patients and Shannon. It’s too much.’
    ‘Izzy, I understand where you’re coming from, but I can’t see we have any choice. We need to have someone here trained up and ready to cover for you when you go away. Haven’t you and Chris booked the honeymoon?’
    At the word ‘honeymoon’, Izzy’s face lights up.
    ‘I’m not supposed to know, but Chris is hopeless at keeping secrets. I found an email confirming the booking on the computer the other day.’
    ‘You don’t have to tell me …’
    ‘I have to tell someone otherwise I shall burst. At first, I thought we were off to Perth in Scotland, but it turns out we’re going to Perth in Australia.’
    ‘Wow, that’s fantastic.’
    ‘We’re going to have two weeks on the beach, then another two with one of Chris’s cousins on his farm in the outback. Chris wants to take a look at some of his rams.’
    ‘Sheep?’ I feel my forehead tighten. ‘What is it, a honeymoon or busman’s holiday?’
    Izzy looks a little hurt.
    ‘I’m sure it’ll be really romantic, swimming and lazing on the beach, hiking through the bush – just you and Chris.’ I refrain from adding, ‘And his cousins and gazillions of sheep.’
    ‘I can’t wait,’ Izzy sighs, ‘and you’re right about Shannon, Maz. I should be more tolerant, I suppose, although I can’t understand why anyone wants to walk around looking as if they’ve walked into a wall.’
    ‘It’s like camouflage,’ I say in Shannon’s defence. ‘Underneath all the black, she’s an ordinary girl, insecure and shy.’ I stick with the illusion, keeping the memory of Shannon dancing on the table up at the Manor to myself.
    ‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba,’ says Izzy. ‘It’s okay, Maz, I’ll give her another chance.’
    I decide, though, to take Shannon under my wing as much as I can, and when Emma’s finished consulting for the afternoon, and I’m in charge of sending the inpatients home, Shannon’s with me in Kennels.
    ‘We’ll have Petra first,’ I say, then as Shannon looks around rather helplessly – for inspiration, or a lead perhaps – I remember in time that Petra is an HWC and fetch her from her kennel myself.
    Shannon brings Petra’s painkillers when we join Clive, Petra’s owner, in the consulting room. He greets Petra, but she isn’t all that pleased to see him. He ruffles her coat as she settles herself on his size-thirteen or -fourteen feet, holding her lead in her mouth, and keeping her eyes on Shannon, who perches on the stool in the corner beside the monitor to keep out of the way.
    ‘Long time no see, Maz.’ Clive speaks with a hint of an East London accent. He’s in his fifties. His scalp is tight and shiny across the top of his skull; his sweater, the colour of best bitter, is taut across his paunch.
    ‘I don’t get out much,’ I say, trying to recall the last time I had a night out at the Talymill Inn, which Clive runs with his wife. ‘How sad is that,’ I add, grinning, at which Shannon rolls her eyes.
    I give Clive a rundown on Petra’s post-op care, then send them on their way, asking Shannon to open the door for them. As Shannon moves towards it, Petra slinks forwards, and without even a warning growl, jumps up and clamps her jaws around Shannon’s wrist. Taken by surprise, Shannon cries out.
    ‘That’s enough,’ Clive says sharply, and Petra lets go, backing down, her hackles raised.
    ‘Shannon, are you all right?’ I say, shocked that Petra should have gone so far. I mean, I half expected a growl or a snap, but not physical contact. ‘Let’s have a look at your arm. Has she hurt you?’
    Shannon examines her wrist, checking her skin, which I can see bears the faint