Free The Village Vet by Cathy Woodman

Frank Maddocks, his girlfriend and his son live in a mobile home on a couple of acres of land behind Overdown Farmers, the wholesalers on Talyton St George’s modest industrial estate. He’s a wheeler-dealer, poacher and smallholder, and I wouldn’t like to meet him alone on a dark night.
    ‘Leave my property alone!’ Mr Maddocks shouts. He’s about forty years old, dark-haired and at least six foot three. He stops right in front of me so I can see the pockmarks in his unshaven cheeks, and pounds the earth with his stick. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ His belly trembles beneath his check shirt and his jeans hang halfway down his thighs, the fabric ruckled over the tops of his brown work-boots. ‘Too close and she’ll give you both barrels up the arse.’
    ‘We were just passing by, weren’t we?’ Katie tugs at my sleeve. ‘Come on, Tessa.’
    I stand my ground. ‘She has no water,’ I point out. ‘How would you feel if you had nothing to drink?’
    ‘She had a bucket last night. Some little toerag must have nicked it.’ As Mr Maddocks approaches the pony, she puts her ears back and reverses until there’s no slack left in the tether.
    ‘She’s in pretty poor condition too,’ I persist, even though Katie has transferred her grip to my arm and is trying to drag me away. ‘You can see her bones.’
    ‘That’s because you’re used to seeing fat ponies. This’ – he raises his stick and the mare flinches – ‘is a working pony, not a field ornament, and don’t tell me she has nothing to eat. There’s grass everywhere.’ He laughs, mocking me.
    ‘She can’t reach it,’ I say, shaking Katie off.
    ‘That’s because of the tether,’ he says sarcastically.
    I’m just about at the end of my tether with him, I think, trying to work out how to deal with him.
    ‘And I’m here now to move her along to a fresh piece,’ he goes on.
    ‘What about her legs?’
    ‘That’s a touch of mud fever, and she’s under treatment for it – I use my own mixture, castor oil and zinc quite regular.’ Mr Maddocks stares at me through narrow, deep-set eyes that remind me of a Dobermann and my heart thuds faster. I don’t like him. He’s a bully.
    ‘I can report you, you know,’ I say, aware that Katie is casting me warning glances as if to say, Shut up for goodness’ sake.
    ‘But you won’t, will you’ – he moves so close I can feel his spit on my face – ‘because for a start you know you haven’t a leg to stand on, and secondly’ – he lowers his voice to a whisper – ‘I know where you live, my darlin’. Your father’s that poncey bloke, the weird one who makes a living dressing up as a woman.’ He chuckles, revealing his stained and broken teeth. ‘Hardly mutton dressed as lamb, is he? Ram dressed as mutton, more like. Anyway, you mind yourself.’
    ‘Katie, did you hear that?’ I look around wildly to find Katie backing away along the footpath. ‘He’s threatening me.’
    ‘I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m a peaceful man, a gentle giant.’ Mr Maddocks gives his son a nudge with the end of his stick. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s right, isn’t it, Lewis?’
    ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ the boy mumbles, keeping his hands in the pockets of his shorts and his eyes averted.
    ‘Please, Tessa,’ Katie begs. ‘Let’s just go.’ As we walk away, she says, ‘You aren’t going to call animal welfare now – if you do, he’ll know exactly who dobbed him in.’
    ‘I can’t just leave it. What if the pony died because we turned a blind eye? I could never forgive myself.’
    ‘Well, at least wait until we’re at the pub. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’
    At the pub, Katie heads for the bar to buy two white wines while I sit outside in the beer garden at one of the picnic tables and make the call to the local animal welfare officer. There’s an emergency number because it’s after midday on a Saturday, and as I start to