Page 2 of A Cosy Christmas with the Village Vet

Looking back, she was pretty much certainthatwas when she’d become so down on herself. Her self-confidence had taken a thorough kicking, plummeting to an all-time low, one she’d thought she’d never be able to pick herself up from. It had been the reason she’d quit her job as a vet nurse and sought refuge at her grandparents’ smallholding on the moors near Lytell Stangdale, where she could tuck herself away and lick her wounds in private.

Stan and Elsie had been wonderful, their love and care a soothing balm to her damaged heart. If it hadn’t been for them, she wouldn’t have managed to pick herself up. Of that she was certain. They’d been delighted when Brogan had accepted their offer to stay with them, having told her, since they were getting on, they could do with some help around the place. ‘You’d be doing us a favour, lovey. Wouldn’t she, Stan? Here’s your grandad; he can tell you himself,’ Grandma Elsie had said. She’d called her granddaughter, concerned that her low spirits were lasting so long. After a series of muffled sounds, and her grandma using a loud stage whisper, instructing her grandad what to say, his reassuring voice came down the phone.

‘Aye, your grandma’s right, flower, it’d be good to have a young ’un around the place. Truth be told, I reckon we need you just as much as you need us. We’ve actually been talking about having to sell up. We’re not getting any younger; I’m not sure how much longer we can manage this place on our own.’

The thought of her grandparents struggling and having to sell their beloved home was all the encouragement Brogan needed. Two days later, her little four-wheel drive, jam-packed with all her worldly goods, had nosed its way into the yard of Pond Farm, her grandmother rushing out to meet her, a wide smile on her ruddy face.

There hadn’t been a lot to do livestock-wise at the smallholding since most of the animals had been sold off. There’d just been a spot of fixing here and there, along with getting the house tidy – which, to neat-freak Brogan, had been something she’d been itching to do for years. Her grandparents hadn’t been exactly what you’d call house-proud, with piles of old newspapers perched precipitously on a corner of the old pine dining table, carrier bags full of who-knew-what dotted about the place, things cluttering the kitchen worktops. The pair were hoarders, unable to bear the thought of throwing anything away. And she didn’t know the last time a duster had been flicked around the place. This wasn’t something recent, brought about by ill health or old age; they’d always been that way, not that Brogan judged them. But she’d relished getting stuck in and tackling the mess –subtly, of course, telling her grandparents cleaning kept her mind off “things”; there was no way she’d hurt their feelings. In turn, her grandma had taught her how to make her infamous rhubarb crumble and killer chicken stew using the secret mix of herbs and the recipes that had been passed down through generations.

Brogan had flourished in their kindness, her heartache easing far more quickly than she’d anticipated. It was fair to say, Pond Farm had proved to be the perfect sanctuary, and Brogan hadn’t regretted her decision to give up her job and say goodbye to her old life in Skeltwick one iota. In fact, she hadn’t been there long when she’d decided she never wanted to leave.

Her grandparents had gone a step further in boosting her happiness. Brogan had returned from a head-clearing walk on the moors to find a surprise waiting for her. After heeling her wellies off in the porch, she’d walked into the kitchen to see her grandma wearing an extra wide smile.

‘Hi, Grandma. Everything all right?’ she’d said, a quizzical tone in her voice. In the next moment, a chunky Labrador puppy had gambolled across the quarry tiles and started tugging at her socks, his tail wagging ten-to-the-dozen. Brogan had laughed, scooping him up and holding him out in front of her, gazing at the most adorable face. Her heart had melted in an instant. ‘Hello there, little fella. Aren’t you just gorgeous, eh?’ The puppy had wriggled and she’d snuggled him close, breathing in his delicious puppy smell. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Well, lovey, what you call him is entirely up to you.’

‘Up to me?’

‘Aye, flower. Your grandad and me took one look at him and thought he was a grand little lad, and that he’d be just what you needed. We remembered how you used to love all our Labradors when you were a little lass.’

‘You mean he’s mine?’ Brogan’s heart had raced with happiness. She’d snuggled the puppy into her neck, smoothing her hand down his warm, silky back. She could still remember how that first cuddle had felt to this day.

‘Aye, he’s all yours; he’s eight weeks old. Got him from the same breeder we’ve always used, so he’s from good stock. All the little lad needs is a name.’

Brogan looked down at the mischievous, wriggling bundle, a huge smile spreading across her face. ‘Hello, little Wilf. Welcome to the family.’ She’d headed over to her grandmother and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Grandma, he’s perfect.’

‘Aye, we thought you’d be chuffed with him.’

Brogan had been more than chuffed with Wilf; they’d been inseparable ever since, bonding over long walks and lots of cuddles.

Despite her responsibilities with Wilf and helping out her grandparents, Brogan still found she had an unhealthy amount time on her hands, which had led to her mind wandering back to Skeltwick, and Archie. Which was why, when her grandmother had mentioned old Tommy Hind was under-the-weather and unable to take his sheepdog, Bess, for a walk, Brogan had offered to do it for him. It hadn’t taken long for an idea to start germinating in her mind.

With a little bit of research, she’d been thrilled to discover a hole in the local business market: dog walking. It was perfect! There were plenty of folk who lived in the surrounding villages and commuted to work, feeling guilty about being unable to walk their canine companions. So she’d placed posters advertising Pond Farm Pooches dog walking services on the village noticeboards and in the windows of local businesses and, before she knew it, her new venture had mushroomed. She’d initially offered a limited doggy-day care service if an owner was going to be out for the full day, but more recently, she’d focused on the dog walking aspect of her business.

As well as being a way of earning some much-needed extra cash, it had also helped her get better acquainted with local people – particularly Anoushka and Kristy, with whom she’d become close and now called her best friends – which in turn, had led to her being offered a part-time job at the local pub, The Sunne Inne, where she worked behind the bar a couple of nights a week.

Before she knew it, she’d quickly settled into the rhythm of village life and her happiness had returned.

That had been just over three years ago, and though Brogan was pleased to say she was a very different person now, she hadn’t been surprised to find that some dregs of her self-doubt still remained.

The only thing that had tainted her time there was the loss of her beloved grandparents. Even though it had been a year since – just a month apart – the pain sat as heavy as a lead weight in her heart and was still too raw for her to dwell on. Brogan had been stunned to find they’d bequeathed the smallholding to her, knowing how much she loved living there, unlike her mum, Cathy. Instead, they’d left their daughter the surprisingly large sum of savings they’d had in the building society. Brogan had been relieved at how her mum had taken the news that Pond Farm hadn’t been willed to her. ‘Oh, thank heavens I won’t have the hassle of it. And it’s only right it went to you, lovey,’ Cathy had said. ‘It’s your home and we all know how settled you feel there. And who knew how much they’d been squirrelling away all these years? With the sum they’ve left me, I’ll be able to pay my mortgage off.’

But Brogan couldn’t blame losing them for her current feeling of disillusionment with her dog walking business; that had crept up on her afterwards. It had made itself particularly noticeable when she’d been traipsing over the moors in torrential rain, a gaggle of dogs in tow. The cold she’d had at the time had developed into a nasty bout of bronchitis, knocking her off her feet for a couple of weeks. The accompanying cough had taken a while to shake off, compounding her desire for a change of career.

Which was why her interest had been piqued when she’d been told of the vacancy at the new veterinary surgery over in Danskelfe.

* * *

Brogan shook her head.Today was about looking forward and moving on with the next phase of her life, she told herself. The recent conversation she’d had with Anoushka and Kristy made a timely appearance in her mind. ‘You’re perfect for the job, Broge; you’ve got loads of experience; it’ll all come flooding back,’ Anoushka had said, beaming at her.

‘You’ll be brilliant, chick, that’s why they offered you the role. And your love for animals just shines through,’ Kristy had said, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. Their kind words had gone some way to easing Brogan’s doubts. Until this morning, when they’d come rushing back at her.

She sighed. ‘Ughh! Let’s hope you two are right,’ she said to herself as she watched Wilf, still busy on his yard-sniffing quest.

It still didn’t stop her feeling a twinge of guilt at telling her clients they’d have to find someone new to walk their dogs. Poor old Bert Hoggarth at Broad View Cottage – which was Pond Farm’s nearest neighbour – had been devastated. A good friend of her grandparents, he wasn’t very mobile on account of being desperately in need of a hip replacement and had been struggling to walk his fox red Labrador, Nell, for some time. Feeling concerned for his predicament, Brogan had arranged for her friend Ella Welford who ran the boarding kennels at Camplin Hall Farm to take over the exercising of Nell, which had pleased Bert and gone some way to assuaging Brogan’s guilt.

Wilf trotted over, interrupting her thoughts, looking up at her expectantly, his tail wagging. She couldn’t help but smile at him; his upbeat nature always elicited a feeling of happiness. ‘Not just yet, lad; I’ll take you for a walk when I’ve got dressed.’ Though his ears had pricked at hearing the “w” word, her tone seemed to appease him and he wandered back into the oak-beamed kitchen. Brogan followed, watching him give a harumph as he flumped down onto the clippy mat in front of the old cream Aga. Thanks to the stove, the kitchen was toasty warm, unlike the rest of the cottage with its draughty, rattly windows, threadbare carpets and radiators that had just about given up the ghost.

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