Page 47 of A Face in the Crowd
I grab the envelope from the drawer, stuff it into my bag and then go to knock on Karen’s door. Her hair is half tied back and she’s busy pinning a row of clips.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘Do you still have that child’s buggy?’
She tilts her head, asking without words if I’ve gone mad.
‘Billy’s not well,’ I say. ‘I need to get him to the vet but he can’t walk.’
At this, Karen springs into action. She hurries inside and returns a moment later with a pushchair that she folds out. ‘I’d help but I have to get to work,’ she says. ‘Will he fit in there?’
‘He’ll have to.’
I take the buggy back to the flat and it takes all my strength to lift Billy into it. He opens his eyes a fraction but otherwise doesn’t fight. I have to fix him into a semi-sitting position and then fasten the straps across his front. His head lolls to the side, his eyes still closed.
I’ve done all that without figuring out how I’m going to get him down the stairs. Karen chooses that moment to emerge from her flat. She heads towards me, initially muttering that she’s late, and then going quiet when she sees Billy.
‘The poor thing,’ she coos as she takes the back and I take the front of the pushchair.
Between us, Karen and I get him to the bottom of the stairs – and then we head off in opposite directions to catch different buses. Through all of this, Billy barely moves. His head flops from side to side and he can hardly open his eyes.
I crouch at the side of the buggy and stroke his soft fur. I gently squeeze his paw to see if he might have some reaction, but he does nothing other than open his eyes a fraction.
‘Oh, Bill…’
The bus seems to be taking an age to arrive. People pass and glance sideways, expecting to see a child in the buggy. Each time they let off a little ‘ooh’ when they see a sleeping Staffie strapped into the chair. Nobody actually says anything.
It’s a similar reaction when the bus finally does pull in. I get on and show my pass. The driver says ‘It’s a pound for the little ’un’ – but, when I step to the side to show off Billy in the pushchair, the driver makes the same ‘ooh’ sound.
I wheel him into the pram spaces at the front and sit next to him, gently rubbing his ears. It’s hard to ignore the sideways glances from everyone either already on the bus or the people who get on. Everyone does a double take and there are at least five people who take photographs on their phones when they think I don’t realise.
If circumstances were different, I suppose it would be funny, but it’s like his sickness has spread to me. My throat is dry, my gaze unfocused. It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the softness of his fur. The desperation and desolation is overwhelming. I’d take every note in the envelope and dump it on the vet’s counter if it meant them being able to make Billy right again.
The height of the step makes it an effort to get Billy back off the bus – but a man who’s getting on helps after giving the obligatory ‘ooh’. I’m in such a muddled panic that I start wheeling Billy the wrong way, as if I’m heading to work, before remembering where I am.
By the time I reach the vet’s itself, I am a frazzled mess. I can barely get the words out to explain what’s going on – but the woman behind the counter understands anyway. She quickly comes around to help Billy out of the pushchair, though all he wants to do is sleep on the floor.
She takes a few details and tells me a general appointment will be £40 – though there might be additional costs. I tell her to ‘do whatever’.
After that, Billy is helped into the waiting area… where we do precisely that.
The receptionist is apologetic, saying that someone is already in with the vet, but that she’ll try to rush me in next. I understand – but it’s little comfort when it feels as if Billy is slipping away at my feet. I sit with him on the floor, running my hand against the length of his back, desperately wanting him to open his eyes. All he does is breathe and, at times, it barely feels as if he’s doing that.
Time passes. I’m not sure how long. It’s probably minutes, but it feels like an age. A couple come out of the main vet room holding one another and there’s no sign of a pet. It’s hard not to think the worst as they stand solemnly at the counter, signing various bits of paperwork before disappearing out of the door. They didn’t stop holding each other for reassurance the entire time.
Another minute passes, perhaps two, and then the receptionist comes across with a fixed, flat expression, saying I can take Billy in to see the vet.
It’s some solace that he walks himself, although it’s as if it’s in slow motion. His feet don’t seem to leave the ground as he shuffles into the office.
The veterinarian is a young man, but I hardly notice him as my eyes stay on Billy. He asks questions about symptoms, usual behaviour, current behaviour, what Billy eats and more. I tell him about the doggy cake – but say it was from the pet store. He is concerned enough to phone them and ask for the ingredients, which they presumably give him, because he says it’s fine.
That done, the vet looks Billy over and then shaves a small patch of his fur away, before syringing out a blood sample. The worst moment is when the needle goes in and Billy doesn’t react. The vet must notice the horror on my face because he assures me there’s nothing unusual for now, although I’m pretty sure not reacting to having a needle jabbed into flesh is – by definition – unusual.
It’s time to wait some more. I’m ushered into a second, smaller area while the vet sees another pet. There is nobody else in the room, only a pair of chairs and walls full of posters about pet health. Billy lies on the floor at my feet and I have no idea what to do. There is only emptiness. Everything else that has happened in the past few days suddenly feels irrelevant.
By the time the knock comes on the door, I can barely say ‘come in’ fast enough.
The vet comes and sits on the seat next to me and reaches to gently stroke Billy’s back. The silence is excruciating.
