The Vet from Snowy River by Stella Quinn

CHAPTER

6

‘The complaint says what?’ Josh looked into the cup of coffee he’d made for himself and wondered what was off: the milk, or his culinary skills. He’d worked ten-hour days for a week straight and been called out during the night a half-dozen times. His pantry was so bare, soon he’d be eating microwaved rice for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.

‘Some by-law about farming chickens in urban areas within five metres of another dwelling.’

‘Farming chickens? Here at the vet clinic? Is this some sort of joke?’

The receptionist, Sandy, poked her head through the door of the back office, where he and Hannah had been holed up since what felt like dawn having a read-the-mail-and-make-decisions meeting. ‘Hannah? Your seven o’clock is here.’

‘Thanks, Sandy, I’ll be right there.’

His sister shoved the letter into his hand then plucked a stethoscope from the shelf and hung it around her neck. ‘Here, you read it. It’s from the local council, official letterhead and everything. I don’t know what they’re on about. The only chicken we’ve had here in months has come in a takeaway box from House of Fu, wrapped in a blanket of hoi sin sauce and nestled in a bed of steamed pak choi.’

‘Maybe it’s a mistake.’

‘Can you contact council? I’ve got a full surgical list from now until the funeral.’

He frowned. ‘What funeral?’

His sister made a snort-like noise that sounded remarkably like a pug sneezing. ‘Josh! It’s on the calendar. Today, ten-thirty, Mrs Juggins. You better be free.’

He raised his hands. ‘I’m free.’ He’d been hoping to catch up on some much needed sleep, or at least get a head start on the drafting plans for the building renovation, but Hannah was giving him the look that suggested he better be free or else.

He followed her into the main treatment room. ‘This complaint, is it a one-off? Any other trouble with council I need to know about?’

‘No. We’re model citizens … although, better check the date on our business licence, Josh, before you call. It’s in a frame behind Sandy’s desk. I think it’s current, but we don’t want to send you in to council to shoot the lights out only to end up with egg on your face.’

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s about five clichés in one sentence, Han.’

She chuckled. ‘That’s why I studied science at uni, big brother. Words are so not my thing.’

‘I’ll go see them. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.’

‘I knew I hired a junior partner for a reason.’

He pulled her ponytail and left her to it. Visit to the council office, power nap, funeral. Looked like his day off was filling up.

Vera twisted the posy of daisies so their yellow heads nodded towards the sun streaming in through the window, then looked up as the bell on the door jangled.

Ah. Marigold. The whirlwind herself.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘We don’t usually see you this early.’

‘Rushed through my yoga class, my love,’ said Marigold. ‘Busy day, lots to do; thought I’d pop in and check all was in order for our little function later.’

Jeepers. Marigold looked like she was about to whip out a clipboard and start doing a food and safety inspection. She’d triple-checked everything, hadn’t she? Food handling certificate on display, bathrooms pristine and ventilated, premises thoroughly clean. Sure there was a cat who occasionally rested his paws on the step to the back alley, but she’d never let it in the kitchen.

She couldn’t afford a fine. Or notoriety. Or another brush with the law. She felt her heart rate skip into overdrive. ‘I’m pretty sure we have everything ready. Come through to the back room, Marigold. We’re just about set up and we have all the appropriate licences, I assure you. There’s wheelchair access on the—’

‘In a minute, my love.’ Marigold was hovering over the display cabinet. ‘First, tell me about these delicious-looking bundles of goodness.’

Oh! Heavens … Vera forced herself to relax. Marigold wasn’t here to judge her. ‘Er, sure,’ she said. Talking about her baking was something she could totally do. ‘Up top we keep the staples the tourists gravitate to, the old-fashioned favourites: chocolate caramel slice, vanilla slice, ginger slice. The shelf below is where we get a bit adventurous. There’s a paleo slice with carob and nuts, a baked plum and crème anglaise tart, Portuguese custard tarts. Savoury items are at this end: pork pies, zucchini and feta muffins, tomato galettes. Which takes your fancy?’

Marigold fussed about in her pockets and brought out a handful of gold coins. ‘I stopped listening when I heard the word ginger, so it had better be that one.’

‘I’ll plate it up. Do you want to take it through to the back room so you can see the preparations we’ve made for the wake?’

Marigold waved a hand. ‘My love, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need a hand. If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll just perch here at the counter, that way I can eat and talk.’

Vera was pretty sure Marigold could eat and talk no matter where she was sitting, but she slid a piece of ginger slice onto one of the vintage plates she’d bought at the local op shop and set it down in front of the woman. ‘Cup of tea, too?’

‘Better not. The funeral service is at ten-thirty, and the old bladder isn’t what it was. The bereaved get a bit testy when the celebrant ducks off to spend a penny halfway through the ceremony.’

Wait … what? ‘You’re doing the ceremony, too? I thought you were just organising the wake.’

Marigold’s bangles jangled on her arm as she lifted a forkful of ginger slice. ‘I’m a celebrant, Vera. I’m performing the ceremony.’

‘Oh! For some reason … gosh, this is awkward, I thought—’

‘You thought I was retired? An elderly lady of leisure, just puddling about in Hanrahan putting my nose into everyone’s business because I’d run out of socks to darn?’

The wink Marigold dropped in her direction took the sting from her words, but Vera reached down into the cabinet and pulled out a slice of tart for herself. She needed a calorie fix.

‘I suppose I did,’ she said. ‘Pretty ageist of me, wasn’t it?’

Marigold chuckled. ‘I think you need to pop on down and join my yoga class, Vera. Every morning at dawn, spring through autumn, on sunrise. Keeps me young at heart. But, you aren’t totally wrong. I did retire. I had a florist shop in Cooma back in the day, which is how I became an expert on weddings. And funerals, now I think about it.’

Something was tugging at Vera’s memory. ‘Graeme told me he knew a florist; he must have meant you. Do we have you to thank for the fresh flower delivery he organised?’

‘That boy is almost as cunning an operator as I am. I put him in touch with the couple who bought my business. Mates rates,’ she said. ‘I send bridal business their way, so they like to keep me sweet.’

Vera smiled. ‘I’m very grateful. The tables are so pretty with the touch of pink and yellow. Do you do much, er, bridal business?’

Marigold scraped her fork over her plate to gather up the last crumbs. ‘One a month, I suppose. Funerals the same. The weddings tend to be out-of-towners who fancy a wedding in the alps. The funerals are locals. Usually people Kev and I have known for donkeys.’

‘That explains …’ Vera paused.

‘What, honey?’

‘Oh, it’s just, when we first met, you mentioned you and Kev visit Connolly House a bit. Where my aunt is.’

Marigold rested a ring-heavy hand on hers. ‘I do funeral services there, yes. There’s a chapel for those that like a reverend to see them off, and celebrants are welcome to use it. I potter about with the relatives of the deceased, and Kev takes roses from his bushes at the hall and does a bit of flower arranging with the residents who enjoy that sort of thing. Is this going to be difficult for you today, Vera? Having a funeral wake here? Is it too close to home?’

‘No. It’s fine, really.’

‘Because we can farewell Joyce in the park; you just say the word.’

Vera blinked away the sting in her eyes. ‘You’re very kind, Marigold.’

Marigold gave her hand a squeeze. ‘You just remember that later when I’m bossing you around.’