Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver

thing she’d never see that money-grubbing cheapskate of a farmer again. Although, she admitted, he wasn’t so bad to look at. He was almost attractive. And his little Blackface lamb, Emily, was beyond adorable.

      Too bad he was completely personality-challenged.

      On Wednesday morning, with a full tank of gas and the phone number to Barton Park programmed in her mobile, Marianne headed back to Endwhistle and drove to the veterinary clinic.

      “Hello, Miss Holland,” Lynn greeted her as she made her way across the crowded waiting room. If she noticed that Marianne wore the same outfit she’d worn the day before – freshly laundered, of course – or that her shoes still bore traces of mud, she made no comment. “Dr Brandon’s with Poppy – a border collie with an eye infection – but I’ll let him know you’re here. Please have a seat.”

      With a nod of thanks, Marianne sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs. She hadn’t waited above fifteen minutes when the receptionist announced the vet was free for a few minutes between appointments and could see her.

      She stood and made her way through the door the girl directed her through. “SURGERY”, it stated. “NO ADMITTANCE”.

      With another breath for courage, she pushed it open and went inside the clinic proper. She saw more tiled flooring, and a surgery equipped with several treatment tables, x-ray machines, and a lot of other intimidating-looking equipment she didn’t recognise.

      “Back here,” a gruff male voice called out from somewhere behind her.

      She turned to see an office at the far end of the surgery, with a brass nameplate on the door – Dr M Brandon, RCVS. On unsteady legs, she made her way across the floor and came to a stop just inside the door.

      When she saw him, sitting behind a desk heaped with folders and papers and forms, Marianne froze.

      “Oh, no,” she said, and blinked. “It can’t be.”

      “What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

      She took some small satisfaction in the fact that his shock was as great as her own. Farmer Brown, for once, was at a loss for words.

      “I’m here to interview for the job.”

      He stared at her. “What job?”

      “The veterinary assistant position,” she said. Was he thick as well as rude? “I sent my résumé in last month.”

      He frowned and reached behind him, searched a table under the window, unearthed a folder, and riffled through it. He leaned back in his chair and scanned it. “Ah, here we are. No. The only interview letter we sent out went to an applicant named Mark Holland in Devonshire.”

      “But I have a letter.” Marianne reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter she’d received and held it out. “Asking me to come in and interview for the job.”

      He took it and glanced down. “Marianne Holland, of South Devon. Ah. There’s obviously been a mistake.”

      “What mistake?”

      “You weren’t meant to get this offer. Mark Holland was.” He handed the letter back. “The files for Mark and Marianne must’ve got mixed up.”

      “Did they, really? Or is the fact that I’m a female the issue?” she challenged him. “Did you offer Mr Holland an interview because he’s a man? Are you one of those sexist gits?”

      His eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not ‘one of those sexist gits’, I offered Mr Holland an interview because he had excellent qualifications. But looking at this –” he picked up her résumé and scanned it. “Your qualifications are nonexistent. You’re not remotely suited for the job.”

      “Why?” she bristled. “Because I’m a woman?”

      “No.” He eyed her kitten heels, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse and leaned forward. “Because I suspect the only animal you’ve ever dealt with is one of those faffy little dogs you carry round in your purse like a furry accessory.”

      She bristled at the astonishing injustice – not to mention sexism – of his assumption. “It’s not a purse,” she snapped, “it’s a handbag.”

      And before she could form a further, more suitably scathing reply, he tossed her résumé aside.

      “Have you ever worked in a professional capacity with animals before, Miss Holland?”

      “Not…not as such, no.”

      “Have you calved a cow, or foaled a mare?”

      “No.”

      “What do you know of animal husbandry?”

      She blinked. She suspected he wasn’t referring to female chickens looking for rooster husbands. “A little,” she hedged.

      “Good God,” he muttered, and ploughed a hand through his hair. “Do you know what colostrum is? Do things like the sight of blood or open wounds or placenta make you queasy?”

      She blanched. “It all sounds a bit horrid, to be honest.”

      “Then how do you expect me to hire you on to help me in the surgery?” he demanded. “You haven’t any qualifications at all, have you?”

      Marianne bit her lip. “I got a bit of work experience at the local veterinary clinic in Litchfield last summer,” she admitted. “And I’m a hard worker,” she added, and tilted her chin back, “and a quick learner. And –” she hesitated. “And I really need this job.”

      “How long did you work in the clinic?”

      “Two and a half months.”

      “And what, exactly,” he inquired, his eyes like flint, “did you do there?”

      She thought of lying, or fudging the truth; but she’d already told him she had no real experience. “I kept Dr Edmund’s diary,” she confessed, “and answered the phone and dealt with customers, and I filed insurance forms.”

      “You worked the reception desk.” It was a statement of fact.

      “Yes.” She drew herself up. “It’s true I haven’t much experience tending to animals. But I can learn. I’ll do whatever needs doing. And I promise, I won’t complain.”

      Scepticism showed plainly on his face. “I’m sorry, Miss Holland, but I need someone who knows his – or her – way around a surgery. I need someone who can stitch up a wound, or help birth a lamb that’s misdirected. I need someone who can comfort the owner when their dog, or horse, or cat has to be put down. I need someone with commitment and stamina and empathy, someone who cares about animals and doesn’t mind the long hours or the middle of the night calls to deliver a breech calf or put a suffering animal out of pain. And that’s obviously not you.”

      “I may not have done any of those things,” Marianne said evenly as she plonked her handbag down on the desk, “but I do love animals. I’ve had rabbits and cats and dogs all of my life, and I took care of them all. I fed and cleaned and exercised them, and I made sure they had their shots. My sister Elinor had a horse until recently, when we couldn’t afford to keep him any longer; I’ve mucked out his stall and groomed him dozens of times. But if you won’t hire me, or give me a proper chance –” she turned away, unwilling to let him see how much – how very much – she suddenly wanted this job “then I won’t waste any more of your time.”

      She turned to go, wondering as she did what she’d do now. Without this job, she’d never get the work experience she needed to get into a veterinary course. Worse still, she wouldn’t be able to do her part and help her mother with the household expenses.

      “Miss Holland,” Dr Brandon called out after her. “Wait.”

      Marianne turned back, her heart quickening. Hope flooded through her. Had he changed his mind? Was he so