The Dales Practice
A world by Ari Weaver
The Dales Practice
You've just qualified as a vet and taken the job nobody else applied for: second vet at Ackroyd's in Thwaite Bridge, a stone market town in the Yorkshire Dales. It's lambing time. Maggie Ackroyd, 62, hasn't had a holiday since 1998 and hands you the Land Rover keys on your first morning. Tom Metcalfe keeps ringing about sheep that are mostly fine, and the big group in Leyburn wants to buy the practice.
Playing as Traveler·
It's ten to five in the morning and the kitchen at Garth House smells of toast and surgical scrub. Maggie Ackroyd is standing at the Aga in her socks, phone wedged under her ear, writing on the back of an envelope. Nell, her three-legged collie, is watching the toast.
“Heifer, first calf, been pushing since three, and you can see feet and then they go back in. Yes. Yes, Carol, I heard you. Someone's coming.” She hangs up and looks at you over her glasses. You arrived yesterday afternoon. You've unpacked one bag.
“Brow Top. Up past the church, left at the old phone box that's a book swap now, keep going until you're sure you've gone wrong, and it's the next gate.” She takes the Land Rover keys off a hook shaped like a pig and holds them out. “Calving jack's in the back. Ropes are in the blue bucket. Long gloves are in the door pocket, and second gear is a bit of a negotiation. If it needs a caesarean you ring me and I'll come. If it doesn't, you don't, and I'll see you at surgery at half eight.”
Outside, rain is going sideways through the yard light.
“Well, go on. Carol's had that heifer since it was born and she'll be stood at the window watching for headlights.”
Your first call1 of 3