at the door and we enter the barn, giving grateful sighs at the warmth that awaits us. It’s a stone building, and it glows in the wintry landscape. Lights are ablaze, and the air smells faintly sweet, which I think might be the hay. A radio on a table is playing Christmas carols.
Silas walks straight over to the nearest stall where a horse who is a rich brown colour is pacing about. “Here she is,” he says in that calm, sweet voice I’ve heard him use before on calls. “How are you, Nutmeg?”
“That’s a perfect name for her,” I say softly, coming to the side of the stall and resting against the door, watching Silas as he pets the mare. Her belly is huge and the whites of her eyes are showing, but she whickers gently, pushing her nose into Silas’s hand and bumping him affectionately.
“How is she?” I whisper.
He grins. “I’ll tell you in a minute, but she looks quite calm at the moment. I’m hoping it’ll go okay, but she had a bad delivery last time, and I know Bill is fond of her, so he’s naturally worried. I’ll take a proper look at her.”
He removes his coat and jumper and rolls up the sleeves of his scrub top. I hold my hands out for his clothes, and then he pulls on some elbow-length surgical gloves and retreats back into the stall.
I leave him in peace, and I’m just folding his clothes and putting them neatly on a hay bale when there’s a sound at the door, and Bill appears, carrying a tray.
My nose twitches. “That smells nice.”
He grins. “Flora’s made coffee and tea. There are bacon sandwiches and some of her homemade apple cake.”
“How lovely.” I take the tray from him so he can wander over to Silas who’s just emerged from the stall rubbing a towel over his arms. I look judiciously at the sleeves of his scrubs which are marked already and make a note not to let him touch me without a bath.
“Everything okay?” Bill asks.
Silas nods. “It all looks good so far, Bill. She’s not in any distress and birth looks okay at the moment.”
Bill sags slightly. “That’s good. She’s the grandchildren’s horse. I don’t want to ruin their Christmas with bad news.”
Silas pats him on the shoulder, and I make a moue of disgust at the mark that’s now on Bill’s shirt, but Bill doesn’t appear to care.
“We’ll stay anyway,” Silas says calmly. “I don’t think she’s that far off. Did you say labour started at teatime?” Bill nods, and Silas grins at him. “Are the grandchildren here? I remember you saying your son and his husband were coming for the holidays too.” The farmer nods again and Silas smiles. “Well then, clear off.” Bill makes as if to argue, but Silas shakes his head. “We’ll be fine. We’ve got food and drinks. You go on and be with your family, Bill, and I’ll let you know when it happens.”
“But what about you?”
Silas smiles. “I’ve got my family with me. Oz is here.”
I swallow hard and smile at him and Bill as he makes his escape.
I take a seat on a hay bale and pour the tea into the thick white enamel cups. “Wash your hands and then come and have a drink,” I instruct him.
I hand him a sandwich after he obeys. We sit together on the hay bale companionably, sharing the food and sipping the tea while listening to the Christmas carols playing in the background.
Silas gets up after a bit and heads into the stall with the mare, and I settle back on my hay bale, pushing my coat behind me as it’s warm in here. I pull out my phone and, seeing that it’s one in the morning, I start to text Christmas greetings to family and friends.
A flash of red catches my eye, and I reach over to my coat pocket and pull out the Santa hat left there from the estate Christmas party. I palm it and head over to the stall.
When I peep in, Silas is patting the horse. “Here,” I say, tossing him the hat. “Put that on.”
“I don’t think Nutmeg is feeling particularly festive at the moment.”
“It isn’t for Nutmeg,” I say, pulling up the camera on my phone. “This is for the men and women of Cornwall.”
“What?”
“I want a photo of you doing vetty things.”
“Vetty things?”
“Don’t point your nose in the air like that. Try to look like a vet.”