I waved to the man standing in the shade of a huge shed as I drove into the farm’s dusty yard. I was late. He’d likely been waiting a while and the fact he didn’t return the wave—and the look on his face—told me exactly how impressed he was about that.
‘Mr Landers?’ I asked as I got out.
He nodded, his faded brown eyes regarding me from underneath the broad brim of his hat. ‘You the vet?’
‘Yep.’ I fought down sarcasm. It was a redundant question, given I was driving a LandCruiser with Taplin Valley Veterinary Care in large blue lettering down its sides.
‘They said they were sending out a bloke.’
‘There isn’t a bloke.’
‘They said there was. Someone called Andy.’
‘I’m Andy. Short for Andrina.’
‘What happened to Carruthers?’
‘Matt broke his hand.’ I’d had the same conversation many times over the last few days and the repetitive scepticism made me blunt. ‘He’ll be back in the surgery on Monday, but he won’t be doing large animal work for at least four weeks. I’m the only locum, so if you’d like to know whether your cows are pregnant, you’ll have to put up with me testing them.’
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