‘Yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘I came down this morning and found the cage door open. You can imagine how I felt.’ She clasped a hand to her bosom. ‘My first thoughts were that Tammy had got him as there were no signs of him anywhere.’ For a moment Eleanor’s jaw stopped clicking up and down, and then began again. ‘But I don’t think she has. She’s stalking round the cottage, sniffing in all the corners as if she’s trying to find him. So I think we should try as well.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, perplexed.
Lucy interjected. ‘Eleanor’s asking if you’d go round the village with her. See if you can track down Wilfred. I’ve told her you wouldn’t mind.’ A thin smile played across her lips. Thanks, Lucy.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb your Sunday, Paul,’ said Eleanor. ‘But it would be very helpful. Besides, a lady on her own … you never know.’ Eleanor thrust her hands into her quilted jacket and pushed her elbows into her sides. It seemed she was wary of who she might bump into in the undergrowth of Ashton, other than a cockatiel. But I didn’t think she had anything to be frightened of. The occasional gaggle of youths hung out with their BMXs on the recreation ground next to the sports hall and there was the old girl who daily would sit over on one of the council benches to feed the squirrels. Still, Lucy had already committed me to escorting Eleanor round, so I really didn’t have any choice in the matter. As to what we’d do if we did find Wilfred, I hadn’t a clue. Seems Eleanor had a plan, though.
‘I thought if I popped back and got Wilfred’s cage and some bird seed, we might persuade him in. Should we spot him, of course. What do you think?’
I thought it an extremely silly idea but, before I could say anything, Lucy remarked, ‘Worth a go. Unless Paul has any other bright ideas?’ She gave me a look that spoke of undisguised ill-feeling. What could I say? It was already a done deal.
So Eleanor excused herself and hurried back to her cottage, returning with the bird cage and a large packet of seed. The cage was large and she found it difficult to carry; every so often it dipped down and dragged along the ground.
Lucy seized the opportunity to say, ‘Let Paul take that.’ I’m damn sure there was a smirk on her face as she suggested it.
So, five minutes later, I found myself struggling round the muddy perimeter of the recreation field, trying to keep the cage clear of the ground, as I slid, slopped, squelched and got soaked from the wet shrubs I was struggling through, while Eleanor kept her well-manicured self on the safety of the tarmac path. Hell’s bells. What were we going to do if we spotted Wilfred? Was Eleanor going to call out to him, ‘Come along, Wilfred. You’ve been a naughty boy. It’s time you came home now,’ and get me to put the cage down and then expect him to fly over and hop in once I had opened it, having scattered some seed in front of it and backed away on tiptoe? Fat chance.
And, of course, I was proved right. Not that we ever caught a glimpse of Wilfred. No. Not a dicky bird. In fact, very few birds. One wren trilled in alarm from the safety of a thicket of holly and a robin hopped out onto a branch and peered down at me before deciding to beat a hasty retreat. As I trailed round, I was subjected to the sniggers of some youths in baggy jeans, looped round their thighs, exposing the elastic of their designer underwear, who slouched by; they had whooped and jeered, nudging one another and pointing the finger – second one, upright, palm facing inwards – at me. Even Reverend James pointed a finger – first one, also upright, wagging – at us from behind the safety of the rectory’s front window.
We thought he was indicating the possible whereabouts of Wilfred. Either that or he meant the bird had passed away and was heading heavenwards. He opened the window and leaned out to explain. As usual with James Matthews, the explanation was long and circumlocutory, spoken in his customary braying, droning voice, which, every Sunday, proved a challenge to his meagre congregation as they attempted to stave off impending somnolence, to which only the jarring interjections of the rooks outside prevented them from succumbing.
He said, ‘I was latterly perusing the notes for the sermon I intend to deliver this evening when on looking out of this window from which I’m now leaning, I happened to espy a bird which, to my recollection, is not one of our native species and surmised that this bird, being, by my deduction, to have originated from more exotic climes and therefore being in flight across the rectory garden, must have escaped from the confines of someone’s abode. And thus seeing you with a cage equipped to house such a bird I suspected you were seeking something comparable to that, if, indeed, not the bird that passed me by.’ The vicar took a deep breath. ‘Would I be correct?’
In the time he’d taken to inform us he had probably spotted Wilfred, Eleanor and I had drawn level with his garden. This abutted the rec, separated from it by a flint wall – a wall not high enough to stop passing walkers from getting a good view in if they stood on tiptoe – a fact I soon discovered when taking Nelson for his constitutional – and it was certainly not high enough to discourage local youngsters from chucking over their empty tins of Coke and lager, crisp packets and other silver-foiled items disposed of after sex below the sleeping rooks of a Saturday night. ‘God moves in mysterious ways,’ Reverend James once murmured as I stopped to pass the time of day as he was collecting various artefacts discarded by local youths during the previous weekend’s activities – which on this occasion included a pair of briefs, a sock and a bra. ‘Just only wish he’d move them elsewhere.’ For once, he was quite succinct as he dropped the discarded garments in a bin bag. Not so today. Reverend James called us round to the side gate which linked the rectory to the church and then hurried out of the house, his cassock billowing about him, to give us a detailed description of the bird he’d ‘espied’.
‘It was of a size which precluded it being of the tit family and, besides which, it had the colouring which would not have fitted a member of that family, it being grey for the most part, although being in flight and at some distance from the window out of which I was looking, meant that any other coloration of the bird’s plumage may have escaped my attention even though I do have a particularly good ability to enable observation of things at a considerable distance without the need to resort to glasses … although I do have a pair of binoculars which I would have brought to my assistance had there been time to retrieve them from the hall stand where I keep them before the bird had left the garden.’ He stopped. A deep intake of breath followed.
‘When was that?’ I asked.
The Reverend scratched his chin. ‘Let me see now. I’d just finished morning service and had come back over for coffee which Marjorie usually has ready for me around 11.15am. I had partaken of several sips when the bird in question flew into view.’
‘About half an hour ago then?’
The vicar nodded. ‘That would seem a good approximation of the time lapse between then and now.’ He clasped his hands together and tilted his head to one side, his lips curling back over a mouthful of teeth like a horse about to neigh. ‘Do I surmise the bird may be of your ownership?’ He unclasped his hands and pointed to the cage I had dropped by my side.
‘It’s mine actually,’ intervened Eleanor, crisply. ‘Wilfred, a cockatiel.’
I turned from Reverend James to Eleanor. ‘I’m not sure if you two have met,’ I said. That was a mistake.
Reverend James nodded his head vigorously. ‘Oh yes, yes. Indeed, we have had the pleasure of making ourselves acquainted when the good lady first moved into Mill Cottage and I made it my duty to call in on her. Is that not so, my dear?’
Eleanor’s chin dropped sharply as her mouth opened, but before she had a chance to say anything he went on: ‘At that first meeting it was with great pleasure that I discovered through conversation’ – no doubt one-sided, I thought – ‘that Eleanor, here, already has connections in this part of the world inasmuch as her son, who it transpires is of the same faith as me and went to the same college as me, is the vicar of our neighbouring parish of Chawcombe.’ Reverend James beamed benevolently at Elea
nor. ‘Words failed me, didn’t they, my dear?’
They did? My God.
Eleanor reached out and patted his arm. ‘Not quite, James. Not quite,’ she said, managing, at last, to get a word in.
Having established without a shadow of a doubt that they did know one another, I picked up the cage and pointedly rattled it. ‘Well, at least we know Wilfred’s alive,’ I said. ‘Let’s just hope he turns up safely somewhere.’
‘We can only pray,’ murmured Reverend James.
Wilfred did turn up again, although not strictly as prayed for since it was in the jaws of a cat – Tammy’s jaws to be precise.
I was alerted by the screeching that erupted from next door the following Thursday afternoon – my half day off. I was giving the back lawn a light cut – the first of the season – when it started. Initially, I thought it was Eleanor having one of her turns, Tammy having started trophy hunting again. I was sort of right and wrong. Right in that Tammy had started to bring things in again; wrong in attributing the screech to Eleanor. It was Wilfred, brought home by Tammy that morning in a somewhat dazed state, but now almost fully recovered as this first screech of the day suggested.
I stood on my pile of bricks by the kitchen while Eleanor filled me in on all the details from the door of her kitchen.
‘Little short of a miracle, don’t you think?’ said the moon-faced woman, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Our prayers have been answered.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ I said, forcing a smile. Reverend James had a lot to answer for, I thought, as Wilfred emitted another piercing shriek from inside the cottage.
It didn’t quite end there either. As spring slipped into summer, Tammy’s hunting skills were ably demonstrated by the variety of creatures she brought home, usually to be deposited on Eleanor’s mat just inside the kitchen door. I was told of some and was witness – from my observation point on top of the bricks – to others. There was the frog that hopped in circles round the kitchen floor; Eleanor collected it up by sliding the slimy green creature into a plastic storage box using the lid and presented it to me, wondering if it was injured. I had little knowledge of amphibians, apart from the few owned by Mr Hargreaves who once came into surgery with a tree frog that, on being X-rayed, showed it had suffered a fractured tibia – it had healed of its own accord. Eleanor’s frog seemed fine so was released into her pond. Surprisingly, it was done without a drop of squeamishness from her.
I blew caution to the wind and remarked on her sangfroid and the fact that she now never scolded Tammy when she ran in with her offerings.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s because Tammy was so wonderful in bringing back Wilfred all in one piece. Completely unscathed. I still can’t believe it.’ She shook her head, causing her grey chignon to sway slightly. ‘So I can’t possibly reprimand her now when she returns with her little tokens of affection. It would be so unfair on her.’
Fair enough. It was no real concern of mine as long as I wasn’t going to be requested to extract some wriggling reptile from her drawers again. So I was rather surprised, the following Sunday, to hear the raised voice of Eleanor, reprimanding her cat, saying, ‘That’s really wicked of you, Tammy. Paul will be absolutely furious.’
Me? Furious? Intrigued, I was up on my pile of bricks in a flash. And I have to confess, I could feel a bit of a smirk on my face as I looked over, thinking I was about to see another of Tammy’s trophies. And indeed there was another trophy. Eleanor was holding it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, lifting up the chewed lump of flesh, a guilty look on her face. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling this could be yours.’
She was right. My smirk rapidly vanished as I recognised the lump of mutilated flesh Tammy had sneaked home with – it was the side of pork I’d been defrosting in the kitchen, ready to roast for lunch.
The swine!
SUPER-MANNED BUT NEARLY BANNED
When I told Beryl about the mangled joint on the Monday morning, she listened, her head forward, shoulders hunched, her powdered face immobile, the bottom lip of her scarlet mouth hanging open. ‘Really? Well, I never!’ she remarked when I’d finished; and then, still staring at me lopsidedly, the powder on her face cracked as her lips creased back and she started to snigger, her shoulders began to heave, her eyes – both of them– began to water until, with a loud snort, she started to cackle with laughter, swaying back and forth on her office stool like a demented crow.
‘OK … OK, Beryl,’ I huffed. ‘It wasn’t that funny,’ thinking perhaps a little more sympathy should have been forthcoming at the demise of my Sunday lunch. While Beryl reached up the sleeve of her black cardigan to pull out one of her inexhaustible supplies of tissues and dab at the remaining tears still trickling down her face, I turned to look at her computer screen and peered at the list of appointments booked in for me through to 10.30am; the rest of the morning then being left clear for the routine spays, castrates and dentals – most of which would have been admitted already, their owners having signed the consent forms, Mandy or Lucy checking the animals hadn’t had food or water overnight, before carrying cat baskets or dragging reluctant dogs down to the kennels. ‘Got quite a full morning, I see.’
‘The usual Monday morning panic stations,’ sniffed Beryl, blowing her nose, her giggling now under control, her face having reverted to its usual deadpan expression. ‘By the way, your mention of Mrs Venables and her cockatiel reminds me I’ve got one booked in for you to see this evening. At least now you’ll know what you’re looking at.’ She said it without a trace of irony. That was the thing with Beryl – she often came out with comments which you could argue were withering or sarcastic but, when spoken with that deadpan face of hers, they left you wondering whether she realised what she was saying. My guess was that she knew precisely what she was saying, as once, when I was having my tea break with her, she admitted that she was a plain speaker and, as a result, would occasionally ‘get peoples’ backs up’.
Having felt niggled by her reaction to my tale about Tammy, I refused to be drawn any more, and merely gave a tolerant smile. Referring back to the appointments list, I saw a name which I deliberately picked up on. ‘I see Mr Entwhistle’s coming in this evening,’ I remarked casually, and, as suspected, the mention of his name made Beryl’s face instantly light up again.
‘Yes,’ she said, barely able to suppress the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘He said on the phone that he’s got a new puppy. Wants to bring her in for her vaccinations. Crystal was getting rather booked up so I offered him an appointment with you. He seemed happy enough with that.’
Thanks a bunch, Beryl. Another tolerant smile … only to have that smile immediately wiped off my face when she continued, ‘There’s a lady coming in soon with a sick Schnauzer which sounds quite poorly. I thought it could be serious, so I’ve had to double-book you.’
Beryl didn’t elaborate. But I knew that if she considered it serious, it probably was. Beryl had been working at Prospect House for many years now and was experienced enough to sift out any priority cases over the phone; and, indeed, I reckoned she could have diagnosed what was wrong with many of them before they were seen. So I awaited the arrival of the Schnauzer with some trepidation.
Meanwhile, as I was about to leave reception and get ready to start the appointments list, there was a scuffling and skittering of paws on the vinyl behind me as a dog was reluctantly dragged in by a harassed-looking man in his mid-thirties. The man was powerfully built, tall, wearing a brown tweed suit with waistcoat, white shirt and tie, sporting a dark brown trilby and round, brown, framed glasses giving his face an owl-like expression. He looked familiar, although at first I couldn’t place him. Then in a flash – a sort of Superman flash – it came to me. A Clark Kent lookalike – him off the Superman movies – although the dog he was dragging in was far removed from Krypto, the Superdog of the comic strip. The hound shared the same colouring – white – and had an equally long tail and big ears; but whereas Krypto was a large dog, this one was tiny – a
titchy terrier whose large ears and long tail were wildly out of proportion to his small, elongated body, supported by stumpy little legs that barely kept his undercarriage from scraping along the ground. Definitely some Dachshund in his breeding, I thought. A weedy little specimen. So, no Krypto. However, he was wearing a red jacket which, with a stretch of the imagination, you could have thought of as a cape, although I couldn’t see him using it to fly into action. As it turned out, he didn’t need anything to fly into action. I found that out to my cost later.
The Clark Kent lookalike had to yank on the dog’s lead to drag the terrier across to the reception desk, the dog having now promptly sat down firmly on his haunches, back legs splayed out either side of him, his red cape (jacket) spread out on the floor behind him.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Archie, behave yourself,’ said the man, his voice full of exasperation, as he slid the dog forward to draw level with the desk and confront Beryl. The peeved look on her face suggested that she in no way considered herself Lois waiting for Superman to fly in and sweep her into his arms – not that Beryl could possibly have been swept up by anything other than a broomstick, which she’d have fitted admirably with her black clothes, evil eye and long red nails.
‘Sorry if I’m a bit late,’ said the man, addressing her. ‘Got held up in traffic.’
Beryl’s normal response to latecomers, whether for admission for ops or for appointments, was an audible click of her tongue against her teeth and a rather tart, ‘Well, I’m sure we can still fit you in.’
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 8