I echoed her ‘Morning …’ with one of my own, which I hope sounded a little more cheerful, adding, ‘What are you going to be doing today?’
‘What’s it to you?’ was her reply.
Oh dear. I thrust my soldier deep into my egg. She cracked hers sharply with a spoon, splintering the shell in two taps, jerking off the pieces with her finger and thumb; then, having tossed them down in an untidy heap on the plate, she stabbed the top of the egg and levered off a spoonful of white and yolk. Both were rock hard. It was to set the scene for the day: me feeling I was forever treading on eggshells when in her presence; she feeling hard done by.
So I escaped into the garden; there, I had a different battle on my hands – waging war on the weeds that were shooting up now that the warmer weather had arrived. I had a quick word with Nelson, apologising for the atmosphere indoors, before he slunk off round to the front of the cottage. And when I saw the top of Eleanor’s grey head over the fence, I nipped onto my pile of bricks to exchange a few pleasantries about how the gardens were looking and all the work that had to be done.
Eleanor waved a yellow, rubber-gloved hand at her borders to emphasis the point, adding, ‘But it’s such a relief to be able to get out of doors.’
I nodded my head vigorously. So true … so true. I didn’t need reminding, and I turned to observe Lucy come marching out to see to the animals: Gertie to be let out; Push-in’s and Garfield’s feed and water bowls to be cleaned and refilled; and Bugsie and the two guinea pigs to be fed. All of them were reasons for her to continue living at Willow Wren. As for me? I wasn’t too sure where I came in the pecking order – I suspected quite low down, the way things were at present – but at least I still did get fed and watered.
It was just before 11.00am and I was thinking in terms of a cup of cappuccino and a Danish pastry – I’d bought a couple of apricot crowns the previous day over at Bert’s Bakery and had covered them with cling-film overnight to make sure they didn’t go stale – when I decided to heave up one more clump of weeds before stopping. It turned out to be a particularly tough clump and I really did have to push the fork deep into its centre, rocking it from side to side to loosen the roots – of what, I wasn’t sure – and that was my downfall.
Lucy had been walking back up the garden from Gertie’s shed and had drawn level with me. ‘What on earth are you doing, Paul?’ she said, coming to a halt, to look down at the two large lumps of roots which I’d now managed to heave out, leaving two deep craters in the border.
I thought it was obvious, but being acutely aware of Lucy’s hedgehog prickliness, I thought it wise not to state the obvious too obviously and attempted to think of a rational explanation that had no trace of sarcasm liable to inflate Lucy’s mood to porcupine proportions. I needn’t have bothered, as clearly she’d already jumped to a conclusion of her own. Her face twisted to the left and, at the same time, her mouth curved up on that side, an action which caused her left eye to half close and gave the impression of a knowing wink executed by someone who had lost their marbles. But she hadn’t lost hers – far from it.
‘Idiot,’ she seethed, kicking one of the clumps. ‘You’ve just dug up the Michaelmas daisies that attracted all those butterflies last autumn. Don’t you remember?’
Now she mentioned it, I did remember. Well, let’s say I could recall there being several patches of purple-flowering daisies which, indeed, had attracted many Red Admirals and a few Peacocks, but, as to where those clumps had been, I had obviously forgotten, otherwise why would I be bothering to yank out these thick clumps of what I’d been about to call weeds?
At that point, I saw Eleanor’s head reappear over the fence, this time all of it – perhaps she now had her own pile of bricks to stand on. ‘Hello, dears,’ she said affably, as Lucy’s features rapidly composed themselves into some degree of normality and she swung round to smile.
Eleanor looked past her to where I was standing, a boot on top of the fork’s head, the fork still embedded in one of the clumps of weeds … er … Michaelmas daisies. ‘Paul’s been busy, I see,’ she continued. ‘Good idea to divide up the perennials this time of year. Keeps them healthy. And if you’ve got some spare clumps of those Michaelmas daisies, do let me have them. It’s so nice to be able to encourage the butterflies, don’t you think?’
I swear there was the briefest of winks in my direction before, with a little wave of her yellow-gloved fingers, she dropped back out of sight.
‘Coffee time,’ I said to Lucy. ‘I’ve got some apricot crowns.’ And, without further ado, I nipped inside, suppressing the grin that threatened to break out on my face. Good old Eleanor.
But Lucy remained prickly. If it wasn’t going to be me mistaking perennials for weeds, then I felt she’d find some other excuse to have a go at me. It didn’t take her long. By then, we’d finished our pastries and coffee, having had them on the patio, and I, at least, was enjoying the warmth of the morning sun, praying that it might help to improve Lucy’s mood as we continued to sit either side of the patio table, each of us on a cushioned lounger. Between us was Nelson, who had joined us from the front garden to hoover up any crumbs, before stretching out at my feet to continue his morning siesta on the now pleasantly warmed-up bricks.
What a peaceful, restful scene. A blackbird was singing in the forsythia, his gleaming plumage haloed by bowers of yellow; two blue tits fussily flitted in and out of a hole up under the eaves – I could hear the burr of their wings, their chirrups, as they investigated a possible nesting site. Minutes later, they were chased away by a pair of starlings that descended with raucous cries; one stayed perched on the gutter while the other slipped into the hole to look at the possibilities of it being a des res, appearing minutes later with a strident call to his mate suggesting that, indeed, it was going to be the ideal home to rear their family.
I half opened my eyes and looked across at Lucy, wondering what sort of home would be ideal for her to raise a family. I closed my eyes again. For a start, I dreamt it would have to have plenty of room for animals. But not only animals. I could see Lucy with a large family of her own. She was that sort of girl – the homely, meal-ready-on-the table-for-hubby sort of woman – soft-natured, warm and sensual, yielding willingly to the wants of her husband whenever he desired them, allowing him to bury himself in her warm, sensuous body.
‘Paul.’
I was dimly aware of Lucy’s voice.
‘Paul. I want you to do something for me.’
‘Yes, my love,’ I murmured sleepily, easing myself up the chair a little – it had suddenly become quite hard. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘Paul.’ The tone was more strident and woke me fully.
‘What is it?’ I snapped, luscious Lucy receding rapidly.
‘Bugsie’s out of pellets. Go and get some for me, will you?’
I’m not sure why I reacted in the way I did. I often look back and try to work it out, to offer the reasons for my response, to attempt to justify it, because the consequences were so devastating, so appalling, I would have given my right arm to have put the clock back and stopped them.
Was I still half asleep, not really with it enough to realise the consequences of my reply? Was it discovering the reality was so different to my dream? Maybe I was trying to cover the embarrassment of my erotic reaction to that dream, so my mind wasn’t on my reply? Perhaps it was because I was being asked to do something for a rabbit – even though he wasn’t called Peter?
Or … I just hated Lucy.
I said, ‘Get them yourself …’
Those three words had been loaded like shells in a revolver. Each was deliberately fired at Lucy and each scored a direct hit. But there was no shouting and screaming, no throwing of mugs – Lucy just jumped to her feet and said, ‘Well, you can bloody well get your own lunch then, you bastard.’ But that one sentence was said with such vitriol that she might as well have poured a flask of sulphuric acid over me and watched it etch into my skin in much the way her acid wor
ds were wounding me now.
Nelson, too, felt, or at least sensed, their acidity, since he quickly scrabbled to his feet and trotted out of the gate to seek refuge round the front of the cottage.
I sat up, swinging my legs off the side of my lounger, and watched Lucy flounce into the kitchen, heard the chink of the car keys being picked up from the glass dish on the window sill where both sets were kept and, minutes later, she reappeared, jacket on, bag over her shoulder and stormed out of the gate, banging it back on its hinges.
Oh boy. What a mess. I anticipated that a walk over into the bluebell woods with Nelson to discuss the matter was going to be an essential ingredient of my afternoon’s activities.
Still sitting on the lounger, I heard the slam of her car door, followed moments later by the rev of the Fiesta’s engine, and then a sound which will forever be seared in my memory – a long, heart-rending howl. Christ. What had happened?
I sprang up as the car engine died, a door opened and Lucy screamed, ‘Oh my God!’ Racing out of the gate and up the side of the cottage, I met Lucy staggering towards me, her face rigid with fear and, in her arms, the body of Nelson. Distraught, she held him out, howling, ‘I’ve run him over … but he’s still alive … please, dear God, say he is.’
I could feel the tears well up in me, my throat constricting, my body beginning to shake as Lucy pushed Nelson into my arms and we ran inside where I slid him onto the kitchen table. He lay there, his sides erratically heaving, eyes glazing over, blood trickling from one nostril. At the top of my voice, I yelled, ‘You’ve bloody well killed him …’ and pulled Nelson to me as he gave one last, long, shuddering gasp and died in my arms. I couldn’t stop the tears. They blurred my vision, streamed down my cheeks and coursed over Nelson’s face – a face that would no longer grin at me, the lips slowly setting in a mask of death.
And Lucy’s reaction? Stunned silence. There were no tears … just agony etched on her face. Only after minutes of watching my uncontrollable sobbing did she reach out, put a hand on my shoulder and hoarsely whisper, ‘I’m so, so sorry, Paul.’
Of course it was an accident – there was no way Lucy would have deliberately run Nelson over. He’d gone back to his patch by the front lawn but had moved across to the hard standing when the sun had edged round, and there had fallen asleep. Being deaf, he hadn’t heard Lucy get into the car. She, for her part, had been in such an agitated state that she hadn’t stopped to think that maybe Nelson was behind the car, and had reversed over him.
It was an event that marked a turning point in our relationship; and although we were to continue living together – and, indeed, Nelson’s death brought about a temporary reconciliation of sorts – it was as if Lucy was only doing that as atonement for what had occurred. The real passion and commitment in our relationship died with that little terrier.
11
NOTHING TO SNARL ABOUT
The following Monday morning saw me driving over the Downs to Westcott with a heavy heart; the rush-hour traffic, with the bumper-to-bumper congestion between the two roundabouts on the outskirts of the town which I had to negotiate to get to Prospect House, did nothing to alleviate my mood.
Just why am I doing this? I thought, inching forward another couple of metres to brake and wait another few minutes. Well, I did know why; it was all to do with being a vet. I remember Cynthia Paget, the divorcee in whose house I had stayed when I first started at the practice, saying how she admired my dedication to the job and was ready to give a helping hand whenever I needed it. She’d been standing at the top of her stairs at the time, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, housecoat half open, staring down at me in the hallway as I answered a night-time call on her phone. My mobile wouldn’t pick up any signal in my bedroom (her front room converted into a bedsit), and I’d refused her offer to try it out in hers. I was just wearing boxer shorts and felt that the leery look on her face and the apparent lack of clothing beneath the housecoat suggested that, whatever the quality of the phone signal, I’d be guaranteed a warm reception.
Thinking of her reminded me of the savage little Chihuahua she owned – Chico. He was forever lunging at my toes and springing up to grab the bottom of my boxer shorts when I was trying to dash up to the bathroom first thing, making it imperative to wear footwear and ensure that a protective hand was over my crotch. That little blighter had been much loved by Mrs Paget. She would suddenly appear when Chico was making a beeline for my privates and rush to pick him up and clasp him to her bosom, admonishing him first, and then turning, with a questioning look, to ask if he’d got me anywhere and, if so, was there anything she could put on it for me? I swear the two of them were in cahoots – both wanting to rip my boxer shorts off and attack my genitals.
As I slowly approached the second roundabout, just off which was the entrance to the practice, I recalled that it was about here that Chico had been run over; he’d been rushed in by a panic-stricken Mrs Paget, and the little chap was taken into the operating theatre, still just alive, to be put on emergency oxygen, but he had died on the table. Mrs Paget had been distraught. I now knew exactly how she’d felt, and took a deep breath to prevent my emotions surfacing again at the thought of poor Nelson’s demise as I finally managed to leave the queue of traffic and turn into the drive of Prospect House.
Beryl looked up from her computer when I rushed into reception, late for my appointments. ‘Blimey, Paul. You look glum,’ she said. ‘Traffic bad?’
I just nodded. It wasn’t the time or place to explain. Besides, I could hear the shuffle of feet and paws in the waiting room and wanted to get cracking before too much of a backlog built up; and being a Monday morning, it was the sort of thing that was liable to happen – people leaving it till after the weekend before deciding their pets needed to be seen.
‘You are quite busy,’ warned Beryl as I made a dash for the consulting room, struggling into my white coat on the way. And so it proved, the first patient setting the scene for the whole morning – a corgi called Carl. In theory, it should have been a quick and simple appointment; the dog just needed his claws clipped. But the case notes on the computer screen were punctuated with typed warnings. ‘Take care’ when seen last year by Crystal and ‘Vicious bugger’ when seen by Eric just after Christmas, some three months back. Now it was my turn to assess the dog’s temperament.
I went through to the waiting room to find two people in there. There was a lady with a wicker cat basket on the chair next to her and, on the opposite side of the room, a gentleman with a corgi sitting placidly by his side. ‘Mr Holder?’ I enquired.
The man nodded and got to his feet, addressing the dog, ‘Your turn, Carl.’ His dog stood up and trotted into the consulting room at the side of Mr Holder without a murmur and, when picked up and put on the table by his owner, he sat there, panting slightly, but otherwise looking at me quite unperturbed, no shaking or quivering, very relaxed. Take care? Vicious bugger? Surely not. But to be on the safe side, I thought it best to make a few overtures of friendship to the corgi. Test the water, so to speak. I held out the back of my hand, ready to snatch it away if necessary, and said, ‘Hello, Carl. How are you then?’
His response was to look up at Mr Holder and give a little growl.
‘He says he’s fine,’ said Mr Holder. ‘Just wants to have his claws clipped. They’re getting a bit long. Aren’t they, matey?’ As if to prove the point, he held up one paw to show me. The claws were long – but looked as if they’d be easy to clip, with no danger of cutting the pink quick as it was clearly visible in each nail. It was just this temperament issue … according to his notes, that was.
Conscious of time ticking on, I reached round for the nail clippers, turning back to see Carl look at me and give another soft growl. I admit I was already in a foul mood from the weekend’s upsetting events, and didn’t want it made worse by being bitten, so I said, ‘Look, Mr Holder, I think I’d better muzzle Carl, just to be on the safe side.’
‘It really shouldn’t b
e necessary. Carl’s never bitten anyone,’ Mr Holder replied, looking aghast. The corgi swung his head up to stare at his owner and growled again. ‘This is just Carl’s way of talking.’ He ruffled the dog’s neck. ‘You’re not vicious are you, Carl?’
There was another rumble from the corgi’s throat. Hmm. I wasn’t convinced. And those notes did say … Yep. I made up my mind.
‘Sorry, but I’m going to muzzle him,’ I insisted.
‘He’s never had to be muzzled before,’ said Mr Holder emphatically. ‘It could really stress him.’ His podgy face was beginning to turn red with indignation.
Not half as much as it would stress me if I got bitten, I thought, and grabbed the length of bandage coiled on the glass trolley next to the boxes of needles and syringes, tied it in a loop, and advanced on Carl, having told Mr Holder to put his arm under the dog’s neck and hold him against his chest. Once he’d reluctantly done as instructed, I lassoed Carl’s snout and then quickly tightened the bandage, clamping his jaws together.
It was at that point all hell let loose. Carl started scrabbling with both front and back paws, wriggling in Mr Holder’s arms, gradually slipping from his grip, his head writhing from side to side, his front claws coming up to hook into the bandage, his eyes rolling upwards, the whites showing; and in this frenzy, saliva bubbled and foamed from between his clenched teeth, and he began to emit a high-pitched whine of savage fury.
‘My God, he’s having a fit,’ shouted Mr Holder, still hanging on to him.
‘No, no,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘It’s only Carl resisting. Just keep holding on. You’re doing a grand job.’ I grabbed the clippers, and tugged the dog’s left front paw free of the bandage, whereby his leg started to thrash around and I had to force it still by pinning it to the table before I could attempt to clip the first claw. I had done three, during which time Carl continued his frenzied snorting and snuffling, his whole body convulsing in his efforts to break free. I was just on his fourth, when his whole body suddenly went limp on me. There was a sickening rattle in his throat and his head lolled over Mr Holder’s arm.
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 17