‘It’s Eric,’ said Mandy, without a trace of irony, merely lowering her long, sable eyelashes as she looked down at the crate.
‘Well, not actually me,’ corrected Eric with a little laugh, glancing murderously at Mandy before addressing his wife. ‘It was next to my car this morning. Didn’t think you’d want it messing up your car, so I brought it in.’ He cocked his head and gave a hesitant smile as if to say, ‘Wasn’t I a considerate fella?’
It didn’t cut the mustard with his wife, and his face fell sharply when she said, ‘Then do something about it. I want it out of here as soon as possible. Understand?’ She looked first at her husband and then at Mandy, adding, ‘We’re not a wildlife sanctuary you know.’
Mandy smiled and flickered her lashes at Eric and me. ‘That’s what I told them,’ she said as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Eric’s look suggested a ball of suet rather than butter should have been rammed into her mouth, but he cleared his throat and went on to say, ‘Paul thought it wise to check it over first, though.’
What … me? Hang on a minute.
‘Fine,’ said Crystal, turning to me. ‘So get on with it now before you start your appointments.’
It was my turn to throw a dagger at Eric, who merely gave me a sheepish smile and bounced towards the ward’s exit door, whistling the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.
Mandy also looked as if she’d love to lob a scalpel or two in his direction; but I couldn’t really blame her. With Lucy being off for the day, visiting her mother over in Eastbourne, Mandy was having to cope single-handedly, seeing to the incoming cats and dogs booked for routine ops and cleaning and feeding the animals that were already hospitalised for treatment. The snap and crackle of her uniform was beginning to sound a bit more snappy and crackly than normal.
Crystal also realised the problem, since she abruptly called out after her husband’s disappearing figure, ‘Just a minute, Eric, where do you think you’re going?’
He stopped and turned, the whistle of ‘… marching off to war …’ faltering on his lips. ‘Best if you give Paul a hand here,’ Crystal advised. ‘Mandy’s got enough on her plate as it is.’ There was no mistaking the sharp edge to her voice.
Eric did a smart turnabout and retraced his steps, looking like a punctured ball, his bounce lost, an impression his baggy trousers, belted below the paunch of his belly, and the loose shirt escaping from them, did nothing to allay. Crystal gave Mandy a nod and instructed her to get on with her jobs; she then excused herself to us all with a little wave of her dainty, perfectly manicured fingers and a haughty, almost regal look, informing us she was due to visit Lady Derwent. The ring of the bell in reception was Mandy’s excuse to slip away with a big wave of her squat, stubby-nailed digits and a ‘Told you so’ look which provoked, from Eric, a two-fingered gesture at her retreating figure and a snort of disgruntlement.
‘Now, now,’ I said, ‘I’m sure this won’t take long. So which one of us is going to do the honours?’
‘Guess I should catch the blighter as I brought it in,’ replied Eric, striding over to the sink unit and rummaging in the cupboard under it, saying that there should be some gauntlets in there somewhere; he eventually pulled out a grey, suede pair that had seen better days, the stitching on the edges of several fingers having come apart, leaving gaps down the sides through which sharp teeth could easily slip. ‘Better than nothing,’ he said, holding them up. ‘We’re going to have to be careful, though,’ he added, as I slipped the bolt on the kennel door and swung it open. ‘The last thing we want is the critter making a dash for it.’
He stepped in. I followed, and swung the door closed and bolted it again, shaking the bars to make sure it was securely shut. ‘Mind you, if it’s injured I don’t suppose it will be going far.’ He stepped over to the crate and donned the gauntlets while I bent down and untwisted the wire over the nail holding the lid down. He, too, bent down. ‘OK … let’s see what we’ve got.’
I cautiously lifted the lid a fraction. There was a slight movement inside and, in the gap between the lid and the crate, I could just make out the features of a fox – the intense yellow eyes, dark-brown ears, the long muzzle, white under the chin, its hindquarters backed up to my end of the crate like a coiled spring. For some reason – maybe because it was in a small, wooden crate – I’d been expecting a cub, possibly still in its woolly, infant grey coat, but this fox appeared to be older by several months, the red-brown of the adult coat beginning to show through.
‘Steady, Paul, steady,’ warned Eric as I inched the lid open a bit more. ‘Now put your arm across your end of the gap and just open the lid sufficient for me to get my hand in, OK?’
I nodded and did as instructed, the lid creaking open a little bit more. Still no movement from within. Eric grasped his end of the lid with one gauntleted hand and cautiously eased the other inside, peering into the interior as he did so. ‘Think it’s up your end,’ he hissed. ‘It’s not moving. Must be shocked. Right … ready? I’m going to pounce.’ He thrust his arm in, causing the lid to jerk open even more. In an instant, there was the blur of reddish fur, the somersault of limbs, a flash of teeth sinking into a gauntlet and a ‘Bloody hell!’ from Eric as he yanked his arm out, a young dog fox fastened to it.
The fox thrashed all four limbs against Eric’s arm and the gauntlet sailed off in his teeth, leaving Eric with a hand from which blood splattered in the air. ‘Damn!’ he cried, slamming his hand against his chest, his eyes rolling with pain, while the fox shook its head violently, an action which caused the gauntlet to go flying across the kennel. He then shot off the top of the crate, flinging himself against the back wall, his claws scrabbling against it, before he slid down and streaked round the side, hurling himself at the kennel door, the bars rattling as he pounded time and time against them.
‘Paul, here, give me that gauntlet, quick,’ shouted Eric, and I leapt across, picked it up and he snatched it from me. ‘I’ll get the blighter yet.’
As he spoke, the fox twisted his head to one side and pushed it between two bars; within seconds, the rest of his body had somehow squeezed through, and the creature was now fast disappearing down the corridor.
‘Why, the little bugger …’ seethed Eric, ramming back the door’s bolt and running down the corridor after him. ‘At least the ward door’s closed, thank God,’ he shouted back to me, as I watched him come to a halt, both gauntlets now on, and crouch down to creep stealthily towards the fox just as Mandy walked in and screamed as it shot between her legs. Eric disappeared after him and I hastily followed, pushing past a thunderstruck Mandy with a spluttered ‘Sorry about this’ to see Eric at the top end of the corridor leaping up the steps as another scream reverberated from reception – only this scream tailed off to be followed by the sharp tones of Beryl reprimanding Eric.
I arrived just as all hell was let loose and the waiting room erupted in a cacophony of howls and yowls. In the doorway, a tall, white-haired gentleman, whom I recognised as Major Fitzherbert, a retired Army Officer client of mine, appeared and proceeded to wave his stick at the three of us.
‘I say, you lot,’ he harrumphed, ‘never guess what I’ve just seen race through your waiting room. It was a bally fox, if I wasn’t much mistaken.’
He chortled, his thick, white moustache and matching eyebrows bobbing up and down like demented caterpillars. ‘Takes me back to my hunting days. Tally ho and all that. Not that I can do much of that since my accident.’ He tapped the side of his thigh with his walking stick. We all knew what he was referring to. He’d told us many times how he’d been gored by a rhino during his time out in East Africa, on one of his many safari trips hunting big game. Only we also knew – Beryl having been informed on good authority – that he’d incurred the limp through tripping over a loose paving slab in Westcott’s High Street before it was pedestrianised. ‘The varmint went through that away.’ He raised his cane and pointed up the corridor towards my consulting room. ‘How�
��re you going to catch the little sod then?’ The caterpillar eyebrows arched.
‘Erm ….’ Eric shot me a look.
I was thinking of my trusty ‘cat catcher’ – the noose on the end of a pole that I’d used to restrain Major Fitzherbert’s Leo, a semi-wild cat I’d been called in to treat in his greenhouse. The Major was obviously thinking along the same lines since he barked, ‘This young laddie here used that contraption on a pole to nail Leo. Much better if he’d darted him. Easier all round, don’t you think?’ The eyebrows wiggled at Eric.
He flapped his hands helplessly. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have such a thing as a dart gun.’
‘More’s the pity, I say,’ said the Major with a loud harrumph. ‘Good bit of sport to be had there.’ He raised his cane and slid a hand along it, pushing the crook against his shoulder to peer down its length. ‘Pow. Pow. I’d get the little blighter. Used to be a cracking good shot you know.’
‘Cat catcher, Paul?’ questioned Eric, turning to me with a shrug of his shoulders, his arms spread out.
‘I’ve got it here.’ We all turned to see Mandy in the archway, holding out the pole.
‘Splendid. Right then,’ spluttered Eric, gesticulating at me with one hand, the other pointing at the pole. ‘You’re probably better at this sort of thing than I am.’
Thanks, mate.
There was an excited murmur of anticipation from the onlookers – clients now crowding round the waiting-room door, fascinated by the unfolding drama taking place in reception. Two people, with their dogs, who had just entered through the front door, shuffled alongside Major Fitzherbert and, in excited whispers, asked what was going on. A third lady squeezed in with a cat basket and was told a savage wild animal was rampaging through the hospital and that the young vet over there was going to track it down and lasso it. I was? The buzz of expectation grew higher as I took the cat catcher from Mandy while one lady told another in a loud whisper that lions could be very dangerous when cornered, and that her Tibbles would stay in his basket until she was given the all-clear.
Suddenly, another voice cut across the babble with a ‘Hey, what’s going on here, Dad?’ as Jodie squeezed her way through the gaggle of clients and drew level with her father. ‘A lion on the loose?’ She turned a questioning face in my direction. ‘And you’re going to try and catch it with that?’ She looked incredulously at the cat catcher I was waving around in front of me as another wave of excited murmurings rippled through the crowd of spectators.
‘Go on, get in there,’ urged one elderly lady, her glasses misting up, while Major Fitzherbert was recounting a story about a lion he’d bagged to the owner of Tibbles, who asked if she could sit down as it was all getting a bit too much for her cat. I was beginning to feel rather gladiatorial – Ben Hur (Paul Mitchell) about to be cajoled along the underground passageway (corridor) into the amphitheatre (consulting room) to do battle with the lion (young fox).
Eric explained to his daughter what had happened and then turned to me and asked if I’d mind if he left me to get on with it as he was due over at the Stockwells to see about a sick sheep of theirs and was late already. Before I could answer, he wished me luck and eased himself through the throng to disappear out of the front door. Jodie apologised on her father’s behalf and Major Fitzherbert suggested I enlist his help in following the critter’s spoor and track him down to his lair, where we could then plan our strategy for bagging him. Jodie looked at me as he spoke, a twinkle in her eyes, and volunteered her own support, a suggestion I quickly accepted.
So, minutes later, having closed the doors to reception and the waiting room behind us in case the fox tried to do another bunk, it was just the two of us, tiptoeing down the corridor towards my consulting room, me clutching the cat catcher, its handle slippery with the sweat that was oozing from my palms, Jodie close behind, clutching the gauntlets her father had shoved in her hands before his hurried departure.
‘This is rather fun, Paul,’ whispered Jodie. ‘On safari in Prospect House.’
I wasn’t so sure, although the close proximity of Crystal’s daughter and my awareness of how I used to fantasise about her mother did act as a pleasant diversion as images of crisp, white blouses, tight, corduroy safari trousers and long, leather whips cracking against firm thighs slipped through my mind, to be replaced by a fox’s fangs and putrid anal secretions the instant we got to the door of the consulting room. We stopped … and cautiously peered in.
The room was empty … but the fox had been in there. The smell and smear of faeces across the floor meant that it didn’t require Major Fitzherbert’s expertise to realise the creature had come and gone.
‘Must have scarpered down there then,’ said Jodie, turning to point down the back corridor, which crossed behind the waiting room to connect with the other consulting room, and off which was the dispensary, a windowless small room, currently in darkness, its door open, an obvious bolt-hole for a frightened fox. ‘Bet you it’s in there,’ Jodie continued as we reached the dispensary door, her lips slightly open, the pink tip of her tongue delicately tracing the outline of her Cupid’s bow. ‘Are you going to go in?’
The invitation, and her lips, were irresistible.
‘Paul, what are you doing?’
I found my tongue was hanging out, so I quickly retracted it to say I was giving her … it … some thought.
‘Well, it’s obviously been in there,’ said Jodie, turning sideways to reach past me, her T-shirt and the words emblazoned on it – ‘I’m always hungry for more’ – fuelling my appetite as they slid past my chest. She wrinkled her nose over my shoulder, her right earlobe only inches from my tongue. Oh, what a pert little nose, just like her mother’s. Oh, what a dainty earlobe, just like …
‘I’ve a feeling it’s in there,’ she whispered hoarsely, her soft breath caressing my right earlobe. ‘What do you think?’
Oh, how could I possibly tell her what I was thinking when her chest was pressed hard up against me, her thighs practically fused against mine in that doorway. ‘Yes, it could well be in there,’ I murmured, easing my pole away from her.
‘I tell you what,’ declared Jodie, still in a low voice. ‘I could get it out for you.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, my mind boggling.
‘The fox, Paul,’ said Jodie giving me a funny look. ‘The room’s too small for both of us to squeeze in, especially with you swinging that pole of yours around.’
Mmm … if only.
She elaborated: ‘If I go in and flush it out, you could lasso it as it comes through the doorway. And if you don’t get it first time … well, no sweat …’ Jodie shrugged. ‘There’s nowhere else for it to go as the doors down the corridor are closed. So you could have another go.’
Oh yes please, I thought.
‘Don’t worry, Paul. I’m quite used to this sort of thing.’
You are? I thought. Wow.
‘Like a bit of a challenge.’
Oh really? Mmm.
‘Used to go round with Mum and Dad on some of their visits. And helped out in the hospital when they were shortstaffed.’
Ah. Yes. Of course.
‘So let’s get on with it then,’ concluded Jodie, her brisk, Crystal-like tone shaking me out of my reverie. With that, she pushed the dispensary door open even wider, and snapped on the light inside to reveal the interior lined with shelves on three sides, all packed with bottled medicines, cartons of pills, boxes of syringes, needles, cotton wool and bandages, while on the floor, in one corner, stood a fridge, alongside which were three rows of sacks, each row three deep, each a different variety of specialised canine dietary feed, the back sack resting with its top touching the wall, the bottom a few centimetres out, leaving a gap big enough for a young fox to slip into.
‘Bet he’s behind those,’ said Jodie in a loud whisper, pointing at the sacks. ‘If I pull out the three nearest the wall he’d probably bolt out the other end. So be ready at the door.’ With that, Jodie pulled on the gauntlets she’d be
en carrying, stepped over and dragged the first sack forward. Nothing stirred. Then came the second sack. Still nothing. Then the third.
Whoosh. A streak of brown fur bombed out of the end of the row, turned sharply and zoomed towards me. I blindly swept the pole out with its noose open, and pulled at the end of the cord laced through the pole’s centre; I felt the noose tighten as, more by luck than judgement, I saw I’d caught the fox round its neck. So I continued to pull, pushing the pole down, until the fox was pinned in a squirming, foaming ball on the floor.
Jodie whipped round and fell to her knees, grasping the hind-legs together and pushing them out while doing the same with the front ones, stretching the fox’s body.
‘OK, Paul, I’ve got him,’ she said. ‘You can release the noose a touch now. We don’t want to garrotte the little chap.’
I eased the tension on the cord and pulled the cat catcher out of the dispensary, with Jodie, still on her knees, sliding the fox in front of her until she and the fox were both out in the corridor with me.
The young fox lay stretched between her hands, breathing rapidly but otherwise still. Jodie looked up at me. ‘Doesn’t seem to be much wrong with him, if you ask me,’ she said.
I thought the same. Certainly no broken limbs. And when I knelt down beside her and checked him more closely, there didn’t seem to be any superficial injuries either; no open wounds, no abrasions or broken claws. If he had been hit by a car, there was no evidence.
‘Lucky escape then,’ commented Jodie when I finished my examination and sat back resting on my heels. ‘So what now?’
Seeing as the fox hadn’t suffered any obvious injuries, I thought the easiest solution would be to release him.
‘But not around here, surely?’ remarked Jodie when I told her. ‘Might get hit by another car.’
I’d already thought of that and decided the best bet – and here I took a deep breath – would be to re-crate the fox and take it back to Willow Wren; once there, I’d let it go over in the woods. At least then it would have a better chance of survival.
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 20