Once I’d re-tensioned the noose, Jodie released her grip on the fox’s legs and I kept the fox pinned to the floor, with one foot firmly on his hindquarters, while she ran down to the ward and quickly returned with the orange box. Gripping the fox’s legs once more, she lifted him into the crate as I let the noose slip off him. Then expertly keeping her right gauntleted hand pressed to his head, she released her grip on his hind-legs and, as I pressed down on the lid, slipped her right hand out before the fox had a chance to escape again. What a performance. It had certainly impressed me. Oh, to be a young fox in her hands. I’d willingly be hounded by her any day.
It meant the fox having to stay cooped up until later that day when I finished early, and could then get back to Willow Wren to release him. Not ideal, but the best I could do under the circumstances.
After the excitement of the chase, it was difficult to switch back into routine appointment mode. I ploughed through the morning’s crop of vaccinations, dirty ears and blocked anal glands in need of expression, followed by the routine spays and castrates, of which there weren’t too many that morning – just as well, as it gave me a chance to catch up with things after the delays caused by the fox’s flying visit.
My mood remained quite buoyant during the afternoon’s session of appointments. If only I’d realised how it was all going to change for the worse that evening. Oh boy.
I was feeling quite happy as I headed over the Downs with the young fox in his crate, stowed in the boot of the car. Mandy had told me she’d fixed a drinking bottle to the side of the crate with its nozzle pushed through one of the slats, and it seemed Foxy had taken a drink from it during the day, so at least he wouldn’t have got too dehydrated prior to me releasing him – something I intended to do as soon as I got home. So, yes, I was feeling happy and even sang along to the car radio, a rare occurrence for me. But that happiness was to be short-lived. Quite brutally snuffed out.
I somehow sensed it was going to happen as soon as I drew up behind Lucy’s car outside the front of Willow Wren. For a start, she was back from her visit to her mother’s earlier than normal. Always a bad omen. She and Margaret didn’t get on too well. And although Lucy went over to Eastbourne at least twice a month, sometimes staying overnight if not on duty, there were often times when she’d return in a foul mood, declaring that her mother was an impossible woman to deal with and she didn’t know why she bothered to put up with her cantankerous ways. ‘Well, she is your mother,’ I’d say. ‘Blood’s thicker than water, and all that …’ And at 52, you’d expect an old person to be set in her ways. But she’s so rude with it, Lucy would fume, vowing not to bother contacting her. ‘Let her phone me,’ she’d say. Then, a few days later, I’d hear her ring through and they’d end up deep in conversation together for hours – usually talking trivia – but Lucy occasionally having to express sympathy for the latest of Margaret’s tales of woe. I had met Margaret once. It was just after Christmas, and Lucy had been made to feel guilty at not having seen her mother over the Christmas period. Margaret had been invited to Christmas lunch at the house of her best friend’s daughter – this was apparently the third year in a row, and it was becoming a bit of a tradition; on Boxing Day, she had gone, with two other long-standing friends, to the sales in Eastbourne and had had a buffet lunch out with them – yet despite that, she managed to convey the feeling to Lucy that she’d been ‘abandoned by her daughter’ over the festive period. Hence the visit over to Westcott two days after Christmas, and I’ve no doubt Margaret saw it as an ideal opportunity to suss me out and see whether I was ‘worthy’ of her daughter.
They say ‘like mother, like daughter’, so I, too, was intrigued to meet this woman and see how Lucy might turn out in 33 years or so – whether I would still be with her or not didn’t come into it. I was just curious. Hmmm. They say curiosity kills the cat; in that case, after my meeting with Margaret, I was dead meat.
I hadn’t been too sure how to approach her. It wasn’t as if I needed to ingratiate myself with her, and rush up like some floppy puppy, hoping to be patted. Did I play it cool? Saunter up to her, stretch out my hand to shake hers, look her directly in the eye and say, ‘Hi. I’m Paul. The guy who’s been doing your daughter these past three months.’ No, of course not. But nevertheless, the inference would be there.
In the event, it was a rather formal introduction, and I shook hands with a lady, somewhat shorter than my girlfriend and certainly broader, with a plumpness that was not soft and natural, but very solid and unwelcoming, encased as it was in a Crimplene, sky-blue trouser suit which hugged and rucked up between the many lumpy folds of her body, and exaggerated a stiff-legged gait, reminiscent of the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. As our palms touched, I felt and smelt the faint odour of perspiration overlaid with cheap talcum powder.
The day was not a success, in part due to Margaret’s decision, conscious or otherwise, to play the lady dowager and make us feel how lucky we were to have her there; it was underlined with a certain cynicism and several cutting remarks about how she’d always been made to feel the underdog by her husband, from whom she was now thankfully divorced, and who had never respected her many virtues, which, during her visit to us, I had difficulty identifying.
So it was with relief I uttered my goodbyes to Margaret with the wish that I hoped to see her again soon – said with fingers crossed behind my back. I mused on whether the traits exhibited during her short time with us were those that could develop in Lucy; and indeed wondered whether I was already witness to the germination of that cutting cynicism in Lucy’s behaviour of late. The events of that evening, when I came home with Foxy, suggested they had indeed developed.
I sat in the car, pondering my next move. The intention had been to leave the crate in the boot while I went in, asked after Lucy’s day, and then request that she helped me carry the crate over the fields to the woods, and release the young fox there. But she’d been so grumpy these past few days, I wondered whether she’d be willing to help. ‘You can but ask, Paul,’ I said to myself, as I climbed out of the car. ‘Can but ask …’ I repeated, as I walked into the hall. ‘Can but …’ The words faded as I was greeted by a very, very long face. Obviously, the visit to Margaret’s had not been one of the better ones.
‘So how was your Mum?’ I ventured to say, watching Lucy noisily emptying the dish-washer I’d loaded and switched on before leaving for work that morning. Crash … a pile of dinner plates slid into a cupboard. Side plates followed in equally noisy fashion. As did the knives and forks tossed into the cutlery drawer. She didn’t have to speak to convey her mood. Oh, no. But when she did, it just verified it. Foul.
After Lucy’s visits to her mother, I always asked out of politeness rather than actual interest, as the only concern I had for Margaret’s wellbeing was the extent to which it affected Lucy’s mood. I’d get a range of replies from a ‘Not too bad’ (Margaret was having one of her good spells) to ‘Bloody awful’ (no elaboration needed). But this evening there was a twist to her response, since, in answer to my enquiry, she retorted grimly, ‘What’s it to you?’
Ouch. Well … it caught me on the hop. What, indeed, was it to me? I decided to ignore the remark and attempt a bit of sympathy – this was necessary, as it was Lucy’s turn to cook supper. ‘I guess Margaret’s been having one of her off days. That’s always difficult for you.’
She saw through that straight away and fired off another salvo: ‘Don’t be so bloody patronising, Paul.’
No. That approach certainly hadn’t worked. Although, fortunately, it didn’t stop her from starting supper. She yanked a ready-meal out of a carrier bag on the counter, slid off its sleeve, briefly glanced at the instructions, picked a knife out of the drawer and then proceeded to stab the plastic cover viciously more than the three to four times I knew was required – I wasn’t a cordon bleu chef of ready-meal microwave cooking for nothing. I watched as she slid the tray into the microwave and slammed the door shut, picking up the sleeve to peer at the
instructions again. ‘Five minutes, peel back the plastic, stir, and reheat for a further minute,’ I said quietly. The look she threw my way could have microwaved me to a frazzle in less than 30 seconds.
I wasn’t sure how to steer the conversation from being a patronising sod to someone who had a young fox in the back of his car waiting to be released, especially as dinner was about to be served or thrown at me. It was clear whatever I said was going to be wrong, so I said, ‘Actually, before we have supper, there’s a young fox in the back of my car which I need your help with to release.’ Besides being the wrong thing to say, this was the wrong time to say it, as Lucy screamed back at me, ‘Why the hell didn’t you say before I put the food in the oven?’
That’s when I began to lose it. I’d been treading on eggshells since I’d got home, but I had now reached cracking point. ‘I might have done if you’d bloody well let me,’ I said, surprised at the vehemence in my voice. Was I really that screwed up?
Lucy stood in the middle of the kitchen, visibly trembling. ‘Don’t you dare be so RUDE.’
I slammed my fist down on the table. ‘Hark who’s talking,’ I cried, my mouth opening wide – an action which caused a blob of spittle accidently to hurtle in Lucy’s direction.
‘That’s great … bloody well start spitting at me.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t be so petty.’
‘There you go, putting me down again.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘As if you didn’t know.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Lucy. You’re just in a foul mood.’
‘Don’t you DARE say what mood I’m in.’
‘Oh, SORRY!’ I couldn’t help the sarcasm, but Lucy instantly picked up on it and proceeded to regale me with further accusations of how I always put myself first – ‘Self … self … self,’ is how she expressed it. I never considered her feelings … always making her feel like the underdog.
Ping. The microwave went off. The food was now red hot.
Ping. So was my brain.
Underdog. Margaret had mentioned being an underdog. So there it was. The germination of similar feelings. But was I really to blame? Did I really make Lucy feel inferior? Surely she was a woman in her own right, albeit reflecting some of her mother’s characteristics – perish the thought. If I was the cause of her feeling that way, then maybe it was best if we parted.
Ping. There it was. The solution. It had probably been there for some time, floating beneath the surface of our relationship; but neither of us had been aware of it. Or if we had, then we were reluctant to admit it.
Ping. Yes. Our time was up.
Only this wasn’t the best time to say it. Foxy had to be released before we could think of releasing ourselves from each other. Or so I thought. But Lucy was having none of it. ‘See to the bloody fox yourself,’ she said when I mentioned his release again, hoping I could have appealed to her better nature. No way. I was kidding myself. Her better nature had disappeared under a volcanic eruption of ill-feeling. It had obviously been simmering deep down for some time and, now that the cracks in our relationship had been exposed, it had exploded with a vengeance, and was underscored by a final, savage, ‘And don’t expect me to be here when you get back,’ and a storming out of the kitchen and a stomping up the stairs and a banging of drawers and wardrobe doors being opened and closed.
Ping. Ping. Ping. It was finished. Done for.
But there was still the young fox to deal with. The evening was drawing on, the sun slanting down behind Willow Wren, causing it to sink into shadows, rather like our relationship; and it would soon be dark on both accounts.
Back to Foxy. I slunk out of the cottage and round to the car, opening the boot, wondering whether it would be possible to cart the crate over to the woods myself. After all, it wasn’t that heavy or awkward to carry, and, psychologically, I felt the need to take my mind off the trauma of the past 15 minutes. I levered the crate out of the boot, placed it on the ground and slammed the boot shut with more force than was necessary, but found it pleasingly satisfactory to do so. I dragged the crate along the path fronting Willow Wren, passing Mill Cottage, and wondered whether Eleanor Venables had been listening in to our row; but all seemed quiet and her car was missing, so I guessed she was probably over at her son’s place. She usually went over on Fridays.
I switched my attention back to the crate, thinking that, when I reached the stile into the field, I’d have to lift the crate over, which could present difficulties. It was at that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the tall, stooped figure of Reverend James appearing from the gate to his garden; he hovered uncertainly on the spot, and then proceeded to glide in my direction. Could he have heard our altercation from over the way, and was now seeking to pour oil on troubled waters, or at least to offer some words – no doubt many, loquaciousness being his norm – of pastoral advice and reconciliation? God, they say, works in mysterious ways. Reverend James’ ways were often a mystery, especially his verbose and convoluted sermons, which many times left even the hardiest of his stalwart parishioners perplexed and wondering what sort of path to righteousness they were being led up. The Reverend’s path at that precise moment was leading to me.
‘May I take this opportunity to wish you the benefits of a fine summer’s evening, Paul,’ he said, coming to halt by the side of my car, giving the crate a curious look and wrinkling his nose, his upper lip flaring as he did so.
‘Oh, hello, James,’ I said simply.
Reverend James clasped his hands together, while continuing to stare at the crate. With a big sniff, he queried, ‘Would we have a creature that has had the benefit of your expert treatment within the confines of that container, I wonder?’
I shook my head. ‘Not really.’ A loud bang and a crash emanated from the upstairs window, causing Reverend James suddenly to look up. I quickly distracted him by adding, ‘It’s a young fox. I’m taking him over to the wood to release him.’
James beamed, his lips curling back to expose his prominent upper teeth in donkey fashion, and he nodded, sagely. ‘Ah, I see. So one of nature’s brethren is to have the chance to be unshackled from the confines of that box and be set free to return to the wildness of his familiar territory.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I replied, as another banging of drawers reverberated from upstairs.
If he’d heard it, the Reverend chose to ignore it and went on garrulously to say, ‘If you desire some help in getting the young Reynard to the place where he is destined to find his way in the world again, I would be only too delighted to give you the means by which you can achieve your intention of doing that.’
‘Thanks. It would be a great help.’
So with James supporting one end and me the other, the crate was shunted over the stile and carried across to the wood. Throughout, there was no movement inside, the only evidence that the crate contained a fox being the perpetual odour emanating from it, a fact that prompted the Reverend to say, as we bumped our way across the field, ‘I trust the fox is of good health as there seems to be little to convey that he is still of this Earth as evidenced by the lack of movement within.’
‘He’s OK,’ I said, praying I was correct.
Once we reached the edge of the woods, I took a winding track down through the yellowing leaves of the bluebells, the sun now sinking through a haze of yellow and pink cloud, suffusing the glade with an amber glow, throwing our shadows as long, black, distorted figures, which flickered and bounced between the tree trunks as we moved through them.
I was heading for a spot on the far side of the wood, a corner in which there was a sandy bank, partially obscured on its lower slope by a thicket of brambles and nettles, and in which there were several large holes dug in its side, yellow sand spilling out of their entrances. A warren. Or possibly a fox’s earth. On top of the bank, above the tangle of briers, was a sward of grass, now silhouetted against the darkening sky. It seemed an ideal
place to release the youngster.
‘Here will do,’ I murmured, putting my end of the crate down. Reverend James did likewise and, for a rare instance, remained quiet as I unhooked the lid of the crate and levered it back, stepping to one side once I had done it.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the young fox’s head appeared above the rim. He rapidly glanced in our direction before springing out and darting across into the brambles. The next minute he appeared on the top of the bank, paused sideways to look down on us, a dark-red outline haloed by the orange of the sky. Then he was gone.
‘God be with you,’ said Reverend James and, putting his fingers to his lips, blew a kiss in the fox’s direction. I’m not too sure how Christian he felt when three days later his chicken coop was raided and three of his prize bantams were found with their heads bitten off.
My feelings were decidedly un-Christian when I returned to Willow Wren, now in darkness, Lucy’s car gone, and, when switching on the kitchen light, found instructions for feeding her animals overnight, with a terse couple of lines to say she’d collect Queenie, Bugsie and the guinea pigs the next day, along with the rest of her belongings.
The ready-meal was still in the microwave. I reset it. As I did so, I realised my life, too, would have to be reset to get some warmth back into it.
Ping!
Done.
13
GORED TO TEARS
Grappling with a young fox in the intimate confines of a small animal hospital’s dispensary was certainly an unusual way of getting to know someone; uncomfortable, perhaps, that it was the Principals’ daughter with whom I was getting up close and personal, but it was a pill I could happily swallow.
The next dose of medicine in my involvement with Jodie turned out to occur in a somewhat more exotic location, where my fertile imaginings of tight safari breeches, topees atop shimmering coppery curls and cracking whips were given even more free reign – alas, not striding across a parched, African veldt, a golden orb of sun sinking down in a tropical sky, but rather across a soggy stretch of municipal gardens in the centre of Westcott, a patina of grey, drizzly rain seeping down from a leaden one. Westcott Wildlife Park to be precise.
Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 21