Diet time for you, matey, I thought. A low-calorie diet. No titbits, and weigh-ins on the platform scales at Prospect House.
Several weeks passed but the drop in weight I was looking for just didn’t happen.
I complained to Bernie, ‘Are you sure you’re being strict about her diet?’
‘Absolutely,’ he declared. ‘See here.’ He showed me a booklet in which there were neat columns headed by days of the week, below which the types of food and amounts given were itemised.
Yet still Peggy’s girth refused to shrink. Bernie and Brenda’s enthusiasm for the regime, or rather Peggy’s lack of it, began to wane. The weekly weigh-ins became erratic. Consultations were missed … excuses were made.
It must have been a couple of months later when Eric and I were again over at the Woolpack after yet another hectic Friday evening surgery.
Bernie was quick to apologise as Eric ordered a couple of lagers. ‘Sorry. We’ve let things slip a bit,’ he confessed. ‘Being summer and all that … we’re just so busy.’
‘What was that all about?’ queried Eric as we settled at a table.
‘See for yourself,’ I replied as Peggy waddled into view from behind the bar and came over to Eric with the usual lop-sided grin on her face.
‘Hello, Fatso,’ he said reaching down to give her ears a tickle.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘She’s supposed to have been on a diet and lost weight.’
‘Fighting a losing battle, I’d say.’
Peggy shuffled off in search of customers willing to hand over a crisp or peanut in return for a sloppy grin of thanks. There were plenty on hand. I watched as another mouthful of calories was swallowed.
‘You need a new strategy,’ added Eric, downing his lager. ‘Let’s give it some thought. Drink up and I’ll get another round in.’
By the time we’d finished our second pint we’d come up with a plan – a good plan. Excellent. Guaranteed to fight the flab. By our third pint we decided we’d write it up in the Veterinary Record. A stunning study, well researched. By our fourth, a doctorate in obesity was ours for the taking. Atkins Diet? Eat your heart out.
I made the mistake of mentioning the plan Eric and I had concocted to Mandy the next morning.
‘I can’t see it working, myself,’ she said, her pinched lips and cold manner far more effective in sobering me up than the Alka-Seltzers I’d taken first thing.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ she echoed with a dismissive sniff.
Lucy, who had been folding vetbeds at the back of the ward room, intervened. ‘Surely it would be worth a try. If it didn’t work … well … nothing’s lost.’
I saw Mandy check herself. ‘It’s not for me to say, of course,’ she finally said, her eyes flicking from me to Lucy. If looks could kill, Lucy would have instantly become dead meat. Not for the first time I felt the tension between them.
She promptly contradicted what she’d just said by adding, ‘But there’s better things we could do with our time.’ Her plum-coloured eyes continued to bore into Lucy as if trying to goad her into a rebuke. She glanced across at the stack of feed bowls waiting to be washed. The inference was obvious. I saw Lucy redden and her freckled nose twitch.
‘I actually agree with Lucy,’ I decided to say and watched – with delight, I must confess – at how rapidly Mandy’s face went pale, save for two hectic blotches on each cheek. Now, now, Paul. Naughty boy … you should stay out of all this. But I felt the plan Eric and I had formulated the evening before had some merit – it had not been just the drink talking – and so was grateful of Lucy’s support.
In fact, thanks to her, the plan actually swung into action.
She volunteered to find out the calorie content of anything that Peggy was likely to be offered as titbits in the pub and, within 24 hours, had come up with a list of the calories in a crisp, peanut, a chip, a variety of chocolate bars and portions of sandwiches and pasties.
‘It’s a bit hit and miss,’ she confessed.
‘That’s not a problem,’ I said. ‘It’s just to give people a guide.’
When I gave Bernie the list his raised eyebrows said it all. He handed it to Brenda. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Except more pounds on Peggy, I thought.
So we went ahead. Anyone caught giving Peggy a titbit had to put a calorie fine in a charity box displayed prominently in the bar. The amount of the fine was proportional to the estimated number of calories in the titbit.
Bernie told me later that one teenager, his tongue loosened by too many alcopops, asked whether the slim-in was for Peggy or Brenda and nearly got a pasty in his face as a result. ‘And he wasn’t the first to crack that joke,’ Bernie said. ‘Brenda’s getting quite touchy about it all.’
As co-instigator of the plan I decided it would be wise to steer clear of the Woolpack for a while, just to be on the safe side. If Brenda was getting sensitive about her own weight then I didn’t want to rub it in by asking about Peggy’s and get a pasty in my face for my efforts.
But the finish of another hectic Friday surgery a few weeks later had me over there, cajoled by Eric – just for a quick jar. Or two.
‘You do realise this is becoming a bit of a habit,’ I said.
‘What the heck. You need to wind down a bit. Relax,’ he replied. No mention was made of whether Crystal approved or not. I decided it was best not to ask.
The list and charity box had disappeared. Hmmm … not a good sign, I thought uneasily. Bernie seemed cheerful enough, though did I detect a slight hollowness in his bonhomie? But I had to ask the question. ‘So how did it go?’
‘Well … it sort of worked,’ he said, pulling a face as he pulled our pints.
‘Come on, Bernie. What do you mean “sort of”?’ said Eric.
Bernie shrugged. ‘As soon as the regulars realised how much it was costing them in calorie finds, the titbits stopped.’
‘Well, there you are, our plan worked then. It must have helped Peggy’s diet.’
Bernie flapped his jug ears and looked doubtful. ‘Well, I tell you. Peggy’s not half the dog she used to be.’
I choked on my lager. What was he on about? Not half the dog? Had something gone wrong? Had the dieting upset her?
‘See for yourself,’ said Bernie, raising the bar flap. Unable to control himself any longer, he burst out laughing as Peggy trotted through, the half-dog he’d mentioned … streamlined, fit, half the weight she used to be.
‘She looks fantastic,’ I said. ‘Well done. I bet Brenda’s pleased.’
‘In more ways than one,’ said Bernie still chuckling. He pointed a finger over my shoulder.
‘Good lord,’ spluttered Eric. ‘Who’d have thought …’
I spun round to find Brenda, hands on hips, in a figure-hugging black dress, the figure it hugged being a shadow of its former self. She twisted her hips and gave a little twirl.
‘Good, eh?’ she said. She went on to explain, ‘Lucy was a great help. She lent me all the books on calorie control and seemed to know quite a bit about dieting. I thought it was worth a go. So, what do you think? Do you approve?’
There was a loud woof from Peggy.
‘Sorry,’ added Brenda. ‘I should have included Peggy. Seeing that she was able to lose so many pounds I didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same.’
Except you weren’t snuffling round customers eagerly looking for titbits, I mused. The thought made me smile. I looked down at Peggy. Was she thinking the same? Her lopsided grin suggested she was.
A TURN FOR THE BETTER
It was amazing how those first few weeks at Prospect House flew by, weeks in which I rarely met up with Crystal for more than a brief exchange of pleasantries. No doubt my tête-à-têtes with Eric filtered back to her, though no action had yet been taken regarding the practice cottage. I was kept in the picture as to her movements – Beryl made sure of that. Each day she referred to C
rystal’s list of visits as those ‘special clients’, and Mandy made sure Tuesdays were kept sacrosanct for Crystal’s orthopaedic surgery in particular. It seemed our Dr Sharpe was destined to take the high road through the practice while I took the much humbler track that wound through the routine spays, castrates, dentals and more run-of-the-mill consultations.
So it was with some surprise that she stopped me in the corridor a few days before the summer bank holiday. ‘Paul, I’ve been meaning to have a word,’ she said, flashing me one of her perfect smiles – no overshot jaw or crooked teeth for her. ‘Have you a moment?’
Though a question, it didn’t require an answer. If asked for a moment from Crystal, you had to spare it whether or not there were several anal glands waiting to be expressed in the waiting room. A well-manicured, unvarnished nail pointed to the office. ‘Shall we?’
With the door closed, Crystal gestured to a chair. I sat down while she leaned against the desk, a hand to each side, lightly grasping the edge. She looked immaculate as always, her pale cream linen suit uncreased. How she managed that, I couldn’t fathom, as anything linen I wore very rapidly took on the look of a wrung out dishcloth.
‘So, Paul … you’re finding the job interesting?’ Her fingers strummed lightly.
‘Well, yes,’ I replied, wondering where this was leading.
‘And you’re managing to cope with the workload?’
‘It’s a bit hectic at times. But no more than I expected.’
‘And no other problems?’
I shook my head. There was the question of the night duties and weekend rotas unevenly shared … no practice accommodation … the endless routine ops. But I was sure Crystal didn’t want to hear that.
‘Good. Good.’ Crystal fiddled with the gold band on her left wrist, twisting it round and round. ‘The bank holiday weekend’s coming up.’
I nodded.
‘And you’re on duty.’
No surprise there. I’d been told weeks back that I’d be on call. Crystal and Eric were off on a city break to Venice.
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to cope.’ There was a tinge of uncertainty in her voice which made the hairs on the nape of my neck tingle. Hello. I sensed something was afoot. And I was right when she went on, ‘It’s just that you could be called out by the Richardsons.’ Crystal’s steel-blue eyes glanced away from me and she momentarily chewed her bottom lip. ‘It’s just that they’re a rather … how shall I put it … a rather demanding couple.’
Again, no surprise there. What clients of Crystal’s weren’t demanding? That’s why they were Crystal’s.
‘They refuse to see anybody but me as a rule.’ Two high spots of red appeared on Crystal’s cheeks. ‘Not even Eric. They fell out with him years back. Something to do with vaccinating their dogs,’ she added as if I required an explanation. ‘Sorry. You’re wondering where all this is leading.’
I gave a wan smile and shrugged my shoulders. Wherever it was leading, it didn’t bode well.
Crystal continued, ‘Well, they own this horse. And they’re absolutely potty about her. Quite over the top, to be honest with you.’ Again she paused. ‘Problem is, they put her to stud.’
I inwardly groaned, praying not to hear what I suspected was coming next. But to no avail.
‘She’s due to foal this coming weekend.’
Damn. I just knew it. Crystal saw me wince.
‘Sorry. It’s just one of those things. Of course, the Richardsons are in an absolute tizzy imagining all sorts of horrendous things that could go wrong. And they’re very put out that I’m going to be away at such a crucial time. They even suggested I cancel my holiday and they’d reimburse me for it. Can you imagine?’ She looked apologetically at me. ‘I’ve tried to reassure them that they’ll be in your capable hands should they experience any problems. Hopefully, that situation won’t arise.’
Crystal didn’t sound at all convincing. Nor was I convinced.
‘Has the pregnancy been going OK?’
‘No problems so far, though George Richardson’s imagination’s running wild. He keeps on about breech presentations, eversion of the womb, heart blocks … you know the sort of thing.’
That was just it. I didn’t know and the mere thought of them made my innards feel like they were inverting, let alone those of an expectant mare. ‘I don’t suppose they could be wrong about the timing,’ I said.
Silly of me to suggest it, but then I was clutching at straws. Whole bales of straw … stacks of them to be honest. The look in Crystal’s eyes said it all.
The Saturday of the bank holiday kept me busy what with the influx of visitors to Westcott swelling the usual run of injured or sick cats and dogs. There were a couple of road accident cases, and a dog with a fractured femur which, as Crystal was away, I pinned myself despite oblique suggestions from Mandy that I referred the case; and I was pleased with my efforts.
There was no word from the Richardsons. I began to convince myself that they’d got their dates wrong. Even so, I warned Mandy, the duty nurse for that night, about the possibility of a foaling. So the clamour of Mrs Paget’s phone in the early hours of Sunday morning came as no great surprise. And yes, it was Mandy.
‘Sorry, Paul. But I’ve just had Mr Richardson on. They’re worried about their horse, Clementine. They insist on speaking to you.’ She gave me their number.
Mr Richardson must have been sitting on the phone as he answered it at the first ring. With panic in his voice he said, ‘Clementine’s started. We need help immediately before she dies.’
I could sense his agitation down the phone. It was infectious enough to make my hand start shaking. Get a grip, Paul, I muttered to myself, as I promised to get over as soon as I could. I phoned Mandy back to tell her of my plans.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘Lucy told me to say she’d be happy to help out if you needed her.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll wake her up, shall I?’ It was said as if Mandy relished the thought of doing so … and she probably did, as there was still no love lost between the two of them. ‘I’ll get her to be outside the hospital in ten minutes’ time then,’ she added when I agreed to her coming.
‘Everything all right?’ A voice echoed down from the landing as I put down the phone. Mrs Paget stood at the top of the stairs, her head festooned with pink curlers, a hand clasped to the collar of her nightie, the other pinning a growling Chico to her waist.
‘I’ve got to go out on an emergency. Not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Well, don’t worry. Whatever time it is, you can use the kitchen. We won’t mind, will we, Chico?’ Mrs Paget gave the dog a kiss on his head and stared intently down at me. ‘Anything to help the nice young vet here.’ She continued to study me, her puffy eyes glinting.
I was suddenly aware I was only in boxer shorts and, thanking her, dashed back into my room to get dressed.
Lucy was waiting by the gate as I drove the short distance up the road to Prospect House. She nipped in front of the headlights and slipped into the car. The denim jeans and yellow sweatshirt moulded to her elfin-like figure reminded me how attractive she was. But then I always did like the gamine type.
Crystal had left me directions on how to get to the Richardsons’ place. ‘Well, you never know,’ she’d said, handing me the map she’d drawn. I gave the directions to Lucy while thanking her for offering to help out. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see a foaling.’
Hmm, I thought, preferably one without any complications. I had an uncanny feeling this one was not going to be straightforward. Not by a long chalk.
The Richardsons’ farm was the other side of the Downs, on the outskirts of a village called Ashton. If it hadn’t been for Lucy’s map reading, and her studying the directions with the aid of a small pencil torch, I’d have missed the lane in the dark and overshot the entrance to the farm; but 20 minutes’ drive from Prospect House found ourselves on the farm’s gravel drive, my headlights picking out the tall, angular figure of Ge
orge Richardson as he strode briskly towards us, his arms waving like windmills. Even though it was 3.00am, he was impeccably dressed in tweeds and polished boots.
‘Over here,’ he barked and directed us into a stable-yard with another anxious twirling of his arms. ‘Quick, before we lose her.’
‘Blimey. He’s in a bit of a panic, isn’t he?’ murmured Lucy as I braked sharply. He wasn’t the only one. My chest felt as if a belfry of bats was trying to claw its way out of it. Flit … flit … flutter … flutter … I raced round to the boot of the car to yank out my smock, ropes, disinfectant and black bag.
‘Let me bring those,’ said Lucy.
‘Er … right … fine, ’ I stuttered before dashing after the shadowy figure of Mr Richardson as he marched across to a loose-box, one arm still above his head, his hand beckoning us. He turned as I caught up with him by the door. ‘Could have a breech on our hands,’ he declared, staring at me. Winged eyebrows gave him a questioning look. His eyes bore into me; red-rimmed, they matched the salami-blotched colouring of his cheeks. His shoulders twitched up and down like a crazed mannequin. ‘You’re …?’
‘Mitchell … Paul Mitchell … and this is Lucy.’ I turned as she hurried up, her arms loaded with my gear.
George Richardson gave her a cursory glance before saying, ‘My wife’s with Clementine now. She’s in great pain.’
The wife? I thought momentarily. No, of course, silly, the horse.
‘Has she started foaling down yet?’ I asked.
‘No. But we think she’s about to start any minute now. That’s why we’ve called you out. You don’t think we’d waste your time otherwise, do you?’ George gave another shoulder twitch and shot me and then Lucy a querulous look, his winged eyebrows waving, as he paused, hand on the bolt that secured the lower half of the stable door. The loose-box itself was ablaze with light. He leaned over the door and shouted, ‘Hilary … Dr Sharpe’s stand-in is here.’
I peered in. A middle-aged woman with a face, moist and white like the underside of a fillet of haddock, was pulling on a head collar, determinedly marching round a bay brown mare who was reluctantly shuffling through the paper bedding, a ball of it wrapped round each fetlock.
Pets in a Pickle Page 6