‘Needle must be blunt,’ I declared, throwing it to one side.
I threaded another one. That needle buckled and snapped in half as I tried forcing it through the fish’s flesh. ‘What’s wrong with these bloody needles?’ I said, feeling myself getting hot under the collar, a trickle of sweat running down my back. Though the fish wasn’t in a flap, I certainly was.
Mandy glowered at me, her cheeks a deeper shade of scarlet. ‘It’s not the needles,’ she said.
‘Really?’ My tone was sarcastic.
‘No. Fish have got tough skin. Crystal always uses one of those.’ She pointed to the largest needle at the end of the row. To my mind, it was more suitable for suturing a Great Dane than a fish but I wasn’t going to carp on about it. And if Mandy said …
I still had trouble pulling the wound together. Flakes of flesh kept breaking off, each one accompanied by a tut from the ever-watchful Mandy. The suture material snapped a couple of times, provoking more tuts. I began to feel more like a fish out of water than the wretched fish in front of me. The word ‘flounder’ sprang to mind several times. However, I eventually managed to draw the edges of the wound together and, once sewn up, the orfe was slid back into a bucket of fresh water.
‘Make sure it’s at room temperature,’ Mandy said.
Yes, Mandy, yes, I thought. Otherwise both me and the fish will end up in hot water. How orfe-ful. Yes … well. I jabbed my finger in the bucket. Testing times … testing times …
Now I had to wait while the fish swam back into consciousness. Only it didn’t appear to want to. It remained motionless, floating just under the surface of the water. No sign of life. Not a flicker of tail or fin. Nothing. A bubble of panic rose in my throat. Perhaps the fish had been out of the water too long? Maybe all my poking and prodding had been too much for it?
Mandy hovered into view. Here we go again, I thought. ‘Yes? What is it?’ I snapped.
Mandy pursed her lips and then said, ‘Crystal always bubbles some oxygen through afterwards.’
I was dying to say, ‘Well, Paul doesn’t!’ but realised that would be counterproductive and said, ‘Fetch the machine in then.’
With a smug smile, she marched out and returned, wheeling the anaesthetic trolley behind her. She unhooked the tubing from the oxygen cylinder and immersed the end of it in the bucket, turning on the valve as she did so. Gas immediately began to bubble through the water. With one hand, Mandy moved the tube to direct the gas flow over the fish’s mouth and gills while with the other, she grasped the fish’s tail and propelled it backwards and forwards. Clearly she knew what she was doing. Within minutes, the orfe flicked its tail and shot out of Mandy’s hand, thumped into the side of the bucket and then began to swim round it.
Mr Chang was delighted with the outcome. ‘Thank you velly, velly much,’ he sang. ‘Please come to my restaurant. Meal on me.’
When he’d gone, Beryl said, ‘That will be something to look forward to. I gather they do a very good spread there. Set price for as much as you can eat on Sundays,’ she added as she accompanied me down to the office on her way out for a quick ciggie. ‘King prawns … chop suey … foo yung … the full works.’ She patted her stomach. ‘I guess you’d have to have a strong digestive system to make the most of it.’
‘And if you didn’t, then these could come in handy.’ Mandy had appeared at the doorway, holding up the tube of Alka-Seltzers. ‘They’d soon settle you down.’ She rattled the tube at me.
Hmmmm. It would take more than just tablets, my girl, to settle me down. Much more. I was beginning to appreciate how Lucy felt.
The hot weather continued with no respite. Equally, there was no respite from Blodwyn. Two days after having had her left ear stitched, she was back with a nick in her right one. Lucy was on hand to help control the bull terrier this time. Mandy made sure of that.
‘Had a bit of a set-to with a chihuahua just down the road from here,’ said Mrs Timms as Lucy locked limbs with Blodwyn on the table.
‘A chihuahua? The owner didn’t happen to be a lady with platinum-blonde hair?’ I asked.
‘Why yes … Mrs Paget. Do you know her?’
‘Had digs with her for a while.’
‘Paul …’ Lucy gave me a pleading look as Blodwyn buckled beneath her.
‘Oh, you must be the young man she rather fancied.’ Mrs Timms suddenly stopped and went bright red. ‘Chico’s fine,’ she went on rapidly changing the subject. ‘It’s just Blodwyn.’
‘Paul.’ Lucy’s voice had taken on a more threatening tone.
I quickly turned my attention to the dog.
The tear in the ear was relatively minor. I could have stitched it but wasn’t keen to subject Blodwyn to another anaesthetic so soon after the last one. I explained this to Mrs Timms and we agreed to leave the wound to repair of its own accord. Now both of Blodwyn’s ears drooped.
‘At least they match,’ exclaimed Mrs Timms before she was whisked out of the door. She was whisked back before the end of the week.
‘It’s his eye this time,’ shouted Mrs Timms above a boisterous bark from Blodwyn. I gripped the consulting table to prevent myself from crashing to the floor as Blodwyn careered into me. ‘When I let her out last thing, there was this terrible commotion. I think our neighbour’s cat must have strayed into the garden.’
‘It should have had more sense,’ I muttered as in a sea of flying fur Blodwyn was levered on to the table. On this occasion, both Mandy and Lucy were co-opted to lend a hand. Even so, it was still a struggle with Blodwyn squirming around beneath them. I nervously peered at her partially closed left eye.
‘Did the cat get her?’ asked Mrs Timms.
‘Looks like it.’ I gently pressed on the lower lid to evert the conjunctiva. It was red and swollen. Something protruded. I fetched a pair of artery forceps and holding them up in front of the dog’s face said, ‘Everyone ready?’
‘I guess so,’ replied Lucy, her voice muffled in the hair of Blodwyn’s back. Mandy had one arm under the dog’s chin, forcing her head against her while her free hand was constantly fighting to control the front paws which were skimming to and fro across the table. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ she spluttered.
I cautiously pulled down the lower lid again, opened the teeth of the forceps and fastened them on the foreign body I’d spotted lodged in the conjunctiva. Blodwyn howled. She swung away. Lucy, Mandy and Mrs Timms were dragged across the room in a screech of table legs while I was left holding the evidence – the tip of a cat’s claw.
With still no sign of the heatwave diminishing, another hot, sticky meeting with Blodwyn loomed.
Beryl was apologetic. ‘Sorry, Paul,’ she said. ‘It’s a house visit this time. Mrs Timms just can’t get her in.’
As I stood waiting for Mrs Timms to answer her door, the sun beat ferociously down. Rivulets of sweat ran between my shoulder blades. I shivered despite the heat, not relishing the thought of trying to handle Blodwyn off my own bat.
‘We were up on the Downs,’ said Mrs Timms, ushering me into the lounge. ‘Blodwyn spotted a pheasant and gave chase into the bracken. Now she can hardly stand.’ She stood in front of the fireplace, her hands clicking through the row of pearls round her neck.
This time there was no boisterous greeting from Blodwyn, no shaking of the massive head, no lolling of the tongue. Nothing. She was lying stretched out on the hearth rug, panting heavily, her body quivering. There was only the merest flick of her tail as I bent down to examine her.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘About an hour ago. I heard this yelp and she came rushing back to me. By the time we’d got home she’d collapsed.’ Mrs Timms knelt down and cradled the dog’s head, but it wasn’t necessary. Blodwyn had no interest in what was going on. All her zest, her bounce, had vanished. Clearly something was drastically wrong. But what?
I ran my hand down her back and noticed her left hind leg appeared swollen.
‘Help me roll her over,’ I instructed.
With Blodwyn levered on to her side and her right leg pushed back, I was able to examine the inside of her left thigh where, with less hair, the mottled red and purple bruising was more obvious. As were the two minute puncture wounds.
‘She’s been bitten by an adder,’ I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. ‘That explains her state of shock.’ I opened my black bag. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll get her sorted out.’ I gave Blodwyn an anti-inflammatory injection and promised to visit again the next day.
It was another scorcher.
‘Well, how is she?’ I enquired, standing in the lounge, my shirt wet and sticking to my back – the result of nerves more than the heat. There was no sign of Blodwyn.
Mrs Timms was about to reply when I heard a pounding on the patio … a familiar skittering of nails … a familiar huffing and puffing. I scarcely had time to turn around before 30 kilos of well-muscled bull terrier tore through the French windows and rammed into the back of my legs. I was sent spinning on to the carpet. Tongue lolling, tail wagging furiously, Blodwyn stood over me and gave a deep bay of excitement.
‘Well … well …’ said Mrs Timms with a nervous little laugh. ‘She’s obviously bowled over to see you.’
Still flattened on the carpet, all I could do was grunt – too stumped for a reply.
CYRIL TAKES THE BISCUIT
The spell of hot weather finally broke, and with it the stench of seaweed was washed away by a series of heavy thunderstorms. Instead of hot, panting pooches coming through the surgery, I was subjected to wet, mud-splattered mutts that shook their coats, showering mine in brown spots, before sitting to the commands of their dishevelled owners, both pets and owners quietly steaming.
Indirectly, through those thunderstorms, another creature turned up to disrupt my daily routine.
In the top corner of the Green, just opposite Prospect House, stood an oak tree – just the one solitary specimen and not the best example of its type. The spread of its boughs was far from the one conjured up by royal oaks depicted in the pages of glossy country living magazines. No majestic canopy for this oak – that was never going to happen, as over the years various branches that were deemed a threat to the road alongside had been unceremoniously chopped off, leaving the tree with a decidedly lopsided look. Nevertheless, it was old and had clung on despite the fact it was now surrounded by the suburban sprawl of Westcott. And I certainly enjoyed my glimpses of it from the operating theatre – in the odd moment or two snatched between spays and dentals.
So I was quite sympathetic when Beryl appeared one coffee break waving a piece of paper at me rather than the tail end of her mid-morning cigarette.
‘You’ll sign, won’t you, Paul?’ she said, thrusting the paper at me. ‘It’s a petition to save the oak tree on the Green. After all, it’s part of Westcott’s heritage … it needs to be protected.’ She gave me a one-eyed glare and pushed a pen under my nose.
As I added my signature to the long list, I noticed several familiar names, including those of Cynthia Paget and the Adams from over at the Woolpack. My, my … Beryl had certainly been busy. Didn’t realise such passion lurked under that thick crust of make-up.
‘To think, it’s been here all these hundreds of years,’ Beryl was saying. ‘Cynthia reckons Elizabeth I could have ridden under it. Had a tryst or two with her Earl of Leicester.’
That, I thought, was stretching credulity. Cynthia must have been reading too many historical romances. Even if good Queen Bess had chosen to visit this area – and several manors in West Sussex laid claim to her having slept at least one night in their house – Westcott in her day would have been non-existent, just sheep pasture with a few tracts of woodland. Besides which, the oak would have been just a sapling – more likely to be ridden over than under. Still, I didn’t want to dent any romantic illusions so I nodded in agreement.
‘And, of course, the local dogs love it,’ I said thinking in more practical terms. I knew it was the daily highlight of Mrs Paget’s outing – or rather that of her chihuahua, Chico. He always made a beeline for the tree, saving his full bladder until he could cock his leg as high up the tree’s bole as he could lift it. No doubt while she daydreamed of a tryst with Dudley.
‘What’s this about dogs?’ It was Eric. He’d bounded in, somewhat breathless.
‘We we talking about the oak on the Green,’ said Beryl.
‘Oh, that old thing. Absolute menace. Should have been chopped down yonks ago.’
I saw Beryl’s eye contract, her lips followed suit; she was clearly squaring up for battle. ‘Er … Eric …’ I said, in an attempt to forestall a confrontation but Eric had got the wind behind him and was in full sail.
He looked from Beryl to me. ‘In fact, that’s why I’m late. There’s some nutters from the local history society parading round out there with banners, blocking the road, causing a traffic jam. Absolute waste of time if you ask me.’
‘I was about to,’ said Beryl, the tone of her voice decidedly cutting – it could have felled the oak in one stroke.
Oh Lord, I thought. If the tree wasn’t for the chop, then Eric certainly was.
‘You were?’ said Eric, still unaware of his impending toppling. ‘So what’s this all about?’ He took the sheet of paper Beryl had been waving at him and was just about to read it when Crystal appeared. My Julie Andrews, as always, smart, bubbly, breezing in on a cloud of delicate perfume. Gorgeous. Mum, you’ve a lot to answer for.
She intervened. ‘It’s Beryl’s petition to save the oak. I’ve already signed. Must do our bit, Eric.’
‘We certainly must, mustn’t we?’ Beryl was jabbing the biro at Eric like a rapier in a duel. ‘So you’ll sign?’
‘Of course he will,’ said Crystal, flashing her a smile.
Of course he will, I thought.
‘Of course I will,’ said Eric, snatching up the pen with a grunt and dashing off his signature – an illegible scrawl.
‘And print your name next to it,’ said Beryl, head on one side, watching him like a hawk – a one-eyed one.
He duly obliged.
In the event, he needn’t have bothered. In the last of the thunderstorms of that week, the oak was struck by lightning; it split in two, with one half collapsing on to the Green, the other leaning precariously over the road. There was no question of its preservation other than as firewood. The council were in like a bevy of beavers, the whine of their chainsaws echoing through Prospect House all morning. As the tree went out of our life so the baby squirrel came in to it.
Two young lads, wearing baseball caps and Harry Potter T-shirts brought him in. He’s been rescued from the hollow bole of the oak as the last of it was felled.
I carefully opened the shoe-box they’d slid on to the consulting table, parted the cotton wool and stared down at the vivid pink-skinned creature barely two inches long curled up inside. The most conspicuous features were the dark bulges of unopened eyes and huge, claw-like feet.
‘It was in a large sort of nest,’ chirruped one of the boys, standing on tiptoe to peer into the box.
‘But we don’t think it was a bird’s nest,’ said the other lad, leaning over his friend’s shoulder. ‘And it doesn’t look like a bird.’
‘Of course it’s not a bird,’ hissed his mate, squirming round. ‘It’s got four legs. Birds have only got two.’
‘I know that. I’m not daft.’
‘So it’s not a bird.’
‘Didn’t say it was.’
‘It’s a baby squirrel,’ I said, hastily intervening.
‘There. Told you it wasn’t a bird,’ said the shorter of the boys, looking up at his friend.
‘But you didn’t know what it was,’ he retorted.
‘Nor did you.’
‘Didn’t say I did. I just knew it wasn’t a bird.’
‘Anyone could have worked that out, dick-head.’
‘Now, now … boys. Let’s decide what we do with the squirrel, shall we?’ I tapped the side of the box. The boys fell
silent and stared up at me from beneath the brims of their caps.
‘Would either of you be able to look after him?’
Both shook their heads. Hmmm – I was afraid this was going to happen. But no doubt Beryl could track down a local animal rescue centre with the expertise to rear a baby squirrel. But I hadn’t reckoned on Lucy.
‘Ah, isn’t he sweet!’ she declared as soon as she set eyes on him. All talk of rescue centres was dismissed as she set about constructing an artificial drey from an empty drugs carton with an infra-red lamp suspended above it.
‘Cyril needs two-hourly feeding to start with,’ she informed me.
‘Cyril?’
‘Cyril – squirrel. Why not?’
Hmmm. It would be Lucky Ducky and Turkey Lurky next if we weren’t too careful. Though I wouldn’t mind a juicy Lucy.
‘Paul?’
‘Sorry. Just thinking … what are you going to feed him on?’
‘Milkocat,’ said Lucy, her voice full of confidence. She brandished a tin of milk powder in front of me.
‘That’s for rearing kittens,’ I said a tad too smugly.
She glowered at me. ‘I’m well aware of that. But I’m sure it will do the trick.’
I was far from convinced. ‘And how do you propose to get the stuff into him? It’s not going to be easy.’ God, I was beginning to sound like a real Jonah.
‘With this,’ she said waving a pipette at me.
I was about to tell her that she’d find it difficult but decided I’d said enough already. Let her find out for herself.
She did. ‘Blast!’ she swore as milk shot across the squirrel’s mouth and squirted out the other side.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said looking daggers at me.
I held up my hands. ‘Didn’t say a word.’
‘Didn’t have to.’
I don’t think she really knew what I was thinking. My little juicy Lucy.
Pets in a Pickle Page 10