She immediately spotted the parcel I was carrying under one arm, its contents wrapped in a white carrier bag. I could see she was dying to ask what it was.
I wasn’t going to tell her just yet. ‘Spoils of war,’ I said mysteriously. ‘From the enemy lines. Just need to pop it in the fridge for the time being.’ That had been my plan, but I hadn’t thought it through properly. Nor had I predicted the consequences of what could happen in the event of it being discovered – or rather uncovered.
The fridge was home to the vaccines and the cartons of milk used for coffee and tea. It was inevitably going to be opened several times during the course of the afternoon. And we are all curious. So I should not have been surprised that when 4.00pm came and we were in the office having tea, with everyone present – Crystal, Eric, Beryl and me – knowing the bag contained a large hand of pork. And everyone had read the attached ticket inside saying, ‘Many thanks from the Rymans’. I dare say Mandy and Lucy also knew but they were down in the prep room having their break separately.
Crystal was the first to mention it, addressing Eric from behind the desk as she did so. ‘You didn’t tell me the Rymans had had a problem.’
Eric’s mug twitched in his hand, tea slopped over the side. ‘It was their sow … Miss Piggy.’ He shuffled his feet and scraped his chair back a little from the desk.
‘What was wrong with her?’ Crystal leaned forward, elbows either side of her mug, hands folded above it.
Eric seemed to flinch. ‘A difficult farrowing, I believe.’
Crystal’s eyes narrowed. ‘You believe?’ She sat up straight, her hands parted, her fingertips formed a pyramid.
I almost felt the urge to say, ‘My Lord,’ and come to Eric’s defence. Beryl was agog, a jury of one, her head twisting from Crystal to Eric as each of them spoke.
‘Well, yes it was. A difficult farrowing,’ admitted Eric. He gave me a pleading look.
Now what part did I play in this little drama? If anything, I was piggy-in-the-middle. Did I now save his bacon or my own?
But I needn’t have worried. Crystal’s customary shrewdness and ability to suss out a situation seemed to be completely out of kilter on this occasion, possibly due to lack of evidence. I could thank Beryl for that. Crystal assumed Eric had successfully dealt with the case and that the hand of pork was intended for them. ‘The Rymans cure their own pork,’ she said as an aside to me. ‘And very good it is, too. Maybe you’ll get the chance to try some one day.’
For once, despite those gorgeous eyes, I didn’t feel like skipping up a mountain with her – more like pushing her over the side.
Later, as I was just about to leave, Eric expressed his thanks.
‘You saved my bacon,’ he said. ‘Much appreciated.’ He patted the plastic bag under his arm. ‘Sorry about this. But if it’s any consolation, it’s a side of Hogmanay.’
‘Hogmanay?’
‘Miss Piggy’s brother. Had to treat him for foot-rot not so long ago. Alex said he’d be next in line for the chop. I reckon he’ll be tough as old boots.’ He chuckled. ‘Least it will give Crystal something to chew over.’
Yes, indeed. Oh yes, indeed. Odl lay hee hee.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A DAME
The basic routines at Prospect House continued without too many interruptions. I accepted one never knew from day to day what illnesses, accidents and distraught owners might alter the pattern of those routines. Certainly the Wednesday morning for Crystal’s tennis and the afternoon for Eric’s golf remained sacrosanct. Tuesday mornings continued to be kept by for Crystal’s ops. And Beryl masterminded the appointments to ensure Crystal saw her specials and anyone else Beryl thought merited Crystal’s ‘kid glove’ approach. Eric and I were left to mop up the rest – the ‘rubber glove’ end of the spectrum.
Despite Beryl’s control over appointments, it didn’t always work out the way she would have liked. One Wednesday morning, she was definitely overwhelmed … star-struck, even … in awe … completely bedazzled.
‘Paul, you’ll never guess,’ she crowed, flying into the prep room where I was discussing the morning’s list of spays and castrations with Mandy, having finished my appointments earlier than anticipated. ‘I’ve got the actress from that TV series up in reception … insisting she been seen.’ She saw my blank face. ‘You know … whatshername …’ She flapped her hands and tutted with exasperation. ‘Oh, you’ll know her when you see her.’
Oh really, I thought. Who said I was seeing her?
Mandy dropped the pack of swabs she was holding. ‘I’m going to take a peek,’ she said, bumping into Lucy just as she was entering the room. ‘Hey, Lucy, we’ve got someone from TV up in reception,’ she said her voice already sounding star-struck.
‘Oooh, I’ll come as well then,’ said Lucy and the two of them rapidly elbowed each other out of the room leaving Beryl to dance around the prep table.
‘Her name’s on the tip of my tongue,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll recognise her.’
‘I shall?’
‘Yes … I think she’d like to be seen now … and as you finished your appointments early today, I thought you’d jump at the chance. You know … rub shoulders with someone famous. It’s Crystal’s morning off, otherwise I’m sure she would have seen her,’ she added pointedly.
‘Whoever she might be,’ I said dryly.
‘It will come to me. I can picture her now. I’m sure she was in one of those costume dramas on BBC.’
‘Pride and Prejudice?’
‘Is that the one where that chap walks out of the lake, his breeches dripping wet?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was a great series … very well done. I really enjoyed it.’
‘She was in that then?’
‘No she wasn’t.’
‘The Mayor of Casterbridge?’
‘No.’
‘Vanity Fair?’
‘Never saw that one.’ Beryl clasped her chin. ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue.’ Several classics later and running out of titles I was still none the wiser and about to give up when she said, ‘Beat the Clock. That was it.’
‘What?’
‘She used to be on Sunday Night at the London Palladium with that … er … Bruce Forsythe.’
It didn’t mean much to me as it was way before my time. Sixties stuff I think. But I did know it had been a variety show – certainly not a costume drama. I pointed this out.
‘So?’ Beryl fired a look at me that could have stopped a charging rhino in its tracks. ‘It was still a series.’
It’s nice not to argue, to argue’s … not nice. So I didn’t say a word.
When Mandy and Lucy returned, they looked disappointed. Neither had recognised the woman, though Mandy thought she might have seen her in an advert for cat food, but wasn’t sure.
Whatever, this so-called celebrity of Beryl’s was clearly not A-list – more Z by the sound of it. When I went up to reception to meet her, however, the act she put on suggested she thought she was way above the likes of those who advertised cat food, even if it were top quality, came wrapped in silver foil and was fit for a queen.
‘Daaaahling,’ she drawled in a mid-Atlantic accent, an arm flamboyantly flung out to greet me as she strode across reception. ‘If you could see me now I’d be so, so grateful.’
It was so, so very Katherine Hepburn that I half expected her to have a leopard on a lead as the actress did in Bringing Up Baby when co-starring with Cary Grant. Now that would have been something. I could picture the headlines in the Westcott Gazette: YOUNG VET TREATS LEOPARD OF FAMOUS ACTRESS. Not that I considered myself a Cary Grant. More a Carry On – a Sid James sort.
‘I’m Francesca Cavendish,’ the woman was saying. ‘You may have seen something of me on TV.’
A woman on a sofa with a leopard … sorry – a cat … purring round her legs waiting for her to open a pouch of tuna. Yes; maybe I had.
This Francesca Cavendish was certainly theatrical in appearance, though
the vibrant clashes of colours and styles made her, to my mind, more a dame of the pantomime rather than the theatre. The crimson, blue and yellow turban, from which a cowlick of blue and grey hair hung across her forehead could have come from Ali Baba; the purple corduroy breeches were very Prince Charming; and the brown leather boots laced to the knees recalled Dick Whittington. It was difficult to place an age on her. Beryl had reckoned on seeing her in Beat the Clock, and I guessed the woman was still trying to do just that: arrest the march of time. Her face was wrinkle-free, no loose chins, the skin drawn taunt over prominent cheek bones as if it had been gathered up in a knot and tied beneath her turban. The porcelain features were given further doll-like attributes by ruby-red lips, the large bottom one of which constantly dropped down, and long, false eyelashes that fluttered like bats’ wings at me.
Beryl had bustled back in and was now tapping details into the computer. Francesca Cavendish gave an address in Belgravia, London. ‘I’m just down here for the summer …’ she explained, pushing back the loop of a blue pashmina shawl that hung from her shoulder, ‘… resting.’
Beryl insisted on having her ‘resting’ address which was a block of flats behind the multi-storey car-park off Westcott’s seafront.
Cat ads finished then, I thought. Now, now, put your claws away, Paul.
‘So you will see me?’
‘I can squeeze you in.’
‘So kind.’ The bats’ wings gave another frenzied flap. ‘I’ll just get the chauffeur to bring my Oscar in then.’
What? An Oscar? Was this actress more talented than I’d imagined? Francesca Cavendish turned and gracefully floated across to the open front door, the ends of her pashmina billowing behind her. Here she paused, hand on her hip, and beckoned. A minute or so later, a man appeared carrying a dog that looked like a small, fluffed-up cushion. It was a bundle of white, silky-haired, from which peered two button-black, red-rimmed eyes. Not quite the Oscar I’d had in mind. I recognised the man as being the taxi driver who’d brought me up from the station for my interview. He looked at me and winked as he handed the dog over to Miss Cavendish.
‘If you’d be so good as to wait in the car, I’m sure this won’t take long,’ she said to him, giving Oscar a kiss on the head as she gathered the dog up in her arms, enfolding him in one end of the shawl.
‘If you’d like to come this way,’ I said, resisting the urge to bow and point down the corridor with bent elbow whilst apologising for the lack of a red carpet.
In the consulting room, Francesca Cavendish billowed to a halt in front of the table and ran a finger along its surface, her bottom lip seesawing up and down as she then inspected her finger, rubbing it with her thumb.
‘You can put Oscar down if you wish,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly safe. He won’t catch anything.’
‘I’d prefer to hold on to him if you don’t mind,’ she replied with a sniff. ‘One can’t be too careful. You hear of MSRA and all that in our hospitals. I dread to think what Oscar could pick up.’ She gave the wrapped bundle a squeeze. She glanced about the room, her eyes alighting on my degree certificate framed on the wall. ‘Yours?’ she queried.
I nodded.
She studied it for a moment. ‘Says you qualified this year.’
I nodded again.
‘So your experience is somewhat limited then.’
Ouch. What could I say? I knew precisely what I would have liked to have said but this one-time pedlar of cat food would certainly not like to hear it. Instead, I cleared my throat softly before speaking. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Darling boy … it’s not what you can do for me, but what you can do for Oscar here.’
Wow. I don’t know about beating the clock, but my ticker certainly started beating extra to the minute. It was pounding in my chest. I smiled wanly and leaned across the table, endeavouring to spot the dog, lost in layers of pashmina. I’d heard her tell Beryl that Oscar was a Maltese terrier, five years old, doctored, with a sensitive disposition and wary of men. Great. All I could see was a head – silky white hair tied over it in a blue bow matching the colour of the shawl, button-black eyes, and lips that drew back in a snarl the closer I leaned. The snarl revealed an undershot jaw with a line of yellow teeth like a row of rotting palings just waiting to impale me with their own mix of MRSA. Miss Cavendish seemed oblivious to the dribble seeping into her pashmina.
‘So what seems to be the problem?’ I asked.
‘That’s for you to find out, sweetie,’ she drawled.
Tick, tick went my cardiac clock, ever faster.
‘My usual vet is Mr Scott-Thomas up in Bayswater,’ she went on. ‘Such a nice man … very experienced … very understanding. His son is a casting director for TV reality shows like Wenches in the Wilderness and Cast Adrift in the South Pacific – that sort of thing. I’ve been approached, you know.’
Not wishing to rock her boat, I feigned interest while wishing I could cast her off my premises and get her to sail in the direction of Bayswater and Scott-Thomas senior. But as Miss Cavendish pointed out, it was rather a distance to travel and for something so trivial … something she thought a provincial vet should be able to deal with. And if it turned out to be something more serious, then, of course, she’d have no hesitation in breaking her ‘rest’ and taking Oscar back up to London.
Having listened to all this, I reached out to pat Oscar’s head with the vague notion of establishing some sort of rapport, some sort of contact. I certainly got the latter when a mouthful of teeth sunk themselves into my palm. I snatched my hand away half-expecting a shower of broken incisors to follow.
‘There, there …’ cooed Miss Cavendish, ‘did the doctor frighten you? He’s not like our nice Mr Scott-Thomas, is he? Now there’s a doctor who knows how to treat us.’
I felt a red glow spread through me, like molten lava welling up. A Mount Vesuvius on the point of erupting. It was only the sudden appearance of Lucy that stopped me from exploding.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Paul, but we’ve got an RTA on our hands. Cynthia Paget’s just rushed in with her chihuahua. He’s been hit by a car.’
I looked at Miss Cavendish. ‘Do you mind taking a seat a moment? I must check this out.’ I didn’t wait for a reply but dashed out behind Lucy and ran down to the theatre where I found Mandy who had Chico lying prostrate on the ops table, his pale little body looking lost on the vast expanse of the white surface. She’d a drip already set up, the needle waiting to be inserted. But as I skidded to a halt, Chico’s breathing was coming in rattling gasps and a trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. I lifted a lip, noted the blanched gums. The pupils of his eyes were widely dilated and fixed. As I lifted my stethoscope to listen to his chest, there was one final sigh and his ribcage dropped. A tremor twitched through his legs … his flanks quivered, then … stillness. Chico was dead.
A wave of sadness swept through me. Despite the little chap’s habit of going for my ankles, he’d been a good companion for Mrs Paget. She was going to miss him terribly.
‘Do you want me to tell her?’ volunteered Mandy.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I think I should.’
I found Mrs Paget sitting in reception, Beryl’s arm round her. She looked up, eyes red and swollen, her face streaked with tears, a handkerchief balled in her fist.
‘He’s gone, hasn’t he?’ she whispered.
I nodded. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘There was nothing we could do to save him.’
Mrs Paget let out another heart-wrenching sob. ‘Can I see him, please?’
It was Beryl who intervened. ‘Yes, of course, Cynthia. You just wait here a minute.’ She got up, her eyes also glistening with tears. ‘I’ll see to it, Paul. You’ve got that actress woman still to deal with.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, sure. Go on,’ she insisted, giving me a slight push in the direction of the consulting room.
Francesca Cavendish rose to her feet as I entered. ‘Darling, ho
w dreadful,’ was her response when I told her of Chico’s demise. Did I detect some sympathy there? But that soon evaporated when I instructed her to put Oscar on the table. Take one … scene one … Action!
‘You sure it’s clean, darling? I don’t want Oscar catching a nasty bug.’ Cut.
‘It’s disinfected between each consultation. Please put him on the table.’ Take two, and … Action!
‘The disinfectant could harm his paws. He’s got very sensitive feet you know.’ Cut.
I pointed. ‘On the table. Please.’ Take three, and … Action!
‘He might slip and slide about.’ Cut.
I clicked my fingers. ‘On the table.’ Take four.
Yes. This time it was in the can. Oscar was unpeeled from the pashmina and lowered on to the table. He was not a pretty sight. No film or TV role would ever be offered to this undersized specimen of a Maltese terrier with his lumpy, matted coat and pink skin, confetti-scattered with scurf. He immediately started bucking about the table like a pantomime horse on speed. Miss Cavendish swept him up into her pashmina again and said, ‘You’ll have to manage with me holding him.’
‘Let’s start again then, shall we? What seems to be the problem?’
This time a straight answer was given. ‘He can’t walk properly.’
‘He’s lame?’
‘That’s my idea of someone who can’t walk, sweetie.’
Oh dear. We were off again. Must be the artistic temperament. Or just plain rudeness. Whatever, I chose to ignore it. ‘So which leg’s he lame on?’
There was a theatrical shrug of the shoulders. ‘I’m no vet.’
Keep calm, Paul, keep calm. I walked round the side of the table and held out my hand. ‘May I?’ I said indicating the pashmina with the yellow teeth sticking out of it.
‘If you insist.’
‘I do.’
‘Very well then.’
There was a snarl – one that emanated from Oscar rather than Francesca Cavendish – as I slid my hand into the folds of the shawl and eased out Oscar’s front paws. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I murmured.
Pets in a Pickle Page 13