Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  ‘Hello. What’s your name?’

  ‘Thomas,’ said the boy shyly.

  ‘Well, Thomas, you’ve a nice quiet dog here.’

  The boy’s face creased in a frown for a moment. ‘Actually, Cindy’s not really mine. She’s my dad’s.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m sure you help to look after her.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do,’ said the boy with a grin. ‘I’m allowed to feed her. But I have to be careful ’cos she’s very greedy. Dad says she’ll get too fat otherwise.’

  ‘Do you take her for walks?’ Cindy’s head twisted to one side, her ears pricking up.

  ‘Oh yes. She chases rabbits on the Downs.’

  ‘Does she now?’

  ‘I know she shouldn’t and I do try to stop her. Honest.’ Thomas put a protective arm round the Labrador’s neck. ‘Don’t I, Cindy?’ He kissed her on the head and she turned to lick his face.

  I liked the rapport evident between the boy and the dog. The Labrador seemed in peak condition – shining coat, bright, clear eyes, and slim, no doubt from all that rabbit chasing. Yes, I decided, Cindy would be the overall winner. Second place I’d give to a little girl’s Peruvian guinea pig – a fine specimen, its hair smartly spiked in whorls of tan, black and white. And third would be an elderly Border Collie who spent the entire time snoozing, oblivious of the uproar around her. Whether she was well trained or just dog-tired and counting sheep I couldn’t tell. But her teenage owner, despite his jeans with knees protruding and gold rings clipped in all visible orifices, seemed very fond of the old girl – and that’s what counted with me.

  Keeping my head down, I skirted past Mr Lucas and his Red Setter, side-stepped Jane Bradshaw with difficulty and tiptoed away from Miss McEwan, though I didn’t escape the notice of sharp-eyed Cedric who emitted an extra loud raspberry as I made my escape.

  I told the girl of my choice, handing her the list.

  ‘Well, if you really think so,’ she said dubiously, scanning the three names.

  Puzzled at her reaction, I watched her hurry away.

  The prizes were to be presented on the terrace where a space had been cleared for owners and their pets to parade. We all spilled out from the glade like battered bats, dazzled by the strong sunshine. The band struck up a discordant ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ as the Boxer took a chunk out of the haunch of the Jack Russell; the poodle panicked, slipped from the trouser-suited lady’s arms, knocked the spotty lad’s bowl from his, which sent the goldfish flying – only to be snapped up by Mr Lucas’s Red Setter with a smack of lips while Cedric shrieked with laughter.

  Just as well the fish hadn’t been a prize winner.

  With owners and pets lined up in front of the terrace with Miss McEwan head and shoulders below but several feet ahead of the others, the last, excruciating notes of the band faded away.

  The vicar strode forward, a large benevolent smile curled across a full-moon face framed in a shock of sandy hair. ‘So sorry not to have introduced myself earlier,’ he whispered, shaking my hand vigorously while thrusting a mike in the other. ‘But please do announce the winners.’ He stepped back and stood, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted to one side, waiting.

  Miss McEwan waved her purse to and fro, Mr Lucas bared his gleaming white tombstones while Jane Bradshaw’s right forefinger repeatedly jabbed the beefy biceps of her left arm.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure …’ I said, waving the microphone inches below my chin. The Tannoy hissed and crackled feebly.

  ‘Speak up, mate,’ someone called out from the back. ‘We can’t hear you.’

  The vicar jolted from his meditative stance and sprung behind the band. ‘Is that any better?’ I heard him call out.

  I cleared the frog in my throat. The sound leapt out of the Tannoy like an army of frogs in jack boots. The front row visibly flinched, but I continued, saying how gratifying it was to have had so many entries – a raspberry from Cedric here – and what a high standard and how difficult it had been to decide on the three winners – another raspberry – but here were the three winners in reverse order – silence from Cedric at this point. I called out the third and second prize winners and they received their envelopes of money amidst polite applause.

  ‘And now for the Champion Pet …’ I paused for dramatic effect, keeping my eyes off the three mafiosi in front of me. ‘This goes to a little lad and his Labrador, Cindy. Would Thomas Venables kindly step up.’

  An audible murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. I looked at the vicar whose mouth had dropped open, his face rapidly turning puce.

  The lad emerged from the crowd and trotted up on to the terrace, Cindy trotting beside him. ‘Here, Dad, could you hold on to Cindy while I collect my prize?’ he said, handing the Labrador’s lead to the vicar, who dithered a moment before taking the dog. Cindy greeted him with a frenzied wag of her tail.

  The applause was muted as Thomas received his envelope of money and I even thought I heard someone shout, ‘Fixed!’ Certainly Miss McEwan, Mr Lucas and Jane Bradshaw never clapped. They were mentally knifing me by the look of daggers in their eyes. And even Reverend Charles had a hint of steel in the look he gave me as he bade me farewell. Clearly, he was not over the moon about my decision despite the beneficent smile fixed to his face.

  If I expected sympathy for my faux pas, I was sadly mistaken. Beryl crowed with laughter when I related the events of the afternoon. Eric bounced up and down with a chuckle. Lucy and Mandy just showed how immature they both were by rolling around, clutching themselves and howling, tears streaming down their faces.

  Only Crystal showed a decent level of concern and sympathy – just as I would have expected of such a cool, calm, elegant lady.

  ‘Poor boy,’ she said, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder, those gorgeous blue eyes of hers gazing tenderly into mine. ‘What an ordeal it must have been.’ Her lips started to quiver, her eyes began to glisten. ‘I’m sorry, Paul … but …’ she choked. She bit her lip … a tear rolled down. There, see? She knew just how I’d felt. Any minute now, more tears of sympathy would begin to roll. And they did – in bucketloads – as, unable to fight them back, she dissolved in tears of laughter.

  I got all huffy. Petulant. If she was going to act like that, well bye-bye, Julie Andrews. See if I cared.

  She was no longer one of my favourite things.

  LUCY PROVES A POINT

  By the time summer slipped into early autumn, Lucy and I had slipped into a comfortable routine of living together. We were lucky to have Willow Wren with its long, snaking back garden, the picturesque village setting and the kindly neighbours – Joan and Doug Spencer next door and, across the way, the well-meaning reverend, James Matthews and his wife, Susan. She’d been very understanding about the demise of her sponge cake. ‘It was obviously not meant to be,’ she’d said, casting her eyes heavenwards.

  Work, too, was a factor which drew Lucy and me closer together. Though often hectic, chaotic and traumatic, our mutual love of animals and concern for their welfare was a common bond. If ever the pressures of working at Prospect House seemed to be reaching boiling point in one of us, the other was there to talk it through, help ease the tension, get things back on an even keel.

  But in the last few weeks, there’d been something on Lucy’s mind. She’d been distinctly less chirpy and somewhat snappy, flaring up at the slightest thing. It was so unlike her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Luce?’ I’d asked on several occasions. But each time it was met with a shrug, a ‘Nothing’, and a quick change of subject; or worse – a stony silence.

  This afternoon was a good example. Earlier, even though I’d just got back from a busy morning surgery, I’d offered to prepare lunch. There was an Italian ready meal in the freezer which needed eating up.

  ‘Why is it when you offer to do lunch, it’s a ready meal?’ Lucy complained. Ah – fair point, I suppose. Echoes of my days at Mrs Paget’s when my time in her kitchen was strictly
limited and ready meals were the only option.

  ‘Well, I’ll rustle up an omelette then,’ I’d said to Lucy. We usually had a small but steady supply of eggs from Bertha and Belinda, our two Rhode Island Reds that Lucy had acquired as part of out burgeoning menagerie.

  ‘They’ve just gone off lay, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she replied. ‘We’ve no eggs unless someone bothers to go to the supermarket.’ The ‘someone’ was clearly emphasised – the inference that it would be her was yet again obvious. Tetchy, without a doubt. I don’t know about chickens being off lay, but I was certainly feeling distinctly hen-pecked.

  Ah, yes, Paul, I remonstrated to myself, should have looked in the fridge first. Careful now. Better watch my step – seems I might be treading on eggshells even if there aren’t any eggs.

  A compromise was eventually reached – spaghetti bolognese. At least it showed more effort on my part; the spaghetti and mince needed cooking, even if the sauce did come out of a jar. The meal was eaten in silence.

  That silence continued during the afternoon as we took the opportunity of savouring the warmth of the September sunshine, lying on loungers in the back garden. But it did nothing to dispel the chill between us. Pity, as it really was a glorious day. One of those early autumn days, misty in the morning, a touch of mellowness in the air, a hint of gold and red in the trees and colour still in the borders. We had clumps of purple Michaelmas daisies over which the occasional Red Admiral flitted, a second flush of yellow roses over the back door, and a tree still laden with rosy apples, many of which had dropped and on which wasps were feeding, getting drunk on the juice.

  One such inebriated insect was now spiralling over me in ever-decreasing circles, likely at any moment to land in a drunken sprawl on my head. I flicked it away. It headed across to Lucy, who was sitting a few feet from me, legs tucked under her, staring into space. She was like a coiled spring awaiting release. The tension was almost palpable.

  Suddenly, she broke the silence. ‘Where did that come from?’

  For a moment, I thought she was referring to the wasp and was tempted to say, ‘From the apples’, but checked myself. Drunken wasps were difficult enough to cope with, let alone barbed comments flying between us.

  ‘What?’ I feigned confusion. Not too difficult to do as, despite the coldness emanating from Lucy, the warm sun was making me feel quite mellow – almost as mushy as the rotting apples. Certainly not waspish.

  ‘That creature.’

  ‘Creature. What creature?’ Were we talking more wasps here? Or a bee perhaps – the one in Lucy’s bonnet.

  A finger was pointed at a spot below me. ‘Under your lounger.’

  I rolled to one side and looked under. A pair of yellow eyes belonging to a small tortoiseshell cat looked up. She cringed back as I shifted my weight. ‘Why, it’s a cat.’

  Lucy’s sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose. She peered over them, her hazel eyes hard as nuts. ‘You don’t have to be a vet to see that.’

  Ouch. I was stung – and the wasp was nowhere in sight. This really wasn’t the Lucy I’d fallen in love with. Just what was wrong with her?

  ‘Well?’ By the tone of her voice, winter had definitely arrived early. ‘What’s it doing there?’

  I could have been facetious and said ‘Having a cat nap’ or ‘Having kittens – like me’. But such witticisms are best handled by the likes of Noël Coward and, as I was feeling more coward than Noël, I decided to keep the catty comments to myself. Instead, in the best traditions of the British in times of crises, I asked Lucy if she’d like a cup of tea. It didn’t work. The cat, rather than the cuppa, was uppermost in her mind.

  ‘Is it one you’ve sneaked home from the surgery without telling me?’

  I began to bridle. ‘Sneaked home? Why on earth should I do that? We’ve enough of a menagerie here as it is with all your lot.’ Whoops. That was the wrong thing to say – even if true. Nelson the deaf Jack Russell, the three cats, the assortment of guinea pigs, rabbits, pheasants and ferrets had all been acquired by Lucy – Gertie the goose was the only exception.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the lounger. ‘Look, Lucy. I had a hectic surgery this morning. A chock-ablock appointments’ list. The last thing I’d have felt like doing was bringing a cat home with me. OK?’ I peered under the lounger again. The tortoiseshell had shrunk back even further, frightened by my raised voice. ‘Perhaps it’s come from next door.’ That was hardly likely as Doug Spencer had told me that, although he was fond of cats, his wife wouldn’t tolerate them in the house. Joan did upholstery and was afraid a cat would damage her fabrics.

  ‘I’m sorry, puss, but you’re not wanted,’ I went on. ‘So I suggest you bugger off and find somewhere else.’ The cat remained crouched, back arched, with no indication of moving on. ‘Well, it’s your choice,’ I muttered, flopping back on the lounger. ‘But don’t expect any sympathy. It’s in short supply round here at the moment.’

  There was the click of sunglasses as Lucy snatched hers off, folded them and jumped up to storm indoors. I was hoping it was just a storm in a teacup, and that she’d return with just tea in a cup, but somehow I knew more than tea was brewing. If only she’d discuss what was troubling her instead of letting things stew.

  ‘Right, the coast’s clear, mate,’ I said, tapping the side of the lounger. The cat slunk out and padded slowly across the patio, pausing to look back at me. She was a pretty little thing – short-haired, her coat a patchwork of golden brown, black and white with an appealing black patch over one eye and four white socks. ‘Shouldn’t hang around if I were you. More than your life’s worth … even if you have got nine of them. Go on, scram.’ I clapped my hands and the little cat shot over the wall into the Spencer’s garden. Oh dear, not the best of moves. No warm welcome there I feared.

  It was Beryl who gave me some inkling of what was troubling Lucy. ‘It’s to do with Mandy,’ she informed me. We were sitting by the back door of Prospect House, making the most of the continuing good weather – a bonus for Beryl as it made it easier for her to smoke out in the open. On wet days, she had to keep the door ajar and flick the ash out into the rain.

  ‘Yes,’ she said watching a curl of smoke drift up into the forget-me-not blue sky before taking another drag. ‘Heard them arguing down in the prep room. Mandy was in one of her preachy moods. You know how she is sometimes.’

  I did indeed, having often been subjected to her ‘bossy boots’ manner myself. But then she did know her stuff. And Lucy was here to learn. But obviously something was rattling her as she went round with such a long face she could have scraped her chin on the floor.

  Eric never noticed. But then Eric never would. Ever the affable chap, life to him was a ball. He could take whatever you threw at him. If he didn’t like it – no sweat – he’d just let it bounce off him. Take his tiff with Alex Ryman – his golfing buddy on Wednesday afternoons – their friendship was soon back on course. No lasting handicap there. So I knew Lucy would have to be far below par before Eric would notice.

  Not so Crystal. She had a canny instinct for knowing when things weren’t quite right, so I wasn’t surprised when she broached the subject with me.

  ‘Thought I’d have a word with you first, Paul,’ she said, ‘rather than embarrassing Lucy.’ She smoothed down the folds of her cream skirt, the gold bangles on her wrists tingling as she did so. It sent a similar wave of tingles down my spine. Maria … Maria … I once knew a girl called…Sorry. Getting confused. That was West Side Story, not The Sound of Music. But it was another show my mum had starred in.

  With a puzzled look, Crystal straightened up and squared her shoulders, a no-nonsense stance adopted. ‘I take it all’s well between you and her? As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m never that happy when personal relationships develop between staff. If it works, fine … but if it doesn’t … well …’ She grimaced. ‘It makes it uncomfortable for everyone concerned.’

  I reassured her that we were
getting along fine. Well, we were, really … weren’t we?

  ‘And I know it’s not my place to interfere but, whatever the problem is, I hope you’re able to discuss it with her. We can’t have her going round looking so glum. It’s bad for morale and not good for the clients to see.’

  I couldn’t disagree with that. But getting Lucy to talk about it? I had tried. It was like trying to prise open a clam with a rubber fork. Besides, even if she did shell out her problem, I felt sure it wouldn’t be palatable.

  The next chance I had was the following Thursday. We both finished early that afternoon and it meant there was still time to snatch a few moments of sunshine on the patio back at Willow Wren. It was an almost identical scene to the previous Saturday – the loungers, a wasp or two, a few barbed comments and the tortoiseshell cat.

  Having failed to prise anything out of Lucy, I turned my attention to the local paper. Not that I was a particular fan of the Westcott Gazette but I did try to keep up with what was going on. And the paper did have its uses. The demise of the oak tree on the Green and the arrival of Cyril the squirrel at the hospital had made for good copy. And old editions made excellent liners for the cages.

  It was as I opened the paper that I felt the swish of a tail against my elbow. There was a soft, intermittent purr, hesitant, uncertain. I raised my elbow and looked down to find the tortoiseshell cat staring up with those yellow eyes of hers questioning, her paws kneading the ground, first the left then the right, as if marching on the spot. I looked across at Lucy. She was studying one of her nursing books. Holding the paper up as a screen between us, I patted my lap. ‘OK, puss,’ I whispered. She needed no further encouragement to spring up nimbly, turn one graceful circle on my knee and then curl into a ball, her purr at full throttle.

  With the paper still held upright to conceal the cat, I became very well acquainted with what had been happening in the Westcott area during the last week. Within five minutes I’d learnt that Cicely Tingley had celebrated her 100th birthday; the Chawcombe and Ashton Afternoon Tea Group had released its autumn schedule and were meeting in Ashton village hall on Mondays at 3.00pm; at Westcott’s Flower and Vegetable Show, Albert Cooper had won Best of Class for his leeks; and that the Christmas pantomime at the Pavilion was going to be Aladdin starring the famous TV actress, Francesca Cavendish. Hmmm … I wondered which genie would be stroking her lamp. A further five minutes ensured I was well acquainted with all the planning applications being considered by Westcott District Council and I discovered I could lose up to three kilograms in two weeks at my local weight-loss class.