Pets in a Pickle (16 page)

In his paws, he was turning over his favourite titbit – a custard cream – busily gnawing away at it, his cheeks rapidly filling with biscuit. And he was soon able to fend for himself. The skill with which he demonstrated his ability to construct a drey was proof of that. Another of Lucy’s looks made sure I knocked up a nest box for him. She provided the straw.

Now Cyril was in his element, racing down to yank up a pile of stems in his mouth, scuttling back up to the box where he’d sit chewing them up, weaving them into a nest. He’d bury himself in it, just his head poking out of the matted straw, his teeth clacking like a sewing machine should you go too near.

‘So, are you going to let him go?’ asked Beryl.

‘You’re not going to keep him, surely?’ asked Mandy.

Even Eric tossed in a question in passing, although Crystal’s pink, cupid-bow lips remained sealed.

Here was a dilemma: Cyril was self-sufficient and I felt sure he’d like a mate. Yet grey squirrels are very destructive and it hardly seemed fair to release him in nearby woods where he could do enormous damage to young trees and possibly be shot in the process. It was Cyril himself who provided the answer.

Lucy came running indoors to where I was stretched out on the sofa trying to tackle the crossword in the paper.

With a gulp, she said, ‘It’s Cyril. Can’t find him anywhere. He must have escaped. Come on. We must go and look for him.’

Well, yes. I suppose we should, I thought. On the other hand … perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he’d made off. He’d saved us the problem of deciding what to do with him.

Lucy interrupted my musings. ‘You just going to laze there all day or what?’ She dashed through to the kitchen saying she was getting some custard creams.

There followed an excruciating half hour which saw the two of us trailing round the perimeter of Ashton’s recreation ground, gazing up into the branches of the sycamores, poking through overgrown clumps of leylandii calling out ‘Cyril’ while our outstretched hands each held a custard cream.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I exclaimed to Lucy as yet another passer-by, having asked what we were looking for, gave us a look of pity as we told him ‘Cyril the squirrel’, and walked on no doubt thinking we’d been reading too much Beatrix Potter. And when a youth in knee-holed jeans rode by on his bike with a snigger and I overhead him on the corner telling his mates of us two nutters on the rec, I decided enough was enough and called a halt to the search.

Lucy did one final ‘Coo-eee’ in the direction of the ash tree that fronted the rectory and waved a custard cream at Reverend James when he hoved into view. He gave a hesitant wave back.

A week later, I was taking Nelson for a totter across the rec, his arthritic limbs only capable of carrying him once round the perimeter. One of Ashton’s senior citizens who’d also been out for a totter was now sitting on the one bench that had yet to be vandalised. Despite it only being early October and the weather still balmy, she was wrapped in a camel-coloured coat several sizes too big for her which made her look like a sack of potatoes. To her side was a white, plastic bag sporting the name of a well-known supermarket. Behind her, running up and down the back of the bench were three squirrels – all Cyril look-alikes. As I stopped to watch, she extracted an endless stream of food from the bag – lumps of cheese, broken wafers, biscuits. The squirrels scuttled back and forth reaching down to snatch each item offered without the slightest trace of fear.

‘Such pretty creatures, aren’t they?’ she said, peering up at me from the depths of her sack.

I nodded, yanking Nelson back as he pulled forward in an attempt to hoover up the crumbs.

‘And so tame,’ she added. ‘Especially this dear little chap …’ She glanced down at the squirrel who’d jumped on to her arm and was now clasping the biscuit she’d given him.

Though he looked like the other two – bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, tubby little tummy, all the attributes of a healthy squirrel – there was something about him which made me think he could be Cyril. For a moment, I couldn’t decide what that something was. Then it came to me. It was the way he was devouring the biscuit held in his paws. How those incisors were crunching through it. The way it was rapidly disappearing into his mouth. No other squirrel could surely enjoy a biscuit with such relish as he did.

Yes, it had to be Cyril.

And what clinched it?

Why, the biscuit being eaten – a custard cream, of course.

I
was a mite suspicious when, one late July morning, just before the start of the day’s appointments, I saw Eric hovering at the end of the corridor outside my consulting room.

‘Ah, Paul. Just the man,’ he cried, with a flourish of his arms. The joviality in his tone of voice did nothing to allay my doubts. Eric was an amiable enough fellow but usually only became civil around coffee break time. This was far too early for him. Something was up.

‘Before you start, I’d like a word,’ he went on, pointing a finger through the door. ‘Just the two of us.’ He disappeared into the room. By the time I’d got there, several scenarios had galloped through my brain. I remembered the tête-à-tête I’d had with Crystal just before they’d both bombed off to Venice leaving me with the Richardsons’ horse. Was I about to be forewarned about some particular client of Eric’s? The Stockwells, for instance? According to Beryl, they would have no one but him. There again, perhaps I’d upset someone … put my foot in it. No. Surely not. Eric seemed more adept at doing that than me. Besides, it would be Crystal wagging the admonishing finger, not Eric. Puzzled, I entered the room.

‘Close the door,’ said Eric, ‘this won’t take a moment.’ He was standing by the examination table, shirt ballooning over his belt which had slipped down over his paunch so that his trousers had dropped, the crotch now nearly at knee level. In my mind, I’d often compared Eric to a ball, the way he bounced around the place, throwing himself into his work with boundless energy. But today, with the sagging clothes, he looked more reminiscent of a half-deflated one discarded on the beach, the image of which a blue, red and yellow-striped tie hanging loosely round his neck did nothing to dispel.

He cleared his throat while reaching across to the instrument trolley where he picked up a thermometer and rolled it between his fingers. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this,’ he went on.

I gave a surreptitious glance at my watch. There were only minutes to go before surgery started and already I could hear a dog yapping in reception. Soon it would be Beryl snapping at me, wondering where I’d got to. Hurry up, Eric. Say what you have to say.

He dropped the thermometer on the trolley and turned back to me. ‘I was playing golf yesterday afternoon with Alex Ryman. He’s one of our clients.’

Yes … yes … and? There was a cat now miaowing in the waiting room.

‘We sort of had a set-to at the fourth green … about one of his putts. I won’t go into the details.’

Better not, Eric, otherwise the waiting room will be overflowing.

‘Well, anyway, I don’t somehow think I’d be welcome if a vet’s needed over at his smallholding in the next few days.’

‘Is that likely?’ I asked.

‘It’s a possibility.’

Here we go. What’s about to foal, whelp, litter or calf down, I wonder?

‘It’s the Rymans’ pig.’

‘Pig?’

‘Their Saddleback. It’s due to farrow soon. Not that there should be any problem. But you never know.’

‘Er … couldn’t Crystal …?’ I faltered.

The look of horror that flashed up on Eric’s face said it all. Pigs, it seemed, weren’t her cup of tea. Something she preferred to leave to him. Or, as of now, to me – until such time Alex Ryman and Eric were back on par – golf buddies once more. Hmmm.

‘How soon’s “soon”?’ I asked.

‘Alex reckons in the next 48 hours or so. But he might be wrong.’ Eric gave an embarrassed little harrumph. ‘So you don’t mind covering this one for me?’

Seems I had no choice, especially when he went on to tell me he’d already forewarned Beryl. ‘She’s keeping it under wraps. I’d rather Crystal didn’t find out. Could be a bit awkward. You know how it is.’

Indeed I did – so not only was I liable to see this pig of Eric’s, I was also having to save his bacon. Oh well, such was an assistant’s life.

Just after lunch the following day, I breezed into reception to be greeted by a loud ‘Pssst’ from Beryl and a beckoning from an uncompromising vermilion nail.

‘Here,’ she whispered, hunched furtively behind the computer screen.

I stepped across to the reception desk as her glass eye swivelled up to the ceiling while her good one glanced anxiously round the empty room. ‘It’s on,’ she said.

‘What?’

She hissed, ‘You know.’ She held a hand up to the right side of her mouth. The words came out muffled. ‘Operation porker.’

‘You mean …’

‘Shhhh … yes. I’ve booked you in a visit. 2.30pm.’

‘So how’s the afternoon shaping up?’ It was Crystal.

Both Beryl and I started and sprang apart as she approached the desk.

‘Fine … fine …’ stuttered Beryl, her fingers skimming over the keyboard, the Rymans’ case history sliding quickly off the screen. ‘You’ve got Mrs Frobisher – the Lord Mayor’s wife – at three. Her two Swedish Elkhounds are due for their boosters.’

And I’ve got a pig due for farrowing, I thought glumly.

Before I left for the Rymans, Beryl sneaked down to the office and slipped a folded scrap of paper into my hand. ‘Directions of how to get there,’ she whispered before tiptoeing out. She was clearly enjoying this little bit of subterfuge and I wondered whether she expected me to memorise the directions and then swallow the ball of paper.

As it turned out, I was thankful for those directions. The Rymans’ smallholding was in the next village along from Ashton, one called Chawcombe. It wasn’t so much a village as a straggle of houses along a busy road that ran parallel to the north side of the Downs and from which numerous lanes ran off into the countryside. I’d have run off several had it not been for Beryl’s red-inked map with Natt’s Lane clearly marked and an asterisk next to Downside Cottage – a bit of a misnomer, as I discovered, since the cottage was several miles away from the Downs and wasn’t a cottage but a bungalow. One from the 1950s, built of plain, red brick with concrete roof tiles to which a 1970s, flat-roofed loft extension had been added, hung-tiled in a mismatch of dark brown. As I drove on to the tarmac drive and rounded the corner of the bungalow, I half expected to see a conservatory. And yes, there it was – a white UPVC bubble of glass stuck to the back like a blob of used chewing gum; and from it strode a woman, followed closely by a boy of about eight and a girl who looked a year or so younger.

‘Jill Ryman,’ she said, introducing herself with the shake of a hand. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, thin as fuse wire, breasts flat as paper, wearing grubby overalls and wellington boots. ‘And this is Emily and Joshua. Say hello to Mr …?’

‘Paul Mitchell.’

Emily looked up at me through metal-rimmed glasses and smiled shyly, exposing two missing front teeth, but it was Joshua who spoke. ‘Miss Piggy’s having babies.’ He studied me through a mop of tousled brown hair, his dark eyes unflinching.

‘Yes, well … so I understand,’ I said, somewhat unnerved by the intensity of the lad’s expression. I lifted out my black bag. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t need too much help.’

Emily suddenly found her voice. ‘Is that for the babies?’ she lisped, pointing.

‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ I replied with a chuckle, conjuring up a picture of a bag stuffed full of piglets.

She giggled. Joshua remained silent, his lips curled down – clearly it was no laughing matter for this young man.

‘Now, Emily, don’t let’s distract the doctor too much,’ said Jill and proceeded to do just that as the four of us crossed to a large, wooden-slatted barn fronting a concrete yard, picking our way through a flock of bantams, hens and ducks. Throughout the short walk I was given a potted history of Miss Piggy, and how the Saddleback had arrived as a thin, weedy piglet, the runt of the litter, the unlucky thirteenth. It had been Alex’s intention to fatten her up for the table but somehow that time never arrived. And you wouldn’t believe it, but he often took her for walks on a lead. Could I imagine it? A pig on a lead? People were amazed. And she was so well behaved; trotted to heel just like a dog. Much better than their dog, in fact – a Jack Russell: she was a bit of a handful. Nipped ankles.