Pets in a Pickle (36 page)

‘All yours now.’

‘What?’

‘The cow … she’s all yours.’

She is? I thought. Really? All mine. Standing there, watching the rescue had blotted out any thoughts as to what I was doing here – why I had been called in. It was as if the torrential rain had seeped into me, waterlogged my brain. I couldn’t think straight. Certainly I couldn’t stand straight as another gust of wind threatened to whirl me away had it not been for Frankie manhandling me again. Oh dear. I was beginning to feel swept off my feet. And I wasn’t that way inclined, was I? It was enough to get the wind up me in more ways than one.

It was the bells who brought me to my senses. They’d finally made a move and had edged down to the recumbent cow. I slithered across to my car, collected my black bag and squelched back over to join them.

‘Think it’s Dilly,’ said one.

‘Could be,’ said the other.

‘Reckon so,’ said the first.

‘Think you’re right,’ said the second.

Ding dong went the bells together. ‘We think it’s Dilly,’ I was told.

I heard the swish of uniform, the splash of big, leather boots confidently stepping down the bank, and then the broad shoulders of the Chief Fire Officer hove into view through the mist of rain, generous lips open, dark eyes full of concern. I felt my legs go weak at the knees as another gust of wind hit them. Could I really be falling for a fireman?

‘I’ve been so concerned for you,’ said Frankie reaching out.

‘Well …’ I faltered.

‘So concerned …’ the officer went on, walked straight past me to put one hand on each of the Stockwell’s shoulders. ‘Not the sort of night for us ladies to be out in.’

A rubbery, squirmy noise was emitted by both bells.

Us ladies? It suddenly twigged. What an idiot I’d been! Frankie was a woman fire officer. Thank God for that, as I’d been getting worried. Now perhaps I could stop fretting about my sexuality and concentrate on the job in hand.

I prodded the cow as she lay in front of me like a soggy yellow blancmange. Could she get up? Maybe she had a broken pelvis, a fractured femur, ligament damage …

‘Had cow down once,’ said a Miss Stockwell. ‘Remember, Madge?’

Her sister’s cape squeaked. ‘I do, Rosie.’

‘Vet gave her an injection.’

‘Didn’t work though.’

‘You’re right, Madge … it didn’t.’

‘Didn’t work,’ said the bell, swivelling to me.

‘No, it didn’t,’ the other chimed in.

‘Well, maybe this time,’ I said, drawing up an antiinflammatory injection. As I plunged it into the cow’s thigh, she gave an almighty bellow, threw herself forward, scrabbled in the mud and, thrusting her rump up, kicked out her forelegs and lurched to her feet.

‘Well, I’ll be damned. That soon worked,’ said Frankie with a throaty chuckle. ‘Good for you.’ I was given another hearty hug which this time I didn’t mind a bit.

The problem now was to get Dilly back to the farm. The main road had to be crossed. Though relatively quiet at this time of night and with such foul weather, there was still the danger of being mown down – making mincemeat of Dilly.

But Frankie had thought of that. The main road was sealed off by the police car, fire engine and attendant Land Rover, their blue lights flashing to light the way as Dilly was led across, a bell-caped Stockwell swishing each side of her. I watched the gate, temporarily repaired to five bars, being pushed open and the Jersey herded through. The gate closed and the Stockwells were swallowed up by the night.

‘Funny pair,’ commented Frankie. ‘Seem to live in a world of their own.’

I nodded, thinking of the time-warp sensation I felt when I last called on them. Which side of the fence was it best to live on? I really did wonder as engines revved up, lights flashed, tyres screeched away and, when I turned on the radio, I was greeted with news of the latest terrorist threat.

But on this side of the gate were the Cuddles, Clementines and Miss Piggys of the world needing care and attention. And I needed them just as much as they needed me. They were the drug which kept me addicted to veterinary work … they were my fix.

My only regret at present was that I didn’t have Lucy to share that satisfaction with me. Our relationship was floundering in an emotional pit – much like the one the Jersey had been stuck in. A pit that was dragging us under.

Come on, Paul, I thought, there has to be a way of pulling us out of this mess – strops or no strops.

W
e were now approaching the season of goodwill, the time for festive cheer – Christmas. Though the look on Beryl’s face as I dragged a Christmas tree into reception could have slayed a reindeer at 50 paces and stopped any bells jingling in their tracks.

‘We don’t want that thing in here, thank you very much,’ she said casting a jaundiced eye – as we know, her one and only – at the tree I was now propping up against the wall.

‘Why ever not, Beryl?’ I declared still full of conviviality; but I could feel my good mood beginning to wither under her gaze. What she needed was a good dose of volts to get her switched on. Lighten her up.

Her glass eye continued to flicker on and off me as she replied, ‘The needles make a mess everywhere. And a dog’s bound to cock his leg against it. I’m sure Crystal wouldn’t approve.’

‘What’s this? What’s this? Did I hear my name being mentioned?’ Crystal had swung into reception, bright, bubbly, full of cheer. This was more like it.

Beryl wobbled on her perch. ‘I was just saying about the tree …’

‘Ah, yes, what a good idea. Just the thing to give the place a bit of festive cheer, don’t you think?’ Crystal flashed Beryl a smile.

‘Well, if you say so …’ faltered Beryl.

I picked up the tree and took it through to the waiting room humming ‘
We wish you a merry Christmas
…’ conscious of the filthy look Beryl was giving me.

That lunchtime, Mandy and Lucy went into Westcott’s ‘Everything a Pound’ store and returned with boxes of lurid purple-and-emerald-green glass balls and red amorphous plastic figures which could have been angels, elves or Victorian carol singers depending on how they caught the light and at which angle you viewed them.

They set to work festooning the tree with this clutter of tat but found they had underestimated its size and were forced to supplement the decorations with blobs of cotton wool and lengths of white bandage draped across the branches. As a result, the tree ended up looking like something Florence Nightingale might have practised on prior to going out to the Crimea – the splashes of red ornaments adding a certain bloody realism.

‘No, I think that’s going a bit too far,’ I said, throwing up my hands when they showed me some blown-up latex surgical gloves sprayed with gentian-violet, the idea being to tie them in pairs over the doorways.

However, the tree, despite its wounded appearance, did lend a touch of festive cheer to the hospital. And I certainly needed it to help boost my spirits – for two reasons.

For a start, I was going to be on duty over the two days of Christmas; I’d thought it likely being the new boy, so no real surprise. Though to be told in July, only two weeks after starting at Prospect House, did seem a little over-eager on the part of Crystal and Eric. Still, there we go.

Then there was the problem with Lucy. A week before Christmas, I learnt that she was going to be the duty nurse for those two days. Oh dear; I could foresee difficulties there. Communications between the two of us were still patchy, to say the least. We weren’t really speaking … not in the heart-to-heart sense. Everything was very much on a neutral footing, everything on hold. So … great! What a Christmas I had to look forward to. More ‘woe, woe, woe’ than ‘ho, ho, ho’.

Crystal called me into the office to discuss the matter. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but how are things between you and Lucy?’ she asked.

I outlined the situation without going into too many details. I had been warned not to let it interfere with work. But then I didn’t think it had; both Lucy and I had got on with what was needed to be done each day without the atmosphere becoming too strained. Though, obviously, there’d been enough tension for Crystal to have picked up on it. Probably Mandy had kept her informed. Sweet girl.

‘Thing is, Paul,’ Crystal went on, ‘the Christmas duty roster means the two of you will be working on your own together. Do you foresee that being a problem?

‘Don’t see why it should be. We’ve managed so far.’

Crystal tapped her nails on the desk. Those neat pink shells … so dainty. She continued to tap. Clearly something was on her mind. ‘Eric and I have been discussing the phone cover. In past years, we’ve always had the calls diverted to our home number and assume you’d like to do the same and have them put through to Willow Wren this Christmas.’

I shrugged. ‘Fine by me.’ As I said it, I suddenly realised what she was getting at. Of course – what would Lucy do? By having the calls diverted, there was no excuse for her having to stay at the hospital those three nights like she had been doing these past few weeks whenever she was on duty. She could just as easily be with me at Willow Wren, only needing to go in to see to the few remaining in-patients each day and to help me out with any emergencies should they arise.

‘I’ll leave it to you to work out the best arrangement,’ concluded Crystal tactfully.

With three days to go before Christmas Eve, Lucy still didn’t give any indication of what she was going to do.

‘Haven’t decided,’ she said when I tackled her about it. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you whether I stay at the hospital or not?’

She stormed away before I had the chance to say that it actually mattered a great deal. I couldn’t imagine me spending Christmas alone at Willow Wren and her in a similar situation at Prospect House. Especially now she didn’t have to. It seemed absolute madness … and yet it looked as if it was heading that way.

With two days to go before ‘crunch time’, there was the hospital’s Christmas party to get through. Not being on duty that evening, Lucy had come back to the cottage when evening surgery finished. I almost wished she hadn’t bothered as her mood was so foul.

We both got ready for the party in stony silence. She wore black trousers and a turquoise, halter-neck blouse, her fair hair done up in a chignon and, to me, looked absolutely stunning. I did try to compliment her but merely got a curt ‘Thanks’ in reply. So be it, I thought, as we drove over the Downs to the hospital.

It seemed the party was always held at Prospect House. I had had visions of a slap-up meal at one of the many fine restaurants which this part of West Sussex boasted.

‘No, no …’ Beryl had told me, ‘that wouldn’t be appropriate. Some of the practice’s long-standing clients get invited, you see.’

‘What … for drinks round the operating table? I said.

‘Goodness, no way,’ said Beryl not realising I’d been joking. I imagined it would be off-putting for a client to have nibbles where Tibbles had been castrated. It was drinks in the waiting room instead, the bandaged tree a focus for the small-talk.

‘I think it’s cleverly done,’ enthused a man in velvet jeans, with bleached, spiked hair and a silver cross tangling from his right ear lobe. ‘Very … very … allegoric. I can see how it alludes to pain and suffering … the healing of wounds … the spread of care through the branches of life. Splendid. Very well thought out.’

Not wishing to be lumbered with the likes of him, I quietly moved away.

‘Hello, Mr Mitchell.’ I turned to find George and Hilary Richardson standing behind me.

‘So how’s Clementine?’ I asked, after pleasantries had been exchanged.

‘Oh, she’s in fine fettle,’ said George Richardson, smoothing down each end of his moustache in turn. ‘And the foal’s an absolute poppet.’

‘Actually, we’ve a little something here to remind you of that evening,’ said Hilary, handing me the gift-wrapped parcel she’d been holding. ‘A “thank you” from Clementine.’

When I opened it later, I found I’d been given one of the mare’s old shoes, polished, with ‘Love from Clementine’ painted in gold round the edge. Yes … well.

‘Consider yourself lucky,’ Beryl said. ‘The Richardsons don’t usually part with anything belonging to her.’