Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (15 page)

As Billy was my last appointment of the morning, at least I didn’t have the worry of getting behind with my consultations, although it did mean missing out on my coffee break in order to be ready for the ops Mandy would push through up to lunchtime.

It didn’t take long to winkle Billy out of his cage in a green drape. Yes, I’d reassured Mrs Tidy, it was a sterile one – bug free. And yes, as she saw, I’d put on surgical gloves entirely for her benefit, before swaddling him. And no worries, the forceps I used to prise open his beak to get the throat swab were clean. And, of course, the swabs were sterile in the first place as there wouldn’t be any point in using them otherwise
would there
?

When I’d finished, I instructed Mrs Tidy to make an appointment to return in a week’s time, when all the results would be back from the diagnostic laboratory.

‘What’s the point in that?’ she queried, brusquely.

Actually, she had a good point. There wasn’t much point – unless there was a problem to be discussed. However, it had been instilled in me by Crystal that clients were to be encouraged to come back in order to go through the laboratory results with them; but I suspected it was more to do with charging an extra consultation fee, rather than the expediency of seeing the patient again. Evidently, Mrs Tidy thought likewise and stated, ‘That’s rubbish, if you don’t mind me saying. I’ll either phone up at the end of next week or pop in if I’m passing. Less cost to me and, besides which, there’ll be less risk of Billy picking something up from here if I don’t bring him in.’

Who was I to argue? I looked across at Mr Tidy and felt a wave of sympathy for him as he staggered out under two burdens in his life – a large, heavy cage and his large, heavy wife.

No one could fail to hear Mrs Tidy when, later in the week, she decided to ‘pop in’ on her way through to Westcott’s new shopping precinct. This was the pride of the town, opened a year earlier with a civic reception; first, music from the Sussex Stompers – a local, balding band that had been doing the rounds for many years and were now getting a bit long in the tooth to stomp without stooping; followed by a parade by the Westcott majorettes – the young ladies in their short, frilly skirts always attracted a large crowd – elderly gentlemen, in particular, seemed roused by the whirl and toss of their batons; lastly, a triumphant opening proclamation by the town crier – one hired specially for the day – whose cries were drowned out by council workmen drilling in an adjacent road. The mayor fared no better. Those standing in the first two rows could just about hear him extol the delights of the
brick-paved,
pedestrianised High Street, with its concrete, vandal-proof planters, wrought-iron lamp posts and, lining each side of the street, the standard, brand-named stores interspersed with charity shops and building society offices. Despite the claim of worthy Westcotteans that the revamped High Street gave the town an individuality all of its own, the bland uniformity engendered was one shared by countless shopping precincts up and down the country, making Westcott’s ‘uniqueness’ one of many. So it was to this that Mrs Tidy was heading; but, having decided to call in at Prospect House on the off-chance Billy’s lab results were through, she was now standing in reception, confronting Beryl. That was a mistake. She should have headed straight for the shopping precinct.

I was in the office and had just finished my Bert’s baguette – today’s was tuna salad with his special mayonnaise – and was sipping my mug of green tea – when the strident tones of Mrs Tidy echoed down from reception. Oh Lord, I thought, that’s the last thing I need. But then I felt sure Beryl would be able to cope with the woman; I needn’t be involved. Nevertheless, I still found myself standing just inside the office door, mug in hand, listening – purely for professional reasons, of course.

‘I’ve come in about my Billy’s lab results,’ I heard Mrs Tidy saying.

‘Oh yes, I remember,’ said Beryl. ‘The cockatiel. Just let me check whether they’ve come back yet.’ There followed the clicking of her keyboard. I knew the results were back as I’d been studying them the day before. And I knew damned well that Beryl also knew as she’d updated Mrs Tidy’s records with them the same afternoon. She was just playing for time, making Mrs Tidy wait.

‘Yes, here we are,’ she said.

‘Well?’ exclaimed Mrs Tidy.

‘Well, what?’ said Beryl.

‘The results, what are they? Has Billy got the all-clear?’

There was an indignant intake of breath. ‘Oh, I can’t possibly let you have them. You’ll need to see Mr Mitchell. I’ll make you an appointment, shall I?’

I took another swig of my tea, relishing every moment of the drama unfolding. I could just picture the two of them, one each side of the reception desk, squaring up like a couple of boxers waiting to see which one was going to throw the first punch.

Kapow! It was Mrs Tidy. ‘I demand you give me the results now.’

‘You can demand all you like, Mrs Tidy. I am not releasing them.’

Momentarily there was silence. Was Mrs Tidy jigging back and forth in front of the reception desk, her muscly arms up in front of her, fists curled, ready to land a punch on Beryl’s nose. Unlikely. Mrs Tidy was too heavy to jig; pound perhaps, but definitely not jig. Come on, come on … you’ve surely got a bit more up your sleeve, Mrs Tidy.

Bam! Yes – another verbal jab. ‘In which case, I insist on seeing one of the vets. Whoever’s on duty will do. But I want to see them now and register a complaint.’

‘I’m sorry, but the best I can do is to make an appointment for you to see Mr Mitchell.’

‘That’s not good enough.’ Mrs Tidy’s voice had risen to a crescendo. ‘I demand to see someone this instant. And I won’t leave until I do.’ Wow, this was fighting talk indeed. Thank goodness I wasn’t out there in the thick of it as I felt sure I’d get pummelled. I heard the front door swing open and Eric’s cheerful voice ring out.

‘Hello there … have we a problem?’

It was Mrs Tidy who got in before Beryl. ‘Are you one of the vets here?’

‘Yes, indeed. Do you need to see one then?’ Eric still sounded hopelessly bubbly. Poor man. Couldn’t he sense the acrimony up there? Waves of it were hitting me and I was yards away from its epicentre.

‘I most certainly do,’ said Mrs Tidy, her voice grating ominously.

‘Well, let Beryl here book you an appointment then,’ said Eric, oblivious to the fact that he was about to be hit by a pile driver. I cringed.

The assault came swiftly. ‘This woman here …’

‘You mean our receptionist … Beryl?’

‘Yes, that woman has already tried to do just that.’

‘Well, what’s all the fuss about then?’

I winced … and swigged another mouthful of tea.

‘I’m demanding to be seen now.’

‘I’m afraid it’s by appointment only.’

I hunched my shoulders and grinned to myself. Lovely stuff.

‘That’s what I’ve already told Mrs Tidy,’ Beryl said at last.

‘Well, there we go then,’ said Eric breezily. ‘Speaking of which, I must get going. Byee.’ I heard the inner door open and suddenly there was Eric bouncing down the steps towards me before I had a chance to duck back into the office and out of sight.

‘Hi, Paul,’ he exclaimed, as he sailed past, ‘hope you don’t have too hectic an afternoon,’ and disappeared in the direction of the prep room whistling a tune from
Oh! What a Lovely War.

‘Paul?’ That was Beryl calling from reception.

‘Mr Mitchell?’ That was Mrs Tidy.

‘Can we have a word?’ That was the two of them.

I finished the dregs of my tea, put the mug on the office desk and reluctantly dragged myself up to reception to face my own lovely war.

‘Mrs Tidy wants to know the results of the lab tests on Billy,’ said Beryl the moment I appeared.

‘Oh, does she?’ I said, all innocence, as I turned to Mrs Tidy, whom I could see now was seething like a volcano – any minute I expected a fountain of molten rock to explode from her cranium; as it was, she had a very red face with cheeks like glowing lava.

‘Mr Mitchell,’ she said, her voice trembling as she fought to control herself, ‘we agreed that I could phone through for the results or pop in. Am I correct?’

I looked across at Beryl before answering. She was also beginning to seethe and I wondered which one would erupt first. Either way, I wasn’t going to escape unscathed and decided to take my chances with the volcanic lump that was Mrs Tidy.

‘You’re quite right, Mrs Tidy. We did agree on that.’ I walked over to Beryl. ‘I think we’ve got the results, haven’t we?’ I gave her the sweetest smile I could muster. ‘Perhaps you could just pop them up on the screen.’

Beryl’s long scarlet talons hovered above the keyboard, her bony fingers trembling, before, with great reluctance, they descended and she brought up the cockatiel’s clinical history and the lab results that had been entered. I bent over the screen and made a pretence of scanning them before stretching back up, to slowly turn and address Mrs Tidy, who was still glowing like a gigantic ember in the middle of the reception area.

‘They’re fine,’ I eventually said. ‘No pathogens detected.’

‘You’re sure?’ queried Mrs Tidy.

‘Positive. All the tests were clear.’

Mrs Tidy sniffed, the reddening of her cheeks beginning to recede. ‘Well, I suppose that’s a relief,’ she said.

I found the remark puzzling. It was almost with regret that it was said – as if she’d have been happier to have had confirmed some of the ‘nasty bugs’ she was so paranoid about. Perhaps then it would have given her the excuse to get rid of Billy, and find him a new home. But there we go. I’d never know. What I did know, or at least discovered a few days later, was that I hadn’t got rid of Mrs Tidy.

‘I’m sorry, Paul, but I’ve had that woman on the phone,’ said Beryl, who, having returned from her coffee-break fag by the back door, was now hovering in the office before going back up to reception. ‘You know the one I mean.’

For a moment I couldn’t think. There’d been that medium, Madam Mountjoy, insisting on a house visit because her cat had been spooked – I was still wondering if the love spell I’d spotted on that little table of hers in the Wiccan Shoppe was ever going to take effect. I certainly hadn’t given her any thought since – erotically or otherwise.

Then there’d been Francesca Cavendish – the ‘resting’ actress with whom I’d had an argy-bargy over her Maltese – but that had been ages ago and, again, I hadn’t heard from her since.

‘It’s Mrs Tidy, that cockatiel owner,’ Beryl went on, ‘she’s requesting a visit.’

For a moment, I wondered why. Maybe it was Beryl. I could imagine Mrs Tidy wouldn’t relish another confrontation with her. But the reason given was that Mrs Tidy didn’t want to run the risk of Billy passing any bugs on to us if she came into the surgery.

‘You sure you’ve got that right, Beryl? Bugs being passed on to us, not the other way round?’

Seemed that was correct. Billy had come down with a tummy upset and Mrs Tidy didn’t want to run the risk of spreading the infection. Hence the request for a house call.

‘Well, in that case, I suppose you’d better book it in.’

‘Mmm, I’m not sure Crystal would approve.’ Beryl had stuffed her packet of cigarettes back in her black bag and was still hovering in the doorway, scratching her mole, when Crystal came trotting down the steps behind her and stopped in the doorway next to her.

‘What’s that, Beryl?’ she said.

‘Oh, it’s a client wanting a visit from Paul.’

‘So?’

‘Well, it’s practice policy to discourage house calls wherever possible.’

‘Quite right. Yes.’ Crystal stepped past Beryl into the office and turned in front of the desk. ‘Now you come to mention it, I have noticed he’s been doing rather more house visits than I’d have thought necessary.’ She threw a look at me. ‘Isn’t that so, Paul?’

I squirmed on the spot, averting my gaze from those steely-blue eyes of hers and mumbled something about only doing them if clients were adamant.

‘From what I gather, you see these clients here and then the next thing they’re demanding a visit from you. I’m not sure what’s going on but, whatever it is, just remember that such visits are to be discouraged wherever possible.’

Beryl was listening in her customary, vaguely astonished way, mouth slightly open, head tilted forward and to one side, good eye wide open, giving the impression of a
half-blind
owl that had just been clobbered by a brick.

Watching her as Crystal did her little rant, I came up with a brilliant strategy of which Eric would have been proud. Once Crystal had finished, I continued to look at Beryl and said, ‘I’m sure Beryl here does her utmost to discourage such visits, don’t you?’

‘Well, that’s part of her job, of course,’ Crystal said. ‘Isn’t it?’ she added, swinging sharply round to her.

Beryl’s jaw tightened, her good eye contracted and her head jerked up. ‘Well, of course, I do my best,’ she stuttered, clearly puzzled as to why attention had suddenly switched to her. As if it were now somehow her fault.

‘Let’s say no more on the matter then,’ concluded Crystal, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

But it didn’t let me off the hook regarding Mrs Tidy; and half an hour later, I found myself driving through the estate of bungalows on the other side of the Green. There was a uniformity about these bungalows that I found depressing – all were of red brick – save for one or two brave souls who had stepped out of rank to render theirs white. One even sported a light-pink wash, something I suspected wouldn’t wash with the majority of the neighbours. All had that dull, red-brown, pantile roofing, although a degree of change had crept in over the years, whereby some now sprouted dormers. In fact, in one road, there was a whole row of loft conversions, as if the spores of one had spread to the next and had then mushroomed up through the tiles like some fungal growth, creeping from roof to roof.

The new rooms with a view – the dormers opposite – were hidden from view of each other by cascades of net curtaining. Indeed, this was the land of nets, where I suspected that curious malady I termed ‘net curtain twitch’ was rife. I sensed eyes following me from behind a string of nets as I cruised slowly along Downs View Drive – the name of the road into the estate a misnomer, since there was no view of the Downs to be seen – Bungalow Boulevard would have been more apt and would at least have commemorated the almond trees lining the road, the pink buds of which were just peeping through. Reminders of the time when this patch of Sussex was occupied by meadows grazed by sheep were reflected in Drovers Drive, the first left turning I took … Lark Rise, the fourth right … and finally Shepherd’s Close, where having driven slowly round three-quarters of the cul-de-sac, an action that provoked a series of twitches from One, Two and Five, I came to a halt outside Number Seven, my destination.