Pets in a Pickle (22 page)

‘Needled you, did he?’ said Mrs Bradshaw.

‘Sharp little fellow,’ I said, nursing my punctured finger. Another pet deleted from my list.

‘Couldn’t do better myself,’ she said. ‘In fact, I could do far worse.’ She fixed me with steel-grey eyes. ‘Far worse. Just remember that when you next need to come in for a tetanus jab.’ She emphasised ‘jab’ and viciously poked my arm with a finger. This was a plain Jane plainly speaking. No beating about the bush … or jungle. The hamster rapidly reappeared on my list.

The girl with the bunches tapped me on the shoulder and asked how things were going.

‘Thought you said it was only children’s pets,’ I hissed, feeling decidedly Kaa-like. Decidedly viperous.

‘It was supposed to have been, but the printers made a mistake. The “children’s” bit got left out of the programme. Still, it means we’ve had lots more entries,’ she added brightly. ‘And it’s good for the church funds.’ She held up a jangling money-box.

‘What’s your name?’ shrilled a voice slicing through the air. ‘My name’s Cedric!’

Oh, no. Surely not! I turned, first catching sight of the metallic cage being carried by a youth, and then the white head of Miss McEwan bobbing behind. With a nimbleness that belied her age, she zigzagged down the path and skirted the worse of the muddy patches before drawing level with me, her face lighting up the gloom with a beaming smile.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Mitchell,’ she twittered. ‘A little bird told me you were going to be judging the show.’

Cedric, no doubt, I thought glumly as the mynah sprang up and down his perch and gave me a ‘Well, here I am … Aren’t I a pretty boy?’ look.

I glanced at my watch. It was way past 3.00pm. ‘Well, actually,’ I said, ‘the entries closed at three. We’ve now started the judging.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ interjected the girl rattling the money-box under Miss McEwan’s nose. ‘That’ll be 50 pence, please.’

‘Oh, Lady Luck’s with me today,’ cried Miss McEwan, diving a hand into her bag. ‘And I’m sure Mr Mitchell will think the same.’

She ordered the youth with the cage to move forward and then waved at Cedric. ‘He’s all yours,’ said she.

‘Bugger off,’ said the bird.

‘Now, Cedric … naughty, naughty. Mr Mitchell doesn’t want to hear that sort of language. He wants to hear how well I look after you. All those visits to the surgery … they cost me a pretty penny.’

‘Pretty penny,’ trilled Cedric giving me a beady look.

Miss McEwan craned her neck ’til her own beady eyes were level with my lapels. ‘But I don’t mind spending out if it warrants it. But you’ll be the best judge of that, won’t you, Mr Mitchell?’ she added, her voice dropping several decibels to sound distinctly threatening.

‘Watch it,’ intoned Cedric gravely.

Oh no, I groaned inwardly. Not more intimidation. And this time from a mynah Mafia. I’d have my eyes pecked out by crows next if I didn’t watch it. I could just see it … well, actually, I wouldn’t if the crows got their way. As it was, I only needed the local baker to threaten to slice my up wholemeal, the grocer to give me a cauliflower ear and the butcher to make mincemeat of me and I could be driven out of Chawcombe – back to Ashton – five miles as the crows fly – providing they didn’t get me first.

Keep calm, I thought. Don’t be swayed. I made encouraging noises to Miss McEwan, saying how high the standard of entries were, such a variety of interesting pets, and how, of course, Cedric was extra special, no doubt worthy of being a winner. At that point, Cedric blew a loud raspberry. Mmm. Seems he wasn’t such a dumb bird after all. I excused myself and turned back to the lines of pets still waiting to be judged.

By the time I’d looked at the ginger kittens, four budgerigars, two more hamsters and my eighth black Labrador, I was completely befuddled – my mind swimming in circles like the goldfish in the bowl I was now peering into.

‘You’ve already looked at him,’ said his spotty owner.

Finally, when I’d almost given up, my attention was caught by a small boy in grey flannels, some way apart from the main stream of people, patiently standing at the edge of the glade, a slim Labrador – black, of course – quietly sitting by his side. I picked my way over several intertwined leads to reach him.

‘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.

B
y 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.