Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (19 page)

It was getting dark as I drew up outside Willow Wren. Eleanor’s lights were on, glowing through the curtains she’d already drawn. It had been a warm day, so as I walked down the side of the cottage, I could feel that warmth radiate out from the walls and, on reaching the little wrought-iron gate opening onto the metre or so of brick path that led up to the front door, I stopped and put a hand on the corner of the wall, curling my fingers round the edge, allowing the warmth to seep into them while I gazed down the darkening garden, silhouetted against pencils of cloud that now scored the western sky in deep pinks and indigos. And that’s when I saw him – or rather, at first –
heard
him.

There was a rustle in the ivy that grew in a wide, heavy band up the south side of the cottage, fanning out from a dense clump right in the corner where the extension jutted out, and which was now deep in shadow as I strained to see what was causing the rustling. I had once seen a hedgehog snuffling about in the mulch of dead leaves that I deliberately left piled under the ivy to encourage insects and grubs for just such visitors; but instead of the hedgehog I was now expecting, out stepped a cat. He was a small, ginger-and-white creature, and from what I could see of him in the gloom, spindly and thin. As I opened the gate, he spat at me, his teeth gleaming in the twilight, and then he charged off down the garden. The next I saw of him was the following evening when a ginger nose was pressed to the lower pane of the kitchen window at roughly the same time as the previous night.

Unlike the unnamed tortoiseshell that was to adopt us for a few weeks later in September, and which Lucy took against, her reaction on seeing the little ginger-and-white cat was very positive. Perhaps she saw it as a means to an end – the end of mice nibbling at her gussets – since she exclaimed, ‘Paul, look … there’s a sweet little cat peering in. He looks like a miniature Garfield.’ That became his adoptive name.

Over the ensuing days, Lucy did her level best to entice the cat indoors with a constant stream of ‘Puss … puss … puu-uuss …’ but he was having none of it, preferring to take up residence at the back of the garage where we stored a couple of bales of straw for Bugsie and the guinea pigs; the gap between the two provided sufficient shelter and safety for him.

Unlike Queenie, he wasn’t too fussed about what he was given to eat and gratefully tucked into whatever tinned cat food I churned out for him, purring as he settled down to eat it, having waited until I had stepped a safe distance away; and drink-wise he seemed happy enough with the water I provided, although over the months, at Lucy’s behest, the water was first replaced with water with a dash of milk in it, then half and half, and eventually progressed from skimmed through semi to full cream. And although both the food and water bowl – or rather the cream dish as it eventually became – were positioned daily closer and closer to the kitchen door, Garfield never saw his way to placing a paw within the cottage. No doubt, once he had caught sight of Queenie parading round inside, he realised a lowly peasant such as himself would not be fit to grace her presence.

The same applied to another scrawny-looking cat, this time black, who turned up in much the same way as Garfield – a sudden appearance one evening; and he, too, stayed, but chose as his living quarters the shed further down the garden, the back panel of which was loose and which he learnt to lift with his paw and sneak in. Hence his adoptive name of Push-in. The shed served as Gertie the goose’s night-time shelter, but his new roomie didn’t deter Push-in, who used a shelf out of bill range as his bed, supplemented by an old pillow which ironically was stuffed with goose feathers.

Of course, any hopes of domesticating either Garfield or Push-in were well and truly dashed by the arrival of Nelson, who saw to it that the house was off limits, and they had to keep to their chosen territories – the garage for Garfield, and the shed for Push-in. They both often had to make beelines for their respective quarters – their flights hastened by a snapping terrier at one or other of their heels. I eventually kept a window at the back of the garage ajar, while the loose panel on the back of the shed I nailed up so that both cats could escape unscathed.

At least some sort of order was established between the cats and dog living at Willow Wren, which was more than could be said for the human occupants. Garfield and Push-in had their bolt-holes – it seemed that the spare room in the flat over the surgery was to become more and more of a bolt-hole for Lucy. But what was she escaping from and why?

T
he rabbit that Lucy brought with her to Willow Wren was a black-and-white creature called Bugsie. To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much notice of him, never having been enamoured by lagomorphs.

As a child, my mother had brandished Beatrix Potter books over my bed at story-time, and I had to endure endless recounting of the shenanigans of Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail, not to mention the exploits of Benjamin Bunny. This was all reinforced a year or so later by the playing of Happy Families, Snap and Pairs with Beatrix’s ghastly little friends depicted on the cards. One Peter Rabbit card had a creased corner, so when the cards were spread out over the floor, their backs up, and I turned up an unmarked Peter Rabbit, I could quickly pick out his bent partner to make a pair. Perhaps, deep down in my psyche, I developed an aversion to rabbits, reasoning – irrationally – that if I were to get too up close and personal to such a creature, I might become damaged goods as well. Guys named Peter have a similar effect on me – I must see a psychiatrist about it one of these days. Meanwhile, Bugsie stayed low on my list of favourite animals that had come to live at Willow Wren. Until, that is, the day Beryl booked me an appointment to see a certain Mr Grimaldi – a magician who had a sick rabbit.

‘Sorry,’ apologised Beryl, ‘but the man was in quite a state on the phone and insisted he be seen as soon as possible. So I’ve had to squeeze him in before you take your tea break this afternoon.’

Beryl was right about his state. Mr Grimaldi was certainly in a flap, and his demeanour suggested that, even in his calmer moments, he was still a bit of a flapper, there being a certain girlishness about him in the way he waltzed in, all of a tizz, and proceeded to enlighten me as to his concerns in an Italian-accented, sing-songy voice that had nasal undercurrents reminiscent of Kenneth Williams in
Carry on Cleo
. However camp his manner might have been, though, his looks suggested something quite different. He was short – barely coming up to my shoulders – with a paunch which a dark-blue, velvet jacket did nothing to disguise; and he had ginger-brown hair slicked back from a receding hairline and tied in a ponytail. There were no remarkable facial features apart from one to which my eye was irrepressibly drawn – an enormous, droopy moustache that dropped from the corners of his mouth to hang like two ginger tassels either side of his chin. The intention, perhaps, was to lend himself a rather cavalier air, but unlike Frans Hal’s masterpiece, this particular cavalier was a little less butch, and definitely not laughing.

‘I’m so thankful you’re able to see me at such short notice,’ he shrilled, hoisting onto the consulting table a white plastic carrying cage in which huddled a white rabbit. ‘It’s my Tzarina, you see. She’s ill, very sick.’ Mr Grimaldi’s voice rose a pitch and, in true artistic style, he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a long blue, red and yellow silk handkerchief, which he proceeded to wave to and fro in front of me before bunching it up to dab at the tears now spilling from his eyes. Oh, what a drama queen.

Mind you, the cause of his anguish, Tzarina, the white rabbit in the cage on the table, did, indeed, look very sick. You didn’t need five years at veterinary school to realise that. Nor were those intensive years really necessary to ascertain that Tzarina was suffering from a condition called snuffles. The rabbit’s half-closed eyes, gummed up with greenish-yellow pus, and the similar encrustations round her nose were pretty conclusive. Nevertheless, I did my statutory duty and slid the holding pin out of the lid of the cage and lifted the moribund rabbit onto the table, where she continued to sit hunched up, her rib cage heaving like a pair of bellows. I reached for my stethoscope and listened to her lungs – they sounded like an un-oiled wheelbarrow being dragged across a cobbled yard. Taking her temperature, it was 102°C – way above normal.

‘We’ve a very sick rabbit here,’ I said as I finished my examination, realising as I said it how pathetically obvious that sounded. Mr Grimaldi thought so as well. His multicoloured silk flew above his head in an exasperated gesture and he said excitedly, ‘I know … I know … That’s why I’ve brought her in. It’s for you to make her better.’

‘Well, I’m not sure …’

‘Oh but you must, you must,’ interrupted the little man, the tassels of his moustache swinging wildly from side to side. ‘Tzarina’s part of my show.’

‘Show?’

‘My magic show. I’m a magician. Grimaldi the Great … at your service.’ He deftly tossed his silk handkerchief from one hand to the other and, as it sailed across, its colours changed to green, orange and white. ‘And I need Tzarina for my show on Friday,’ he went on. ‘It’s a special show for a little girl. She’s just come out of hospital.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Grimaldi. I really don’t think I can make your rabbit better in time for your show. I’m suggesting we have her in for a course of antibiotic injections, so that will be at least five days. It’s Wednesday now …’

I was interrupted by a wail from Mr Grimaldi. Clutching his silk to his mouth, he shuddered; then snatching the hanky away, he gasped, ‘What am I to do? What am I to do?’

What a to-do, I thought, but out loud said, ‘Perhaps you’ve another rabbit you could use?’ That was an unwise comment as it evoked a sharp intake of breath from the magician and a rolling of his eyes heavenwards.

‘Oh, Mr Mitchell, how could you possibly say that?’ he squealed. ‘How could you?’ He threw his arms wide in an exaggerated display of despair. ‘Tzarina’s my one and only. No other rabbit could possibly replace her. You must make her better in time.’

I felt the tic in my temple begin its customary throb. This little man just didn’t seem to appreciate how sick his rabbit was. Short of my waving a magic wand – or asking Mr Grimaldi to waggle his – there was no way Tzarina would be fit for his Friday show.

‘Look,’ I said firmly, ‘the important thing is for us to try to save Tzarina.’

‘Save? What do you mean “save”?’ There was another wild flap of silk.

Whoops, we were off again.

‘Rabbits with snuffles often don’t make it. But we will do our best for Tzarina. Now just leave her with us.’ I gestured at the door and mentally waved my magic wand. Abracadabra … vamoose … scram. It had the desired effect as Mr Grimaldi seemed to calm down a little and allowed himself to be escorted through to reception, where he meekly signed the admittance form and, with a final bow, a swish of his ponytail and a click of his heels, he vanished out of the front door.

Beryl watched his departing figure, her face lowered, eye peering up suspiciously at his ponytail. ‘Right pansy there,’ she said once he’d gone. ‘Never did with ponytails on a man.’

‘Now, now, Beryl. Each to his own,’ I remonstrated.

But I was reminded of my student days when one of our year, a slight, nondescript youth, who sported a luxuriant ponytail that stretched down to his waist, was standing in a small group, all of whom were wearing brown coats, watching our Professor of Surgery during a practical session in a barn. The Prof was explaining the mechanics of doing a Caesarean on a cow and the equipment you could use to make the task easier; having finished his discourse, he turned to the youth and declared, ‘So even a slip of a girl like you should be able to manage.’

I smiled inwardly, and explained to Beryl, ‘He’s upset because he was wanting to use his rabbit for a show he’s doing this Friday.’

‘And he can’t use another one?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Well, if it’s that important, I can’t see why he couldn’t at least try,’ mused Beryl, absent-mindedly scratching her mole. ‘Lucy’s got that rabbit she used to keep out the back somewhere.’

‘You mean Bugsie? Yes, he’s over at Willow Wren now.’ I looked quizzically at Beryl. ‘Why? Do you think he’d be suitable?’

Beryl shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. Ask Lucy. Just thought it a possibility.’

So I did ask Lucy that evening once we’d polished off the lasagne I’d lovingly chosen from the supermarket
ready-meal
shelf on the way home. At the time, we were still basking in the delights of living at Willow Wren and the delights of living with each other, so there was no problem in having a tête-à-tête, especially if it was supplemented with a glass or two of white wine.

Having each polished off a second glass, as we sat snuggled up to each other on the settee, Queenie gazing down from her throne, I filled Lucy in on my consultation with Mr Grimaldi and how Beryl had suggested that Bugsie might do as a replacement for Tzarina.

‘Well, he’s certainly a placid enough little rabbit,’ Lucy remarked when I’d finished. ‘Rather depends on what’s involved. If he’s just to be winkled out of the magician’s cloak, then I don’t see why he couldn’t be used. But you’d need to try him out first.’

I had my arm round Lucy’s shoulder, my fingers running through her hair, gently pushing her head towards me, my tongue ready to lick her left earlobe, thinking what I could winkle out for her. ‘You’d also have to convince Mr Grimaldi that Bugsie’s up for the job,’ I murmured, nuzzling her neck.

‘Seems you’re up for the job,’ giggled Lucy, running a hand up my thigh. She suddenly sat up, pulling herself away from me. ‘But seriously, though. I’ve just thought of a way you could convince him …’ She went on to elaborate, getting more enthusiastic as she spoke. ‘It’s certainly worth a try, especially if it means that little girl will get to see a rabbit in the show,’ she concluded, her eyes sparkling.