Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (27 page)

I wasn’t sure how to steer the conversation from being a patronising sod to someone who had a young fox in the back of his car waiting to be released, especially as dinner was about to be served or thrown at me. It was clear whatever I said was going to be wrong, so I said, ‘Actually, before we have supper, there’s a young fox in the back of my car which I need your help with to release.’ Besides being the wrong thing to say, this was the wrong time to say it, as Lucy screamed back at me, ‘Why the hell didn’t you say before I put the food in the oven?’

That’s when I began to lose it. I’d been treading on eggshells since I’d got home, but I had now reached cracking point. ‘I might have done if you’d bloody well let me,’ I said, surprised at the vehemence in my voice. Was I really that screwed up?

Lucy stood in the middle of the kitchen, visibly trembling. ‘Don’t you dare be so RUDE.’

I slammed my fist down on the table. ‘Hark who’s talking,’ I cried, my mouth opening wide – an action which caused a blob of spittle accidently to hurtle in Lucy’s direction.

‘That’s great … bloody well start spitting at me.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t be so petty.’

‘There you go, putting me down again.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘As if you didn’t know.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Lucy. You’re just in a foul mood.’

‘Don’t you DARE say what mood I’m in.’

‘Oh, SORRY!’ I couldn’t help the sarcasm, but Lucy instantly picked up on it and proceeded to regale me with further accusations of how I always put myself first – ‘Self … self … self,’ is how she expressed it. I never considered her feelings … always making her feel like the underdog.

Ping. The microwave went off. The food was now red hot.

Ping. So was my brain.

Underdog. Margaret had mentioned being an underdog. So there it was. The germination of similar feelings. But was I really to blame? Did I really make Lucy feel inferior? Surely she was a woman in her own right, albeit reflecting some of her mother’s characteristics – perish the thought. If I was the cause of her feeling that way, then maybe it was best if we parted.

Ping. There it was. The solution. It had probably been there for some time, floating beneath the surface of our relationship; but neither of us had been aware of it. Or if we had, then we were reluctant to admit it.

Ping. Yes. Our time was up.

Only this wasn’t the best time to say it. Foxy had to be released before we could think of releasing ourselves from each other. Or so I thought. But Lucy was having none of it. ‘See to the bloody fox yourself,’ she said when I mentioned his release again, hoping I could have appealed to her better nature. No way. I was kidding myself. Her better nature had disappeared under a volcanic eruption of ill-feeling. It had obviously been simmering deep down for some time and, now that the cracks in our relationship had been exposed, it had exploded with a vengeance, and was underscored by a final, savage, ‘And don’t expect me to be here when you get back,’ and a storming out of the kitchen and a stomping up the stairs and a banging of drawers and wardrobe doors being opened and closed.

Ping. Ping. Ping. It was finished. Done for.

But there was still the young fox to deal with. The evening was drawing on, the sun slanting down behind Willow Wren, causing it to sink into shadows, rather like our relationship; and it would soon be dark on both accounts.

Back to Foxy. I slunk out of the cottage and round to the car, opening the boot, wondering whether it would be possible to cart the crate over to the woods myself. After all, it wasn’t that heavy or awkward to carry, and, psychologically, I felt the need to take my mind off the trauma of the past 15 minutes. I levered the crate out of the boot, placed it on the ground and slammed the boot shut with more force than was necessary, but found it pleasingly satisfactory to do so. I dragged the crate along the path fronting Willow Wren, passing Mill Cottage, and wondered whether Eleanor Venables had been listening in to our row; but all seemed quiet and her car was missing, so I guessed she was probably over at her son’s place. She usually went over on Fridays.

I switched my attention back to the crate, thinking that, when I reached the stile into the field, I’d have to lift the crate over, which could present difficulties. It was at that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the tall, stooped figure of Reverend James appearing from the gate to his garden; he hovered uncertainly on the spot, and then proceeded to glide in my direction. Could he have heard our altercation from over the way, and was now seeking to pour oil on troubled waters, or at least to offer some words – no doubt many, loquaciousness being his norm – of pastoral advice and reconciliation? God, they say, works in mysterious ways. Reverend James’ ways were often a mystery, especially his verbose and convoluted sermons, which many times left even the hardiest of his stalwart parishioners perplexed and wondering what sort of path to righteousness they were being led up. The Reverend’s path at that precise moment was leading to me.

‘May I take this opportunity to wish you the benefits of a fine summer’s evening, Paul,’ he said, coming to halt by the side of my car, giving the crate a curious look and wrinkling his nose, his upper lip flaring as he did so.

‘Oh, hello, James,’ I said simply.

Reverend James clasped his hands together, while continuing to stare at the crate. With a big sniff, he queried, ‘Would we have a creature that has had the benefit of your expert treatment within the confines of that container, I wonder?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really.’ A loud bang and a crash emanated from the upstairs window, causing Reverend James suddenly to look up. I quickly distracted him by adding, ‘It’s a young fox. I’m taking him over to the wood to release him.’

James beamed, his lips curling back to expose his prominent upper teeth in donkey fashion, and he nodded, sagely. ‘Ah, I see. So one of nature’s brethren is to have the chance to be unshackled from the confines of that box and be set free to return to the wildness of his familiar territory.’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I replied, as another banging of drawers reverberated from upstairs.

If he’d heard it, the Reverend chose to ignore it and went on garrulously to say, ‘If you desire some help in getting the young Reynard to the place where he is destined to find his way in the world again, I would be only too delighted to give you the means by which you can achieve your intention of doing that.’

‘Thanks. It would be a great help.’

So with James supporting one end and me the other, the crate was shunted over the stile and carried across to the wood. Throughout, there was no movement inside, the only evidence that the crate contained a fox being the perpetual odour emanating from it, a fact that prompted the Reverend to say, as we bumped our way across the field, ‘I trust the fox is of good health as there seems to be little to convey that he is still of this Earth as evidenced by the lack of movement within.’

‘He’s OK,’ I said, praying I was correct.

Once we reached the edge of the woods, I took a winding track down through the yellowing leaves of the bluebells, the sun now sinking through a haze of yellow and pink cloud, suffusing the glade with an amber glow, throwing our shadows as long, black, distorted figures, which flickered and bounced between the tree trunks as we moved through them.

I was heading for a spot on the far side of the wood, a corner in which there was a sandy bank, partially obscured on its lower slope by a thicket of brambles and nettles, and in which there were several large holes dug in its side, yellow sand spilling out of their entrances. A warren. Or possibly a fox’s earth. On top of the bank, above the tangle of briers, was a sward of grass, now silhouetted against the darkening sky. It seemed an ideal place to release the youngster.

‘Here will do,’ I murmured, putting my end of the crate down. Reverend James did likewise and, for a rare instance, remained quiet as I unhooked the lid of the crate and levered it back, stepping to one side once I had done it.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the young fox’s head appeared above the rim. He rapidly glanced in our direction before springing out and darting across into the brambles. The next minute he appeared on the top of the bank, paused sideways to look down on us, a dark-red outline haloed by the orange of the sky. Then he was gone.

‘God be with you,’ said Reverend James and, putting his fingers to his lips, blew a kiss in the fox’s direction. I’m not too sure how Christian he felt when three days later his chicken coop was raided and three of his prize bantams were found with their heads bitten off.

My feelings were decidedly un-Christian when I returned to Willow Wren, now in darkness, Lucy’s car gone, and, when switching on the kitchen light, found instructions for feeding her animals overnight, with a terse couple of lines to say she’d collect Queenie, Bugsie and the guinea pigs the next day, along with the rest of her belongings.

The ready-meal was still in the microwave. I reset it. As I did so, I realised my life, too, would have to be reset to get some warmth back into it.

Ping!

Done.

G
rappling with a young fox in the intimate confines of a small animal hospital’s dispensary was certainly an unusual way of getting to know someone; uncomfortable, perhaps, that it was the Principals’ daughter with whom I was getting up close and personal, but it was a pill I could happily swallow.

The next dose of medicine in my involvement with Jodie turned out to occur in a somewhat more exotic location, where my fertile imaginings of tight safari breeches, topees atop shimmering coppery curls and cracking whips were given even more free reign – alas, not striding across a parched, African veldt, a golden orb of sun sinking down in a tropical sky, but rather across a soggy stretch of municipal gardens in the centre of Westcott, a patina of grey, drizzly rain seeping down from a leaden one. Westcott Wildlife Park to be precise.

It was Beryl who set things in motion that Wednesday afternoon, an afternoon when Eric was off playing golf, as he did most Wednesdays, and Crystal was chock-a-block with appointments, leaving me to bear the brunt of any potential emergency that arose.

‘Paul,’ she called out, beckoning me over with one of her vermillion claws, as she spoke into the phone. ‘Just a minute …’ She clamped her hand over the mouthpiece and looked up. ‘It’s Kevin over at the Wildlife Park,’ she hissed. ‘Wondering if you or Crystal could make a visit.’

‘What … now?’ I queried.

Beryl nodded vigorously, causing her raven-winged hair almost to take off. ‘It’s Ollie. He’s been gored by an antelope.’

Ollie? Ollie who? I wondered.

Beryl elaborated, ‘It’s Ollie, their ostrich. He’s been attacked by a Thomson’s gazelle and is apparently in quite a bad state. Kevin thinks he may need stitching up.’ She gave me one of her glowering, hunch-shouldered looks, head cranked to one side, good eye tilted up. ‘Well, I can hardly ask him to bring him in, can I?’

‘No … no, of course not.’

‘And your appointments don’t start until four o’clock. So you’ve a couple of hours spare.’ Her glass eye glittered grimly.

‘Yes … I suppose …’

‘You don’t sound too keen.’ Beryl’s neck sank even further into the hump of her black cardigan. She looked like a vulture about to tackle a lump of rotting meat. Me.

‘Well … it’s just that I may need some help,’ I explained, by way of my hesitancy. It was Mandy’s half day off and Lucy was dealing with all the post-op cases and helping Crystal with her appointments, so how was I going to manage?

‘I’ll give Jodie a ring,’ declared Beryl with a sudden ruffle of her feathers (shoulders). ‘She said she’d be happy to lend a hand if ever required.’ Her beak (lips) fell open as her claws (fingers) scrabbled for the phone. ‘Just depends if she’s at home,’ she added with a rasping caw (her normal voice).

She was. And within ten minutes Jodie was standing in reception, a cycle helmet tucked under her arm, in denim jeans moulded to her long legs and a white T-shirt equally moulded to her pert breasts, the shirt just covering her midriff. It rode up as she leaned across to give Beryl a peck on the cheek and I caught a glimpse of the small of her back – tanned – and wondered if the neat set of buttocks below it had also been kissed by the sun. Mmm. I looked forward to finding out.

She handed her helmet over to Beryl for safe keeping, and turned to give me one of her ravishing smiles. ‘Are you ready then, Paul?’ she queried, tossing her head to shake out her curls.

Oh, yes, Jodie. Yes.

‘You’ll want these.’ A dour voice cut through my fond imaginings.

‘What?’

‘These operating packs.’ It was Lucy.

‘Oh, yes, thanks,’ I faltered, taking the sterilised instruments and drapes she thrust at me, her face set in a grimace. Her eyes briefly flickered across at Jodie – if looks could kill, then Jodie would have been dead meat and Beryl really would have had something to get her beak into.

It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an eternity such was the tension in the air. Or maybe it was just me being ultra-sensitive. Crystal snapped us back to reality when she swept into reception from her consulting room, enquired why her daughter was there and, on being told by Beryl about the ostrich, instructed me and Jodie, in no uncertain terms, to get our skates on before the bloody bird died.

‘And you, Lucy,’ she added, swinging round on her, ‘please see that you’re back in my consulting room pronto. There’s a Great Dane coming in which I shall need help with.’ As she spoke, the front door of reception opened, and through it padded an enormous, brindle-coated Great Dane, dragging behind him a diminutive lady, whose shoulders barely reached those of the dog leading her.

‘Right, let’s be off,’ I whispered to Jodie, and the two of us edged past the dog and out to my car.

I’d first visited Westcott Wildlife Park back in November – on that occasion, as the assistant to Crystal – when we had to tackle Cleo, the camel with a septic toe. Apart from my big-game-hunter image of Crystal, any fantasy of the Wildlife Park as an environment for her to stride through had been quickly dashed by the reality of the place. Forget undulating paddocks teeming with giraffe, zebra and wildebeests. What we had was a mishmash of pens and paddocks awash with mud, in which there were two gazelles, a camel, some monkeys and an ostrich to head the list of the most exotic occupants. They were followed in decreasing rank by an aviary of budgerigars, some cockatiels, a moth-eaten mynah bird and finally a pen so overstocked with guinea pigs it meant that if one took fright and bolted, they all surged en masse through the puddles (Westcott’s equivalent of the wildebeest migration across the Mara River).