Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [109]
‘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.
A CRACKER OF A CHRISTMAS
We 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.