• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

‘’Struth,’ declared Eric, rolling out of the other consulting room, sweating profusely. ‘Let’s hope for your sake that’s it for now and you have a quiet time over Christmas.’ He gave me a rueful look, his eyes flicking to Lucy who had appeared in the doorway. ‘The two of you, that is.’

‘Well, you can call on us any time should you run into difficulties,’ said Crystal, striding through from the office where she’d been finalising some accounts on the computer. ‘We’ll both be at home.’ She, too, glanced at Lucy. There was an awkward pause.

‘Well, anyway, happy Christmas everyone,’ said Beryl straining forward, presenting her cheek for a peck. We all obliged.

With final best wishes made, Beryl, Eric and Crystal piled out, leaving Lucy and me standing in the empty reception, only the muffled sound of a dog yapping forlornly in the ward to break the silence. And was it going to be just that? A silent night – a night wholly apart?

‘Well, Lucy,’ I said, hands in my pockets. ‘It’s your decision – you staying or coming back with me?’ I looked at those hazel eyes, the freckles on the snub nose, the fringe of hair across the brow. Standing in front of me was the best present I could possibly wish for – if only she’d let me wrap her in my arms.

But it seemed my wish wasn’t going to be granted; Lucy backed away. ‘I think it best if I stay here,’ she murmured, averting her eyes.

So be it, I thought. But what a crazy, crazy situation.

My mood was still foul on Christmas morning, and was matched by the frozen chicken I’d forgotten to take out of the freezer when I’d got back to Willow Wren the night before. It was standing stiffly on the draining board looking as frozen as I felt when the phone rang. The voice at the end of the line had a thick, Scottish accent and was full of doom and gloom. No Christmas spirit there.

‘What seems to be the problem? I asked trying to keep the chill out of my own voice once I’d confirmed that, yes, I was the vet on duty.

‘It’s Eve … our British Blue. She’s attacked our daughter’s moose.’

‘What?’ I replied, startled by the thought of some moose-savaging moggy stalking round Westcott like Godzilla.

‘A moose,’ repeated the voice dourly. ‘You know, like in Tom and Jerry.’

‘Oh, you mean a mouse.’

‘Aye, Mickey. Our daughter’s pet moose.’

I hadn’t much experience in dealing with mice. ‘Is he badly injured then?’

‘There’s only his tail left. She’s very upset.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ I said rather icily as I pondered over my chicken. ‘But you can always get your daughter another one,’ I added somewhat tactlessly.

‘Noooo,’ drawled the voice. ‘It’s Eve that’s upset … she swallowed Mickey … she’s now very poorly.’

‘You’d better bring her in then,’ I said jotting down his name before shoving the chicken on to a large plate and placing it on top of the fridge out of reach of Nelson, Queenie and Co, who had been circling my legs, looking hopeful.

I rang through to the hospital to warn Lucy that a Mr McBeath would be coming in. Her tone sounded as icy as the bird on the fridge. Talk about being given the cold shoulder.

My mood reflected that of the sick-looking British Blue that turned up on my consulting table half-an-hour later. She was true to her breed in appearance: dense, blue-grey coat, broad-chested, large, rounded head with coppery-orange eyes. Though I knew British Blues tended to be calm and collected, Eve was more laid-down than laid-back. She was distinctly off-colour. I was faced with a miserable moggy that lay on the table without moving, head down, eyes dull, saliva matting the fur round her mouth.

Mr McBeath looked no better. ‘We wish you a merry Christmas …’ had long since died on his lips. Stony-faced and gravelly-voiced, he could have given a block of granite a good run for its money.

‘So Eve’s being sick?’ I asked.

There was a big intake of breath. Mr McBeath exhaled, at the same time emitting a deep, booming fog-horn ‘Aye’.

My enquiry as to whether Eve had brought anything up elicited an equally sonorous