Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [14]
‘Got away from you, did he?’ crowed the Major as I hopped back on to the path, plants intact, self-confidence crushed. ‘He’s a cunning beast. Devil of a job to outsmart him.’ He thrust a hand deep into the pocket of his cavalry twill jacket, tapped his stick against his cords and then began to hobble briskly towards his cottage.
I snatched up my black bag and trotted behind him.
Halfway up the path he stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘You know what I would do, laddie?’ The hooded eyes bore into me, mere slits, shadowed against the sun. ‘I’d dart him. You know … like the zoo chappie.’
I glanced down and minutely inspected the pinpricks of blood that the back of my right hand sported. Who did he think I was? Some sort of big game hunter on safari in a white topee, stalking the slopes of the South Downs for his wretched feral cat – a cat that was apparently wounded and in need of stitching? My patience, like the blood oozing from my scratches, was running thin. I took a deep breath. ‘A better idea would be to trap him.’
Major Fitzherbert’s eyebrows knotted together like two white caterpillars head-butting. ‘Trap?’ The word reverberated round the garden, causing several blackbirds to shoot out of the undergrowth squawking with alarm. ‘Don’t hold with that sort of nonsense.’
‘I mean … er … corner him somewhere,’ I faltered, feeling myself to be the one already trapped, impaled on stakes in the bottom of a pit. ‘Like in a garden shed … or … ’ I desperately looked round, trying to break from the hooded blue eyes that were still fixed on me. I pointed to the left of the cottage. ‘Perhaps in your greenhouse over there?’
The Major finally glanced away. He drew himself up to his full height, took his hand out of his jacket pocket and pulled the flap down smartly. ‘Well …’ he harrumphed, ‘that could be one plan of action, I suppose. Leo does take the occasional cat nap in there.’
‘Leo?’
‘That’s what I said, laddie – Leo. He’s more of a lion than your average cat. I’ve always admired animals with a bit of spunk. None of this pussy-footing around with lap dogs and the like.’ He gave me another hard stare before turning to march stiffly on up the path. ‘Let’s go and take a look shall we? Give it the once over.’
The greenhouse was a magnificent structure, very Victorian with whorls of glass and white cast-iron tracery; its shape was reminiscent of the Albert Hall, having a central domed roof dwarfing – and quite out of character with – the thatch of the cottage. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to make some favourable comment, especially with the Major breathing down my neck. I wasn’t going to shirk my duty.
‘What a superb greenhouse. And that central dome … very … er … imposing.’
‘Pleased you should say that. Most people think it’s out of keeping. But then there are so many fuddy-duddies round here. Far too conventional, the lot of them.’ He gazed at the greenhouse and sighed. ‘Had it built when I returned from Africa.’
To judge from the riot of palms and vines I could detect through the misty panes, he must have returned with a slice of Africa as well. The whole building was bursting at the seams with greenery. As the Major slid back the door, several long, sappy tendrils flopped down over the entrance. He parted the vines and took a deep breath of the steamy atmosphere, standing motionless, for once silent. At last he snapped to and said, ‘Brings back the old memories. Those were the days.’ He sighed. ‘Does need a bit of a prune though.’
I peered into the emerald interior. Any second, I expected