Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [18]
I gave a sigh of relief. It was fortunate I’d been able to catch and treat the cat. With any luck there wouldn’t be a repeat performance. I reached out to tap a shelf. It was metal.
Damn! Now where was there a wooden one?
HEAVYWEIGHT KNOCK-OUT
One Friday evening, surgery was particularly hectic. Beryl apologised several times as I came through from my consulting room only to find she’d squeezed in yet another person to see. Even with the newly extended time I was allowed in Mrs Paget’s kitchen, hopes of ever getting back there to pop a lasagne or lamb stew-with-dumplings-for-one in the microwave rapidly faded. Crystal was away for the day – some advanced orthopaedics course. No doubt she’d return brimming with new techniques for joint surgery putting my nose well and truly out of it – joint-wise that is.
Eric was on duty with me. He was just as busy, with a constant stream in and out of his consulting room. When the last animal was ushered out, Eric rolled into the office with far less customary bounce than usual and collapsed in a chair like a crumpled carrier bag.
‘’Struth,’ he declared, mopping his glistening forehead with a swab. ‘What did we do to deserve that, I wonder? Seemed like all of Westcott’s pets suddenly decided to take a sickie.’ He gave me a rueful grin. ‘Still, you coped OK, did you?’
‘Just about,’ I replied, my stomach giving a loud rumble, reminding me it was looking for its ready meal. Some hope. It was way past 7.30pm. Mrs Paget’s kitchen would now be out of bounds.
‘Fancy a quick jar?’ he added. ‘Mandy’s taking the phone tonight. I’ll tell her we’re just across the road. She knows I’m on duty so she can get me on my mobile. Come on. We both need to unwind a bit.’ He paused and gave me an encouraging look, one eyebrow curled. ‘So what do you say?’
Five minutes later saw us sitting round a table in the Woolpack, each with a lager and a large Cornish pasty in front of us. The pub was situated a stone’s throw from Prospect House on the other side of what was euphemistically called ‘The Green’. ‘Green’ was a bit of a misnomer for this worn patch of parkland, now parched and burnt brown with the blistering summer we were having and coupled with a hosepipe ban – the only sprinkling it was getting was from the dogs peeing on it. The Green was bordered on three sides by busy roads, constantly choked with traffic, so taking the air usually meant taking in lungfuls of fumes. The Woolpack’s sign of a shepherd with a lamb slung over his shoulder harked back to the days when sheep still grazed at its front door and shepherds still ploughed in for their ploughman’s. Now the only reference to ‘shepherds’ was with the ‘pie’ on the menu board and any mention of ‘fleece’ was in reference to the exorbitant bar prices.
Eric took a hearty swig of his lager and wiped his lips free of foam before saying, ‘So … Paul. You’ve settled in, eh?’
I too took a measured mouthful before attempting to reply. ‘Er … yes … fine.’ I wasn’t sure how to play this. As far as I could judge, Eric seemed a very affable sort of guy; quite down-to-earth, no airs or graces, ready to call a spade a spade. So if I had any grumbles, he’d be prepared to listen. But to act on them? There I wasn’t so sure. After all, he was married to Crystal, and she ruled the roost at Prospect House as far as I could see, both professionally and, no doubt, privately. I couldn’t imagine anything ever happening without her say-so. Sharpe by name and sharp by nature. No blunt knives in her drawers.
‘So there’s nothing on your mind? Nothing you’d like to discuss?’
‘Well …’ I took another sip. Come on, Paul. You