Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [2]
The taxi driver from Westcott-on-Sea’s station knew Prospect House well. ‘Ah, yes, the veterinary hospital,’ he declared. ‘Had my Billy Boy’s bits removed there. They provided a good service. Something he can no longer do.’ There was a great bellow of laughter as he slapped the steering wheel. When he dropped me off at the gates of the hospital, he leaned out of the window. ‘Good luck. But watch your step,’ he warned. ‘That Dr Sharpe in there, she’s a formidable lady by all accounts. Wouldn’t want to needle her. Get it? Needle her! Sharp, eh?’ With another loud guffaw, he tooted his horn and sped off.
His warning about Dr Sharpe blunted my spirits somewhat. As I climbed the short flight of stone steps to the front door, the austere portico cast a deep shadow over me, depressing me even further. Ever the one with a highly developed imagination, I felt as if I were about to enter some Doric temple and be sacrificed at the feet of the omnipotent Dr Crystal Sharpe. A gambolling tryst of nymphs and satyrs on the frieze would have restored my lighter mood. But no, not a bit of it. The Victorian Worthy who had built this house had decreed the lintel be carved with a plain inscription: ‘Prospect House’. I wondered just what my prospects were likely to be as I took a deep breath and stepped inside only to collide with the stooping figure of a girl wiping the floor with a mop.
‘Whoops. Sorry,’ I spluttered, recovering my balance to edge round her.
She looked up with a shy smile on her freckled face, her hazel eyes full of apology. She was about to speak when a voice cut in from the reception desk.
‘Can I help?’ The tone was brisk and demanding.
I tiptoed gingerly across the wet vinyl. ‘I’ve come for an interview.’
The woman behind the computer screen twisted her head to one side and fixed me with a beady eye. She had bottle-black hair which was so stiffly permed and lacquered it gleamed like a polished nugget of coal. A loosely cut black jacket over a roll-neck black sweater hung round her shoulders.
‘I see,’ said the woman, pecking at her lapels with long, claw-like nails. ‘Well, I’m afraid Dr Sharpe has had to dash out on an emergency visit. But Mr Sharpe is around somewhere.’
‘Eric’s in the second consulting room,’ volunteered the girl who’d been mopping down the floor. ‘Shall I go and get him?’ She stood up and pushed back a wisp of blonde hair.
‘OK, Lucy. Tell him Mr …’
‘Mitchell … Paul Mitchell.’
‘Tell Eric Mr Mitchell’s here about the job.’ The receptionist waved a vermilion painted nail at Lucy who then hurried off down the corridor. ‘We’re all called by our Christian names here,’ she said on the assumption I required an explanation. ‘Makes for a more friendly atmosphere. I’m Beryl. Beryl Wagstaff.’ Again, she fixed me with her right eye while the left one seemed to be focused on a spot above my head. Friendly? There was nothing friendly in the eye staring at me. Cold … glassy … very unnerving.
Seconds later, a short, rotund figure bounced into reception, white coat open, flapping round his ankles, both arms flexing and extending in front of him as if juggling imaginary balls. The ‘Pleased to meet you’ faded rapidly from his lips as he skidded on the wet vinyl and careered