Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [25]
Mr Richardson must have been sitting on the phone as he answered it at the first ring. With panic in his voice he said, ‘Clementine’s started. We need help immediately before she dies.’
I could sense his agitation down the phone. It was infectious enough to make my hand start shaking. Get a grip, Paul, I muttered to myself, as I promised to get over as soon as I could. I phoned Mandy back to tell her of my plans.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘Lucy told me to say she’d be happy to help out if you needed her.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll wake her up, shall I?’ It was said as if Mandy relished the thought of doing so … and she probably did, as there was still no love lost between the two of them. ‘I’ll get her to be outside the hospital in ten minutes’ time then,’ she added when I agreed to her coming.
‘Everything all right?’ A voice echoed down from the landing as I put down the phone. Mrs Paget stood at the top of the stairs, her head festooned with pink curlers, a hand clasped to the collar of her nightie, the other pinning a growling Chico to her waist.
‘I’ve got to go out on an emergency. Not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Well, don’t worry. Whatever time it is, you can use the kitchen. We won’t mind, will we, Chico?’ Mrs Paget gave the dog a kiss on his head and stared intently down at me. ‘Anything to help the nice young vet here.’ She continued to study me, her puffy eyes glinting.
I was suddenly aware I was only in boxer shorts and, thanking her, dashed back into my room to get dressed.
Lucy was waiting by the gate as I drove the short distance up the road to Prospect House. She nipped in front of the headlights and slipped into the car. The denim jeans and yellow sweatshirt moulded to her elfin-like figure reminded me how attractive she was. But then I always did like the gamine type.
Crystal had left me directions on how to get to the Richardsons’ place. ‘Well, you never know,’ she’d said, handing me the map she’d drawn. I gave the directions to Lucy while thanking her for offering to help out. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see a foaling.’
Hmm, I thought, preferably one without any complications. I had an uncanny feeling this one was not going to be straightforward. Not by a long chalk.
The Richardsons’ farm was the other side of the Downs, on the outskirts of a village called Ashton. If it hadn’t been for Lucy’s map reading, and her studying the directions with the aid of a small pencil torch, I’d have missed the lane in the dark and overshot the entrance to the farm; but 20 minutes’ drive from Prospect House found ourselves on the farm’s gravel drive, my headlights picking out the tall, angular figure of George Richardson as he strode briskly towards us, his arms waving like windmills. Even though it was 3.00am, he was impeccably dressed in tweeds and polished boots.
‘Over here,’ he barked and directed us into a stable-yard with another anxious twirling of his arms. ‘Quick, before we lose her.’
‘Blimey. He’s in a bit of a panic, isn’t he?’ murmured Lucy as I braked sharply. He wasn’t the only one. My chest felt as if a belfry of bats was trying to claw its way out of it. Flit … flit … flutter … flutter … I raced round to the boot of the car to yank out my smock, ropes, disinfectant and black bag.
‘Let me bring those,’ said Lucy.
‘Er … right … fine, ’ I stuttered before dashing after the shadowy figure of Mr Richardson as he marched across to a loose-box, one arm still above his head, his hand beckoning us. He turned as I caught up with him by the door. ‘Could have a breech on our hands,’ he declared, staring at me. Winged eyebrows gave him a questioning look. His eyes bore into me; red-rimmed, they matched the salami-blotched colouring of his cheeks. His shoulders twitched up and down like a crazed mannequin. ‘You’re …?’
‘Mitchell … Paul Mitchell … and this is Lucy.’ I turned as she hurried up, her arms loaded with my gear.
George Richardson gave her a cursory