Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [37]
Nut cutlets.
TODAY’S SPECIALS: HOT DOG AND FILLET OF FISH
The dry weather experienced during my first few weeks at Prospect House turned into a full-blown heat wave come August. This was good news for Westcott-on-Sea as it encouraged more trippers to travel the 50 miles or so down from London to take the sea air.
Not that sea air necessarily equated with fresh air. Though, as mentioned before, Westcott had the genteel trappings of a seaside resort – a little stuck in the Fifties perhaps – with a pebbly beach, a wide promenade, a small, white-painted pier and pleasure gardens bedecked with scarlet geraniums; the pleasure to be gained from such attractions had to be balanced against the detractions of more unwelcome features. These took the form of piles of dark green bladderwrack washed up on the shore at this time of year, the swarms of black flies attracted to those piles, and the smell from them as they festered in the strong summer sun. It meant that the sea breezes gently blowing on shore, though cooling, were filled with the stench of rotting seaweed which, mixed with the smells from fish and chip shops, kebab and burger bars, drifted through the town causing many a visitor’s brow to furrow, their noses to twitch, wondering if the public conveniences had become blocked. Prospect House was two miles inland but even that distance failed to prevent it from smelling like a fish market on an off day.
One Monday afternoon in particular was rank – and wasn’t helped by my consulting room window which I couldn’t open due to layers of paint gluing it shut. So the window remained tightly closed. That, coupled with a waiting room full of fetid dog and cat breaths not helped, I suspected, by one or two churning bowels, made for a rather rancid hour of consultations.
‘I’m afraid your next appointment’s not going to help matters,’ said Beryl holding up a can of ‘Summer Bouquet’ and spraying it vigorously over my head. I felt a mist of cloying cheap perfume descend on me, making me smell like a walking lavatory block. ‘It’s a very excitable bull terrier. You’ll need some help to hold her.’
Lucy was off duty that afternoon.
‘It means asking Mandy,’ I said.
‘So? It’s part of her job,’ said Beryl with a shrug. ‘You’re not afraid to ask her, are you?’ she added giving me one of her unblinking stares. Before I could reply, she’d swivelled in her chair and called down the corridor. Mandy appeared out of the prep room. Beryl looked back at me, an eyebrow raised.
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m wondering if you can give me a hand with the next patient,’ I called out.
‘Well, I’m busy getting the instruments ready for tomorrow. It’s Crystal’s ops morning,’ Mandy replied, making no attempt to move.
Eric bustled into reception having just seen out his last appointment. ‘Did I hear you say you needed some help, Paul?’ he queried.
I nodded.
‘Well, Mandy can lend you a hand.’ Eric beamed down the corridor at her. ‘Can’t you?’
‘Of course, Eric. Just coming,’ she replied.
Grrrrrr …
Beryl was right about the bull terrier. Blodwyn exuded heat the minute she pounded in, huffing and puffing, scrabbling and skittering. She was a prime example of her breed – built like a tank, well muscled, thick necked, with a broad, egg-shaped head from which glinted deep set, small, button-black eyes. The only thing that spoilt her otherwise immaculate white coat were the numerous scars; you could almost tally them to her previous consultations for repairs to wounds ranging from those inflicted by neighbouring cats to a kick from a donkey over at an animal sanctuary in Chawcombe. Having made so many visits to the surgery, she was well known; and her excitable temperament had been noted and underlined on her clinical records.
When Blodwyn steam-rollered in, Mandy and the dog’s owner, Mrs Timms, came flying in with her. Mandy, her lips set in a sulky line, armpits stained dark green, was sent hurtling into the consulting table while Mrs Timms bounced off the door, lost a sandal and grabbed at my coat to save