Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [47]
‘Close the door,’ said Eric, ‘this won’t take a moment.’ He was standing by the examination table, shirt ballooning over his belt which had slipped down over his paunch so that his trousers had dropped, the crotch now nearly at knee level. In my mind, I’d often compared Eric to a ball, the way he bounced around the place, throwing himself into his work with boundless energy. But today, with the sagging clothes, he looked more reminiscent of a half-deflated one discarded on the beach, the image of which a blue, red and yellow-striped tie hanging loosely round his neck did nothing to dispel.
He cleared his throat while reaching across to the instrument trolley where he picked up a thermometer and rolled it between his fingers. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this,’ he went on.
I gave a surreptitious glance at my watch. There were only minutes to go before surgery started and already I could hear a dog yapping in reception. Soon it would be Beryl snapping at me, wondering where I’d got to. Hurry up, Eric. Say what you have to say.
He dropped the thermometer on the trolley and turned back to me. ‘I was playing golf yesterday afternoon with Alex Ryman. He’s one of our clients.’
Yes … yes … and? There was a cat now miaowing in the waiting room.
‘We sort of had a set-to at the fourth green … about one of his putts. I won’t go into the details.’
Better not, Eric, otherwise the waiting room will be overflowing.
‘Well, anyway, I don’t somehow think I’d be welcome if a vet’s needed over at his smallholding in the next few days.’
‘Is that likely?’ I asked.
‘It’s a possibility.’
Here we go. What’s about to foal, whelp, litter or calf down, I wonder?
‘It’s the Rymans’ pig.’
‘Pig?’
‘Their Saddleback. It’s due to farrow soon. Not that there should be any problem. But you never know.’
‘Er … couldn’t Crystal …?’ I faltered.
The look of horror that flashed up on Eric’s face said it all. Pigs, it seemed, weren’t her cup of tea. Something she preferred to leave to him. Or, as of now, to me – until such time Alex Ryman and Eric were back on par – golf buddies once more. Hmmm.
‘How soon’s “soon”?’ I asked.
‘Alex reckons in the next 48 hours or so. But he might be wrong.’ Eric gave an embarrassed little harrumph. ‘So you don’t mind covering this one for me?’
Seems I had no choice, especially when he went on to tell me he’d already forewarned Beryl. ‘She’s keeping it under wraps. I’d rather Crystal didn’t find out. Could be a bit awkward. You know how it is.’
Indeed I did – so not only was I liable to see this pig of Eric’s, I was also having to save his bacon. Oh well, such was an assistant’s life.
Just after lunch the following day, I breezed into reception to be greeted by a loud ‘Pssst’ from Beryl and a beckoning from an uncompromising vermilion nail.
‘Here,’ she whispered, hunched furtively behind the computer screen.
I stepped across to the reception desk as her glass eye swivelled up to the ceiling while her good one glanced anxiously round the empty room. ‘It’s on,’ she said.
‘What?’
She hissed, ‘You know.’ She held a hand up to the right side of her mouth. The words came out muffled. ‘Operation porker.’
‘You mean …’
‘Shhhh … yes. I’ve booked you in a visit. 2.30pm.’
‘So how’s the afternoon shaping up?’ It was Crystal.
Both Beryl and I started and sprang apart as she approached the desk.
‘Fine … fine …’ stuttered Beryl, her fingers skimming over the keyboard, the Rymans’ case history sliding quickly off the screen. ‘You’ve got Mrs Frobisher – the Lord Mayor’s wife – at three. Her two Swedish Elkhounds are due for their boosters.’
And I’ve got a pig due for farrowing, I thought glumly.
Before I left for the Rymans, Beryl sneaked down to the office and slipped a folded scrap of paper into my hand. ‘Directions of how to get there,’ she whispered before tiptoeing out. She was clearly enjoying this little bit of subterfuge and I wondered whether she expected me to memorise