Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [52]
As I crumpled in a heap at their feet, the Rymans leapt up and down with glee, Alex hugging Jill, a squealing Emily wheeling round in circles, arms outstretched – even serious Joshua was jigging, a broad grin etched on his face. The cause of such merriment was Miss Piggy who, as I got to my feet, remained standing on hers; with snout swinging from side to side, she swept away the straw, tracking down her scattered offspring, and drew them to her with a series of deep grunts. When her piglets were gathered round her, she gave another maternal ‘Oink’, tossed aside the Smarties and crisps and buried her snout in the trough of pig nuts.
When the Rymans finally stopped their tribal dance and calmed down, it was Jill who spoke. ‘Wonderful … absolutely wonderful. We can’t thank you enough.’ Her voice trailed off as it seemed, unusual for her, she became lost for words.
Then Emily started skipping around singing, softly at first and then louder: ‘Our Miss Piggy goes “Oink, oink, oink … oink, oink, oink … oink, oink, oink …”’
Jill joined in, ‘Our Miss Piggy goes …’
‘“Oink, oink, oink …”’ sang Alex.
‘“Oink, oink, oink …”’ I think I heard Joshua mutter, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets. Certainly his lips were moving.
Miss – or rather Mrs as the Rymans now decided to call her – Piggy continued to munch without so much as an ‘oink’ of her own – but all day long.
When I returned to Prospect House, I half-expected Beryl to be in full Nazi uniform, sporting a pencil moustache. Of course, she was just in her standard uniform of black trousers and long-sleeved black top; though there seemed to be a dark shadow on her upper lip – but that could just have been a trick of the light.
She immediately spotted the parcel I was carrying under one arm, its contents wrapped in a white carrier bag. I could see she was dying to ask what it was.
I wasn’t going to tell her just yet. ‘Spoils of war,’ I said mysteriously. ‘From the enemy lines. Just need to pop it in the fridge for the time being.’ That had been my plan, but I hadn’t thought it through properly. Nor had I predicted the consequences of what could happen in the event of it being discovered – or rather uncovered.
The fridge was home to the vaccines and the cartons of milk used for coffee and tea. It was inevitably going to be opened several times during the course of the afternoon. And we are all curious. So I should not have been surprised that when 4.00pm came and we were in the office having tea, with everyone present – Crystal, Eric, Beryl and me – knowing the bag contained a large hand of pork. And everyone had read the attached ticket inside saying, ‘Many thanks from the Rymans’. I dare say Mandy and Lucy also knew but they were down in the prep room having their break separately.
Crystal was the first to mention it, addressing Eric from behind the desk as she did so. ‘You didn’t tell me the Rymans had had a problem.’
Eric’s mug twitched in his hand, tea slopped over the side. ‘It was their sow … Miss Piggy.’ He shuffled his feet and scraped his chair back a little from the desk.
‘What was wrong with her?’ Crystal leaned forward, elbows either side of her mug, hands folded above it.
Eric seemed to flinch. ‘A difficult farrowing, I believe.’
Crystal’s eyes narrowed. ‘You believe?’ She sat up straight, her hands parted, her fingertips formed a pyramid.
I almost felt the urge to say, ‘My Lord,’ and come to Eric’s defence. Beryl was agog, a jury of one, her head twisting from Crystal to Eric as each of them spoke.
‘Well, yes it was. A difficult farrowing,’ admitted Eric. He gave me a pleading look.
Now what part did I play in this little drama? If anything, I was piggy-in-the-middle. Did I now save his bacon or my own?
But I needn’t have worried. Crystal’s customary shrewdness and ability to suss out a situation seemed to be completely out of kilter on this occasion, possibly due to lack of evidence. I