Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [60]
How inconsiderate those six vets had been. One of them could have volunteered … and would have stopped me being put on the spot.
‘You’re our last chance,’ she went on. ‘We’re down to the “W”s. There’s no one else left on the list.’
‘But I’m “M” … “M” for Mitchell,’ I said. Again, did that really matter?
There was more muffled conferring. ‘… Thought you’d been through the “M”s … Have … Haven’t … Have … Look … see? I’ve ticked them off … But what about him? Oh!’ The voice returned. ‘My sister says she’s sorry but she’d overlooked you.’
Mmm. Pity it couldn’t have stayed that way. ‘You’ve done the “W”s you say?’ I queried desperately racking my brains for a way out. Wasn’t there a new vet who’d just put up his plate in Westcott? Now what was the chap’s name? Wilson. Yes, that was it – Wilson. Now surely he’d jump at the chance of helping out. A little bit of free advertising. A mention in the parish magazine.
‘Wilson?’ echoed the girl. More whispering. ‘We’ve tried him.’
‘And?’ I didn’t need to know the answer. He’d be working that afternoon, as it seemed were all the other vets the girl had contacted. My my, what a busy bunch of vets we were in this part of Sussex. Especially next Saturday afternoon.
‘You’re not working as well, are you?’ There was desperation in her voice.
As it happened, I wasn’t; and providing the weather remained fine, I was looking forward to a leisurely afternoon in the back garden at Willow Wren soaking up the sun. But how could I do that without feeling guilty about not helping out? Besides which, it was bound to get back to Reverend James; and with the rectory opposite Willow Wren – the other side of the churchyard – I could see me digging my own grave there if I refused.
I began to weaken. ‘What sort of show is it?’
The girl’s tone brightened instantly. ‘It’s very small.’
‘Yes. But what would I be judging?’ Crystal’s words filled my head. The last thing I wanted were owners who thought I’d misjudged them – or rather their dogs.
‘It will just be children’s pets.’
Well, that didn’t sound too bad. A few mice, a handful of hamsters, the odd rabbit or two. Yes, I could handle them without too much hassle. So I agreed. ‘And what time does it start?’ I asked.
‘Three o’clock in the vicarage garden. But I should get there early if I were you. It’s usually quite popular and there’s often lots of entries. So you might need extra time to judge them.’
Warning bells should have rung then – but didn’t.
They started to toll when I told Mandy … then Eric … then Beryl. They all wrung their hands. Crystal just raised hers and shrugged her shoulders in a ‘you have been warned’ fashion.
‘Pray for rain,’ was all Lucy would say.
A large depression on the Friday lifted mine but overnight a ridge of high pressure wriggled in and Saturday dawned warm and sunny.
‘There. The perfect day for a fête,’ chuckled Lucy, drawing back the bedroom curtains. A shaft of sun, reflected off the church clock, beamed in and shone across the bed to hit me in the face like some lighthouse beacon picking out a wreck. I certainly felt like one. A nervous wreck.
‘Oh, don’t be such a namby-pamby,’ exclaimed Lucy pulling the sheet off me. ‘It’s only children’s pets. It’s not as if you’ll have to contend with the likes of Miss McEwan and her mynah or that actress with her Maltese. It should be a doddle.’
Despite her reassuring words, I still hoped for some divine intervention. A plague of locusts perhaps? But us British are such a resilient lot. The show would still go on. And no doubt some bright spark would enter one of the locusts for best pet.
In the end, the only divine intervention I got was in the form of the gangly figure of Reverend James who popped over just before I left for Chawcombe. He carried a sponge cake wrapped in cellophane under one arm.
‘I hear from Charles that you’re going to be judging the pets this year.’ Seems the evangelical hotline had clearly