Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [61]
I assumed Charles was the vicar of St Augustine’s, a man whom I had yet to meet.
‘Anyway,’ continued Reverend James, ‘this is just to say I hope it all goes well for you. Bless you. Oh … and the wife baked this cake this morning.’ He handed me the sponge while his upper lip did its customary curl up over his teeth as he beamed.
What a nice gesture. I was a glutton for homemade cakes and was just about to thank him when he added, ‘It’s just a little extra for the cake stall at the fête. Susan always likes to make a contribution. Has done so for the past two years. Not that she expects to win gold three years in a row, but it’s all in a good cause. And I do hope you don’t run into too many difficulties in your judging. You know what people are like with their pets. These shows can turn into a bit of a bun fight. And I’m not talking cakes here.’ He looked serious for a moment and patted my arm. ‘But I’m sure you’ll pull through. My thoughts will be with you.’ He gave me another reassuring pat.
Goodness. What was all this in aid of? He made it sound as if I was being sent off to the Crusades in the Holy Land rather than off to a pet show in the next village. It did nothing for my nerves.
Nor did the congested lanes in and around Chawcombe. It seemed like the whole of West Sussex was descending on the place. And there was me thinking there’d be just a few dedicated church supporters sprinkled on the vicarage lawn.
Instead, I was forced to park nearly a mile from the church, join the throng of people streaming down the lane and queue for over five minutes at the vicarage gate where a makeshift ticket office in the form of a kitchen table and two washing up bowls had been positioned.
‘That’ll be two pounds, mate,’ declared the man at the gate, proffering me a ticket and a programme, his other hand outstretched, palm up.
‘I’m … e r… judging,’ I said.
‘Cakes?’ He pointed to the sponge under my arm.
‘Er … no. Pets.’
‘Really?’ A broad grin split his weather-beaten face. His bulbous nose wobbled and a little black bristle on the end of it jumped up and down. ‘You’ll have your work cut out then.’
Despite the sun burning down on my head, the heat failed to melt the ice pack that suddenly clamped my heart. Just what was I letting myself in for?
‘It’s at the far end of the garden,’ he continued. ‘You’ll see a path leading down into a copse. There’s a sign – “Pets’ Corner” – you can’t miss it. You’ll pass the cake stall on the way. But you’ll have to be quick with that.’ He nodded at the cake under my arm. ‘Entries are just about to close.’
I started elbowing my way through the slowly moving throng, peering over shoulders wondering where the cake stand was. I passed a jumble stall where a swirling mass of ladies were tunnelling through the piles of clothes like ferrets in a rabbit warren. Every so often an article of possible interest was exposed with a squeal of delight, dragged out, examined and then tossed back in again with a shake of the head. Skirts, blouses and the odd shoe or two winged through the air. A buttonless military-style blouson clipped my ear and landed on my shoulder only to be snatched away by a whiskery woman who barked, ‘Leave off … that’s mine.’
I pushed forward, squeezing through the crowd, careful to keep a protective arm across the vicar’s cake tucked under my elbow. Heaven help me if something happened to that. And in the next blur of seconds, it did. There was a whining, a panting, the smell of hot doggy breath and suddenly I was clutching at nothing. The cake had slipped from my grasp, snatched from behind me and, as I swung round, was now in the jaws of a Dalmatian, jam oozing from his jowls.
‘Oh, Henry … really! You wicked dog,’ admonished a woman in broad-belted, low-slung jeans who came striding up behind him to yank at his equally broad-belted leather collar, an action which made the dog hack which, in turn, caused the sponge-turned-trifle