Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [64]
Lucas suddenly thrust his face in mine. ‘You’re due to come back next week, aren’t you?’
‘Er … yes,’ I replied, letting the Setter’s lip drop.
‘I’ve got to drill out that temporary filling, if I remember correctly.’
‘So I believe.’
‘Yessss … quite a deep cavity you’ve got there.’ There was a menacing glint in the piggy eyes. ‘Could be painful … very painful, in fact.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Intimidation? A veiled threat? It was enough to set one’s teeth on edge – especially in my case where a replacement filling was required. I quickly reinstated the dog. Well, she was very obedient.
A little girl rammed a hamster cage in my stomach. ‘He’s called Ermintrude … “Erm” for short.’
I was still mentally writhing in a dentist’s chair, not concentrating. ‘Gertrude .… that’s a nice name.’
‘No, silly – Ermintrude.’
I peered through the bars. All I could see was a mound of shredded paper. ‘So how long have you had Gert … er … Ermintrude?’
‘Bought him this morning.’
This wasn’t exactly the child-pet rapport I was seeking and decided to move on.
A gravelly voice grated in my ear. ‘’Ere, you haven’t examined him yet. Rules are rules. You need to give him the once-over.’ The voice belonged to yet another portly woman whom I took to be the little girl’s mother. I was also quick to note the fact that the Bastille proportions of the woman belonged to Jane Bradshaw, the Sister at the Health Centre in Westcott. No mistaking that bulk. No liana in any jungle – even one conjured up by Kipling – could support such a massive frame as hers. This Jane swung round on me and glared. Me being no Tarzan capitulated at once, stuck my finger in the cage and had it bitten for my trouble. I swore and pulled my hand out.
‘Needled you, did he?’ said Mrs Bradshaw.
‘Sharp little fellow,’ I said, nursing my punctured finger. Another pet deleted from my list.
‘Couldn’t do better myself,’ she said. ‘In fact, I could do far worse.’ She fixed me with steel-grey eyes. ‘Far worse. Just remember that when you next need to come in for a tetanus jab.’ She emphasised ‘jab’ and viciously poked my arm with a finger. This was a plain Jane plainly speaking. No beating about the bush … or jungle. The hamster rapidly reappeared on my list.
The girl with the bunches tapped me on the shoulder and asked how things were going.
‘Thought you said it was only children’s pets,’ I hissed, feeling decidedly Kaa-like. Decidedly viperous.
‘It was supposed to have been, but the printers made a mistake. The “children’s” bit got left out of the programme. Still, it means we’ve had lots more entries,’ she added brightly. ‘And it’s good for the church funds.’ She held up a jangling money-box.
‘What’s your name?’ shrilled a voice slicing through the air. ‘My name’s Cedric!’
Oh, no. Surely not! I turned, first catching sight of the metallic cage being carried by a youth, and then the white head of Miss McEwan bobbing behind. With a nimbleness that belied her age, she zigzagged down the path and skirted the worse of the muddy patches before drawing level with me, her face lighting up the gloom with a beaming smile.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Mitchell,’ she twittered. ‘A little bird told me you were going to be judging the show.’
Cedric, no doubt, I thought glumly as the mynah sprang up and down his perch and gave me a ‘Well, here I am … Aren’t I a pretty boy?’ look.
I glanced at my watch. It was way past 3.00pm. ‘Well, actually,’ I said, ‘the entries closed at three. We’ve now started the judging.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ interjected the girl rattling the money-box under Miss McEwan’s nose. ‘That’ll be 50 pence, please.’
‘Oh, Lady Luck’s with me today,’ cried Miss McEwan, diving a hand into her bag. ‘And I’m sure Mr Mitchell will think the same.’
She ordered the youth with the cage to move forward and then waved at Cedric. ‘He’s all yours,’ said she.
‘Bugger off,’ said the bird.
‘Now, Cedric … naughty, naughty. Mr Mitchell doesn’t want