Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [69]
I did indeed, having often been subjected to her ‘bossy boots’ manner myself. But then she did know her stuff. And Lucy was here to learn. But obviously something was rattling her as she went round with such a long face she could have scraped her chin on the floor.
Eric never noticed. But then Eric never would. Ever the affable chap, life to him was a ball. He could take whatever you threw at him. If he didn’t like it – no sweat – he’d just let it bounce off him. Take his tiff with Alex Ryman – his golfing buddy on Wednesday afternoons – their friendship was soon back on course. No lasting handicap there. So I knew Lucy would have to be far below par before Eric would notice.
Not so Crystal. She had a canny instinct for knowing when things weren’t quite right, so I wasn’t surprised when she broached the subject with me.
‘Thought I’d have a word with you first, Paul,’ she said, ‘rather than embarrassing Lucy.’ She smoothed down the folds of her cream skirt, the gold bangles on her wrists tingling as she did so. It sent a similar wave of tingles down my spine. Maria … Maria … I once knew a girl called…Sorry. Getting confused. That was West Side Story, not The Sound of Music. But it was another show my mum had starred in.
With a puzzled look, Crystal straightened up and squared her shoulders, a no-nonsense stance adopted. ‘I take it all’s well between you and her? As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m never that happy when personal relationships develop between staff. If it works, fine … but if it doesn’t … well …’ She grimaced. ‘It makes it uncomfortable for everyone concerned.’
I reassured her that we were getting along fine. Well, we were, really … weren’t we?
‘And I know it’s not my place to interfere but, whatever the problem is, I hope you’re able to discuss it with her. We can’t have her going round looking so glum. It’s bad for morale and not good for the clients to see.’
I couldn’t disagree with that. But getting Lucy to talk about it? I had tried. It was like trying to prise open a clam with a rubber fork. Besides, even if she did shell out her problem, I felt sure it wouldn’t be palatable.
The next chance I had was the following Thursday. We both finished early that afternoon and it meant there was still time to snatch a few moments of sunshine on the patio back at Willow Wren. It was an almost identical scene to the previous Saturday – the loungers, a wasp or two, a few barbed comments and the tortoiseshell cat.
Having failed to prise anything out of Lucy, I turned my attention to the local paper. Not that I was a particular fan of the Westcott Gazette but I did try to keep up with what was going on. And the paper did have its uses. The demise of the oak tree on the Green and the arrival of Cyril the squirrel at the hospital had made for good copy. And old editions made excellent liners for the cages.
It was as I opened the paper that I felt the swish of a tail against my elbow. There was a soft, intermittent purr, hesitant, uncertain. I raised my elbow and looked down to find the tortoiseshell cat staring up with those yellow eyes of hers questioning, her paws kneading the ground, first the left then the right, as if marching on the spot. I looked across at Lucy. She was studying one of her nursing books. Holding the paper up as a screen between us, I patted my lap. ‘OK, puss,’ I whispered. She needed no further encouragement to spring up nimbly, turn one graceful circle on my knee and then curl into a ball, her purr at full throttle.
With the paper still held upright to conceal the cat, I became very well acquainted with what had been happening in the Westcott area during the last week. Within five minutes I’d learnt that Cicely Tingley had celebrated her 100th birthday; the Chawcombe and Ashton Afternoon Tea Group had released its autumn schedule and were meeting in Ashton village hall on Mondays