Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [70]
‘Since when have you found the Westcott Gazette so interesting?’ Lucy finally said. ‘You’re always telling me what a rag it is.’
I continued to hold the paper up in front of me, arms outstretched even though they were getting a bit tired by now. ‘I think it’s important to keep up with what’s going on locally.’ The cat chose that moment to wake up. She stood and arched her back, her tail like a mast, its tip quivering above the paper; it was instantly spotted by Lucy.
Clam or no clam, there was the unmistakable hiss of some valve opening as Lucy expressed her disapproval. It was enough to make the tortoiseshell cat shoot off my lap and disappear next door.
‘Hope we’ve seen the back of her,’ was Lucy’s parting shot.
I found myself thinking, ‘What a pity …’ but heaven knew why. After all, there were countless cats looking for homes. The noticeboard at Prospect House was testimony to that. It bristled with cards requesting homes for unwanted kittens. There was that ginger tom whose owners were emigrating. And that sleek, independent Siamese, Suki – her owners had just divorced. So why should I bother about some poor little scrap of a tortoiseshell?
The next day’s long list of cat spays and castrations soon brought me to my senses. As each uterus and pair of testicles plopped into the kidney dish, so did my gut feeling about taking on another cat. By the sixth castration, they were well and truly emasculated. At least, so I thought.
That lunchtime I decided on impulse to nip home. Although it meant a 15-minute drive over the Downs to Ashton, Lucy and I occasionally allowed ourselves the luxury of doing so as it meant a break from Prospect House. Lucy told me she had to stay.
‘Mandy wanted to go into town this lunchtime. She asked me to cover for her. Couldn’t very well say “No” as she’s boss,’ she added tersely. ‘But it doesn’t stop you going.’ She gave a dismissive shrug of the shoulders.
For a moment, I thought perhaps I should also stay. But, to be honest, I was getting fed up with her sullen moods and so felt no guilt as I headed back to Willow Wren without her. It was fate that I did so.
As I headed over the Downs, I kept thinking of our relationship. It seemed to have hit a bit of a rocky patch, which was stupid, really, as we had so much in common. I felt a bit of a wimp for not trying harder to find out what was unsettling Lucy so much. Yes, Beryl had told me about her and Mandy not getting on lately. But I hadn’t noticed anything too untoward. True, there was a bit of tension between them. But what was new?
Mandy ruled the roost. She was Fox by name and fox by nature. Smart with a streak of cunning, which ensured that she managed to get her own way whenever possible and manipulated situations to ensure she was seen in the best light. Yes, quite the little vixen. One that, if you ran to earth, could turn on you with some savagery.
The main road from the Downs heading north skirted Ashton. You had to turn off down a slip road to reach the village. Never a problem to come off the road, but certainly one to get on it, especially first thing in the morning when trying to get out from the T-junction, a constant stream of commuter traffic heading south for Westcott making the wait at the junction a frustrating one. And dangerous. Oncoming cars to the left dipped out of sight before reaching the junction so that many a time you thought it was clear to shoot out only to have a car blasting its horn up your rear as you pulled away.
Seems something like that had happened now. As I slowed to turn off, there were