Pets in a Pickle (12 page)

‘It’s just these aviaries …’ She hesitated. ‘They’ll be perfect for waifs and strays.’

‘Waifs and strays?’ I echoed uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’ But I didn’t have to ask. Lucy’s life revolved around animals; they were her passion.

So I might have guessed that when we moved into Willow Wren there would be a host of visitors moving in with us. To start with, it was perfectly manageable: a lame guinea pig and a rabbit that had lost an eye in a fight. But within weeks, the menagerie had grown. In one aviary twittered six budgerigars and two love birds; in another squeaked a hoard of guinea pigs; some ferrets and bantams appeared; and then the cottage became home to three tabbies and a deaf Jack Russell called Nelson. To compound things, a goose turned up – but she was my fault.

I arrived back after morning surgery one Saturday with a wicker basket. As I heaved it on to the kitchen table, there was a loud honk from inside. Lucy turned from chopping up some tomatoes and cucumber for lunch and said with a wry smile, ‘Sounds like another addition to the family coming up.’

‘Well, it’s not exactly a pet,’ I explained, beginning to unstrap the lid. ‘I don’t know if you remember that incident with one of Eric’s clients. The Stockwell sisters’ sheep?’

‘Weren’t they the ones that got savaged by a walker’s dog? Yes, I do remember. Hawkshill Farm. He had to go out and stitch several up.’

It had been three, in fact; and two others had had to be put down.

‘Well, this was a “thank you” present for him from the Stockwell sisters. Only he didn’t want it … and has passed it on to us.’

As the lid of the basket creaked open, a long white neck uncurled from within.

I added, ‘With five months to go before Christmas, she should fatten up nicely.’

A large orange bill swung out; a steely-grey eye fixed me with a hard stare, and a loud hiss was spat in my direction. I felt almost obliged to say, ‘Sorry … didn’t mean to offend you.’

In a flurry of snowy down and flaying webbed feet, the goose was scooped out of the basket. She ruffled her feathers, wagged her tail and promptly relieved herself on the floor before commencing a voyage of discovery, leaving a well demarcated trail behind her.

Ignoring the mess she was making, I enthusiastically explained that she was a variety of goose called an Embden. ‘They make particularly good table birds,’ I added as our prospective Christmas dinner pecked at her reflection in the oven door.

‘Have you thought where we’ll keep her?’ asked Lucy, her voice slightly on edge as she watched our posse of three cats glide into the kitchen, their eyes wide and gleaming as they spotted the young goose.

‘I’m sure we can find somewhere.’ I thought for a moment. ‘There’s a spare aviary, isn’t there?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I’ve just put some more guinea pigs in there.’

‘Well, what about that old chicken coop?’

‘I’ve got bantams in it.’

‘The garden shed?’

‘Where would the ferrets go?’

‘No problem. They can be moved into the garage until Christmas. And don’t look so worried.’ I threw an arm round Lucy’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring hug. ‘I’ll get her wings pinioned so there’ll be no problem with her flying off.’

But I’d misinterpreted the concern in Lucy’s eyes She was more worried about the hullabaloo that was imminent. The cats had encircled the goose and were crouched, ready to spring, tails twitching, whiskers quivering.

‘If we’re not careful …’ she warned as the cats leapt forward. The goose let out an ear-splitting honk, flapped her wings vigorously and sailed into the air, skimming over the cats’ heads to land with a deafening crash into the vegetable rack, its contents spilling out in all directions. The cats yowled and sprang for the back door just as Nelson tore in to start furiously yapping at an onion, convinced it was the trouble-maker. Lucy clapped her hands to her ears, hunched her shoulders and grimaced.

After the weekend, true to my word, I took the goose back to Prospect House to pinion her wings. Lucy refused to have anything to do with it, declaring it was cruel. Mandy, in her customary style, informed me there was a slot available just before lunchtime; as in the case of Miss McEwan’s mynah, she was very efficient and had all the necessary instruments lined up waiting for me.

As the goose slipped into unconsciousness, she patted the bird’s breast. ‘I reckon there’ll be enough there to feed a regiment come Christmas,’ she said. ‘Far more than you two could manage on your own.’ She gave me one of her doe-eyed looks, her long, dark eyelashes fluttering. If she was fishing for an invitation to Christmas lunch, I chose to ignore it.

When I returned to Willow Wren with the goose, each plucked wing sported a neat row of stitches where the tip had been snipped off and the pimply skin edges sutured together. I carried the basket on to the patch of lawn we’d recently cleared at the back and tipped it on its side. The goose shuffled out with a couple of indignant honks before flapping her wings and, with head stretched forward, skittered down the garden clearly expecting to get airborne. Instead, she plunged straight into the overgrown shrubbery at the end and disappeared from view. There was much crashing about and snapping of twigs before she re-emerged with a necklace of greenery draped round her neck and gave vent to a loud cackle before wobbling back up the lawn, bobbing her head up and down.

Lucy doubled up with laughter. ‘A star turn if ever there was one,’ she gasped, tears streaming down her face.

I agreed. ‘A veritable Gertrude Lawrence.’

The name seemed apt – so Gertie she became.

By carefully re-arranging Lucy’s menagerie, I was able to find a home for Gertie in the potting shed. It proved an ideal shelter where she could be locked up at night to protect her from the local prowler – a fox with a taste for all things feathered. As for feeding her, this turned out to be easier than anticipated. Gertie liked eating grass – I disliked cutting it. So the lawn mower was abandoned in favour of the goose. As the grass grew, so did her girth. Unfortunately, though the lawn was quite big, it did not quell Gertie’s appetite to try pastures new, and we soon discovered Gertie had a knack of escaping that would have done the prisoners of Colditz proud.

The phone rang one Saturday afternoon when I was off duty. I had been in the process of trying to persuade Nelson that the vitamin tablet I was attempting to push down his throat in a lump of cheese was good for his health. I reached for the phone as he swallowed the cheese and spat out the pill. It was Joan Spencer, the postmistress who lived next door. She and her husband, Doug, had introduced themselves when we’d first moved in, presenting us with a welcoming bouquet of sweet peas picked from their garden – a beautifully tended garden, bursting with blooms that put ours to shame.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ she said, her voice full of agitation, ‘but there seems to be a large white duck or something pecking at our pansies.’

Oh Lord. That white something just had to be Gertie. I tore round. And sure enough, there was Gertie on the edge of Mrs Spencer’s patio now trying to decapitate a red plastic gnome. Seeing me advance up the path, she gave a cackle of greeting before turning to waddle into a bank of pink and white petunias. I headed her off but not before a neat row of dwarf marigolds had been trampled under web and a beakful of geraniums had been snatched.

Gertie’s next port of call was the rectory across the other side of the lane. We were not church-goers and had yet to meet the local vicar of St Mary’s church; Gertie made sure we did.

I answered the door to a tall, cadaverous man in a shiny grey suit with a dog collar that hung loosely round his scrawny neck. He had a long, lank head with muddy brown eyes and an upper lip that curled back over his teeth when he spoke. Very equine. I almost expected him to clasp his hands together and say, ‘Let us bray.’

Instead, in a sing-song, reedy voice he said, ‘I’m Reverend James… James Matthews. I do apologise for any intrusion that I might be causing when your time is precious, but have you perchance lost one of your … er … uhm … flock?’ He swayed towards me before rocking back on his heels. ‘It’s just that a goose has taken it upon herself to go for a paddle in our pond. I feel the nature of her exercise might be an upsetting element for the residents – my koi carp. If you understand what I mean.’ Having finished his little sermon, his upper lip uncurled and settled into a wan smile.

I knew at once it had to be Gertie and, apologising profusely, donned some wellingtons before accompanying Reverend James over to his garden. Sure enough, there was Gertie, sailing back and forth across the vicar’s pond clearly enjoying getting into deep water. Not so me. After several abortive attempts to shoo her ashore I asked permission to wade in.

‘Of course, my dear sir. Do whatever you consider best to bring the current circumstances to a satisfactory conclusion,’ sang the vicar who was stalking round the perimeter of the pond like a hungry heron. ‘But I have to warn you, the construction of the pond is such that …’

It’s too damn deep. Yes. The warning was too late. I’d already put one booted foot in and water had slurped over the top. Short of a miracle – like walking on the surface of the water which was wholly unlikely unless the reverend had powers of which I was unaware – I was not going to get within reach of Gertie. Reverend James had swayed to a halt and brought the palms of his hands together as if about to pray.

‘It comes to me that I may have a solution to this current situation,’ he said. ‘They say “lead us not into temptation” but there are certain circumstances where one may stray from the concept of the true meaning. Wait here.’

With his circumlocutory manner of speech, I wondered how many parishioners Reverend James had managed to send off to sleep during his sermons as I watched him head down the garden, his trouser legs ballooning round his beanpole legs.

He returned clasping an armful of spinach leaves and began depositing little piles around the perimeter of the pond as if he were arranging prayer books. ‘Perhaps these little offerings will be an inducement to our feathered friend to forsake the attractions of the open water for the more edible nature of these leaves.’

Gertie had stopped paddling and had her neck stretched over her back, her beak buried under one wing. Oh Lord, surely she hadn’t dozed off, lulled into sleep by the vicar’s words? But no … her head reappeared. She’d only been preening. With a beady eye, she watched the vicar finish his circle of leaves but remained bobbing in the middle of the pond.

In frustration, I snatched up a leaf of spinach and waved it at her. ‘Come on, Gertie, move your …’ I stopped myself just in time from doing an Eliza Dolittle at Ascot, aware Reverend James was watching me. ‘… Self …’ I tailed off lamely.

But it did the trick. There was a sudden loud cackle from Gertie. With a powerful kick of her legs, she shot in full throttle towards me leaving a wake that slopped over the banks; springing out, she showered me with water as she snatched the spinach from me.

‘Well, it seems my thoughts on the use of something of a vegetable nature have eventually borne the fruit of what we set out to do without too much effort,’ said James.

‘Yes. The spinach did the trick,’ I agreed.

‘You’re going to have to do something about it,’ said Lucy when later we were discussing Gertie’s wanderings over lunch. ‘Otherwise, we’ll have the whole of Ashton up in arms. And it will be our goose that will well and truly be cooked.’

‘Very funny,’ I said glaring at her. But, of course, she was right.

Eventually, Gertie’s forages to pastures new were curtailed by wiring, staking and tying an assortment of plastic mesh, chicken wire and dismantled budgerigar cages across the bottom of the garden to ensure all goose-sized holes were plugged. But it meant I had to sacrifice my newly established vegetable plot.

‘Not to worry,’ I said, putting on a brave face as I watched Gertie gobble up the last of my young lettuces and radishes. ‘At least it’s helping to fatten you up.’

Lucy winced. I knew she was getting rather fond of Gertie. She’d told me that every morning when she went down to let the goose out, there was a friendly honk. As the door to the potting shed was unlatched, Gertie would waddle out, eyes glinting; her head would immediately plunge into Lucy’s pocket, rummaging for titbits. And she adored being tickled. With a honk of bliss, she would raise each wing in turn so that Lucy could scratch the soft down underneath.

As the summer slipped by, Lucy grew more and more concerned about Gertie’s future. She tried hard to convince me that it would be better to opt for a turkey at Christmas. ‘You do realise geese are very greasy,’ she said. ‘All that fat’s not good for the digestion.’

‘Lemon juice will soon fix that,’ I said, not appreciating the depth of Lucy’s feelings. Whoops.

Her eyes blazed, and there was an angry swish of her ponytail. Oh dear; I’d obviously said the wrong thing. ‘You can cook the damn bird yourself then,’ she said, storming out of the kitchen while I discreetly closed the cordon bleu cookery book that I’d had open at ‘Roast Goose à la Perigord’.

Matters weren’t helped when one of the Stockwell sisters phoned up with a recipe for prune and apple stuffing that I had requested. Unfortunately, Lucy took the call; and though she was polite enough to listen, all she scribbled on the telephone pad were a series of heavily inked-in daggers.

But I wasn’t deterred. And Lucy began to realise that nothing was going to stop Gertie heading straight for the oven.