Pets in a Pickle (9 page)

There was a loud woof from Peggy.

‘Sorry,’ added Brenda. ‘I should have included Peggy. Seeing that she was able to lose so many pounds I didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same.’

Except you weren’t snuffling round customers eagerly looking for titbits, I mused. The thought made me smile. I looked down at Peggy. Was she thinking the same? Her lopsided grin suggested she was.

I
t was amazing how those first few weeks at Prospect House flew by, weeks in which I rarely met up with Crystal for more than a brief exchange of pleasantries. No doubt my tête-à-têtes with Eric filtered back to her, though no action had yet been taken regarding the practice cottage. I was kept in the picture as to her movements – Beryl made sure of that. Each day she referred to Crystal’s list of visits as those ‘special clients’, and Mandy made sure Tuesdays were kept sacrosanct for Crystal’s orthopaedic surgery in particular. It seemed our Dr Sharpe was destined to take the high road through the practice while I took the much humbler track that wound through the routine spays, castrates, dentals and more run-of-the-mill consultations.

So it was with some surprise that she stopped me in the corridor a few days before the summer bank holiday. ‘Paul, I’ve been meaning to have a word,’ she said, flashing me one of her perfect smiles – no overshot jaw or crooked teeth for her. ‘Have you a moment?’

Though a question, it didn’t require an answer. If asked for a moment from Crystal, you had to spare it whether or not there were several anal glands waiting to be expressed in the waiting room. A well-manicured, unvarnished nail pointed to the office. ‘Shall we?’

With the door closed, Crystal gestured to a chair. I sat down while she leaned against the desk, a hand to each side, lightly grasping the edge. She looked immaculate as always, her pale cream linen suit uncreased. How she managed that, I couldn’t fathom, as anything linen I wore very rapidly took on the look of a wrung out dishcloth.

‘So, Paul … you’re finding the job interesting?’ Her fingers strummed lightly.

‘Well, yes,’ I replied, wondering where this was leading.

‘And you’re managing to cope with the workload?’

‘It’s a bit hectic at times. But no more than I expected.’

‘And no other problems?’

I shook my head. There was the question of the night duties and weekend rotas unevenly shared … no practice accommodation … the endless routine ops. But I was sure Crystal didn’t want to hear that.

‘Good. Good.’ Crystal fiddled with the gold band on her left wrist, twisting it round and round. ‘The bank holiday weekend’s coming up.’

I nodded.

‘And you’re on duty.’

No surprise there. I’d been told weeks back that I’d be on call. Crystal and Eric were off on a city break to Venice.

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to cope.’ There was a tinge of uncertainty in her voice which made the hairs on the nape of my neck tingle. Hello. I sensed something was afoot. And I was right when she went on, ‘It’s just that you could be called out by the Richardsons.’ Crystal’s steel-blue eyes glanced away from me and she momentarily chewed her bottom lip. ‘It’s just that they’re a rather … how shall I put it … a rather demanding couple.’

Again, no surprise there. What clients of Crystal’s weren’t demanding? That’s why they were Crystal’s.

‘They refuse to see anybody but me as a rule.’ Two high spots of red appeared on Crystal’s cheeks. ‘Not even Eric. They fell out with him years back. Something to do with vaccinating their dogs,’ she added as if I required an explanation. ‘Sorry. You’re wondering where all this is leading.’

I gave a wan smile and shrugged my shoulders. Wherever it was leading, it didn’t bode well.

Crystal continued, ‘Well, they own this horse. And they’re absolutely potty about her. Quite over the top, to be honest with you.’ Again she paused. ‘Problem is, they put her to stud.’

I inwardly groaned, praying not to hear what I suspected was coming next. But to no avail.

‘She’s due to foal this coming weekend.’

Damn. I just knew it. Crystal saw me wince.

‘Sorry. It’s just one of those things. Of course, the Richardsons are in an absolute tizzy imagining all sorts of horrendous things that could go wrong. And they’re very put out that I’m going to be away at such a crucial time. They even suggested I cancel my holiday and they’d reimburse me for it. Can you imagine?’ She looked apologetically at me. ‘I’ve tried to reassure them that they’ll be in your capable hands should they experience any problems. Hopefully, that situation won’t arise.’

Crystal didn’t sound at all convincing. Nor was I convinced.

‘Has the pregnancy been going OK?’

‘No problems so far, though George Richardson’s imagination’s running wild. He keeps on about breech presentations, eversion of the womb, heart blocks … you know the sort of thing.’

That was just it. I didn’t know and the mere thought of them made my innards feel like they were inverting, let alone those of an expectant mare. ‘I don’t suppose they could be wrong about the timing,’ I said.

Silly of me to suggest it, but then I was clutching at straws. Whole bales of straw … stacks of them to be honest. The look in Crystal’s eyes said it all.

The Saturday of the bank holiday kept me busy what with the influx of visitors to Westcott swelling the usual run of injured or sick cats and dogs. There were a couple of road accident cases, and a dog with a fractured femur which, as Crystal was away, I pinned myself despite oblique suggestions from Mandy that I referred the case; and I was pleased with my efforts.

There was no word from the Richardsons. I began to convince myself that they’d got their dates wrong. Even so, I warned Mandy, the duty nurse for that night, about the possibility of a foaling. So the clamour of Mrs Paget’s phone in the early hours of Sunday morning came as no great surprise. And yes, it was Mandy.

‘Sorry, Paul. But I’ve just had Mr Richardson on. They’re worried about their horse, Clementine. They insist on speaking to you.’ She gave me their number.

Mr Richardson must have been sitting on the phone as he answered it at the first ring. With panic in his voice he said, ‘Clementine’s started. We need help immediately before she dies.’

I could sense his agitation down the phone. It was infectious enough to make my hand start shaking. Get a grip, Paul, I muttered to myself, as I promised to get over as soon as I could. I phoned Mandy back to tell her of my plans.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘Lucy told me to say she’d be happy to help out if you needed her.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll wake her up, shall I?’ It was said as if Mandy relished the thought of doing so … and she probably did, as there was still no love lost between the two of them. ‘I’ll get her to be outside the hospital in ten minutes’ time then,’ she added when I agreed to her coming.

‘Everything all right?’ A voice echoed down from the landing as I put down the phone. Mrs Paget stood at the top of the stairs, her head festooned with pink curlers, a hand clasped to the collar of her nightie, the other pinning a growling Chico to her waist.

‘I’ve got to go out on an emergency. Not sure when I’ll be back.’

‘Well, don’t worry. Whatever time it is, you can use the kitchen. We won’t mind, will we, Chico?’ Mrs Paget gave the dog a kiss on his head and stared intently down at me. ‘Anything to help the nice young vet here.’ She continued to study me, her puffy eyes glinting.

I was suddenly aware I was only in boxer shorts and, thanking her, dashed back into my room to get dressed.

Lucy was waiting by the gate as I drove the short distance up the road to Prospect House. She nipped in front of the headlights and slipped into the car. The denim jeans and yellow sweatshirt moulded to her elfin-like figure reminded me how attractive she was. But then I always did like the gamine type.

Crystal had left me directions on how to get to the Richardsons’ place. ‘Well, you never know,’ she’d said, handing me the map she’d drawn. I gave the directions to Lucy while thanking her for offering to help out. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see a foaling.’

Hmm, I thought, preferably one without any complications. I had an uncanny feeling this one was not going to be straightforward. Not by a long chalk.

The Richardsons’ farm was the other side of the Downs, on the outskirts of a village called Ashton. If it hadn’t been for Lucy’s map reading, and her studying the directions with the aid of a small pencil torch, I’d have missed the lane in the dark and overshot the entrance to the farm; but 20 minutes’ drive from Prospect House found ourselves on the farm’s gravel drive, my headlights picking out the tall, angular figure of George Richardson as he strode briskly towards us, his arms waving like windmills. Even though it was 3.00am, he was impeccably dressed in tweeds and polished boots.

‘Over here,’ he barked and directed us into a stable-yard with another anxious twirling of his arms. ‘Quick, before we lose her.’

‘Blimey. He’s in a bit of a panic, isn’t he?’ murmured Lucy as I braked sharply. He wasn’t the only one. My chest felt as if a belfry of bats was trying to claw its way out of it. Flit … flit … flutter … flutter … I raced round to the boot of the car to yank out my smock, ropes, disinfectant and black bag.

‘Let me bring those,’ said Lucy.

‘Er … right … fine, ’ I stuttered before dashing after the shadowy figure of Mr Richardson as he marched across to a loose-box, one arm still above his head, his hand beckoning us. He turned as I caught up with him by the door. ‘Could have a breech on our hands,’ he declared, staring at me. Winged eyebrows gave him a questioning look. His eyes bore into me; red-rimmed, they matched the salami-blotched colouring of his cheeks. His shoulders twitched up and down like a crazed mannequin. ‘You’re …?’

‘Mitchell … Paul Mitchell … and this is Lucy.’ I turned as she hurried up, her arms loaded with my gear.

George Richardson gave her a cursory glance before saying, ‘My wife’s with Clementine now. She’s in great pain.’

The wife? I thought momentarily. No, of course, silly, the horse.

‘Has she started foaling down yet?’ I asked.

‘No. But we think she’s about to start any minute now. That’s why we’ve called you out. You don’t think we’d waste your time otherwise, do you?’ George gave another shoulder twitch and shot me and then Lucy a querulous look, his winged eyebrows waving, as he paused, hand on the bolt that secured the lower half of the stable door. The loose-box itself was ablaze with light. He leaned over the door and shouted, ‘Hilary … Dr Sharpe’s stand-in is here.’

I peered in. A middle-aged woman with a face, moist and white like the underside of a fillet of haddock, was pulling on a head collar, determinedly marching round a bay brown mare who was reluctantly shuffling through the paper bedding, a ball of it wrapped round each fetlock.

‘There, there,’ she crooned, stopping to whisper in the horse’s ear. ‘The vet’s here to make you better.’

‘I jolly well hope so,’ said her husband, slamming the bolt back and ushering me in. ‘Even if it’s not Dr Sharpe.’

‘I’ll wait outside until you need me,’ whispered Lucy.

Hilary’s free hand shot out and clutched my arm in a vice-like grip. ‘What is it? You look so worried. What’s wrong with Clementine?’

I made a mental note to practise a reassuring smile in the mirror until I had it down pat. It seemed the Richardsons were in need of great dollops of reassurance. I had to exude confidence, and show my ability to deal with any problem foaling as if it was second nature to me, as if I’d dealt with hundreds of such cases even though this was my first.

‘Nothing’s wrong, Mrs Richardson. Clementine looks fine.’ I smiled in what I hoped was a more confident manner.

‘How can you tell?’ said George gruffly. ‘You haven’t examined her yet.’

‘He’s just saying that to reassure us,’ said his wife, letting go of me to reach across and claw her husband’s arm.

I felt my smile falter. Oh dear. Seems I was overdoing the reassurance bit. But I meant what I’d said; Clementine did look fine. Despite my lack of experience, it was easy to see that the horse was in no sort of distress. There was no fidgeting, no tail swishing or stamping of feet. She looked completely relaxed. Which was more than could be said of the Richardsons – their twitchy movements, sweaty faces and wild eyes made them look as if they were the ones about to foal down at any minute.