Read Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Online

Authors: Malcolm D. Welshman

Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (21 page)

I resisted the urge to gossip with Bugsie and, instead, found taking Nelson for a stroll into the woods the best way to unwind from a hectic day at Prospect House. On so many early evenings that April, I would be over there, savouring the serenity of the glade now full of bluebells, their delicate scent drifting in the light, evening breeze as the rays of the setting sun sank down under the canopy of leaves and sent rods of gold flashing between the tree trunks. But then I did start talking to Nelson. Not the usual ‘Come here’ and ‘Sit’ sort of conversation with which we’re all familiar, but more the ‘What do you think’s going on?’ and ‘I don’t know how this is all going to pan out, do you?’ variety. Nelson was quite tactful when I was in that sort of mood, and carried on ahead of me, head down, sniffing the path for rabbits, pretending he hadn’t heard me. There again, he was rather deaf, so I suppose it was unfair of me to expect any other response; but it didn’t stop me from ranting on, and I certainly felt marginally better for doing so.

At the far end of the wood, the land fell away across a rolling countryside dotted with a patchwork of maize and wheat, criss-crossed with acres of rapeseed, already showing traces of the vibrant yellow with which those fields would soon be emblazoned. Far in the distance, you could just make out the meandering course of the River Avon, which, at this time of the evening, caught and reflected the setting sun in a ribbon of orange. The scene was one which made you want to stop and meditate – sit with one’s back resting against the warm bark of an oak, and watch the evening melt into night. And that’s what we did. Not me and Lucy – me and Nelson. He, sitting by my side, that large, soppy grin on his face, as I gently caressed his nape, me nattering away, getting things off my chest. Those evenings together certainly helped to reduce the tension in me and instil a sense of calmness and serenity.

‘Maybe we can’t put the world to rights,’ I said on one such evening, looking down at him, my hand caressing his ear in the fading, golden light. ‘But we can have a damned good try.’

He looked up with that wonderful grin of his, and I couldn’t help but smile in return. What great buddies we were.

So what happened two days later was all the more traumatic and heart-wrenching, and will remain indelibly etched in my mind.

Lucy and I both had the Saturday off. It started off peacefully enough, being woken by the soft coo-cooing of collared doves in the silver birch trees out the front and one or two muted caws from the rookery. No screeches from Eleanor’s cockatiel next door. His morning vocals had finally got the better of her, and the bird had been despatched to live with her son over in Chawcombe.

I padded down to the kitchen, stopping to say hello to Nelson – when I say Nelson, I actually mean the mountain of blankets atop a beanbag in front of the Aga, under which, I assumed, was the dog. Occasionally, I made the wrong assumption and found I was really greeting a pile of blankets, and I often continued to talk to it until much later when, having lifted one corner of them, I discovered an absence of dog, Nelson having slipped out during the night to find a cooler spot in the living room where he’d still be flat out, snoring, not having heard me come down.

This morning, my ‘Hello’ was rewarded by a slight movement of one end of the blankets and the emergence of Nelson’s flag-pole tail, which raised itself to half-mast and gave one wag before flopping down again. I pulled back the layers of blankets and said, ‘Morning. How are you today?’

Nelson’s response was the same every day when in residence under the blankets. He’d stretch out and squirm on the beanbag until he’d managed to manoeuvre himself onto his back and then lie there, back legs splayed out, front legs folded in at the ankles as if begging, his distended tummy ballooning out like a half-inflated ball. A perfect ‘I’m fine … give me a scratch please’ position; and I would duly oblige, evoking a facial expression of sheer bliss as his eyes closed again and his lips curled back in that grin of his, all front teeth exposed.

Nelson’s constitutional, first thing, usually consisted of an amble round the back garden, which would be notched up a gear if Garfield or Push-in happened to be about; later, if we were at home, he was allowed to wander round to the front of the cottage where the mid-morning sun hit a patch of sheltered lawn and hard standing, turning it into the perfect spot for a bit of canine sunbathing. It was here that Nelson would snooze contentedly for a while before the shadow of the cottage crept round to cover it and so force him to move.

That Saturday was a bright, sunny one. Sipping my green tea while standing by the open kitchen door, I could already feel the warmth of the sun as it appeared over the top of the willows and shone down in my face; a sharp contrast to the chilly atmosphere inside the cottage, where I’d taken a mug of tea and two biscuits up to Lucy who had still been asleep. As with Nelson, all I could see of her was a mound of duvet. But unlike with him, I didn’t pull the duvet back, as I knew that, had I done so, she wouldn’t have responded by rolling onto her back and splaying her legs out – much as I may have wanted her to. In your dreams, mate, I thought, putting the mug and biscuits down on the cabinet next to her and walking away.

I usually cooked breakfast, and today was no exception – boiled eggs for the two of us. I liked mine lightly boiled, Lucy liked hers harder. So I usually left hers in the pan a minute longer than mine, making sure I kept a careful eye on the kitchen clock throughout so as not to over-boil either of them. I was dipping a soldier of toast into mine – the yolk nice and runny – when she came down with her tea half drunk and plonked herself at the table with a rather abrupt ‘Morning …’ But at least I had to be thankful she was acknowledging my presence.

I echoed her ‘Morning …’ with one of my own, which I hope sounded a little more cheerful, adding, ‘What are you going to be doing today?’

‘What’s it to you?’ was her reply.

Oh dear. I thrust my soldier deep into my egg. She cracked hers sharply with a spoon, splintering the shell in two taps, jerking off the pieces with her finger and thumb; then, having tossed them down in an untidy heap on the plate, she stabbed the top of the egg and levered off a spoonful of white and yolk. Both were rock hard. It was to set the scene for the day: me feeling I was forever treading on eggshells when in her presence; she feeling hard done by.

So I escaped into the garden; there, I had a different battle on my hands – waging war on the weeds that were shooting up now that the warmer weather had arrived. I had a quick word with Nelson, apologising for the atmosphere indoors, before he slunk off round to the front of the cottage. And when I saw the top of Eleanor’s grey head over the fence, I nipped onto my pile of bricks to exchange a few pleasantries about how the gardens were looking and all the work that had to be done.

Eleanor waved a yellow, rubber-gloved hand at her borders to emphasis the point, adding, ‘But it’s such a relief to be able to get out of doors.’

I nodded my head vigorously. So true … so true. I didn’t need reminding, and I turned to observe Lucy come marching out to see to the animals: Gertie to be let out; Push-in’s and Garfield’s feed and water bowls to be cleaned and refilled; and Bugsie and the two guinea pigs to be fed. All of them were reasons for her to continue living at Willow Wren. As for me? I wasn’t too sure where I came in the pecking order – I suspected quite low down, the way things were at present – but at least I still did get fed and watered.

It was just before 11.00am and I was thinking in terms of a cup of cappuccino and a Danish pastry – I’d bought a couple of apricot crowns the previous day over at Bert’s Bakery and had covered them with cling-film overnight to make sure they didn’t go stale – when I decided to heave up one more clump of weeds before stopping. It turned out to be a particularly tough clump and I really did have to push the fork deep into its centre, rocking it from side to side to loosen the roots – of what, I wasn’t sure – and that was my downfall.

Lucy had been walking back up the garden from Gertie’s shed and had drawn level with me. ‘What on earth are you doing, Paul?’ she said, coming to a halt, to look down at the two large lumps of roots which I’d now managed to heave out, leaving two deep craters in the border.

I thought it was obvious, but being acutely aware of Lucy’s hedgehog prickliness, I thought it wise not to state the obvious too obviously and attempted to think of a rational explanation that had no trace of sarcasm liable to inflate Lucy’s mood to porcupine proportions. I needn’t have bothered, as clearly she’d already jumped to a conclusion of her own. Her face twisted to the left and, at the same time, her mouth curved up on that side, an action which caused her left eye to half close and gave the impression of a knowing wink executed by someone who had lost their marbles. But she hadn’t lost hers – far from it.

‘Idiot,’ she seethed, kicking one of the clumps. ‘You’ve just dug up the Michaelmas daisies that attracted all those butterflies last autumn. Don’t you remember?’

Now she mentioned it, I did remember. Well, let’s say I could recall there being several patches of purple-flowering daisies which, indeed, had attracted many Red Admirals and a few Peacocks, but, as to where those clumps had been, I had obviously forgotten, otherwise why would I be bothering to yank out these thick clumps of what I’d been about to call weeds?

At that point, I saw Eleanor’s head reappear over the fence, this time all of it – perhaps she now had her own pile of bricks to stand on. ‘Hello, dears,’ she said affably, as Lucy’s features rapidly composed themselves into some degree of normality and she swung round to smile.

Eleanor looked past her to where I was standing, a boot on top of the fork’s head, the fork still embedded in one of the clumps of weeds … er … Michaelmas daisies. ‘Paul’s been busy, I see,’ she continued. ‘Good idea to divide up the perennials this time of year. Keeps them healthy. And if you’ve got some spare clumps of those Michaelmas daisies, do let me have them. It’s so nice to be able to encourage the butterflies, don’t you think?’

I swear there was the briefest of winks in my direction before, with a little wave of her yellow-gloved fingers, she dropped back out of sight.

‘Coffee time,’ I said to Lucy. ‘I’ve got some apricot crowns.’ And, without further ado, I nipped inside, suppressing the grin that threatened to break out on my face. Good old Eleanor.

But Lucy remained prickly. If it wasn’t going to be me mistaking perennials for weeds, then I felt she’d find some other excuse to have a go at me. It didn’t take her long. By then, we’d finished our pastries and coffee, having had them on the patio, and I, at least, was enjoying the warmth of the morning sun, praying that it might help to improve Lucy’s mood as we continued to sit either side of the patio table, each of us on a cushioned lounger. Between us was Nelson, who had joined us from the front garden to hoover up any crumbs, before stretching out at my feet to continue his morning siesta on the now pleasantly warmed-up bricks.

What a peaceful, restful scene. A blackbird was singing in the forsythia, his gleaming plumage haloed by bowers of yellow; two blue tits fussily flitted in and out of a hole up under the eaves – I could hear the burr of their wings, their chirrups, as they investigated a possible nesting site. Minutes later, they were chased away by a pair of starlings that descended with raucous cries; one stayed perched on the gutter while the other slipped into the hole to look at the possibilities of it being a des res, appearing minutes later with a strident call to his mate suggesting that, indeed, it was going to be the ideal home to rear their family.

I half opened my eyes and looked across at Lucy, wondering what sort of home would be ideal for her to raise a family. I closed my eyes again. For a start, I dreamt it would have to have plenty of room for animals. But not only animals. I could see Lucy with a large family of her own. She was that sort of girl – the homely, meal-ready-
on-the
table-for-hubby sort of woman – soft-natured, warm and sensual, yielding willingly to the wants of her husband whenever he desired them, allowing him to bury himself in her warm, sensuous body.

‘Paul.’

I was dimly aware of Lucy’s voice.

‘Paul. I want you to do something for me.’

‘Yes, my love,’ I murmured sleepily, easing myself up the chair a little – it had suddenly become quite hard. ‘Whatever you want.’


Paul
.’ The tone was more strident and woke me fully.

‘What is it?’ I snapped, luscious Lucy receding rapidly.

‘Bugsie’s out of pellets. Go and get some for me, will you?’

I’m not sure why I reacted in the way I did. I often look back and try to work it out, to offer the reasons for my response, to attempt to justify it, because the consequences were so devastating, so appalling, I would have given my right arm to have put the clock back and stopped them.

Was I still half asleep, not really with it enough to realise the consequences of my reply? Was it discovering the reality was so different to my dream? Maybe I was trying to cover the embarrassment of my erotic reaction to that dream, so my mind wasn’t on my reply? Perhaps it was because I was being asked to do something for a rabbit – even though he wasn’t called Peter?

Or … I just hated Lucy.

I said, ‘Get them yourself …’

Those three words had been loaded like shells in a revolver. Each was deliberately fired at Lucy and each scored a direct hit. But there was no shouting and screaming, no throwing of mugs – Lucy just jumped to her feet and said, ‘Well, you can bloody well get your own lunch then, you bastard.’ But that one sentence was said with such vitriol that she might as well have poured a flask of sulphuric acid over me and watched it etch into my skin in much the way her acid words were wounding me now.

Nelson, too, felt, or at least sensed, their acidity, since he quickly scrabbled to his feet and trotted out of the gate to seek refuge round the front of the cottage.

I sat up, swinging my legs off the side of my lounger, and watched Lucy flounce into the kitchen, heard the chink of the car keys being picked up from the glass dish on the window sill where both sets were kept and, minutes later, she reappeared, jacket on, bag over her shoulder and stormed out of the gate, banging it back on its hinges.

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