Читать книгу Pets on Parade - Malcolm Welshman - Страница 8

‘Do you think you’ll get one?’ queried Beryl, ten days into February, scratching the prominent mole she had under her chin.

One what? I wondered. A punch on the jaw from Lucy? Things were no better with her. Still bumpy. Whatever was bugging her had yet to be exorcised. Madam Mountjoy’s intervention was still a possibility.

Beryl studied her scarlet talons briefly and then looked up at me. ‘I was thinking of a St Valentine’s Day card. You know … from that medium.’

‘Oh, come off it, Beryl. You’re just winding me up.’

‘Well, you never know. You’re certainly not going to get one from Lucy, that’s for sure.’ Beryl finished scrutinising her nails and proceeded to fish in her handbag for her packet of cigarettes, ready for her back-door smoke. We were in the office at the time, having our coffee break. It was a small room, five steps down from the reception area, and had a window that overlooked the parking area in front of Prospect House. That was an advantage for Beryl, since, whenever she took a break, she could keep an eye – her one eye – on any cars coming in and, by leaving the office door open, keep an ear open for any clients who might have sneaked in unseen via the path along the side of the property; a path which gave access from the Green, a remnant of what had been the village green before Westcott-on-Sea expanded as a retirement town in the mid-Fifties.

I knew she was right about Lucy, although I was reluctant to admit it; and I was certainly not prepared to discuss it in any detail. ‘What about you then?’ I asked, determined to change the subject.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. I’m sure there’s bound to be a secret admirer amongst all our clients.’

Despite the thick layer of powder clinging to Beryl’s cheeks, I could see them begin to redden, a flush creeping up from her scrawny neck. ‘Now who’s doing the winding up?’ she muttered, her lips disappearing in her mouth as she absent-mindedly fingered her mole again. Then she added, ‘I have had my share in the past, you know.’

I didn’t know and was curious to find out. All I did know was that she had once been married, and there was a daughter in California and a son somewhere in Australia. But Beryl wasn’t to be drawn. The only thing on her mind at that moment was the cigarette she was desperate to draw on; and with a little inflected ‘Mmm’ to suggest there was more to her than met the eye – her good one – she quickly disappeared through to the back door to have her smoke.

My comment about secret admirers hadn’t been entirely tongue-in-cheek as, when I mentioned the possibility, I did have one particular client in mind – Mr Entwhistle.

I had met the gentleman one lunch break during the hot spell of June the previous year, just after I’d started as an assistant clinician. The heat inside Prospect House had been stifling, despite windows and doors flung open everywhere – that itself was a curse as it meant the pungent smell of rotting seaweed down on the beach wafted in, even though the beach was over a mile away. That apart, I was still thankful to get out, and I headed down past Prospect House, through the tunnel of rhododendrons that had once been part of the house’s Victorian gardens and now served as a hidey-hole for young courting couples.

I crossed the Green to the shops lining the far side, a small complex catering for the cul-de-sacs of bungalows that had spread out like a web from the Green over the past few decades. Although bounded on three of its sides by busy arterial roads that headed down into the centre of Westcott and its main attractions, the pebbly beach and pier, the Green was still a popular recreational area; and on that June scorcher, there were youngsters playing tennis on the courts provided by the Council, while office workers dotted the brown-scorched grass, grabbing themselves a bit of tanning time. The office girls stretched out in their halter tops and short skirts made their end of the Green particularly desirable for elderly gentlemen dreaming of days gone by when they had the physiques to expose themselves with similar candour; and so, at lunchtimes in the summer, the park benches there were always packed.

Apart from the display of youthful flesh, the only other feature of the Green to stir up any excitement was the magnificent oak that stood at the apex of the Green, adjacent to, but over the road from, Prospect House. There’d been heated debates in the local newspaper and a campaign group set up to save the tree as the Council had deemed it unsafe. In the event, it had recently been struck by lightning and split in two, necessitating its complete removal. The demise of that tree brought Cyril the squirrel into our lives, a fascinating episode in my early days at Prospect House and one which helped to form a strong bond between Lucy and me. Heavens – how different things had become between us. We’d need to make a Herculean effort and foster a herd of baby elephants to establish the same degree of rapport now.

My main objective that lunchtime, besides escaping from Prospect House, was to grab a baguette and some buns for tea from the little bakery I’d discovered soon after starting work at Prospect House. With my penchant for sweet things, especially when presented as sticky iced buns, or custard doughnuts – maybe Madam Mountjoy could enlighten me as to whether I’d been an elephant in a previous life – I soon became a regular customer at ‘Bert’s Bakery’ as it was called.

So, with a bag of Bert’s buns to one side of me on a green park bench (at the less crowded end of the Green, overlooking an unimaginative border of sparsely planted rows of sickly, red geraniums and stunted, orange marigolds, acres of bare soil between each weedy plant, evidence of council cutbacks, it would seem), I was tucking into a ham and cheese baguette with Bert’s own mayonnaise dressing, when a Border collie appeared from behind the bench, sidled up to me, slowly sank on his haunches and rested his black-and-white head on my right knee, eyes fixed on my baguette.

‘Oh really, Ben. Do behave yourself,’ said a voice, and a gentleman stepped onto the tarmac path to one side of the bench. I judged him to be in his early sixties, somewhat on the short side, with a spritely step. He had cropped, snowy-white hair with a fluffy-looking texture, only slightly receding at the temples, blue, sentimental eyes and a sweet but weak mouth, nipped in at the corners. His clothes suggested ‘dapper’, from the open-necked, crisp white shirt through the light-blue blazer to the fawn trousers with razor creases in them. White-and-blue spotless deck shoes completed the picture of a neat, well-groomed, gentlemanly chap.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. He stopped a few feet from me and clicked his fingers at the collie, who instantly responded by slinking over to him, where, at the double click of his owner’s fingers, he sat down. ‘Good boy, Ben,’ the man murmured, reaching down to pat the collie’s head. ‘He’s a devil when it comes to titbits,’ he went on, looking across at me. ‘Especially if it involves doughnuts.’

The collie now had his eyes fixed on my bag of buns, his tongue lolling out. I moved them quickly to the other side of my lap.

‘Would you mind?’ The man gestured to the empty space I’d created.

‘No, of course not.’

The gentleman sat down, the collie coming round to sniff where the bag had been, before settling himself between us.

I felt obliged to comment on the dog. Well, I was a vet, wasn’t I? ‘You’ve got him well trained,’ I remarked.

‘Well, apart from his scrounging,’ replied the gentleman. ‘That’s always been a problem ever since he was a puppy.’ As feared, once I’d mentioned the dog, I was subjected to his full history. But it allowed me to eat my baguette without interruption. I was told Ben was nearly 13 years old. He, Ernie Entwhistle, had owned the collie since he was a 12-week-old puppy. Never done sheepdog trials, although he had been to agility classes and won many trophies over the years. Been fit as a fiddle up until the last year or so, when he’d begun to stiffen up. Problems in his back apparently. ‘I take him over there,’ said Mr Entwhistle, turning to wave the fingers of his left hand in the direction of Prospect House. ‘They’ve always looked after him.’

At that point, I thought it best to mention I was a vet there.

Mr Entwhistle nodded. ‘In that case, you’ll know Ben’s vet, Dr Sharpe. A very kind lady. Very kind indeed.’ The gentleman’s eyes suddenly lit up. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say it, you being her colleague and all that, but …’ He hesitated and then suddenly blurted out, ‘She’s a bit of all right is that Dr Sharpe!’ He cleared his throat. Had he sported a handlebar moustache, I could have pictured him twiddling it at that precise moment with a harrumph of embarrassment.

Mind you, I was no better. Me, who, when having set eyes on Crystal at my interview, was immediately besotted by this Julie Andrews lookalike with her coppery curls, intense, steel-blue eyes, the dimpled apple cheeks. Oh boy … I have to confess, I’d climbed every mountain with her in my dreams for more nights than I cared to admit in my first few months at Prospect House. Fortunately, the peak of my passion had now passed and, although I still had the occasional Maria moment, the sound of music to my ears was now much more the murmurs of love between Lucy and me. Well, that is until a couple of weeks back, when the do-re-me from our relationship suddenly went fa … a long, long way to run.

Mr Entwhistle also informed me that he thought the receptionist a very sympathetic character.

‘You mean the lady with the black hair?’ I tactfully chose not to mention her glass eye.

He nodded. ‘Beryl Wagstaff. The one with the glass eye.’

Ah, well.

‘She’s been with the practice for many years,’ I said. ‘Probably well over 12.’

‘At least that,’ he said wistfully. ‘She remembers Ben as a puppy. He’s always pleased to see her. Gives her a friendly lick. Such a nice lady.’

To judge from Mr Entwhistle’s enthusiastic tone of voice, I suspected he’d not be averse to giving Beryl a friendly lick as well.

Several weeks after that meeting, we met again, only this time over the consulting table in Prospect House. Mr Entwhistle was the epitome of good manners. First, he confessed to what I already knew, that he normally saw the lady vet. But Dr Sharpe had been fully booked the day he wanted to have Ben checked over. Beryl had offered him an appointment with me, saying – and I blushed at this point – I was a ‘very kind and caring young vet’. Mr Entwhistle had remembered me from our meeting on the Green and thought Ben had taken to me straight away. I could have interjected at that stage, and reminded him I did have a bag of buns by my side which might have had a strong influence on Ben’s obvious attraction to me. Whatever, the upshot was that Ben had shuffled slowly into my consulting room and, with a click of Ernie’s fingers, had sat down, waiting to be examined.

I’d already scanned through the collie’s notes, reading that the weakness in his hindquarters had been developing over the past ten months, and that arthritis of the spine was suspected. As yet, no X-rays had been taken. Courses of anti-inflammatory pills had been prescribed with back-up painkillers to be used as and when required.

I crouched down level with the collie. Mr Entwhistle gave two clicks of his fingers and Ben raised his front left leg for shake-a-paw. I duly shook the outstretched paw and said, ‘Hello, Ben.’

‘So, how’ve things been?’ I asked, looking up at Mr Entwhistle.

‘Well, he’s certainly beginning to slow up a bit more,’ he admitted. ‘But then if we’re talking about arthritis, I suppose that’s to be expected.’

‘But the tablets help?’

Mr Entwhistle nodded. ‘Keep him comfortable.’

‘Let’s get you standing,’ I said, turning my attention to the collie. I gently placed my hand under his tummy and levered him into a standing position before edging round to his backquarters, instructing Mr Entwhistle to stand by the side of the dog’s head, holding on to his collar. ‘This might hurt,’ I warned.

I began to knead Ben’s spine between my thumbs, starting mid-way down his back and gradually working towards his tail, pressing down gently every centimetre or so. Three-quarters of the way down, my gentle pressure elicited a moan from him and he abruptly sat down. ‘Think we’ve located the spot,’ I said, reassuring the dog by telling him what a good boy he was. ‘I suspect we’ve got some spondylitis here,’ I went on. ‘But unless we take an X-ray, we won’t really know the extent of the problem.’

Mr Entwhistle nodded. ‘That’s what Dr Sharpe said the last time I came in.’

‘So?’

‘OK. Best if you get it done then.’

I suddenly sussed the reason for Mr Entwhistle’s reluctance. ‘We won’t have to anaesthetise Ben, you know.’

‘You won’t?’

I shook my head. ‘He’s so well behaved that my guess is he’ll lie still without having to give him one.’

I instantly saw the look of relief that flooded Mr Entwhistle’s face. ‘But Dr Sharpe had said …’ His voice trailed off, uncertain whether to continue.

I guessed what he was going to say but, being the gentleman he was, he didn’t want to question Dr Sharpe’s judgement – that Ben would have to have an anaesthetic before he could be X-rayed.

I explained that I just intended to take a lateral X-ray of the spine, which meant Ben would only have to lie on his side. Should I have wanted to do a more thorough screening involving X-rays taken from different angles, then that, of course, would necessitate anaesthetising him. So, with those reassurances, Mr Entwhistle signed the consent form to have Ben admitted for X-ray. I overheard Beryl reassuring him yet again out in reception, telling him Ben was in safe hands and that I knew what I was doing. Gosh, what an ally she was proving to be.

Not so Mandy. She of the imperial nature, demanding and commanding, that made working with her so fraught on many occasions. That August morning, last year, proved to be one of them.

I was scribbling Ben’s details in the ops book, having put him in the remaining empty kennel down in the ward, when Mandy came bustling into the prep room.

‘What’s this?’ she said querulously, peering over my elbow at the book. ‘Not another op surely? We’re fully booked as it is.’

I explained it was just a routine, quick, spinal X-ray that was required.

‘Will still need an anaesthetic,’ she said sharply.

I told her the collie was such a well-behaved dog that I thought we could get away without having to knock him out. ‘And anyway, I only want a lateral shot,’ I concluded.

Goodness. If looks could kill … Mandy’s doe eyes widened, her lips tightened; in fact, her whole body seemed to tighten under her starched, green uniform as if I’d inserted an electric probe into a particularly sensitive area. As, at that stage, I had only been at Prospect House for two months, and still conscious of being the new boy, I’d bitten my tongue whenever I felt Mandy was overstepping her mark. And here she was, about to do it again.

‘It’s not the way we do things here,’ she snapped. ‘Crystal always insists on a general anaesthetic for these sorts of cases.’ Mandy paused, and ran her hands down her white pinafore as if suddenly sensing she was stepping out of line.

I raised my eyebrows but remained silent, just tapping the biro I still had in my hand against the edge of the work surface.

‘That way we can get the best X-rays,’ she tailed off lamely.

I gave one final, sharp tap of the biro and replaced it firmly on top of the open page of the ops book; and then gave Mandy the sweetest smile I could muster before saying, ‘Don’t you worry … I’ll get Lucy to give me a hand.’ My pulse racing, I swung sharply on my heels and managed to reach the corridor outside before ‘You cow!’ exploded from my lips.

As anticipated, it was a simple task to take the required X-ray of Ben’s spine. He just lay stretched out on the table with the X-ray plate under him and didn’t move while Lucy clicked the button of the machine from behind the safety of a screen. When I showed Mr Entwhistle the films, I was able to point out the bony growths that had developed between the lower vertebrae of the spine. They showed as bridges of bone that were impinging on the nerves supplying Ben’s hind-legs, and were clearly the cause of his pain and the difficulty in moving.

‘Bit like sciatica then,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

‘Very similar, yes,’ I replied.

That had been the previous summer. During the early part of the winter, Mr Entwhistle had come in for repeat prescriptions; on those occasions, I often caught him having a chinwag with Beryl. Ben, it seemed, was relatively stable but did have his off days when he was reluctant to move around much.

‘We know how he feels, don’t we, Ernie?’ said Beryl to me on one occasion, laying a sympathetic hand on Mr Entwhistle’s arm as she handed him Ben’s tablets. ‘With all this damp weather, we both tend to seize up a bit.’ She looked across at me. ‘But we keep going.’

Mr Entwhistle chuckled. ‘Well, we do our best. And you know what they say – if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.’ He turned to Beryl. ‘And you, my dear, have certainly not lost it.’

Beryl’s powder-packed cheeks began to glow and she emitted a girlish giggle while the wings of her heavily lacquered, coal-black hair flapped like a raven’s, the solitary hair on her mole twitched and the white of her glass eye shone like a scoured lavatory tile. I was damned if I could see in her what Mr Entwhistle evidently saw; but then whatever takes your fancy, Ernie … mole and all.

Hence my allusion to a St Valentine’s Day card from Mr Entwhistle when Beryl and I were discussing the matter that February morning. But before Cupid’s dart had a chance to wing its way over, the Hand of Fate gave us a mighty big slap.

Beryl came charging down to the office the day after that discussion, just as I was finishing my coffee break, her face ashen, her bony hands shaking. ‘Ernie … er … Mr Entwhistle’s just phoned. Ben’s collapsed.’

‘You’d better get him to bring him in.’

‘I’ve told him to,’ she replied, all of a jitter. Her agitation remained evident in the way she kept darting from her computer at the reception desk to the front door, opening it to peer out whenever she heard the sound of a car on the gravel.

‘Ah, he’s arrived,’ she said, when at last she spotted a dark-blue Fiesta pulling up. ‘I’ll go and give him a hand,’ and before I could say, ‘Let one of the nurses help him,’ she’d dashed out to appear minutes later with a dejected-looking Ben being carried in her and Mr Entwhistle’s arms. There was much gasping and wheezing as the two of them struggled down the corridor and into my consulting room before they finally managed to lower Ben to the floor where he lay awkwardly, panting rapidly, his hind-legs splayed out behind him.

Beryl hovered a minute, staring down at the collie, her hands to her mouth, before my ‘Thanks, Beryl’ dismissed her with a click of the consulting room door.

Mr Entwhistle stood, catching his breath a moment before saying, ‘Ben got out of his box this morning and then collapsed. He hasn’t been able to stand since.’ A tear coursed down his face. ‘I hate to see him looking so distressed.’

I knelt down and Ben raised his head, his eyes full of fear.

‘There, there, old fella,’ I murmured, stroking him. He responded with a lick of his lips and a whimper before he started to pant heavily again, his head sinking down again. I wanted to see if I could get Ben to stand. So I levered Ben onto his sternum and then Mr Entwhistle supported the dog’s shoulders while I slipped my arms under Ben’s tummy and hoisted him up. He stood with me still supporting him, the muscles of his back legs trembling violently; but as soon as I began to loosen my grip, his legs just slid away from him. All power had been lost. Pinching his toes and the use of a needle to prick the skin of his hindquarters demonstrated that all feeling had been lost as well. There was no reaction. No whimper. No turning of the head to indicate he’d felt anything. Ben was paralysed.

Mr Entwhistle sensed what I was thinking and in a muted voice said, ‘I think Ben’s time has come.’ He began to sob.

‘Well, we could try some stronger anti-inflammatories and see if there’s any response over 24 hours.’ I didn’t sound convincing and Mr Entwhistle wasn’t convinced.

‘What would you do if he was your dog?’ he said.

‘Well …’ I hesitated.

‘I don’t like to see Ben suffering like this,’ interrupted Mr Entwhistle, choking as he said it.

‘No. I agree.’

There was nothing more to be said. An understanding had been reached. A decision made. Mr Entwhistle asked if he could stay with Ben, and when Mandy came in to help hoist Ben onto the consulting table where his front leg was shaved and the vein raised, he buried his face in Ben’s neck. I inserted the needle and swiftly injected the lethal dose of barbiturate. As Ben’s trusting, brown eyes slid away from me and sunk down, a solitary tear coursed down Mr Entwhistle’s cheek and, with a quiver of his lower lip, he whispered in Ben’s ear, ‘Bye, bye, my old mate. Bye, bye.’

I, too, had a lump in my throat, being witness to the end of a long and loyal relationship. Even Mandy, the queen bee of Prospect House and never one to show her emotions, had eyes glistening with tears. As for Beryl … well, she just threw her arms round Mr Entwhistle, and the two of them stood hugging each other in the middle of reception, not a word spoken.

Two days later, I saw Beryl opening a card which had been left for her in reception. A St Valentine’s Day card to accompany the bouquet of red roses she now had displayed next to her computer.

‘I wonder who it’s from,’ she said, giving me a sly wink.

As if I didn’t know.