Authors: Malcolm D Welshman
‘Well, I’ll rustle up an omelette then,’ I’d said to Lucy. We usually had a small but steady supply of eggs from Bertha and Belinda, our two Rhode Island Reds that Lucy had acquired as part of out burgeoning menagerie.
‘They’ve just gone off lay, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she replied. ‘We’ve no eggs unless someone bothers to go to the supermarket.’ The ‘someone’ was clearly emphasised – the inference that it would be her was yet again obvious. Tetchy, without a doubt. I don’t know about chickens being off lay, but I was certainly feeling distinctly hen-pecked.
Ah, yes, Paul, I remonstrated to myself, should have looked in the fridge first. Careful now. Better watch my step – seems I might be treading on eggshells even if there aren’t any eggs.
A compromise was eventually reached – spaghetti bolognese. At least it showed more effort on my part; the spaghetti and mince needed cooking, even if the sauce did come out of a jar. The meal was eaten in silence.
That silence continued during the afternoon as we took the opportunity of savouring the warmth of the September sunshine, lying on loungers in the back garden. But it did nothing to dispel the chill between us. Pity, as it really was a glorious day. One of those early autumn days, misty in the morning, a touch of mellowness in the air, a hint of gold and red in the trees and colour still in the borders. We had clumps of purple Michaelmas daisies over which the occasional Red Admiral flitted, a second flush of yellow roses over the back door, and a tree still laden with rosy apples, many of which had dropped and on which wasps were feeding, getting drunk on the juice.
One such inebriated insect was now spiralling over me in ever-decreasing circles, likely at any moment to land in a drunken sprawl on my head. I flicked it away. It headed across to Lucy, who was sitting a few feet from me, legs tucked under her, staring into space. She was like a coiled spring awaiting release. The tension was almost palpable.
Suddenly, she broke the silence. ‘Where did that come from?’
For a moment, I thought she was referring to the wasp and was tempted to say, ‘From the apples’, but checked myself. Drunken wasps were difficult enough to cope with, let alone barbed comments flying between us.
‘What?’ I feigned confusion. Not too difficult to do as, despite the coldness emanating from Lucy, the warm sun was making me feel quite mellow – almost as mushy as the rotting apples. Certainly not waspish.
‘That creature.’
‘Creature. What creature?’ Were we talking more wasps here? Or a bee perhaps – the one in Lucy’s bonnet.
A finger was pointed at a spot below me. ‘Under your lounger.’
I rolled to one side and looked under. A pair of yellow eyes belonging to a small tortoiseshell cat looked up. She cringed back as I shifted my weight. ‘Why, it’s a cat.’
Lucy’s sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose. She peered over them, her hazel eyes hard as nuts. ‘You don’t have to be a vet to see that.’
Ouch. I was stung – and the wasp was nowhere in sight. This really wasn’t the Lucy I’d fallen in love with. Just what was wrong with her?
‘Well?’ By the tone of her voice, winter had definitely arrived early. ‘What’s it doing there?’
I could have been facetious and said ‘Having a cat nap’ or ‘Having kittens – like me’. But such witticisms are best handled by the likes of Noël Coward and, as I was feeling more coward than Noël, I decided to keep the catty comments to myself. Instead, in the best traditions of the British in times of crises, I asked Lucy if she’d like a cup of tea. It didn’t work. The cat, rather than the cuppa, was uppermost in her mind.
‘Is it one you’ve sneaked home from the surgery without telling me?’
I began to bridle. ‘Sneaked home? Why on earth should I do that? We’ve enough of a menagerie here as it is with all your lot.’ Whoops. That was the wrong thing to say – even if true. Nelson the deaf Jack Russell, the three cats, the assortment of guinea pigs, rabbits, pheasants and ferrets had all been acquired by Lucy – Gertie the goose was the only exception.
I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the lounger. ‘Look, Lucy. I had a hectic surgery this morning. A chock-ablock appointments’ list. The last thing I’d have felt like doing was bringing a cat home with me. OK?’ I peered under the lounger again. The tortoiseshell had shrunk back even further, frightened by my raised voice. ‘Perhaps it’s come from next door.’ That was hardly likely as Doug Spencer had told me that, although he was fond of cats, his wife wouldn’t tolerate them in the house. Joan did upholstery and was afraid a cat would damage her fabrics.
‘I’m sorry, puss, but you’re not wanted,’ I went on. ‘So I suggest you bugger off and find somewhere else.’ The cat remained crouched, back arched, with no indication of moving on. ‘Well, it’s your choice,’ I muttered, flopping back on the lounger. ‘But don’t expect any sympathy. It’s in short supply round here at the moment.’
There was the click of sunglasses as Lucy snatched hers off, folded them and jumped up to storm indoors. I was hoping it was just a storm in a teacup, and that she’d return with just tea in a cup, but somehow I knew more than tea was brewing. If only she’d discuss what was troubling her instead of letting things stew.
‘Right, the coast’s clear, mate,’ I said, tapping the side of the lounger. The cat slunk out and padded slowly across the patio, pausing to look back at me. She was a pretty little thing – short-haired, her coat a patchwork of golden brown, black and white with an appealing black patch over one eye and four white socks. ‘Shouldn’t hang around if I were you. More than your life’s worth … even if you have got nine of them. Go on, scram.’ I clapped my hands and the little cat shot over the wall into the Spencer’s garden. Oh dear, not the best of moves. No warm welcome there I feared.
It was Beryl who gave me some inkling of what was troubling Lucy. ‘It’s to do with Mandy,’ she informed me. We were sitting by the back door of Prospect House, making the most of the continuing good weather – a bonus for Beryl as it made it easier for her to smoke out in the open. On wet days, she had to keep the door ajar and flick the ash out into the rain.
‘Yes,’ she said watching a curl of smoke drift up into the forget-me-not blue sky before taking another drag. ‘Heard them arguing down in the prep room. Mandy was in one of her preachy moods. You know how she is sometimes.’
I did indeed, having often been subjected to her ‘bossy boots’ manner myself. But then she did know her stuff. And Lucy was here to learn. But obviously something was rattling her as she went round with such a long face she could have scraped her chin on the floor.
Eric never noticed. But then Eric never would. Ever the affable chap, life to him was a ball. He could take whatever you threw at him. If he didn’t like it – no sweat – he’d just let it bounce off him. Take his tiff with Alex Ryman – his golfing buddy on Wednesday afternoons – their friendship was soon back on course. No lasting handicap there. So I knew Lucy would have to be far below par before Eric would notice.
Not so Crystal. She had a canny instinct for knowing when things weren’t quite right, so I wasn’t surprised when she broached the subject with me.
‘Thought I’d have a word with you first, Paul,’ she said, ‘rather than embarrassing Lucy.’ She smoothed down the folds of her cream skirt, the gold bangles on her wrists tingling as she did so. It sent a similar wave of tingles down my spine.
Maria … Maria … I once knew a girl called
…Sorry. Getting confused. That was
West Side Story
, not
The Sound of Music
. But it was another show my mum had starred in.
With a puzzled look, Crystal straightened up and squared her shoulders, a no-nonsense stance adopted. ‘I take it all’s well between you and her? As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m never that happy when personal relationships develop between staff. If it works, fine … but if it doesn’t … well …’ She grimaced. ‘It makes it uncomfortable for everyone concerned.’
I reassured her that we
were
getting along fine. Well, we were, really … weren’t we?
‘And I know it’s not my place to interfere but, whatever the problem is, I hope you’re able to discuss it with her. We can’t have her going round looking so glum. It’s bad for morale and not good for the clients to see.’
I couldn’t disagree with that. But getting Lucy to talk about it? I had tried. It was like trying to prise open a clam with a rubber fork. Besides, even if she did shell out her problem, I felt sure it wouldn’t be palatable.
The next chance I had was the following Thursday. We both finished early that afternoon and it meant there was still time to snatch a few moments of sunshine on the patio back at Willow Wren. It was an almost identical scene to the previous Saturday – the loungers, a wasp or two, a few barbed comments and the tortoiseshell cat.
Having failed to prise anything out of Lucy, I turned my attention to the local paper. Not that I was a particular fan of the
Westcott Gazette
but I did try to keep up with what was going on. And the paper did have its uses. The demise of the oak tree on the Green and the arrival of Cyril the squirrel at the hospital had made for good copy. And old editions made excellent liners for the cages.
It was as I opened the paper that I felt the swish of a tail against my elbow. There was a soft, intermittent purr, hesitant, uncertain. I raised my elbow and looked down to find the tortoiseshell cat staring up with those yellow eyes of hers questioning, her paws kneading the ground, first the left then the right, as if marching on the spot. I looked across at Lucy. She was studying one of her nursing books. Holding the paper up as a screen between us, I patted my lap. ‘OK, puss,’ I whispered. She needed no further encouragement to spring up nimbly, turn one graceful circle on my knee and then curl into a ball, her purr at full throttle.
With the paper still held upright to conceal the cat, I became very well acquainted with what had been happening in the Westcott area during the last week. Within five minutes I’d learnt that Cicely Tingley had celebrated her 100th birthday; the Chawcombe and Ashton Afternoon Tea Group had released its autumn schedule and were meeting in Ashton village hall on Mondays at 3.00pm; at Westcott’s Flower and Vegetable Show, Albert Cooper had won Best of Class for his leeks; and that the Christmas pantomime at the Pavilion was going to be
Aladdin
starring the famous TV actress, Francesca Cavendish. Hmmm … I wondered which genie would be stroking her lamp. A further five minutes ensured I was well acquainted with all the planning applications being considered by Westcott District Council and I discovered I could lose up to three kilograms in two weeks at my local weight-loss class.
‘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.