Fox-Gifford.’
Pippin looks remarkably well, and I wonder if we have a problem here with the owner rather than the dog. I decide that the bringing in of a sample before starting him on something to settle his tummy will buy me time to decide on the best approach to Pippin’s case.
First, find your sample pot.
Emma’s Post-it notes have all but disappeared, dislodged by the waving tails of passing dogs. I give up hunting along shelves and rifling through cupboards, and ask Izzy, who’s unpacking the latest drug delivery at Reception. At least, I think that’s what she’s supposed to be doing, but her mind seems to be elsewhere, her gaze fixed on the window which overlooks the road at the front.
I can hear a heavy vehicle rumbling along Fore Street, nothing unusual in that, followed by a pitter-pat like rain, which is odd, because I caught the forecast on GMTV this morning and it was supposed to remain dry all day.
The pitter-pat turns to a splatter. There are bird droppings, giant brown ones, landing on the window, more and more of them, converging and blocking out the sky, blocking out the view entirely.
An air horn blares, an engine growls, then fades into the distance. The spattering noise stops and a pungent countryside aroma drifts into my nostrils.
Izzy wrinkles her nose as Mr Brown and Pippin join us in Reception to see what’s going on.
‘What a mess,’ Izzy breathes.
‘What happened?’ says Mr Brown.
Shit, I think, and in more ways than one. Feeling slightly sick with apprehension over what I’m going to find, I run outside to the road. It’s worse than I ever could have imagined. The front of Otter House is dripping with slurry. It slides down the windows, drips off the window ledges, pools on the steps and seeps across the pavement like chocolate from a fountain.
Shocked, I stand with my hand on my throat, staring at Emma’s lovely practice. How long will it take to clean up? Will there be any lasting damage? Will I be able to keep the business open?
I can hardly breathe for the stench, and my revulsion soon turns to anger.
How did this happen? Who could have been so careless? Then it crosses my mind that this might not have been an accident.
Problems with parking, barking and dog shit everywhere. I recall Old Fox-Gifford’s words and what I thought were empty threats to deal with Otter House in his own way. Could he have put someone up to this? I wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, the more I think about it, the hotter and crosser, and more convinced that Old Fox-Gifford’s behind this incident, I become.
I head back inside and send Pippin on his way with a sample pot before running my theory past Izzy.
‘What do you think?’ I ask her. ‘Do you believe Old Fox-Gifford could have had a hand in this?’
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised, considering how he’s behaved towards Emma. He didn’t want another practice on his doorstep in the first place, and now he’s miffed because his clients – Cheryl, for example – want to come to us. This is the kind of situation – whether it’s an accident, or not – that’ll have him chortling with delight.’ Izzy pauses. ‘What are you going to do now, Maz?’
‘I think I should ring the police and report it, don’t you?’ I’m not sure. I’ve never been in the position of having to deal with a practice drenched in slurry before. It would never have happened at Crossways.
‘It would be a good idea to report for the insurance, if nothing else,’ Izzy says. ‘I’ll get Nigel to check the policy and start organising the clear-up.’
I dial 999 and within ten minutes Talyton’s top, and probably only, crime-buster appears on the scene, wobbling up the hill towards Otter House on a bicycle as if his dad’s just taken off his stabilisers. The policeman steers his bike through the slurry, parks it and introduces himself as PC Kevin Phillips. He must be about twenty but, with his uniform hanging in loose folds around his
Pippin looks remarkably well, and I wonder if we have a problem here with the owner rather than the dog. I decide that the bringing in of a sample before starting him on something to settle his tummy will buy me time to decide on the best approach to Pippin’s case.
First, find your sample pot.
Emma’s Post-it notes have all but disappeared, dislodged by the waving tails of passing dogs. I give up hunting along shelves and rifling through cupboards, and ask Izzy, who’s unpacking the latest drug delivery at Reception. At least, I think that’s what she’s supposed to be doing, but her mind seems to be elsewhere, her gaze fixed on the window which overlooks the road at the front.
I can hear a heavy vehicle rumbling along Fore Street, nothing unusual in that, followed by a pitter-pat like rain, which is odd, because I caught the forecast on GMTV this morning and it was supposed to remain dry all day.
The pitter-pat turns to a splatter. There are bird droppings, giant brown ones, landing on the window, more and more of them, converging and blocking out the sky, blocking out the view entirely.
An air horn blares, an engine growls, then fades into the distance. The spattering noise stops and a pungent countryside aroma drifts into my nostrils.
Izzy wrinkles her nose as Mr Brown and Pippin join us in Reception to see what’s going on.
‘What a mess,’ Izzy breathes.
‘What happened?’ says Mr Brown.
Shit, I think, and in more ways than one. Feeling slightly sick with apprehension over what I’m going to find, I run outside to the road. It’s worse than I ever could have imagined. The front of Otter House is dripping with slurry. It slides down the windows, drips off the window ledges, pools on the steps and seeps across the pavement like chocolate from a fountain.
Shocked, I stand with my hand on my throat, staring at Emma’s lovely practice. How long will it take to clean up? Will there be any lasting damage? Will I be able to keep the business open?
I can hardly breathe for the stench, and my revulsion soon turns to anger.
How did this happen? Who could have been so careless? Then it crosses my mind that this might not have been an accident.
Problems with parking, barking and dog shit everywhere. I recall Old Fox-Gifford’s words and what I thought were empty threats to deal with Otter House in his own way. Could he have put someone up to this? I wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, the more I think about it, the hotter and crosser, and more convinced that Old Fox-Gifford’s behind this incident, I become.
I head back inside and send Pippin on his way with a sample pot before running my theory past Izzy.
‘What do you think?’ I ask her. ‘Do you believe Old Fox-Gifford could have had a hand in this?’
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised, considering how he’s behaved towards Emma. He didn’t want another practice on his doorstep in the first place, and now he’s miffed because his clients – Cheryl, for example – want to come to us. This is the kind of situation – whether it’s an accident, or not – that’ll have him chortling with delight.’ Izzy pauses. ‘What are you going to do now, Maz?’
‘I think I should ring the police and report it, don’t you?’ I’m not sure. I’ve never been in the position of having to deal with a practice drenched in slurry before. It would never have happened at Crossways.
‘It would be a good idea to report for the insurance, if nothing else,’ Izzy says. ‘I’ll get Nigel to check the policy and start organising the clear-up.’
I dial 999 and within ten minutes Talyton’s top, and probably only, crime-buster appears on the scene, wobbling up the hill towards Otter House on a bicycle as if his dad’s just taken off his stabilisers. The policeman steers his bike through the slurry, parks it and introduces himself as PC Kevin Phillips. He must be about twenty but, with his uniform hanging in loose folds around his
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