Free Pets in a Pickle by Malcolm D Welshman Page A

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