SERIES Tales From Prospect House by Malcolm Welshman

Would Friday the thirteenth cause trouble at Prospect House?

THERE was a blackbird hopping about on the bird table just outside Willow Wren’s kitchen window that October morning. The morning of Friday the thirteenth.

He peered in and caught my eye with a beady look. Was he cross that there were no breadcrumbs on the table? Or was it a warning that I’d better watch out? I was sure I’d read that a stare from a blackbird on that day can lead to an early death.

I hastily crumbled half a loaf on the bread board, yanked the window open and tossed the crumbs out on to the bird table just to be on the safe side. I’m not superstitious, but you never know.

The black cat is another creature that can give signs to humans of impending doom. So when Beryl told me I had a black cat by the name of Crackerjack to visit that Friday, I was a little apprehensive.

It turned out his owner, Miss Jameson, a somewhat elderly lady, had no control over her pet whatsoever.

“Crackerjack’s up in my bedroom,” she told me on arrival at her house.

I found myself on hands and knees, peering under her Victorian bedstead, attempting to pick out the cat in the gloom.

My cajoling calls were rewarded by a snarl. White teeth lit up the darkness, and as Crackerjack sank those teeth in my outstretched palm, a string of expletives lit up the air.

My ominous day continued during the afternoon.

“Sorry, Paul,” Beryl said, “but there’s a pony that’s gone down with possible colic.”

Now, horses have a fair share of superstitions riding on their backs. A white horse can warn of danger and live longer than a dark horse, so is considered a living amulet against early death.

Those with four white socks are unlucky. Little Joe, the pony I visited, was a dark chestnut with the requisite number of socks to be considered unlucky.

Not quite an omen of death, but his presenting symptoms could have seen him heading that way.

“He’s been down twice, trying to roll,” his owner, Gloria Patterson, explained.

It was obvious Little Joe was in pain. There were patches of matted sweatsoaked hair along his flanks and under his shoulders.

A sweating horse is another sign of misfortune. And here it was my misfortune to be presented with what I suspected to be an attack of colic, and Little Joe’s misfortune for having contracted it.

“He’s got an impaction,” I told Gloria after I had examined him. “But no twist of the gut.”

Treatment with a mineral oil drench via a stomach tube and an antispasmolytic injection did the trick and the mass was passed, much to Little Joe’s relief – and mine.

So this Friday the thirteenth didn’t seem to be all doom and gloom. At least, not so far.

But I hadn’t reckoned on the tarantula that turned up during evening surgery.

Again there was an apology from Beryl.

“Sorry, Paul. No-one else wanted to see it.”

According to some Asian cultures, if I’d seen the spider in the morning it would have brought me grief. In the afternoon, anxiety. In the evening, bad luck with money.

To my mind, it didn’t matter what time I saw the wretched creature – it was still going to give me the creeps. All very ominous.

“His name’s Webster,” his owner said proudly, the tarantula sprawled over his hand. “He’s sickly. Lost his dark colour. See?”

I could see and felt the colour drain from my cheeks as well. But, steeling myself to take a closer look, I spotted a hairline crack down Webster’s back.

“Ecdysis,” I declared, stepping back smartly. “The tarantula is sloughing off his old exoskeleton, making him feel a bit off colour for a few days.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, since as the saying goes: “If you wish to live and thrive, let the spider run alive.”

I felt a bit like Webster. Foreboding had got under my skin. I needed to slough off my feelings of unease now that Friday the thirteenth was almost over, and head home to relax.

Once back at Willow Wren, I strode over to the kitchen window and peered out.

There was a blackbird on the bird table again.

I tapped the pane smartly and the blackbird flapped away with a cackle of alarm.

A sparrow now hopped up and pecked around.

Oh, dear. Hadn’t I read somewhere that they carry the souls of the dead?

I swiftly drew the curtains.

More next week.