Tales From Prospect House

A poorly puss is in need of some TLC . . .

SOME people’s lives revolve around their pets, and their daily routine is dependent on their pets’ needs. Bob Braithwaite was one such person. He was a bachelor, living in a firstfloor flat that was part of a conversion of a Victorian mansion that overlooked the Green – Westcott’s answer to Hyde Park.

The Green was a small algae-smothered pond and three stunted sycamores – a sorry substitute for the London park’s avenues of plane trees, though the traffic that piled down the side of the Green heading for the delights of Westcott’s seafront more than matched the roar and fumes of Pall Mall.

“My garden,” Bob would say, as he sat by the open bay window in his lounge, gazing out across the ill-named Green, threadbare and yellowed every summer by lack of water and constant wear from local residents’ feet.

“Bob’s a retired gardener,” Beryl explained to me. “He likes fresh air. Hence he keeps his window wide open, weather permitting.”

It was the open window that led to his downfall. Or, rather, that of his cat.

“Gloria’s had a tumble,” Beryl said. “Bob’s requesting a visit. You’ll find him a little strange. His sister died a year or so back and he hasn’t quite got over it. Just humour him.”

She gave me an enigmatic smile. I was to realise its meaning when I turned up at Bob’s flat.

Having been buzzed in, I found him at the top of the stairs waiting to greet me.

He was a little man, with stooped shoulders from which hung a shapeless grey cardigan that matched baggy jogging bottoms.

Silver-framed spectacles framed a marshmallow face on top of which was a dusting of white hair.

“Come in,” he said, ushering me through a small hallway and into a large room with a bay window overlooking the Green.

I spotted a black and white cat curled up in a low-sided cardboard box padded with towels, next to an armchair. Alongside was an occasional table with two mugs on it.

Bob addressed the chair. “The vet’s here to see Gloria.”

A little puzzled, I approached the cardboard box, placed my black bag on the carpet and knelt down.

“So what actually happened?” I asked as I carefully began to examine the cat.

“Well, the window was open and for some reason Gloria got spooked and fell off the sill.

“There’s a tarmac parking space directly below. A couple spotted her.” Bob shuffled across to the armchair and patted its back. “My sister thinks Gloria may have broken a bone or two.”

In the absence of any physical form that could represent Bob’s sister, I recalled Beryl’s advice and decided tact was the order of the day.

“Well, your sister’s absolutely right. Gloria’s broken both her front legs. I’m going to admit her to the hospital and get them pinned or plastered, depending on the extent of the damage.”

The X-rays I took clearly showed that both ulnas had hair-line fractures.

Fortunately there hadn’t been any displacement of the bones – a fact pointed out by Mandy once she’d processed the radiographs and had pinned them up on the screen for viewing.

“So you’ll be plastering rather than pinning,” she said with a swish of her hair.

Before I could answer, she’d already marched down to the prep room and was assembling the necessary stocking and rolls of plaster.

Gloria’s front legs were each encased for three weeks. But despite the weight of the plaster casts, she adapted her gait to them and was soon able to manoeuvre herself round.

“No jumping out of windows now,” Bob said once I’d gently eased her out of a cat carrier on her first day home after the casts had been removed. “If you know what’s good for you.”

There was no reference to his sister.

It was only then I noticed just one mug on the table alongside, while a photograph of his sister on the mantelpiece had been replaced by one of Gloria.

“My sister never really took to Gloria,” Bob said, crossing to the open bay window and gazing out pensively as the cat jumped up alongside him.

“Always shooing her away. But she’s gone for good now, so Gloria will feel more at home.”

Gloria miaowed her agreement from the window-sill.

Unnerved, I left in haste. But not through the open window.

More next week.