David immediately looked up the garden. “Did anyone see where Snigger went?”
“He wriggled down the leg of your jeans,” said Lucy.
“He did what?” said Liz, spilling Bonnington from her arms.
Everyone turned and looked at the laundry.
The right leg of David’s jeans looked unusually lumpy, just below the knee.
“He’s stuck,” said Lucy.
“Well, he’d better get unstuck,” Liz said dourly. “If he messes in those jeans, there’s going to be trouble.”
“Let’s get him in the hutch,” said David. He hurried to the rock garden, grabbed the nutbox and laid it on its back near the clothesline. While Liz removed the clothespins, he clamped his hands tight around the leg of the jeans above and below the bump at the knee. “Get ready,” he said, lowering the jeans into the body of the box and giving them a gentle shake. An indignant chattering filled the air. Then whoosh! The bump in the jeans disappeared and a squirrel shot into the hutch.
Lucy slammed the door shut. “Got him!” she clapped.
“Good,” said David with a whistle of relief. “One down. One to go. Now, where’s Conker?”
A-ROW-WOW-OO! a familiar voice cried.
Everyone turned together.
Bonnington was standing in the middle of the lawn.
He was holding a squirrel between his teeth.
THE WILDLIFE HOSPITAL
Before anyone could move or say another word, Bonnington padded across the lawn and dropped his catch at David’s feet.
Meow, he went, looking pleased with himself.
Liz put a hand across her mouth. “Please don’t tell me he killed it.”
Lucy threw herself into her mother’s arms and couldn’t bear to look.
David crouched down and stroked Bonnington’s head. Even if the cat had made a kill, he couldn’t be blamed for doing what came naturally to him: hunting and bringing his spoils back home.
“Is it Conker?” Liz asked.
David looked down at the limp gray body. The squirrel was lying curled on its side. The eye in view was tightly closed. It didn’t look particularly damaged or matted.
“I need to turn him over,” David said, and put a careful hand around the animal’s stomach.
The squirrel immediately started to quiver. Its toes curled inward and its body twitched in violent spasms as if it were having some kind of fit. Uncertain of what to do for it, David rested a hand on its body and prayed the little creature wouldn’t die of fright. Thankfully, after about fifteen seconds, the convulsions eased and it lay back, panting.
David closed a hand around it again and gently lifted it off the ground. “Can someone open the trap?”
Lucy knelt by the box. Keeping a watchful eye on Snigger, she carefully slid the door half open. As David eased himself toward it, the stricken squirrel raised its head. There was a crusted wound above its closed right eye.
“It’s him,” Lucy whispered.
David nodded. “He’s not doing well, Luce.”
“Yes,” she sniffed, touching Conker’s tail.
David glanced up at Liz.
“You’d better give Sophie a call,” she said.
The Wildlife Hospital was set on a farm about five miles north of the Scrubbley town center. Just beyond a small field dotted with sheep, Liz turned onto a narrow dirt track that quickly opened out into a cobbled courtyard, flanked by a number of redbrick buildings. A goat looked up from a wooden trough. Two ducks waddled away from the car. A longhaired cat, sunbathing in a wheelbarrow, lifted its smoke-gray head and yawned. On a wall of the old stone farmhouse was a hand-painted sign: LIDDIKERS ORGANIC PRODUCE. A list of vegetables and their prices per pound were chalked up on a board beside it. Next to that was a sign for a riding school. Just above it, a silhouetted picture of a fox with a bandage around its paw. The words SCRUBBLEY WILDLIFE HOSPITAL framed the fox’s head.
“Is this it?” said Lucy, unimpressed.
“Hmm,” went Liz, parking the car alongside a rusted water pump. “Might buy some potatoes while we’re here.”
“There’s Sophie,” said David, pointing ahead to a moss-covered archway.
Sophie was walking slowly toward them, leading a large black horse. She was wearing a pair of tight brown pants, faintly splattered with grass and mud. A loose green shirt hung around her shoulders. Her collar was up, her hair pinned back with a butterfly clip. Her cheeks were glowing gently as if she’d recently returned from riding.
Lucy hurried over, arms wide open. “You’ve got a horse,” she said.
“This is Major,” said Sophie, tugging the reins as Major snorted and tossed his head. “He’s my very best friend in the world.” She brought Major’s head down over her shoulder so Lucy could stroke his dark, sleek nose.
“Can I ride him?”
“He’s too big for you,” said Liz.
“We have ponies.” Sophie’s gray eyes flashed.
“Ponies?”
“I think not,” said Liz. She put a motherly hand under Lucy’s chin and gently pushed her mouth shut.
Sophie smiled and changed the subject. “You found your injured squirrel, then?”
David lifted the hutch from the car. “He’s in a bad way.”
Sophie gave a concerned little nod. “They usually are if they turn up here. Give me a moment and I’ll take you in. Mrs. Wenham, the lady who runs the hospital, is expecting you.”
With a click of her tongue, Sophie led Major across the yard to a stable smelling of warm, clean hay. She exchanged brief words with another girl, patted Major’s shoulder, and stepped out into the sunlight again.
“This way,” she smiled, skipping two sunken concrete steps and entering a room at the back of the house. It had the clinical smell of a veterinary practice but looked like a slightly understocked pet shop. There were cans of food in trays by the window, bags of seed and pellets and grain, a large stack of buckets, several piles of blankets, and shelves full of medicines, rubber gloves, and tissues. Against the far wall was a stack of cages. David spotted a hedgehog in one and a jay with a splinted wing in another. He was wondering if this would be Conker’s fate — a cage, in this room — when Sophie announced, “Here’s Mrs. Wenham.”
A portly lady with wavy black hair and a chubby red face came in to join them. “Now then, what do we have here?” Her question was addressed primarily to Lucy. “Injured squirrel, if I’m not mistaken?”
“His name is Conker,” said Lucy. “He’s got a bad eye.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Wenham. “We’d better take a look.”
David laid the hutch on a long, metal table and turned it around for Mrs. Wenham to see.
“Poor thing,” she said, with a wheezy stoop. “How did he get like that?”
“A crow got him,” Lucy replied.
“We think that’s what happened,” David explained. Mrs. Wenham clicked her tongue. “Goodness, he’s thinner than a piece of string. Just a youngster, too. Look at that tail. I’ve seen tinsel in better shape than that. How long has he been like this?”
“Ages,” said Lucy. “Since before David came.”
“She means a few months,” said Liz.
Mrs. Wenham nodded. “Well, you were right to bring him to us. He’s certainly not a healthy squirrel. Any other problems, apart from his eye?”
“Mr. Bacon doesn’t like him,” Lucy said.
Sophie chuckled behind her hand.
“He had a shaking fit,” David said, sparing Mrs. Wenham any further confusion.
Mrs. Wenham frowned as she took this in. She bent down and tapped the mesh. “Come on, sweetie. Look this way.”
Conker, who seemed to have regained some strength, sat up and flagged his stringy tail.
“That wound’s been infected,” Mrs. Wenham said. “Mr. Deans will want to see that.”
“He’s the vet,” said Sophie. “He’ll be coming in tomorrow. He’s wonderful. He charges next to nothing to treat our animals.”
“We’ll pay for whatever Conker needs,” said Liz.
Sophie shook her head. “It’s all done through donations. In a sense, you’ve already paid. Well, David has.” She flicked a bashful smile his way.
“Hang on,” Mrs. Wenham interrupted, angling her square-shaped head, “is it me, or are there two squirrels in this box?”
“That’s Snigger,” said Lucy. “He followed David home from the library gardens when David stole some acorns for the trap.”
David grimaced and looked out the window.
“And what’s wrong with Snigger?”
“Nothing,” said Liz, “as far as we know.”
“He’s Conker’s friend,” Lucy piped up. “He saved Conker from the mower in Mr. Bacon’s garden and ran up the clothesline when Caractacus came.”
Mrs. Wenham lifted an eyebrow.
“You can read it in David’s story.”
“You write stories?” asked Sophie.
“A one-time thing,” David said, blushing.
“He’ll do one for your birthday if you ask him,” said Lucy.
“Lucy, enough,” said Liz. “What happens now, Mrs. Wenham? Will you be able to take them in?”
Mrs. Wenham puffed her cheeks. “The injured one, yes. But Snigger — well, he’s a different matter. We’re not allowed to keep healthy animals here.”
“But you have to!” Lucy protested fiercely. “Conker will miss him if Snigger goes away.”
That started a general debate, with Liz, David, and Mrs. Wenham all chattering away at once. Sophie eventually broke it up.
“Couldn’t…?” she said, holding onto the word so long that David almost wanted to pinch her. “Couldn’t they stay together for company, Mrs. Wenham? They don’t seem to mind being cooped up in a hutch, so the aviary pen won’t present a problem.”
“Aviary?” said Liz.
“Through here,” said Sophie. She nudged David’s foot and nodded at the rabbit hutch.
David, quick to see what she was planning, grabbed the hutch and followed her outside. Right away they came upon a wire-screened cage containing nothing but a couple of metal dishes, a few bird boxes, and several enormous sawn-off branches.
Sophie unlatched the aviary door and beckoned David swiftly inside. “Let them go,” she hissed, “before Mrs. W. kicks up a fuss.”
“Sophie?” Mrs. Wenham called. “You know we’re not allowed —”
“This is perfect for woodland animals,” piped Sophie. “These branches came from an oak, so the squirrels will feel at home in here.”
“Sophie, it’s against —”
“Look,” said Lucy, arriving quickly. She beckoned Mrs. Wenham to the aviary door.
Conker was out of the hutch already, nibbling at the tip of a sunflower seed.
“He likes it,” Lucy said.
Mrs. Wenham smiled graciously. “Yes, my love, he’s welcome to stay, but —”
“There’s Snigger!”
David turned to see where Lucy was pointing. Snigger had scrambled to the top of the branches and was busily inspecting the entrance to a bird box. He darted out of sight as Mrs. Wenham stepped toward him.
Liz arrived in the aviary then, and while Lucy continued to argue her point with both her mom and Mrs. Wenham, David moved closer to Sophie and whispered, “Thanks — you know — for helping them.”
Sophie folded her arms and nodded. A strand of hair worked loose from her clip and fell across her cheek like a piece of straw. “It’s OK,” she said quietly. “That’s what I’m here for. I’ve always liked animals … and people who care for them.”
David threw her a sideways glance. Sophie pressed her lips together as if she was slowly sucking a candy. A pinkish tinge spread across her cheeks.
David rearranged some stones with his toe. “Um, I don’t suppose you’d like to —?”
“He can stay!” cried Lucy, barging between them.
“Mrs. Wenham says it’s all right!” She sprang up on her toes in front of Sophie.
David looked at the sky, muttering something under his breath.
“It’s highly irregular,” Mrs. Wenham said, “but as Snigger seems to be your leading character, we’d better not let him go just yet.”
“When will Conker be better?” pressed Lucy.
Sophie smiled and swung her hands. “We’ll let Mr. Deans look at Conker tomorrow, then we’ll give you a call.”
Lucy nodded and leaned in close. “You will take really good care of him, won’t you?”
“My personal project,” Sophie assured her.
“Watch Snigger, he’s a handful,” muttered David.
Chuk! went Snigger, back at the bird box.
“I can handle him,” Sophie laughed. She rubbed Lucy’s arm. “They’ll be fine with us. I’ll call you when I’ve got some news. I promise.”
OH, SOPHIE
It was Saturday afternoon before Sophie called, four long days since the journey to the hospital. David was sprawled out on his bed, editing a chapter of Snigger and the Nutbeast, when the telephone rang in the living room.
“Just a moment. I’ll call him,” he heard Liz answer. “Da-vid! Sophie for you!”
David practically fell off the bed. He snatched up a comb, tidied his hair, realized how utterly pointless that was, and headed for the phone — only to find that Lucy had beaten him to it.
“It’s me, Lucy! Is Conker all right?”
“Thank you,” Liz yanked the phone from her grasp. “Sorry,” she apologized to Sophie. “There seems to be some strange interference on the line. Here’s David now.”
Lucy stamped her foot.
Liz bustled her into the hall. “Out. Sophie wants to talk to David in private.”
“Why can’t I talk to her?”
“Because you’re not a handsome young man.”
“Well, neither is he!”
“Kitchen,” said Liz.
And that was that.
As it happened, David was off the phone in less than two shakes of a squirrel’s tail.
“That was quick,” said Liz, as he joined them at the table. “What’s the news on Conker?”
“I’m not sure,” said David, looking perplexed. “Sophie didn’t want to say on the phone. She’s coming by in twenty minutes.”
“Goodness,” said Liz. “Plates, Lucy.”
“Huh,” went Lucy in a toady voice. “David’s girlfriend is coming to lunch.”
There was fruit cake and an egg custard and a lemon meringue pie, and pyramids of tuna and cucumber sandwiches. When David saw the size of the spread he made a mental note to invite Sophie over as often as he could. Sophie herself seemed quite astonished that Liz had gone to so much trouble.
“Nonsense,” said Liz. “Come on, dig in. David, why don’t you get Sophie a drink?”
David moved to the counter. “What would you like?”
“Something herbal would be nice.”
“Top cabinet,” said Liz. “There’s a range of flavors.”
David found them. He chose a rosehip tea bag and dropped it in a mug.
“Is Conker all right now?” Lucy chipped in. It was the third time she’d asked since Sophie had arrived.
Sophie sat forward and pushed a grain of salt across the table. “I’m afraid I’ve got good news and bad news about Conker.”
“Oh dear,” said Liz, feeding Bonnington some tuna.
David winced. The electric kettle clicked off.
“Bad news?” Lucy’s bottom lip started to quiver.
Sophie reached over and touched her hand. “Let me tell you the good news first. Conker’s eye isn’t nearly as bad as it looks. When Mr. Deans examined him he opened the wound and scraped out a lot of hardened pus.”
“That sounds painful,” Liz said, squirming.
“Better out than in,” said Sophie. “The wound had swollen because of the infection and that was why his eye was closed. But when Mr. Deans examined the eye fully, it reacted to a beam of light.”
/> “So Conker isn’t blind on that side?” said David.
“No,” said Sophie, taking a sandwich. “On Tuesday, Mr. Deans put two small stitches over the cut and gave Conker some antibiotics to prevent any more infections from developing. It healed very quickly; wounds like that often do.”
David nodded and put her tea on the table. “So, if that was the good news, what’s the bad?”
Sophie crossed her legs and twiddled a silver ring on her finger. Her voice dropped to a gentle murmur. “The rest has to do with the twitching you saw. Mr. Deans took a sample of Conker’s blood and ran some tests on it. We had to wait for the results. That’s why it took so long to get back to you.”
David slipped into the chair beside Lucy’s. Lucy had suddenly gotten very quiet.
Sophie looked at everyone in turn. “Conker has kidney failure,” she whispered.
David stared at her for several seconds. “You mean he’s going to die?”
“Yes.”
Lucy immediately fell against her mother.
David looked away briefly, reached for a sandwich, then changed his mind. “How long does he have?”
“That’s difficult to tell,” Sophie said gently, looking sympathetically at Lucy. “There’s no real way of knowing. Mr. Deans says he might live a long time … then again, he might not.”
“He can’t die,” wailed Lucy. “Conker can’t die.”
David gulped and rubbed a hand across his mouth.
“I know it’s sad,” Sophie continued, “but try to think of it like this: If it hadn’t been for you, Conker might not be alive today. You’ve given him the chance to live a lot longer. He’s bouncing around very happily right now.”
Lucy sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Can he go to the library gardens?”
Sophie smiled and cradled her tea in her hands. “Rosehip with milk. How unusual,” she said. She braced herself and took a quick sip. “Well, that brings me to the other news.”
David threw her a worried look.
“There was something else that Mr. Deans said. I didn’t know before, but it seems gray squirrels are classed as pests.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open in shock. “Who said that? Was it Mr. Bacon?”
The Fire Within Page 12
