Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 30
He cleaned up some more, filled the wounds with powder, then started to stitch, his hands surprisingly nimble for a middle-aged man. Polly watched, holding her breath.
Time seemed to stretch on for ever, shadows passing by the low window of the surgery, a door opening here and there, a particularly strong gust of wind making the ancient windowsill tremble a little. Polly stayed rooted to the spot, unable to move in case something she did or said made a difference.
Finally Patrick stood back. He gave Neil two injections of antibiotics under the skin of his stomach, then he stroked the little bird on the tummy and looked around.
‘He needs to be kept warm,’ he said. ‘I need a blanket.’
‘I’ve got Mifty’s outside,’ volunteered Mr Arnold.
‘I don’t think worms are exactly what this little fellow needs right at the moment,’ said Patrick.
Polly handed over her bloodied cardigan and Patrick wrapped the still comatose Neil up in it. When he handed him to Polly, she let out a muffled sob. He felt so light and fragile in her arms.
‘Thanks, Mr Arnold,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll write up Mifty’s prescription and drop it off on the way home, okay?’
Mr Arnold nodded. ‘Right enough,’ he said. Then he doffed his cap to Polly. ‘Good luck with Neil, miss. It’s always nice seeing him about the place.’
The old man and his wriggling dog left the surgery, and Patrick watched them go, then set about disinfecting the entire room. He glanced at her, and Polly saw to her horror that he was cross with her.
‘I told you,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you not to keep him. He’s a bird, he’s not a pet. He’s not domesticated.’
‘I sent him away,’ said Polly. ‘He came back.’
‘Well he shouldn’t have done,’ said Patrick, his anxiety for the little animal turning into anger as he spoke. ‘You’ve raised that bird to think that everyone in the world is his friend; that anything he ever meets is going to give him a snack. I had to stitch through an extra layer of fat, by the way, which is difficult to do.’
Tears rolled down Polly’s cheeks.
‘So when he meets something like that bastard cat, he hasn’t a clue what to do, has he? He’s completely overwhelmed. Not a clue. Do you think that cat would attack a flock of puffins?’
‘That cat is a fucking psycho,’ muttered Polly.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ went on Patrick remorselessly. ‘Because flocking birds have excellent defence mechanisms against cats, which involve flying away from predators, not waddling over to see if they’ve got any treats.’
Polly went bright red and stared at the floor.
Patrick realised his fear had made him sound gruff, and he stretched out a hand to the little bird.
‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you to nurse him carefully,’ he said, his tone conciliatory.
Polly shook her head.
‘And I’ll report the cat to the police,’ she said.
Patrick looked at her.
‘The cat police?’
‘Cats can’t go around attacking whatever they like! It’s… it’s naughty!’
‘Well, spoiled fat puffins shouldn’t make themselves such delicious, tempting targets,’ pointed out Patrick, regretting it instantly when his words brought on a fierce storm of sobbing.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to be so hard on you there. I realise Neil… I realise the puffin you insist on keeping gave you a terrible fright. But it was entirely preventable.’
‘I know,’ said Polly, taking the Kleenex he passed her from the box on his desk. ‘I know. I know.’
She hugged Neil a little tighter, lifting his tiny body up so she could hear him breathe.
‘We’ll keep him here until he comes round,’ said Patrick. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Polly nodded.
‘And I have to phone Huckle,’ she whispered.
The motorbike was noisier than ever on the cobbles as Huckle made it back from the old honey cottage in double-quick time. Thankfully the causeway was open, or he’d have swum across. He left the bike in the middle of the cobbled street and charged in.
‘Is he all right?’ His normally tanned face was white.
Polly held up the little bundle.
‘We’re just waiting for him to come round.’
Huckle moved across the room, as ever looking slightly too big for the furniture.
‘Hey, Neil, hey, little buddy. What happened to you, hey?’
Suddenly the little bird’s eyes fluttered very briefly, and his beak moved from side to side.
‘He can hear me!’ said Huckle joyfully. ‘Hey, buddy! You need to get well so you can go in the sidecar again. He loves the sidecar,’ he added to Patrick. ‘He sticks his head out so he can feel the wind in his hair. Feathers.’
Patrick gave Polly a meaningful look.
‘Is he all right?’ she said, as the little bird stirred in her arms. ‘Is he okay? Is he in pain?’
As if in answer to her questions, Neil threw up all over her trousers.
‘Yay!’ said Huckle. ‘Neil is great at being sick! That’s my boy.’
‘Could you stop being so American for just a second?’ said Patrick, moving Neil swiftly back to the consulting table and listening to his heartbeat with a very small stethoscope. Huckle stood behind Polly and draped his huge arms around her, resting his great blond head on her little one. She held tightly on to his arms, trembling as she watched Patrick.
‘Hmm,’ said Patrick.
‘You smell amazing,’ whispered Huckle in her ear, to try and make her laugh, though right at this moment it wasn’t working.
All three of them watched as Neil blinked once… twice, then opened his eyes and tried to wobble up.
‘Neil!’ breathed Polly. She broke the circle of Huckle’s arms and knelt down beside the operating table. ‘Neil. Are you okay?’
Neil tried a very faint attempt at an eep. To Polly it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. She stretched out a finger to scratch the feathers behind his ear and, just like he always did, he tried to move his neck to rub himself against her.
Polly’s eyes filled with tears again.
‘Oh my God. Oh my God, he’s going to be all right.’
She turned to Patrick, who was filling in a form.
Time seemed to stretch on for ever, shadows passing by the low window of the surgery, a door opening here and there, a particularly strong gust of wind making the ancient windowsill tremble a little. Polly stayed rooted to the spot, unable to move in case something she did or said made a difference.
Finally Patrick stood back. He gave Neil two injections of antibiotics under the skin of his stomach, then he stroked the little bird on the tummy and looked around.
‘He needs to be kept warm,’ he said. ‘I need a blanket.’
‘I’ve got Mifty’s outside,’ volunteered Mr Arnold.
‘I don’t think worms are exactly what this little fellow needs right at the moment,’ said Patrick.
Polly handed over her bloodied cardigan and Patrick wrapped the still comatose Neil up in it. When he handed him to Polly, she let out a muffled sob. He felt so light and fragile in her arms.
‘Thanks, Mr Arnold,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll write up Mifty’s prescription and drop it off on the way home, okay?’
Mr Arnold nodded. ‘Right enough,’ he said. Then he doffed his cap to Polly. ‘Good luck with Neil, miss. It’s always nice seeing him about the place.’
The old man and his wriggling dog left the surgery, and Patrick watched them go, then set about disinfecting the entire room. He glanced at her, and Polly saw to her horror that he was cross with her.
‘I told you,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you not to keep him. He’s a bird, he’s not a pet. He’s not domesticated.’
‘I sent him away,’ said Polly. ‘He came back.’
‘Well he shouldn’t have done,’ said Patrick, his anxiety for the little animal turning into anger as he spoke. ‘You’ve raised that bird to think that everyone in the world is his friend; that anything he ever meets is going to give him a snack. I had to stitch through an extra layer of fat, by the way, which is difficult to do.’
Tears rolled down Polly’s cheeks.
‘So when he meets something like that bastard cat, he hasn’t a clue what to do, has he? He’s completely overwhelmed. Not a clue. Do you think that cat would attack a flock of puffins?’
‘That cat is a fucking psycho,’ muttered Polly.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ went on Patrick remorselessly. ‘Because flocking birds have excellent defence mechanisms against cats, which involve flying away from predators, not waddling over to see if they’ve got any treats.’
Polly went bright red and stared at the floor.
Patrick realised his fear had made him sound gruff, and he stretched out a hand to the little bird.
‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you to nurse him carefully,’ he said, his tone conciliatory.
Polly shook her head.
‘And I’ll report the cat to the police,’ she said.
Patrick looked at her.
‘The cat police?’
‘Cats can’t go around attacking whatever they like! It’s… it’s naughty!’
‘Well, spoiled fat puffins shouldn’t make themselves such delicious, tempting targets,’ pointed out Patrick, regretting it instantly when his words brought on a fierce storm of sobbing.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to be so hard on you there. I realise Neil… I realise the puffin you insist on keeping gave you a terrible fright. But it was entirely preventable.’
‘I know,’ said Polly, taking the Kleenex he passed her from the box on his desk. ‘I know. I know.’
She hugged Neil a little tighter, lifting his tiny body up so she could hear him breathe.
‘We’ll keep him here until he comes round,’ said Patrick. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Polly nodded.
‘And I have to phone Huckle,’ she whispered.
The motorbike was noisier than ever on the cobbles as Huckle made it back from the old honey cottage in double-quick time. Thankfully the causeway was open, or he’d have swum across. He left the bike in the middle of the cobbled street and charged in.
‘Is he all right?’ His normally tanned face was white.
Polly held up the little bundle.
‘We’re just waiting for him to come round.’
Huckle moved across the room, as ever looking slightly too big for the furniture.
‘Hey, Neil, hey, little buddy. What happened to you, hey?’
Suddenly the little bird’s eyes fluttered very briefly, and his beak moved from side to side.
‘He can hear me!’ said Huckle joyfully. ‘Hey, buddy! You need to get well so you can go in the sidecar again. He loves the sidecar,’ he added to Patrick. ‘He sticks his head out so he can feel the wind in his hair. Feathers.’
Patrick gave Polly a meaningful look.
‘Is he all right?’ she said, as the little bird stirred in her arms. ‘Is he okay? Is he in pain?’
As if in answer to her questions, Neil threw up all over her trousers.
‘Yay!’ said Huckle. ‘Neil is great at being sick! That’s my boy.’
‘Could you stop being so American for just a second?’ said Patrick, moving Neil swiftly back to the consulting table and listening to his heartbeat with a very small stethoscope. Huckle stood behind Polly and draped his huge arms around her, resting his great blond head on her little one. She held tightly on to his arms, trembling as she watched Patrick.
‘Hmm,’ said Patrick.
‘You smell amazing,’ whispered Huckle in her ear, to try and make her laugh, though right at this moment it wasn’t working.
All three of them watched as Neil blinked once… twice, then opened his eyes and tried to wobble up.
‘Neil!’ breathed Polly. She broke the circle of Huckle’s arms and knelt down beside the operating table. ‘Neil. Are you okay?’
Neil tried a very faint attempt at an eep. To Polly it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. She stretched out a finger to scratch the feathers behind his ear and, just like he always did, he tried to move his neck to rub himself against her.
Polly’s eyes filled with tears again.
‘Oh my God. Oh my God, he’s going to be all right.’
She turned to Patrick, who was filling in a form.
