--.It
was then I realised why the face was so familiar. “Oh, no!” I groaned inwardly, “Not Station Officer Prewitt!”
I
had the highest regard for the British Fire Service; a dedicated band of men
and women who regularly risked their lives to ensure the safety of others. On
numerous occasions, cheerfully and without complaint they had assisted me and
my colleagues in rescuing trapped and often injured animals from a whole
diversity of situations. Game for anything; good for a laugh; they are the
finest band of professionals one could ever wish to meet.
Alas,
the finest grapevine has its shrivelled fruit and
within the Wappingdon Fire Service, Station Officer
Prewitt was undoubtedly, a prune. His face was wrinkled; cold, round piggy eyes
almost lost under myriad folds of skin. He was short and stooped, though at the
age of fifty-four, still able to climb a ladder more skilfully
than any younger counterpart. The sense of humour he
may once have possessed had eroded till only bitter sarcasm remained, and as he
hailed from the more southerly counties of his native Wales, his voice was
high-pitched and sing-song in its accents, somehow rendering the scathing,
twisted wit a further dagger-like quality.
It
was not that he was bad at his job. He held more bravery awards than any other
officer in the station. It was simply that he hated animals. He loathed and
despised them. And if there was one animal he detested more than any other, it
was a cat.
Naturally,
he had no time for the RSPCA in general, and RSPCA Inspectors in particular.
His contempt for me was heightened when, two weeks
previously I had called for Brigade assistance to rescue a parrot from a tree
in Stipley. The bird, a family pet, had fled its
perch trailing four feet of light chain from one leg and, having escaped
through an open window proceeded into the topmost branches of a large oak tree,
entangling the chain and preventing any further bid for freedom.
In
the course of the ensuing rescue a young fireman had been bitten by the parrot,
necessitating hospital treatment. The wound kept him from work for a week and
Station Officer Prewitt had taken great exception to losing a man from his team
‘for the sake of a worthless, overgrown budgerigar’. He had bent my ears
accordingly.
It
was with some trepidation that I wound down the window and faced this man. His
opening comments, loaded with his usual sarcasm, did nothing to improve my
confidence.
“So
sorry...did I wake you, Mister Adams? If you like we’ll go away and come back
in half an hour. My lads have nothing better to do, you know!”
I
managed a watery smile, “Good morning, Mister Prewitt. Very nice of you to turn
out...you know how much I appreciate it.”
His
cold steel eyes narrowed, “What is it this time?” he snapped, “A dog in the
drains? A mouse under the floorboards, perhaps? Or maybe...no, not a birdie in a tree again?”
“No,”
I replied miserably, “A cat in a pigeon’s nest.”
Mister
Prewitt jumped back in mock horror. “Good Lord! That can’t be much fun for the
pigeon, can it?”
“The
pigeon isn’t actually there, Mister Prewitt. It’s an abandoned nest. The cat
seems to have...eh...moved in.”
“Moved in! A squatter, you mean...and you want us to pitch him out again?” There
was a noticeable pause for effect between each sentence. Deep down, I sensed
that Station Officer Prewitt was really quite enjoying himself. “That hardly
seems fair, Mister Adams, turning a poor animal out of its home! Cruelty, some
might call it! Still, if you say it must be evicted, then evicted it must be.”
Finally, he turned towards his men, “Get the big extender ready, lads.”
The
firecrew had been standing by the tender, giggling at
my discomfiture. I didn’t blame them; their leader’s sarcasm could be quite
amusing if you weren’t on the receiving end. At his command they grappled with
the huge, wooden extending ladder on its two great wheels, wrestling it from
atop the fire-engine.
Meanwhile
Station Officer Prewitt was squinting at the pigeon’s nest high in the branches
of the pine tree.
“I
see no cat, Mister Adams!” he said at last.
My
discomfort increased further as I struggled to maintain a semblance of dignity.
“Er, no...I think it may be asleep.”
“Asleep!
Are you sure it’s there at all, man! You have seen the cat, I take it?”
“Umm...well...not
exactly...” I was faltering, “But the woman in the house saw it plainly not
half an hour ago...from her bedroom window.” I finished lamely, looking
desperately around for any sign of the householder. She was nowhere to be seen.
The
Station Officer threw me a contemptuous glance, refraining from further
comment. The great extending ladder was winched up until it was level with the
nest, sixty feet above. Steel legs stabilised the
lower section but the top, unsupported, swung gently in the breeze. I did not
envy the fireman who would climb up there. It was all in a day’s work for them,
but I got vertigo standing on a chair.
Station
Officer Prewitt had been supervising the erection of the ladder, checking the
winch was secure and the metal legs locked firmly in place.
Meanwhile,
I obtained a wire cat basket from the van and walked across to the group with
the intention of handing it to the officer ascending the ladder.
For
a moment my mind went numb when Station Officer Prewitt turned in my direction
and with a leer, pointed skywards. “Up you go, Mister Adams, up you go.”--..