“Look at this, Helen.”
Hawthorne, delighted to have just moved in to the converted lodge at the entrance to the Scott-Moncton estate, had stirred himself to do a bit of gardening. It might give him the chance to bump into his new neighbours.
“Look.” He was pointing to a length of black cable which powered the new water feature.
“Something’s been nibbling it. I bet it’s those squirrels.”
“No,” said Helen dispassionately, “those toothmarks are too tiny. It’ll be mice.”
Just then there was a rustle in the hypericum under the bay window. Hawthorne gave an exploratory jab at it with his garden fork. It met some resistance and he was disconcerted to come up with an impaled, now dead, mouse.
“Ah,” he said, the mouse’s tail held up between the index finger and thumb of his gardening glove, “This’ll be the culprit.”
“Don’t wave it at me,” said Helen, “toss the thing on the compost heap.”
Later that afternoon, as Hawthorne relaxed, the door bell rang. Standing on the threshold was a middle-aged woman, holding the hand of a little girl in tears.
“Hello, we haven’t met, I’m Diane Attwood. We live at The Willows.”
“Andrew Hawthorne, won’t you come in?”
“No thanks, we’ve got a bit of a crisis. Harry’s missing.”
“Harry?” The girl’s brother perhaps.
“Harry is Tilly’s pet hamster.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. We’ll keep an eye open. Don’t worry,Tilly, I’m sure he’s all right, er, somewhere.”
“She’s only six,” said Diane, “and it’s her first pet.” Leaning forward, she whispered, “She’s an emotional child. Doesn’t know about death and loss, we were hoping to introduce the idea gently. Now this.”
Hawthorne closed the door behind them and hissed to Helen, who had been hovering within earshot. “I’ve only gone and killed their pet hamster. Now what do I do?”
Helen, less inclined to panic, thought aloud: “We don’t know it was the hamster. It looked like a mouse. I think they’re smaller.”
Hawthorne wasn’t convinced. Presumably hamsters could be all shapes and sizes – like people. But how do you own up to a distraught owner that their new neighbour is a hamster killer? It was the sort of wrong start you’d never recover from.
Helen had been thinking. “Here’s what you do. Walk past The Willows and quietly drop the mouse over the fence. If they find it they’ll either realise it’s a mouse - in which case you’re in the clear – or it is Harry, but there’s nothing to connect it with you.”
“I’ll think it about,” said Hawthorne, not convinced, but Helen had taken the lead.
If I’m going to do it, thought Hawthorne, I’d better do it quickly.
After he had carried out the plan, he sat down with a large gin to sooth his frayed nerves. “The trouble is, Helen, how do I look the neighbours in the eye when I know what really happened?”
***
Next morning at breakfast, Hawthorne announced: “I was awake last night, thinking about that wretched hamster.”
Helen, unsympathetic, replied, “If it’ll make you feel any better, for heaven’s sake go and buy another hamster and present it to the child as a new pet to replace Harry. That way you won’t feel guilty and we’ll come up smelling of roses.”
His wife, Hawthorne reflected, was revealing depths of calculation which he hadn’t fully recognised before.
Their return from the pet shop was heavy with recrimination. “£20! For a little thing like that, daylight robbery,” Hawthorne complained.
“Nobody asked you to buy a cage and a running wheel as well. What on earth were you thinking of?”
“Well you have to have something to put it in.”
Just then there was a knock on the door. It was Mr Attwood with the joyful news that Harry had been found. The search could be called off.
“Brilliant,” Hawthorne commented after he had gone, “I’m about sixty quid down and I’ve got a hamster I don’t want.”
“Actually, you don’t,” said Helen contemplating the open cage door though which the hamster had just made his escape. After some frantic searching they located the missing rodent under the sideboard. Hawthorne reached for it.
“Ow! The thing’s bitten me,” he groaned, examining two small puncture marks in his thumb.
His thumb under the tap, Hawthorne began worrying about rabies.
“Rubbish,” said Helen dismissively, “l’ll google it,”. Her husband could be so wet.
Five minutes later a surprised Helen reported, “There do seem to be some instances of hamster related rabies. It’s very rare mind you. Where it’s been bitten by a rabid animal abroad - but you can be vaccinated.”
The remote possibility was enough for Hawthorne in his wound-up state.
It took them a while to get past the triage nurse in A & E but, after a long wait, they were ushered into a consulting space to see a registrar. Another surprise jolted Hawthorne’s already fragile nerves.
“Mrs Attwood! Didn’t know you were a medic.”
“No reason why you should Mr Hawthorne,” she answered rather coldly. She looked tired. The atmosphere got frostier as they explained why they were there.
“Do you know. Mr Hawthorne, when the last reported UK case of rabies contracted from a domestic animal was? I’ll tell you. 1902. It involved a bat in Scotland. Your hamster was almost certainly bred in captivity. The chances of rabies in your case are vanishingly small. Consult your GP if you’re still worried in a week or two. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got people with broken bones and congestive heart failure waiting out there. How did you come to be bitten anyway?”
Hawthorne, in deep, heard himself claiming an enthusiasm for hamsters. Their particular pet was named Duncan he told her, warming to his invention.
As they turned to leave, Diane Attwood said, “By the way I was clearing up in our lounge and happened to glance out of the window. I saw you drop something over the fence. Later I found a dead mouse which seemed to have had a spike driven through it. Can you throw any light on this?”
She gave Hawthorne a searching look. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Really? I do seem to remember that I might have dropped a couple of leaves as I went past.” Giving no time for this implausible story to sink he, he added hastily, “But we mustn’t keep you from your patients.”
Later that evening, Hawthorne sat with his chin on his hands looking glumly at Duncan the hamster. Perhaps its life of boredom and the running wheel was in atonement for some past crime.
“I wonder if Tilly would like a brother for Harry,” he mused aloud.
“I think the less contact with Diane Attwood the better,” Helen commented.
“And Duncan?”
“I don’t know – drown it.”
He didn’t know what had come over Helen. She was being so hard-edged. And all the excitement of a new start in a new neighbourhood had gone, soured by something as simple as killing a mouse. Hawthorne the hamster killer, speaking for all killers, concluded, “This whole business has really taken the edge off things.”
Hawthorne, delighted to have just moved in to the converted lodge at the entrance to the Scott-Moncton estate, had stirred himself to do a bit of gardening. It might give him the chance to bump into his new neighbours.
“Look.” He was pointing to a length of black cable which powered the new water feature.
“Something’s been nibbling it. I bet it’s those squirrels.”
“No,” said Helen dispassionately, “those toothmarks are too tiny. It’ll be mice.”
Just then there was a rustle in the hypericum under the bay window. Hawthorne gave an exploratory jab at it with his garden fork. It met some resistance and he was disconcerted to come up with an impaled, now dead, mouse.
“Ah,” he said, the mouse’s tail held up between the index finger and thumb of his gardening glove, “This’ll be the culprit.”
“Don’t wave it at me,” said Helen, “toss the thing on the compost heap.”
Later that afternoon, as Hawthorne relaxed, the door bell rang. Standing on the threshold was a middle-aged woman, holding the hand of a little girl in tears.
“Hello, we haven’t met, I’m Diane Attwood. We live at The Willows.”
“Andrew Hawthorne, won’t you come in?”
“No thanks, we’ve got a bit of a crisis. Harry’s missing.”
“Harry?” The girl’s brother perhaps.
“Harry is Tilly’s pet hamster.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. We’ll keep an eye open. Don’t worry,Tilly, I’m sure he’s all right, er, somewhere.”
“She’s only six,” said Diane, “and it’s her first pet.” Leaning forward, she whispered, “She’s an emotional child. Doesn’t know about death and loss, we were hoping to introduce the idea gently. Now this.”
Hawthorne closed the door behind them and hissed to Helen, who had been hovering within earshot. “I’ve only gone and killed their pet hamster. Now what do I do?”
Helen, less inclined to panic, thought aloud: “We don’t know it was the hamster. It looked like a mouse. I think they’re smaller.”
Hawthorne wasn’t convinced. Presumably hamsters could be all shapes and sizes – like people. But how do you own up to a distraught owner that their new neighbour is a hamster killer? It was the sort of wrong start you’d never recover from.
Helen had been thinking. “Here’s what you do. Walk past The Willows and quietly drop the mouse over the fence. If they find it they’ll either realise it’s a mouse - in which case you’re in the clear – or it is Harry, but there’s nothing to connect it with you.”
“I’ll think it about,” said Hawthorne, not convinced, but Helen had taken the lead.
If I’m going to do it, thought Hawthorne, I’d better do it quickly.
After he had carried out the plan, he sat down with a large gin to sooth his frayed nerves. “The trouble is, Helen, how do I look the neighbours in the eye when I know what really happened?”
***
Next morning at breakfast, Hawthorne announced: “I was awake last night, thinking about that wretched hamster.”
Helen, unsympathetic, replied, “If it’ll make you feel any better, for heaven’s sake go and buy another hamster and present it to the child as a new pet to replace Harry. That way you won’t feel guilty and we’ll come up smelling of roses.”
His wife, Hawthorne reflected, was revealing depths of calculation which he hadn’t fully recognised before.
Their return from the pet shop was heavy with recrimination. “£20! For a little thing like that, daylight robbery,” Hawthorne complained.
“Nobody asked you to buy a cage and a running wheel as well. What on earth were you thinking of?”
“Well you have to have something to put it in.”
Just then there was a knock on the door. It was Mr Attwood with the joyful news that Harry had been found. The search could be called off.
“Brilliant,” Hawthorne commented after he had gone, “I’m about sixty quid down and I’ve got a hamster I don’t want.”
“Actually, you don’t,” said Helen contemplating the open cage door though which the hamster had just made his escape. After some frantic searching they located the missing rodent under the sideboard. Hawthorne reached for it.
“Ow! The thing’s bitten me,” he groaned, examining two small puncture marks in his thumb.
His thumb under the tap, Hawthorne began worrying about rabies.
“Rubbish,” said Helen dismissively, “l’ll google it,”. Her husband could be so wet.
Five minutes later a surprised Helen reported, “There do seem to be some instances of hamster related rabies. It’s very rare mind you. Where it’s been bitten by a rabid animal abroad - but you can be vaccinated.”
The remote possibility was enough for Hawthorne in his wound-up state.
It took them a while to get past the triage nurse in A & E but, after a long wait, they were ushered into a consulting space to see a registrar. Another surprise jolted Hawthorne’s already fragile nerves.
“Mrs Attwood! Didn’t know you were a medic.”
“No reason why you should Mr Hawthorne,” she answered rather coldly. She looked tired. The atmosphere got frostier as they explained why they were there.
“Do you know. Mr Hawthorne, when the last reported UK case of rabies contracted from a domestic animal was? I’ll tell you. 1902. It involved a bat in Scotland. Your hamster was almost certainly bred in captivity. The chances of rabies in your case are vanishingly small. Consult your GP if you’re still worried in a week or two. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got people with broken bones and congestive heart failure waiting out there. How did you come to be bitten anyway?”
Hawthorne, in deep, heard himself claiming an enthusiasm for hamsters. Their particular pet was named Duncan he told her, warming to his invention.
As they turned to leave, Diane Attwood said, “By the way I was clearing up in our lounge and happened to glance out of the window. I saw you drop something over the fence. Later I found a dead mouse which seemed to have had a spike driven through it. Can you throw any light on this?”
She gave Hawthorne a searching look. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Really? I do seem to remember that I might have dropped a couple of leaves as I went past.” Giving no time for this implausible story to sink he, he added hastily, “But we mustn’t keep you from your patients.”
Later that evening, Hawthorne sat with his chin on his hands looking glumly at Duncan the hamster. Perhaps its life of boredom and the running wheel was in atonement for some past crime.
“I wonder if Tilly would like a brother for Harry,” he mused aloud.
“I think the less contact with Diane Attwood the better,” Helen commented.
“And Duncan?”
“I don’t know – drown it.”
He didn’t know what had come over Helen. She was being so hard-edged. And all the excitement of a new start in a new neighbourhood had gone, soured by something as simple as killing a mouse. Hawthorne the hamster killer, speaking for all killers, concluded, “This whole business has really taken the edge off things.”