‘No, you won’t. I’ve brought you here to tick another thing off your list. Come on.’ He got out of the car before she had a chance to object, so with a slight huff, she followed him. She’d almost forgotten about her lottery list – but then a dumper truck of shit had landed on her life since then. And she’d thought Alex’s prank was going to be her life’s low point. How wrong could she have been?
They were greeted at the door by a rotund lady. ‘Hello, I’m Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,’ she said, her face deadpan. Regan snorted a laugh and resisted the urge to introduce herself as Jemima Puddle-Duck.
The woman noted Regan’s snort. ‘Of course I’m Philistia really, but it’s what everyone around here likes to call me. And the local press love it, so why not, eh?’
‘Why not?’ agreed Regan, warming to the woman, who was either eccentric or a bit loopy. Either way, she liked her.
Charlie was grinning from ear to ear as they followed Mrs Tiggy-Winkle through the bungalow. Inside, it was like any 1950’s bungalow: boxy, functional, with too much brown décor and not enough light. However, the building she took them to in the neatly ordered garden was a completely different affair. It was, without doubt, thebiggest shed Regan had ever seen, and it covered a fair chunk of the garden. Calling it a shed didn’t do it justice; it was more like a rustic log cabin. Regan still wasn’t sure why she was here, or how this was ticking anything off her lottery wish list. Her list was now merely a vague memory – so much had happened since she’d jotted those things down – but she guessed this had nothing to do with cocktails and bare-chested waiters.
Philistia led them inside the log cabin, began rummaging in a cage and produced a small spiky ball, which was either a tightly curled-up hedgehog or a deadly scotch egg. She placed it carefully on a rainbow-striped towel and pointed at it. ‘Watch,’ she instructed.
Regan did as she was told, but it wasn’t moving. Perhaps it was dead. She lost interest quickly but caught a glimpse of Charlie, who was watching intently. He had a few more days’ stubble than usual and it suited him. He looked tired around the eyes and she felt a pang of guilt for having caused that, before realising she probably looked exactly the same but without the chiselled, stubbly chin. He seemed to sense her looking at him and turned, making her swiftly focus her attention back on the hedgehog.
At last the tiny creature began to move. The ball of spikes parted to reveal a smooth tummy, four of the cutest paws she’d ever seen and a twitching nose. Its dark eyes blinked as it lay on its back, taking everything in.
‘This is Mr Pickle,’ said Philistia. ‘He was brought in last week. He’d been shut in a shed so he was undernourished and dehydrated.’
‘Oh, the poor thing,’ said Regan, feeling the urge to stroke it, then realising it would be exactly like stroking a toilet brush – only possibly less hygienic – so she returned her hand to her pocket.
‘It’s okay, love, you can pick him up.’
‘You’re all right. I don’t want to get a prickle stuck in me, thanks.’
Philistia guffawed. ‘Their spines rarely come out. He’s not a porcupine. Go on,’ she said, giving Regan a nudge. Charlie was watching her expectantly. She inched a finger closer. Didn’t they have teeth and fleas?
Regan put her finger in front of the hedgehog. It sniffed it and recoiled sharply.The feeling’s mutual, thought Regan. Mr Pickle slowly uncurled himself and she gently stroked his tummy. He seemed to like it so much that he weed. Regan pulled her finger out of the way just in time.
Philistia cackled with laughter. ‘That’s what his mother would have done. Licked his tummy to make him wee.’ Philistia cleaned him up and passed him towards Regan.
‘Ah, not if he’s going to wee on me again.’ She wasn’t falling for that a second time.
‘Don’t be daft. He’s all finished now. Here.’ Philistia thrust a pair of gloves into Regan’s hands, closely followed by the hedgehog, and she took him reluctantly. He was incredibly light and, thanks to the gloves, his prickles didn’t scratch her skin.
‘He weighs nothing,’ she said, marvelling at the tiny creature.
‘He needs feeding up. Once he’s up to six hundred and fifty grams we’ll release him back into the wild.’ It made Regan smile to think of Brighton and Hove as ‘the wild’. ‘In a badger-free area, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ chimed in Charlie.
‘Don’t they like badgers?’ asked Regan.
‘Would you like someone that saw you as convenience food?’ Philistia narrowed her eyes.
‘Er, no.’
Philistia busied herself with the other hedgehog cages while Charlie and Regan cooed over Mr Pickle. The shed seemed even bigger inside. It had rows and rows of shelves with small cages, and some bigger hutch-like structures at the other end. It was altogether a jolly nice hedgehog hotel.
‘How amazing is this place?’ said Charlie. ‘I saw a clip on the news about the rescued hedgehogs, and I knew we had to come.’
‘But why?’ asked Regan, still puzzled.
‘Because British hedgehog numbers are falling all the time. Loads get killed on the roads and their habitat is disappearing.’ Regan was still wearing her blank expression – nothing he’d said explained why she was here holding a hedgehog who would likely wee on her without any warning. Charlie tilted his head forward. ‘They’re an iconic animal and they need saving,’ he added.
‘The British hedgehog is declining at the same rate as the tiger,’ chipped in Philistia with gusto. ‘They’re being driven to the brink of extinction.’
‘Really? I had no idea.’ Regan stroked the inquisitive chap snuffling around her hands. ‘Poor things.’
‘This is where you come in,’ said Charlie, widening his eyes like she should know what he was talking about. She gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘You wanted to save an important animal from extinction. Remember?’
