‘I heard about this on the radio,’ said Blythe.
‘It would not surprise me if Turpin had called in to complain about me but given he’s been sitting here the whole time, I don’t think it was him.’
‘Very funny. I meant they had a feature on the radio about it. It’s called podophobia.’
‘What?’
‘It’s an irrational fear of feet. Maybe Turpin has podophobia,’ she suggested.
‘What’s it called when you like inflicting pain on feet? Because I think it’s more likely he has that.’
‘Sadism?’
‘Sounds about right. Now whilst the chat is lovely, do you think you could perhaps do me a favour and persuade Turpin to move out of the way so I can come downstairs?’
Blythe rolled her lips together. ‘I could, but I might need a teensy-weeny little favour in return.’
‘Name it,’ said Sam, giving one of his injured feet a rub. ‘As long as it has nothing to do with Christmas,’ he added hastily.
31
11thDecember
Blythe gave Sam a whistle-stop update on the sexy Santa issue and from shortly after her first mention of Santa he began shaking his head.
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to say no,’ he said.
‘Because you don’t like supporting charity, or you have some hideous skin condition that would put people off their dinner, or because of your Christmas phobia?’
‘It’s more—’
But she didn’t give him a chance to finish. ‘Then you leave me with no choice. I’m going to have to leave you stranded up there with Turpin here on guard.’ She went up a couple of stairs and rubbed Turpin’s head. ‘There’s a good boy. If he so much as twitches you bite him. Got it?’ Turpin stood up and attempted to walk along the stair but he only made a couple of steps before he limped as soon as he walked on his back foot. Blythe glared at Sam. ‘He’s limping. What’s wrong with his paw?’
‘I dunno. I’ve not seen him walk today. He’s either been asleep in the sink or he’s been sitting here taking a swipe at me.’
‘No wonder. Poor boy is in pain. He’s scared you’re going to step on him and make it worse.’
‘I’m not sure he’s capable of that level of deduction.’ Blythe gave him her sternest look. ‘But it’s not good that he’s hurt himself.’
Blythe tried to get a better look at Turpin’s foot but he wasn’t letting anyone too close – not even her. ‘There’s a big lump on one of his back legs.’
‘Offside,’ said Sam.
Blythe shook her head. ‘This has nothing to do with football. Right now we need to get him to the vet’s. I’ll let you off the sexy Santa dinner. You have a more important job to do. Please can you message me from the vet’s so I know what’s happening.’ She turned to leave.
‘Oh no, hang on,’ said Sam, running the gauntlet down the stairs and getting scratched again by Turpin, his tail swishing menacingly. ‘Ow! I can’t take him.’
‘Why not?’
‘For a start I don’t have a cat carrier basket thingy.’
‘Phyllis will loan you the one she had for her cat. Number ten, Penny Hill.’ She pointed to the back of the cottage and carried on through to the utility with both Sam and Turpin hopping after her.
‘You’ll have to help me get him in the thing or he’ll savage me. Look what he’s done to my foot.’ Sam pulled up a trouser leg and lifted a red and bloodied foot towards Blythe. ‘I dread to think what he’d do to my face and hands.’
‘Use gardening gloves.’ Blythe put some food down for Turpin, which he ignored, and she made to leave.
Sam held up his palms. ‘Okay, you win.’
