‘When the ambulance comes –’ he threw over his shoulder – ‘will you show them where? I’ll see her uncle when I get back.’
‘I’d better talk to Cuth,’ said the vet. ‘This is a terrible thing. Where is he?’
As if in answer to a summons, Mr Harkness appeared, like a woebegone Mr Punch, over the half-door of a loose-box.
‘Bob,’ he said. ‘Bob, she’s dead lame. The sorrel mare, Bob. Bob, she’s dead lame and she’s killed Dulcie.’
And then the ambulance arrived.
Ricky stood in a corner of the yard feeling extraneous to the scenes that followed. He saw the vet move off and Mr Harkness, talking pretty wildly, make a distracted attempt to follow him and then stand wiping his mouth and looking from one to the other of the two retreating figures, each with its professional bag, rather like items in a surrealistic landscape.
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