One foot in the grave: Fanfic: Pest control

[m_findlow]

Title: Pest control
Fandom: One foot in the grave
Characters: Victor, Margaret, Mr Swainey
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 694 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for samuraiter's prompt "Any, any, Well, it wasn't dead when it got here, I swear" at fic_promptly
Summary: Victor's morning goes from bad to worse.

'They left a turd in between the pages of our newspaper again,' Victor grumbled, stalking into the kitchen. 'That's three days this week now.'

'Did you report it to the police?' Margaret replied absently.

'I spoke to them but they said they wouldn't do anything about it unless there was an escalation of threatening behaviours. Mind you, after they've stuck a turd in your newspaper and written the words "Victor Meldrew is a nasty old bugger" on the front, I don't see how much further you can escalate things.'

'Well, at least you can just throw it out, I suppose,' Margaret said. 'It would have been worse if they'd tried to shove it through the mail flap.'

'Little bastards,' he muttered. 'I'm off to go rake up those leaves,' he said.

He stepped out into the backyard and marched down to the shed to collect the rake. Off to one side he spotted the grey moggy that had taken up residence in their yard.

'Shoo. Bad enough I've got dog turds in the front yard. I don't need you pooping in my begonias.' The cat ignored him and let out a mrow before tottering off to start digging a hole to do its business.

'Go, on, shoo,' he said, swiping half-heartedly in its direction with the rake. 'Bloody vermin. Would anyone else like to take a dump in my backyard?' he yelled out.

'Morning, Mr Meldrew!' chirped Mr Swainey, popping his head over the fence.

'Oh, hello,' Victor said. 'Just trying to chase off a stray cat.' The last thing he needed was a letter of complaint from the RSPCA. The thing looked mangy and underfed. Probably wanted to wait for the birds to come rest on the birdbath before treating it as an all you can eat buffet, he thought.

'You ought complain about that sort of thing to the local neighbourhood watch,' he added helpfully.

'Oh, yes,' Victor nodded. He couldn't very well tell Mr Swainey that he'd been banned from any further contributions or opinions. 'You're well, are you?' Victor asked, trying to make polite conversation.

'Oh, yes,' Swainey replied. 'Just sorting out someone to come around and give Mother pottery wheel classes. She finds shaping things very therapeutic but I really wish she wouldn't use the leftover mash potato.'

'Hmmm,' Victor hummed in agreement, trying to hold his expression in place.

He proceeded to rake up leaves, setting them in a neat pile. All the while, the cat sat there and watched him.

'I didn't realise raking leaves was a spectator sport,' he mumbled. 'There's no rats in this yard, I can promise you. If you're hungry you'll have to look elsewhere.'

He went back to the shed, having collected the leaves into his incinerator, and perused the shelves. 'Now, where's that lighter fluid, gone? Ah, there it is.' He uncapped the bottle and set some in a small dish to be added to the bin before he incinerated the leaves.

'Matches, matches...' he muttered. 'Must have left them in the house.'

He marched back inside, sure they must be in the kitchen cupboard.

In the kitchen he caught Margaret coming through the other way. 'I've just got to drop off those spare pots for Mrs Worboys,' she said. 'She wants to plant those bulbs before winter sets in. Did you leave them at the front of the potting shed like I asked?'

'Yes, yes,' he said, still, rifling through cupboards and drawers.

'Alright, see you in a bit, then,' she said, making her way out into the yard.

It was the shriek that caught his attention out in the yard. He sighed, still unable to find the blasted matches.

'What on earth, Margaret?' he said, coming out to meet her.

'Victor, there's a dead cat in our shed!'

Victor looked over her shoulder to see the grey moggy lying there prostrate on the ground, foam spewing from its mouth.

'Well, it wasn't dead when it got here, I swear,' he croaked. He spotted the dish on the bench top, now empty. 'Must've drunk the lighter fluid, thinking it was water. Talk about bloody desperate.'

'Oh, Victor,' Margaret sighed.

Comments

[jo02]

Poor moggy! Apart from that I enjoyed this very much, their voices were spot on :)