Haircuts, Hens and Homicide

By Stephanie Dagg

Megan finds mayhem when she arrives in France to bury her Gran and sort out her affairs. She expected difficult encounters with civil servants and red tape but not with wandering chickens, an imperious policeman and a dead body. Together with her unlikely new friend, the elderly and grumpy Alphonse and his canine equivalent, Monsieur Moustache, Megan becomes involved in investigating the fowl-related foul play that’s at work in this sleepy part of rural France.
She’s helped but mainly hindered by the people she comes across. These include the local mayor, who wants Megan to stay and set up a hair salon in his village to help keep it alive. There are the cousins Romain, the gendarme, and Nico, the clumsy but hunky farmer. They have always clashed, but do so constantly now that Megan is on the scene. Michelle, Romain’s terrifying ex who wants him back, appears along the way, as does Claudette, a wheelchair-bound old lady, and Kayla, Megan’s best friend, who is hugely pregnant but not above taking on the forces of French law and order when Megan finds herself the prime suspect after Alphonse is stabbed.
There’s excitement, humour and lots of ruffled feathers in this rom-com slash cosy mystery, the first in a projected series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Dagg
• Release date: Feb 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370510412

Stephanie Dagg

I'm an English ex-pat living in France with my family and a lot of animals, including llamas and carp. I was a bestselling author in Ireland, where we lived for 15 years before we moved to our new home here. I've recently relaunched my writing career, but this time as an indie ebook author and publisher. It's the twenty-first century after all!

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Haircuts, Hens and Homicide

by Stephanie J Dagg

Haircuts, Hens and Homicide

Copyright Stephanie J Dagg 2018

Published by Stephanie Dagg at Smashwords

This edition first published in 2018.

The right of Stephanie Dagg to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Acts. All rights reserved.

Cover artwork by Caitlin of editing.zone using images ID 37765086 © Sayurik, ID 34080382 © Eastnine and ID 21802951 © Svetlanka, all from Dreamstime. com

Editing, layout and formatting by editing.zone

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book but didn’t purchase it, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction. Resemblances to actual persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

This was turning into a truly disastrous week.

It was hot and stuffy in the vet’s waiting room. And waiting was the key word – I’d been sticking to an uncomfortable plastic chair for over half an hour and the time was crawling steadily towards midday. Once both hands of the clock settled over the twelve, the surgery would shut, presumably whether or not me and the other person in the room had been seen. No one messes with lunchtime in France.

I glanced around the macabrely decorated salle d’attente. It was festooned with posters of animal parasites for the main part, with the occasional cross-section of one sort of pet or another thrown in for variety. Definitely unnerving. As if sensing and sharing my discomfort, both physical and mental, there was a shuffle and scrape from the occupant of the cardboard box resting on my knees. That small sound immediately produced another – a loud, angry growl. Across from me was an old, grumpy-looking man with an old, grumpy-looking … well, I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of dog it was. It was shapeless and hairy and there was a mean gleam in its eyes. I pulled the box closer to me. The dog growled louder. The old boy pulled off his baseball hat and whacked his dog on the head with it. The grumbling subsided, although the mean gleam definitely got meaner. The man put his hat back on.

The first time I’d visited Gran in France I’d expected to see the entire male population wearing berets. My school textbooks had been resolute on the matter. And not only that, but they also wore stripy tee-shirts, rode bicycles and had a string of onions around their necks. Or was it garlic? Anyway, I’d soon been disabused of such fanciful notions and learned that the beret had been replaced by the baseball cap. Such a cool accessory elsewhere in the world, in France it was the reserve of the over-fifties.

Come on, come on! I muttered under my breath, eliciting another growl from Mean Mutt.

I’d caught sight of the animal that was currently monopolising the vet’s time as it had gone into the surgery with its expensively-dressed owner, who had to be a Parisian second-homer. The natives of this part of France couldn’t afford to kit themselves out like that. The dog was a teeny tiny, ratlike toy dog of some sort. Surely any decent vet could have given something so small the once-over in thirty seconds, and a thorough examination in a minute. How on earth could that little runt be taking this long to deal with? I could have growled too.

I had a funeral to go to. That was the reason I was here in France at all. Gran had died last Thursday. I’d known within hours that something was wrong because, being her only living relative far off in distant Maidenhead, I’d trained her up on Facebook and, regular as clockwork, we had brief chats every morning before I went to work at the struggling Snazzy Curlz hair salon, and again when I came home. Actually, the evening chats were quite long as I had plenty of gossip to pass on. Gran had only moved away five years ago, when I turned eighteen, to live the dream in a small cottage with a couple of acres of land in a remote spot of central France. She knew a lot of the people whose hair I cut, or if she didn’t, then she was acquainted with a cousin or a neighbour or theirs, or was a friend of a friend, or – more usually, given Gran’s non-compromising nature – an enemy of an enemy. So, when she hadn’t been online for our morning natter, and I couldn’t get her by phone during my midmorning break, as per our contingency plan I’d phoned the Mairie in tiny, sleepy Nouzerac. Luckily it was open for once and I’d asked if the mayor could please pop round and check on her. I don’t suppose he was mad keen on the prospect, since Gran had at one time or another fallen out with practically everybody in the village, and he’d been dragged in to arbitrate on assorted matters. But bless him, he did his duty and found Gran dead in the armchair in the living room, her latest adopted stray cat purring happily on her cold lap. He got all the official stuff going, no doubt relieved this was the last time Gran would inconvenience him, and I flew out that evening to take over. And so I missed my own leaving party. Jen, the manageress, was letting me go that Friday as she couldn’t afford to pay my wages any more.

Either the mayor’s arrival or my own must have spooked Gran’s timid stray, which she’d told me lots about on Facebook, because I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the little scabby tabby, named Catastrophe, since I’d been at the house. I hoped she was all right.

I sighed, at which Mean Mutt growled once more. This time the old man muttered something threatening and the dog, reluctantly, dropped its head back onto its paws. I managed not to sigh again as I thought about how this just hadn’t been my year. Completely out of the blue, Jason, my fiancé, had dumped me in January, two months before our planned wedding. He felt trapped, apparently. He was too young to get married. He was twenty-nine, for goodness sake! He needed to see the world. So as well as leaving me, he left his job at the metal alloys factory and set off for a world tour. He got as far as London where he literally bumped into Melissa at Liverpool Street Station. They instantly shacked up in some tiny bedsit, and the last I heard he’ll be a father before Christmas.

Men! I snarled, forgetting where I was and who I was with.

Mean Mutt sat bolt upright and started barking. His owner started shouting at him. At that precise moment, the surgery door opened and Mrs Parisian and her pampered pet pranced out. Mean Mutt lunged at Pampered, clearly convinced it was vermin of some kind. His teeth missed its neck by millimetres. Pampered began to yip in terror, Mrs Parisian screamed and the old man bellowed even louder, trying to drag his furious dog away from its trembling, intended prey. Pampered made a dive to hide behind my legs, closely pursued by Mean Mutt. There was no way I was letting any part of my anatomy get involved in this uneven contest. Clutching my box, I leapt up and onto my chair. There was a surprised scuffling inside the box, a momentary pause, and then an outbreak of angry, indignant and very loud clucking. Yes, there was a chicken in my box. Edith, to be precise. She was Gran’s hen equivalent i.e. intolerant and opinionated, and she let everyone know that now.

The unexpected, ear-splitting sound (and believe me, angry chickens can ramp up the decibels) shut everyone up and temporarily froze the two dogs. Mrs Parisian scooped up her diminutive dog and clutched it to her bejewelled, far from diminutive bosom. Mean Mutt’s owner at last got control of him, and started to drag him towards the open surgery door, which I now noticed was almost completely filled by the huge figure of a man. As I stared at what had to be the biggest guy I’d ever seen, his look of astonishment gave way to one of amusement, but that was quickly replaced by abject apology as the woman spun round. But not quickly enough.

You think this is funny! she screeched. My little Frou-Frou could have been killed. Look at him! She thrust him under the vet’s nose. He is trembling with fear.

If Frou-Frou wasn’t trembling before, then he definitely was now. I mean, if I was that small and I was suddenly stuck inches away from something as big as that vet, I’d be cowering and shivering too.

She turned round and cast a haughty look over myself and the old man. He was a typical retired farmer, an elderly man on not much income, in clothes that had seen better days but not the washing machine for a while. He was red-faced, hadn’t shaved for a while and must have lost his hairbrush last century. And I looked like someone whose Gran had just died. I had bags under my eyes, and I was long overdue an appointment with the shower. I hadn’t had time to pack properly before I raced out to Nouzerac and hadn’t brought many clothes. So today I was wearing one of Gran’s baggy tee-shirts, clean but stained, and my very short denim shorts. They barely showed beneath the tee. Oh, and I had Gran’s flip-flops on too. Very not cool, and I knew that, but I’d only brought one pair of sandals with me. And they were altogether too strappy and flimsy for wearing on Gran’s scooter.

That was how I’d travelled the nine kilometres to the vet’s in the small but bustling – at least in comparison to Nouzerac – town of St Loup sur le Roc. It was big enough to have such things as a bank, a post-office, a handful of shops including a small supermarket and two pharmacies, a generous smattering of bars, a hair salon and a vet. The scooter was a lifeline because I didn’t have a car and there was practically no public transport in this part of Creuse. I’d flown out to Limoges Airport from where I’d expected to have to pay a fortune to take a taxi to Gran’s but the kind mayor had picked me up. And since my arrival I’d been getting around on Gran’s 49.5 cc Kymco, never exceeding 45 kmph, its maximum speed. That wasn’t because I was being purposefully law-abiding, but because the elderly scooter began to make increasingly unhappy noises the closer it got to that velocity. Edith had accompanied me to the vet’s in a cardboard box attached to the holder on the back of the scooter with a couple of bungees.

So, I wasn’t looking particularly glamorous today but that didn’t excuse Mrs Parisian from looking quite so disgusted at the sight of me.

You’re a bunch of scruffy peasants! she exploded. Peasants! She whirled round and glared at the vet. I shall never come here again.

And she stalked out, her little Frou-Frou still yipping in terror.

Pfft, shrugged the old man. Parisians. So I’d been right in my appraisal. I was pretty sure he’d have spat on the floor in disgust if the vet hadn’t been standing there.

Parisians, agreed the vet, nodding slowly. Then he grinned. But she’ll be back. No other vet in this area will see that vicious little dog of hers when she’s down here in her holiday home. I’m the only one it hasn’t bitten yet. Not that it hasn’t tried, that nasty little f— He quickly stopped himself. Nasty little Frou-Frou.

I managed a weak smile. I was still a little stressed by my recent escape from the jaws of if not death, then at least a nasty infection.

The vet shook the old man’s hand.

So, Alphonse, let’s go and find out what’s up with Monsieur Moustache, shall we?

Monsieur Moustache? Seriously? This old farmer had called his dog something so soppy? That was strangely heartening and my smile became a proper one. Grumpy Alphonse must really care for that hound. You didn’t bother giving a quirky two-part name to an animal you didn’t care for, now did you. You’d give it some off-the-peg dog name like Rover or Fido or Prince that required no thought whatsoever. Not something like Monsieur Moustache. Animals should have names, and nice ones too, I decided.

You know, you can get down now, if you like.

The words woke me from my reverie.

Hmm?

I looked down at two amused faces. The vet was extending his hand to me. Yup, I was still standing on the chair.

Oh gosh, yes. Um, thank you. I laughed self-consciously and felt my cheeks start to burn. I manoeuvred one arm so that it supported Edith’s box safely and took the vet’s colossal hand. I daintily stepped down, at least as daintily as was possible in oversized flip flops. Edith clucked again. Monsieur Moustache growled.

So, a chicken, remarked the vet, nodding towards the box. That’ll be a first for me!

My embarrassed smile gave way to a frown of worry. How could a country vet not have had dealings with chickens before? I thought I’d be entrusting my poorly hen to a poultry expert.

But everyone has chickens! I blurted.

That was perfectly true in and around St Loup. There was invariably a handful of chickens, often accompanied by a raucous cockerel, in every garden.

True, but they don’t bring them to the vet, he shrugged. Why pay twenty euros to see me when they can put a sick one out of its misery by wringing its neck and then go and buy another one for three euros from the market.

There didn’t seem to be answer to that. French people weren’t generally known for their compassion towards anything edible.

No, they’re utilitarian in the main, the vet carried on. For eggs or the pot. Some people keep a few ornamental chickens. Alphonse here could tell you all about those, he’s into bird fancying.

The feathered type, I assumed.

Alphonse nodded enthusiastically. He opened his mouth, but the vet chipped in first, firmly.

I’m sure you two can get together sometime and discuss aviculture. But let’s get this dog of yours sorted out now, Alphonse. It’s nearly dinnertime.

See, I was also right about the dinner thing.

He took Alphonse firmly by the elbow and steered him into the surgery.

I sat back down. The vet reminded me of someone, with his remarkable height and width, longish red hair and large moustache, but who? A rugby player? A wrestler? I frowned in thought. Then I smiled. Of course, Obelix from the Asterix books. That’s who he looked like. And that’s what I’d call him. I wasn’t entirely sure how to pronounce his surname, which I’d noticed was ‘Lefebvre’ on his plaque outside. Generally, though, my French was proving to being more than adequate to get by with. I felt quietly proud of myself. The only subjects at school I was ever any good at were English and French. These were taught to my class by the same teacher, Monsieur Étienne Larousse, a diminutive and totally eccentric Frenchman. He wasn’t meant to be teaching us English, but poor Mrs Edgeworth wasn’t cut out for life at a large, boisterous comprehensive. She was permanently off sick with increasingly obscure stress-induced illnesses, and since Monsieur Larousse had the time, as well as being the headmaster’s brother-in-law, he felt obliged, or was more likely coerced, into taking over the teaching of his non-native language too.

He was a fascinating teacher. There was never any misbehaviour or over-exuberance during his classes as he kept us mesmerised, flitting as he did from one extreme emotion to another, several times each, over the course of forty-five minutes. There would be despair when someone mispronounced something in either language, rapture at a correct answer, fury if someone went too slowly or misunderstood or queried something he said, and tears of joy at a breakthrough such as when we en masse mastered the passé composé. He never seemed to do any preparation for his lessons. When we turned to the next poem or section of prose in our English textbooks, he would stare at it in bewilderment. What is this drivel? he would cry. Can any of you make head or tail of it because I can’t! Frequently, he would continue, Which idiot wrote this? It’s dreadful. You read more interesting stuff on the back of a cereal packet! Occasionally he would theatrically throw the textbook into the bin. However, eventually, and with a huge sigh and an expression of martyrdom, he would retrieve the offending book and proceed to go through the Shakespearean sonnet or extract from Dickens or whatever it was, despite it clearly paining him. He wasn’t racist in the slightest as he was equally dismissive of the texts we had to study for French. We picked up on his opinionated approach to literature, and compared and contrasted and discussed with originality and impatience in our exams, and the whole class passed their GCSEs in both languages. We failed pretty much everything else, but not English and French.

When I went on to do my NVQs at sixth-form college, I saw that Monsieur Larousse was teaching French A-Level as an evening class, and doing French conversation, so I signed up for both courses like a shot. I wasn’t disappointed. He was equally as brilliant and as entertaining as he had been at school and I flourished. Bless him, he even said I was his star pupil in one of his soft moments. It was all thanks to that man that I was going to be able to hold my own here in France. I had his accent down to a T and a good few of his gestures.

I listened idly to the muted voices and occasional growl of protest coming from behind the closed door. I felt slightly downhearted. I was worried that perhaps Obelix wouldn’t able to sort poor old Edith out for me. She’d been floppy and listless for a couple of days now. Usually she ruled the roost, such as it was. It consisted of three more chickens – Maude, Gloria and Cynthia – and Ophelia, the duck. But she thought she was a chicken. Gran had found an abandoned duck nest with still-warm eggs and shoved them under Edith, who was broody at the time. Only one had hatched, and that was Ophelia. She trailed around after the chickens all day and stared disdainfully, as did they, at the small duck pond in the back garden. She’d yet to get a feather wet in it and she was four years old.

It was now five to twelve. So long as I was back home by one, I’d be fine. All the funeral arrangements were in place. The hearse would be arriving at two to take me and Gran to the crematorium in the nearest large town. I hadn’t made plans for getting home, since I didn’t know how long Gran’s goodbye would take, but I had enough money for a taxi. I wasn’t optimistic that there’d be anyone I could get a lift back with to either Nouzerac or St Loup. Gran hadn’t made many friends, and no one was coming over from England to the funeral. I’d told a couple of her vague cronies but they’d pleaded prior engagements at bingo or the bookies, or lack of funds due to spending so much time at bingo or the bookies, or simply a distrust of going abroad to a country where they might inadvertently eat a snail. My bessie, Kayla Huggins, had offered to come to support me, despite the fact she and Gran had always hated each other, but she was eight and a half months pregnant and both I and Scott, her boyfriend, had dissuaded her for very sensible reasons. It was going to be just me and Gran and the lay official.

Alphonse and Monsieur Moustache emerged a couple of minutes after twelve and, amazingly, Obelix motioned me to come in. I’d been prepared to be fobbed off although I’d intended to put up at least a token fight. That proved unnecessary, and thank goodness, as I’m not a great one for conflict. Fifteen years of living with a grandmother who could start an argument in an empty room had left me with a distinct preference for the quiet life.

As I passed Alphonse, he slipped a grubby piece of card between my left hand and Edith’s box.

"Come and see my birds, mam’selle," he invited me.

I was taken by surprise.

Oh! Thank you, yes I will. Thanks.

Alphonse touched the peak of his greasy baseball hat and was gone.

Chapter Two

I carefully placed Edith’s box on the table in the surgery and opened the flaps. But Obelix was more interested in me for the time being.

Are you on holiday? he probed unashamedly, and in very good English. Ah no, not with a chicken, silly me. I’m guessing you must live here then. Haven’t noticed you around though.

How to explain without launching into a long, complicated monologue. Even in my mother tongue it was more than I felt up to at the moment.

I settled on, I’m, er, sort of staying for a little while.

Which I was. I was in the process of getting Gran’s cottage valued and onto the market, and I’d have to rehome the birds and cat, if it ever reappeared, empty the house and smarten it up considerably. That would take a while. And since I was without a fella and a job back home, and was currently inhabiting a tiny, vile rented flat in a grotty block of similar flats, I was in no rush. But I’d have to go sometime.

The vet obviously accepted that this was all he was going to get.

I see. But you at least have a name? I’m Erik.

Nah. Obelix suited him much better.

Megan, I replied. And thinking I should at least give him a smidgen of further information, I added, From Maidenhead.

Megan from Maidenhead, he repeated. Very poetic.

He’d clearly never been to Maidenhead, or my part of it at any rate.

And this is Edith, I said, to bring us back to the subject in hand: curing my poorly hen.

I lifted Edith out of her box and placed her next to it on the table. She didn’t make a fuss and sat there quietly, but fixed the vet with her gimlet eye, daring him to cause her any indignity whatsoever. You poke, I peck, she seemed to be saying.

So, what seems to be the matter? asked Obelix.

He stroked her head with a finger and Edith grumbled a complaint.

Since… I was about to say Gran died but that would call for all those explanations. I started again. Since the weekend, she’s hardly moved or eaten anything. That’s not Edith’s style at all. I kept thinking she’d perk up again, but she hasn’t.

Obelix nodded. He picked Edith up. She uttered a token squawk of disapproval.

How old is she?

Eleven or twelve, I shrugged.

What? exclaimed the vet, eyebrows shooting up. Twelve years old? Seriously?

I shrugged. What was the fuss about? Yes, the person who gave her to Gran when she moved here five years ago said that Edith was seven and too tough to eat, but might lay a few eggs before she died. She’s never laid loads, but one or two a week.

"Ciel mon mari, muttered Obelix. Normally they live up to seven or eight, and that’s at a push and in good conditions. Here. He held Edith out to me. Back in a jaffa."

I assumed he meant jiffy and I took my hen obligingly. I realised I’d spilled some of the beans about Gran now, but so far I’d got away with it.

Obelix turned to the laptop on the desk in the surgery and typed a few things in, slowly and clumsily with a lot of Gallic sound effects, mainly frustrated-sounding. Then came a disappointed one. If he’d been looking up what might be wrong with Edith, then things weren’t good.

No, not a record, he announced sadly.

Record? What was he talking about?

Twelve isn’t a record age for a hen. The oldest one ever was sixteen. I just wondered if Edith could get into that Whiskey Book of Records.

I looked at him blankly for a moment, then it clicked. I couldn’t help smiling. Guinness. Guinness Book of Records, I corrected him and nodded.

Oh yes, I knew it was a drink of some kind, he smiled back.

So, about Edith? I prompted, holding her out to him.

Right, of course.

He felt her all over, prised her beak open and peered in, then gave her back to me.

I’ll check her temperature.

He rummaged in a drawer for a thermometer.

Brace yourself, Edith, I told her quietly. Mind you, seeing as how you squeeze a huge egg out of that orifice, this should be a doddle.

I made sure I had her wings firmly clamped down. I’d been hit in the eyes or on the nose a few times now by resentful chickens when holding them and it was surprisingly painful. Edith was good, though. Her expression changed subtly as the thermometer went in but she bore it with impressive fortitude.

Normal, shrugged Obelix a moment or so later, reading the temperature.

Edith and I both relaxed.

I can’t find anything wrong with Edna at all, he told me. She’s a perfectly healthy if very old chicken.

I felt rather stupid. I’d wasted the vet’s time. It was just that… I couldn’t bear another death at the moment. If Edith keeled over, I think I would too.

I’m sorry, I began, but suddenly the surgery door burst open and a tiny, determined women strode in. Edith shot into the air in a flurry of panic and feathers. I grabbed her and held her firmly against my chest. I think my heart was beating nearly as fast as hers.

"C’est le merde!" the new arrival declared angrily, hurling her handbag at Obelix’s desk.

"Maman! snapped the vet. I’m with a client."

The woman stopped and seemed to notice me for the first time. She wasn’t massively impressed by what she saw, judging by her expression and the fact she continued to ignore me.

But this is an emergency! It’s an outrage! she fumed.

Obelix gave me an apologetic look.

What is, Maman?

I had an appointment for eleven at Gregoire Mulard’s for my hair. I want to look nice this afternoon. The door to the salon was open so I went in and sat myself down. There was no one around, but you know what that man is like. He’s always nipping down to Jacky’s bar. So I waited and waited, but he didn’t show up. So finally, about quarter of an hour ago, I went to Jacky’s but he said he hadn’t seen him this morning. He came back with me and we went upstairs to Gregoire’s flat above the shop, and there he was, passed out on the bed. Blind drunk! Selfish man! I can’t go to the funeral this afternoon with my hair like this! I’ll die of shame!

And she burst into tears.

Several things struck me at once. The first was that I didn’t know French women cried. I thought they only had one emotional setting: ferocity. Mind you, looking back I’d always been in Gran’s company when I’d met any French women and she had the knack of bringing that quality out in everyone. The second was how could someone so tiny be the mother of someone so huge. He must have been nearly the same size as her when he was born. Number three thought was that there was another funeral going on this afternoon. That was quite a coincidence. Or maybe not. I’d read in a local paper that the St Loup area had the oldest population in the whole of France. So presumably folks were popping off all the time. Then I had a fourth thought: I could help. If only I’d had a fifth one of ‘best not get involved’.

Um, I’m a hairdresser, I ventured hesitantly.

Maman’s head snapped round towards me at such speed I was pretty sure I was about to hear a nasty cracking sound.

You?

Not the most flattering response but I didn’t look like a hairdresser in my current attire, and certainly nothing like a French coiffeur or coiffeuse, whom I imagined were elegance personified.

Yes. I’ve got my City and Guilds and everything, I justified myself.

Maman’s unflinching stare matched Edith’s.

These are just my farm clothes, I added lamely.

You can do my hair? Now?

I don’t have my equipment with me— I began, but Obelix suddenly whisked Edith out of my hands.

I’m sure I have everything you’ll need, he assured me happily.

But what about Edith? I protested.

I’ll give her some vitamins, promised Obelix, coming to a snap prognosis, lots. And I won’t charge for the consultation. But please, please do my mother’s hair. You don’t know what she’s like. There was an edge of desperation in his voice. She’ll still be talking about this in twenty years’ time.

I knew exactly what he was talking about. I’d lived with Gran long enough.

I’ll need sharp scissors, a comb, and shampoo for starters. I took charge. Towel, somewhere to wash Maman’s… I mean, madame’s hair.

Through here.

He ushered me into a small room off the surgery which acted as both kitchen and pre-op scrubbing-up area by the looks of things. There was a sink at roughly the right sort of height, although no shower fitting but that wasn’t really a surprise. However, there were a couple of plastic cups on the draining board that I could use to wet Maman’s hair. There was some washing-up liquid too that might come in handy.

Maman was right on our heels and was already in the process of taking down her bun. I hadn’t noticed before how vast it was. She was removing hairclips from her hair at the rate of several a second. Finally she untwirled a tatty hair net and her grey hair came down in a heavy, sticky curtain. It wasn’t a pretty sight but I managed not to flinch. Maman plonked herself down on a chair which she scooted backwards so that it was against the sink. She leant her head back. It must have been incredibly uncomfortable, but, as I’d already sussed out, she was a determined woman. Pain was no object. I began to run the water.

What do you need first? asked Obelix.

Shampoo, I told him. I looked down at Maman’s greasy locks. Something… with oomph.

He nodded then opened the door to a cupboard. It was full of cleaning and cleansing materials. He pulled out a slightly grubby bottle of ‘Chaton Rayonnant’ – glowing kitten – shampoo.

Will this do? He didn’t look like he thought it would.

I didn’t either. Maman bore no resemblance to a kitten for a start, but as I poured an experimental glob onto my hand, I could feel that it wasn’t up to the task. It might add a shine to a clean kitty’s fur but that wasn’t going to work here.

I shook my head. Obelix had another rummage and came out with some anti-flea dog shampoo. That had to have a nice lot of chemicals in it so it might just do the trick. I took that from him, and also requisitioned the washing-up liquid. We were in business.

The sink was full by now and I began to slosh water onto Maman’s hair. It was sliding straight off, such was the thick waterproof barrier of grease that it was having to contend with. I persevered.

By now Obelix had added rabbit anti-tick shampoo to my collection. Like the other bottles, it had been hanging around for a while and was about half full.

How come you have so many different open shampoos? I asked.

We occasionally have to bath some of the animals that come in if they’ve got bad infestations of parasites. This morning I had to do a guinea-pig with the worst case of mange I’ve ever seen.

Maman’s expression didn’t change, but she may not have heard it through the sloshing