Beasts in My Bedroom

About the Author

Malcolm Welshman is a retired vet and author. He has written a memoir and four vet-inspired novels, the first of which, Pets in a Pickle, reached number two in the Kindle bestseller list. He was the My Weekly vet for fifteen years and is still a regular contributor to a variety of magazines and online journals including The People’s Friend. For eleven years he was a regular cruise liner speaker undertaking over fifty engagements in that period and has spoken at several literary festivals such as Wells, Folkestone and Frome.

Dedication

To my parents, Muriel and Jack Welshman, who were instrumental in helping me to forge the bonds with animals that I hold so dear.

Copyright Information ©

Malcolm D. Welshman 2024

The right of Malcolm D. Welshman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035851799 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035851805 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2024

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Prologue

T

he initial inspiration for my love of animals was a newt called Nigel.

To be followed by a childhood spent in Nigeria where the flames of my fascination with all creatures great and small were truly ignited. But Nigel was the initial spark.

I’d been up on the local golf course, wading round the edge of a pond, poking through the rough verges, seeking out lost golf balls when I discovered him. A common newt, Triturus vulgaris. I took an instant liking to him, hauled him out of the pond, wrapped him in a strand of wet grass and popped him in my pocket.

Back home, I eased him in a converted aquarium, decked out with logs and rocks. There he was to remain for the rest of the summer, being fed a diet of worms and beetles.

A book on British reptiles and amphibians borrowed from the library, told me all I needed to know about Nigel’s lifestyle. How, in the spring, he headed for the nearest pond to court females, sporting an impressive crest that ran from his head to his tail, complementing his black-spotted body – his equivalent of our tattoos. If that wasn’t enough, Nigel would entice females to him with wafts of glandular secretions – guaranteed to make any nubile newt swoon with desire. Having done what was necessary to ensure the continuation of the species, Nigel would haul himself ashore to slump under a stone for the rest of the summer. Hopefully undisturbed. Unless the likes of me, a six-year-old, came along and winkled him out.

One late September day, I discovered Nigel’s body lifeless under a rock. At that point, a matchbox came into play. It was a special matchbox. One from my collection. The lid depicted three red dice. Lucky dice. Though not so lucky for the proposed inmate inside. Nigel’s corpse.

I laid his body out on a tiny wodge of cotton wool that I’d stuffed into the matchbox and carefully slid the box closed. It was then buried in the back garden and the spot marked with a stone. I even erected a little cross made of – yes, you’ve guessed – two matches. A week passed before it dawned on me that Nigel may not have died. Perhaps he had merely succumbed to the time of year when he was due to hibernate. Suddenly, I had this ghastly thought that I had buried him alive. I found myself digging up the matchbox and sliding it open to find out. I was saddened to look down on desiccated remains, dried up beyond recognition. Poor Nigel. He had well and truly gone to his maker.

The leap from a newt to a plethora of African animals was a big one and took place within a matter of months of Nigel’s demise.

My father was a vet and had for some time been contemplating taking on a job as a District Veterinary Officer (DVO) in some far-flung part of the world, such were his dreams for a change of scene to an exotic location.

So, scarcely had 1955 ended, he, my mother, Muriel, and I found ourselves celebrating the New Year on a scorching hot beach across the bay from Lagos, the capital of Nigeria, before the start of Father’s two-year DVO contract up in Ibadan, a hundred miles to the north.

‘Well, here’s to the beginning of our new life,’ he declared, raising a glass of warm beer while Mother took several heady sips of sherry she had bought as duty-free on the flight over.

I echoed his sentiment with a gulp of fizzy-less lemonade, blissfully unaware of just how exciting my time in Nigeria was going to be and all those exotic animals I was going to encounter.

1

A Cobra in the Bathroom

I

was sitting on the loo when a six feet cobra slithered in. Agrrr … It was enough to scare the pants off anyone. Mine were already down round my ankles as I squatted on the edge of the seat and watched the grey-brown snake weave rapidly towards me across the bathroom floor.

We’d been living in Nigeria about three months by then. The bathroom in which I was now trapped by the snake, was linked to the rest of our bungalow by an open walkway. A walkway festooned with creepers and bowers of bright purple-flowering bougainvillea. Perfect for snakes to hide in. We often saw one zoom across the path or shoot through the bushes. But never in the bathroom. Until now. Until this angry-looking cobra suddenly made its appearance under the bathroom door and, at this moment, was gliding towards me, hissing loudly.

What was I to do?

Well, first I produced a very loud fart.

The effect of my fart on the cobra was amazing.

I’ve learnt since that snakes can’t hear in the same way that we do. But, nevertheless, can detect very loud airborne sounds. I’m not sure what decibel level my fart achieved but as I let one rip, I felt I had achieved something at the higher end of the scale. It certainly seemed loud. And it certainly seemed to alarm the snake. Since, with a sudden whiplash action, it turned rapidly to disappear behind the laundry basket over in the far corner.

I stood and pulled my pants and shorts up. If I was going to be bitten by the snake, I might as well be fully clothed and look decent when I died from its venom.

Other than that, I remained stock-still. Fearful to move in case the snake reappeared and decided to strike out at me.

Help was required. So I emitted a feeble ‘Help’, my voice a mere squeak, my mouth dry, parched with fear.

No response. No one had heard me. This was not surprising, as it was such a weedy, pathetic Help. I took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Help.’ The word came out like the croak of a dying frog. A third ‘Help’ was even more strangulated. Absolutely hopeless.

Ah, but then there was the scrabble of paws at the door. A whine. It had to be Poucher, our African bush dog, which we had acquired soon after we’d arrived in Ibadan. She’d heard me. She knew something was wrong.

I looked across at the laundry basket. Nothing moved. No sign of the cobra. Must be coiled up behind it, I thought and shivered despite the heat. No way was I crossing the bathroom in case I disturbed it. Too risky.

‘Poucher,’ I whispered. The dog scratched at the door even more. ‘Good girl, good girl,’ I encouraged. Poucher’s whine turned to a furious bark, sufficient to alert my parents. I heard Father run down the walkway.

‘Don’t come in,’ I yelled. ‘Snake.’

There was a hurried discussion outside. I recognised the voices of the house-boys. The door opened a fraction, sufficient for one of them to peep round.

‘Where’s dat snake?’ Yusefu whispered, his eyes wide, the whites gleaming.

I pointed at the laundry basket. ‘Behind that.’

Yusefu edged in, a hand clamped tightly round a broom handle. He gingerly stretched out his arm and jabbed the basket. There was a rattling hiss and the cobra sprang into view. Yusefu sprang back and disappeared behind the door. I sprang back behind the shower curtain. The snake rapidly zigzagged across the floor and wriggled through the drainage hole in the wall that led to the soakaway outside. Time for me to scoot out as well. There I found Mother standing on the veranda, trembling, her knees pressed together.

‘I’m desperate for a pee,’ she said. ‘But that snake has to go before I do.’

‘Don’t blame you, Mum,’ I agreed. I could see she didn’t like the idea of sitting on the wooden thunder box, wondering when and where the cobra might strike next. Perhaps bite her bottom? Ouch.

Meanwhile, Poucher had slunk away and was sniffing the entrance to the soakaway, her nose twitching, and her ears pricked.

‘I bet the cobra’s gone down there,’ I said, pointing at the soakaway hole. A dark, black hole just a hand-width wide.

Father had now appeared and stood in front of the hole.

‘You’re probably right,’ he