Mrs Caldicot's Knickerbocker Glory Read online

  Mrs Caldicot’s Knickerbocker Glory

  Vernon Coleman

  Copyright Vernon Coleman 2003 and 2014. The right of Vernon Coleman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  ISBN:978-1-898146-09-4

  The Author

  Vernon Coleman has written over 100 books, including a number of bestsellers, which have been translated into 24 languages. His novels include the Bilbury series and his non-fiction books include Bodypower and How to Stop Your Doctor Killing You. A growing number of his books are now available as Kindle editions. For a list of available books see the Amazon author list or visit www.vernoncoleman.com

  Dedication

  To Donna Antoinette, my Welsh Princess, with all my love

  Note

  All characters, organisations, businesses and places in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons (living or dead), organisations, businesses or places is purely coincidental.

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

  Chapter 1

  Anyone old-fashioned enough, and optimistic enough, to expect the calendar to give some guidance on temperature and weather might have expected a warm, sunny day; a few, small, fluffy white clouds scattered artistically across a perfectly sky-blue sky, jolly birds happily singing their little hearts out in a vain attempt to drown out the sound of suburban lawn mowers, and gardens everywhere a blaze of sunlit summer colour.

  Such optimism would not have been well rewarded. It had been raining heavily for hours. In the traditional way things happen in a country where it rains for 300 days a year downpipes were gurgling, drains were failing to cope with the flood of water and deep puddles were forming everywhere. In modern Britain, a leaf or two on the lines will halt the heaviest and most majestic of trains; tons of highly crafted metal brought to a standstill by a modest flutter of nature’s arboreal off casts. A flake or two of snow will close motorways and send cars sliding and slithering out of control. And a few hours steady but unspectacular rain always seems to result in flooding.

  There was, as usual, a huge puddle outside the front entrance to The Twilight Years Rest Home (prop. Thelma Caldicot, No Cabbages Allowed) and as the two ambulance men carefully carried the occupied wheelchair in through the front door they found themselves splashing through water which reached well over the tops of their shoes.

  ‘Oh, bugger!’ cursed the younger of the two; a florid-faced man, rather too overweight to be an advertisement for good health. He paused and looked down. ‘My socks are soaked.’

  ‘Stop moaning, keep moving and lift your end up,’ retorted the older man, balding, thinner, altogether leaner and fitter looking.

  The third figure in this moving tableau, the occupant of the wheelchair, said nothing. Since he seemed to be either asleep or drugged, this was not particularly surprising. He took no more interest in his surroundings than he would have done if he had been a sack of potatoes.

  Earlier in its long life the building which was now known as the Twilight Years Rest Home had been the imposing residence of an important local Victorian entrepreneur called Baldcock.

  Mr Baldcock had made a substantial fortune out of the manufacture of sewage pipes and, anxious to obtain a social status above and beyond that which the manufacturer of such an unappetising product might expect, had spared no expense to give his family a substantial and worthy home. The hall and landing windows were made of stained glass, the drainpipes and gutters were decorated with cast iron gargoyles and the stonework above the bay windows was more than amply decorated with numerous stony representations of well-fed cherubs. And, naturally, the front door was protected from the elements by a large open-fronted porch with a tiled floor. Six stone steps led from the puddled driveway to the porch, and the two ambulance men climbed these steps at commendable speed. The porch was so large that even two ambulance men and a wheelchair did not overcrowd it.

  ‘Funny looking place,’ said the younger of the two ambulance men, a well-fed youth who was known to his mother and girlfriend as Cyril and to everyone else as ‘Chips’ (a nickname which accurately reflected his dietary taste).

  ‘Don’t take any notice of the building,’ said Bertie, his colleague. ‘This is Mrs Caldicot’s place.’

  ‘Mrs Caldicot?’

  ‘You not heard of her?’

  Chips shook his head.

  ‘Her relatives put her into a nursing home. She couldn’t stand the smell of cabbage so she led a revolution. Took all the other residents with her to stay in a hotel. Then went back and took over the whole place.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Chips, surprised and impressed. ‘Che Guevara in two-way stretch elastic stockings.’

  ‘There was a book written about it. Called ‘Mrs Caldicot’s Cabbage War,’ the older ambulance man told him. ‘You could probably borrow a copy from the library.’

  ‘I don’t read books,’ said Chips.

  ‘Then watch the movie.’

  ‘There’s a movie?’

  ‘Based on the book.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Mrs Caldicot’s Cabbage War. The same as the book.’

  ‘With that woman in it? Mrs Caldicot?’

  ‘No, you plonker! An actress called Pauline Collins plays Mrs Caldicot. I heard Mrs Caldicot say she thought she was wonderful. She was on the radio.’

  Chips grinned, pleased with himself. ‘Oh, I’ve heard of Pauline Collins.’ he said. ‘She’s married to that John Alderton.’

  Chips put down his end of the wheelchair, and was about to press the doorbell when the front door swung open and a woman dressed in a lemon jumper, bright red trousers and a multi-coloured woolly hat appeared. She was pushing a silver coloured metal scooter. At first, the ambulance men thought that she was a teenager. Only when they looked closely did they realise that she had almost certainly already celebrated her seventieth birthday.

  ‘Hello!’ she cried, beaming. ‘What a lovely day!’

  The two ambulance men looked at each other and then out at the rain beating down outside, the puddles and the overflowing gutters. It was, to them, a dark, damp and desperately dismal day. The woman with the silver scooter, paused and looked around. She saw the same day, the same rain, the same puddles and the same overflowing gutters but to her eyes, the day seemed exciting. With a wave, she started to bounce her scooter down the stone steps. She was half way down the steps when a pretty, plump, black woman in a smart nurse’s uniform appeared in the doorway. She had a name badge pinned to her chest. The single name ‘Mrs Roberts’ was the only printing on the badge. She looked to be in her mid-forties and was holding a large yellow plastic cape and a yellow plastic rain hat. She had an easygoing manner and a smile, which Mrs Caldicot often described as being that of an angel. She was a loyal friend and employee.

  ‘Miss Nightingale,’ called the nurse waving the two items in one hand. ‘You forgot your cape!’

  The woman with the scooter stopped, turned and came back up the steps. ‘Silly me!’ she said. She rolled her eyes as though to say ‘What a silly woman!’ and gently slapped her own wrist. She leant her scooter against the wall, held her hands up above her head and let the nurse slip the cape over her upstretched arms and her head. The nurse then added the hat and tied two pieces of cord into a neat bow underneath the old lady’s chin. ‘Don’t be long,’ the nurse warned. She smiled and added: ‘And have a nice time.’

  Miss Nightingale nodded, her eyes sparkling and full of life, and rushed off into the rain with her silver scooter.

  ‘We have a new resident for you,’ said the older ambulance man, n
odding towards the man asleep in the wheelchair. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and examined it. ‘Mr Williams,’ he read from the paper.

  The nurse stopped, bent down and examined the man. She touched his hand then gently shook his shoulder. She seemed cross. ‘Has he been sedated?’ she demanded.

  ‘I expect so,’ replied Bertie. ‘Where he came from everyone who isn’t dead or on the staff is sedated.’ He paused. ‘And if the rumours are right most of the nurses and doctors are sedated too,’ he added.

  Behind the ambulance, a small grubby estate car skidded to a halt on the gravel. A short, balding, overweight man got out of the car, clutching a bulging black briefcase. Stooped in the rain he fumbled with his key, eventually managing to lock the car door. Neither the ambulance men nor the nurse took any notice of his arrival.

  ‘Would you bring him in, please’ said the nurse. She stepped into the hallway and nudged the door open as wide as it would go so that the two ambulance men could push the wheelchair through the door more easily.

  ‘We have to take the chair back,’ said the younger ambulance man. ‘It belongs to the hospital. It’s signed out as a temporary loan.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour and carry the patient upstairs for me,’ asked the nurse. ‘Mrs Caldicot, the proprietor is busy locked in her office with the cook.’

  ‘No problem, love,’ said the older ambulance man. ‘I’ll take him.’ He bent down, picked the sleeping patient up out of his wheelchair as though he were a small child, and carried him upstairs. ‘I’ll get his luggage,’ said Chips, picking up the wheelchair and taking it back to the ambulance.

  Chapter 2

  ‘I’m here to examine your extractor fan statutory warning notice,’ announced the fat man with the black plastic briefcase. He had run less than twenty yards, and climbed a short flight of stone steps, but even in the cold and the rain, the exercise had made him red-faced and breathless. Despite the weather, he was sweating profusely. He took a plastic wallet from his inner jacket pocket and held it under Mrs Roberts’s nose.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘The extractor fan? Well I’m sure we have one. But I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘This is a random spot check authorised under sub-law 872c of the 1999 Act,’ said the short man. ‘You are obliged by law to cooperate with my enquiries. Failure to do so will be reported to my superiors and regarded as a breach of your legislative responsibilities. I suggest that you notify the registered proprietor without delay.’

  ‘Mrs Caldicot is in her office with the cook,’ repeated Mrs Roberts. ‘If we do have an extractor fan I expect it will be in the kitchen. I suspect that would be the ideal place for it. Perhaps your notice will be there too.’

  ‘And where’s the kitchen?’ demanded the short visitor.

  ‘Straight ahead down the corridor,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘The door is open. Just help yourself.’

  The short man hurried past her and down the corridor. Mrs Roberts, with more important things on her mind, hurriedly climbed the stairs.

  Chapter 3

  Mrs Caldicot was coming to the end of her tete a tete with the cook. It had not, she would afterwards confirm, been one of the happiest encounters of her life.

  ‘I have not been entirely happy with your work,’ Mrs Caldicot had begun, tactfully. She had been rehearsing her opening line for two days.

  The cook, a mountainous woman in her mid-forties, said nothing but just glowered at Mrs Caldicot. Her white overall was, Mrs Caldicot noticed, heavily stained. The cook herself had lank, greasy black hair and did not appear to have washed for some time. Though she smelt strongly of peppermint there were other, less pleasant, underlying odours fighting for attention.

  ‘When you came for your interview you told me that you had plenty of experience in this area of catering,’ continued Mrs Caldicot. It was difficult to accept that this malodorous creature was the same person as the rather shy, eager to please applicant who had arrived for her interview a few months earlier.

  The cook remained silent and threatening.

  ‘I don’t wish to dispute your previous claims,’ lied Mrs Caldicot. ‘But several aspects of your work here seem to suggest to me, and, indeed, to others, that you may not have quite the extent of experience which you indicated.’

  The cook frowned as though she were having to struggle to understand what Mrs Caldicot was saying; her huge, hairy eyebrows, already dark and unkempt, swooped inwards and joined together for support. ‘Are you implying that I lied?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh no, no,’ said Mrs Caldicot hastily. ‘Of course not.’ She instantly felt ashamed of herself. That was exactly what she had intended to imply.

  ‘Good,’ said the cook, leaning back in her chair. She took a packet of French cigarettes from one pocket and a box of matches from another.

  ‘It’s just that some of the meals you’ve prepared have been not quite adequate for the number of people involved,’ said Mrs Caldicot.

  The cook shook one of the cigarettes out of the packet, put it between her lips and lit it. Mrs Caldicot wanted to tell her that she didn’t like people smoking in her office but felt intimidated and didn’t have the courage.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said the cook, having blown a lungful of smoke all over Mrs Caldicot.

  ‘Well, I have one or two examples here,’ said Mrs Caldicot. She looked down at the thick folder in front of her and opened it. ‘For example,’ she began, ‘last Wednesday you served jam sandwiches to the residents for their evening meal.’

  ‘Lots of the old dears don’t have their own teeth,’ explained the cook. ‘Jam sandwiches are easy to chew.’

  ‘But you served just four rounds of bread,’ continued Mrs Caldicot. ‘There weren’t enough sandwiches to go round.’

  ‘Most of them are overweight,’ said the cook. ‘It’s my job to look after their dietary health. I decided they needed to diet.’ Mrs Caldicot suddenly realised what the smell of peppermint was hiding. Alcohol.

  ‘That was very noble of you,’ said Mrs Caldicot. Looking at the cook’s immense bulk words such as ‘glass houses’, ‘stones’ and ‘throw’ sprang to mind but she decided not to explore that particular avenue. She picked up a butcher’s bill from the folder. ‘What also puzzles me is the fact that although the residents were not served any meat in that particular week - they were served sandwiches on nine separate occasions - you nevertheless authorised payment of several hundred pounds for steaks, bacon, chops and so on.’

  ‘There wasn’t room to put them in the freezer,’ said the cook. ‘The meat went off so I threw it all away. Would you rather I served the residents with bad meat?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t do it anyway,’ said the cook. She straightened her shoulders and pulled herself to her full height. ‘I have my standards and I’m not going to endanger the lives of those lovely old people just to please you.’ She turned her head and looked out of the window.

  ‘I didn’t...’ began Mrs Caldicot, wondering how she had suddenly found herself on the defensive.

  ‘Hrmph!’ snorted the cook, seemingly exhausted by the modest physical effort she had just made, and relaxing and slumping back in her chair.

  ‘Is it true that you’re related to the butcher?’ asked Mrs Caldicot.

  ‘He’s my brother,’ said the cook. ‘Are you saying it’s a crime to give business to my brother?’ She scowled. ‘I’ll have you know that he gives me a very special discount on account of the fact that I’m family. And we get the best cuts he has.’

  ‘That’s very good of him,’ said Mrs Caldicot, now woefully aware that she had lost control of what she had intended to be a final interview with the cook. ‘Very good of him.’

  There was a long silence while Mrs Caldicot decided on a new line of attack.

  ‘Can I just go back to your original application form?’ asked Mrs Caldicot.

  ‘If you like.’ The cook loo
ked at the clock. ‘Lunch will be late. But it will be your fault.’

  Mrs Caldicot looked up. ‘Lunch has been late nearly every day since you’ve been here,’ she said. ‘On the rare occasions when it wasn’t at least an hour late it was over two hours early.’

  The cook pulled a face. ‘I had to go out. I didn’t want them to go without their lunch. It didn’t seem right that they should be inconvenienced on account of me having to go and see the doctor.’

  ‘You served lunch at 9.30 a.m.,’ said Mrs Caldicot. ‘And you told the residents that they had to be finished by 9.45 a.m.’

  ‘It doesn’t do them good to sit around,’ said the cook. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing.’

  ‘On your original application form you said that you’d had many years of experience in hotels and institutions throughout the country,’ said Mrs Caldicot.

  The cook didn’t say anything.

  ‘You said, for example, that you had experience at the Imperial Hotel in Carmarthen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I belatedly rang them yesterday they told me that they had no record of ever employing anyone of your name.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was employed there.’

  Mrs Caldicot looked at her, raised an eyebrow and waited.

  ‘I stayed there with my mum and dad when I was a kid.’

  ‘You stayed there?’

  ‘Yes. With my mum and dad. For a week.’

  ‘I don’t think many people would regard that as relevant employment history.’

  The cook shrugged.

  ‘And Holloway Prison?’

  ‘It was only three months.’

  Mrs Caldicot waited.

  ‘It was a set up,’ said the cook. She sounded very defensive.

  Mrs Caldicot didn’t speak. She looked down at her sleeping cat, Kitty, lying peacefully on the carpet at her feet. Just looking at Kitty always helped to bring her blood pressure down.