Chapter 16
THE vicar was a little calmer after his media debut with the Bishop and Glynis. He outlined his campanology idea to Mary. Not once did he mention bell ringing. “Well, dear,” she said, “that is very brave and very community-spirited. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “All we need are recruits.”
Later that day, she headed for Brighton for one of her secret gym sessions, then onto club land to find recruits for her husband, who could kick-start is bold idea. If only she had checked the dictionary definition of campanology.
The following morning, she returned to Brighton and met, the first members of the newly re-formed campanology group and headed, with her new friends, to St Jasper’s.
The vicar was pottering around the church when they arrived, “You’re back sooner than I expected, and you’ve found some new friends.”
“Yes, darling, they’ll help with your new club idea.” He looked at the six men and two women she had in tow. They ranged from a large man in need of dietary advice, wearing a dark blue, sleeveless T-shirt and displaying an eye-watering collection of body tattoos and facial jewellery. A smaller one, who could because of his posture, could easily pass as a girl.
One of the women was large and busty, with a collection of studs adorning her lips, her ears and eyebrows and sporting, purple eye make-up and a shock of spiky pink hair. The second woman was slim and tidy, with elegant long, light brown hair. One of the others could easily pass as a be-speckled bank manager. It turned out, he was.
“Darling,” Mary announced, “I’ve found some chaps and gals to help you, who’ll kick-start the Campanology Group.” The vicar looked at them, clasped his hands and asked, "Can you ring bells?
One of the larger men took on an effeminate pose and looked at the diminutive vicar, and said, “I’ll ring your bells anytime.”
The vicar looked at his wife, then looked down and slowly asked the group. “Does anyone, one of you, know what campanology is?”
One of the men answered in confidence as he waved his arm about, “Oh! Yes, it’s all about the study of the gay community.”
“Er, nooo,” the vicar winced and replied, pulling his hands through his long dark hair, “It actually means the study of bell making, tuning and ringing. It’s not a word that’s often used today to describe the craft. It has nothing to do with the gay community.”
The meeting went quiet until one of the groups said, “I wouldn’t mind tryin’ it, yer know, ringin’ the bells. Sounds a good giggle t’me.”
“Yes,” said another in a Thames Estuary accent, “I will give it a try. Could be fun.”
From this initial misunderstanding, the Crabby Campanology Group was re-formed only to lead to social clashes. The bats in the belfry fluttered nervously with a premonition that their future peace was at risk with a noisy clang of clangers.
To help them get started, the vicar recruited Sergeant Wallace, a keen bell-ringer with a couple of Brighton churches. He was soon to consider that it wasn’t such a good idea to be involved.
In Lenny’s flat, the Four watched another Richard Attenborough Programme about mountain gorillas. They tried to emulate the walk and gestures of the forest dwellers. They each donned the costumes before realising that walking this was way difficult for eighty-year-olds, particularly Reg pushing his trolley.
Jock day-dreamed about his secret new role, dressed as a lone, kilted piper backing a dance troupe.
Miss Creswell pondered why young and middle-age men booked her English lessons, and some were obviously well-educated and deliberately messed-up spelling and English speaking. They seemed to demand they were punished either by caning their hands or a vigorous swipe across the buttocks.
Her last ‘client’ thanked her profusely and offered her £50 for ‘pleasing’ him. She usually undertook the lessons as a ‘social need’. To her, spanking was a simple way of chastising pupils for getting things wrong. She declined the money. The client booked more free lessons and left, pleased that sitting would bring back memories.
Miss Creswell’s activities had become known to the ladies of COBS, the Collection of Brighton Spankers. They recruited Inspector Anthony Noble, a regular visitor to one of the girls, to establish the identity of the ‘educator’ stealing their business.
Chapter 17
THE campanology group began planning their activities, and the Bishop and his wife Samantha arranged a meeting with Glynis. It emerged that both women had belonged to the Tappets Showtime Dance Troupe. It was so named because of all tightfitting, red-and-black-coloured Basque, wearing top-hats and carrying lightweight walking canes used to tap out a rhythm whilst hoofing around the stage. It was to be a meeting full of surprises.
But not all was tranquil at the Retreat. Residents facing the rear of the building were suddenly awoken at seven in the morning, with the distinctive sound of bagpipes. This was Jock’s latest attempt to irritate the woman he called ‘the Bint’. Attempts that had, so far, miserably failed and had only led to her increasing interest in Jock.
Running along the rear of the building was a path overlooking the balcony of Martha Samuels. Jock, dressed in his kilt and a Lovat green jacket, decided he would march along the path from the garage at one end to the double, wooden gates at the other end and the back to a spot underneath her flat window, playing a selection of Highland’s laments.
As he began playing a mournful rendition, one elderly male resident emerged from his balcony and shouted down at Jock whilst waving a heavy walking stick and shouting a selection of profanities, “Quit that racket or I’ll be down to batter yer.” It was one of the politest requests. Jock played on unperturbed by the threats. Then, Martha appeared and looked down at him from her balcony. Dressed in an ankle-length housecoat, she smiled and threw him a kiss, waving at the same time.
Jock changed his musical style and adopted a stirring Highland marching tune. He marched away with Martha still waving and the elderly man from flat nine still bellowing a string of obscenities.
It would be midday before he’d discover if his early morning renditions of various piper’s tunes had antagonised him enough for her to leave him be. No such luck.
Sitting in the lounge, waiting for the arrival of the other three, Jock, now dressed in grey flannel trousers, white shirt and a dark blue blazer, wasn’t quick enough to avoid the attention of Martha. She made a beeline for him and, in a girlish pose, fluttered her eye lashes at him, “Oh, John, thank you for this morning. Being woken by a suitor playing the bagpipes is a great honour.”
He was flustered and tried to back away from her. She followed him until he became trapped in a corner of the room. Martha stroked his upper arm, “You did look smart, and you still do. You must come and have a meal with me soon. I’d like to know more about you.”
As this event was underway, the Colonel cooked a steak pie for his lunch. A couple of mouthfuls later, he decided it was unpalatable. He put the plate with the mostly uneaten pie on the kitchen top. His front door bell rang. He left with Lenny, leaving the remains of the pie on the side.
His three pals arrived to collect him for their visit to the Talbot. Jock didn’t move away from the corner. Martha stepped away from his side, giving him a wave and blowing him a kiss as she reached the door to the corridor.
He took a gulp from his hip flask while muttering, “I’ve failed. I’ve failed. I tell thee I’ve failed.” His earlier intake of a large dram and the top-up helped his spoken words. He looked despondent and said to the others, “Get me oota here, afore she pops up agin.” They said nothing and walked out to visit the pub.
He was beginning to feel a little more cheerful and sipped his large Glenmorangie and announced he would plan a new scheme, “I’ve gotta get her off me back.”
As the four enjoyed their socialising, Mary was updating her book-work as Ernest Fisher made a rare excursion from his flat. A few minutes later, he arrived at Mary’s office, said nothing and sat in an a
rmchair, reading a copy of Magicians World. She did a double-take when she realised Ernest was stark naked. He remained silent as she enquired, “You alight, Ernie?” With the lack of response, she slowly got up from her desk and went the back office. She first rang the doctor’s surgery, then the care company.
An hour later, the doctor, a nurse and an ambulance with two white-clad attendants arrived. They persuaded him to dress and took him to the psychiatric wing at the hospital. He kept trying to convince anyone who would listen that he was really a ghost and should be left alone until those responsible issued him with his entry ticket to heaven.
The gang of four missed this episode of life at the Retreat. The Colonel arrived back at his flat to discover the contents of the meat pie had vanished. Bewildered, he threw the crusty remains is the trash can.
Reg stood outside Tesco, taking pictures on his mobile phone. He would then convert these images into black and white pencil drawings. I was a rare gift he had. He was taking one picture when young James stepped in view and smiled at the camera. “Ello Reg,” he said, “I want my picture.” It was one of the longest sentences he had said to anyone other than his mother. He ran away to catch-up with her.
Chapter 18
THE Colonel woke early. He was still baffled with the mystery of the missing contents of the pie. He pulled back the lounge curtains and gave a cursory glance outside. He’d walked halfway to the bathroom and shook his head, muttering, “What the…” He returned to the window and looked down, expecting see the rose bushes in bloom, potted plants and garden furniture. They had vanished.
As he viewed the scene, his doorbell rang. Lenny stood in the doorway, and said, “You looked outside? Everything’s been nicked. I’ve been out. Everything in pots or wasn’t tied down, has gorn; someone’s emptied whatever was grown in the greenhouse.”
The Colonel’s moustache twitched, “When I found those thieving beggars that did this, they’ll be trouble. Let’s see if we can find out. Stealin’ from the elderly; it ain’t on. Now with this, along with the snaffled pie, it’s too much.”
Lenny didn’t ask what a missing meat pie had to do with a vanished garden.
It was to be a few days later that the plants were tracked down. Meanwhile, a showdown of another kind was just beginning. The formidable shape and presence of Miss ‘the Mouth’ Fuller had tried to impose rules on her company’s clients and others. The council had become inundated with complaints about her military-style management of care. Legal teams continued to rub their greedy hands in glee whilst the care company steadfastly refused to intervene.
Behind the scene, a secret committee was formed among the authority’s various establishments, consisting of clients and others of Who Care. They plotted the demise of the Obergruppenführer as she had become known.
The great showdown day had arrived. Fiona Fuller, in her usual pseudo-military style, charged into the day room at the Retreat to be confronted by several rows of elderly residents, some twenty-five from other homes in Crabby. She was dressed in her distinctive way that appeared to be the green uniform of a female member of the armed forces, with no regimental insignia or badge of rank, just a logo of Who Care. She wore her distinctive military-style cap with the front pulled down, covering her eyes, typical of some members of the Military Police. From under her right arm, she swiftly removed a cane and waved it in front of her, demanding, “What’s going on here?”
Her stentorian voice was drowned out as the audience started to hum, tapping their heels on the floor, supported by those with walking sticks. The humming became louder.
Simultaneously, the start-up wailing of bagpipes rented the air and began a rendition of a nondescript backing as the elderly, reading from pre-prepared sheets of paper and began singing a re-worded, well-known World War 1 song,
Goodbyee, goodbyee. How we’re happy to say goodbyee!
Toodle pip, hip hip hurray, goodbye.
No more orders. No more parades, goodbyee Freedom from the mouth, goodbyee.
They stopped singing and started humming, some tapping the floor with their heels, others with their walking sticks. Fiona Fuller looked on in silence, her mouth agape with a look of shock and incredulity expressed with a twitching mouth. No one could see her eyes; the front of her military-style cap prevented that.
The pipes continued playing. Fiona Fuller began to shout, “Stop, stop. I order you to stop.” Her screaming was drowned out as the residents repeated the lyrics. The more she bellowed, the louder they became.
The bagpipe sound increased, successfully drowning out her protestations.
From the side of the room, unseen by Fiona Fuller, who was still waving her cane and shouting for everyone to obey her, stepped Jock, dressed in regimental highland gear, normally associated with a pipe band. He walked slowly forward and stood alongside the group of elders who, to a person, stood up. Fiona looked on, her mouth agape as Jock stopped playing as he and the audience gave a crisp army-style salute. To anyone, who understood the different types of salute, they would observe that many of the audience had given the non-military salute of the cub scouts. Others gave another type of two-fingered gesture.
As the meeting became quieter and the audience began to sit down, Fiona Fuller bellowed in a parade ground voice, “Well, I never, what a disgrace!”
From somewhere in the audience, a lone male voice shouted, “No, you never, you never gave we elderly the dignity we asked for the only disgrace here is you,” another voice added, “We’re not in the army now, so get lost.”
The audience broke into loud cheering, and Jock began playing a slow march as the whole audience joined in singing another rendition of Goodbyee, goodbyee.
Jock slowly walked to the right side of exit door, still playing. The Colonel stood opposite and opened the door. Fiona Fuller looked at the assembled from beneath her cap. She tucked her cane underneath her arm and swiftly did a 180-degree turn and marched towards the exit. As she passed the open door, the Colonel gave a cub-scout salute. As she reached the outer door, she looked over her shoulder and saw every member of the audience saluting with two fingers, not the Churchillian version.
As Fuller reached her car, she could hear the cheering of the elderly. She left the Retreat and Crabby, never to be seen or heard of again.
Whilst the Colonel, Reg and Jock participated in the humiliating departure of ‘the Mouth’, Lenny arrived at Croydon station and headed for a jeweller’s run by a dubious individual known to any self-respecting armed robber as Guy, the Gun. He specialised in providing weapons for villains and then disposing of them after use.
They would reappear at another robbery some months later elsewhere in the country. He handed the little man a brown envelope, and said, “Here’s seven-fifty. The Colonel sends his regards.”
The little man, hardly five-feet tall, smiled, opened the envelope and deftly counted the contents, saying at the end, “Spot-on. I’ll get the goods.” He departed through a heavy drape at the rear of the counter. He soon returned, carrying a large sports holdall, and said, "Just check the contents, and I’ll give you a receipt.
Lenny opened the bag and found one full-length Purdey shotgun and a shorter version, clearly modified with shorted stock and barrel. Both were wrapped in sackcloth. Also, in the bag was a cardboard box. This contained several cartridges. He said, “Looks in order t’ me. Usual cartridge filling?”
“Yep,” Guy replied. “Normal nuts and ball-bearings. Should leave quite a hole. Packed ‘em m’ self. Here’s yer receipt.”
Lenny closed the bag and looked at the receipt. It read: Deposit for hire of tools £750.00. All in order and opened the door to the street. As he did so, Guy said, “The Colonel knows the rules. No return after seven days after the job; they’ll be problems.” Lenny said he understood and closed the door.
Lenny headed home as a nerve-wracked meeting was taking place in the flat of Anne Pritchard. The only guest was Harold Pearson, who was already beginning to doubt his wisdom of wantin
g to marry Anne. She, in turn, had become more determined to tie the knot with the wealthy, retired banker.
“Now Harold,” she began in her most authoritarian tone, “I’ve spoken to the vicar.” Harold interrupted, “I thought I was going to do that?”
“I wanted the answer now, not at your banking speed,” she replied.
Harold looked crestfallen and kept quiet. Life between them was beginning to change and not to his satisfaction. Sunday lunch still took place. Strip poker and ‘nookey’ was off the menu. “Until after we’re wed,” she had declared.
“As I’ve said, I’ve spoken to the vicar and he says we can have a church wedding.”
“But you’ve been wed,” Harold bravely commented.
“That may be the case, but it was annulled because he failed to consume the marriage.”
“Consummate,” he corrected her.
“I know what I mean; he didn’t actually do anything. So, it was annulled. He was more interested in his new, young boyfriend. It leaves me free to have a white wedding.” She smiled at Harold and placed her hand on top of his. “Now, let’s get down to reality,” she quickly added.
Harold’s left eye twitch had returned after years of being under control.
As these events were being played out, the Bishop and his wife, Samantha, were sitting in the bar at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, waiting for Glynis. She made an entrance at one o’clock. Striding into the bar, hips swaying in a manner a younger woman would find it difficult to better. She spotted the Bishop, and Samantha was sitting at a small table near a window and made a bee-line for them. The Bishop stood up. Glynis giggled, and said, “Bish, so nice to see you again,” leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then turned her attention to Samantha, who had given up a dancing career to marry a handsome, young cleric. She still had her good looks and slimness belying her age.
The Final Heist Page 10