`That's what I was ringing about,' said Derek. `I've arranged the funeral for the day after tomorrow. They can't do it any sooner because there's got to be an autopsy.'
`I thought you were going to Wolverhampton,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`I am in Wolverhampton,' said Derek.
`What on earth did you want to go to Wolverhampton for?' asked Mrs Caldicot. `Why would anyone want to go to Wolverhampton?' she thought.
`I didn't have any choice in the matter,' said Derek wearily. `I told you before - I have a very important meeting with a possible client. I'm coming back tonight. Now are you sure that you're all right?'
`Is it a good meeting?' asked Mrs Caldicot. She wondered why meetings and conferences were always very important. Didn't anyone ever hold meetings and conferences that were just ordinarily important? Her late husband's numerous meetings and conferences had always been described as very important and she'd never understood how so many men in sewage could think of so many reasons for having very important conferences. What, she wondered, did they find to talk about? How did they manage to make such a simple business so complicated? Why did they need to hold week long conferences in Margate to discuss sewage?
Derek was talking. She decided she ought to concentrate. `...thank you. If you're not alright I'll get Veronica to come round and sit with you for a few hours.'
`Oh no! Not Veronica! I'll do anything if you keep Veronica away from me!' thought Mrs Caldicot. `I'm fine, thank you,' she said.
`I've arranged for a cremation not a burial. You don't object do you?'
`I don't mind whether they burn him, bury him or leave him out with the rubbish,' she thought. `No.' she said.
`When I get back I want to talk to you about selling the house,' said Derek. `It isn't a good time to sell but you can't stay there by yourself. I've made an appointment for you to see your solicitor at 2.30 this afternoon. He needs to talk to you about the will.'
`I don't want to sell the house!' said Mrs Caldicot. Then she wondered why she had said that. Maybe selling was the right thing to do. She didn't much like the house. She never had. Come to think of it she hated the house, the furniture and the chrysanthemums. Maybe she would, after all, let him persuade her to sell it. Maybe.
`Please, don't be so difficult all the time, mother,' sighed Derek. `I've got to go now. We'll talk about it when I get back. Did you hear what I said about the solicitor?'
`Yes. Two thirty this afternoon. I didn't know we had a solicitor.'
`He does a lot of work with us,' said Derek. `And he drew up Dad's will a few years ago.'
`Oh.' said Mrs Caldicot. She hadn't thought about a will. She hadn't even known that there was a will.
`I'll ring you tonight,' said Derek. `O.K.?'
`Yes. Bye then,' said Mrs Caldicot. `Oh, Derek!' she said, quickly, before he could put the phone down.
`Yes?'
`Have you got a clean vest on?'
There was a sigh. `Yes, mother.'
`And a clean handkerchief?'
Another sigh. `Yes, mother.'
`Good boy.' said Mrs Caldicot. She had to bite her cheek to stop herself from laughing out loud. `And don't forget to thank those nice people in Wolverhampton for having you before you come home,' she added, but it was too late for Derek had put his receiver down and broken the connection.
Mrs Caldicot cooked herself some breakfast, added the dirty dishes to the growing pile in the sink and got dressed. Then she headed into town to do some serious shopping.
***
`What about this one, madam?' asked the sales assistant, approaching Mrs Caldicot and offering her a woollen suit in a particularly nauseating shade of camouflage green. The assistant, who looked as though she nurtured an aching longing to be in her late twenties, had heavy false eyelashes, scarlet lips and bright red finger nails. She was not in her late twenties and had not been in her late twenties for a generation or so. She wore a grey suit with a skirt that ended a good three inches above her knees and she arrived in a cloud of suffocating scent. She had a badge on her left lapel which gave her name as `Daphne' and her designation as `Senior Sales Assistant'. She had an unlikely chest which cocked a snook at gravity, and which Mrs Caldicot suspected probably relied heavily on more hidden structural engineering work than the average suspension bridge.
Mrs Caldicot looked at the woollen suit with distaste. `I'm looking for something a little less stern,' she explained. She looked down at her own olive skirt and jumper. `I don't usually dress like this,' she lied, suspecting that the assistant was trying to find her something which matched the style she was wearing. `I had to borrow these from a friend,' she lied. `All my own clothes were destroyed in a fire.' Lying was like cooking. It did get easier the more you did it.
`Perhaps madam would give me an idea of the sort of direction in which I should be looking,' said the assistant.
`Those over there look rather nice,' said Mrs Caldicot, picking out a row of scoop necked summer dresses in pastel colours. `Pink. I think I might like pink.'
The assistant, trying unsuccessfully to disguise her look of surprise, swished across to the rail and flicked through the dresses quickly; sending the hangers whizzing along the chromium plated rail with experienced ease. `These do have the zip up the back,' she warned, plucking a pale pink dress from the rail and holding it out so that Mrs Caldicot could examine it.
`I don't mind where the zip is,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`Some of our more mature customers dislike back fastening,' confided Daphne. `Arthritis and so on, you know,' she confided.
`That must be terrible,' agreed Mrs Caldicot. She toyed with the zip. `This is a little, well, functional, isn't it?' she smiled. `Do you have anything a little more frivolous?'
`Frivolous, madam?'
`Yes,' said Mrs Caldicot firmly. `Frivolous. Buttons, maybe. Lots and lots of very tiny buttons.' She took the dress and held it up against her. `And I'd like something with less sleeve and more of a plunge at the front. I'd like to show a little...'she blushed. `You know...'.
`Cleavage, madam?'
`Exactly!' said Mrs Caldicot. `Yes. That's the word. Cleavage.' She said it defiantly. `I'd like to show a little cleavage.'
`Certainly, madam!' said Daphne. The sales assistant smiled conspiratorially. `May I ask, madam, is this for a special occasion?'
`Yes,' said Mrs Caldicot, wickedly. `A funeral. My husband's funeral.'
***
She wore her new dress to visit the solicitor.
`Your husband left a few small bequests but basically the bulk of his estate goes to you,' said Mr Suffolk. He was a breezy, cheerful sort of fellow who seemed to be in rather a hurry. He wore a light grey polyester suit, a white nylon shirt and a plain red polyester tie. `I must say your husband was an extraordinarily efficient and well organised man.'
Mrs Caldicot smiled politely at this compliment, although she would have preferred to describe her husband as obsessional and nit-picking. Every month he had insisted on going through the household expenses with her.
`You've spent £1.18 more on coffee this month,' he would say, pointing a podgy finger at the appropriate figures.
`That's because the supermarket prices sometimes vary,' Mrs Caldicot would reply. `Or because we've drunk more coffee this month.'
`And why did you spend 68 pence more on toilet rolls?' he would demand.
`You had diarrhoea for two days after you came back from that conference in Brighton,' she would answer.
`Normally,' continued the solicitor, `it takes a few weeks to work out the size of an estate but in your case I can tell you now that your husband has left you quite well off.'
Mrs Caldicot frowned. `Just what does `quite well off' mean?'
`It means that you won't have to worry too much about where your next meal is going to come from,' said Mr Suffolk, with a `Don't you worry your head about the figures' smile. `Your husband was a cautious man who preferred to put most of his money into the building society rather than
to invest it on the stock market, and the last few years have justified his caution.'
`That's nice,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`There's certainly enough to merit professional management,' said the solicitor.
`Aha! Here it comes,' thought Mrs Caldicot.
`Our firm specialises in estate management and we would be very happy to manage your money for you.'
`I'll bet you would,' thought Mrs Caldicot. `That's very kind of you,' she said. `But I'd like to take a little time to think things over first.' She had never noticed herself being so cynical before. `If the building society did well for my husband maybe I'll just leave it there for the time being.'
`Well, the building society isn't always the best answer,' said the solicitor, rather hurriedly. `And I couldn't take responsibility for your continued financial health were you to decide to leave your estate in the building society indefinitely.'
`Nevertheless, I'd like to think about things,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`Of course,' smiled the solicitor, somehow managing to sound patronising while saying only two words.
CHAPTER SIX
Mrs Caldicot had just got out of the bath and, dressed in a new, shocking pink nightdress and a new bright pink satin dressing gown had gone down to the living room to watch television with a plate of egg and tomato sandwiches resting on one arm of her favourite armchair and a large glass of red wine perched precariously on the other when the front door bell rang. Muttering quiet curses to no one in particular Mrs Caldicot lifted Kitty from her lap and answered the door.
`Good evening, mother,' said Derek, pecking her on the cheek and walking past her into the hallway.
`Good evening, mother,' said Veronica, his wife, brushing her lips through the air close to Mrs Caldicot's cheek and following him into the hall. She wore a pleated navy blue skirt and a lime green blouse and carried a potted geranium in her hands.
Jason, their son mumbled something which could have been `Good evening, grandma.' As he reached out with pursed lips Mrs Caldicot swayed skilfully out of reach and noticed with satisfaction that his spots were redder and more pustulant than ever. He wore a pair of headphones connected to a small box which was attached to his belt, and a continuous and annoying tinny noise escaped from the headphones. She could not remember ever seeing him without this piece of equipment.
`Good evening,' said Mrs Caldicot, shutting the front door behind them. `Do come in.' Her intestines began to tighten up in anticipation. Her tummy pains, which were always bad when she saw Derek, were always far worse when she saw Veronica as well.
`We thought we'd come round and see how you're bearing up,' said Derek.
`I've brought you a geranium,' said Veronica. She held the plant out so that Mrs Caldicot could inspect it.
`So you did!' said Mrs Caldicot. `What a nice pot.' She hated geraniums almost as much as she hated chrysanthemums. She went back into the living room but did not take the offered gift from her daughter-in-law and so Veronica was left holding the plant. The three visitors followed Mrs Caldicot. Jason sat down on the sofa, pulled a book of chess problems out of his pocket and started to read.
`I was just having a bite to eat,' said Mrs Caldicot. She saw Derek and Veronica exchange glances. `I just fancied a sandwich in front of the television,' she explained unnecessarily. She had been quite looking forward to a quiet evening on her own.
`And a glass of wine, I see!' said Derek. There was more than a hint of disapproval in his voice.
`Yes,' agreed Mrs Caldicot. `And a glass of wine.'
`It's a little early to be drinking isn't it, mother?'
Mrs Caldicot looked at the clock. It was half past seven. She couldn't think of any suitable retort so she kept silent.
`And alone, too!' added Derek sternly.
`If there had been anyone else here I would have offered them a drink,' thought Mrs Caldicot. She smiled brightly. `You're here now! Would you like a drink?'
`No thank you, mother!' said Derek. `I'm driving.'
Mrs Caldicot turned to offer her daughter-in-law a drink but Veronica had put the potted plant down on the sideboard, and was looking out of the window at the back garden. `Good heavens! She exclaimed suddenly. `Derek! Just come and look at this!'
Derek obeyed and together the two of them stared out at the crop of dead chrysanthemums. Because they were all firmly tied to canes the flowers, though dead, were still standing erect.
`What on earth has happened?' asked Veronica. `They look as if they're all dead!'
`I thought you said you were going to water them!' said Derek to his mother.
`I did,' said Mrs Caldicot. `But someone cut through all the stems!'
`Oh that's terrible!' cried Veronica. Why, Mrs Caldicot wondered, did so many people care so much about a garden full of chrysanthemums. They would have died soon anyway.
`Well that settles it,' said Derek. `You can't stay here.' He opened the French doors and stepped out onto the patio.
Mrs Caldicot frowned. `Why? Because the chrysanthemums are dead?' She moved to the doorway and looked around. `But I didn't like them anyway.'
`No,' said Derek patiently. He was getting worried about his mother who seemed either to be changing personality or developing a sense of humour. He wasn't sure which, but found both possibilities equally daunting. `Not because the chrysanthemums are dead but because someone killed them.' He stressed the words `someone', `dead' and `killed' and made the demise of the chrysanthemums sound like mass murder. He bent down and examined the stems of the flowers nearest to the back door, then turned his head and looked back at her. `These have all been cut through,' he announced. `Probably with a sharp knife or a pair of scissors,' he added. Derek, who was not a fit man, stood up and rubbed the small of his back as though he'd been gardening for hours. `Have you called the police?'
Mrs Caldicot frowned. `No.'
`You should have done,' said Derek.
`But what on earth could they do?'
`Fingerprints!' said Derek. He looked around. `Footprints, possibly.' He stared sternly at a small plastic gnome which was sitting on a red and white spotted mushroom. `If only he could talk,' he said. `I bet he could tell us a thing or two.'
`He's loyal. He wouldn't talk,' thought Mrs Caldicot.
`I suspect the police have got more important things to do than worry about a few dead chrysanthemums,' she said. She had a vision of squads of policemen racing around the countryside looking for the Phantom Chrysanth Killer. `What are you looking for?' she called as Derek wandered off peering down among the chrysanthemums.
`The knife they used!' said Derek. `They may have thrown it down somewhere.'
`Oh I wouldn't have thought so,' said Mrs Caldicot, moving back indoors.
`We'll get you into a home where you'll be safe,' said Veronica who had sat herself down next to her son. She looked across at Mrs Caldicot's plate of egg and tomato sandwiches. `And they'll make sure that you eat properly.' She wagged a finger and a pair of heavy false eyelashes. `You need regular hot meals inside you!'
`Would you like one?' asked Mrs Caldicot, ignoring the advice, picking up the plate and offering her daughter-in-law a sandwich.
`Oh, no thank you,' said Veronica, holding up a hand in horror. `I'm on a diet.'
`It doesn't show,' thought Mrs Caldicot. `That's nice,' she said, smiling sweetly.
Derek came back into the living room, closed the French doors behind him, making sure that they were firmly locked. His muddy shoes left grubby footprints on the carpet. `Just make sure you check all the windows before you go to bed tonight,' he told Mrs Caldicot. `Whoever did this may come back,' he warned her gloomily.
`What would you say if I told you that the person who did this would be in my bedroom all night,' thought Mrs Caldicot. `I don't think so,' she said. `I haven't got any more chrysanthemums.' She smiled weakly and sat down. Kitty jumped onto her lap and Mrs Caldicot tickled her under the chin. `I wish I had someone to tickle me under the chin,' thought Mrs Caldicot. She
stopped tickling the cat and tried it on herself. It felt rather nice.
`What on earth are you doing, mother?' asked Derek.
`I had an itch,' said Mrs Caldicot. `Probably a flea,' she smiled. `You know what cats are like.'
Veronica winced noticeably.
`I've tried to stop her climbing onto the furniture,' said Mrs Caldicot. `But it's impossible. She gets everywhere.'
Veronica pulled her skirt down to cover as much of her legs as possible and then stood up. `We must be going,' she said. `We just wanted to see that you were all right.'
She and Derek headed for the door.
`We'll pick you up in the morning for the funeral,' said Derek, whispering the final word.
`Come along, Jason, dear,' said Veronica.
`Yes, mummy,' said Jason. He carefully put a slip of paper into the page he had been reading and put the book into his pocket and stood up.
`Goodbye,' called Mrs Caldicot as her uninvited visitors trooped out through the front door.
`Goodbye, mother!' said Derek.
`Goodbye, mother!' said Veronica.
`Goodbye, grandma!' said Jason.
`Thank you for the geranium,' said Mrs Caldicot.
She went back into the living room, switched on the television, picked up an egg and tomato sandwich, took a large bite and then started to tickle herself under her chin with her free hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had not, thought Mrs Caldicot, been a very impressive turn out. Her husband, who always tended to judge people by appearances, would have been mortified if he had been there to see it.
`Father would have been pleased,' claimed Derek, who had inherited his understanding of people from Mr Caldicot. `Quite a good turn out.'
`If he'd been here he would have been glad he was dead,' thought Mrs Caldicot ruefully.
The fire and brimstone stuff was over and they had returned to Derek's spacious, detached, architect-designed house for what Mrs Caldicot secretly thought of as `the essential post burn up beano'. Derek's home, which had four bedrooms, two reception rooms, a garage for two cars, a large garden and a large kitchen with built in oven, microwave and dishwasher, was conveniently situated for local schools and shops in a pleasant suburban area. Mrs Caldicot looked around at the other mourners. There weren't many of them, despite the attractions of a free lunch.
Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War Page 4