`Stir the mixture well and put it into a warm oven for twenty minutes,' said Mrs Peterborough, nodding happily and smiling vacuously.
`I wanted you to come home with me in the summer holidays to meet my parents,' said Miss Nightingale sadly.
`Mmmmm!' said Mrs Peterborough. `And the finished dish smells and tastes absolutely wonderful - especially with a slice of garlic bread!' She licked her lips and smiled back at the screen.
`That's kind of you,' said Mrs Caldicot, who knew that Miss Nightingale's parents had both been dead for thirty years. `Another time, maybe?'
`And now we're going to see what Amanda has got for us this week,' said Mrs Peterborough.
`You've been such a good friend to me,' said Miss Nightingale, who had started to cry again. `No one else would ever share their tuck box but you always would.'
`We'll see each other again,' said Mrs Caldicot reassuringly. She sat down beside Miss Nightingale and put her arm around her. `In the holidays,' she added hopefully.
`I wish you didn't have to go,' sobbed Miss Nightingale. She suddenly looked confused. `What holidays?' she asked. `Are we going on holiday? To Tenby?'
`Hello! I'm Amanda!' said Mrs Peterborough, sounding like a bright and high-spirited 18-year-old. `I've been to Staffordshire to meet a man who trains women how to defend themselves against attackers! He's going to show me how to throw a fourteen stone man over my shoulder!'
Miss Nightingale stopped crying. `I've had a wonderful idea!' she said, brightly. `I'll come with you!'
Mrs Caldicot stood up, walked quickly over to the television set and switched channels.
Kitty leapt into Mrs Caldicot's open suitcase and started treadling on a couple of jumpers.
`....e.x.t.e.r.m.i.n.a.t.e...e.x.t.e.r.m.i.n.a.t.e...' said Mrs Peterborough, mimicking a Dalek on a re-run of an old Dr Who programme. `We will e.x.t.e.r.m.i.n.a.t.e. you...'
`Click!' as Mrs Caldicot switched channels.
`Have you seen my suitcase?' asked Miss Nightingale, down on her hands and knees and looking underneath her bed.
`...one move out of you and you're dead!' said Mrs Peterborough, gruffly, narrowing her eyes to guard against the desert sun and holding her right hand an inch above her gun holster.
`Click!' as Mrs Caldicot switched channels.
`I don't want to take any of my rubbish with me anyway,' said Miss Nightingale, slumping down on her bed, already weary of the search. `Where are we going?' she asked brightly.
`...the gardens on Tresco are among the most wonderful and peaceful in the world, especially at this time of the year,' said Mrs Peterborough soothingly. `Look at this wonderful example of the Sparmannia africana! I've got one at home growing in a small pot. Here they've got one that is three metres high!'
Mrs Caldicot sighed and moved away from the television set. `You can't come with me, Miss Nightingale!' she said quietly. `I'm sorry!'
Kitty miaowed in complaint as Mrs Caldicot lifted her out of the suitcase so that she could carry on with her packing.
`It's very sad,' said Miss Nightingale.
`Now we're going over to Samantha back in the studio,' said Mrs Peterborough. `She's going to show us this season's range of super new lipsticks.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mrs Caldicot fully intended to leave The Twilight Years Rest Home quietly and with dignity.
At ten o'clock the following morning she walked down the stairs of the home with her blue cardboard suitcase in her left hand and Kitty's basket in her right.
But her departure didn't go quite the way she expected.
Miss Nightingale was the first to follow her. She had wrapped herself in a pink woollen dressing gown which had tiny yellow flowers on the breast pocket, slipped into her only pair of outdoor shoes and, carrying her handbag, tip-toed down the stairs behind Mrs Caldicot. In the handbag she had carefully and thoughtfully packed her alarm clock, a roll of soft toilet paper, three humbugs and a slice of bread which she had found in her bedside locker.
Behind Miss Nightingale came Mrs Peterborough.
She too was wearing her dressing gown and a pair of outdoor shoes but she couldn't find her handbag and so, instead, she was carrying an empty metal kidney dish.
As this small and rather bizarre procession reached the bottom of the stairs Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor appeared as if from nowhere (though in truth he had been skulking in the dining room waiting to make sure that Mrs Caldicot really did leave) and stood in front of Mrs Caldicot with his arms folded across his chest.
`So!' he said, `You're leaving!'
`We are!' said Mrs Caldicot firmly.
`We?' said Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor, suddenly looking worried. `What do you mean by `we'?'
`Kitty and I,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`And me!' piped up Miss Nightingale, `I'm going with her!'
`And me!' mimicked Mrs Peterborough. `I'm going with her!'
Mrs Caldicot, who had not been aware that her two room-mates had been following her and who was startled by this new development, was speechless. Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor, seeing his income about to fall dramatically, was not. `No you're jolly well not!' he shouted angrily, and this was his downfall, for his loudly voiced anger provoked an immediate, noisy and attention-attracting response from Mrs Caldicot's acolytes.
`You can't stop us!' said Miss Nightingale, defiantly.
`You can't stop us! You jolly well can't!' shouted Mrs Peterborough, getting slightly confused but managing, nevertheless, to stay within the spirit of the conversation. Her voice carried considerably further than that of Miss Nightingale.
`Mrs Caldicot's leaving!' cried someone standing unseen above them on the staircase.
`They're leaving!' shouted someone else.
`We're all leaving!' said Miss Nightingale.
`We're all leaving!' shouted Mrs Peterborough.
`We're all leaving!' shouted a third unseen patient.
`Wait for me!' shouted a fourth. `I want to come too.'
`If Mrs Caldicot is going I'm going too,' said Mr Hewitt, rushing back to The Duchy of Cornwall Suite to collect his precious parcel of gardening tools.
`Wait for me!' cried Mr Livingstone.
Within moments The Twilight Years Rest Home was full of elderly patients rushing around in their pyjamas and their nightdresses looking for dressing gowns and shoes and handbags and suitcases and shouting to Mrs Caldicot to wait for them and shouting at Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor who was screaming at them to tell them they couldn't leave. Mrs Caldicot had become more than just a friend to all of these old people; she had become a symbol of hope. They liked her, they trusted her and they had faith in her. She was the only person in the home who had ever had the courage to stand up to Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor's bullying and they admired and respected her for that.
`Oh dear,' said Mrs Caldicot, to no one in particular. `Oh dear me.' She started to move towards the front door but the anguished cries of `Wait for me!' and `Don't go yet!' which filled the hallway and echoed up and down the staircase halted her.
`But you can't come with me,' said Mrs Caldicot to Miss Nightingale. `I don't know where I'm going!'
`I don't want to stay here by myself,' insisted Miss Nightingale.
`I don't want to stay here by myself,' echoed Mrs Peterborough.
`You can't come out into the cold dressed like that,' said Mrs Caldicot sensibly. `You'll catch your death of cold!'
`I've got a coat!' said Miss Nightingale. And with that she turned and ran back upstairs. `She said I can go with her if I put my coat on!' she shouted.
`I can go with her if I put my coat on!' shouted Mrs Peterborough gleefully following Miss Nightingale back upstairs.
`We can go with her if we put our coats on!' cried someone else, and a dozen septuagenarians and octogenarians rushed back up to their rooms to fetch their coats.
`You'll be responsible if anything happens to any of these people!' said Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor, a tiny fleck of spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth as he worked himself up into a co
nsiderable state of excitement.
`No I won't!' replied Mrs Caldicot. `They're all old enough to know what they're doing. And I didn't ask any of them to come with me.'
`I'm going to ring your son!' threatened Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor. `Let's see what he has to say about this!'
Mrs Caldicot, who regarded her son as about as threatening as the Sugar Plum Fairy, stared at Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor. The nursing home proprietor, quelled by the fierceness of Mrs Caldicot's glare, withered where he stood.
A few minutes later Mrs Caldicot, who had, if the truth be known, felt just a teeny bit alone and just a weeny, little bit afraid and uncertain when she had started her journey down the staircase towards the front door and freedom, left The Twilight Years Rest Home at the head of an untidy and straggling procession of chattering and excited escapees. The few residents who were physically incapable of leaving the building shouted encouragement from their beds and wheelchairs, and although they were sad at not being able to join the exodus they clearly shared the sense of excitement at what was going on.
Mrs Caldicot felt a strange mixture of embarrassment (not at heading such a motley crew but at being the instigator of such a momentous exodus) and pride (at having helped to liberate so many pensioners from their imprisonment) as she led her motley crew down the steps of the building. Some had managed to find their outdoor clothes and were fully dressed. Others had slipped their coats over their pyjamas and nightdresses. And a few were still dressed in their dressing gowns and slippers. Fortunately, it was neither wet nor cold.
`You can't do this!' shouted Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor to their backs. `You come back here! Don't you think for one minute that you'll get away with this! I won't let you in when you come scurrying back wanting your rooms again!'
`Goodbye, and good riddance you nasty little man!' shouted Mrs Caldicot, over her shoulder.
`Goodbye, and good riddance you nasty little man!' shouted Miss Nightingale.
`Goodbye, and good riddance you nasty little man!' echoed Mrs Peterborough.
`Goodbye, and good riddance you nasty little man!' shouted the twelve other residents who were trooping along behind them.
***
Mrs Caldicot had formulated no clear plans for the future when she'd originally decided to leave The Twilight Years Rest Home. She had rather thought that she would just call a taxi, tell the driver to take her into town and then decide what to do next over a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry in the cafeteria on the top floor of the department store in the middle of town.
But telephoning for a taxi was now clearly impractical. (`I'd like a taxi, please.' `Where to?' `Into town.' `Certainly madam, how many passengers?' `Sixteen.' This did not have the ring of a conversation that was likely to prove profitable.) Mrs Caldicot also felt that her procession might be less than welcome in the department store cafeteria. She clearly had to make more immediate plans.
Half a mile down the road from The Twilight Years Rest Home Mrs Caldicot spotted the answer: a large hotel which specialised in catering for business executives.
Unhesitatingly, she led her procession of shuffling refugees through the car park, past the rows of Fords and Vauxhalls and BMWs, and into the lobby of the Mettleham Grand Hotel. A large group of besuited sales executives, about to start a meeting to launch a new breakfast cereal, were standing around in the lobby. They stared at Mrs Caldicot's procession. `It must be a marketing gimmick!' Mrs Caldicot heard one of them murmur.
`You sit down over there and wait for me!' Mrs Caldicot said firmly to Miss Nightingale, pointing to a group of luxurious, leather armchairs and sofas which were grouped around an artificial log fire.
`You sit down over there and wait for me!' said Mrs Peterborough firmly and much more loudly. She was, thought Mrs Caldicot, a useful aide-de-camp in these unusual circumstances.
Miss Nightingale and the rest of the procession shuffled over towards the cluster of leather chairs and sofas and obediently sat down while Mrs Caldicot, closely followed by the ever faithful Mrs Peterborough, headed for the reception desk.
`Can I help you, madam?' asked a rather startled looking young man, dressed in a dark suit and silver tie. He had a small brass name plate attached to his lapel but without her reading glasses Mrs Caldicot couldn't quite see what it said.
`I'd like some rooms, please,' said Mrs Caldicot. She put her handbag down on the reception counter.
`Some rooms, please!' echoed Mrs Peterborough. She put her kidney dish down on the reception counter next to Mrs Caldicot's handbag.
`How many rooms, madam?'
`Sixteen, please,' said Mrs Caldicot. `We'd like one each. All on the same floor.' She thought it would be a nice treat for everyone to have their own room for a change. Besides she didn't want to have to spend the rest of the day trying to work out who was going to share with whom.
`Sixteen, please,' said Mrs Peterborough.
`How long would that be for, madam?' asked the man on the reception desk, looking first at Mrs Caldicot and then at Mrs Peterborough and not knowing which to look at most. He glanced over towards the rest of the group.
`I'm not sure yet,' said Mrs Caldicot. `I'll let you know later on.'
`I'll let you know,' said Mrs Peterborough.
`Would it be possible to have a reduced rate?' asked Mrs Caldicot. `Since there are so many of us.'
`I beg your pardon, madam?' said the man on the reception desk, who genuinely hadn't heard.
`A reduced rate!' shouted Mrs Peterborough. `There are so many of us!'
`Of course, madam!' said the man on the reception desk apologetically. `Just one moment, please.' He scurried off to speak to the duty manager.
`I think they may be members of some strange religious group,' he whispered to the manager. `Some of them seem to be wearing dressing gowns and nightdresses.'
`Saris perhaps?' suggested the manager, who was proud of his broadminded and non-racist attitudes. `Maybe they're ethnic people?'
`I don't think they're ethnic,' said the man from the reception desk. `But they want a reduced rate.'
`Then they must be O.K.,' said the manager. `Jolly good. Put them on the twelfth floor.'
The man returned a moment later to the reception desk and smiled at Mrs Caldicot. `No problem, madam,' he smiled. `How will you be paying, madam?' he asked.
`I'll give you a cheque when we leave,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`Cheque.' said Mrs Peterborough firmly.
The man looked over the counter and, for the first time, saw Kitty. `Is that a cat, madam?' he enquired.
`Probably,' said Mrs Caldicot. `You don't charge extra for cats do you?'
`We don't allow cats at all, madam!' said the man sternly.
`I can't see any sign that says `No Cats',' said Mrs Caldicot politely but firmly.
The receptionist pointed to a small black and white sign behind him which clearly said: `No dogs allowed'.
`Do you think this is a dog?' asked Mrs Caldicot. `Does she look like a dog to you?'
`No, madam,' said the man.
`Well, then,' said Mrs Caldicot. `That's all right, isn't it?' And she and Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough and all the rest of them went up to their rooms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was never really clear exactly who told the local television station about Mrs Caldicot's dramatic exodus from The Twilight Years Rest Home.
It was certainly not Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor.
He had spent the rest of that fateful day gloomily jabbing at his calculator with a podgy finger, trying to work out how he could possibly stay in business. Publicity was the last thing he wanted.
And it wasn't Mrs Caldicot either.
Prior to her time at The Twilight Years Rest Home she had always regarded the television set as something that was useful for standing flowers on. During her time at The Twilight Years Rest Home she had regarded the television set primarily as a sedative for Mrs Peterborough. She would have no more thought of telephoning the TV station than she would have th
ought of taking scuba diving lessons.
It could have been one of Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor's staff members, rejoicing in his discomfiture and anxious to share his discomfort with as wide an audience as possible; it may have been someone from the Mettleham Grand Hotel; or it might just have been someone who had seen Mrs Caldicot's straggling procession trooping along the roadway between The Twilight Years Rest Home and the hotel.
Anyway, it doesn't really matter who tipped off the television station. The fact is someone did and as a result that afternoon a whole television crew turned up at the Mettleham Grand Hotel and asked to speak to the leader of the group of elderly people who had booked into the hotel earlier that day.
***
By the time Mrs Caldicot had responded to the telephone call from the assistant deputy duty manager and had made her way downstairs, the camera crew had set up their equipment in the reception area and a man in the patterned sweater was re-arranging a vase of dried flowers so that they satisfied his acute sense of aesthetic perfection.
`Mrs Caldicot?' said a tall, statuesque blonde with piercing blue eyes, shoulder length hair and a smile that had persuaded politicians in all major parties to say far more than they had ever intended.
`What can I do for you?' asked Mrs Caldicot, nervously eyeing the camera crew.
`My name is Jacoranda Pettigrew. I'm a reporter from the local television station,' said the statuesque blonde, she indicated the chair that she wanted Mrs Caldicot to sit in.
`That's nice,' said Mrs Caldicot, obediently sitting down. Jacoranda, who wasn't easy to ignore or disappoint, sat down opposite her. As she settled herself down and waited for Jacoranda to speak Mrs Caldicot vividly remembered her last encounter with the media. It had been 55 years earlier. She had seen a milkman save a small girl from drowning in a local river. Despite the success of that meeting (which had resulted in her photograph appearing on page seven of her local newspaper) she was modest enough not to consider herself experienced in the matter of news interviews. She felt a frisson of uncertainty running up and down her spine.
Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War Page 8