`Will you talk to me for the camera?' asked Jacoranda, turning up her smile a couple of hundred watts.
`What on earth about?' asked Mrs Caldicot, guardedly.
`About where you and your friends have come from and what you're planning to do now,' replied Jacoranda, softly. `I know our viewers will be enthralled to hear what you have to say.' She could hear the sound engineer and the cameraman behind her adjusting their equipment and getting ready to start recording.
`Well, I don't know...' said Mrs Caldicot, uncertainly. `I've never done anything like this before.'
`You'll find that the sort of sympathetic publicity we can provide you with will be bound to help your cause,' said Jacoranda.
Mrs Caldicot, who hadn't really thought of herself as having a cause, couldn't help feeling that if she did turn out to have a cause then Jacoranda might well have a point. Anyway, she thought, surely the fact that she had never done anything like it before was a good reason for doing it now.
`O.K.,' she said, almost defiantly.
`That's wonderful!' murmured Jacoranda, patting Mrs Caldicot on the knee with a gesture which had in the past proved wonderfully effective when applied to the legs of middle aged men in grey suits. `Shall we start?' She turned and winked at the man in the patterned sweater who smiled back nervously and waved a hand telling the rest of the crew to start filming.
`Don't we have to rehearse?' asked Mrs Caldicot uncertainly.
`Not with you,' said Jacoranda, giving Mrs Caldicot another blast of her most dazzling smile. `I just know you're going to be absolutely wonderful!' She glanced briefly over her shoulder to make sure that the camera was running and then she asked her first question.
`Mrs Caldicot,' she said, `you arrived at the Mettleham Grand Hotel today at the head of a demonstration. Where did you come from?'
`I don't really know that you'd call it a demonstration,' said Mrs Caldicot. `But we've all come from `The Twilight Years Rest Home.'
`And you marched all the way here to protest?'
`I suppose it was more of a mass escape than a protest,' laughed Mrs Caldicot.
`Was that why so many of your fellow demonstrators were still in their dressing gowns and nightwear?'
`I suppose so,' nodded Mrs Caldicot. `We did come away in something of a hurry.'
`And why did you feel that you had to escape from The Twilight Years Rest Home?' asked Jacoranda.
`Well basically it was about Kitty,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`Kitty?' interrupted Jacoranda. `Is Kitty another of the demonstrators?'
`No. Kitty is my cat. Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor who runs the rest home said she couldn't stay and I thought she'd probably be taken to the vet's and put down so I decided to leave.'
`And all the other residents felt so strongly about it that they walked out in protest too?'
`I suppose that's right,' said Mrs Caldicot, who thought that if she tried to explain about Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough the whole story might get too complicated. `Though I must admit that wasn't the start of it all,' she continued. `The trouble really began with the cabbage.'
`Tell me about the cabbage,' said Jacoranda, who knew already that this interview was going to be a winner. There was, she felt, something about Mrs Caldicot which would appeal to the ordinary viewer.
`Well, they used to give us horrible, smelly cabbage,' said Mrs Caldicot. `But Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor - he's the proprietor - got cross when I didn't want to eat it.'
Jacoranda, realising that she now had a wonderful story with which to end the evening news programme, leant forward. `So,' she said, momentarily inspired, `this is really a war about cabbage that you're fighting!'
`I suppose it is,' agreed Mrs Caldicot uncertainly.
`Have you had to leave any of your friends behind?' asked Jacoranda, her voice full of sadness.
`Well, yes,' said Mrs Caldicot. `The ones who were bedbound or stuck in wheelchairs couldn't come with us.'
`Thank you, Mrs Caldicot,' said Jacoranda. She turned round to face the camera. `This is Jacoranda Bartholomew with Mrs Caldicot, safely escaped from the cabbage wars at The Twilight Years Rest Home and now staying in a secret hideout, preparing to fight to help her friends join her in freedom.'
`Cut! Cut!' said the man in the patterned sweater, waving his arms about and looking very excited. He rushed over to the two of them. `Jacoranda, darling that was marvellous!' he said, giving the air next to her cheek a tremendous kiss. `Absolutely marvellous!' He turned to Mrs Caldicot. `We must have a few pictures of you and Kitty,' he said, clapping his hands together and looking coy. `And I want all your lovely friends to come down here into the lobby in their nightdresses and pyjamas and dressing gowns and whatnots!' He clapped his hands gleefully, like a small boy who has been told that he can play with the matches. `Oh this is such a lovely story!' he said. `Such a lovely story!'
The film crew spent the next thirty minutes shooting pictures of Mrs Caldicot with Kitty on her lap and with Kitty sitting beside her on the sofa. Then when they'd done that they spent another hour taking pictures of Mrs Caldicot, Miss Nightingale, Mrs Peterborough and all the rest of the escapees walking down the driveway to the hotel and then walking in through the lobby and filling both the lifts.
`Oh what a lovely story!' said the man in the patterned sweater when he had finished. He gave the air next to Mrs Caldicot's cheek a big kiss. `You're an absolute natural, darling!' he said. `Absolute natural, isn't she Jacoranda sweetheart?'
`Absolute natural,' agreed Jacoranda, giving the fortunate Mrs Caldicot a final chance to admire two neat and symmetrical rows of perfectly capped teeth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
`Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage Wars', as they quickly became known, immediately caught the public's imagination. Jacoranda Pettigrew's interview with Mrs Caldicot and the rest of The Twilight Years Rest Home refugees appeared on all that evening's news bulletins.
Within an hour of the first news programme finishing there was a queue of reporters from newspapers, magazines and radio stations waiting to talk to the woman who had led what one commentator had instantly and memorably called Britain's first `grey' revolution.
A man in a dark pinstripe suit who said he was from The Sun, a popular tabloid newspaper with a massive circulation, wanted to know Mrs Caldicot's twenty favourite non-cabbage recipes. A journalist in jeans and a sports jacket who wore his black hair slicked straight back and said he was from The Times wanted to know whether Mrs Caldicot thought that the use of cabbage was a socially divisive feature which only affected the economically deprived and was therefore a consequence of the advertising industry's obsession with youth. A girl in her early twenties who said that she was from The Daily Mirror, another tabloid newspaper, wanted to know whether or not Mrs Caldicot agreed that cabbage contained a variety of vitamins and minerals and was an excellent source of fibre. A lady feature writer who arrived dressed in a light grey suit and an Ascot hat and said she was from the Daily Mail wanted to know if Mrs Caldicot thought that her protest heralded the beginning of a major revolution among pensioners. A journalist in corduroy trousers and a jacket with leather patches on the elbows who said he was from a liberal newspaper called The Guardian was quite indignant about Mrs Caldicot's protest and wanted to know if Mrs Caldicot realised that according to his estimates the amount of cabbage wasted every day in British rest homes would feed the starving inhabitants of Somalia for a week. A girl journalist in a miniskirt and a baggy sweater who announced that she was from The Independent asked Mrs Caldicot whether she thought that the real blame for the problem lay with the farmers or the Economic Community's Common Agricultural Policy. A journalist in evening dress who apologetically explained that he had come from a dinner engagement and said he was from the Financial Times wanted to know if Mrs Caldicot realised that by her action she had threatened a major British industry. And a journalist in a grubby mackintosh from the Daily Sport wanted to know if Mrs Caldicot had any granddaughters who would be prepared to be photographed without any clo
thes on. A reporter from the local paper wanted to know how Mrs Caldicot's age, how long she had lived in the area and the names and addresses of all her relatives.
All of these reporters arrived with their own photographers in tow and Mrs Caldicot rapidly grew tired of posing either with Kitty or with Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough.
But, despite all this press interest, it was undoubtedly the call from the researcher asking if Mrs Caldicot would appear on the Mike Trickle Television Chat Show the following evening which promised to turn her into a real celebrity. The appearance on the Mike Trickle Television Chat Show was, however, still twenty four hours away and Mrs Caldicot had other more immediately pressing problems to face.
***
At half past ten that evening, having watched herself on television for the third time and having dealt with all the reporters, Mrs Caldicot decided that she would pop in to see what the others thought of it all, and to check that they were all safely tucked up for the night.
Miss Nightingale hadn't seen the programme because she hadn't yet bothered to turn on her television set. She had, however, discovered the joys of room service and every flat surface in the room held a tray which was positively groaning with expensive looking delicacies.
`Look!' said Miss Nightingale, who had been unable to hide a temporary look of disappointment when she had opened the door to her room to find Mrs Caldicot instead of a waiter standing there, was soon excitedly taking Mrs Caldicot on a tour of her collection of delicacies.
There were: scrambled eggs on toast, a pot of Earl Grey tea with lemon, buttered crumpets and toast set on trays on top of the low coffee table in front of the sofa; fresh scones served with dairy cream and strawberry jam on a bedside table; egg and cress sandwiches, a bottle of claret with two glasses, chicken salad sandwiches, a pot of fresh coffee and a fresh melon on the writing table; thinly sliced fresh salmon with brown bread, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and pancakes with lemon and sugar on top of the television set; boiled eggs with fingers of toast, a double whisky, battered scampi and vegetable soup with croutons on trays on the bed; and a plateful of Danish pastries, a bottle of Taylor's vintage port, a dish of garlic bread and a plateful of spaghetti bolognaise on trays beside the sink in the bathroom.
`What on earth have you been doing?' asked Mrs Caldicot, horrified, when she all the food and drink that Miss Nightingale had ordered. Before Miss Nightingale could answer there was a loud knock on the bedroom door. Miss Nightingale hurried to answer it and moments later admitted a tall young man in a white coat who walked into the room carrying a large tray which he put down onto the bed next to the trays carrying the boiled eggs, the whisky, the scampi and the soup. He smiled broadly at Miss Nightingale and handed her a pad to sign. Then he thanked her, bowed very slightly and let himself out.
`Isn't it wonderful?' asked Miss Nightingale, excitedly, when he had gone. `I just pick up the telephone and tell them what they want and then POOF, like magic...' she waved her hands to indicate how easy it was to make the food appear.
`But all this food will cost a fortune!' protested Mrs Caldicot, looking around in horror.
`It doesn't cost anything!' insisted Miss Nightingale. `I didn't have to give them any money at all!' She leant forwards confidentially, `The young men bring it because they like me,' she whispered, `I think I must be famous because they all want my autograph!' She stopped and thought. `I don't remember why I'm famous,' she added. For a brief moment she looked thoughtful and slightly puzzled but this sign of confusion soon passed and was replaced by a smile.
Miss Nightingale was so excited by it all that Mrs Caldicot didn't have the heart to tell her off, or even to tell her that she mustn't order any more food from room service. As Mrs Caldicot left, Miss Nightingale picked up the telephone again and, using the extensive room service menu, began ordering a fresh seafood platter with brown bread and butter and a side order of French fries.
Mrs Peterborough in the room next door had not yet discovered the joys of room service but she had found out how to operate the television set.
After she had let Mrs Caldicot in, she rushed back into her room and sat down on the floor about two feet away from the set. She then had an increasingly agitated time as she watched a series of advertisements. (Mrs Caldicot usually switched over when the advertisements came on because she knew that their brevity and content confused Mrs Peterborough enormously. She had once watched her friend collapse in despair as she struggled to adopt the personality of a talking lavatory seat).
`I wouldn't swap my one packet of New Dazzle washing powder for two packets of my old powder,' said a pretty young actress, hugging a box of New Dazzle soap powder to her chest as though it were an expensive string of pearls.
`I wouldn't swap my one packet of New Dazzle washing powder,' promised Mrs Peterborough, hugging an imaginary box of soap powder to her chest. `I wouldn't!' she insisted. `No I wouldn't!' She looked across at Mrs Caldicot. `I wouldn't!' she promised.
`I know you wouldn't,' said Mrs Caldicot softly.
`You'll get a home not a house when you buy from Sherlock Homes!' said a fat man in a tightly fitting grey suit, holding his arms out wide. He was standing in the middle of a small, brand new housing estate and looking up at the camera which was clearly being operated from a helicopter high overhead. `And don't forget,' he shouted, as the helicopter hurtled skywards, `free carpets, free curtains and the best mortgage rate you can find!'
`A home not a house! Free carpets, free curtains and the best mortgage rate!' shouted Mrs Peterborough, struggling to match his enthusiasm. `The best mortgage rate you can find!' she cried, clearly overtaken by the excitement of it all. She peered at the television set, apparently looking for the salesman.
But he'd gone.
`I hate new Germ-o-blast,' muttered an evil sounding, slimy looking cartoon germ. The germ scowled as a woman carrying a plastic bottle of disinfectant approached. `Grrrrr!' said the germ, trying to hide under the rim of a lavatory bowl.
Mrs Peterborough shuddered in distaste. `I hate new Germ-o-blast!' she said, screwing up her mouth as though she'd been sucking a lemon. `Grrrrr!'
The woman took the top off her bottle and squirted a few ounces into the lavatory bowl.
`Aaaaargh!' screamed the cartoon germ. `This is the end for me!'
Mrs Peterborough screamed too and held her hands up to her face in horror.
Mrs Caldicot leant forward and switched to another channel. A beautiful young couple were making love in a wood.
`Oh, darling!' said the girl.
`Darling!' said the man.
`Oh, darling!' said Mrs Peterborough, the agony of a moment ago now forgotten and replaced by a look of tenderness and affection.
Mrs Caldicot tiptoed out of the room and left the three of them to enjoy their romance. She couldn't help wishing for just a moment that she could forget her worries and her sorrows as easily as Mrs Peterborough could.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
`Here comes Mike,' murmured Sally, the researcher, to Mrs Caldicot. They were sitting together in the rather grubby waiting room which the receptionist had rather grandly and misleadingly referred to as `The Green Room'. A scattered jumble of stiffening sandwiches were strewn over two large plates on a low table in the centre of the room and a coffee percolator spluttered and hissed on a metal trolley. A huge television set dominated the room.
The name of the room was misleading for the walls were painted blue, the furniture was brown and although the carpet was heavily patterned there was no green to be seen in it anywhere. The only thing in the room that was green was a modern, plastic telephone on a small wooden table by the door. It was, thought Mrs Caldicot, rather strange to name a room after the colour of a telephone. `Don't be nervous!' added Sally, a pretty young thing in her early twenties. She wore a pale lilac skirt and a white blouse, carried a huge sheaf of notes in a large cardboard folder and seemed desperately in need of her own advice. Mrs Caldicot thought Sally was probably
the most nervous person she had ever met. `He's awfully nice!' Sally whispered with a shiver. Mrs Caldicot, who had been collected from the Mettleham Grand Hotel by taxi and told that she had to arrive at the studios three hours before `The Mike Trickle Chat Show' was due to start, was now very, very bored. She was fed up with talking to the researcher. Sally seemed to think that Mrs Caldicot was interested only in talking about nursing homes or listening to her boring anecdotes about the old people she had known. She was fed up with watching the endless stream of cameramen, soundmen and production assistants sneaking into the room to steal the sandwiches (a packet of chocolate biscuits which a white-coated canteen assistant had brought with the sandwiches had been broken into and distributed amongst the technicians within seconds of their arrival), and she was very fed up with watching the endless rehearsals for the evening's programme.
`Mike,' said Sally, clearly impressed by the presence of the great man and assuming that Mrs Caldicot would be too, `this is Mrs Caldicot.' She didn't do the introduction the other way round, clearly assuming that Mrs Caldicot would know who Mike Trickle was.
This was, of course, true for although Mrs Caldicot had never heard of Mike Trickle before the previous evening she had watched him carefully rehearsing his ad-libs for the worst part of three hours. Nevertheless, she could hardly believe that this was the same person.
The Mike Trickle whom she had been watching on the television had seemed urbane, relaxed, witty and handsome. But this Mike Trickle, the real one, was nervous and clearly agitated. He looked bad tempered and his smooth, healthy, slightly suntanned complexion had clearly come out of a jar; a very large jar thought Mrs Caldicot looking at the thick layer of cream which covered the TV star's cheeks and forehead. He was much shorter than he looked on the television screen and he had the worst case of halitosis that Mrs Caldicot had ever encountered. It was his hair which Mrs Caldicot found herself most fascinated by. The hair which had looked healthy and natural on the television screen now looked as healthy and as natural as a scouring pad. A new scouring pad, but nevertheless a scouring pad.
Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War Page 9