Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War

by Vernon Coleman

  Mrs Caldicot, sitting next to Peter on a hideous and uncomfortably soft pink sofa, smiled and thanked him very much.

  `Before we go any further,' said the presenter, smiling, `I want to make it quite clear that this is all my own!' He reached up and lightly patted his neatly coiffed hair. The girl from the make-up department who had spent twenty minutes washing, combing, cutting and applying several layers of lacquer to his locks blanched off camera and relaxed only when his hand moved away. He turned and winked at the camera as the producer and he had agreed he would.

  `That's nice,' said Mrs Caldicot, who instinctively felt that she didn't like Peter very much.

  `We tried to get Mike Trickle to come onto the programme with you,' said Peter the presenter. `But his agent told us that he's resting and our contact at `The Mike Trickle Chat Show' tells us that Jack Burgess, Mike's stand in, will be taking over the show for a while.'

  He spoke of their `contact' as though getting information from `The Mike Trickle Chat Show' was more difficult than getting information out of MI5, which, indeed, it quite probably was.

  `Oh, dear,' said Mrs Caldicot. `How sad. I do hope Mr Trickle isn't too poorly.'

  `Just a badly dented pride, I suspect,' sniggered the breakfast presenter. Mrs Caldicot decided that she didn't like Peter at all. He picked up his notes. `Now, tell me, Mrs Caldicot,' he said, `did you decide before you went onto the programme what you were going to say to Mike?' Peter leant forwards, as though speaking confidentially, `Did someone put you up to it?' he asked.

  Mrs Caldicot felt and looked puzzled. `How could I decide beforehand what I was going to say?' she asked. `I didn't know what he was going to say!'

  `And no one else put you up to it?'

  `Of course not!' said Mrs Caldicot, rather indignantly. `Why would they?' She wondered if television people always asked their guests such impertinent questions. Asking if she had allowed herself to be told what to say by someone else suggested that she didn't have a mind of her own. Still, she thought, maybe people on television programmes were always supposed to be rude to one another. She decided that she wasn't going to be rude, however. She thought that she would ask a perfectly innocuous question to try to change the topic. She leant across the sofa, `Excuse me for asking,' she said, `but is that a deaf aid you're wearing or is it true that you wear it so that other people can tell you what to say and what to do?' She pointed towards the ear piece that the presenter was wearing.

  `No, no!' laughed the presenter, automatically fingering his ear piece. `That's just so that the director can talk to me.'

  `While you're talking to me?'

  `Yes!' replied Peter, looking down at his list of questions to try to find his place.

  `Isn't that rather rude?' asked Mrs Caldicot. `Him whispering to you while you're talking to me? If I wore one of those and I had people talking to me you'd think me rather odd wouldn't you?'

  `He doesn't talk to me all the time,' said the presenter, rather defensively. `Just if there's something he wants me to ask you.'

  `Find the hedgehog man!' shouted the director in the control room to his assistant.

  Mrs Caldicot frowned. `Can't you think of your own questions?'

  The presenter fingered his earpiece very nervously. `Yes, of course I can!' he laughed.

  `Well, doesn't the director trust you then?' asked Mrs Caldicot.

  Peter swallowed and then cleared his throat. `I'm sure he does,' he said. He turned to the camera and smiled, a favourite and usually successful trick of his. He always used it when things weren't going well. But this time it was a thin, rather wan smile and the discomfort showed through. The director said something to Peter but he didn't catch it and so he pressed on his ear piece with the forefinger of his right hand.

  `Can't see the hedgehog man anywhere,' hissed the floor manager into his two way radio. Susie who was listening to this conversation on her ear piece looked around her, desperately searching for someone she could talk to about tightrope walking hedgehogs.

  `Is he talking to you now?' asked Mrs Caldicot.

  `Er...yes,' said the presenter, still struggling to hear what was being said to him.

  `Ask the silly old bag what she and the other daft beggars are going to do next?' shouted the director. `Ask her where they're going!'

  `What's he saying?' persisted Mrs Caldicot.

  `Er...he wants me to ask you what you and your fellow escapees are going to do next?' The presenter was now sweating profusely and hoping desperately that he wasn't shaking visibly.

  `Then why doesn't he come into the studio and ask me himself?' asked Mrs Caldicot. `Why does he have to ask you to ask me?'

  The presenter, now entirely defeated, just shrugged.

  `This television business all seems very silly to me,' said Mrs Caldicot, firmly.

  The director, deciding to abandon Peter and to give up on the man with the clever hedgehog, was also sweating profusely. He screamed urgent instructions at the resident cook who, caught completely unawares, threw her furtive and completely illicit cigarette down onto the floor, turned to her nearest camera and smiled broadly. `Welcome, to Cook's Corner,' she read from the autocue, `this morning I'm going to show you how to boil an egg and make toast soldiers!'

  Twenty seconds later, as one researcher hurried Mrs Caldicot out of the studio and a second struggled to compose the shattered presenter on the pink sofa and a third gave Susie, who was having an attack of wheezing, a glass of water, the smouldering cigarette abandoned by the cook triggered the sprinkler system and the whole studio was turned into a gigantic and very expensive shower room.

  The director replaced the rest of the programme with cartoons and then got onto the telephone immediately to ask his agent to see if the job making corporate videos was still available.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mrs Caldicot was becoming a real celebrity. It seemed that everyone in the world wanted to take photographs of her or to interview her. Mrs Caldicot, however, had other, more important things on her mind.

  It was comforting to know that the breakfast television company had agreed to pay the hotel bill but Mrs Caldicot still had no idea what she and her friends were going to do next.

  She had just got back to the Mettleham Grand Hotel and was about to set off to catch the bus into the town to try to find somewhere cheaper for them all to stay when the telephone in her room started to ring. She picked it up reluctantly, half expecting to find a reporter on the other end. But it wasn't a reporter, it was one of the hotel receptionists.

  `I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs Caldicot,' said the receptionist respectfully. `But I've got a man here who says he's your son.'

  `Derek?' said Mrs Caldicot, questioningly.

  She heard the receptionist repeat the name to someone. There was a brief pause. `Yes, that's right,' said the receptionist, a moment later. `He's here with a lady and a young man.'

  `That'll be Derek,' sighed Mrs Caldicot. `Tell him I'm coming down and I'll meet him in the lobby.'

  ***

  `Really, mother, I don't know what to say!' said Derek.

  The four of them were sitting together in a corner of the lounge and Mrs Caldicot ordered a pot of tea for three and a cola drink. Jason was reading a computer magazine, listening to tinny noises on his headphones and surreptitiously squeezing a spot. `I have never been so embarrassed in the whole of my life,' Derek continued.

  `I've always been a great fan of Mike Trickle's,' said Veronica. She spoke quietly as though frightened that someone might overhear. She was wearing a bright yellow trouser suit and lime green shoes. `How could you do that to him?'

  `We put a lot of effort into finding you a really nice home,' said Derek. `A lot of effort.'

  `And this is how you repay us!' said Veronica. `That poor Mr Trickle. They say he's had a nervous breakdown! I'll never forgive you if that quiz programme of his doesn't come back.'

  `No you didn't!' said Mrs Caldicot, speaking to her son. `The Twilight Years Rest Home was th
e only place we visited!'

  `Now, please, mother!' said Derek, wearily. `I don't know what's got into you recently. Don't start arguing and being clever with me. The Twilight Years Rest Home is a very widely respected institution and Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor does a splendid job.'

  `No it's not,' said Mrs Caldicot firmly. `It's a terrible place and Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor is a tyrant.'

  An elderly couple who had been standing a few yards away staring wandered over and stopped next to Mrs Caldicot. The man coughed.

  `Yes?' said Veronica, rather shortly. `Can we help you?'

  `Are you Mrs Caldicot?' asked the man, speaking to Mrs Caldicot.

  Mrs Caldicot said she was.

  `Can I just shake your hand,' said the man. `I think you've taken a magnificent stand! I want to congratulate you and to wish you all the very best in your fight.' He held his hand out tentatively. Mrs Caldicot took it and shook it. The man beamed with delight. `We have no one else to fight for us,' he said quietly.

  `We saw you on the television this morning,' said the woman. `You were marvellous.' Mrs Caldicot shook her hand too.

  `That's very kind of you,' said Mrs Caldicot, who was rather overwhelmed by it all.

  The elderly couple smiled a lot and backed away as though leaving the presence of royalty.

  `You were on again this morning?' hissed Veronica, leaning forward in her chair and scowling at Mrs Caldicot.

  `Yes.'

  `Which programme?'

  `I was on one of those breakfast programmes,' said Mrs Caldicot. `I can't remember which one. I never watch any of them.'

  `Well I just hope you were better behaved this time,' said Veronica, leaning back and clasping her hands in her lap as though to say that she knew very well that Mrs Caldicot would not have behaved any better at all. `This can't go on, mother,' said Derek, very firmly. `You're making yourself a laughing stock.'

  `Not to mention us,' added Veronica. `Though I don't suppose you think of us.'

  `And how on earth are you expecting to pay for this hotel?' asked Derek.

  `I'm glad you've got the money,' said Veronica, sarcastically. She looked around. `I'm sure that Derek and I wouldn't be able to afford to stay here.'

  Just then the waiter returned with a tray. He put it down on the table in front of Mrs Caldicot. `Is that all, Mrs Caldicot?' he asked.

  Mrs Caldicot smiled at him. `Thank you, yes,' she said. She took the proffered pen and bar statement and signed the latter with the former.

  `Excuse me,' said a woman of about thirty five who had appeared as if from nowhere. `I'm sorry to bother you,' she apologised, `but could my daughters have your autograph? They saw you on the television.' Her two daughters, aged about nine or ten, appeared shyly from behind her back.

  `Well,' said Mrs Caldicot, embarrassed. `I don't know...'

  `Oh, please do,' said the woman. `I know it must be inconvenient being asked for your autograph all the time...'

  `Have you got a piece of paper?' asked Mrs Caldicot.

  The woman offered Mrs Caldicot a piece of Mettleham Grand Hotel stationery which she had obviously picked up from one of the writing tables.

  `Do you have a pen?' asked Mrs Caldicot.

  The woman rummaged in her handbag and handed Mrs Caldicot a pen. Mrs Caldicot put the notepaper down on the table, signed her name twice, once for each daughter, and then handed the notepaper and the pen back to the woman.

  `Oh thank you!' said the woman, examining the signatures. She hurried her two daughters away.

  `Well! Really!' said Veronica. `I've never seen anything like it! Behaving like a film star!' she turned to her husband. `Are you going to say anything to her?' she asked him.

  `It's got to stop, mother,' said Derek. `I think we'd better take you back to The Twilight Years Rest Home.' He paused. `If you apologise I'm sure that Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor will take you back.'

  Mrs Caldicot stared at him in astonishment. `Why on earth should I apologise?' she asked him, genuinely puzzled.

  `Come on now, mother,' sighed Derek, as though running out of patience, `you've said some terrible things about him.'

  `I've only told the truth,' protested Mrs Caldicot, wondering why honesty, which she had always thought of as a virtue, had suddenly come to be regarded as a sin. `Why on earth is everyone so frightened of the truth?'

  `I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs Caldicot,' said one of the assistant managers, quietly. None of them had seen him creep up to where they were sitting. `But I've got someone from one of the Sunday newspapers on the telephone for you. I told him that you were in a meeting but he said it was very important and quite urgent.'

  `Did he say what it was about?' Mrs Caldicot asked him.

  The assistant manager shook his head. `No, madam,' he said, `but he did ask me to make it clear to you that what he had to say to you would be to your advantage.' He smiled.

  `All right,' said Mrs Caldicot, `Thank you.' She stood up. `Excuse me for a moment,' she said to Derek and Veronica. `Help yourself to tea,' she said, nodding towards the tray. `I'll be back in just a minute.'

  ***

  `Is that Mrs Caldicot?' asked a gruff voice on the telephone. The voice had a faint Welsh lilt to it.

  Mrs Caldicot confirmed that he was, indeed, speaking to Mrs Caldicot.

  `My name is Jenkins,' said the gruff voice with the Welsh lilt. `I work for the Sunday Journal. I want to make you famous and give you lots of money.'

  `I beg your pardon?' laughed Mrs Caldicot.

  `Really!' said Jenkins. `I want to make you rich and famous.'

  `Why on earth would you want to do that?'

  `My editor saw you on the Mike Trickle Show yesterday evening and again on the breakfast programme this morning. He loved you. He wants us to run your life story in the paper.'

  Mrs Caldicot laughed out loud.

  `I'm serious,' said Jenkins. `What my editor wants he gets.'

  `I don't think I want my life story in any paper,' protested Mrs Caldicot. `I don't think I want to be famous.'

  `Well you may not be able to have your wish,' said Jenkins. `If you won't cooperate with us I know what my editor will do.'

  `What?' asked Mrs Caldicot, slightly alarmed now. Although she was not a regular reader of the Sunday Journal she had seen it occasionally lining drawers and wrapped around chips. The newspaper had a reputation for publishing stories which the people involved didn't usually want printing.

  `He'll tell me to put a couple of reporters onto your story and to dig out what we can,' said Jenkins. `There are two advantages to you if you cooperate with us. First, you get to tell us what you want us to print. And second we give you money.'

  It did sound convincing and Mrs Caldicot certainly did need the money. `How much money?' she asked.

  `We'll talk about that over lunch,' said Jenkins, very businesslike. `I'll meet you at one o'clock in the restaurant at your hotel. I've booked a table in my name. O.K.?'

  `I suppose so,' agreed Mrs Caldicot, rather bowled over by it all.

  ***

  `What was all that about?' demanded Derek, when his mother returned from the telephone. He put down his tea cup.

  `It was a man from the Sunday Journal,' explained Mrs Caldicot. `They want to publish my life story.' She picked up the teapot and poured herself a cup of tea.

  `Oh my God!' said Veronica. `Oh my God! The Sunday Journal.' She looked around as though already expecting the strangers passing by to be staring at her.

  `Wow!' said Jason, looking up and speaking. It had been so long since he had spoken that Mrs Caldicot did not recognise his voice. `The Sunday Journal!' he said.

  `Shut up, Jason!' snapped Veronica.

  Jason shut up and went back to his magazine. Mrs Caldicot was impressed by his hearing acuity for throughout this short exchange Jason had continued to listen to the tinny noise emanating from his closely fitting headphones.

  `I hope you said `no', mother!' said Derek.

  `I didn't,' said Mrs Caldicot, sipping at her tea
. `I'm having lunch with a man called Mr Jenkins and I'm going to listen to what he has to say.'

  `Tell her, Derek!' said Veronica firmly. `Tell her that unless she stops all this nonsense straight away...' She paused, searching in vain for a threat with which to complete the sentence.

  `Tell me what?' said Mrs Caldicot.

  `We won't have anything more to do with you!' said Veronica, defiantly. `We'll disown you. Tell her Derek.'

  `You're being very selfish, mother,' whined Derek. `I've got a reputation to uphold. You're not making it easy for me.'

  `I'm sorry if I'm an embarrassment to you,' said Mrs Caldicot, standing up. And then she walked briskly away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was still not ten o'clock when Mrs Caldicot got back to her room. She had three hours before she was due to have lunch with Mr Jenkins from the Sunday Journal. Searching for something to read she idly picked up a red plastic folder containing menus and details of the facilities that the Mettleham Grand Hotel had to offer. When she saw that the hotel had its own swimming pool and Sports and Leisure Complex she decided to see whether Miss Nightingale, Mrs Peterborough and the others wanted to try it out. Support for this unplanned excursion into fitness training was unanimous and fifteen minutes later a slightly apprehensive Mrs Caldicot, whose only previous practical experience of sport had been thirty minutes on a council owned grass tennis court some fifty five years previously, led a straggly, and rather untidy looking procession down the stairs and into the hotel Sports and Leisure Complex.

  The swimming pool and gym area were empty, as they usually were in mid-morning, except for two middle aged women. Both were hoping to lose unwanted lumps and wrinkles, accumulated in thirty years of dissolute and lazy living, in as many minutes. Massaged, soothed, pampered and oiled they were now recovering from their exhausting ordeal and relaxing on reclining chairs by the side of the pool. Their husbands were busy upstairs in a meeting room on the first floor. They were trying to persuade the owner of a local supermarket chain to hire their agency's advertising and promotional skills.