The manager of the Sports and Leisure Complex, a plump woman of uncertain years who wore a white nylon coat, a white plastic name badge carrying both her title and her name, too much make-up and so much hair spray that if she had for some inexplicable reason decided to carry a pitcher of water on her head the bottom of the pitcher would have rested a good six inches from her skull, and who had been given the job because she evoked a feeling of empathy among the customers, paled when she saw Mrs Caldicot's army advancing towards her. Never before had she seen so many liver spots in the Sports and Leisure Complex. Her three slender, teenage assistants, all fully trained beauty therapists (boasting nearly seven months practical experience between them), lined up alongside her and wondered, not for the first time, whether they would not have been better advised to do the college course in dental hygiene.
`Can I help you, madam?' the manageress asked Mrs Caldicot, with slightly forced civility, wondering for just the briefest of suspicious moments whether or not she was playing unwilling hostess to an errant coach party.
`We would like to take advantage of your facilities, Mrs Townsend,' smiled Mrs Caldicot, leaning forward ten degrees and reading the manageress's name badge.
`Are you all staying in the hotel, madam?'
Mrs Caldicot confirmed that they were, indeed, all bona fide residents and, as such, entitled to enjoy the wholesome and uplifting facilities of the Sports and Leisure Complex.
The manageress lowered her eyes and her voice and leant forwards a degree or two. `Are all your...er...party...physically fit enough, do you think?' she asked, rather nervously.
`Oh, I think so,' smiled Mrs Caldicot. She looked around and noticed with a shimmer of apprehension that Mr Hewitt had unfastened the cord around his dressing gown and was clearly preparing to dive into the pool. Her apprehension was inspired by the knowledge that Mr Hewitt was almost certainly not the owner of any suitable swimwear. Her fear was fully justified when, a brief moment later, the dressing gown fell to the floor and Mr Hewitt's bony frame was revealed, guarded against accusations of indecency by nothing more substantial than a pair of grey and slightly moth-eaten underpants, the elasticated waistband of which had long since passed through `slack', gone past `baggy' and ventured into territory which could only be described as `unsafe'. She glanced towards the two reclining wives and noticed with some relief that in both cases their vision was substantially impeded by the presence of slices of cucumber. Mr Hewitt, uncluttered by such unnecessary emotional baggage as embarrassment, leapt gaily into the water and disappeared. When he reappeared a few moments later, spluttering and spitting, he announced amidst great gasps for breath that he could not swim. His audience froze in horror; fear and uncertainty turning them all into statues.
`Only joking!' cried Mr Hewitt a heart stopping moment later, wiping the water away from his eyes and splashing about in a determined and surprisingly athletic way.
Inspired by the fun his friend was clearly having Mr Livingstone unfastened his dressing gown and then realised, just in time, that he was still wearing his pyjamas. He walked over to where Mrs Caldicot was standing and whispered to her. `I haven't got any trunks!' he said.
Mrs Caldicot turned to the manageress. `Do you have any swimwear for sale?'
`Oh, yes, madam!' said the manageress. `We have a boutique.' She made this pronouncement with a considerable amount of pride, as though it were an exceptional facility for a Sports and Leisure Complex to boast; much in the same way, thought Mrs Caldicot, that she might have announced that the complex was equipped with a neutron particle accelerator or a planetarium. While Mr Hewitt happily splashed and spluttered his way from one end of the pool to the other Mr Livingstone, Mrs Caldicot, Miss Nightingale, Mrs Peterborough and the rest of the exiles went off in search of the boutique. During the next ten minutes they emerged in turn from the changing room dressed in the latest and most colourful swimwear.
`Put it all on my bill,' murmured Mrs Caldicot to the boutique assistant, a pretty but rather moody and sour faced girl who had fallen out with her boyfriend the night before, with the comforting knowledge that since she didn't have enough money to pay the bill that she already owed the Mettleham Grand Hotel the extra debt she was accumulating was of little real significance. She could never before remember feeling quite so liberated as far as money was concerned. Mr Caldicot had always been extraordinarily strict about financial matters, and as a lifelong supporter of the Micawber principle had always forbidden Mrs Caldicot to spend anything she didn't have in her purse. He had believed that money was to be savoured rather than spent but Mrs Caldicot was slowly discovering that whatever people may say about money not buying happiness money can be used to buy things, experiences and time - all of which can lead directly to happiness.
Having dipped a timid toe in the swimming pool water and deemed it too chilly for her taste Mrs Caldicot, proudly encircled by a colourful creation in a figure hugging fabric which revealed every curve and fold of her figure, headed for the massage tables. Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough followed her.
The hour which followed was almost certainly the most relaxing, most peaceful and most rewarding that Mrs Caldicot had ever enjoyed. She lay for what seemed an eternity on a comfortable couch while a pair of young hands gently kneaded and calmed her muscles. She bathed in oils of lavender and orange and she relaxed in the soothing warmth of the sauna.
She emerged onto the area around the pool feeling like a new, revitalised woman and she heard a strange noise coming from within herself as she watched Mr Hewitt and Mr Livingstone fill the jacuzzi with the foam from tiny bottles which they had smuggled down from their bathrooms. She couldn't remember ever hearing herself make the sound before and it took her a few moments to realise that it was a giggle.
She was giggling like a happy schoolgirl.
All around her the refugees from The Twilight Years Rest Home were resting, relaxing or enjoying themselves. Mrs Caldicot could never remember seeing them enjoy themselves so much. It gave her a warm feeling inside.
The magic of the moment was broken by what sounded like an argument developing. Mrs Caldicot turned around and saw that Mrs Townsend, the Sports and Leisure Complex manageress, had become embroiled in an inescapable and unwinnable argument with Mrs Peterborough.
`I don't think there's any need to take that tone,' said Mrs Townsend, who did not know enough about Mrs Peterborough to realise that the former Twilight Years Rest Home resident would have happily argued with a speak your weight machine.
`I don't think there's any need to take that tone,' mimicked Mrs Peterborough.
`Well!' said Mrs Townsend, putting her neatly manicured hands on her ample hips and throwing her head back.
`Well!' said Mrs Peterborough, equally indignantly, putting her own arthritic fingers on her bony hips.
`This is outrageous!' cried Mrs Townsend.
`This is outrageous!' said Mrs Peterborough.
`Isn't it a lovely day,' said Mrs Caldicot calmly, leaping in between the two of them and smiling at Mrs Peterborough.
`Isn't it a lovely day,' said Mrs Peterborough, smiling back at Mrs Caldicot.
`Why don't we find a couple of those nice chairs and sit down by the pool,' said Mrs Caldicot to Mrs Peterborough, heading off for a quiet spot at the far corner of the pool area.
`Find a couple of chairs and sit down by the pool,' repeated Mrs Peterborough, following her.
`Well!' said Mrs Townsend to no one. `I don't know, I'm sure.'
Mrs Caldicot turned her head and gave the manageress a big smile.
`Look at me!' called Miss Nightingale.
Mrs Caldicot turned her head and looked. Miss Nightingale was sitting on an exercise bicycle. Mrs Caldicot walked over to see her followed closely by Mrs Peterborough.
`That looks fun!' said Mrs Caldicot.
`It is,' agreed Miss Nightingale. She leant her head to one side. `Though it's a little bit disappointing.'
`Why's that?' asked Mrs Caldicot. Mrs
Peterborough climbed onto a second bicycle.
`No bell,' said Miss Nightingale. `I used to have a bicycle. It had a very loud bell.'
`You can make bell noises yourself!' Mrs Caldicot pointed out.
`Can I?'
`Yes.'
With a broad smile Miss Nightingale rang an imaginary bell. `Ring, ring!' she cried. `Ring, ring!'
`Ring, ring!' said Mrs Peterborough happily.
Mrs Caldicot smiled at them both and found somewhere quiet to sit down.
Twenty minutes later the reception desk sent a porter to tell Mrs Caldicot that a gentleman was waiting for her in the dining room.
As she left she could hear Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough.
`Ring, ring!'
`Ring, ring!'
CHAPTER NINETEEN
`You don't look a bit like your voice!' said Mrs Caldicot to Mr Jenkins.
`What should look like?' asked the newspaperman with a grin.
`Oh, I don't know,' said Mrs Caldicot. She thought for a moment. `You sounded, well, much more earnest on the telephone.'
Jenkins was tall and broad shouldered, slightly balding (though the hair that he did have was much longer than Mr Caldicot ever wore his hair) and had a luxuriant moustache and a permanent twinkle in his eye. He looked rather distinguished but he definitely did not look earnest. He was in his early sixties. He wore an expensive looking dark blue suit but the jacket was rumpled and creased because he hadn't bothered to take it off on the train. Mr Caldicot had always kept a wooden coat hanger in his briefcases so that he could hang his jacket up when he was travelling. Jenkins' white shirt looked expensive, it had a small monogram on the breast, but his red silk tie was carelessly knotted.
He was sitting on a stool at the bar when Mrs Caldicot came down from her room where she had changed her clothes, brushed her hair and put some lipstick on. She apologised for being late. He smiled and said it really didn't matter and asked her what she wanted to drink. When she asked him what he was drinking he told her it was straight gin. She asked the bartender to put a little vermouth into hers because she didn't want to get `squiffy'. Jenkins put his head back and laughed. She had never seen anyone laugh like that before.
`I've never heard anyone use that word!' he said. `Squiffy!' he repeated, as though he liked the sound of the word, and he laughed again.
`You don't have a notebook or a tape recorder,' she pointed out. `I thought you'd probably have both.'
Jenkins took a gulp out of his glass and glowered at her in a mock serious sort of way. `I don't actually write anything,' he told her. `I'm far too important for that.' He slid off his bar stool and she realised that he was even taller than she'd thought. `Shall we go through and eat?' He had a huge pile of newspapers with him which he picked up off the floor.
`Are those all today's papers?' asked Mrs Caldicot. `Yes,' said Jenkins. `And I haven't finished reading them yet.'
`Are you really important?' she asked him, as they walked towards the dining room.
He looked down at her, started to say something and then changed his mind. `In my world,' he said and shrugged. He paused. `I meant what I said on the telephone,' he told her. `I can make you rich and famous.'
The head waiter met them at the door to the restaurant, recognised Mrs Caldicot and escorted them to their table.
`Why on earth would I want to be famous?' asked Mrs Caldicot.
`Some people like being famous for the sake of it,' said Jenkins. `They like strangers recognising them in the street. They like to get the best tables in restaurants. There's a certain cachet in being a celebrity which some people find attractive, even irresistible.'
`Someone asked me for my autograph this morning,' she said. `I found it rather embarrassing.' The waiter pulled back a chair and she sat down.
`You might get used to it,' said Jenkins, sitting down opposite her. `Even hooked on it.'
`I doubt it,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`What about the money? Are you interested in money?'
`At the moment I am,' admitted Mrs Caldicot. `I still don't quite know how it happened but I've got sixteen rooms in this place to pay for.' She accepted a menu from a white-coated waiter. `And if and when we leave here I don't have the faintest idea what I'm going to do with Miss Nightingale, Mrs Peterborough, Mr Livingstone and all the rest of them.'
`Those are the people who came with you from `The Twilight Zone Rest Home'?'
`Years,' corrected Mrs Caldicot, laughing.
`Years?'
`You said `The Twilight Zone Rest Home',' said Mrs Caldicot. `It's The Twilight Years Rest Home. And, yes, those are the people who came with me.'
`Are they happy here?'
`Yes, I think so. Though Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough would like bells on their exercise bicycles.'
Jenkins laughed and pointed to the menu. `Shall we order?'
***
Forty minutes later Jenkins sat back, picked the rumpled napkin off his lap and tossed it onto the table. `I enjoyed that!' he said. He had eaten, with evident enjoyment, a huge bowl of soup, a mixed grill, and a large plateful of cheese and biscuits. Mrs Caldicot had eaten a prawn cocktail and a cheese salad but had obtained considerable pleasure from watching Mr Jenkins. Mr Caldicot had never really enjoyed his food.
`I don't think I've ever drunk so much wine!' said Mrs Caldicot, feeling not unpleasantly lightheaded. `Do you newspaper people always drink so much?'
Jenkins looked surprised. `We only had two bottles between us!'
`That's a lot!'
`There's evidence now to show that wine is good for your health,' said Jenkins. `Stops you getting heart attacks; that's what our doc says.'
`Your doc?'
`The chap who writes our medical column. He says that's why the French don't get heart disease.'
`Because they drink lots of wine?'
Jenkins nodded.
`Maybe it's because they all die of cirrhosis before they can get heart disease.'
Jenkins laughed. `I like our doctor's theory better.' He pushed his chair back an inch or two. `Shall we have coffee in the lounge?' A waiter, who had been hovering nearby, leapt forwards to attend to Mrs Caldicot's chair.
`That would be nice,' said Mrs Caldicot.
They walked slowly through the restaurant to the lounge. Jenkins took her arm to help steer her in between the tables and Mrs Caldicot, who felt more than a little `squiffy', was grateful.
`I enjoyed that very much,' she said, as they settled down into easy chairs. `Thank you.'
`You hardly ate anything!'
`I enjoyed watching you eat.'
`I like my food.'
`I could see that!' Mrs Caldicot blushed. `Oh, I'm sorry,' she apologised. `Was that rude?'
`Not at all!' laughed Jenkins.
`It's very nice eating in a smart restaurant,' said Mrs Caldicot. `I haven't done much of that you know.'
`You should do more,' said Jenkins, serious for a moment.
`I can't afford this sort of life,' said Mrs Caldicot, equally seriously.
`You could,' said Jenkins. He took a metal cigar tube out of his inside jacket pocket. `Do you mind if I smoke?'
Mrs Caldicot shook her head. She didn't like cigarettes but she quite enjoyed the smell of cigars. A waiter brought their coffee and Mrs Caldicot told him that she would pour. While Jenkins took his cigar out of its protective case, snipped the end off and lit it, she poured two cups of coffee, unwrapped the chocolate that was in her saucer and popped it into her mouth. Jenkins, his cigar alight, took the chocolate from his saucer and put it into hers. She mouthed a silent thank you.
`Eight million people saw you on the Mike Trickle show,' said Jenkins, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. `And another million and a half saw you on the breakfast programme.' He paused and puffed at his cigar. `You're big news.'
`My fifteen minutes of fame,' said Mrs Caldicot.
`Not necessarily,' Jenkins corrected her.
Mrs Caldicot s
ipped at her coffee, tried to resist the temptation to unwrap the other chocolate and waited.
`We want your life story. How did a perfectly ordinary woman...,' he looked at Mrs Caldicot and made an apologetic gesture. She dismissed the gesture with one of her own. `Perfectly ordinary you are not,' he said, correcting himself. `What sort of woman ends up leading a revolution in a nursing home, living in a four star hotel with heaven knows how many old people and humiliating two TV hosts?'
`Golly!' said Mrs Caldicot. `When you put it like that...'
`We'll pay you £10,000 for your story,' said Jenkins. `We'll run it over two, maybe three, weeks; we'll run what you tell us and we'll protect you from the rat pack.'
Mrs Caldicot felt faint. She had never envisaged her story being worth that sort of money. `What's a rat pack?' she asked, trying hard to stay in touch with reality.
`Other journalists,' explained Jenkins. `When your story appears you'll be a major star. You'll have reporters from Germany, Japan and the States clamouring for your story. We can handle all that for you.'
`I don't know,' said Mrs Caldicot in a very faint voice which she hardly recognised as her own. `It's a risky thing to do,' she thought. `What if they make me out to be a terrible person? And do I really want to be recognised and talked about in the supermarket?' She looked at Jenkins but didn't say anything. `I'm 71,' she thought to herself. `I could have a quarter of my life left. Just because I've wasted the first three quarters doesn't mean that I've got to waste the rest being careful. £10,000 is a lot of money. And what have I got to lose?' She realised that she wanted to get her money's worth out of life and she decided to say `yes'.
`Yes.' she said. `All right. I'll do it.'
`It's a fair offer,' said Jenkins. `I'll be honest with you, when I came here I was going to offer you £3,000.' He leant forward, `You would have taken it, wouldn't you?'
At first Mrs Caldicot didn't know what to say. She had no idea how much money her story was worth to a newspaper. She hadn't really thought of it as being worth anything. In the end she was just honest. `Probably,' she admitted. `Yes, I suppose so.'
Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War Page 12