Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War

by Vernon Coleman

  `I'll tell the editor that you pushed me up to ten,' shrugged Jenkins. `Easy. It's not my money.'

  `But why?' asked Mrs Caldicot.

  `I like you,' grinned Jenkins. `And I'm not as gruff as my voice!' He puffed at his cigar. `Have we got a deal?'

  `Yes,' said Mrs Caldicot, in a very quiet voice. Jenkins had to lean across to hear her. `Yes!' she said. `Thank you.'

  `Right!' said Jenkins. `Let's celebrate with some bubbly.' He waved an arm for the waiter.

  Mrs Caldicot, already feeling more than `squiffy' thought she probably needed to have more food in her stomach if she was going to drink any more alcohol and so she picked up the second chocolate, unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mrs Caldicot woke up at six o'clock on Sunday morning, used the tea making facilities in her room and waited for the porter to push her copy of the Sunday Journal underneath the door.

  When the newspaper finally arrived it came through so speedily, flicked skilfully on its way by the porter's agile fingers, that it startled her. She stared at it for several moments without moving. She hardly dared to pick it up and she could feel her heart beating uncomfortably rapidly. She had never been frightened by a newspaper before.

  The reporter from the Sunday Journal had arrived the day after Mrs Caldicot had lunch with Jenkins and had stayed for two days. To her surprise the reporter had been a woman; or rather a girl. Everything about the Sunday Journal seemed to surprise her. She had expected a middle aged man in a grubby suit. But she got a svelte young woman dressed in a simple Chanel dress who had turned the head of every businessman in the hotel bar. She had expected a rather beery, leery reporter with a love of football and scandal and a penchant for cheap thrillers and dirty movies. But she got a sophisticated graduate with a degree in French Literature and a fondness for seventeenth century poetry. She had expected questions that would make her feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. She had been ready to say `No, stop, enough, go away!' But the girl reporter talked to her like a friend and asked her nothing she did not talk about easily and comfortably.

  Cautiously, almost reluctantly, Mrs Caldicot stood up, moved forwards, bent down and picked up the newspaper. She took it back to her chair and sat down with it on her lap. Still she didn't look at it.

  When she did finally look down she saw her face staring out at her from a panel on the right hand side of the front page. It was a lovely photograph. Above the photograph her name was printed in large bold letters. Below it the paper promised all. The inside story. The truth. Mrs Caldicot stared at it and felt her mouth go dry. In that moment she wished she had not had anything to do with the Sunday Journal. She wished she had never cut the chrysanthemums; never refused to eat Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor's cabbage; never agreed to go on television.

  But she had done all those things. It was too late now to wish that she had not.

  With trembling fingers she opened the paper, wondering whether the guilty vicar and the scoutmaster's wife, the naughty comedian with a penchant for young boys, the blushing TV starlet with a history she would have liked to forget, the compromised politician and the stripping housewife from Rochdale were at this moment sitting in their kitchens sharing her anxiety. How many of them, she wondered, were ensconced in lonely hotel rooms. Or was she the only one who had to face this ordeal alone. She felt an affinity for them all; a forgiveness and an affection for every one of them. Perhaps, she thought, there should be an organisation for people who have had their private, and most personal details discussed in the Sunday newspapers. A telephone number to ring for support. Meetings to attend. Social workers to give endless advice.

  But would she be entitled to support and comfort and advice? She was there willingly. She had exposed herself to public scrutiny for money. She doubted if the politician or the television actress accused of infidelity had been paid for their downfall. The vicar wouldn't have a cheque for £10,000 to settle his nerves, help soothe away the inconvenience and pay for his ruined life.

  Eventually she reached her story. They had spread it over a double page with a promise of more to come. The girl reporter's name was there but in much smaller letters than her own. She remembered the money they had agreed to pay her. It seemed a lot of money for so little. And yet was it so little? She looked at the photographs. A picture of her alone. A picture of her with Kitty. There was a photograph of the outside of The Twilight Years Rest Home with an angry looking Mr Fuller-Hawksmoor bearing down on the photographer with a big stick. She even recognised the stick. It usually stood in the hall-stand. Abandoned, no doubt, by some long lost resident. She read the captions and then read the little snippets that the sub editor had picked out to highlight in boxes. It was her life, laid bare for everyone to see. She felt that it was worse, far worse, than being seen naked in public. She started to read the story from the end and as she did so Kitty, who had been asleep on the bed, walked over to her and curled up on her lap.

  There was nothing in there that wasn't true; nothing that she was ashamed of: but it felt strange to read about her private moments, private thoughts and private apprehensions in such a public place. She felt exposed and vulnerable.

  The telephone rang.

  The sudden, harsh, noise startled her. Kitty raised her head.

  She put down the newspaper and picked up the receiver.

  `Hello. What do you think?' It was Jenkins.

  `I'm terrified,' said Mrs Caldicot.

  `I thought you would be.' He sounded kinder than he usually did on the telephone.

  `It makes me feel naked.'

  `I know. Have you read it?'

  `Not properly. I've looked at it.'

  `Any complaints?'

  She paused. `Not about what it says. It seems fair.' She caught sight of the digital clock next to the telephone. It was still not seven o'clock. A thought occurred to her. `How did you know I would be awake? How did you know I would have seen the paper?'

  Jenkins laughed.

  `I suppose everyone's the same,' said Mrs Caldicot.

  `In London you can buy the Sunday papers at the railway stations on a Saturday evening,' said Jenkins. `Some people come down especially to buy them.'

  `I didn't know that.'

  `I know. I thought of telling you. But decided you'd probably rather be where you are when you first saw the paper.'

  `I don't know.'

  `Don't know what?'

  `Whether I would rather have seen it here or been in London.'

  `Have you had breakfast yet?'

  `No. Oh no. I won't dare go down. I'll have to get them to send something up. I don't think I can eat anyway.'

  `Go down,' said Jenkins firmly. `Have your breakfast in the restaurant.'

  `But everyone will be staring at me!'

  `They won't. I know we go on about our circulation but not everyone reads the Sunday Journal. And even the people who do read it won't necessarily recognise you.'

  Mrs Caldicot said nothing.

  `Really,' said Jenkins. `One in five adults in the country sees our paper. Some of those only read the sport pages. Some just look for the juicy, sexy scandals. One in five will read the story about you in any detail. And less than one in ten of those will remember your name an hour after they've read the story.'

  `Really?'

  `The number who will actually recognise you from your photograph is minuscule!'

  `I suppose I could change my hair a bit,' said Mrs Caldicot, who still didn't really believe this.

  `Just don't wear anything you're wearing in any of the photos,' advised Jenkins.

  `Will this feeling go away?'

  `How do you feel?'

  `As if I've been violated. Much worse than having been on television.'

  `Do you wish you hadn't done it?'

  `Yes. At the moment.'

  `What are you going to do today?'

  `I don't know.'

  `Would you come out with me for some lunch?'

  Mrs Caldi
cot was taken aback. She didn't know what to say and so didn't say anything.

  `Are you still there?'

  `Yes,' she said. `Yes. I'd like that. But why? I mean, haven't you got a family to be with?'

  `I don't want you to be alone,' said Jenkins. `Professional responsibility. And I'd prefer to have lunch with you.'

  `What about your wife? Won't she mind?'

  `I doubt it. She lives in Cornwall with a potter.'

  `Oh. I'm sorry.'

  `Don't be. It's been over a long time.' Jenkins paused. `Go and have some breakfast. I'll pick you up about eleven thirty and we'll drive out into the country somewhere.'

  `All right!' she heard herself say. `Thank you.' She put the telephone down.

  It rang again. It was the receptionist with her early morning call.

  `You asked for an early morning call at seven,' said the anonymous but kindly sounding voice. `I'm sorry it's a few minutes late but I couldn't get through. Your phone was busy.'

  `I was talking to someone.'

  `It's five minutes past seven now,' said the receptionist.

  `Thank you.' said Mrs Caldicot. `What time does breakfast start.'

  `Half past seven on Sundays.'

  `Thank you,' said Mrs Caldicot. She put the telephone down, gently moved Kitty back onto the bed, went into the bathroom, bathed, put on her make-up, found a beige jumper and tweed skirt that she hadn't been photographed in and got dressed. By the time she'd done all that it was twenty five minutes past seven. She left her room and went down to breakfast. It was, she thought, probably one of the bravest things she'd ever done. It was also, she knew, one of the most sensible. If she had stayed hidden in her room she would have probably never left it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  At breakfast no one had as much as looked in her direction. She knew this for a fact because she had been waiting for people to stare at her, to nudge one another and to whisper about her.

  But no one did. She ate her croissants and her muesli and she drank two cups of coffee quite uninterrupted and unthreatened by her notoriety.

  When she went back up to her room three-quarters of an hour later she was feeling much happier. That was when Derek telephoned.

  `What on earth are you trying to do?' he spluttered. He then said something completely incoherent. He sounded as if he was about to burst a blood vessel.

  `Slow down, dear,' said Mrs Caldicot, calmly. `What's the matter?'

  `You know damned well what the matter is!' exploded Derek. `This rubbish in the Sunday Journal!'

  `Why do you think it's rubbish?' asked Mrs Caldicot.

  `It's in the Sunday Journal!' said Derek. `Everything in the Sunday Journal is rubbish!'

  `Don't be silly, dear,' said Mrs Caldicot. `That's just prejudice. Have you read it?'

  `Of course I've read it!' said Derek. `What was all that nonsense about my father?'

  `Only the truth, dear,' said Mrs Caldicot quietly.

  `Who do you think is interested in all that stuff?' demanded Derek.

  `I don't know,' confessed Mrs Caldicot honestly.

  `You have your picture taken and tell your life story as if you're a film star!' complained Derek. `It's not as if you're a woman of any significance!'

  `That's what the people at the Sunday Journal said,' replied Mrs Caldicot coldly. `It took me quite a time to persuade them to print it. They wanted to do a story about someone interesting.'

  `I didn't mean that,' said Derek, almost apologetically. `But you know what I mean.'

  `I know what you mean,' said Mrs Caldicot, unmollified. `I'm not of any significance.'

  `Oh stop being so selfish, mother!' said Derek. `Why don't you think of someone else for a change?'

  `You, perhaps?'

  `Yes! How do you think all this makes me look? I'm trying to build up a reputation as a serious businessman and you're making me look silly.'

  `I'm sorry you feel that way,' said Mrs Caldicot. `I didn't think the story made either of us look silly at all.'

  `Oh there's no point in trying to talk to you!' said Derek angrily. `I've got to go. I've got better things to do than talk nonsense with you.'

  `What is it, dear? Have you got to wash the car or are you playing golf?'

  Mrs Caldicot winced as Derek slammed the telephone down. Then she realised that she felt good, better than she'd felt all morning. If she'd ever learned how to whistle she would have whistled. She went round to check on Miss Nightingale, Mrs Peterborough and the others before Jenkins turned up to take her out to lunch.

  ***

  `You're looking brighter than you sounded this morning!' said Jenkins. He was still wearing his expensive but slightly rumpled suit. He smelt faintly of aftershave; a modest indication that this was at least partly a social occasion.

  `I feel brighter!' said Mrs Caldicot. She had abandoned the tweed skirt and beige jumper and was wearing a favourite pale green dress which had a dozen buttons down the back. She'd worn it for some of the photographs that had appeared in the Sunday Journal.

  `What happened this morning?' asked Jenkins as they walked through the hotel reception area and out to the car park. He recognised the dress but did not say so.

  `Nothing!' said Mrs Caldicot. She paused. `Well, that's not true. My son rang. But apart from that you don't seem to have any readers around here.'

  `What did your son say?' asked Jenkins. `Did he object?'

  `Oh, he objected all right!' said Mrs Caldicot. `But I've decided that I don't care.'

  `Good for you!' said Jenkins.

  There was a sudden noise, sounding like a good many knuckles being rapped against window panes. Mrs Caldicot and Jenkins both turned. Lined up against the glass walls of the swimming pool area Mrs Caldicot could see Mrs Peterborough, Miss Nightingale and the rest of her gang of refugees. They were all grinning, waving furiously and rapping their knuckles against the glass. They were wearing their new swim suits.

  `Good heavens! Said Jenkins. `Who on earth are they?'

  `My friends from The Twilight Years Rest Home,' explained Mrs Caldicot.

  Jenkins looked embarrassed. `Oh, yes. Sorry! What are they up to?'

  `They discovered the Sport and Leisure Complex,' explained Mrs Caldicot. `Remember? I told you that Miss Nightingale and Mrs Peterborough wanted bells for the exercise bicycles. I think they're planning to spend the day there.' She looked back at the grinning faces and waved. `It's funny,' she said, `when you're young you know you're getting older because the policemen and the supermarket managers and then the doctors look younger and younger, but you know you're really old when the old people look young.'

  Jenkins looked at her and smiled and then stopped alongside a large but dirty motor car. It had been blue when it had left the showroom but, spattered with mud and oil and dirt had become a road weary grey. `Close your eyes to the mess,' he said. `I keep meaning to get it cleaned...' his voice trailed off apologetically. He opened his door and turned the key. Mrs Caldicot waited for him to reach across and open the passenger door. The inside of the car was a mess too; there was a pile of newspapers strewn across the back seat and the floor was covered with sweet papers and cigar ash, cigar packets and spent matches.

  `It's open,' he told her. He reached over to the back seat and tried to tidy up the newspapers. `I'm sorry,' he said again. `I should have cleaned all this stuff up.'

  `It's all right,' said Mrs Caldicot. `I quite like it.' Mr Caldicot had been very particular about the inside of his car. He didn't allow smoking and he always had one of those little perfumed cards hanging from the driving mirror. Mrs Caldicot had always thought they made the Vauxhall smell of lavatories.

  `I've booked a table at a pub I know,' said Jenkins. `It's by the river, and if the weather holds we can eat outside. It's very pretty. I think you'll like it.' He put the car into gear and shot out of the Mettleham Grand Hotel car park as though making a getaway from a bank robbery. Mrs Caldicot, pressed against the back of her seat, struggled to fasten her safet
y belt. `It's very kind of you to look after me like this,' she said trying to relax as Jenkins swung the big car out onto the road between a small Ford and a van.

  `All part of the service,' smiled Jenkins but somehow Mrs Caldicot knew it wasn't. He drove at a speed which both terrified and thrilled Mrs Caldicot, and although he took chances and seemed oblivious to the existence and rights of other road users he drove with an easy, nonchalant skill. He pointed out strange landmarks. Not dull things like buildings of minor architectural interest or the sites of Roman forts but a house where there had been a murder, a church where the vicar had been caught misbehaving with the choir mistress and a lonely field where a body had been found. He was an inexhaustible fund of wonderful trivia. Mrs Caldicot didn't believe half of it but that didn't matter in the slightest. Jenkins was funny, he made her laugh. She realised yet again, with an aching sadness, that Mr Caldicot had never, ever made her laugh.

  God was smiling on them. As they pulled into the tiny car park next to the riverside pub the sun shone brightly. They sat at a white metal table, with the clear river running just a few feet away from them and ordered trout cooked with almonds, locally grown vegetables and a bottle of cool, dry white wine. Mrs Caldicot could not help remembering that Mr Caldicot had always refused to order wine in restaurants. He said they charged too much for it. They ate strawberries in meringue nests drenched in thick cream, drank double brandies and sipped dark, thick, bitter coffee.

  Afterwards they walked in dappled shade by the river. Jenkins took his jacket off and carried it over his shoulder with his finger hooked into the loop at the back. They sat on mossy covered rocks underneath a huge oak tree, threw twigs into the water and watched them float down river. They watched, in silent amazement, as a kingfisher dived into the water and came up with a small fish in its beak. And then they walked slowly back along the bank.

  Jenkins talked to her about his work; about the bizarre life he lived, close enough to power to smell it but just far enough away to remain uncorrupted by it; about the people he had met; about the stories he had worked on and the books he wanted to write when he retired from newspapers and bought a cottage in the country.