Mrs Caldicot's Knickerbocker Glory
by Vernon Coleman


Chapter One



Anyone old-fashioned enough, and optimistic enough, to expect the calendar to give some guidance on temperature and weather might have expected a warm, sunny day; a few, small, fluffy white clouds scattered artistically across a perfectly sky-blue sky, jolly birds happily singing their little hearts out in a vain attempt to drown out the sound of suburban lawnmowers, and gardens everywhere a blaze of sunlit summer colour.
         Such optimism would not have been well rewarded. It had been raining heavily for hours. In the traditional way things happen in a country where it rains for 300 days a year downpipes were gurgling, drains were failing to cope with the flood of water and deep puddles were forming everywhere. In modern Britain a leaf or two on the lines will halt the heaviest and most majestic of trains; tons of highly crafted metal brought to a standstill by a modest flutter of nature's arboreal offcasts. A flake or two of snow will close motorways and send cars sliding and slithering out of control. And a few hours steady but unspectacular rain always seems to result in flooding.
         There was, as usual, a huge puddle outside the front entrance to The Twilight Years Rest Home (prop. Thelma Caldicot, No Cabbages Allowed) and as the two ambulancemen carefully carried the occupied wheelchair in through the front door they found themselves splashing through water which reached well over the tops of their shoes.
         `Oh, bugger!' cursed the younger of the two; a florid faced man, rather too overweight to be an advertisement for good health. He paused and looked down. `My socks are soaked.'
         `Stop moaning, keep moving and lift your end up,' retorted the older man, balding, thinner, altogether leaner and fitter looking.
         The third figure in this moving tableau, the occupant of the wheelchair, said nothing. Since he seemed to be either asleep or drugged, this was not particularly surprising. He took no more interest in his surroundings than he would have done if he had been a sack of potatoes.
         Earlier in its long life the building which was now known as the Twilight Years Rest Home had been the imposing residence of an important local Victorian entrepreneur called Baldcock.
         Mr Baldcock had made a substantial fortune out of the manufacture of sewage pipes and, anxious to obtain a social status above and beyond that which the manufacturer of such an unappetising product might expect, had spared no expense to give his family a substantial and worthy home. The hall and landing windows were made of stained glass, the drainpipes and gutters were decorated with cast iron gargoyles and the stonework above the bay windows was more than amply decorated with numerous stony representations of well-fed cherubs. And, naturally, the front door was protected from the elements by a large open fronted porch with a tiled floor. Six stone steps led from the puddled driveway to the porch and the two ambulancemen climbed these steps at commendable speed. The porch was so large that even two ambulancemen and a wheel chair did not overcrowd it.
         `Funny looking place,' said the younger of the two ambulancemen, a youth who was known to his mother and girlfriend as Cyril and to everyone else as `Chips' (a nickname which accurately reflected his dietary taste).
         `Don't take any notice of the building,' said Bertie, his colleague. `This is Mrs Caldicot's place.'
         `Mrs Caldicot?'
         `You not heard of her?'
          Chips shook his head.
         `Her relatives put her into a nursing home. She couldn't stand the smell of cabbage so she led a revolution. Took all the other residents with her to stay in a hotel. Then went back and took over the whole place.'
         `Bloody hell,' said Chips, surprised and impressed. `Che Guevera in two-way stretch elastic stockings.'
         `There was a book written about it. Called `Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War,' the older ambulanceman told him. `You could probably borrow a copy from the library.'
         `I don't read books,' said Chips.
         `Then watch the movie.'
         `There's a movie?'
         `Based on the book.'
         `What's it called?'
         `Mrs Caldicot's Cabbage War. The same as the book.'
         `With that woman in it? Mrs Caldicot?'
         `No, you plonker! An actress called Pauline Collins plays Mrs Caldicot. I heard Mrs Caldicot say she thought she was wonderful. She was on the radio.'
          Chips grinned, pleased with himself. `Oh, I've heard of Pauline Collins.' he said. `She's married to that John Alderton.'
          Chips put down his end of the wheelchair and was about to press the doorbell when the front door swung open and a woman dressed in a lemon-coloured jumper, bright red trousers and a multicoloured woolly hat appeared. She was pushing a silver coloured metal scooter. At first the ambulancemen thought that she was a teenager. Only when they looked closely did they realise that she had almost certainly already celebrated her seventieth birthday.
         `Hello!' she cried, beaming. `What a lovely day!'
          The two ambulancemen looked at one another and then out at the rain beating down outside, the puddles and the overflowing gutters. It was, to them, a dark, damp and desperately dismal day. The woman with the silver scooter, paused and looked around. She saw the same day, the same rain, the same puddles and the same overflowing gutters but to her eyes the day seemed exciting. With a wave she started to bounce her scooter down the stone steps. She was halfway down the steps when a pretty, plump, black woman in a smart nurse's uniform appeared in the doorway. She had a name badge pinned to her chest. The single name `Mrs Roberts' was the only printing on the badge. She looked to be in her mid forties and was holding a large yellow plastic cape and a yellow plastic rain hat. She had an easy-going manner and a smile which Mrs Caldicot often described as being that of an angel. She was a loyal friend and employee.
         `Miss Nightingale,' called the nurse waving the two items in one hand. `You forgot your cape!'
          The woman with the scooter stopped, turned and came back up the steps. `Silly me!' she said. She rolled her eyes as though to say `What a silly woman!' and gently slapped her own wrist. She leant her scooter against the wall, held her hands up above her head and let the nurse slip the cape over her upstretched arms and her head. The nurse then added the hat and tied two pieces of cord into a neat bow underneath the old lady's chin. `Don't be long,' the nurse warned. She smiled and added: `And have a nice time.'
          Miss Nightingale nodded, her eyes sparkling and full of life, and rushed off into the rain with her silver scooter.
         `We've got a new resident for you,' said the older ambulanceman, nodding towards the man asleep in the wheelchair. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and examined it. `Mr Williams,' he read from the paper.
          The nurse bent down and examined the man. She touched his hand and then gently shook his shoulder. She seemed cross. `Has he been sedated?' she demanded.
         `I expect so,' replied Bertie. `Where he came from everyone who isn't dead or on the staff is sedated.' He paused. `And if the rumours are right most of the nurses and doctors are sedated too,' he added.
          Behind the ambulance a small grubby estate car skidded to a halt the gravel. A short, balding, overweight man got out of the car, clutching a bulging black briefcase. Stooped in the rain he fumbled with his key, eventually managing to lock the car door. Neither the ambulancemen nor the nurse took any notice of his arrival.
         `Would you bring him in, please' said the nurse. She stepped into the hallway and nudged the door open as wide as it would go so that the two ambulancemen could push the wheelchair through the door more easily.
         `We've got to take the chair back,' said the younger ambulanceman. `It belongs to the hospital. It's signed out as a temporary loan.'
         `Would you do me a favour and carry the patient upstairs?' asked the nurse. `Mrs Caldicot, the proprietor is busy locked in her office with the cook.'
         `No problem, love,' said the older ambulanceman. `I'll take him.' He bent down, picked the sleeping patient up out of his wheelchair as though he was a small child, and carried him upstairs. `I'll get his luggage,' said Chips, picking up the wheelchair and taking it back to the ambulance.

Copyright Vernon Coleman 2003

To Purchase a copy of Mrs Caldicot's Knickerbocker Glory, visit the shop on this site.