Mrs Caldicot's Knickerbocker Glory, page 23
‘Who on earth is going to wear it?’ asked Mr Livingstone. ‘It’s miles too big for any of us.’
‘Hullo, everyone!’ said Jenkins, suddenly appearing, as though from nowhere. ‘I wondered where you’d all got to!’
Chapter 58
‘I can’t wear this!’ protested Jenkins, as he was hurried along the landing towards the staircase. For the fifth time he stopped and stared himself in a mirror.
‘Stop admiring yourself!’ said Mr Roxdale.
‘Men can be so vain,’ said Miss Nightingale. ‘That’s at least four times he’s looked at himself.’
‘Give us a twirl!’ suggested Mr Merivale, cruelly.
‘Actually, I hate to say this,’ said Mr Roxdale, who didn’t at all. ‘But that dress really suits you.’ He stood back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You actually do look very nice.’
And the truth was that the nurse’s uniform fitted Jenkins very well.
‘I’m a respectable editor. I have a position to uphold. I can’t be seen like this!’ said Jenkins, though he immediately felt so embarrassed at the pomposity of what he had said that he knew that he would have to go through with it.
‘I have to admit that if I weren’t a happily married man I could quite fancy you,’ said Mr Merivale. He turned to Mr Roxdale who was standing next to him. ‘Hasn’t he got lovely legs?’
‘Amazing,’ agreed Mr Roxdale, admiringly. ‘They do say men have better legs than women.’
Mrs Merivale had lent Jenkins a wig which, she said, she sometimes wore on rather special occasions. Two grapefruit and an appropriate undergarment (loaned by Mrs Merivale) had been used to help fill in the baggy portion of the front of the dress. And Mrs Merivale had done Jenkins’s make up so effectively that when he looked in the mirror he had to touch his chin with his forefinger to reassure himself that he truly was looking in a mirror.
‘Ouch!’ cried Jenkins. He turned round. ‘Who did that?’
‘You’ve got a lovely bottom too,’ said Mr Roxdale.
‘Well, I’d be grateful if you’d leave it alone,’ said Jenkins.
‘It was just a playful slap,’ said Mr Roxdale. ‘I thought you’d be flattered.’
‘You are a terrible sexist pig, you know,’ complained Jenkins. ‘It’s men like you who give men a bad name. If you do that again I’ll bash you with my handbag.’
‘Gosh,’ said Mr Roxdale. ‘You make more fuss about a little slap on the bottom than a real woman would.’
‘You try slapping me on the bottom and see what it gets you!’ said Miss Nightingale sternly.
‘Why would I want to slap you on the bottom?’ demanded Mr Roxdale, genuinely confused by this intervention, not to mention slightly horrified by the very thought of slapping Miss Nightingale on the bottom. He glanced across at the bottom in question and shuddered.
‘We’d better get you downstairs and counted,’ said Mr Livingstone.
‘What’s wrong with my bottom?’ asked Miss Nightingale, full of indignation. Mr Roxdale tried to melt into the background.
‘They’ll spot that I’m a fraud in seconds!’ protested Jenkins.
‘No they won’t,’ insisted Mr Merivale.
‘The minute I open my mouth they’ll realise I’m not a woman,’ protested Jenkins.
This comment was so obviously accurate that no one said anything for a few moments.
‘So, keep your mouth shut,’ said Mr Roxdale eventually. ‘Don’t say anything!’ he added.
‘But if they’re doing a census they’re bound to ask me my name,’ said Jenkins.
‘Try talking like a woman,’ said Mr Roxdale. ‘Let’s see what you sound like.’
‘What shall I say?’
‘Say your name?’
‘My name is Jenkins,’ said Jenkins, in a rather bizarre falsetto.
‘Not your real name,’ said Mr Livingstone, despairingly.
‘What name shall I give then?’ asked Jenkins.
‘Doris,’ said Mr Merivale. ‘You look like a Doris to me.’
‘What the hell does a Doris look like?’ demanded Jenkins.
‘You,’ replied Mr Merivale. ‘You’re definitely a Doris.’
‘Doris what?’
‘Day?’ suggested Mr Merivale.
‘Don’t be silly. He doesn’t look the slightest bit like Doris Day.’ said Mrs Merivale.
‘Dolittle,’ suggested Miss Nightingale.
‘Dolittle?’ said Jenkins, puzzled. ‘Why Dolittle?’
‘Because it goes nicely with Doris.’
Jenkins shook his head. ‘I don’t like Doris much,’ he said, reverting to his true voice. ‘But I like Dolittle even less. It reminds me of that daft bloke who talked to animals. It isn’t,’ he paused, searching for the appropriate word. ‘It isn’t believable. I want something believable.’
‘Night,’ suggested Mr Williams. He paused. The enthusiasm for his suggestion seemed muted. ‘Knight,’ he said. ‘With a ‘K’.’
‘Doris Knight,’ said Jenkins to himself. He repeated the name. ‘Actually, I quite like that,’ he admitted. ‘It sounds quite good.’ He tried out the falsetto again. ‘Doris Knight. Hmmm. Yes, I like that.’
‘He doesn’t sound very convincing, does he?’ said Miss Nightingale to everyone in general and no one in particular.
‘I’ll tell them you’ve got a sore throat,’ said Mr Merivale. ‘I’ll come with you and speak for you.’
‘Do you think that will work?’ asked Jenkins. He seemed unconvinced.
‘It will have to,’ said Mr Merivale with a sigh. He led the way. ‘Come on, Doris.’
Doris followed him down the stairs.
Chapter 59
Ms Jones BA was in the kitchen, checking the cupboards. She and Mr Muller-Hawksmoor had split up so that they could search the house more efficiently.
‘Hello there, can I help you?’ asked Mr Merivale.
Ms Jones BA, looking slightly embarrassed, shut the door to the cupboard she had been examining. ‘We’re doing a census,’ she explained. ‘We’re checking the customer-staff ratio.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Mr Merivale. ‘You don’t want to waste your time doing that.’ He tried to laugh at the thought, though the noise he made sounded more like a drain emptying. ‘There are so many members of staff here that we spend our days falling over them.’
‘As far as we are aware Mrs Caldicot and Mrs Roberts are the only members of staff,’ said Ms Jones BA coldly.
‘And there’s my wife and myself,’ said Mr Merivale.
‘You may help out,’ said Ms Jones coldly. ‘But you’re registered as customers. You can’t be staff as well.’
‘Oh.’ Mr Merivale sounded disappointed. ‘And there’s Doris,’ he added.
‘Doris?’ repeated Ms Jones frowning. ‘Who’s Doris?’
‘Doris Knight,’ said Mr Merivale. ‘She’s around here somewhere.’ He turned round and jumped slightly when he discovered that Doris was standing right behind him.
‘There you are. What did I tell you? There are so many staff members in this place that they follow you around all over the place. Can’t get a minute’s peace and quiet.’
Mr Roxdale, Miss Nightingale, Mr Livingstone and the rest of the residents were lined up behind Doris.
‘Your name is Doris?’ said Ms Jones BA, consulting her clipboard.
‘Yes,’ replied Mr Merivale. ‘She’s Doris.’
‘She’s not on this list,’ said Ms Jones.
‘She’s new,’ replied Mr Merivale.
‘She can answer for herself, can’t she?’ said Ms Jones.
‘She’s very shy,’ said Mr Merivale. At the very same moment, Doris pointed to her throat. ‘Sore throat!’ she rasped hoarsely in a strange falsetto. ‘And she’s got a sore throat,’ Mr Merivale added, without a moment’s hesitation.
Ms Jones BA stared at Doris as though he thought he knew her. ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’ she said.
‘Oh I expect you’ve seen her around,’ said Mr Merivale. ‘She’s always rushing around with a duster or a syringe. Polishing here, injecting there.’
‘I thought you said she was new?’
‘She is. But she’s already done a lot of rushing around. Amazing hard worker.’
‘Dusters and syringes?’ said Ms Jones BA, putting all the emphasis on the second word. ‘Polishing and injecting?’ Once again the emphasis was on the second word. She glared at Doris searchingly. ‘Are you a nurse or a cleaner?’
‘She does a bit of both,’ said Mr Merivale, quickly. ‘We don’t have any union demarcation rules here.’
‘It’s most unusual to hear of nurses doing the dusting,’ said Ms Jones BA. ‘And it would be illegal for a cleaner to give injections.’
‘Oh she’s fully qualified,’ said Mr Merivale.
‘Loads of diplomas,’ said Mr Livingstone.
Doris looked down, as though overcome by modesty. Her gaze fell upon her black, size twelve, lace up brogues. There hadn’t been time to find any more suitable footwear. She lifted her eyes quickly.
‘I think I’d better ask Mrs Caldicot about Doris,’ said Ms Jones BA, marching out of the kitchen.
She was very upset about this new discovery. It didn’t look as though Mrs Caldicot was short of staff after all. And if Mrs Caldicot wasn’t short of staff she and Mr Muller-Hawksmoor wouldn’t be able to close down the retirement home. Unlike Mr Muller-Hawksmoor she had no financial incentive to put Mrs Caldicot out of business. She was doing it for sheer, unadulterated pleasure. She was doing it for fun. She liked her work.
Ms Jones BA was feeling very glum and very aggrieved as she headed up the stairs looking for Mrs Caldicot.
Chapter 60
‘One of your grapefruit is slipping,’ muttered Mr Livingstone to Doris.
Doris looked down. ‘Oh damn.’ ‘She’ unbuttoned her dress, slipped a hand inside and began to make the necessary adjustments. ‘How on earth do women manage?’ she demanded, in a whisper.
‘I don’t think they ever face quite that problem,’ whispered Mr Livingstone to Doris. ‘I’m speaking from memory, and memory can sometimes be very misleading, but I don’t remember every coming across a woman who filled her bra with grapefruit.’
‘No. I suppose not,’ sighed Doris. ‘If this goes on much longer I think I’ll have breast reduction surgery. I’m sure I can cope with being flat-chested.’ Her left bosom slipped through her fingers, slid down inside her dress and landed on the floor with something of a thud.
‘Damn!’ said Doris, forgetting her falsetto, her sore throat and her shyness.
Appropriately, the grapefruit rolled underneath a large chest. It was a large stripped pine chest of drawers but it was a large chest.
‘I’ll go and get you another,’ said Mr Livingstone. ‘We can always get that one back later.’
‘There aren’t any more,’ said Mrs Merivale.
‘No more grapefruit?’
‘No. We only had two left. Those two.’
‘Damn!’ said Doris again. ‘Then we’ll have to get this one back. ‘I can’t go around looking lopsided.’ She fell to her knees and tried to reach under the chest.
‘Take the other one out,’ suggested Mr Livingstone, still standing. ‘We could say you’ve had that breast reduction surgery.’
Doris turned her head and glowered up at him. ‘Don’t be silly,’ ‘she’ snapped. ‘This dress needs a bosom. And anyway I’m not going around looking shapeless and flat-chested. I’ve got my pride, you know.’
‘But a moment ago you said...’
‘I changed my mind,’ insisted Doris, turning back so that she could concentrate on searching for her missing grapefruit. ‘Woman’s prerogative.’ She sat up for a moment and adjusted her remaining, solitary breast which had slipped out of position and was threatening to escape and join its companion in exile. ‘If I’ve got to be a woman I damned well don’t want to be a flat-chested one.’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Mr Livingstone. He walked to the front door, collected an umbrella from a stand, and walked back to where Doris was on her knees. She looked up, slightly alarmed at the sight of the umbrella but Mr Livingstone simply sank to his knees and slid the umbrella around underneath the chest to help locate and retrieve the missing bosom.
‘Do you want any help?’ asked Mr Merivale.
‘No thanks,’ said Mr Livingstone, without looking up. ‘Don’t hang around here. You’ll draw attention to us. Go and wait for us in the lounge.’ He waved the umbrella around again underneath the chest.
‘I think I’ve found it!’ he said. He waved the umbrella around and dragged out an old slipper.
Chapter 61
Ms Jones BA hadn’t found Mrs Caldicot. But, instead, she had found Mr Muller-Hawksmoor. He was wandering disconsolately around the empty bedrooms upstairs. The census wasn’t going well. He had heard a lot of noise but had got there minutes after Doris and the rest had all headed back downstairs.
‘They’ve got another nurse,’ said Ms Jones BA glumly.
Mr Muller-Hawksmoor stared at her.
‘I know,’ agreed Ms Jones BA, seeing the disappointment and frustration on Mr Muller-Hawksmoor’s face.
‘Another nurse? And she works here?’
‘So she says. The residents claim she does too.’
‘I bet she’s a fake.’ said Mr Muller-Hawksmoor firmly. ‘Someone dressed up as a nurse.’ He wasn’t going to let his £50,000 windfall blow away this easily.
Suddenly Ms Jones BA snapped her fingers in delight. ‘Do you know, you’re right!’ she said, excitedly. If she had been an entirely different person she might have kissed Mr Muller-Hawksmoor. ‘I know where I’ve seen Doris before!’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘That man who calls around to take Mrs Caldicot out. What’s his name?’ She struggled for a moment. ‘Jenkins! That’s his name. I heard someone say he’s a journalist.’ She looked very pleased with herself. `I knew I’d seen her somewhere before!’ she said.
‘Never seen him,’ said Mr Muller-Hawksmoor. ‘He’s Mrs Caldicot’s fancy man, you say?’
‘Absolutely. I’m certain.’
‘Right!’ said Mr Muller-Hawksmoor, tucking his clip board under his arm and rubbing his hands with glee. ‘I’ll soon expose this little scam.’
Chapter 62
Mr Roxdale, Miss Nightingale, Mr Williams, Mr and Mrs Merivale and the rest of the residents headed for the lounge where they found Mrs Caldicot and Mrs Roberts sitting facing Mrs Torridge offering her encouragement. Miss Smith, Mrs Roberts’s friend, wearing a nurse’s uniform, sat nearby. She had worked in nursing homes and rest homes for nearly twenty years and thought she’d seen everything. It wasn’t the sight of a resident tied up which surprised her, but the sight of a resident who was tied up being encouraged to escape. Normally, in the homes where she had worked, the residents who were tied up were intended to stay that way.
‘Come on, Mrs T!’ said Mrs Caldicot. ‘You’re doing brilliantly.’
Mrs Torridge had, by rubbing her mouth against her shoulder managed to free part of the restraint which kept the yellow bloomers in her mouth. As a result of this energetic endeavour, Mr Roxdale’s tie, the restraint holding the gag in place, had slid down towards her chin. Another half an inch and it would fall down around her neck, loose and irrelevant. At the same time Mrs Torridge had, by bouncing up and down in her chair, succeeded in loosening the ropes which bound her.
‘Marvellous!’ cried Mrs Roberts, enthusiastically.
The others, seeing that Mrs Torridge was very nearly free, offered her their verbal encouragement.
Suddenly Mr Muller-Hawksmoor burst into the room, followed at some distance, by Ms Jones BA.
‘I’m sorry to butt in on what is undoubtedly a very important part of your management responsibilities,’ said Mr Muller-Hawksmoor to Mrs Caldicot. ‘But I believe that you’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes!’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’ demanded Mrs Caldicot, with all the indignation of genuine innocence. She stood up, closely followed by Mrs Roberts and her friend the nurse.
‘Is that the woman you claim is a staff members?’ demanded Mr Muller-Hawksmoor, pointing at Miss Smith.
‘She is a member of staff,’ said Mrs Caldicot, quite accurately. ‘But just not here,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘She’s a fully qualified nurse,’ said Mrs Roberts.
‘Ha. That is no woman!’ said Mr Muller-Hawksmoor. ‘Here is your fraud!’ And with that he strode across to Miss Smith.
‘No!’ cried Ms Jones BA. `Not that one!’ But it was too late. Mr Muller-Hawksmoor had already struck. He had dropped his clipboard on the now empty sofa. With his left hand he had taken a good chunk of Mrs Roberts’s friend’s hair. And with his right he tore at the front of her uniform. His attempt to remove what he imagined to be a wig was, inevitably, a dismal failure since the hair he had got hold of was firmly attached to Mrs Roberts’s friend’s head. His lunge at her uniform was far more successful and while Ms Jones behind him stood frozen in horror, her arm outstretched in a belated attempt to stop Mr Muller-Hawksmoor, Mr Muller-Hawksmoor tore the woman’s uniform from the neck to the hem, scattering buttons, badges and one of those funny little watches which nurses wear upside down, all over the carpet. ‘This nurse is a man!’ cried Mr Muller-Hawksmoor. It was quickly apparent that this accusation would receive no points for accuracy.
‘Help!’ screamed Mrs Roberts’s friend, attempting to cover up her semi-nakedness in the time honoured fashion. One hand across her bra and the other across her panties. There could now be no doubt at all that Mrs Roberts’s friend was not Jenkins in disguise. Nor could there be doubt that Mr Muller-Hawksmoor’s allegation was entirely unjustified and unjustifiable.
‘Oh dear me,’ said Mr Muller-Hawksmoor. Horrified, he stepped back. ‘Oh, golly. I’m so sorry...’
