GUY ‘Colonel’ Granger had adopted a dress code he thought any retired man of military bearing should be seen in – Cavalry twill trousers, county-style checked shirt, gold-coloured waistcoat displaying a pocket watch, hacking jacket and a cravat, brown brogues and a flat cap. His horn-rimmed spectacles setoff the image. To him, it marked him out as a ‘gentleman’. It was this sartorial rig that earned him the sobriquet, the Colonel. His moustache added to the image.
When Lenny Smith first teamed up with him, he had become known as the ‘Colonel’ rather than unpleasant nicknames. He likened him to a replica of the character, Foggy Dewhurst, in the long-running TV series, Last of the Summer Wine. Lenny was convinced the creator of the series. Roy Clarke had based the character on Guy Granger. The fact was that Roy Clarke and Brian Wilde, the actor, had never met Guy Granger, the serial bank robber. This fact didn’t alter Lenny’s ‘dead right info’. He never mentioned the likeness again after Brian Wilde died in 2008.
Care-workers visiting the home came in many shapes, sizes and ethnic groups. Some were attractive; others would never strut the cat-walk of a beauty contest. If they did, it would probably collapse under their weight.
Sylvia Clissold was reaching her fiftieth year. Once a cabaret dancer she was, by any standards, still attractive with her easy-to-remove dress, faux-fur coat and six-inch high heels, with her long, flowing, blonde locks. She specialised looking after the needs of elderly widowers. She was often mistaken for being a care-worker employed by Executive Care, who only catered for private clients.
It was now nearly eleven in the morning. One of her least physically demanding clients was known as the ‘bishop’, Arnold Stephens. He claimed he was aged eighty-seven and said he was once the cleric of Church of England parish in Nuneaton. He always appeared in public, dressed all in black. His distinctive attire consisted of black breaches with knee-length-boots buttoned up at the side and a black shirt with a dog collar, a three-quarter-length frockcoat and a black Homburg that set off the clerical image – an attire unseen with modern-day churchmen.
He rarely spoke to other residents. When he did, listeners could detect a mild Midland’s accent. He spent his time creating, what he described as, his memoires on a laptop computer. He was one of the few residents with a telephone landline and access to the internet.
He declared that the blonde lady, who came to see him Tuesday’s and Thursday’s every week, was his publisher giving him advice on his memoires.
The reality was that he had a strange non-physical predilection. Two mornings a week, at ten-thirty to eleven, Sylvia visited him. They never spoke. He always opened the door to his flat, wearing a white, silk dressing gown. He went into the bedroom and she into the living room. She quickly undressed, displaying her ample charms. She unpinned her waist-length, blonde locks and let them drop. She picked up the Bible and a white envelope. She placed the envelope on top of her clothes and walked into the bedroom, where the bishop’s corpulent frame lay naked on the double bed. Sylvia’s caring service were of a special kind.
He was only wearing his dog collar as he lay with his eyes closed, his hands apparently clasped in prayer. She pulled up a chair next to the bed, crossed her legs and opened the St James’ version of the Bible. He’d placed a stick-it note on the page, on which he’d scribbled the passage (or passages) he wanted her to read. Her long, blonde stresses did little to cover her two, prized assets or other parts. He didn’t open his eyes. Sylvia had little idea why he chose any verse from the Bible. They usually condemned bondage, evil or sins of the flesh. Over times, she could almost recite the verse as he wanted it repeated so many times.
Today, she would start with Deuteronomy, thirteen-five.
And the prophet, or the dreamer of dreams, shall be put to death;
Because he hath spoken to turn you away from the LORD, your God,
Which brought you out of the land of Egypt, and redeemed you out
Of the hose of bondage, to thrust thee out of the way, which the
Lord, thy God, commanded thee to walk in. So shall thou put the evil
Away from the midst of thee.
Sylvia had no idea what all this meant. It was a strange way of earning a few quid and doing nothing physical for it. She told friends in the same line of business. She turned to the next bit he wanted her to read excerpts from Palms 5.
For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness, neither shall evil dwell with thee.
The foolish shall not stand in thy sight: though hates all workers of iniquity.
Though shalt destroy them that speak leasing: the LORD will abhor the bloody and deceitful man.
The following readings were from Isiah 24:13 and Luke 18:11. Over the weeks, she realised she was repeating these verses for, at least, the fourth time.
When she had finished reading her text he’d outlined, she dressed, checked the contents of the envelope and left without a word spoken between the two. This was the arrangement every time.
Sylvia had little idea of the bishop’s ‘ecclesiastic’ background. She was soon to discover. She constantly wished she could return to her first love as a dancer, even aged fifty-eight.
Lenny said several times at the beginning of their stay that he thought he knew the man everyone believed was a retired bishop but couldn’t recall when and where. But he was sure he’d met someone like him whilst banged-up in one jail or another. He likened him to one of the fictional characters in the church comedy, All Gas and Gaiters, about ecclesiastical matters. Having never seen the television show, none of the others challenged him. Dim he may be, but his knowledge of old TV programs was never challenged.