THE Colonel woke early. He was still baffled with the mystery of the missing contents of the pie. He pulled back the lounge curtains and gave a cursory glance outside. He’d walked halfway to the bathroom and shook his head, muttering, “What the…” He returned to the window and looked down, expecting see the rose bushes in bloom, potted plants and garden furniture. They had vanished.
As he viewed the scene, his doorbell rang. Lenny stood in the doorway, and said, “You looked outside? Everything’s been nicked. I’ve been out. Everything in pots or wasn’t tied down, has gorn; someone’s emptied whatever was grown in the greenhouse.”
The Colonel’s moustache twitched, “When I found those thieving beggars that did this, they’ll be trouble. Let’s see if we can find out. Stealin’ from the elderly; it ain’t on. Now with this, along with the snaffled pie, it’s too much.”
Lenny didn’t ask what a missing meat pie had to do with a vanished garden.
It was to be a few days later that the plants were tracked down. Meanwhile, a showdown of another kind was just beginning. The formidable shape and presence of Miss ‘the Mouth’ Fuller had tried to impose rules on her company’s clients and others. The council had become inundated with complaints about her military-style management of care. Legal teams continued to rub their greedy hands in glee whilst the care company steadfastly refused to intervene.
Behind the scene, a secret committee was formed among the authority’s various establishments, consisting of clients and others of Who Care. They plotted the demise of the Obergruppenführer as she had become known.
The great showdown day had arrived. Fiona Fuller, in her usual pseudo-military style, charged into the day room at the Retreat to be confronted by several rows of elderly residents, some twenty-five from other homes in Crabby. She was dressed in her distinctive way that appeared to be the green uniform of a female member of the armed forces, with no regimental insignia or badge of rank, just a logo of Who Care. She wore her distinctive military-style cap with the front pulled down, covering her eyes, typical of some members of the Military Police. From under her right arm, she swiftly removed a cane and waved it in front of her, demanding, “What’s going on here?”
Her stentorian voice was drowned out as the audience started to hum, tapping their heels on the floor, supported by those with walking sticks. The humming became louder.
Simultaneously, the start-up wailing of bagpipes rented the air and began a rendition of a nondescript backing as the elderly, reading from pre-prepared sheets of paper and began singing a re-worded, well-known World War 1 song,
Goodbyee, goodbyee. How we’re happy to say goodbyee!
Toodle pip, hip hip hurray, goodbye.
No more orders. No more parades, goodbyee Freedom from the mouth, goodbyee.
They stopped singing and started humming, some tapping the floor with their heels, others with their walking sticks. Fiona Fuller looked on in silence, her mouth agape with a look of shock and incredulity expressed with a twitching mouth. No one could see her eyes; the front of her military-style cap prevented that.
The pipes continued playing. Fiona Fuller began to shout, “Stop, stop. I order you to stop.” Her screaming was drowned out as the residents repeated the lyrics. The more she bellowed, the louder they became.
The bagpipe sound increased, successfully drowning out her protestations.
From the side of the room, unseen by Fiona Fuller, who was still waving her cane and shouting for everyone to obey her, stepped Jock, dressed in regimental highland gear, normally associated with a pipe band. He walked slowly forward and stood alongside the group of elders who, to a person, stood up. Fiona looked on, her mouth agape as Jock stopped playing as he and the audience gave a crisp army-style salute. To anyone, who understood the different types of salute, they would observe that many of the audience had given the non-military salute of the cub scouts. Others gave another type of two-fingered gesture.
As the meeting became quieter and the audience began to sit down, Fiona Fuller bellowed in a parade ground voice, “Well, I never, what a disgrace!”
From somewhere in the audience, a lone male voice shouted, “No, you never, you never gave we elderly the dignity we asked for the only disgrace here is you,” another voice added, “We’re not in the army now, so get lost.”
The audience broke into loud cheering, and Jock began playing a slow march as the whole audience joined in singing another rendition of Goodbyee, goodbyee.
Jock slowly walked to the right side of exit door, still playing. The Colonel stood opposite and opened the door. Fiona Fuller looked at the assembled from beneath her cap. She tucked her cane underneath her arm and swiftly did a 180-degree turn and marched towards the exit. As she passed the open door, the Colonel gave a cub-scout salute. As she reached the outer door, she looked over her shoulder and saw every member of the audience saluting with two fingers, not the Churchillian version.
As Fuller reached her car, she could hear the cheering of the elderly. She left the Retreat and Crabby, never to be seen or heard of again.
Whilst the Colonel, Reg and Jock participated in the humiliating departure of ‘the Mouth’, Lenny arrived at Croydon station and headed for a jeweller’s run by a dubious individual known to any self-respecting armed robber as Guy, the Gun. He specialised in providing weapons for villains and then disposing of them after use.
They would reappear at another robbery some months later elsewhere in the country. He handed the little man a brown envelope, and said, “Here’s seven-fifty. The Colonel sends his regards.”
The little man, hardly five-feet tall, smiled, opened the envelope and deftly counted the contents, saying at the end, “Spot-on. I’ll get the goods.” He departed through a heavy drape at the rear of the counter. He soon returned, carrying a large sports holdall, and said, "Just check the contents, and I’ll give you a receipt.
Lenny opened the bag and found one full-length Purdey shotgun and a shorter version, clearly modified with shorted stock and barrel. Both were wrapped in sackcloth. Also, in the bag was a cardboard box. This contained several cartridges. He said, “Looks in order t’ me. Usual cartridge filling?”
“Yep,” Guy replied. “Normal nuts and ball-bearings. Should leave quite a hole. Packed ‘em m’ self. Here’s yer receipt.”
Lenny closed the bag and looked at the receipt. It read: Deposit for hire of tools £750.00. All in order and opened the door to the street. As he did so, Guy said, “The Colonel knows the rules. No return after seven days after the job; they’ll be problems.” Lenny said he understood and closed the door.
Lenny headed home as a nerve-wracked meeting was taking place in the flat of Anne Pritchard. The only guest was Harold Pearson, who was already beginning to doubt his wisdom of wanting to marry Anne. She, in turn, had become more determined to tie the knot with the wealthy, retired banker.
“Now Harold,” she began in her most authoritarian tone, “I’ve spoken to the vicar.” Harold interrupted, “I thought I was going to do that?”
“I wanted the answer now, not at your banking speed,” she replied.
Harold looked crestfallen and kept quiet. Life between them was beginning to change and not to his satisfaction. Sunday lunch still took place. Strip poker and ‘nookey’ was off the menu. “Until after we’re wed,” she had declared.
“As I’ve said, I’ve spoken to the vicar and he says we can have a church wedding.”
“But you’ve been wed,” Harold bravely commented.
“That may be the case, but it was annulled because he failed to consume the marriage.”
“Consummate,” he corrected her.
“I know what I mean; he didn’t actually do anything. So, it was annulled. He was more interested in his new, young boyfriend. It leaves me free to have a white wedding.” She smiled at Harold and placed her hand on top of his. “Now, let’s get down to reality,” she quickly added.
Harold’s left eye twitch had returned after years of being under control.
As these events were being played out, the Bishop and his wife, Samantha, were sitting in the bar at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, waiting for Glynis. She made an entrance at one o’clock. Striding into the bar, hips swaying in a manner a younger woman would find it difficult to better. She spotted the Bishop, and Samantha was sitting at a small table near a window and made a bee-line for them. The Bishop stood up. Glynis giggled, and said, “Bish, so nice to see you again,” leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then turned her attention to Samantha, who had given up a dancing career to marry a handsome, young cleric. She still had her good looks and slimness belying her age.
Samantha was now standing and smiled at Glynis, who squealed in delight, flung out her arms and hugged her, saying, “Sam, darling, it’s so good to see you. How long has it been?”
“Some forty years, since we trod the boards.” She turned to her husband, and said, “We used to be in the same dancing troupe together.”
The Bishop smiled, placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder and said, “You two have a lot of catching up to do. I have a church meeting to attend to. I’ll leave you in peace to chat.”
Samantha leaned forward and kissed her husband. “I’ll see at home later. Take care.”
The two women were left alone, sipping wine and reminiscing. The last the Bishop heard was his wife telling Glynis about other surviving member of the old days. Little did he realise what the future held with these two meeting after so many years.
Back at the Retreat, a ginger cat sat on the branch of the oak tree, cleaning its forepaws and backside, the way cats do. She stopped with one paw raised at the sound of the bagpipes, singing and the departure of a military-style woman heading for her car and driving away at speed as a loud cheer rent the air.