SOON after the pregnancy saga, the ‘doc’ resumed his twice-a-week surgery with Mary Murphy’s help. The Last Retreat’s owners are the Local Authority Welfare Department under the management of Harriet St Clare. Many of her male colleagues and others had tried, without success, to determine her age. The general opinion was she was aged more than thirty, but less than fifty. Still, she was a strikingly attractive woman with her natural, blonde, waist-length hair usually tied up in chignon.
She was prone to sweeping into a room, saying in welcome. “Hi, guys. Good to see you’re all well,” waving her right arm about for no particular reason. This form of welcome applied to men or woman. She had little idea about the names of the residents. Before anyone answered her friendly greeting, the tap-tap-tapping of her four-inch high heels were the only sound as she departed in her trade mark pseudo-regal styled hips swaying, leaving some of the older men bordering on heart failure. Any questions became just a noise blowing in the breeze.
Lenny Smith, who had launched his criminal ‘career’ when he was aged fourteen, had a predilection of describing any official as a look-a-like for any movie star of TV. To him, Harriet St Clare was Amanda Redmond doing her regular job. According to Lenny, her acting was just moonlighting.
The other three usually nodded sagely when he made such an identity announcement. They had found it best to avoid any extended explanation and to have Lenny getting more agitated when anyone scoffed ‘at this dead cert information’.
Sitting in the day-room late one afternoon, before their early evening visit to the Talbot, the four paid their fifty-pence each and half-listened to the chatter around them. The vicar and his wife sat watching the others. Then, a rare visitor to afternoon tea arrived. Glynis Carswell, a former showgirl and entertainer sat in the only empty seat next to the vicar and Mary, who was dressed all in white, with calf-length tight trousers and a tightfitting blouse. A string of large, blue beads strung around her neck, which helped to disguise her formidable cleavage, even at the age of seventy-two.
The vicar began his usual grumble about the number of worshippers. He told the wife, “I’ve got to think of something that will increase the congregation.” He sat in silence. “I’ve got an idea. It’ll need some research, though.”
Mary interrupted his contemplations, and said, “We could get at least four hundred in the church hall to watch a show.”
The vicar leaned back in his chair. He nodded, pursed his lips and held his hands together as if praying and touching his pursed lips with his two index fingers.
He took his hands down and leaned forward, looking at his wife and was about to say something when he was interrupted by Glynis Grimble. “Forgive me interrupting. Maybe I can help. I used to manage a theatre and was in showbiz for many years. You could stage a very good entertainment gig. You could charge a small entrance fee for the benefit of church funds.”
As the three leaned over the table, Reg commented, “Don’t see her too often. I bet she was a stunner in her younger days. Wouldn’t mind time with her,”
Lenny replied, “Leave it out, Reg. You know you’re past it. You couldn’t even raise yer left toe. Never mind anyfin else.”
The Colonel added, “That’s Glynis. She lives in number eight. She used to be something in showbiz. She’s one of the women’s secret society lot.”
Reg stood up holding the handles of his four-wheel trolley. “Getting me legs ready fer the off,” he said.
As the Colonel folded that day’s edition of the Daily Mail and stuck it in the side pocket of his jacket, a face adorned with a flat, brown cap appeared in the doorway. Bent over at an angle, it appeared to have no body attached. By the time the four had reached the door, the mystery face had vanished.
The four left for their regular visit to the Talbot, leaving the vicar, his wife and Glynis huddle in conversation. Reg asked, as he walked with the others, “D’ think she’ll come for a drink with us sometime? Wouldn’t mind that; she a bit of alright.”
Lenny replied, “Dream on, Reg. She needs someone with a bit of umph in em. You ain’t got umph. In fact, yer umphless, even useless,” he chuckled at his own humour.
No one else said anything.
As the four sat in the pub, Glynis was giving the vicar and his wife a very sanitised version of what could be expected if she organised a burlesque-style show. The three agreed to meet a week away and flesh out the idea.
Glynis left with a smile on her face. The vicar was enthusiastic and smiled at Mary. “We could invite the Woman’s Guild, members of the WI, plus those from the Old Soldiers Club and the British Legion. We could raise some funds if we charged a fiver a time.” He rubbed his hands in glee and left the building alone, not having an inkling of what was in store.
Glynis vowed to talk to the ‘women’s secret society’ when they next met.
The ‘Face’ sat in a pub, dreaming up his latest offerings of scandal and gossip in the Brighton area. He believed the tabloid newspapers would buy his ‘exclusives’. He only dealt with the nationals. “They pay better,” he told friends. The local evening and weeklies had no dealings with him. ‘Cheapskates with no imagination’ he called them. Hardened newspaper staff ridiculed his ‘fantasy’ efforts.
It was a dry time for him and his exclusive tips that never seemed to see the light of day. Muttering to himself, he said, “These modern reporters have no idea what real stories are all about.”
He downed the last of his pint of lager. He was looking furtively around him. Bernie ‘Bent’ Buckle ambled out of the bar. He pulled is anorak around him and tugged his hat tighter onto his head.
Meanwhile, back at the Retreat, Carol Smythe had arrived to meet her four new charges. “Well, hello boys. How are you?” “Gettin’ there,” the Colonel responded.
“Yeh, sortin’ fings out,” Lenny added.
She looked at Jock, who said nothing, just nodded his head and smiled in acknowledgement.
“No probs,” Reg added, as he gripped the handles of his trolley.
“Well, OK, well done. Alright, lads, I’ll see you next month.” She suddenly looked up and saw a Caribbean Rastafarian walk past with plaited, blonde, hip-length hair.
The Colonel also saw him.
Carol Smythe continued, “Ah! The veg man has arrived. I need some greens.” She said goodbye and walked out of the rear door of the lounge. The Colonel saw her collect a plastic shopping bag from the man that he was told later was also an ex-con who had turned into a gardener.
The four decided they would try a new pub. Walking down Woodland Road at the junction with Coppice Way, they discovered a shop that appealed to Lenny. Sitting on a high stool outside the Fine Tune was a dummy dressed in a gorilla suit, playing a guitar with no strings. “Cor, Guy and the Gorillas, they were some act.” The other three walked on, leaving Lenny entering the second-hand music shop.
Fifteen minutes later, he joined his colleagues, saying, "I’ll have a pint. That’s some memory lane place. That shop. All sorts of stuff from the sixties. I’ll go there agin. What memories!
Bleedin’ marvellous."
None of the others joined in his musical enthusiasm.