The ‘bank robbery’ saga and its embarrassment particularly annoyed her. Despite the fact that Mary Murphy was the warden and as such a council employee, it was a fact generally ignored by Mrs Samuels, who behaved as if she owned the home.
Jock had decided he would shock the harridan into silence. He was embarrassed at the fluff-brushing episode. So far, rudeness and anti-social behaviour had failed, so he became determined to find ways of annoying Martha Samuels. He had become obsessed of finding ways of getting her to cease the constant barrage of criticism aimed at the other members of gang of four and her eye-fluttering techniques towards him and her offers of lunch or dinner.
She had in his mind become a ‘blathering bint’ chastising anyone unwilling to obey her set of social rules but being sweet and nice to him. He had to find new ways of curtailing her efforts to romance him.
Some two weeks after deciding he had to take action and following many minor ‘offences’, he was jolted into action.
A month away from what the Colonel dubbed as ‘their final destiny’, Jock had decided a touch of the highlander, which was called for at the regular Wednesday social gathering of residents. He anticipated Sylvia Samuels would be there, and he could embarrass her into silence.
This was a day Carol Smythe paid a visit to the Retreat, not to see the four, but merely to pick up her supply of ‘veg’ and have a chat with Guy. Whilst they chatted in the black polythene lined greenhouse, Jock sat on the side of his bed, having pulled on his thick, dark green socks. He tightened the ‘tabs’ that stopped them from falling down and were part of the dress-code of highland regalia.
He stood up and pulled on a clean, white shirt. Then, he wrapped his kilt around his waist, tightening the leather buckles on either side of his waist. He looked in the long mirror, so far satisfied with the results. It was the first time for some years he’d donned his highland day-wear. Prison had prevented him.
Ten minutes later, he was dressed in brown brogues and a tie of the same colours as his kilt. He finished it off with his kilt pin in place and his sgian-dubh pushed down his right sock. Only a blue gem-stone was showing.
He strode out of his flat, down the corridor and into the day room, expecting to see among the others the formidable shape of Mrs Samuels. No sign of her. The source of one comment from the assembled ladies, none younger than eighty, was, “Hello, sexy.” He smiled in response.
He asked Mary, “Where’s the Samuels woman?”
“Away on business,” she answered and headed for the kitchenette.
The other members of the gang appeared. Reg was the first to speak. “Gawd! Who you trying to scare?”
“You ken the answer,” he responded. “But she’s aware someplace else. Kilted up fer nuthin’.”
In the corner of the lounge, a man dressed as a clown was extracting a dummy from a suitcase, saying out loud, “Y’ see, Jimmy has got his own mobile home.” No one took much notice of what followed. Lenny groaned, and said, “You’d think they’d get something better than that. Gawd! He’s terrible.”
The residents suffered in silence, then a sprightly lady and a younger woman came into the room. At the same time, the clown had finished. No one clapped.
As the older and younger woman sat near the doorway, they were joined by Mary, who enquired, “How is your mother today?”
“She’s coping. The dementia is getting bad. They’ll look after at the nursing home.” As she spoke, a musical rendition came over the speaker system, played by an unknown band with an accordion and fiddles. I Love a Lassie was the Scottish Ballard. Jock started to click his fingers and at first, just mouthed in silence a few words.
Then, to every one’s surprise, he stepped forward and began singing in a perfectly pitched, tenor voice. I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan’ lassie, If you saw her, you would fancy her as well.
I met her in September, popped the question in November,
So, I’ll soon be havin’ her a’ to ma-sel
Her father has consented, so I’m feelin’ quite contented, ‘Cause I’ve been and sealed the bargain wi’ a kiss.
I sit and weary weary, when I think aboot ma deary,
An’ you’ll always hear me singing this…
He started on the chorus, with one arm outstretched. He danced forward. He took the hand of the older lady and began waltzing her across the floor. The younger woman and Mary tried to stop him, but he was too quick. He continued singing to the lady as he waltzed her around the room.
Then, with a look of horror from the younger woman, the elder lady seemed to be enjoying the encounter.
I love a lassie, a bonnie bonnie lassie,
She’s as pure as a lily in the dell,
She’s sweet as the heather, the bonnie bloomin’ heather, Mary, my Scot’s bluebell.
I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan’ lassie,
She can warble like, like a blackbird in the dell.
She’s an angel ev’ry Sunday, but a jolly lass on Monday.
She’s as modest as her namesake the bluebell.
She’s nice. She’s neat. She’s tidy, and I meet her ev’ry Friday.
That’s a special nicht, you bet, I never miss.
I’m enchanted. I’m enraptured, since ma heart the darlin’ captur’d.
She’s intoxicated me with bliss.
She smiled at him, then laid her head on his shoulder as he continued to sing and dance with her. Other residents apparently dozing off watched in fascination at the turn of events. Every so often, she repeated ‘thank you’ to him. He continued to sing until the music faded out.
I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan’ lassie, I could sit an’ let her tease me for a week.
For the way she keeps behavin’ well, I never pay for shavin’, ’Cause she rubs ma whiskers clean off with her cheek.
And underneath ma bonnet, where the hair was, there’s none on it,
For the way she pats ma head has made me bald.
I know she means no harm, for she’ll keep me nice and warm,
On the frosty nichts sae very cauld.
The musical background ceased as he finished the song. After a short pause, he burst into a new Ballard with no backing and continued to lead her around the floor.
He began singing.
O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June. O, my love is like the melodie, That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I
And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.
As he twirled and danced, he looked at her and saw her weeping. She spoke out loud whilst tears streamed down her cheek. "You’ve just made be very happy. I’ve always wanted to
be swept off my feet by a kilted man."
He held her close and continued singing,
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve Tho’ ’t were ten thousand miles!
As he danced, with her back to the side of the younger woman, he let her go. Then, in an exaggerated gesture, he bowed, holding one hand behind his back and the other outstretched in front of him.
As he bowed, her daughter and two female attendants, carrying two of her suitcases, guided her out of the door. She stopped, still weeping, she half-turned and looked back at Jock. She blew him a kiss and mouthed silently, “Thank you.” She turned away and walked out of the building.
The room was silent.
Reg broke the silence. “Blimey mate, you know how to chat up the birds. Didn’t know you’re a good singer and dancer. You really cheered her up.”
Lenny added, “Good ’un mate. Well done.”
The Colonel just nodded. Other residents began clapping him. Mary came to his side. “You’re a bit of a dark horse. I think
you’ve just made a lady very happy.” Mary smiled, looked up at Jock and said quietly, “You look very handsome dressed like that, quite a lad when you were younger, I bet.”
Jock shuffled, look at his three pals, then down at the floor. “Thanks, just wanted to give her something to remember.”
He looked at the three, and said quietly, “Ay, tis a pity my original scheme was blown awar.” Without another word, his kilt swinging, he left the room."
Mary’s view of the ginger-haired Scot had just greatly improved.
Carol Smythe sneaked out of the building and headed for a meeting with friends and began distributing her ‘veg’ supplies and collected their ‘donations’.
Jessica Creswell flexed her cane as she saw her latest one-to-one language student coming up the garden path. She had, in that morning, renewed her advert in the Brighton Newspaper as: Improve Your Language skills.
Lenny had noticed the advert, despite his reading limitations. He would talk to Miss Creswell.
A long-haired ginger cat stretched, arched her back and jumped from the branch of the oak tree, seemingly bored with the lack of activity, and disappeared into the shrubbery.
Chapter 11
SOME months before the four took up residence in the social community section of the Retreat, a strange character moved into the private wing. Of indeterminable age, he described himself as a retired GP from the North of England. After settling in and hearing that there was no nearby NHS or private surgery and the elderly residents had a tedious journey to see a doctor, he set up a small consultancy, dealing only with residents of the Retreat.
With the compliance of the council’s Residential Homes Manager, Hilary St Claire, ‘Doctor’ Charles Staines, used a disused office at the residential home as his ‘surgery’. He would charge anyone a small fee for consultation. This was between ten and twenty pounds. It often led to hospitalisation for his patients with a mystery illness.
Lenny was sure his face was familiar and likened him to a grumpy, old character in the Benny Hill show. His neatly trimmed ginger moustache, which matched the colour of his mop-style haircut. He had a strange, county-style accent and constantly masticated as if he was chewing something. Lenny was convinced he wore a wig.
The doctor’s private enterprise was beginning to unravel some days before the gang of four took up their tenancy. It was some weeks before they discovered he was the casualty being taken away by a siren-screaming ambulance as they checked in.
According to the rumour mill, he had suffered head injuries after being battered by a long-term resident, i.e. seventy-eight-year old Jessica Creswell’s walking stick after he told the former teacher and dedicated spinster she was pregnant. The police were unable to get a coherent story from either party, so the matter was quietly put on the back burner. They knew Miss Creswell’s background as ‘the spanking teacher’, sacked by a Manchester school for her excessive disciplinary methods.
They knew nothing of a Doctor Charles Jefferies.
Some weeks after the incident, Reg’s back played him up badly and he was constantly in pain. Additionally, he developed a nagging cough. It was to be the old, invalid villain’s first, and only, visit to ‘Doctor’ Giles Jefferies, a visit he was to regret.
Sitting at a kitchen-type table, the ‘Doc’ looked at Reg and without taking his temperature, blood pressure or even touching his ‘patient’. He was small and paunchy, with a mop of blonde hair which appeared to have a life of its own.
His ginger moustache twitched from side-to-side, as if chewing something. The medicine man suddenly broke into a conversation. "Had these problems long, Mister Crowther?
“The backache, some months. The cough, a couple of weeks,” Reg replied.
Suddenly, the doctor stood up, opened a filing cabinet draw and pulled out a green can with a crimp top, then extracted a white can of a similar size and handed both to Reg. “These should do the trick. Get somebody to rub the green oil in once a day. Brilliant for stiff limbs. It might take up to a week before it takes effect. It’s usually very good for muscular problems. Now this one,” he pointed to the white can. "It’s a type of drench. Mix an egg-cupful of the medicine with water
and sip it when your throat annoys you."
He left the surgery now, knowing the so-called doctor was wearing a blonde wig.
That evening, he’d tasted the medicine for the first time and asked his carer to rub the liniment into his back. The outcome was a nasty taste in his mouth and no apparent beneficial help. Plus, a carer willing to help and then complaining about the disagreeable smell as she rubbed his back with the thick, green liquid.
The young carer assigned to Reg mentioned the smell to her grandfather. He sniffed her hands, and said, "It smells like stuff we used to put on horse’s legs to help stiff limbs. Horrible stuff when it gets too old.
“I’ve got an idea that’ll help.” He stood up and shouted to his wife, “Got a spare pair of rubber gloves, luv?” He left the room, returning after a few minutes, carrying a green, hessian bag with a shoulder strap attached.
“Here you are, luv. I reckon this will help.” He extracted a World War 2 gas mask from the bag.
The next morning, Reg was astonished when young Sue arrived in his flat, wearing a gas mask over her blonde locks, her face hidden and her voice, a muffled monotone. A pair of oversized, yellow rubber gloves covered her delicate hands. Reg sat in astonishment when, using some kitchen paper, she rubbed the green, sticky liquid into his bare back. She wrapped the kitchen paper into cling film and threw it into the waste bin. She left, still wearing the mask and gloves.
Reg coughed, then took a gulp of the ‘cough medicine’. He muttered to himself, “Bloody hell this tastes horrible.”
Two days later, after several other residents complained about Reg’s bad breath and the stink emanating from him, the Colonel went to his flat to understand what caused the bad breath and appalling body odour. As he arrived, he was astonished to see Sue, the carer, leaving, still wearing the yellow rubber gloves and the gas mask firmly attached to her head. No one would have recognised her.
After covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief, in a feeble effort to stem the smell, he opened all external windows as wide as they would go. Then, he spotted the two cans on the kitchen top. He took out his magnifying glass and read the faded label on the side of the can. At the bottom of one was a warning:
“FOR VETINARY USE ONLY. EXTERNAL USE ONLY!”
Then, he picked up the second can and read the label, “FOR VETINARY USE ONLY.”
He looked again at the faded label and could just make out the ‘use by date’. The can of oil read: January,1962. The, so called, cough mixture declared the date as March,1965. Carrying the two cans, he went into the lounge of the flat. ‘Reg, have yer read the labels on these two cans?’
“No, writing too small and difficult to read. What’s the problem?”
The Colonel stood silently, taking his handkerchief from his mouth and placing the two cans on the table, and said slowly, “Reg, old son, you are being slowly poisoned. This stuff is for animal use only. Vets normally dish it out. Not only that, it’s years outa date. You’re damn lucky this stuff hasn’t killed yer.” Reg responded, “Vet’s stuff? But that doctor said it wuz for me bad back and the other fer me cough. Gawd, it could ’ave killed me, yer say?”
The Colonel replaced his magnifying glass back in his pocket and slowly and quietly spluttered, “Oh my good Gawd, this stuff was out of date some forty years ago. Don’t take anymore. I’ll get some Voltarol from the chemist and some cough mixture for yer. I’m takin’ these two cans so you can’t be tempted.”
Later in the day, as he was queuing in the chemist, he met Sergeant Wallace. “How’s old smelly?” he asked.
“If it weren’t for that so-called doctor, he’d be better. Do you know that old blighter gave Reg some stuff fer his back and his throat, and it was supposed to be fer animals only? And they’re fifty odd years outa date.”
“What was it?” the sergeant queried.
"One can is green, oily stuff. Smells dreadful. The other can contains a thick, browny stuff. It also smells awful. I think this is what gives Reg that smell. I’ve got the can wiv me. I’ll throw ’em away later. It says on one can that it’s fer external vet’s use only. The other he had to have an egg-cupful mixed with water, and he had to take sips. I think it was some sort of medicine fer cows and ’orses, if they have a cough.
“You know the funniest thing about this was the carer. She’d taken to wearin’ big yella rubber gloves and, would yer believe it, a gas mask; yer know them things from the war. It seems it was the only way she could rub the green gunge in and stand the smell. T’ me, it was, wotcha called it? Surreal.”
“You still got the cans, then?” Wallace queried. “Any chance I can have ’em? You know, forensic and all that.”
“Yeah, cos yer can.” He handed over the bag with the offending cans inside.
The next day, three of the ‘team’ sat in the lounge, ready to depart for their usual midday sojourn to the Talbot when six large out-of-town policemen were let in by Mary. After a brief discussion, they were shown through the door leading to the private wing. Less than fifteen minutes later, they returned with a handcuffed ‘doctor’ and escorted him to a police van and locked him in. No fuss, no bother. He seemed resigned to what was happening and went quietly. Four other police officers entered the so-called surgery and went through emptied boxes of files and medication.
Later that afternoon, Reg made a rare visit, with the others, to a pub in the centre of town. The body odour was less prominent with the aid of perfumed body and bad-breath sprays. They met Sergeant Wallace at the Sand’s Bar in the centre of town. “Ah, Colonel, I’ll need a statement from you.”
Ever nervous of making any statement to the police, he slowly asked, “Why should I? And what about?”
“It’s about that medicine stuff that so-called doctor gave Reg and its side effects.”
The Final Heist Page 7
