by Cathy Ace
Mavis was somewhat taken aback when Carol Hill checked her watch, nudged her friend and snapped, ‘I know we were late, and I’m sorry about that. Annie couldn’t get away from her office as early as we’d hoped, so now we’re in a bit of a rush. I really need to get home as soon as I can. I wonder, matron, could you take us to Corporal Wilson’s room to collect his belongings now? Or to his bedding, rather? That’s what you call them, I believe.’
Unable to shake the feeling that some sort of funny business was going on between the two women standing in front of her, Mavis decided it was probably best to let them get on with the task for which they’d visited, and get them out of her way – so she could get back to work. She rearranged her shoulders, straightened her back and replied professionally, ‘I agree. Let’s walk together.’ She set out along the corridor.
As Carol and Annie scampered behind her, Mavis continued, ‘Indeed we do call them beddings, Mrs Hill. The name goes back to a time when almost all that was offered to those who lived here was a bed. Nowadays, of course, each Barracker has their own little room with fitted everything, and as much privacy as they want. A far cry from the times when fifty men shared a privy at the end of the corridor – that being the easiest place from which to empty the earth closets.’
Carol wrinkled her nose, and Mavis allowed herself to laugh at her expression.
‘Och, my dear, don’t panic; the Barrackers have very nice bathrooms these days. Why they even have lifts and ramps to give access to all areas for those in wheelchairs – the television lounges, Internet rooms, and even the allotments, you know.’
‘So do they all live on one floor here?’ asked Carol.
Mavis checked the watch pinned to the top of her crisply starched nursing apron and said, ‘On three. All the same as each other. You’ll see when we get there,’ and she marched on. Deciding she should do her usual bit to educate visitors about her place of work, Mavis took great pride in pointing out the fabulous Grinling Gibbons limewood carvings at the end of the corridors above doorways that had once led to the infamous earth closets. She further explained that, while William III had been responsible for approving the Wren design and paying for the majority of the building work, it had been planned that the barracks would be finally opened during what turned out to be the end of Queen Anne’s rule, in 1714; delays had meant it had not been occupied by the old soldiers it was designed to house until 1717, but the magnificent statue of the female monarch standing guard over the Barracks Square had not been replaced by one of the then-monarch, George I. It took the women no more than ten minutes to reach the third-floor beddings of Tiny Wilson, but during that time Mavis felt she’d given Carol and Annie a comprehensive history lesson about the building, the changes made to it during its three centuries of occupation, and the plans that lay ahead of it.
Mavis finished her mini-tour by explaining the entire building was soon to be fitted with WiFi to accommodate the ‘Silver Surfers’ who lived there. She also told the women how Tiny and Lofty had been almost joined at the hip since Tiny’s arrival, and that Lofty was taking the death of his old friend very hard indeed – to such an extent he’d been moved to an area of the infirmary reserved for those who needed some extra attention.
Mavis was surprised when Annie asked, ‘Could we see Lofty before we leave, matron? He’s such a character, in’t ’e? And I feel we bonded at the funeral last week. It would be nice to look in on ’im; maybe there’s some little memento of Tiny he’d like to keep? We wouldn’t make him too tired, or nothing.’
Mavis suspected Annie would make anyone tired, but nonetheless agreed she’d send someone to accompany them to Lofty in about half an hour – which was the amount of time she felt they’d need to collect together Tiny’s belongings. A large green plastic wheelie bin was already positioned outside the oak-built cubicle that had been Corporal Wilson’s home, but Mavis felt she had to make a few things clear before she left the women to their task.
‘As the person ultimately responsible for not just the health but also the well-being of the Barrackers,’ she began, ‘I am the only one who can allow you access to Tiny’s bedding. So, if the sergeant-at-arms comes along and makes a fuss, you tell him I said you could be here. He hasn’t got any real authority; it’s an ancient title and he likes to sometimes take a stand because a woman is in charge of domestic arrangements. So feel free to tell him to phone me, or you phone me yourselves if you have any questions; there’s a phone inside each bedding, you can use that. My extension number is 1000; just push the red button, then the numbers.’ Mavis looked at Carol and added, ‘It’s quite simple.’
Mavis hoped the dim-looking Carol understood, then continued, ‘Just remember all the fittings are fixed for a reason; they’re ours. As is the television set, the sheets, bedding, and all the towels. I’ll get a sweep – which is what we call our cleaners – to come and sort all that out later, when you’ve left. Everything else is Tiny’s and you can take it, or leave it behind, and we’ll donate it to a local thrift shop, after it’s been made available to the Barrackers who might need or want it.’
‘Are they all so poor they’ll take hand-me-downs then?’ asked Annie in what Mavis judged to be an inappropriately cheeky tone.
Before Mavis could answer, Carol added, ‘Do they have any opportunities to make money around here? That would be a good idea.’
Mavis was beginning to get annoyed. ‘All retired soldiers receive a pension that’s transferred directly to us, here. We only have non-commissioned ranks at Battersea, so none of them tend to come from monied families. Tiny’s daughter has a title, but married it; there aren’t many like her. As for their circumstances, aye, well they’ll all be in a slightly different boat; some of my charges have chosen to sell everything they own, give the proceeds to their next of kin, and live out their years here, surviving on their pensions. They have everything they need here, and companionship too. Of course, they can sell the fruit and veg they grow at the allotments, and some of them enjoy making things as a hobby which they can then sell at our open days and seasonal fairs. Some of the warrant officers make a pretty penny advising television companies about historical details and so forth, and I know one particular Barracker has become quite famous as a figure about London – someone the news people like to interview a great deal; I believe he’s quite in demand. I suppose some of our wards might have a tidy sum tucked away in the quartermaster’s strongroom; the quartermaster here is the keeper of our own internal banking system. You might be surprised to know we even have our own cheque books; of course, they’re only of any use here. By the way, I’ve already made enquiries, and Corporal Tiny Wilson had seventy-six pounds lodged with the QM; you can collect it and sign for it before you leave.’ Mavis hoped her emphasis on her final word meant Annie and Carol were in no doubt she hoped that would be sooner, rather than later.
With that, she left the women alone, and bustled efficiently along the corridor, the starch in her apron almost crackling as she headed back toward her office to get on with some work.
Carol looked at Annie, then they both peered apprehensively into the space they’d come to search for ‘clues’ – though neither of them had the faintest idea of what that really meant.
Measuring about nine feet in every direction, Tiny Wilson had lived in an oaken cube; oak paneling on the walls, oak boards on the floor, and even an oak ceiling made the place feel like a coffin – or so thought Carol, and she said as much to Annie.
‘It is a bit claustrophobic,’ agreed Annie.
Neither woman seemed too keen to enter the little room. Carol was relieved when Annie eventually took the plunge. ‘Come on, doll, we’ve only got half an hour before we get shunted off to see Lofty, so we’d better step lively,’ she announced.
Carol followed; the tiny space felt immediately full. ‘It’s not exactly the Ritz,’ she observed.
‘Wouldn’t know,’ answered Annie.
Carol’s eyes swept the room, and she
decided it was best to start by pulling open the doors set into one wall; they revealed wardrobes, drawers, and even a little built-in desk. She’d received specific instructions from Christine’s mother, who didn’t want any of her father’s clothes, just his uniforms, medals, and cap badges. The only other items Christine’s mother had said she wanted were any papers, photo albums and suchlike, as well as any paintings or pictures that might be about the place. Carol had been told to make her own decisions about any remaining items.
Carol made an instant mental inventory of the room while Annie stared at the bed, transfixed. Carol gathered up some papers, and a bundle of old letters tied with red ribbon, from the desk drawers; a few family snaps in cheap frames sat at the head of the bed, and she found a battered old album in a desk drawer; one watercolor showcasing the Albert Memorial hung on the wall. Personal toiletries, five shirts, various undergarments, one pair of highly polished boots and two uniforms – one in green dress serge, and one Carol assumed was an everyday uniform – were tucked away in the little wardrobe. A few towels and a raggedy tartan dressing gown hung on a hook behind the door, but otherwise the room was bare.
As she stuffed items into several collapsible storage cubes she’d brought in her large tote, Carol wondered if any of the items might provide a clue that would lead them to the truth about what was happening to all the ‘old’ Barrackers.
Meanwhile, Annie was still staring at the bed. ‘D’you reckon he died there?’ asked Annie hesitantly, pointing toward the mounded duvet.
‘I expect they took him to the infirmary, Annie. Don’t keep staring at it; it’s just a bed.’
‘But it smells,’ hissed Annie under her breath.
Carol agreed with her. ‘The whole place stinks of disinfectant and old men – but what can you expect? It actually is full of old men, so maybe the disinfectant is a blessing.’
Both women jumped as a loud knock rattled the partially open door.
‘Anyone in there?’ called a gruff voice.
Annie pulled the door fully open, crushing Carol against the bed as she did so. Carol squealed and pushed back, so the door slammed into the face of the tall, stringy, bald man who was trying to peer inside.
‘Car!’ admonished Annie as she pushed her friend to one side, pulled the door open again, and apologized profusely to the man who’d been inadvertently thumped by the door.
‘Young lady—’ was all he could manage as he staggered backwards into the hallway.
‘Oh, heck, I’m sorry,’ called Annie as she pushed through the narrow door and tried to catch the teetering man. She failed. He fell. Luckily his cane broke his fall a little, but Carol was in no doubt he was of an age when falling could be very dangerous; visions of emergency hip replacement surgery floated through her mind’s eye as she, too, rushed forward to try to help the man to his feet, but it was too late – he’d already pushed the alarm button on a device around his neck and a high-pitched squeal was being emitted by the flashing orb. Along the hallway a light began to pulse high above a bedding doorway, and a bell began to peal.
As frosted heads appeared around doors, the sight that met their eyes brought expressions of astonishment and glee in equal measure; flailing on the floor, thrashing his cane in the air, was their sergeant-at-arms sporting bedroom slippers, a long-sleeved undershirt, and trousers held up with bright red braces; on her knees and trying to get hold of him was a black woman in a long raincoat who was using her very large handbag to fend off the blows of the cane; trying to pull her away was a short, stout woman who had thrown her own handbag to the floor in an attempt to get a better grip, causing its contents to skid across the shining oak boards.
The short, round woman was squealing at the tall, thin one; the tall, thin woman was barking back at the short, round one; the sergeant-at-arms was growling at them both. Above all this noise the alarms were ringing, and, pretty soon, the cheers of many of the residents were encouraging the man and both women to ‘give it what for’.
This was the sight that met Mavis MacDonald’s eyes as she came running, with two nurses in tow, into the corridor, and Carol could tell by the look on the matron’s face, she wasn’t having any of it.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ Matron shouted above the melee. She fired instructions at the two nurses, ‘You, shut off that alarm, and you, pull those women off the sergeant-at-arms.’ Carol watched as the matron scurried along the row of little rooms shouting, ‘Barrackers – there is nothing for you to see here.’ Carol suspected the matron’s words were falling on literally deaf ears in some cases.
Once they were disentangled from the sergeant-at-arms, both Carol and Annie stood quietly as Matron established that her elderly charge had suffered no immediate ill effects from the encounter; she sent him along to the infirmary with the two nurses so he could be thoroughly checked for bruising. She then unceremoniously pushed Annie and Carol along the corridor toward her office. Carol noted the knowledgeable tour guide had disappeared; Matron MacDonald was a guard dog, on duty.
By the time they reached Matron’s office Annie and Carol had assumed the demeanor of two schoolgirls brought to see the headmistress in disgrace; Carol could tell Matron MacDonald was angry, and she was filled with dread; she heard Annie trying to stifle a giggle and thought she might have to kick her friend to shut her up.
Matron began, ‘I will not have my barracks turned into a rowdy-house – do you understand?’
Carol felt her tummy tighten. She and Annie muttered, ‘Yes, Matron,’ as they bowed their heads in shame.
‘This is unforgivable; I allowed you to go to Corporal Wilson’s bedding for the express purpose of collecting his personal belongings on behalf of his family – much against my better judgment, I might add.’
Carol didn’t think Matron needed to add that at all; she’d made her feelings quite clear from the outset.
‘And you have the audacity,’ she continued, in her increasingly-strong Scottish accent, ‘to cause uproar from the minute I leave you alone; you even attacked the sergeant-at-arms. Poor wee man. He’s almost ninety, you know.’
‘Now hang on a minute—’ began Annie. Carol thumped her on the arm.
‘No, I will not hang on, Miss Parker,’ snapped Matron. ‘You are a troublemaker; I could see that in you from the moment you arrived. I had hoped Mrs Hill here would be able to keep you under control, but she is clearly not equal to the task, are you, Mrs Hill?’
This didn’t require a reply from Carol, but she shook her head resignedly in any case.
‘But we didn’t attack that man—’ began Annie again.
Matron bristled. ‘I don’t care to hear the specifics, Miss Parker; all I am concerned with is the outcome. Corporal Wilson’s daughter, the viscountess, or even his granddaughter, will be welcomed if they wish to visit his bedding, but you two ladies will leave now, and you are not to return to my barracks, ever again. Do you understand?’
Carol nodded meekly, and she felt tears prick her eyes. She and Annie managed to exchange a fleeting glance, and she knew she should have spoken up, but was feeling so unwell – following her unexpected physical run-in with a nonagenarian – that she didn’t. But she suspected Annie wouldn’t take her telling off easily. She was right.
Annie leaned across Matron’s wide desk and planted her hands there. ‘Now you listen to me, Matron Mavis flaming MacDonald – I’ve been told off by better than you, and barred from better places than this in my life –’ Carol believed this to be true – ‘and I won’t stand for being ripped a new one for something I didn’t do. Carol neither. That old geezer waltzed in and we didn’t mean to push him over; it was an accident. I tried to stop him falling, and Carol tried to help too, then he had a go at us. We’re the ones who need examining for lumps and bruises, not him; he walloped us something rotten with that stick he had. Assault with a deadly weapon, I call it.’
Matron drew a breath as if to reply, but Carol could tell Annie wasn’t going
to give her the chance. She continued in a quieter, more menacing tone. ‘What you don’t know, Matron, is we’re not even really here to get Tiny’s stuff, are we, Car?’
Carol’s heart sank. ‘Annie, I don’t think Christine would want us saying—’ She didn’t get any further.
Annie pressed on. ‘No, we’re here because his blessed daughter wanted Carol and me to have a bit of a snoop about for her. Now I’ll admit we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, but I’ll tell you this much – you’ve got an old soldier running around the City shouting “murder” and you’re not taking any notice. Well, Chrissie and her mum took notice – and we’re going to do all we can to find out if old Tiny was killed. On purpose. And we don’t care who knows it, do we, Car?’
Carol wanted to sit down, and glanced about for a chair.
There was a moment of total silence as Annie’s words hung in the air, then it seemed to Carol that the matron softened in some way; she brought a chair to Carol – appearing to have telepathically deduced she needed one – and nodded to another indicating Annie should use it herself. Finally she took her own seat behind her desk.
Carol thought Matron looked suddenly tired; she noticed she placed her small hands on the desk in front of her and spread her fingers, lifting one after the other, as if to make sure they were all still there.
Carol also noticed the matron didn’t look at them when she spoke. ‘I have been thinking about the comments you made along those lines when we met,’ said the suddenly less-acerbic Scot. Carol watched as she tapped lightly upon the desk with her right forefinger, then seemed to make a momentous decision. Carol almost held her breath.
The matron sighed so hard, she almost shuddered. ‘What I can tell you, ladies, is that Lance Corporal Frederick Walsh passed away in August; he had been our oldest resident, by a matter of months. At the ripe age of 103 he was still incredibly healthy; he was one of those small, wiry men who seem to have boundless energy, and Fred, in particular, had a real zest for life. I liked him, which meant it was especially difficult for me – even after all my years of experience – to find him writhing in agony in his beddings one day. He told me he’d been ill since the night before; I asked why he hadn’t used his personal alarm to call for help, and – characteristically – he said he hadn’t wanted to be any trouble. Ach, men. Soldiers. Anyway, we got him to the infirmary, ran some tests while making him as comfortable as possible, and discovered he was suffering from an acute case of botulism poisoning. It’s not something one sees often, and not something one ever wants to see; it’s a very rare, and extremely deadly poison. In 1922 eight fishermen from Loch Maree, in the Highlands, died of botulism poisoning contracted from duck paste sandwiches. One of those men was my very own grandfather’s brother, so believe me when I tell you I come from a family that has always been obsessed by cleanliness, and has always been fastidious when it comes to the hygienic preparation and storage of food. I have brought those habits with me to Battersea Barracks. After some careful investigation and sampling, I was convinced Fred had not contracted the botulism from anything with which he might normally be expected to come into contact at the barracks. And Fred never went off barracks; he liked it here because he was usually the center of attention, even more so this year because he was due to lead our Barrackers in the Remembrance Day parade at the cenotaph, and lay the wreath there too. With this year being our tri-centenary, the Battersea Barrackers get to march ahead of the Chelsea Pensioners – not something that usually happens.’
