Looking for Mrs Dextrose (40 page)

“No problem, Nurse D’eath.”

“Good. Then I shall wish you goodnight.”

“Night, Nurse D’eath.”

Footsteps padded away along stone floor. The door closed.

Cedric’s baggy-eyed face appeared beneath his desk. “You’re on your own now, fella.”

At 23.58, having given the nurse long enough, I dearly hoped, to wash, change into her jim-jams, climb into bed and ideally fall asleep, I crawled out from my hiding place.

“Thanks!” I hissed at the security guard cum janitor as I slid away on all fours, but he seemed to have lost interest in the operation. That, or he was planning to deny any knowledge
of me.

At the end of the frankly spooky, candlelit corridor I stood, gulped, leant on the door handle and pushed. To my paranoid ears, I had unleashed the operating sounds of Satan’s rusty
hell-hinges; the reality must have been less spectacular, because no nurse came bowling from her quarters.

The lounge was in pitch darkness, to which my eyes were unaccustomed. Amazingly, given the paucity of thought that had gone into my plan, I had brought with me a pocket torch. However, with the
windowed door to Nurse D’eath’s office only yards away, it would have been too risky to use it.

So, with tiny, sliding steps, eyelids wide apart to create the greatest possible aperture, I shuffled towards the residents’ door, hands out before me, feeling for obstacles, trying to
remember where all the chairs had been.

“Is he here yet?”

“Stop saying that!”

“What time is it?”

“How do I know?”

“I’ve never trusted him.”

“Minker.”

I’d caught those exchanges a good while before I even reached my goal – and through solid wood. As escape parties went, they had all the subtlety of toddlers on sugar.

I flung myself the remaining distance, yanked open the door and went, “Shhhhh!” as quietly yet urgently as possible.

“Hurrah!” came the barely muted cheer, then I had to stop them singing
For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow
.

We were going to have to move fast.

“Quick, follow me!” I hissed, feeling for the nearest body, finding its hand and pulling. My night vision was at least improving and I could just make out the bathroom door.

“Where are we going?” came Peel’s voice.

“To the beach, you fool!” said Hoath.

“Please! Shhhhh!” I urged them.

“Is he here yet?” (Wilmington-Hovis.)

“Stop saying that!” (Hoath.)

“Will I need a spade?” (Peel.)

The only positive I could find was that we were at least moving.

For a glorious couple of seconds there was absolute silence. Then came a squeaking. Wilmington-Hovis’s meerschaum bath-chair. Unnoticeable during the day, at night, with the senses on
high-alert, it wheels sounded like vigorous frottage occurring on a trampoline pulled from a canal.

That did it. I stood to one side and windmilled my arm in the direction of the bathroom. “Everyone! Go! Go! Go!” I hissed.

When any body came within range, I shoved its back onwards. I didn’t care who it was, or what its state of decay, I just shoved. When I made out Wilmington-Hovis’s seated figure,
bringing up the rear of the queue, I grabbed the handles of his bath-chair and ran.

Dad was holding the door open as I skidded through. Assuming – hoping – that we were all safely inside, I turned and shut it behind us. And waited. Even the old gimmers held their
tongues.

We waited. We waited some more.

Silence.

How we had pulled that off without getting caught, I could not begin to guess. Either angels had been watching over us, or Nurse D’eath was a heavy sleeper. The latter seemed likelier.

Bowing my head, frazzled and shot through with adrenalin, I allowed myself to succumb to the sense of blessed relief – but briefly. We were not done yet, not by a long chalk.

Avoiding switching on the bathroom light, as that would have floodlit the outside, instead I made use of my pocket torch.

When I swung its beam over the residents, I couldn’t quite believe what I saw. Dad, Reculver, Hoath, Chislet, Peel and Wilmington-Hovis, all in their pyjamas with their top buttons done
up. Standing before me wearing the expectant expressions of good boys come Christmas. (Reculver, at least, had had the sense to also wear his dressing gown.)

It was heartbreaking.

“It’s freezing outside!” I hissed.

“Is it?” went Hoath.

“What month are we in?” asked Peel.

“Do you know, I’ve forgotten what the cold is,” said Reculver. “Blessed central heating. Never off.”

“Perhaps we should ask her?” suggested Peel. “To turn it off, I mean.”

“Don’t be stupid!’ said Hoath.

“I want to go home,” wailed Wilmington-Hovis.

Blocking out their to-do, I shone my torch at the window to the outside world. It was a large double sash, heavy in construction, with a lock attached to the bottom frame. I tried it, desperate
that it would open or I would once again reach an impasse.

No dice.

No bloody dice.

“I have a plan.” It was Mr Reculver.

“Really?”

“I’ve already thought this through, Pilsbury,” he said. “Because I have tried to escape before.” – That stunned the natives – “And I believe there
is only one method that might work.”

I was all ears. “What’s that?”

“Well,” he said. “That’s a strong, well-constructed window. So it’ll need something heavy to break it. And the only thing in here that’s suitable is the
sink.”

OK. “So your plan is: to throw the sink through the window?”

“That’s right. Except it’s attached to the wall and the floor.”

U-huh. “But you think you can shift it?”

“Well,” replied Reculver. “I’ve tried on and off over the past 23 years and I haven’t managed it yet.”

Brilliant.

He continued, undaunted: “But tonight I feel I may succeed.”

“Why tonight?”

“Because you have inspired us, Pilsbury.”

The big man squatted down, wrapped his sizeable, yet unconditioned arms, around the base, clenched his teeth and… “Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

Everyone was silent, expectant. Willing Reculver to succeed.

The sink did not budge.

“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

Nothing.

“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

That went on for a while, during which time I played my torch around the room. I was appalled to see that the bath had no screen around it, not even a curtain, and that the toilet cubicle had no
door. Was there no privacy afforded even here?

As I shone the beam around the window one more time, I spotted a red box high up on the wall, with writing on. It read: ‘In case of emergency break glass with hammer’.

“Hold on…” I said.

“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“Has no one noticed this before?”

“What is it?” asked Peel.

“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“A red box, minkbreath!”

“How did that get there?” asked Hoath.

“What’s it say on it?” (Peel.)

“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“I want to go home!” (Wilmington-Hovis again.)

I tapped Reculver on the back. “Yes?” he said, straightening with difficulty. I squiggled the torch beam over the box.

The penny dropped. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “You know, when an object becomes over-familiar, one somehow fails to notice it.”

Just then, the bathroom door burst open and a great bulk in shadows loomed there like a black hole hovering.

“
WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?
”

I heard at least one whimper.

The bathroom light came on. Backs of hands shot up to cover sensitive eyes.

“Look at you all!” sneered the wretched nurse. “
What do you think you look like?
And you, the younger Mr Dextrose,
did you really think you could get this lot past
me?
”

I had done, yes. “No,” I said.

D’eath snorted. “The moment I didn’t see you on the driveway, when you were supposed to be leaving, I knew something was up. My suspicions having already been aroused when you
gormless lot acted like kids planning a tuck-shop raid.
Pa-thetic
. Incidentally, I have sent Cedric home. His employment has been terminated.”

We stood there, we grown men, taking her derision. Peel and Hoath, staring down at their shuffling feet. Reculver, rubbing a hand over his face. Wilmington-Hovis, chin on chest as usual; his
pose never really altered. My father –
looking shameful?
What on earth had come over him, these past few weeks? Only dumpy Mr Chislet, staring back at Nurse D’eath, offered any
semblance of defiance.

“
What in God’s name were you thinking, the younger Mr Dextrose?
” she bellowed, revelling in the victory, milking it for all its worth.

“I was taking my friends to the seaside,” I said. Someone had to stand up to her.

Faces turned towards me.

“
They’re not your friends!
” she spat. “
Look at them!
Feeble, simple-minded, pitiful creatures.”

That did it. “Oh, piss off you sinister old goat,” I snapped.

Her gob fell open, revealing a tongue like a pink toad.

And I was on a roll. “These gentlemen have put up with your bile for far too long. Mr Reculver, Mr Hoath, Mr Chislet, Mr Peel and Mr Wilmington-Hovis, Dad – my offer still
stands…”

Nurse D’eath’s slow handclap started, echoing around the tiled bathroom, muffled by the plumpness of her mitts. Clap… clap… clap… clap.

“Very good, the younger Mrs Dextrose. Very good. Well, be my guest. If your ‘friends’ have the temerity to leave. Be my guest – I’ll hold the door open for them.
So. Who’s going to the beach with young Mr Dextrose? Who’s first?”

Feet shuffled. With my gaze I sought each of them in turn, first laced with expectation then, when each avoided my eyes, with pleading. Even Reculver bowed his head.

“Actually, I don’t want to come.” It was Wilmington-Hovis.

I walked over to him, his frail old frame in that wicker chair. “But Mr Wilmington-Hovis –
Mr W-H
– it was your righteous indignation that shone the brightest.
You’re part of the reason I did this. Surely you can’t…”

“Sorry,” he said. “I have to go home.” He swivelled his chair and turned away.

I could not bring myself to look at Nurse D’eath. I could already picture her face.

“Ahem.” Kenneth John Peel this time.

Not him, too? Surely not? “I’m… I’m not going either. Actually.”

“Why not?”

“Because. Well.”

“Because well what?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Oh come on, Mr Peel! Kenneth John Peel!
Ken John Peel!
The man they wrote the song about!”

“Well, you see, I’d miss the place.”

“Sorry?” I was dumbfounded. “You’d
miss
this place?”

“Alright. Not so much the place. I’d miss the therapy.”

I’d heard it all now. “Surely you’re cured by now!”

“Hmm. Well. It’s not quite like that.”

“So what is it like?”

Hoath butted in: “If you must know, Nurse Death wanks us off every morning. I’m tempted to stay myself.”

Nurse D’eath stood aside, arms folded, smirking, while Peel wheeled Wilmington-Hovis out of the bathroom. Those squeaking wheels made the only noise.

The game was over and I had lost. They were institutionalised, hopelessly ingrained in the system. I’d been wrong to push them so far, so quickly, the fragile old souls. I felt a surge of
guilt. “Look, I’m sorry, I…”

“Mink this! I’m with the boy!” came Dad’s rallying cry.

Reculver glanced at Hoath who glanced at Chislet, the three old friends in their polyester-cotton night attire, with their veins and their growths. As one, they nodded.

The team was back together.

We were going to the seaside!

Nurse D’eath merely watched, a supercilious grin slapped all over her chops. When we were gathered together in solidarity, she led us to the front door and held it open. Her parting words
were: “They’ll crumble. You’ll see.
And don’t you think you’ve got away with this
.”

Dad stuck two fingers up to her.

It felt good to have him back.

With my father in the passenger seat and Reculver, Hoath and Chislet in the rear, we bounced along on full throttle while the engine complained, beneath a sky the colour of
squid ink.

No one spoke, as the three long-term inmates discovered the outside world anew. Past the church and Martin’s the butcher’s, down Oak Tree Hill where the cows were sleeping, past the
village green and the duck pond, out onto the roundabout and the main road. A car passed us going the other way; its occupants pushed their heads out of its windows and youthful jeering careened
away with them.

“The young scallywags!” cried Hoath, unaccustomed to the contemporary vernacular.

“What a set of minks,” muttered Dad.

After we passed through Little Dritt, its stone cottages with their thatched roofs and its local shop, the sea appeared to our left, across untended grassland.

I heard Reculver gasp, “Oh my.”

It was a particularly beautiful night. A pair of lumbering cumulo-nimbus clouds drifted either side of a near-full moon, radiating its intense light and casting it over a casually undulating
sea. White and red lights blinked on and off out there, scattered about the water: vessels on the hunt for fish.

The sand appeared silver, a strip of precious metal. As we approached Dritt-on-Sea, passed the tram unlit and stationary at the end of its line, the pier, our destination, came into view.

“That’s where we’re heading,” I told my boys.

“I don’t care where we go,” replied Reculver. “Just make it last.”

A couple were just strolling off the pier, arm in arm, as I parked at the roadside ignoring the double-yellow lines. I checked my watch – 00.47.

A hefty breeze was blowing in off the sea, which blew my jacket open as I stepped out of the car. I wrapped the fabric tightly around me with one arm as I opened a back door with the other.

Reculver, Hoath and Chislet stared at one another.

“Come on, out you come!” I cried over the blustery wind. “The world won’t bite!”