A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (16 page)

“They have bedbugs on the first floor,” he said fearfully.

“Right. That’s it,” I said decisively. “Simon. That mad money. Are you mad enough yet?”

O
kay, look. When I started that day, I had absolutely no inkling that I was going to spend the latter part of the afternoon busting an old friend out of a nursing home. It’s not the kind of thing you plan. It’s the kind of thing you do just as I did . . . in a sudden burst of outrage.

So, first I told Simon about Trevor Branwhistle’s home for retired thespians.

“It’s a nice old Priory with a lovely garden, and they’ve got young student nurses from the nearby hospital,” I told him. “The actors there seem to be doing very well, and some of them are even able to perform this summer. But it’s way out in Cornwall. Would you want to leave London?” I asked, knowing how much the city’s venerable theatres meant to him.

Simon pondered this very carefully. Then he looked up at me so trustfully that I nearly wept. “Do you think it’s a good place for me, Penny dear?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s got fresh air and better food and nicer people. I don’t even know if I can get you in, but I’ll try if you’d like me to.”

Simon took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said decisively.

“Should I speak to your doctor first, to see if you’re up to such a trip?” I asked.

“My regular doctor died a year ago. That’s how I ended up with this crowd,” Simon said. “I don’t like the doctor who replaced him.”

“Want me to call mine?” I asked. Simon nodded, looking suddenly too scared to speak.

“Will they let you?” he whispered. “They don’t like inconveniences here.”

“Too bad,” I said, hitting my speed dial.

I have learned that there are times like these when the inheritance I got from Great-Aunt Penelope comes in handy, and part of it is being able to get a doctor to show up when
you
want him, instead of when it’s convenient for him. I am not ashamed to say I used all the influence I possibly could that day. I didn’t even have to actually remind my doctor of the contribution Jeremy and I had made to his new wing at the hospital in Belgravia. He just heard it in my tone when I said, “This is critical,” and he answered briskly, “I’m on my way.”

While I was waiting for him to come, I called up Trevor and told him that my good friend Simon Thorne had fallen ill. Could he find a bed for him? When he heard the name, Trevor quickly consulted with his staff.

“If he doesn’t mind sharing a room, it will be all right,” Trevor said. “Bring him as soon as he’s ready.”

My doctor arrived quietly, as if he were an ordinary visitor. After he examined Simon and consulted the charts, he stepped aside and told me in a low murmur that although Simon was quite seriously ill, he could certainly make the trip to Cornwall, if he wanted to. When I mentioned the name of Branwhistle’s Actors’ Home and the hospital in Port St. Francis, my doctor looked them up on his computer and said that they had excellent facilities for Simon.

“May I make a suggestion, off the record?” the doctor said to me quietly. “This place he’s in now has a reputation for not being very agreeable at discharge. They use protocol to try to keep their occupancy level high so they can continue to qualify for funding. I am willing to sign any medical and legal papers necessary, but I suggest you get the patient all dressed and ready to go the moment I give you the word. Have a car ready, too. Don’t depend on this place to help you or make it easy to get out.”

That was all I needed to hear. I trotted right back to Simon’s bed, where he sat looking like an alert little bird in a nest. “Okay, Simon,” I said. “You got the green light. The doctor’s gonna file some papers for you, which you’ll need to sign, and the minute he does we’re out of here. Are you up for a caper?”

Simon’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Certainly,” he whispered with that trustful look.

“Where are your clothes?” I asked. He nodded toward a scuffed set of old lockers at the far end of the corridor. They were all half-size, and couldn’t store much. He handed me a key. I opened the lock and pulled out his pitifully small bundle of personal items, including clothes and a pair of shoes.

“Simon, where are all your other possessions from home?” I asked.

“My nephew sold most of them. The rest is in storage,” he said.

“We’ll get it later, okay?” I said.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Want me to help you dress now?” I asked.

“There’s a nice aide—that fellow over there,” Simon said. “His name is Omar. He’ll help me.”

I found the young Pakistani man assisting a patient who was trying to make his way back to bed with a walker. Once Omar heard that Simon needed help, he asked no questions and hurried over to him. I stepped out into the corridor to arrange for a car.

Because Jeremy had warned me that he was going to be in a meeting with a judge, where all mobile phones had to be off, I could only keep checking to see if he had e-mailed me back yet. But there was no news from Jeremy.

The one new message I had was from Rollo. It said:
Hello, Pen. Agent Rollo here. How goes it in Cornwall? Always loved that house. Got any new and dangerous assignments for me?

I hesitated, then phoned him. “Hey, Rollo?” I said. “I’m in London. A friend of mine here needs a ride. Remember Simon Thorne, the song-and-dance man at my wedding? Right, Aunt Pen’s pal. Well, I’m busting him out of a nursing home today. Can you pick us up and drive us to my town house?”

Now, the advantage of having an eccentric cousin (who’s more the age of an uncle) and who has lived a rather roguish existence all his life (in which he owes you, and your husband, a favor or two), is that he can be counted upon to do a strange deed with little or no questions asked. It is one of the things I like best about Rollo. There was only a brief pause and then he said easily, “Right. Will it be as dangerous and profitable as the last escapades?”

“No, not nearly,” I said.

“Hmm. Does Jeremy know about this?”

“Nope.”

“Delightful. What’s the address?” Rollo asked. When I told him, he said, “Ah. I’m actually not far from you at all. Be there in minutes.”

“Thanks.” I rang off, and while I stood there in an alcove of the corridor answering other e-mails, the doctor returned, saying the papers had been properly filed, and he’d given Simon some copies. So now Simon could go.

I thanked the doctor and he said briskly, “Not at all.” Then his beeper sounded, and he rushed off.

Moments later, two nurses went by without noticing me, just as one was saying, “There’s a strange woman around who’s trying to take a patient out. See if you can head her off while we assess the situation,” she added meaningfully.

Hastily I got off the phone and rushed to Simon’s side. He was sitting in his guest chair, fully dressed in the one suit of clothes that his nephew had left there for him. It looked incongruously formal to me. Simon allowed himself a faint smile.

“I think my nephew imagined I’d be leaving here with an undertaker, instead of a friend,” he explained.

“Well, screw him,” I found myself saying, surprising even me. Simon only chuckled.

“Did they bring the wheelchair, like Omar asked?” I said, looking around.

“Of course not, darling,” Simon said. “His supervisor went off in a lather about it.”

I glanced across the room, where an elderly gentleman was being wheeled back to his bed by a young female aide. I barely waited until the patient was in bed. Then I swooped down on the aide.

“Thanks, we’ve been waiting
hours
for that,” I said, taking the wheelchair so forcefully from her that she only stepped back and then said in bewilderment, “You’re welcome.” Apparently she wasn’t in the loop . . . yet.

“Come on, Simon, your chariot awaits. Get in,” I said, offering him my arm and helping him.

“They made me take a sedative,” he confided in me. “So if I doze off, don’t be alarmed. Just keep pedalling.”

I wheeled him down the hallway so fast that I didn’t even stop when the elevator door opened. A laundress was arriving with fresh towels as I barrelled toward her. Upon seeing me, she hastily pulled her cart out of the elevator. Which proves that there is some value in having a lunatic look in your eye. People do tend to clear the way for you.

I shoved Simon’s chair inside, groped for the button and closed the elevator doors just as I heard a nurse’s indignant voice saying, “Miss! Oh, Miss!”

Simon looked as if he was still a bit afraid of the personnel here. “She’s whopping mad,” he whispered.

“We don’t care,” I said. But the truth is, I was worried about what I’d find in the lobby when the elevator doors re-opened. An array of security guards with a cop waiting to arrest me? I pulled out my mobile and dialed Rollo again. He said he was just turning on to the street where we were.

“Great. We’re approaching the lobby now,” I said to him. “Get yourself right in front of the main door.”

“Check. I’m here already,” Rollo replied.

The elevator landed. The doors opened. No army yet. I pushed Simon’s chair out and headed speedily through the lobby with a nonchalant expression on my face.

I got about halfway across when one of the guards noticed me, but he didn’t make a move until the phone rang at the reception desk. A nurse and another guard came running toward him. They conferred hastily, then the three of them headed my way, and the guard called out, “Hold on, there!”

I steadfastly ignored him and I never stopped wheeling. They didn’t catch up with me until I was very near the front door.

“Miss, stop! You can’t do that,” the nurse declared accusingly.

I looked her straight in the eye. “Oh, yes I can,” I said. “You’ve got all the paperwork you need. But here is a copy, just for you.”

Right on cue, Simon handed me one of the copies of the release letter from the doctor, which Simon had signed, and which had been properly witnessed. I snatched it now and thrust it at the nurse.

“Read it and weep,” I said as the automatic doors slid open. I shoved Simon forward, gliding out and giving him the first gulp of fresh air he’d had in months. I trundled ahead determinedly, having immediately spotted Rollo, who was standing by his car with the back door open, just as I’d asked.

As soon as I waved to him, Rollo leaped forward. Simon handed me his little bundle, and then Rollo scooped Simon up in his arms and deposited him into the back seat. He shut the door, and Simon locked it. I hopped into the front passenger seat as Rollo rushed around the car to the driver’s side, and we locked those doors, too. Rollo turned on the car and floored it, just as if we’d pulled a bank job.

Believe it or not, the security guards had chased after us, and one of them even pounded on the trunk of the car as we pulled away. But it was all for show, because they hadn’t called the police, which meant that we must have done it right.

When we were already halfway across the city, and heading for my town house, I got an e-mail from Jeremy:
What’s up? Signed, Devoted Husband.

I e-mailed back:
Absconded with Simon Thorne. He’s coming to Cornwall with us. Love, Your Outlaw Wife.

H
igh season in Cornwall was a completely different world from the one we’d left. Those nice, empty highways were now clogged with summer traffic that barely crawled along, with cars full of shrieking kiddies and frazzled drivers. People handled this in different ways. Some stuck their bare feet out the window, even up on the dashboard, while their radios blared. Other drivers darted in and out of each lane, as if somehow this would enable them to fly over the traffic jam. And then of course, there were the vacationers who
did
fly over everyone, in private helicopters and small planes. It all made for a great deal of startling noise and soot in a land that had been so austere and quiet.

Meanwhile, tour buses and ferries plied the coast, disgorging day-trippers who were out seeking quick, cheap thrills in a couple of hours until they were summoned back to their group to move on. Mercifully, Port St. Francis wasn’t considered a hot spot, but even so, the traffic on its main street had practically come to a standstill, making it almost a pedestrian-only zone; for even here, the roads were thronging with clumps of tourists who’d straggled off the beaten path.

Ensconced in the Dragonetta, Jeremy and I inched along in the traffic as we were returning from the Priory, where we had just left Simon Thorne in his new surroundings.

“Hey, Simon seems to like his new home,” I said proudly.

We had already spent the morning arranging Simon’s books and possessions in a room he would share with an actor who’d once done a costume-drama TV series. I’d put flowers in a vase on Simon’s bedside table, and presented him with a nice mahogany box where he could keep his personal things—eyeglass case, pillbox, mail, etc. Then I unpacked his theatre scrapbook and put it in the drawer there.

Simon watched me do all this with a grateful and amused smile. Nora, the young nurse, personally escorted Simon on his tour of the grounds’ pretty patio and gardens. I’d glanced apprehensively at Simon as he took in his surroundings, for he looked a little pale from the long ride and from the whole upheaval. I had a moment’s worry of whether I’d done the right thing to uproot him from London, which had always been his home.

But for most of his life he’d been a travelling trouper who’d played theatres in all the far-flung corners of the British empire, so he seemed to take this as yet another role for a working actor. He waved regally at me as he was wheeled around, and I watched his expression change from wary to highly pleased when Nora informed him, “I must tell you that I’m
very
impressed with your ‘C.V.’ Penny says you have a great scrapbook of those wonderful gigs you played. Did you really meet Noel Coward?”