02:00 to 03:00
“And a Happy Christmas to all of you at home” said Mr Hartnell. I raised
my small cup of tea in toast to my cryogenic unit where the now deceased
actor resides.
“That was very emotional” said Ian Devine.
“Emotional?” I queried.
“I always laugh until I cry at the idea that there are only twelve of us
in the entire world with this particular entertainment on digital
versatile disc.”
“That is rather amusing” I chuckled. “Indeed one might even describe it as
richly comic.”
“Well observed Dennis Brent” he agreed and we shared a communal smile. We
beamed happily for all of ten seconds until we caught ourselves smiling at
each other and withdrew our teeth with a pre-emptive strike against
h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l behaviour.
It was five past two in the morning – which is very like five past two in
the afternoon in the sense that I was alone with Ian Devine and no one was
visiting or telephoning me – and I decided to dust off my telephone
notebook and ring my father. Father didn’t sleep and hadn’t done so since
the blitz.
“What the hell do you want?” came father’s phone greeting.
“Father, it’s Dennis.”
“Who?”
“Dennis Brent.”
“Who?”
“Your son.”
“Ah, Donald – how are you?”
“No, father, it’s Dennis. Clarence Dennis Brent.”
“Is this a ploy to sell me insurance?”
“No.”
“Because my double glazing doesn’t need insurance. People like you should
be horsewhipped.”
“It’s your son Clarence.”
“Who?”
“Clarence.”
“Is this an erotic phone call?”
“Certainly not.”
“Are you sure? Say something erotic.”
“What?”
“Say something of an erotic nature. That way I’ll know whether you are an
erotic professional.”
“How?”
“Because I have heard enough erotic professionals in my time to spot a
fraud.”
“I don’t know any erotic words. I’m not even sure what erotic means.”
“Sexual. Perverted. Deviant.”
“I don’t know any perverted words.”
“Say nipple.”
“Father” I admonished.
“Say nipple or I’m hanging up the telephone.”
“N-i-p-p-l-e” I said reluctantly.
“Dennis? Is that you, m’boy?”
“Why yes it is, father” I said, pleased to have been recognised at last.
“I thought I told you to sod off and never call me again.”
“I was just wondering if there was anything I could do for you.”
“What?”
“Any little thing I could get for you, anything that you need?”
“This IS about insurance isn’t it.”
“No, once and for all, no.”
“Are you ill? Are you dying and trying to make amends for living an
utterly worthless life?”
“My life has not been worthless, father, as you well know. My book of
convention calibre technical anecdotes won the Bronze Spectacle at the
British Telehistorian Awards 1994.”
“You ARE dying. Well don’t expect me to spend my meagre pension on a
funeral – I’m going to be put in a bin bag when I’m gone and you shouldn’t
expect better.”
“Father, I’m not dying and I’m not selling insurance.”
“Then why the hell are you ringing me?”
“To see if there is anything you’d like me to do for you. I want to be
nice.”
“That goes against centuries of family tradition.”
“Yes well…”
“The Brent family have been mean and unpleasant for generations. It was a
Brent who told the Cavaliers where the King was hiding, it was a Brent who
repaired the oven in Pudding Lane back in 1666, it was a Brent who came up
with the format for Love Thy Neighbour…”
“Yes father but I want to do something nice for you.”
“Have you had a visit from some ghosts?”
“No father, not exactly.”
“In that case I’d like you to get me a secretary.”
“A secretary?”
“A secretary – someone to take care of all my correspondence. I’ve been
writing by hand for over sixty years and frankly it is beginning to annoy
me.”
“But father, I was thinking more of a box of…”
“That’s very kind of you Donald.”
“Dennis.”
“Don’t let me down Dennis or I’ll haunt you after I die which won’t be
long now.”
“But father…” and the line went dead. A secretary would cost me thousands
of pounds and be rather tricky to hire on Christmas Eve. I made a mental
note to begin a fascinatingly complicated chart to simplify this detailed
task. I had to copy Ian Devine’s programme and find a cheaper alternative
to a secretary for father. Two down, six to go. The hall clock chimed and,
it being two seconds slow to allow me to get into the drawing room by the
time the carriage clock struck the hour, I knew the time was now 02:59:58
02:59:59
03:00:00
|
