Brenty Four 2013 - Chapter 16
“Well” began Smasher once we’d given him leave to tell his story of afternoon tea with Lola Whitecastle, “I shall make myself comfortable and then I’ll begin.”
He went out into the corridor to find a chair and returned with an orderly and an orange plastic seat. The orderly put the chair down, moved Francois Devine’s arms again to keep them supple, took another picture as proof of a job well done and made to leave.
“Are you SERIOUSLY going to leave that chair there?” bellowed Smasher. “What is the world COMING TO?”
He kicked out at the chair but lacked enough coordination to do it properly and only caught it a glancing blow. Enough for it to make a squeaking noise as it moved a couple of inches along the floor but not enough to make a point grand enough for the volume that preceded it. The functionary picked the chair up and asked where Smasher would like it. He paused while he considered the best position from which to tell his story to me, Francois Devine and Melba.
“There” he said eventually. “No – wait – there.”
The functionary put it down in the indicated place but Smasher still wasn’t happy.
“I’m absolutely STEAMING with whoever designed this room as the acoustics are INTOLERABLE.”
He sat down on the chair and did some vocal exercises.
“TIM COMBE” he intoned. Francois Devine and I instinctively joined in as the rest of the cast had done in 1971 when Pertwee originated the ritual.
“HARRY ROY” continued Smasher. We echoed his historically valid words.
“Here will be adequate” he concluded. “Lend me a pillow, Dennis Brent, as my badly bruised coccyx won’t stand up to a couple of hours on this hard plastic chair.”
“A couple of hours?” I gasped. “How much afternoon tea did you drink?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm” he said coldly. “It really WINDS ME UP” and he smacked the chair with all his petulant might. Unfortunately – for him not us as we found it quite amusing – the impact on the chair merely jolted his bruised tailbone and caused him to whimper. He tried to turn it into another round of Tim Combe but we weren’t fooled. He’d literally hit himself in the coccyx there and everyone knew it. I threw a spare pillow to Smasher and he nearly caught it.
“I’m extremely DISAPPOINTED by your throw, Dennis Brent” he whined. “Learn to throw BETTER next time.”
He bashed the pillow on the foot of my bed two or three times before calming down and using it for the purpose for which it had been requested. Namely protecting his rear from wear and tear. At school he used to use a copy of National Geographic magazine on those occasions when his temper lead him to the Proctor’s office for a caning. As he got older and wider, a copy for each buttock became necessary but the principle remained sound.
“Well, it all started with my arriving on time and Lola Whitecastle arriving ten minutes late which, as you can imagine, left me APOPLECTIC.”
“Sorry, Mr Ganache, I simply couldn’t find anywhere to park” she told me.
“That is SIMPLY not true” I told her. “There is a multi-storey car park ten minutes in that direction which is NEVER full.”
“I’m sorry I…” she began but I interrupted her.
“I mean THAT way” I corrected, swinging my arm in the opposite direction once I’d compensated for the direction in which I was sat. I was furious with myself for making such a blatant error.
“Have you…?”
“I’ve ordered for us both. A pot of tea, one and a half scones each, a fondant fancy apiece and a selection of sandwiches. Ham, salmon and chicken.”
“I’m vegetarian” she announced.
“You can have first dibs on the salmon.”
“I don’t eat fish.”
Well, you can imagine that didn’t go down well. I may have raised my voice once or twice. I’m not absolutely sure but I can’t rule it out either.
“Then I shall eat ALL the sandwiches and you may have my fondant fancy as it is my least favourite item of those I selected.”
She said she wasn’t particularly hungry having already eaten out at breakfast and luncheon and I accepted that as the end of the food discussion.
“Tell me, Mr Ganache, what qualifies you to be my official secret biographer?” she asked.
“I am rather DISAPPOINTED that you haven’t done your research before coming here today. For my part I read every scrap of information I’ve accumulated about you over the years and spent the last two days sat in a car outside your home watching your movements. While not normally minded to cover for those who show an INFURIATING lack of effort, I shall give you a quick précis of my life and career. I am Britain’s number one telehistorian and have written many books, monographs, journal articles and essays on topics of telehistorical, interest. I have travelled the world visiting written records archives in search of fascinating technical information and was described by the Sunday People newspaper as “dedicated”. I am also the owner of the largest collection of “Roy of the Rovers” cartoon magazines in the world.”
“My brother used to read Roy of the Rovers” she interrupted. I hate being interrupted.
“I have never read Roy of the Rovers” I clarified. “I simply collect it. I have every issue, every annual, every special publication, every newspaper strip, every tie-in, every pastiche, every crossover and every item of merchandise. My collection is priceless and no, you may not see it. No one may. It’s mine. My third and final interest is the development of Britain’s motorway network. I do not own a car and have chosen never to learn to drive. My interest is intense and purely factual although occasionally emotion gets the better of me and I’ll get ANGRY when a perfectly good road like the M67 is CUT OFF IN ITS PRIME before it could go all the way to Sheffield, whatever that is.”
I may have launched a little spittle – justified I assure you as the M67 has always got my DANDER UP – as she coincidentally needed to wipe her eye shortly after I’d brought the subject up.
“I’m looking for a man who will do justice to my extraordinarily interesting and exciting life” she explained.
“I will assemble all the facts I consider of interest and will present them in a pleasing logical order” I assured her. Her face lit up but that might’ve been the arrival of afternoon tea though it was probably what I said.
“Of course it was, Smasher” I said wittily. I winked at Francois Devine. At least I tried to – I get a bit muddled up when I wink and move my face wrongly. According to his notes of the incident I raised my cheek bone and showed him my upper right canine tooth in a display he found slightly aggressive. But he worked out my intention, had his own go at winking back and responded by saying “As you say, Smasher.”
“Are you casting doubt on my version of events?” he boomed.
“Not on the version of events – we are perhaps making slight fun of your interpretation of them” I explained.
“How RUDE” he cried. He picked up the clipboard from the end of my bed and whacked my nearest plastered leg. The pain was intense. “See how YOU like it”.
“Hold hard, Smasher” interjected Francois Devine but Smasher threw a Satsuma at him and he was scared into silence.
“You are going to listen to the rest of my story in silence – Dennis Brent’s strangled sobs of pain aside – or ELSE.”
“Yes Smasher” I said between waves of agony.
“Yes Smasher” added Francois Devine.
“Where was I? Oh yes – Lola Whitecastle again turned down my kind offer of a salmon sandwich and I was becoming ENRAGED.”
