The lounge was blissfully quiet until the telephone’s sudden ring pierced the silence. Dorothy Jameson set her needles aside, stepped across the rug and lifted the heavy receiver cup to her ear, speaking into the mouth-funnel.
‘Hello? Whom do I have the honour of addressing at this outrageous hour?’
‘Good evening, Madam!’ a booming, artificially jovial voice crackled through the black wire. ‘Am I speaking with the esteemed landlady of the house, Mrs Dorothy Jameson?’
‘Miss! It’s Miss, but yes, you are indeed speaking with me. Who is this, and why are you shouting down the wire into my parlour?’
‘My name is Barnett Pinch, Madam, representing the Royal Continental Imperial Rubber & Carriage Supplies Limited. I am calling with an urgent, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity regarding your horse!’
Dorothy frowned, adjusting her wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘My horse? What about Archie?’
‘Madam, according to our meticulously kept ledgers, the extended warranty on your horse’s shoes has expired!’
Dorothy blinked.
‘His … what has expired?’
‘His horseshoe protection guarantee, Miss Jameson. Should your Archie encounter a sharp cobblestone, a rogue nail or an unusually aggressive pebble, you could be liable for dozens of shillings in hoof restoration! But for the paltry sum of two guineas today, our company will guarantee his hooves against all acts of God, gravel and mud!’
Dorothy held the receiver away from her ear for a second, gazing at it in sheer disbelief. Then a small, mischievous smile crept across her face.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, letting her voice tremble with manufactured panic. ‘Two guineas? But Mr Pinch, Archie is not a standard horse.’
‘He … he isn’t?’
‘No, no. Archie is a mechanical brass horse powered by high-pressure steam and genuine Yorkshire coal. Does your horseshoe policy cover internal boiler explosions?’
There was a long pause on the line, followed by the faint rustling of paper. ‘A … steam horse, Madam?’
‘Extremely steam-powered,’ Dorothy assured him earnestly. ‘His hooves are forged from solid iron alloy. Will your rubber shoes melt when his ankles reach four hundred degrees Fahrenheit?’
‘I … well, our standard leather-lined iron shoes are quite durable, but…’
‘Because the last time we fitted standard shoes, they liquefied instantly,’ Dorothy interrupted, warming to her task. ‘The fumes alone rendered three lamplighters unconscious. Now, tell me, Mr Pinch, does your insurance policy cover damage to municipal street lamps?’
‘Madam, I am selling equine shoe coverage, not municipal lamp protection,’ Pinch said, his jovial tone slipping into exasperation. ‘Perhaps we might discuss a basic maintenance package for his mane instead?’
‘His mane is made of spun glass, Mr Pinch! Do you have any idea how much special oil that requires? Hold the line, I must ask Archie his opinion.’
‘Wait, you are going to ask the…’
Dorothy set the receiver down on the table, walked casually to the kitchen, poured herself a fresh cup of tea, took a small sip and walked back. She picked up the receiver again.
‘He says he prefers copper shoes, Mr Pinch. Do you stock copper?’
‘Miss Jameson,’ Pinch gasped, his voice noticeably strained. ‘We do not sell copper shoes for steam-powered glass horses! I am simply asking for a small two-guinea wire transfer via the local postal telegraph office!’
‘A wire transfer?’ Dorothy gasped in exaggerated horror. ‘Through the telegraph? Oh, absolutely not! Don’t you know the electric current will travel up the line, charge my candlestick telephone and turn my parlour curtains into ash?’
‘That is not how electricity works, Madam!’
‘I read it in a pamphlet!’ Dorothy insisted stubbornly. ‘If you wish to collect your two guineas, you must send a messenger boy on a unicycle. But he must arrive between two and three o’clock in the morning, and he must know the secret password.’
‘The … the secret password?’ Pinch stammered.
‘Yes. It is the-badger-sleeps-tonight. If he says anything else, I shall release the steam-horse upon him.’
A heavy, breathless silence filled the wire.
‘Goodnight, Miss Jameson,’ Pinch whispered faintly, before a sharp click signalled the line had gone dead.
Dorothy placed the receiver neatly back on its hook, took another sip of tea and smiled while returning contentedly to her knitting.
