TELEPHONE BOX - press button A

TELEPHONE BOX - press button A

Sir Giles Gilbert Scott was an English architect known for his work on Battersea Power Station, Cambridge University Library, Liverpool Cathedral and Waterloo Bridge and for designing the iconic red telephone box.

Before the advent of mobile phones, everybody used GPO telephone boxes. They often smelled rather unsavoury, were cold and draughty but provided a lifeline for those who didn't have a household phone. I well remember putting four (old) one penny coins in the slot, waiting for a reply, then pressing button A, before speaking. If no one answered, you pressed button B and got your money back. I've used them in my books and here are two extracts featuring them. 

BLOOD ON THE SHRINE

"Baker had found plenty of kindling wood around the yard behind the farmhouse and had the stove burning merrily. He put some larger pieces in, shut down the damper and set off to find a phone box. He assumed there would be one in Framfield so headed in the direction of the village. He passed the gate leading down to the level crossing then continued east. After another 10 minutes he reached the outskirts of the village and soon spied the distinctive red form of the Gilbert Scott-designed call box. The street was deserted and he scuttled inside, the door slowly closing behind him. It had the usual smell of stale tobacco smoke and urine. He inserted four pennies in the slot and dialled the number for the pub in Collinghurst, as Tommy had said he would be waiting for his call at that time.

          ‘Hello? Queen’s Head,’ a male voice said.

          He pressed button A. The coins clattered into the box. ‘Oh, hello, is Tommy there?’

          ‘Hang on.’ The line crackled. He could hear the landlord calling, ‘Tommy! Call for you.’

          There was a pause, then, ‘’Ello? Who’s that?’

          ‘It’s me, Laurie.’

          ‘’Ello mate. ’Ow you doin’?’

          ‘I’m alright thanks.’

          ‘’Ave you been to the farm’ouse?’ Waddyer think?’

          ‘Yes, it’s fine. Just as you described.’

          ‘Told you it would be alright.’ Baker could picture Tommy smiling. ‘Where are you now?’

          ‘Call box in Framfield.’

          Atkin’s tone changed. ‘Anybody see yer?’ he growled.

          ‘No mate. It’s all quiet here.’

          ‘Make sure it stays that way. Don’t want nobody gettin’ suspicious.’

          Baker was a bit peeved. ‘Here, hang on…’

          Atkins relented. ‘It’s all right. Keep yer ’air on. Just need to stick to the plan. You stay put and I’ll come and find yer.’

          ‘When are you coming, Tommy?’

          ‘I’ll be over in a day or two. Got enough grub to keep you goin’?’

          ‘Enough for a day or two I guess.’ Baker sounded unsure.

          ‘Don’t worry cocker, you could always go and snare a rabbit,’ Atkins chuckled.

          ‘Or pop into the village shop?’ Baker said hesitantly.

          ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ Atkins sounded murderous, his mood changing like the wind. ‘I’ll bring the food.’

          ‘All right, Tommy. Don’t worry, I won’t. Just don’t leave me on my own for too long. You know I hate the countryside.’ The pips sounded on the line. ‘I’ll put some more money in,’ Baker said, panic in his voice.

          ‘Don’t bother mate, ring me tomo…..’ Atkins’s voice was cut off as the money ran out.

          Baker put the receiver down gently. The man had the ability to boost your ego or leave you deflated and Atkins’s words had left him feeling hollow. He pushed the heavy door open and set off back to the farmhouse." 

 BLOOD ON THE STRAND

"Nettie made her way to the red phone box, pulled the door open and settled inside, making herself as comfortable as she could for what might be a long wait. She could clearly see several hundred yards down the track. After a number of settled days with warm sunshine the weather was changing. The sky was now leaden and threatening; the wind was fickle, alternating between gentle breaths and gusty blasts, shaking the scrubby trees and almost flattening the Marram grass either side of the track. It looked as if rain wasn’t far off. Nettie hoped she wasn’t going to get soaked.

 However, after 20 minutes, she heard the sound of an engine: a plume of dust rose, and was then blown sideways by the wind. She watched eagerly, just as fat blobs of rain hit the windows of the phone box. As more raindrops fell, washing the dust off the glass, she could see the blue Morris bumping slowly along the track. The rain was starting to fall more forcefully now, the gusty wind blowing it at 45 degrees. She took a chance and made a dash for the Ford. Pulling the door open she jumped inside and pulled it closed behind her.

‘The car’s coming!’"

Rain, rain go away...

RAIN, RAIN GO AWAY

As it's now been raining, every other day since Saturday, my thoughts turned to the weather, and how I've written about it. Here is an extract from BLOOD ON THE SHRINE to give you a taste of how I described a downpour that put DC Johnny Weeks in serious danger. 

'The rain continued to fall relentlessly. At the back of the farmhouse a cast-iron downpipe had come adrift from its bracket and had swung sideways. So, instead of the water going into a drain, it was discharging the contents of the gutter down through the coal chute and into the cellar. If the hatch at the top had remained in place it would have flowed harmlessly across the yard, but after Weeks’s efforts the water was now forming a pool around his body. The door at the top of the steps opened, the light from the candles in the kitchen too weak to penetrate beyond the first couple of steps.'

I obviously like writing about the weather because the rainy theme continued in BLOOD ON THE STRAND.

'Aggie was delighted to be out – the weather didn’t bother her. Heads down, Russell and Weeks were striding into the driving rain while she scampered around their feet, tail up, revelling in the scents she found along the shoreline. The two men said very little to each other. The roaring of the wind and crashing of the surf made conversation close to impossible. The storm showed no sign of abating; if anything it was increasing. They had been tramping along for half an hour, the rain finding a way into their waterproofs and wellingtons and starting to soak their clothes. Each was waiting for the other to suggest it was time to turn back when the terrier began barking excitedly. Looking up and peering through the spray they could see a large crate slopping backwards and forwards in the surf; each wave pushing it further up the beach, and then dragging it back again. Splashing into the shallows they succeeded, with a struggle, in dragging it out of the water and a little way up the beach. The crate was roughly three feet square by about two feet tall. It was strongly constructed from stout timbers, firmly nailed in place.'

And more from BLOOD ON THE STRAND

'Nettie made her way to the red phone box, pulled the door open and settled inside, making herself as comfortable as she could for what might be a long wait. She could clearly see several hundred yards down the track. After a number of settled days with warm sunshine the weather was changing. The sky was now leaden and threatening; the wind was fickle, alternating between gentle breaths and gusty blasts, shaking the scrubby trees and almost flattening the Marram grass either side of the track. It looked as if rain wasn’t far off. Nettie hoped she wasn’t going to get soaked.

 However, after 20 minutes, she heard the sound of an engine: a plume of dust rose, and was then blown sideways by the wind. She watched eagerly, just as fat blobs of rain hit the windows of the phone box. As more raindrops fell, washing the dust off the glass, she could see the blue Morris bumping slowly along the track. The rain was starting to fall more forcefully now, the gusty wind blowing it at 45 degrees. She took a chance and made a dash for the Ford. Pulling the door open she jumped inside and pulled it closed behind her.'