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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 2 (May 2, 1938.)

Dream Places

page 12

Dream Places

My name is Eugene Clinkerton-Hythe, and I never dream. That must be clearly understood, because some rather odd things happened yesterday which I really think I ought to tell you about. In fact, altogether it was a most peculiar day.

It began before I woke up—or, rather, when I woke up. You see, I thought it was the alarm clock, but it wasn't. It was the telephone. Why the telephone should ring when I set the alarm clock was a problem I was not prepared to wrestle with at such an early hour in the morning. Because, although it was five minutes past my usual time of waking, there had been no sound or movement from my three and elevenpenny alarm clock; it reposed in the tin bath by my bedside in the exact spot I had placed it the night before. Here I might mention that I find it necessary to place the clock in some sort of tin receptacle so that when it rings the vibration will cause it to dance around the tin and thus add to the general cacophony so that I am sure to wake. In comparison the sound of the telephone was but a mellow tinkle, yet it had been sufficient to arouse me.

As I placed the receiver to my ear a strange voice greeted me. “Good morning,” it said.

“Good morning,” I replied civilly—or at least as civilly as I could. I am never at my best in the morning.

It appeared that the person on the other end of the line was the Postmaster-General. He had heard, he told me, of my inability to wake, and was therefore instituting a new service to telephone subscribers. This was the official opening.

I thanked him, much cheered, and sauntered pleasantly into the bathroom. I turned the tap. Strangely enough the water was hot, and I revelled in the unaccustomed luxury for quite a while.

Returning to my bedroom I found further things to puzzle me. It may seem a trivial thing to you, but to me it was a matter of intense moment; it was more than peculiar—it was positively uncanny. My studs were in the exact place I had left them overnight! And my clothes, which in the morning I invariably find inside out, were neatly folded. It was a simple matter, then, to dress, and this I did, and made my way downstairs, three and a half minutes ahead of schedule for the first Monday morning on record.

There was a somewhat heavy mail on my plate, which in itself was surprising. I opened the first letter; it was from my landlord. It appeared he desired to reduce my rent some fifteen shillings a week, and enclosed a cheque for a hundred and twenty-three pounds since he wished to make the arrangement retrospective from the time I moved in. He added that he had been grossly overcharging me, and if there were any repairs, alterations, or additions I required he would be happy to place himself and his funds at my disposal. For a moment I toyed with the idea of throwing out a couple of new wings, but decided against it. After all, we Clinkerton-Hythes are not an ostentatious family.

I turned to the second letter. It was from the Income Tax Department, pointing out that their assessment of my income did not tally with my own figures. They very generously gave me the benefit of the doubt, remarked that obviously I was the best judge, and returned the sum of fourteen and a penny.

The third letter was from a man with whom I was involved in a motor smash. He wrote from hospital, deploring the unfortunate occurrence, hoping I was quite unhurt, and offering me any reasonable recompense for the inconvenience he had possibly caused me. I made a rapid mental calculation. Fifty pounds should be sufficient. After all, we Clinkerton-Hythes are not a mercenary family.

As I reached for my hat the telephone rang again. It was the manager of the cheese-paring factory where I work, an individual whom I had come to regard, in my kindlier moments, as a direct throwback to the days of the Spanish Inquisition.

“Hello, Clinky old, boy,” he said “have a good week-end?”

I gave a non-committal reply, and we chatted for some time along those lines.

“Well, well,” he said at last, “don't hurry down to the factory. There's very little to do this morning.”

page 13

I thanked him, and rang off. A kindly fellow. Maybe my judgment of him had been somewhat at fault. But I was not inclined to accept his friendly offer. My duty, I well knew, lay with a particularly fractious Stiltern, and we Clinkerton-Hythes are not the ones to shirk the stern call of duty. I caught my usual tram.

Now there is a person on my tram who invariably sits next to me. He has what the police, I believe, call a motive. Over my shoulder he reads my morning paper. He reads it avidly, and looks annoyed when, as I sometimes do, I turn over quickly to thwart him. He breathes heavily in my ear, too, which is merely an added discomfort.

Yesterday morning he sat next to me, as usual. I glowered at him. He responded with a smile, and cheery good morning. Out of his little attache case he produced two copies of the morning paper. One of them he handed to me; the other, with a word of apology, he commenced to read himself. A kindly fellow, you would say. Maybe I had misjudged him, too.

The morning frittered itself away pleasantly. The morning tea was hot, and there were cream biscuits instead of the usual water biscuits which I have been told on so many occasions that I can take or leave. Apart from this odd incident nothing of real moment happened until half past eleven, when the telephone rang again.

“Mr. Clinkerton-Hythe?” a voice enquired. I admitted the fact, whereupon the voice informed me that I had overdrawn my account at the bank by twenty-seven pounds eighteen shilling and elevenpence. I expressed my regret.

“Oh, tut tut,” said the voice pleasantly, “it's of no consequence. Not the slightest. We just thought you'd be interested to know. Our reserves are tremendous. We place them entirely at your disposal. Please continue to use them whenever you feel inclined.”

I thanked him. For a Monday morning things were going remarkably well. And then I remembered that I—had arranged to take my aunt to lunch—I do so once a year. We Clinkerton-Hythes stick together. Usually my aunt and I retire to a small vegetarian cafe where my aunt picks at nutty things and flourishes her ear trumpet at me. Usually she lectures me severely about my intemperance, my lack of steady friends, my excessive smoking, and my inordinate capacity for losing large amounts of money on horses that have a great deal of promise but no fulfilment. It is a trying hour. Usually she endeavours to persuade me (unsuccessfully, I admit) to join the Society of Indoor Amusements, Ludo Section.

I met my aunt. She had, I noticed, discarded the button boots and the ostrich feather in her hat, and was wearing a comparatively inconspicuous tailor made costume.

“Eugene,” she said, “I'm tired of nuts. Let's have a slap-up lunch at the Splendide.”

Over a couple of cocktails she told me a few racy stories, and gave me a tip for the fourth race which afterwards proved to be correct.

A kindly old lady.

In my excitement at seeing my aunt I had quite forgotten about my car, which I had left in the main street. After lunch we searched it out. It was just as I feared. The car was parked over a fire plug and a tram stop, opposite a cart entrance, and a full three feet from the kerb. Six traffic officers guarded it. They raised their hats as we approached, and one of them explained that my car was such a menace to navigation that they had hurriedly called out extra men to see that nothing untoward occurred. I thanked him, and asked if there was any charge for such service.

“Oh, no, no,” he replied, “none at all. That's what we're here for.”

By this time, of course, I had ceased to wonder at anything.

The rest of the day passed extremely pleasantly. I won six raffles, a lottery, and a sweepstake. I was very rude to a number of people I dislike intensely, and on each occasion they admitted the justice of my remarks.

“Over my shoulder he reads my morning newspaper.”

“Over my shoulder he reads my morning newspaper.”

In the evening I went to the theatre. Two people behind me commenced to talk rather loudly. On the arm of my chair was a button for such contingencies. I pressed it. Within a moment an attendant was by my side. I explained the position.

“Two muzzles? Certainly, Sir!”

Whereupon the two persons behind me were trussed to their seats unceremoniously. Gags were inserted in their mouths, and over each of their faces was placed a piece of chain mail which kept their features rigid.

From time to time I turned and nodded to them pleasantly. After all, we Clinkerton-Hythes are nothing if not courteous; we observe the manners of our times.

Yes; it was, without doubt, a most peculiar and a most enjoyable day. I could only wish there were more of them.

But that was yesterday. This morning I woke, as usual, to the tune of my dancing alarm clock. It was not until I reached my place of employment that I discovered it was still Monday.

Now, according to all the laws of Time, it should have been Tuesday. I can't understand it—can you?