We all know what TV means don't we?

TV Trouble

Robyn Hoode

She’s volatile and a trouble maker. At least that’s what George had told me at the shop that morning. I’d been to the house before, but only to deliver the set and she’d been a bit fussy then. She’d put newspaper on the floor all the way to the table where she wanted it installed and had stood by with a duster in her hand as I’d shown her how to switch it on and demonstrated how to get the different programmes. Only two in those far off days — BBC or ITV and no colour, of course; that came much later.

She was obsessed with dust, or the fight against it. There'd been a coal fire laid in the grate unlit. I was sure each piece of coal was individually selected, washed and dusted before being laid over a dozen identical sticks of firewood and neatly rolled sheets of … I looked, and sure enough, it was the Daily Mail. With the window tightly shut and despite the busy main road just the other side of the tiny front garden, the room had been eerily quiet and smelt of musty airlessness and lavender.

I pulled up outside, picked up my tools and the case of spare valves I always carried and knocked on Mrs Williams door. It was opened almost immediately by a small, bird-like woman of indeterminate age, wisps of grey hair poked out from a head scarf wound as a turban, and she wore a floral pinafore tightly wrapped round her thin, shapeless body. But the most striking feature was her eyes. They were a cold bright blue and seemed to penetrate right into my brain. I felt she knew what I was thinking, whilst fervently hoping she didn’t.

“Oh, it’s you is it? You’d better come in. Don’t forget to wipe your feet. I don’t want dirty footprints on my clean floor.” She stood aside as I stepped over the threshold, first onto the bristly door mat, and then onto the first page of the previous day’s Evening Post. “It’s not been right since you left it.” Two months ago, I thought. “That Richard Dimbleby looks fat, and he says he can’t tell the colour of the balls when he’s watching snooker.” 'He' wouldn’t, I thought, it’s black and white, and Dimbleby really is fat.

The line of newspaper pages led into the front room, still smelling of musty lavender, with the TV on its flimsy table. She’d followed me in and stared suspiciously as I set down my tool box and the case on yet more newspaper.

“It’s the picture valve.” She said. “Mrs Andrew's son told me, and he ought to know; he’s an electrician down the pit.” I grunted and wondered why Mrs Andrew’s son hadn’t mended it then. “The sound's all right. Well as right as it ever is. I can hardly tell what they’re saying sometimes. It’s those American programmes. English televisions don’t play them very well.”

I waited for the set to warm up and wondered if she’d noticed I hadn’t said a word. I was still having problems with my voice. The sound came on slowly, reaching a deafening volume before I turned it down. The old biddy or 'he' must be deaf as a post. There was no raster. The screen remained obstinately dark. Well perhaps the pit electrician was right. I looked at all the glass ornaments displayed on the top of the shiny, waxed wooden cabinet and spoke for the first time.

“I’ll have to take the back off. Do you think you could clear the ornaments? I don’t want to break any.” Much, I added under my breath. George always called them trinklements and hated them as much as I did.

As she cleared her glass menagerie I opened my case and selected a 30P4 valve. With a bit of luck I’d be out of there in fifteen minutes. I quickly removed the back, just four screws, and identified the culprit. A quick swap and I switched on again and watched amused as she was torn between dusting the innards of her TV and staring at the screen. With relief I saw the screen brighten and the test card displayed. It was too early for programmes — job done.

It was as I was finally replacing the back that it happened. As I stood up, the skirt of my overall coat swung out and swept a whole family of china Disney characters onto the hard lino covered floor. She went berserk. I’d heard the expression verbal diarrhoea, but she was totally incontinent, and then she leapt at me. I think she was only going to grab my sleeve, but I’ve always had a short fuse and that set me off. I like to keep my nails longish and I’d given myself a manicure the previous evening. The bright red varnish meant the blood didn’t show where I’d run my nails deeply into her arm. I picked up my things and ran for the door.

“You’ve not heard the last of this.” I shouted above the sharp sound of my high heels as I ran for my van. “That’s assault, that is and I’ll not stand for it. You want trouble, well you’ve come to the right woman to get it.” I jumped into the pink van with legend ‘LadyLike TV and Electrical Repairs’ (We were very proud of our company name) and sped down the road. I wondered what Georgina would say when I got back.