The shrill bell of the phone made Clara jump with a start. She had evidently dozed off during Murder She Wrote. Instead of perky Mrs Fletcher she now saw that irritating man with the gappy teeth helping people buy antiques. How annoying, Clara thought, now I’ll never know who killed George. The persistent tring tring of the phone was starting to grate, but, for a moment, Clara pondered whether to simply leave it. Had Jessica still been hard at work unravelling the mystery in her indomitable manner, Clara would assuredly have left the blessed phone to it’s own devices. However, gappy man was now showing the viewers around a vast mansion and wittering on about the Wedgewood cabinet. Clara didn’t like the gappy man. She opted for the phone.

“Bow residence,” she answered as she lifted the chunky large plastic handset from the decidedly old fashioned grey rotary phone.

“May I speak to Mrs Bow,” came the heavily accented response that Clara struggled to understand.

“Speaking,” Clara replied, already knowing she didn’t want whatever it was the chap was calling about.

“Good afternoon Mrs Bow, how are you today?” the caller replied, his tone eager and overly pleasant.

“Have you seen the episode where George dies in the study after an apparent fight with his fiancé? Poisoning I think,” Clara replied, choosing to disregard his spurious attempts to connect.

“Ma’am?” came the confused reply.

“I was certain the chap didn’t do it. But all the evidence pointed to him. I suspect the girl, but I don’t see how she evaded the video footage,” Clara continued, oblivious.

“Ma’am, I have called today to offer you a spectacular deal on your home broadband,” the caller spoke loudly, as if assuming Clara was hard of hearing.

“I don’t suppose you have seen it,” Clara interrupted, “ho hum, I expect it will be repeated in a few years.”

“Ma’am, who is your current broadband supplier?” the young man’s voice was starting to become a little high pitched.

“Have you ever visited Birmingham son?” Clara queried, preferring to pursue her own course of questioning, unsure what this broadband he was wittering on about was.

“Uh, no ma’am I have not. As I was saying we can offer,” the young man valiantly attempted to recover the conversation.

“I’ve lived here for five decades,” Clara said with a hint of pride, pausing for dramatic effect, assuming anyone hearing she had remained in situ for nigh on fifty years would be nothing but impressed. “Five!” She re-iterated for maximum effect.

“I see,” the young man responded after a brief pause, “and who has your broadband supplier been all that time?”

“I don’t really understand son,” Clara responded genuinely baffled by his query and deciding she ought to get to the bottom of this broad beam business, or whatever it was.

“Ma’am, I can offer you a twelve month contract, with forty gigabytes,” began the young voice with renwed gusto.

“Forty jiggy whats?” Clara interrupted, her wrinkled faced scrunching up in bemusement, causing her glasses to slide down the bridge of her nose and nearly slip off. As she pulled them back to their resting place, she noticed the gappy man was waving goodbye to the viewers.

“Gig-a-bytes ma’am, with that you could download films, watch internet TV, and view millions of pages…”

“You stupid man,” Clara spluttered in disgust.

“Beg pardon ma’am?” The voice stuttered, suddenly unsure after it’s brief moment of glory.

“If my George had gone out dressed in that silly bow tie, idiotic hat and red trousers I’d wish him well and walk in the opposite direction. Thank you very much,” and with that Clara gave her head a sturdly little nod, as if to confirm her own musings.

“Ma’am, this broadband offer…?” The young man started tentatively this time, becoming uncertain this was a conversation of any value.

“Would you wear a bow tie and silly red trousers son?” Clara asked, quite seriously.

“Ma’am, the broadband?” The young man persisted, his voice now betraying a growing impatience.

“No son, I don’t think I need your broad beans. Are you selling anything else?” Clara asked with no intention of signing up to anything the young man had to offer.

“No ma’am. Goodbye.”

Before Clara could utter another word the phone line cut out and she was left holding the handset to her ear.

“Lovely speaking to you son,” Clara muttered almost impercetibly, before slowly lowering the handset back into it’s cradle.

Clara stared at the flickering images on the TV, but her eyes remained unfocused, registering only blurred, undefinable motion. Clara slowly turned her head and stared at the silent grey telephone and a thought began to form. More a hope than anything; maybe the phone could ring again and maybe this time it would be Lisa. Lisa might want to speak to her. Maybe, just maybe.

After a few minutes Clara sighed and turned back to the flickering black box, grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels.

“Countdown is on soon,” she said out loud to no one in particular.