Popov.

Popov Ch 12 Dead Beat

Chapter 12 Dead Beat

‘Popov fetch me a butter beer there’s a good chap. Chronos’ quailing shout could be heard even in the study, from the depth of the pages of Debrett’s peerage. Death shrugged himself further down into the book and his chair, listening to the sound of Popov scuttling up and down the corridor in answer to his brother's imperious demands. Death contemplated that at this time of year an assistant really was invaluable, even if it was Popov.

‘Popov get me copy of the Racing Post  – oh and put twenty pence on Old Lace to win in the two thirty at Brighton will you?

‘Popov I could just be tempted to eat a mushroom omelette.’

‘Do fetch me a book to read old man – no not that one I read it last time. Can’t stand the thing. I’d have turned them into swine on page two, blooming odyssey just reading it. Wha Wha Wha.’

‘How about fetching an old man a copy of the London evening Bugle, eh?’

‘I say, Popov old fruit, when’s lunch?’

‘Stoke the fire and pick up my winnings at the bookies will you my man?’

‘Ah, the ham sandwiches I ordered, wonderful. What a star you are. No pickle though, you surely don’t expect a gentleman to wrap his teeth around a sandwich with no epicure? You’ll fetch some? Top man, always said it – don’t forget a pint of something old Fatal wouldn’t approve of – be a sport.’

‘You will make sure my robes are dry cleaned when I am too small to wear them when I’m a nipper won’t you? Jolly good, old sport. Nothing worse than growing into them again to find they’re smell of old man. I’m sure brother used to forget on purpose. And I’ll know if any watches are missing mind.’

Death took up his scythe and set off on his winter rounds, there was a hard skin of ice this winter over most of Europe and he knew he would be busy, but not as busy as Popov, Death smiled to himself as he went on his way.

‘Popov I know old Fatal has gone on his rounds, heard the door slam. Do fetch me a snifter, post haste, time’s getting on you know.’

‘Hello! Glass is empty again my man, any chance of a refill?’

‘Don’t pester me with wanting a chat now man I’m just going to take forty winks, what.’

‘Ah room service. I’ll take breakfast in bed this morning Popov. Better get me that bell my old brother gives me when I have to take to my bed like this. I can then ring for you when I need something.’

‘Don’t think I’ll get up at all today actually. Bring me cucumber sandwiches on a tray there’s a good fellow.

Tinkle. ‘Come along what took you so long. A man could die of waiting here. I want a copy of today’s ‘Times’.’

Tinkle. ‘What day is it according to the Gregorian calendar Popov? Tuesday? Lend me a fiver will you?’

Tinkle, tinkle. ‘A spot of broth at once, my teeth are falling out and empty the chamber pot won’t you.’

Tinkle, tinkle. ‘Get me a whisky and don’t take all day, I haven’t got long you know.’

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. ‘Ice for the whisky idiot! Fetch it at once.’

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. ‘You’re taking an age, don’t think I haven’t noticed that standards are slipping. No I didn’t want anything! Just don’t take so long to get here next time that’s all.’

When Death reappeared on New Year’s Eve he smiled to himself as he heard Chronos’ insistent ringing of the servant’s bell and the sound of Popov running to answer. He sank into his favourite armchair by the fire in his study, it had been a busy Christmas but at least he had not had to look after Chronos himself as well as keep up with the collections this year he reflected.

In the hall the tall earth clock started to chime the midnight hour.

Bong. ‘A shot of whisky quickly.’

Bong. ‘Glenfarglas of course, at a time like this I want the best!’

Bong, bong, bong. ‘Stilton and gherkins!’

Bong, bong, bong, bong. ‘Cigar, a cigar, hurry.’

Bong, bong. ‘A light you fool, a light! Remember I hate gripe water.’

Bong. ‘Waaah, waaah.’

Death threw another log onto the wide open fire, took up a discarded newspaper from the floor beside his armchair and settled further down in it. A footrest manifested itself under his feet and a plate of hot crumpets topped with a curl of melting gold butter appeared in the arm of his chair. Death took one of the crumpets, crossed his ankles on the footrest, leant back, smiled and began to read.