1
Escape to Danger
(A life of Adventure seen through the haze of pipe smoke and green-tinted spectacles whilst sporting a natty polo-neck jumper or three)
It was a well-lit control room.
Based in the wood-panelled drawing room of a stately home, a bewildering array of humming computer wheels whirred in tandem with the flickering multi-coloured console lights which never ceased in their transmission of essential data. Hunched over the main desk was a tall, broad shouldered ‘Sage’ of a man, wearing a beige polo neck and sports jacket with an old-young face. He was clearly concentrating on the developing storyline playing out on the laptop in front of him.
‘The Doctor had managed to get hold of this lump of mercury or whatever and was...’
The sound of a person clearing their throat cut through the air and the Sage turned to see where it had come from.
Behind him, his study door was ajar and a green half-light hung around the door frame. The green light wasn’t threatening but intriguing as if begging for further investigation. The Sage walked over to the green haze now enveloping the entire doorway. As he did so he was sure he could hear the sound of glasses clinking together and liquid pouring. The Sage stood in the doorway and peered into the green haze, the faint smell of ‘Golden Virginia’ hung in the air causing the Sage to involuntarily pat his sports jacket pocket.
That was strange. he thought.There was something solid in the pocket. He delved into the left-hand pocket and produced a dark wooden pipe.Studying it, the Sage smiled and suddenly before him flashed a life of adventure, friends, dedicated followers and laughter all surrounded by an outline of a green haze.
“Bloody hell Terrance. are you going to stand in the doorway all day or are you coming in? The damn script can wait. Anyway, it’s your round!”
The Sage walked into the green haze and all at once disappeared. He found himself stood at a bar counter with three other gentlemen, all dressed in garments of varying decades. One was in a yellow shirt and brown tie with matching brown trousers and tweed sports jacket. He was sat on a bar stool stroking his dark beard in a thoughtful way. “That’s not like you Terrance, last to the bar!” he exclaimed. The others laughed. The Sage replied, “I was never as rich as you BBC producer types Barry, old chum.”
“It seems years since we danced across the keyboard together my old friend,” said a tall lean middle-aged fellow with his back to the Sage.He turned to face him. He was slim-faced with thinning grey hair at the sides and a shining dome of a head. His eyebrows were dark but not foreboding in any way. In fact, his eyes were quite mischievous. “I can’t remember how your journey began old chum; it was such a long time ago.”
The Sage laughed, accepting a large scotch from the bearded man, pondered for a moment and waxed lyrical.
“I popped into this world in 1935, such a lifetime ago. I grew up an Essex lad, just outside the London influence in East Ham, but now I fear it's all been swallowed up by that sprawling metropolis. I can remember loving to read; words seem to flow and the happy marriage of study and reading go together. as you know. I knew I wanted to write. so I studied hard at Downing College in Cambridge. I studied English and I was hooked on the romantic swish of the pen and the hearty adventure of a great narrative.”
“Crikey. he’s only had a sniff of the bar-maid’s apron and he’s firing up his Romantic Prose already!” The smooth enigmatic voice came from behind a thick cloud of pipe smoke hanging somewhere at the corner of the bar counter. “Can’t wait till he properly decorates the mahogany.” The group including the Sage all laughed heartily.
“It’s alright for you lot. I had a hell of a time getting started.” The sage smiled wryly and winked at the others. Theirs was a fickle business and the beginning like the start of any adventure was hard going. Or as his pipe-smoking chum would say ‘A bloody life of hammer and tongs.’
“I did my bit for Queen and country, bloody National Service I mean.’ The group nodded, looking into their drinks as if wishing to expunge their military service from their own histories. “Then I was a copywriter for around 4 to 5 years, I think. I learnt my trade knocking out the odd laughter lines for BBC Comedies and like any hack banging away on storylines for the wireless. I love stories, they inhabit us all. I would see them unfold as I walked down the street. I'd listen to the people on the bus, in the pub and in the office. I wanted to create a world of words, never too complicated but always engaging. I just wanted to reach out and give the reader or listener that leg up onto the platform of appreciating the intensity of the written word.”
The dark-eyebrowed man came over and grabbed the Sage across the shoulders warmly, “You are my trusted friend of a bygone age Terrance. I saw you as the alchemist’s apprentice; I’m so glad the world came to know you as the rich talent that you are.”
The Sage had a tear in his eye as he nodded “If it wasn’t for your guidance and belief in me as a writer, I would never have had the balls to go solo. When you asked me to come in with you writing those 'Avengers' stories ‘The Mauritius Penny’ and ‘Intercrime’ I could never have believed the doors that opened for me. I can tell you it was a damn hard slog, all those nights and days of hammering away on my typewriter, fighting with the carbon paper and the bloody cheap ribbons that kept snapping.”
Again, they all laughed. “Don’t forget that the damn scripts went First Class in a taxi to the studios whilst we either went on Shanks’s pony or on the bloody bus.” chipped in the pipe-smoking man.
“But in ‘68 it all changed, and to be honest scared the blooming daylights out of me. That fear of the unknown and the ability to hit the ground running appealed so much to me. Deadlines, rewrites and inventing on the hoof all fed the moment. 'Doctor Who' was the longest, hardest, most challenging and truly amazing time of my life. They made me a Script Editor! Me, a Script Editor! It was one of those ‘I’ve arrived moments’ tinged with 'this could all go so very wrong!'. Banging out story rewrites of green Martians terrorising Hampstead Heath and bloody 10-parters of time travelling Armageddon merchants”
“That was my finest hour.” chipped in the dark-eyebrowed man, laughing.
“And mighty grateful I was too, my old chum.”
The scotch carried on flowing, but the barman never seemed to be around and neither did any other customers. The Sage chose to ignore this fact.
The bearded man rose from his stool and stood before the Sage. “You my friend, and I have never used the word ‘friend’ in such a truthful way. You were my rock in the early 1970’s, helping me to sail that 'Doctor Who' ship through foul weather and fine. You were the voice of reason, reminding me that flights of fantasy were entertaining but basing these flights in the here and down with developing science could be wholly terrifying. You helped to indulge me in my own writing and ecological beliefs.”
“Future thinking Barry! You were ahead of your time, if a little flowery; but definitely ahead of your time” laughed the Sage.
“Scare the little buggers to death, that’s the way. They love it; fear and action heroes! We all crave it.” The pipe smoking man chortled.
“I loved that show, it gave me such gravitas within the BBC, and such a launch pad to reach out and create a whole new level of engagement for the fans. They wanted me to write the books, you know, those Target novels/. I just wanted to write forever. I was so clear in how I wanted to set a house style; simple but engaging on every level. I wanted someone who had never seen the show to pick up a book and disappear into a realm of fantasy and green hairy monsters.”
Barry nodded and looked the Sage in the eye. “Terrance, you have touched generations of the fans who read your books. I was in awe, yes truly in awe at the outpouring of appreciation for your writing. I was always asked what is was like working with you and I would simply say ‘it was like working with a brother and your best friend’".
The Sage chuckled looking into the unmelting ice in his scotch. “They made me a producer of the Sunday Classics. Me, a typewriting hack that started off knocking off radio plays for the Home Service. I could have cried, the chance to extend my mission of the portrayal of the written word to the small screen. That was unbelievable.”
Barry smiled. “And the love of those adoring fans, worldwide.”
“I can’t understand it. They ask me about my books. They came up to me and would say, ‘Mr Dicks yours was the first real book I ever read’. For a writer to hear that, it tells me that this wasn’t a life wasted.”
They all stand up and raise their glasses.
“To Terrance, a true bastion of the written word. Defender of the pro and immortalised for posterity within the dust covers of forever.”
The Sage clearly humbled by the outpouring, turns to the doorway still shrouded in an outline of a green haze. He moves slowly over to it, the three men turn to watch him. The pipe-smoking gent slowly takes the pipe from the corner of his mouth. The Sage closes the door and turns to his friends, smiles and says “I have missed you all so dearly. I’m sure there’s time for another” as he waves his empty glass in the air. A great cheer goes up as the friends embrace the Sage.
Terrence Dicks has left an indelible mark upon the entire world. He taught my generation of kids to read and appreciate the written word. For some he even stoked the idea of becoming writers themselves. He was an amazing individual who has touched the hearts of many a small child reading about a crazy man with an old-young face travelling in a wheezing and groaning Police Telephone Box, fighting monsters that were sometimes bright Green.
Because as every child knows ‘Green is the colour for monsters!’
We love you Terrance, you will always be amazing!
TERRANCE DICKS – born on 14th April 1935, turned the final page on 29th August 2019
(Written by Warren Cummings)
('RTA' cover by Martin Holmes)
