Telephony

The instrument of excuses, or answer phone messages left by my father

• Message left at 2.30 p.m. on 23rd January

Kate, it’s your dad.  You didn’t give me chance to explain earlier and I thought as you were out, I’d leave this message on your phone.

I’m sorry I didn’t notice your mum was ill last month.  I’d been working all week and was out at council meetings on three evenings.  To be honest, I thought she was making it up, how ill she felt.  She hadn’t even made my tea when I got back, which at the time, seemed pretty selfish.

It’s a good job Audrey went round on Friday and called the ambulance.  The hospital said it’s a shame I’d not noticed sooner because she could have had the lumber punch and antibiotics quicker.  But I can’t see it’s a real problem, you can get over meningitis.

Hope Tom and the baby are well.  Bye.

• Message left at 1.30 p.m. on 15th February

Kate, it’s your dad.  I know I said I’d visit your mum, but it’s going to be really difficult for me this week.  I’ve got four dinner invitations and I can’t really refuse.  I’ve never eaten so well!

I know it’s a bit hard for you with the new baby and everything; but now the weather’s getting better, you should be able to get from Birmingham to Sheffield in just over two hours and I’m sure you’ll be able to get the time off work.  It’s not like she really knows you’re there anyway.

When you come up, can you stop by the house and pick up some things for her?  I’ve no idea what she needs, so if you call the Northern General neurological unit, they’ll fill you in.  I haven’t got the number to hand, but I think your brother will have it.

Everyone’s been so kind.  They’ve really rallied round me and understood what I’m going through.

Say hello to Tom and give the baby a kiss from me.  Bye.

• Message left at 4.00 p.m. on 17th August

Kate, it’s your dad.  She’s coming out tomorrow, your mum’s coming out.  They’ve asked me to make some modifications to the house – I don’t know, a stair rail and a handle by the toilet, that sort of thing. But I don’t really think it’s necessary.  They also gave me one of those doctor lectures about the need for routine.  Blah, blah, blah, she needs to have regular, little walks.  She needs stimulating, she needs healthy food.  We’ll just see how she goes, she can get back into cooking healthy food for me.  Ha, only joking.

See you soon.  Bye.

• Message left at 11.00 a.m. on 6th September

Kate, it’s your dad.  I know you’ll be at work, but thought I’d update you on your mum.  She’s not really trying, I don’t think.  Not getting up that much, not making drinks for us, complaining she’s always tired.  She can’t be helping herself much by that negative thinking, can she?

The doctor when he came round suggested we went to a support group for people in our position, but I don’t see the point in that.  She’ll soon get back into her old routine.

Hope the new term’s started ok.  Bye.

• Message left at 9.37 a.m. on 15th October

Kate, it’s your dad.  I want to put some things straight and I know you’re at work, but thought I’d say it anyway.  It was good to see you over the weekend and I’m sorry about the mess your mum made in the bathroom on the towels and the floor.  She can’t see that well she says, so I must get her to an optician.

The thing I wanted to say to you, and all very gently, was when you thought you saw me drinking vodka from the bottle in the back of the car, well I wasn’t.  I don’t like your insinuation if the truth be told.  Yes, the bottle was there, but I was only holding it up to the light.  It was a present for your Uncle John and I was checking it was ok.  You and your brother have always been a bit holier than thou and actually I think you’ll find you’re wrong in this instance.

I didn’t like it either when you suggested this has been a long running problem, as you call it.  I’ve told you before, when I fell over at your house in the summer, I was ill with a virus.  I’m not sure when I’ve had to start justifying myself to my children!

Anyway, enough unpleasantness.  Come up and see us soon.  Bye.

• Message left at 3.02 a.m. on 21st October

I’m not drunk.

• Message left at 3.04 a.m. on 21st October

I’m not fucking drunk.  I’m not…I...

• Message left at 3.07 a.m. on 21st October

I’m not fucking drunk, you bitch.  Don’t you dare judge me.  Don’t…

• Message left at 10.55 a.m. on 30th October

Kate, it’s your dad.  I’m so sorry and I hope you and your brother can understand how hard things have been for me.  Uncle John is taking me to the clinic for half past two.  Well, he’s got to after that misunderstanding with my driver’s licence.

The clinic’s near Nottingham and they think I’ll be in there for at least six weeks, though I can’t believe it’ll be anything like that.

It’s good of Aunty Mary to have your mum for a bit and I’m sure I’ll be right as rain soon enough.  It’s not as though I’ve got a big problem anyway.  I’ve just let things get a bit on top of me, that’s all.

Bye.

• Message left at 6.16 p.m. on 7th November

Kate, it’s your dad.  Now, I know what you’ll be thinking and I have no idea why you’re not answering the phone.  But anyway I’ve been detoxed, as they say.  I’ve had a talk with the doctor and to be honest, I’m better now.

He said I really needed to stay longer, so I could break the mental habit that made me drink, but what does he know about my personal circumstances?  I don’t see why I should stay there with the heroin addicts and alcoholics when I’m not either.

I did stay a day more than I was planning to because they encouraged me to write my life experiences and the group were so interested when I read it out.  The group leader asked if I’d ever been a writer, it was so well worded.

So, anyway, Uncle John picked me up and I’m back home,  They’re bringing your mum back in a minute, so we’ll soon get sorted.

Bye.

• Message left at 11.50 a.m. on 21st December

Kate, it’s your dad.  Call me when you get this.  Your mum’s had to go to hospital, she’s broken her arm.

You know how she worries about me and when she saw me still asleep on the settee late last night, she thought I was dead.  I know, silly isn’t it?  Now, I admit I’d had some red wine and beer, so I was sleeping heavily.  Mea culpa!  But the doctor had said it was only vodka that was the problem.

So she tried to help me up the stairs and I slipped and fell backwards and landed on top of her at the bottom of the stairs.  I don’t remember much about it as I was so tired, but I think she called an ambulance for herself and they came round.  She’s in ward D6 if you want to find out how she is.

The thing that’s bothering me though is they’re talking social services and carers.  I don’t know what they’re thinking.  We don’t need them sticking their nose in, do we?  I wondered if you could maybe get in touch with them and see what’s going on?

Bye.

• Message left at 4.17 a.m. on 24th December

They’re not coming in to my fucking house.  My wife…then…they’re not telling me what to do.  We’re managing.  She’ll be alright when she’s out of hospital.  She’ll be…They’re not questioning me and they’re not telling me what to do.  Bastards.  It’s my house and my wife and I’ll decide…I’ll decide what’s going to happen.  I’ll…she’ll be…

End of messages.

 

(This is a true story)

***

Psychic Telephoning

A telephone waits either side of the bed; one silent and the other sonorous.

The black Bakelite one has a splendid lobster handset, a gift from Salvador.  I whisper secrets into it while the lobster strokes my cheek with its antenna.  I smell its fishiness and hear the sea as I press my ear against the manmade jet of its shell.

Doris gave me the pink one with the glitzy, gilt dial.  I can hear the party line through its perfumed receiver.  My, what parties they have.

I wear a buttoned up pyjama top to listen in, suppress my giggles so I won’t be heard, but often there’s a stern voice, ‘Doris, are you there?’ I think honestly, ‘No, no it’s not Doris.’

Bed is the best place to have a telephone conversation.  Drifting into sleep a thought may occur, such as, ‘How is old fiddlesticks doing?’  He’s always on the party line, just hold the earpiece close to hear about his latest ventures, the dark storm in his heart breaking like foamy waves on cruel rocks.   The gentle lull of his voice reassures, leaving you in sleep.

Or: your insides are twisting in the agony of irresolution, your mind will not listen to you so cannot offer counsel.  Just grab the crustacean, excuse yourself politely, you must speak into his nether parts, and pour out the bitter bile poisoning your aura.  Purged, reason returns and you can lay your head down on the cool pillow, pull up the crisp sheets and rest in the comfort of quietness.

‘But the bill, the bill?’  you ask, ‘what is the cost?’   Why, nothing.  My telepathy bypasses any clocking up of interactions.   My telephones, being special gifts from generous friends, have no wires, or gizmos.  No, they use that other channel that slips between the ordinary.

I can reach anyone at all, dead, yet to be, with us still, even you, if I choose.

 

(This is a surreal story)

 

Domestic Detail in the House of Dreams