Patti’s hands were occupied with a basket of laundered clothes, topped off with odds and ends that needed to be returned to their homes. No journey upstairs was wasted these days. She had made it a little over halfway, just shy of the small landing, when the ringing began, sending her heart into palpitations.
The telephone was only two weeks old. On her direction, Ron had programmed it with a tinny version of Swan Lake, the least offensive option on the menu. Although her husband insisted he had followed the instructions to the letter, an urgent tone joined with Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece, jarring, like Patti’s cooker timer. Bristling with annoyance once the shock subsided, she paused to shout over the banister, “Would you mind getting that, Ron?”
The lack of reply suggested that he was in the back garden - dispatching any snails that had ignored his request to keep their distance from the potted herbs, no doubt.
“I suppose I’ll have to answer it,” she said in exasperation, setting the laundry basket down on the small square of landing, wincing as she straightened up. In truth, keen to get back to her office (formerly known as ‘the ironing room’), she went a little faster than was good for her. At this time of the morning it was probably some scally trying to sell her something she didn’t want. Funeral plans were the latest insult. Registering with the Telephone Preference Service (or the ‘Call Prevention Service’, as Ron insisted on calling it) hadn’t made the blindest difference. “Hang on a mo’, will you? I’m coming as fast as I can!” she told the darned thing. Three steps from the bottom, the ansaphone kicked in. A robotic voice announced that she was not available to take the call right now, but if the caller would care to leave a message.
A voice wavered,“Mum, it’s me.”
With one hand on the back of the chair, Patti leant forwards and grabbed the receiver: “Anita, love? Just let me catch my breath. I was on my way upstairs.” Fighting light-headedness, Patti perched on the chair by the telephone table.
“OK.”
She willed herself: breathe. Every inhalation labored, she imagined this was how it would feel to be drowning in the Mersey. “I thought you’d be at work at this time of day. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a shock. We’re both fine, but we’ve had a shock, that’s all.”
The pounding in her ears subsiding, Patti could hear the change in her daughter’s voice. Thoughts flicked on like light switches. You’ve been made redundant. Or Ed has. Poor Ed. He works so hard. You’ve split up with Ed. No, no, it couldn’t be that. Ed’s a keeper. Muting them, Patti managed to repeat, “A shock?”
“It’s the house. Last night. We had a fire.”
She knew how a mother was supposed to set her own shock aside. “But you’re both alright?”
“We’ve just come from the hospital. They had us both on oxygen, and they want us to see our doctor tomorrow. But, Mum…”She broke off.
Patti noticed how her daughter’s vowels shortened. She was only ever a telephone call away from her northern roots. “What, love, what?”
“We’ve lost everything.”
“Everything?” Patti echoed stupidly.
“Apart from the clothes we’re wearing. It’s all gone.”
“But all of your beautiful things… Oh, love. I can’t begin to -”
Anita sniffed.“I can’t afford to think about that now. Today’s priority is finding somewhere to live.”
