When the phone rings, Muriel removes her tortoiseshell reading-glasses and places them carefully, along with the Radio Times, on the occasional table. She rubs her right hip to goad it into action and shuffles towards the telephone table in the hallway.
“Good morning. Is that Mrs Archer?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Simon.” His voice is warm and soothing, like a bowl of chicken soup. “I’m making a courtesy call from Alliance Soffits and Fascias.”
“A courtesy call, how nice,” says Muriel. She has often remarked that there isn’t enough courtesy around these days.
“I’m glad you think so,” says Simon. “I’m ringing to tell you we’re going to be in your area next week …”
“What a lovely accent,” says Muriel. “Where are you from?”
Simon seems to hesitate. “We’re not supposed …”
“I’m sorry. You have to stick to your script, don’t you?” Muriel eases herself into the tattered armchair beside the telephone table. “Do carry on, dear.”
“We’re doing a special promotion. Twenty-five percent reduction if you get the whole house done.”
“That sounds nice,” says Muriel. “I always like a bargain. You have to watch the pennies, you know, when you’re on the pension.”
“I’m sure,” says Simon.
Muriel smiles. The young man sounds so sympathetic. Such a contrast to those scruffy teenagers who hang out in the precinct shouting abuse. “I was wondering, are you in India, by any chance? A lot of the call centres are in India, or so I’ve heard.”
“No, Mrs Archer, I’m in Croydon.”
“Croydon! Well fancy that! I used to live there when I was first married.”
“Really?”
Muriel nods at the black and white wedding photo beside the hallstand. If she had one of those videophones she’s heard about, Simon would be able to see it too. “Yes, indeed. I could tell you an interesting fact about Croydon.”
The young man laughs. “There’s nothing interesting about Croydon.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The very first supermarket was in Croydon. Sainsbury’s. 1950.”
“Really?” Simon doesn’t sound impressed. Perhaps his mother does all the shopping. Or his girlfriend. “Anyway …”
“Anyway, here I am prattling away when you’ve got your script to work through. You’d better get your skates on or you’ll have the supervisor on to you. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”
“We are allowed a bit of leeway.”
“That’s good. All work and no play, you know.”
Simon clears his throat. “So you might be interested?”
“In what, my dear?”
Muriel hears Simon sigh. For a moment she’s afraid he’s going to hit the disconnect button. But he recovers himself. “In replacing your soffits and fascias.”
“Soffits and fascias?” The words sound as delightful as a child in a bubble bath.
“You do know what they are?”
Muriel rubs her grumbling hip with her free hand. “Of course, my dear.”
“They need replacing every few years,” says Simon. “And the guttering.”
“Now you mention it, I did notice one of the gutters leaking in that heavy rain we had last week. Although maybe you didn’t have it. The weather’s probably different in Croydon.”
Simon seems reluctant to discuss the weather. “So I can arrange for one of our surveyors to call round and give you an estimate?”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that, dear.”
“Just a quick survey while he’s in the area. No obligation. No hard sell. But if you were interested in getting your gutters done, next week would be a good time. There’s that twenty-five percent discount I mentioned.”
Muriel sighs. “I’m sorry, Simon, I don’t mean to waste your time. It’s just that my husband has always dealt with that kind of thing.”
“I’m sure we could arrange for the surveyor to call at a time that suits him.”
Muriel’s hand shoots up to her chest as she lets out a sob. “I only wish you could. You see, Bernard died exactly six weeks ago today.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs Archer.” Simon sounds genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for me to call.”
“Don’t go.” She squeezes the receiver as if it were the young man’s hand. “It’s so good to have someone to talk to.”
“Well, I …”
“People are so busy these days. You can’t imagine how lonely I feel.”
“Yes, well …”
“It’s such a help to talk to someone who cares. You’ve a lovely manner. Your mother must be so proud.”
“Mrs Archer, I …”
“They say it’s supposed to get better in time, but I can’t see it. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t just end it all. My life’s lost all meaning without Bernard.”
“Don’t do that,” says Simon, urgently. “You must have lots to live for.”
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Muriel whispers, “but I’ve been saving up the pills the doctor gave me …”
“Mrs Archer?” Muriel is startled to hear a woman’s voice now at the end of the line. “This is Lisa, Simon’s supervisor. I’m very sorry to hear about your bereavement, but I don’t think we’re the people to help you. Is there anyone I could contact for you?”
“There’s no one,” Muriel moans.
“Don’t you have any relatives? Friends? Children?”
Muriel sniffs. “A daughter. But what does she care? Never comes round. Won’t even let me see my grandchildren. I might as well be dead.”
“There must be someone,” Lisa pleads.
Just then, Muriel hears the back door open. “Well, Lisa, it was nice talking to you, but I’m going to have to go.”
“Are you sure? You’re not going to do anything drastic?”
Muriel replaces the receiver just as Bernard steps into the hallway, holding up a bunch of carrots from the allotment. “Hello, love,” he says. “Who was on the phone?”
“Nobody special,” says Muriel, hauling herself up from the chair and ushering him back into the kitchen. “Let’s put the kettle on and have a cup of tea. And then we’d better be getting ready for Abigail’s play. I’m so looking forward to it.”
Bernard puts down the carrots on the worktop and turns to his wife. With a grubby finger he wipes a tear from her cheek. “What’s this? Who’s upset you?”
Muriel stoops awkwardly to get the cups and saucers from the cupboard. “Don’t fuss. It’s nothing.”
“It was one of those call centers, wasn’t it?” Bernard shakes his head. “What game were you playing this time? The grieving widow? You’ll have the police after you one of these days.”
“It’s just a bit of fun,” says Muriel. “It doesn’t harm anybody. Why should I have to give up my amateur dramatics just because of an arthritic hip? Our granddaughter isn’t the only one in this family with a theatrical bent.”
“Good morning. Is that Mrs Archer?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Simon.” His voice is warm and soothing, like a bowl of chicken soup. “I’m making a courtesy call from Alliance Soffits and Fascias.”
“A courtesy call, how nice,” says Muriel. She has often remarked that there isn’t enough courtesy around these days.
“I’m glad you think so,” says Simon. “I’m ringing to tell you we’re going to be in your area next week …”
“What a lovely accent,” says Muriel. “Where are you from?”
Simon seems to hesitate. “We’re not supposed …”
“I’m sorry. You have to stick to your script, don’t you?” Muriel eases herself into the tattered armchair beside the telephone table. “Do carry on, dear.”
“We’re doing a special promotion. Twenty-five percent reduction if you get the whole house done.”
“That sounds nice,” says Muriel. “I always like a bargain. You have to watch the pennies, you know, when you’re on the pension.”
“I’m sure,” says Simon.
Muriel smiles. The young man sounds so sympathetic. Such a contrast to those scruffy teenagers who hang out in the precinct shouting abuse. “I was wondering, are you in India, by any chance? A lot of the call centres are in India, or so I’ve heard.”
“No, Mrs Archer, I’m in Croydon.”
“Croydon! Well fancy that! I used to live there when I was first married.”
“Really?”
Muriel nods at the black and white wedding photo beside the hallstand. If she had one of those videophones she’s heard about, Simon would be able to see it too. “Yes, indeed. I could tell you an interesting fact about Croydon.”
The young man laughs. “There’s nothing interesting about Croydon.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The very first supermarket was in Croydon. Sainsbury’s. 1950.”
“Really?” Simon doesn’t sound impressed. Perhaps his mother does all the shopping. Or his girlfriend. “Anyway …”
“Anyway, here I am prattling away when you’ve got your script to work through. You’d better get your skates on or you’ll have the supervisor on to you. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”
“We are allowed a bit of leeway.”
“That’s good. All work and no play, you know.”
Simon clears his throat. “So you might be interested?”
“In what, my dear?”
Muriel hears Simon sigh. For a moment she’s afraid he’s going to hit the disconnect button. But he recovers himself. “In replacing your soffits and fascias.”
“Soffits and fascias?” The words sound as delightful as a child in a bubble bath.
“You do know what they are?”
Muriel rubs her grumbling hip with her free hand. “Of course, my dear.”
“They need replacing every few years,” says Simon. “And the guttering.”
“Now you mention it, I did notice one of the gutters leaking in that heavy rain we had last week. Although maybe you didn’t have it. The weather’s probably different in Croydon.”
Simon seems reluctant to discuss the weather. “So I can arrange for one of our surveyors to call round and give you an estimate?”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that, dear.”
“Just a quick survey while he’s in the area. No obligation. No hard sell. But if you were interested in getting your gutters done, next week would be a good time. There’s that twenty-five percent discount I mentioned.”
Muriel sighs. “I’m sorry, Simon, I don’t mean to waste your time. It’s just that my husband has always dealt with that kind of thing.”
“I’m sure we could arrange for the surveyor to call at a time that suits him.”
Muriel’s hand shoots up to her chest as she lets out a sob. “I only wish you could. You see, Bernard died exactly six weeks ago today.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs Archer.” Simon sounds genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for me to call.”
“Don’t go.” She squeezes the receiver as if it were the young man’s hand. “It’s so good to have someone to talk to.”
“Well, I …”
“People are so busy these days. You can’t imagine how lonely I feel.”
“Yes, well …”
“It’s such a help to talk to someone who cares. You’ve a lovely manner. Your mother must be so proud.”
“Mrs Archer, I …”
“They say it’s supposed to get better in time, but I can’t see it. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t just end it all. My life’s lost all meaning without Bernard.”
“Don’t do that,” says Simon, urgently. “You must have lots to live for.”
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Muriel whispers, “but I’ve been saving up the pills the doctor gave me …”
“Mrs Archer?” Muriel is startled to hear a woman’s voice now at the end of the line. “This is Lisa, Simon’s supervisor. I’m very sorry to hear about your bereavement, but I don’t think we’re the people to help you. Is there anyone I could contact for you?”
“There’s no one,” Muriel moans.
“Don’t you have any relatives? Friends? Children?”
Muriel sniffs. “A daughter. But what does she care? Never comes round. Won’t even let me see my grandchildren. I might as well be dead.”
“There must be someone,” Lisa pleads.
Just then, Muriel hears the back door open. “Well, Lisa, it was nice talking to you, but I’m going to have to go.”
“Are you sure? You’re not going to do anything drastic?”
Muriel replaces the receiver just as Bernard steps into the hallway, holding up a bunch of carrots from the allotment. “Hello, love,” he says. “Who was on the phone?”
“Nobody special,” says Muriel, hauling herself up from the chair and ushering him back into the kitchen. “Let’s put the kettle on and have a cup of tea. And then we’d better be getting ready for Abigail’s play. I’m so looking forward to it.”
Bernard puts down the carrots on the worktop and turns to his wife. With a grubby finger he wipes a tear from her cheek. “What’s this? Who’s upset you?”
Muriel stoops awkwardly to get the cups and saucers from the cupboard. “Don’t fuss. It’s nothing.”
“It was one of those call centers, wasn’t it?” Bernard shakes his head. “What game were you playing this time? The grieving widow? You’ll have the police after you one of these days.”
“It’s just a bit of fun,” says Muriel. “It doesn’t harm anybody. Why should I have to give up my amateur dramatics just because of an arthritic hip? Our granddaughter isn’t the only one in this family with a theatrical bent.”
