Carol’s Column

Blame it on Mr Bell

BLAME it all on Alexander Bell. The frustration, the incessant noise, ensuing laryngitis, disruption of a happy home life — not to mention curvature of the spine and a peculiar deformity of the elbow which manifest itself by the arm becoming permanently stuck in an upright, rigid position.

It's all his rotten fault anyway, I muttered as I listened to the monotonous and piercing beep at the other end of the line.

I'll try once more, I thought to myself, as I placed my umpteenth cup of black coffee on the table and dialled the number yet again.

"What are you doing?" my oldest son had asked when I set up the camp stretcher and portable cooker beside the telephone table.

By that stage I despaired. It had taken me five days, three hours and 33 minutes of constant battling and still I couldn't get through.

And then, unexpectedly, the glorious moment came. I dialled the number and it rang — cheekily and chirpily.

The glow of success spread to my rigid fingertips grasping the receiver. Unfortunately I was unable to straighten my arm — but no matter, the battle was won.

Somebody answered at the other end.

"Betty," I shrieked, ecstatic at my good fortune. "Is it really you? It's impossible to get you — your phone's been engaged for almost a week. But at last, I've got you, I've got you."

There was silence.

"This is Robert," a voice said.

"It is?"

"Yes. I live here all alone. I don't know anyone called Betty and there's nothing wrong with my phone."

"There's not?"

"But I'll talk to you."

The gruff voice was sympathetic, sensing the desperation in my voice.

At which stage I ripped out the offending instrument and sent Betty an urgent express telegram.

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She answered immediately.

"There's nothing wrong with my phone. I had it checked by the phone department and in their faults book they wrote down *teenage daughters*."

It was shortly after this traumatic experience that I managed to get through to her one late Thursday afternoon as the orange-smog sun was setting in the air-polluted sky and the crickets croaked asthmatically under the eaves of the roof.

I was overjoyed. "Is this really you?" I asked tentatively, not wanting to sound pushy.

"Yes," she replied somewhat dryly I thought.

□ □ □

"You managed to get a break in the line because Gaby's in the bathroom gargling her throat in anticipation of the evening session and Leora's practising deep breathing in the bedroom. Somebody told her it would improve her lung capacity. She finds that if she speaks for more than two hours — she becomes breathless."

That's teenage daughters for you. Of course boys are different. Slow starters. They always have been.

All my sons only began to speak in their third year at school and when the phone rings in our household, there's never a mad, frenetic rush and then a fight for the receiver.

On the contrary, everyone develops sudden deafness of the middle ear or paralysis of the lower limbs — the ones involved in propulsion.

Yes, it's all Mr Bell's fault. He was the one that invented that wretched little instrument.

The one that rings just as you've climbed into a hot bath and are lying back and relaxing. You jump out quickly, run dripping and naked to pick it up — a ring too late.

Or, you're at the bottom of the garden merrily sprinkling snail bait over struggling shoots when that strident ring causes your eardrums to tremble. You rush up the path, knocking over the solitary seedling en route, leaping and bounding over mounds of fresh chicken manure, only to arrive triumphant and breathless to pick up the receiver to nobody.

Or, you've incarcerated yourself and a good book in the toilet, locked the door against all the people — big and small — that waft through our house like falling leaves. And then the phone rings.

Or, it rings at 7am on a Sunday morning and it's the wrong number.

But last night was the beginning of the end.

Fast asleep, I was shaken out of my snores by a persistent ring.

□ □ □

I lifted the phone.

"Hello, this is Barbara. Is Barry there?" The young, fresh voice floated out of the receiver I was holding to my left nostril having lost my eardrum in the dark.

I switched on the light and shuddered. It was 11.45pm.

"Do you realise it's nearly midnight?" I growled.

The voice was suitably contrite. "I know Mrs Lazar. I'm sorry phoning so late, but I can't sleep and I've got something terribly important to tell Barry."

"In the middle of the night?"

The voice sighed. "Ok, I'll ring back first thing tomorrow. Just say 'goodnight' to Barry for me."

I padded my way into my teenage son's bedroom. It took me 15 minutes to find him among the mounds of discarded clothing. I struck gold when something living responded to my prod.

"Barbara says goodnight," I hissed in his ear.

The mound grunted and wagged its tail.

Even in the dark I remembered my son had no tail. I eventually found him on the floor next to his bed.

"Why's the dog in your bed?"

"There's no room on the floor." He rolled over and closed his ear.

□ □ □

"Listen, Barbara says goodnight."

By now he was wide awake.

"Who's Barbara?"

"Who knows?"

I padded back to my warm bed and warmer husband. I shook him awake, struck by a shattering thought.

"We've lost our little boy," I said woefully in his ear.

He grunted and glared at me through his bleary eye. "So what?" he said wearily. "We've gained everyone else's teenage daughters."

Don't tell me.

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