The phone rang Wednesday evening in the death hour i.e after 9 p.m. You know the old rhyme : 'If the phones chimes after nine, chances are someone's died.' Do you not know that rhyme? Okay, I admit - I just this minute made it up, but it is a 'thing' in our family harking back to the Seventies when we were trained it was bad form to use the telephone machine after 9 p.m unless it was to pass on 'bad news.' I digress...
Anyway, I answered the phone with mild trepidation to be greeted with, 'Hello? Is that Mr Smith?' Hardly, I thought, making a note to have my post-menopausal testosterone levels checked. 'No,' said I. 'I believe you have the wrong number.'
We've had this before, phone calls for the Smith family. Usually they are from foreign call centres and regard there being something hideously wrong with our computer followed by the kind offer to fix it for us using simple guided steps. I always decline these offers with a firm but polite, 'No thank you....SCAMMER!' before slamming down the receiver. However, this caller sounded like a confused elderly person so unless the scammers have upped their scamming game, this was a genuine wrong number.
The elderly person read out the number she had dialled, which had three digitsin the wrong order from our number so I said as much, she apologised, I said that was quite alright, these things happen and we bid each other a polite adieu.
Two minutes later the phone rang again. 'Is that the Smith family? came the same elderly lady voice. 'You've come through to the wrong number again,' said I.
'Have I?' said she. 'I'm looking for the Smiths. I knew their aunt. She was my friend's sister-in-law and I met them a few times and they were very kind.'
'That's lovely,' said I. 'But this isn't their number. It might have been once but we've had it for over two years now.'
'Do you know where they are?' said the elderly lady. 'I'm trying to find them.'
I said that I was sorry but I didn't. We bid adieu once more.
Three minutes later the phone rang again. 'Hello?' said I. 'Have I got through to the Smith family?' said the elderly lady. 'I'm trying to find them. I haven't spoken to them for ages now and thought I'd see if I could make contact again. They were such a nice family.'
'It's me again,' said I, feeling my heart strings tug a little at the connection from this lady.
'You have such a lovely, kind voice,' said the lady.
'Thank you,' I said, laughing. 'That's nice of you to say.'
'The Smiths were lovely, kind people,' said the lady. 'I was so hoping to get in touch with them again.'
'I wish I could help,' I said, truly wishing I could. 'But they've not had this number for over two years. We were given it when we moved here.'
'Did you move into their old house?' said the lady.
'No,' I said. 'I believe telephone companies recycle old phone numbers. They don't stay with the house. So whilst this number did once belong to the Smiths, it doesn't any more.'
'Your voice sounds very young,' said the lady. 'Young and kind.'
I laughed again. 'I'm a grannie,' I said. 'So not that young.'
The lady laughed. 'I'm 95,' said she.
'Oh well,' said I, 'by comparison with your stately years I suppose I could be regarded as young.'
The lady laughed again. 'You've been so kind explaining things to me,' she said.
I said that it was okay, that I was glad to be able to help her and that, once again, I was sorry I couldn't tell her where the Smiths had gone.
'Do you know where I am?' she said, suddenly. I admitted I did not.
'I am in the Lake District,' she said. Her voice seemed suddenly stronger and brighter, as we slid into a non-Smith related conversation. 'I am on holiday in a lovely hotel. I am sitting in a chair by a big window with my feet up, and there are such beautiful views.'
'How lovely,' I said, wondering what views she could see in the gloaming of 10 in the evening.
'And I am wearing bed socks!' she said triumphantly, as though, at the grand age of 95 years old she had turned into a bed socked renegade.
'What colour are they?' I asked.
'They are fluffy,' she said. 'They feel lovely on my feet.'
There was a sigh and a bit of a pause whilst we both appreciated the comfort a good pair of fluffy (colour? Who cares?) bedsocks can bestow on a pair of weary feet.
'I would love to know how I could get hold of the Smiths,' said the lady. 'They were so lovely, but I suppose I've left it too late. It's sad.'
I agreed it was sad but these things happen. That we sometimes lose contact with the loveliest of people for no apparent reason beyond the rapid passing of time and forgetfulness. And we agreed that there was nothing to be done, c'est la vie. I wondered, at 95 years old, if this lady had many lovely people left in her life. I liked to think she had many children, grandchildren, great grandchildren but something told me that she did not. I hope I am wrong.
The elderly lady thanked me again for being so patient and kind. We bid adieu once more. I wish I had asked her name.
There were no more phone calls.
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