Mam has secrets. There’s a box at the end of our street. Always has been, for long as I can remember. And she tip-toes out at the dark of night and creeps to that box from where she makes calls to someone called Steve. We never knew who Steve was and we never dared ask. I’m not even sure how I knew it was Steve.
Once, I passed by the box and the phone was ringing. It was the middle of a cloud-hung Saturday and the street was empty. I’d been to Maisie’s shop for eggs and some milk, and I heard the ringing, muffled a little for the door to the box was closed.
I wasn’t sure I should answer and wasn’t sure what I would say if I did. Truth is that at that time I’d never used a phone before, except to listen to the dialing tone or to ring the speaking clock and the woman’s voice somewhere between a human and a machine and the woman hard to imagine. But the ringing didn’t stop and so it held an urgency that would not let me pass.
The door was heavy and I had to put the eggs and the milk down on the street. Inside it smelled of pee and damp and cigarettes. Inside the ringing was a hurt in my ears. I picked the receiver up from its cradle and put it to my cheek, close enough I could hear. I did not speak, not at first. There was a man’s voice at the other end of the line and he was asking if it was Julie and he said how he missed me – if I was Julie – and he wondered if it was time and if we could meet.
Julie was our mam’s name. Sometimes our dad called her that, and Mrs Harrow next door, too. Our cousins called her Auntie Julie, and we laughed when they did, laughed to hear our mam called anything other than mam. And here was a man on the phone asking to speak to Julie and it had to be her.
‘Is it Steve?’ I asked, and there was a sudden silence there in the box, a breath-held silence and the sky darkening outside and the air in the box thickening so that I wanted to cough.
‘Is that you, Julie?’ he said at last.
I was shaking and looking through the misted and scratched glass of the phone-box and I was on the point of saying it was, when the door to our house opened and our mam rushed out pulling on her coat and moving in a hurry up the street.
‘The phone was ringing,’ I said by way of explanation for the eggs and milk being on the pavement. ‘It was a man and he was asking for Julie.’
When she took the phone from me the line was dead and I thought she swore then – under her breath, but I heard.
Then she sent me home and she waited outside the phone box and she lit a cigarette to pass the time and she watched me till I was in the house with the shopping.
Years later, and she still doesn’t have a phone of her own, though everyone else has. I am at the college in Manchester and we have an arrangement to call, a day and a time and it is marked on her calendar. And when she does call, I can picture her, pushed into the box at the end of our street with her coat buttoned to her chin and a lit cigarette in her hand, and the receiver pressed to her ear. Her voice is louder than it needs to be so that the end of the street can hear, if ever they want to. And I wonder again who Steve might be, and if he still is, and if he calls our mam some nights, or she calls him. I wonder, too, if the right time came and went and if they met and what they’d be meeting for. And I wonder, then, if our dad knows anyone called Steve.
“I’m right downtown, at the bus station. …We just got off the bus. The girls are with me….We had to. We didn’t have nowhere else to go….They made us leave the house, see? We couldn’t pay, and then Jorge disappeared, and they come and made us leave.
We got nothing. Nada. No clothes, no money. They just came and said, “Get out now. “ I guess they was gonna put another family in, and they just threw everything out in the yard. But we didn’t have no suitcase, so we just left it all and got on the bus.
No, I didn’t have money for that neither, but the driver let us stay on until we got here. We haven’t had nothing to eat though, but we did get to sleep for a couple of hours. It was cool on the bus, but them girls is really hungry now.
What I was hoping is that you could come and get us. We could stay with you, maybe sleep on the porch for a while. I could help you with the house and the babies, you know. Just till we found some help from someplace to get us back on our feet. I done cleaning work before and I’m sure I can find a job, even without papers.
We’re right by the phone booth just on the other side of the parking lot. I got on a blue dress. Just me and the two girls. You can’t miss us.”
Really fine short piece here! I have watched your site with great interest as you continue to write and write and write. And thanks to both you and Lindsay for the support you are showing one another as well. Write on, folks!
Thank, Patricia, for the daily challenges! Sometimes the really ARE a challenge…finding my point of entry into you choices requires real self-examination. I am welcoming the discipline of doing it…..
Mam has secrets. There’s a box at the end of our street. Always has been, for long as I can remember. And she tip-toes out at the dark of night and creeps to that box from where she makes calls to someone called Steve. We never knew who Steve was and we never dared ask. I’m not even sure how I knew it was Steve.
Once, I passed by the box and the phone was ringing. It was the middle of a cloud-hung Saturday and the street was empty. I’d been to Maisie’s shop for eggs and some milk, and I heard the ringing, muffled a little for the door to the box was closed.
I wasn’t sure I should answer and wasn’t sure what I would say if I did. Truth is that at that time I’d never used a phone before, except to listen to the dialing tone or to ring the speaking clock and the woman’s voice somewhere between a human and a machine and the woman hard to imagine. But the ringing didn’t stop and so it held an urgency that would not let me pass.
The door was heavy and I had to put the eggs and the milk down on the street. Inside it smelled of pee and damp and cigarettes. Inside the ringing was a hurt in my ears. I picked the receiver up from its cradle and put it to my cheek, close enough I could hear. I did not speak, not at first. There was a man’s voice at the other end of the line and he was asking if it was Julie and he said how he missed me – if I was Julie – and he wondered if it was time and if we could meet.
Julie was our mam’s name. Sometimes our dad called her that, and Mrs Harrow next door, too. Our cousins called her Auntie Julie, and we laughed when they did, laughed to hear our mam called anything other than mam. And here was a man on the phone asking to speak to Julie and it had to be her.
‘Is it Steve?’ I asked, and there was a sudden silence there in the box, a breath-held silence and the sky darkening outside and the air in the box thickening so that I wanted to cough.
‘Is that you, Julie?’ he said at last.
I was shaking and looking through the misted and scratched glass of the phone-box and I was on the point of saying it was, when the door to our house opened and our mam rushed out pulling on her coat and moving in a hurry up the street.
‘The phone was ringing,’ I said by way of explanation for the eggs and milk being on the pavement. ‘It was a man and he was asking for Julie.’
When she took the phone from me the line was dead and I thought she swore then – under her breath, but I heard.
Then she sent me home and she waited outside the phone box and she lit a cigarette to pass the time and she watched me till I was in the house with the shopping.
Years later, and she still doesn’t have a phone of her own, though everyone else has. I am at the college in Manchester and we have an arrangement to call, a day and a time and it is marked on her calendar. And when she does call, I can picture her, pushed into the box at the end of our street with her coat buttoned to her chin and a lit cigarette in her hand, and the receiver pressed to her ear. Her voice is louder than it needs to be so that the end of the street can hear, if ever they want to. And I wonder again who Steve might be, and if he still is, and if he calls our mam some nights, or she calls him. I wonder, too, if the right time came and went and if they met and what they’d be meeting for. And I wonder, then, if our dad knows anyone called Steve.
So wonderful. Thank you again, Lindsay. I was hoping you might find this image evocative.
Wow! Very nice.
“I’m right downtown, at the bus station. …We just got off the bus. The girls are with me….We had to. We didn’t have nowhere else to go….They made us leave the house, see? We couldn’t pay, and then Jorge disappeared, and they come and made us leave.
We got nothing. Nada. No clothes, no money. They just came and said, “Get out now. “ I guess they was gonna put another family in, and they just threw everything out in the yard. But we didn’t have no suitcase, so we just left it all and got on the bus.
No, I didn’t have money for that neither, but the driver let us stay on until we got here. We haven’t had nothing to eat though, but we did get to sleep for a couple of hours. It was cool on the bus, but them girls is really hungry now.
What I was hoping is that you could come and get us. We could stay with you, maybe sleep on the porch for a while. I could help you with the house and the babies, you know. Just till we found some help from someplace to get us back on our feet. I done cleaning work before and I’m sure I can find a job, even without papers.
We’re right by the phone booth just on the other side of the parking lot. I got on a blue dress. Just me and the two girls. You can’t miss us.”
Really fine short piece here! I have watched your site with great interest as you continue to write and write and write. And thanks to both you and Lindsay for the support you are showing one another as well. Write on, folks!
Lovely and so desperately sad! They could come stay with me!
Thank, Patricia, for the daily challenges! Sometimes the really ARE a challenge…finding my point of entry into you choices requires real self-examination. I am welcoming the discipline of doing it…..
Glad you liked the piece, Patricia. As always, thanks for posting such wonderfully inspirational pictures and openings.