When the telephone rings, Faith holds her breath. She lets the instrument trill once, twice. It gives her time. It gives her hope. It might be a crank caller. It might be one of those offshore call centre workers trying to sell her a new contract, get her to change her electricity provider; the price per unit of electricity consumed is shocking.
But Faith has been shocked even more badly by making what she terms an ‘unsuitably informed’ switch from one provider to another, only to be stung by a massive quarterly bill after she was assured the first month’s consumption would be free of charge — which lured her rather recklessly into a spate of baking for days, that had the family in throes of delight (cakes, potato wedges, quiches, cookies and muffins) until that brown envelope arrived delivering the ghastly truth.
In her heart, though, Faith knows the ringing telephone is not any of these alternatives she is praying for. She knows, as a mother knows her son, who is on the end of the line, willing her to pick up. She knows, too, as a mother, she can only hold her breath for so long, knowing it is her own flesh and blood waiting for her to pick up the instrument and ‘make the maternal link’. With a sigh she gives in.
“Hi mum!” That cheery voice, buoyed by the breeze of 33 summers. “I thought for a moment you’d gone out.”
I’m about to ‘go out’, Faith thinks, stifling a hysterical bout of laughter she feels rising in her chest. I’m about to be bowled like a batsman in cricket who’s played all over the ball and had his stumps disarranged.
“How are you, mum?”
“I’m fine and your father’s doing well, too,” she says out of reflex before biting her tongue, as though trying to stem the flow of words, call them back, halt them, imprison them. Too late. She’s stated her case already. Ever after his last call, she’d decided that she’d be a little more crafty, engage in a subtle white lie or two.
“Your father and I are surviving, my son. Just about.” Or something along those lines. Emphasising the struggle, the fact that the day of the pensioner had finally arrived.
“Ah, good, good. I worry about your health and dad’s.”
“Well, thank you, Benny. And how are you, my son?” A second slip. That’s not what she meant to say. She’d practised it so often.
“You sound really happy. I have no doubt you’re doing well both at work and health-wise.” Or something along those lines. Too late.
“Oh, I’m surviving, mum. Barely. You know how it is. Had to buy a new ute. The old one conked out. It’s time had come anyway. Got myself a Ford.”
“Lovely,” says Faith, with a sinking feeling. “You should see it, mum.” “Oh, we’d love to, Benny.” “I’ll bring it around this afternoon then.”
Just like one of those stories where someone’s felt a gentle tap on their shoulder and received divine inspiration or guidance, Faith can feel it coming. What she simply calls The Tap. It is moments away. Hanging in the ether, evolving, formulating itself into a nice tender sentence. “Mum ...”. Be strong, Faith tells herself. He is your eldest after all. He’s a nice lad. Even if he takes more than he gives. The fact that he gives — however meagre — is an indication of conscience. A green conscience that with time will mature. Consciences have differing maturing rates, so she’s heard. Ben’s — well, it’s been 33 years and his conscience appears stuck in a very deep rut.
She looks across at Alan, her husband. As usual, he is working the crossword. He has a different way of dealing with Benny’s demands. Like he’s trying to make sense of something as cryptic as one’s own blood.
“Can you manage that, mum?” “Oh, yes, Benny,” Faith replies not sure what she’s agreed to manage on Ben’s behalf.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
