The Call on Line Seven

It's ten o'clock of a Wedensday morning. It's an average day for the call centre of mail order company InterMart. Twenty customer service consultants are chirping away into their headsets handling inbound calls for the company's array of clothing and accessories for the discerning senior.

Most of the consultants are female but there are a few males. Luke Smith is in his late twenties and has been working at InterMart for six months. He dresses in the modern style. He sits between two of the younger females with whom he shares jokes and asks questions about tricky calls. He has a welcoming telephone manner and mostly enjoys the work.

He types away updating his previous call and then takes his next one.

“Good morning. This is Intermart, Luke speaking. How can I help?”

“Good morning, Luke”, replies the voice at the end of the phone. I go wide-eyed. I recognise that voice.

“This is Mrs Smith. My customer number is ….” I check the number on the phone’s display. It is. It is her. My mum.

“Hullo?” she says enquiringly.

“Err, yes. Sorry. Could I have your customer number again, please”?

She repeats it. I enter it into the system. Up pops name and address as final proof.

“What’s the weather like where you are?” she asks in her chatty way. I hope to God that she doesn’t recognise my voice. I try to disguise it by making it lower and reducing it to a monotone.

“Warm and sunny”, I reply as terse as I can.

“I’ve got a son named Luke. You sound just like him”.

“It’s quite a common name these days” I bluff. “These modern phones distort voices”.

“Hmm”, she says. “I suppose so. Anyway, I’d like to place an order”.

“Assuredly”. I am now using words and phrases she can’t pin on me.

“Page twenty three, item BF206. In white; size eighteen”.

“In stock”. Jesus, control briefs. I don’t want to know this!

“And in pink also size eighteen”.

“In stock. Fourteen ninety-five a pair”, I say in as detached a voice as I can.

“Good”. I can hear her flicking through the pages. “Also, page thirty nine, item CD410. In beige, size 20. Thirty-nine ninety-nine”.

“Also in stock”. Oh no, the old lady cardigan we’ve all been joking about. Beige with a beaded pattern. It strikes me that my mum is an old lady. When did that happen? I’ve never noticed it before. She’s just always been mum.

“That should do it for today”, she says. “With the seven-fifty postage that makes seventy-seven thirty-five”

“Seventy-seven thirty-five it is”, I concur.

“And they should be here in about a week”, says mum more as a statement than a question.

“Yes”, I agree. There’s a pause. I panic. Is she waiting for me to confess all?

“And my order number?” she prompts obviously well versed in the Intermart way. She’s probably been a customer for years slowly moving from the bright yellows and oranges that I remember to the beige of the twilight years. How old is she? I can’t work it out quick enough.

“Order number is IM4642”, I cite in my monotone.

“Okay Luke, thank you”. Again she prompts me to use her name.

“Thanks for your order, Mrs Smith”, I reply formally and cringe. I can’t believe I just called my own mother Mrs Smith.

“Tatty bye”, she says.

“Bat er bub-bye”, I reply. And she hangs up. I nearly fell for the trap. We always say Tatty bye, batty tye. It’s a family thing. I caught myself just in time. I hope.

Angrily I punch a break code and rip off my headset. I get up and rush out of the room almost colliding with Mick, my team leader. I offer a strained apology.

In the stairwell, I take a few deep breaths and wonder what I’m going to do. You see, I told my family that I have a well-paid job working in IT. But here I am working casual part-time in a call centre selling ladies clothing.

Mick enters the stairwell. “’Sup dude?” he asks.

“Ahhh, just had a horrible experience”, I say dismissively.

“Yeah”, he consoles. “Some of ‘em can be total idiots”.

“It was my mum”.

“Right. And?”

“She doesn’t know I work here”.

“Hmm?”

“My family think I’m a big shot in IT”.

“I see”.

“I don’t know for sure she knew it was me”, I say hopefully.

“And you didn’t tell her?” quizzes Mick.

“No”, I say defensively.

“You mean you pretended to not be your own mother’s son?” he asks with incredulity.

“Well. No. I mean, I didn’t say I wasn’t her son”, I reply pleading my case.

Mick stands there, arms folded and says in a parental tone” I think you’ve got some explaining to do, young man”.

I look at him. He raises his eyebrows, soliciting a response. Mick’s about the only person I get on with in the centre. As usual with workmates, you get on with them but you don’t know them. Mick and I share similar likes and dislikes. We go down the pub after work on a Friday and have a laugh. But he is my boss and has a way of making me feel inferior.

A huge sigh spills out of me. I explain how I hated the oppression of my family’s small town. How mum was forever trying to marry me off to a series of her friend’s daughters. How dad wanted me to be a plumber like him. How I always fought with my brother and quarrelled with my sister. And how I came to the city on the pretext of having scored a top job in an IT company. Really, I just ran away, lived in a bedsit for a few months and bludged on the dole.

Eventually, I did get a decent job working in a warehouse. I had a work email address and made up a signature announcing me as a systems analyst. I made up all sorts of excuses for not going home. For every birthday there was a major upgrade, for each engagement there was a systems crash, for any other event there was a conference or a workshop.

Mick nods his head, pursing his lips. “I see”, he says slowly.

“I mean it’s not all lies”, I say trying to mitigate my circumstances.

“Explain”.

“Well, I promised mum I’d send her money, the fruits of my good fortune”.

“Right”.

“And I always remember their birthday and send presents, even my arsehole brother and, every month, I deposit five hundred bucks into mum’s account”.

“Five hundred! That’s all right”, says Mick impressed. “I don’t give my folks a penny. Mind you, I’m not lying my bollocks off”.

“It’s not guilt!” I protest. “It’s my promise, my honour. If they taught me anything it was to honour my word”.

“So, why do you lie to them?” cross-examines Mick.

“I’m not lying. I’m just pretending”, I say using my hands beseechingly.

“Question of definition really”, says Mick matter-of-factly.

I sigh then sniffle. The emotion is getting to me. Mick unfurls his arms and rests a calming hand on my shoulder. “Look. Don’t feel so bad. You remember their birthdays and give your mum five hundred a month so you’ve got nothing to worry about. So what if you work in a call centre. Just tell them it’s temporary. Or make up another story. Either that or come clean. Anyway, what puzzles me is how you can afford to send home five hundred a month on these wages?”

I sigh again and explain that for the past few months I’ve been living off rice and pasta just so I do have the money. The good thing about rice and pasta is that it’s dry and doesn’t go off. Mixed with tomato ketchup or chilli sauce it’s not so bad. Sometimes I pick up a loaf or a bag of rolls from the charity shop. I’ve sold possessions to make ends meet. I’ve done desperate jobs like fund-raising for charities and door-to-door stuff.

Mick’s jaw drops at these revelations. “Luke”, he says aghast. “I can’t believe you’ve been torturing yourself like this all because you made a promise. If you missed a month or dropped it to two hundred or three hundred, I’m sure your mum wouldn’t mind. Just say you’ve got bills to pay. Works for everybody else”.

“You don’t understand!” I snap just as Kelly, the office gossip, enters the stairwell. She gives a surprised look followed by a wry smile as she descends the stairs. Probably thinks we’re having a lover’s tiff. It’ll be around the centre inside an hour.

“You don’t know what they’re like”, I continue in a quieter voice. “If I tell them the truth they’ll crucify me, even my sister. They’re ruthless. They’ll tear me to shreds”

“Calm down, calm down”, says Mick raising a hand to halt my diatribe.

I realise I’m becoming delirious but I can’t stop. I’m walking around in a little stressed out circle. “You can’t imagine the immense pleasure they’ll take from putting it around town that the Great Luke Smith isn’t a big shot IT dood he’s just a glorified receptionist. O god. It’s hopeless”.

“Luke”, says Mick firmly in his parental tone. “Calm down. Please. Now just listen”.

I stop circling. My breathing has become heavy.

Mick continues. “You’ve told me many times you don’t like birthdays and all that Christmas shit but you remember your family and you send them presents. Maybe you need your family more than you think. Or care to admit. It’s different for me. My family are from here. I mean, I still live at home. I have uncles, aunts, and cousins all in an hour’s drive. I can’t get away from them. But I don’t remember their birthdays or buy them presents. Mum does it for me”.

I’m stunned. It’s all true. Mick looks at his watch.

“Well, my friend. You have two choices. Maintain the pretence or tell the truth. But right now we have customers waiting to be clothed. Ready to get back into it?”

“Yeah. I guess”, I say through a sigh. Maybe I am making too much of it. He pats me on the shoulder and we re-enter the centre. “Thanks”, I say. “I owe you a beer”.

The murmur of fifty voices is comforting. The air-conditioning soothes my burning face. Nobody seems to have noticed my melodrama. I take my seat and put on my headset. I take a few more deep breaths. Just as I’m about to go back on line I get a call from Reception.

“Luke?” asks Reception.

“Yup”.

“I’ve got a Mrs Smith on line seven for you. About the order you’ve just taken for her”.

“What?” I draw a deep gut-churning breath.

“Order number IM4642. Okay?” and she’s gone.

I stare at the little light blinking on line seven. She knows it me. She knows me. For Christ’s sake, she’s my mother. I look around for an escape. Mick is in the kitchen making a cup of tea. I turn to my left but Jill’s busy on a call looking at her screen. I turn to my right and find that Joe’s urgently flicking through a catalogue. The comforting murmur has become an irritating buzz. My face burns again.

I’ve forgotten to breathe.