Short Story: The Call

Short Story: The Call

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I am giving my notes a final read over before the big presentation when Rosie buzzes through.

‘Selina, it’s Cherrybank House, do you want to take the call?’

Do I want to take the call? No, what I want is to apply some lip gloss, flick an imaginary speck of lint from my skirt and to walk with purpose to the Boardroom. This is it, my big chance. The Directors have come up from London and Terry will be sitting in his Chief Exec’s chair at the head of the table, with his habitual double espresso in front of him. That tiny cup looks like a child’s toy in his pudgy hands.

I had a miniature tea-set for giving my dolls parties. Dad made me a scaled-down table for setting out all the cups and saucers, so I could pour diluting juice and set out Rich Tea biscuits, nibbling them myself in lieu of the dolls’ ability to do so. Dad was always good with his hands. His shed had all the tools to fix and mend, to craft and create. He spent hours there, a release from his desk bound Mondays to Fridays.

I look at my hands, the same shape as his, long fingered, with an over developed knuckle on our right thumb. My nails are manicured red. The only manual labour they do is to click clack over my keyboard.

He doesn’t do anything with his hands anymore. They are as immobile as the twisted branch of a tree fallen to the earth in a storm. A storm that rages on in his mind, all whirling randomness, with only glimpses of lucid sunlight through the clouds. Last time I visited he thought I was Mum, kept asking me if I had remembered to wash his shirts for the office.

He’s had three falls since he moved into Cherrybank. Angie says he refuses to use the zimmer. She’s very good with him, better than the other carers. They always phone me afterwards, asking me to take him up to the hospital, so he can be checked out. Do I want to take the call?

Terry will be getting impatient. The caffeine will have kicked in, ready for action.

Dad took me to his office once, when I was ten or eleven. I sat by the side of his desk on a swivel chair that I kept making go round and round till my head was fairground ride dizzy. He was different at work, more serious, taller and quieter. I remember watching him give instructions to others, thinking to myself that one day I wanted to be in charge like that.

If this presentation goes well I will have my promotion, a bigger team, more responsibility. People will listen to me. Terry expects me to deliver. Dad would be proud.

I fish in my bag for car keys. It’s at least a half hour drive from here.

‘Rosie,’ I say, ‘Tell Cherrybank I’m on my way.’