Decades of phone as friend and foe - a column by Swindon Link poetry correspondent Maurice Spillane

When mother-in-law died, we disconnected the land line. She was the only one who called.

I’d say “It’s for you” and my wife would answer. But like all changes it had a memory ripple.

As a kid, we’d a scoutmaster who said home phones were the future. Such vision. He promoted the telephone scout badge. I dialled from a phone box, shaking. 

At first, he didn’t answer. I pressed button B to get my money back. On the second call he answered, and I pressed button A. “Well done, Maurice. See you Friday” was my first phone conversation.

In the 60s I managed a rock band. We’d difficulty getting gigs so we recruited other bands and became brokers with promoters, persuading them to hire several bands per night. 

Three teenagers – only one had a phone and an understanding mother. We took shifts that glorious summer and made serious pocket money.

When my first daughter was born in Zambia in 1973. I sent a telegram, five words to keep the cost down: “baby girl [stop] both fine [stop] maurice”. I booked a slot to phone my wife’s parents, minimum 24 hours later, maximum three minutes. No time to share the

 

African sun squeezing the skyline through

a small window in a sterilized room

disseminating colour as if on cue

 

Then the 1980s, running to phone boxes in America between business flights, checking dozens of messages and not getting to the last message which said: “Your meeting’s been cancelled.” The breakthrough was a new system where your PA could prioritise messages. Imagine!

Home to remote Baltinglass where the phone had a handle to wake up the grumpy postmistress. She phoned for you, listened in, and the village knew your business within hours. 

I miss none of that.

 

www.mauricespillane.co.uk