‘I think he read the meter wrong. How could it be less than last quarter when we’ve been using the bar heater so much?’
‘Maybe the air-conditioner in the summer is more expensive to run?’
‘I’m not complaining . . .’
‘Yes, Mum, better in your pocket than theirs. Gee, your lemon tree has got some fruit,’ I say, trying to steer the conversation to literally anything else. Ah! Eight letters: Careless. I fill in the answer.
‘Phone bill is a different matter,’ she continues. ‘They say I made a call to Nigeria.’ She holds out the bill, her hand shaking. Eighty-six across. Credulous. Eight letters: G _ L _ _ B _ _.
‘And did you?’ I only half-joke.
‘Toddy, get out! I don’t know anyone in Nigeria!’
‘No secret boyfriend you’re not telling me about?’
‘How can they say I called Nigeria when I don’t know anyone in Nigeria?’
‘Let me take a look at your phone.’
Sure enough, scrolling through Mum’s recent call list, there’s a missed call from a number in Nigeria. There’s also a recently made call to Nigeria.
‘Did you return a missed call to see who it was?’
‘No . . .’ she says, wholly unconvincingly.
‘Says it right here. Outgoing call. Nigeria. Forty minutes.’
‘But I never! Honestly Toddy, why would I call Nigeria? I don’t know anyone in Nigeria,’ she says again, just to confirm she’s not in contact with some mysterious international playboy. ‘How can they say I made that call?’ Her voice is wavering a little.
The cost of the phone call, according to the bill in front of me, is over $200. This long-distance flirting sure better have been worth it.
‘Don’t tell your father.’
I delete the missed international calls and show her how to make sure her phone is locked so that she cannot accidentally dial one while looking through her bottomless bag again. Then the next monthly bill comes in, and there is a call to Albania.
‘Mum!’ I say. ‘What are you doing?!’
‘Toddy, I promise I didn’t call back and I’m now so careful to make sure I lock my phone before putting it away. I even deleted any missed international calls, like you showed me.’
I take a moment to gauge how Mum is coping with all this. She looks ashen, the timbre of her voice is weak, pleading. It’s clear she’s the victim of some fairly sophisticated scams.
‘I just don’t understand how it’s happening.’ She’s almost teary. ‘I mean, I don’t even know anyone in Albania,’ she confirms, just in case I suspect her Nigerian lover is on the move. ‘Dad’ll kill me if he finds out I’m paying hundreds of dollars in scam calls.’ She sounds like a kid who’s just been caught nicking their first pack of fags.
It’s true that I wasn’t able to accurately explain to her why or how this was happening, but neither was I able to give her the benefit of my severe doubt. I mean, is it really possible that someone can call your number, not leave a message and then – without you doing anything – you get a charge on your phone bill for a few hundred dollars? If that is possible, why aren’t we all being scammed every minute of every day? And if it is possible, why the hell isn’t her phone provider doing anything about it? Or is it they who are reaping the rewards of these supposedly very costly calls? I come to the conclusion that Mum has accidentally called the number back and, having done that, she has been connected to one of those very expensive pay-by-the-second toll numbers.
‘Okay, let me fix it,’ I say, and almost instantly her whole body relaxes, going from imminent fatal stroke to mere mild heart attack.
As the phone account was originally my father’s I dial the service provider’s number and prepare to channel Dad as best I can. I would say it’s a slight stretch of the believable that my natural speaking voice could be mistaken for that of an eighty-year-old man, but nevertheless, I mimic Dad’s impatience and mannerisms a little too convincingly and the phone company’s customer support representative doesn’t skip a beat.
‘Name? Date of Birth? Address?’ she rattles off robotically on the other end of the line. ‘Hot damn!’ I think I hear her say, ‘You sound mighty vibrant for an eighty-year-old!’
I explain the situation. Bogus call rada rada, happened before rada rada, won’t pay it again rada rada. I finish with the coup de grace: ‘How is your company allowing this to happen?’
‘Sir, it is clear that a call was made to Albania,’ the woman, who I suspect at this point might actually be a robot pretending to be a human, reads from her screen.
‘Yes, yes, but I’m telling you I did not make that call. Do you not think it strange that on the last bill I made a solitary phone call to Nigeria and this bill I made a solitary call to Albania? Let me tell you, I’m a pensioner, I don’t even know anyone in those countries!’
‘Yes, sir, but I am not authorised to cancel the charge for this call so —’
‘I think perhaps I’d better speak to your supervisor,’ I interrupt her. ‘Because I can assure you, I will not be paying the bill for a call I didn’t make.’ Dad’s supercilious tone oozes through my veins as though it is in my blood, which, I suppose, it is. I motion to accept Mum’s offer of a cup of tea while I sort out her mess, just as Dad would also do.
I speak to two more people before finally getting someone to remove the charge from my parents’ bill. While I’m at it, I also have all outbound international destinations blocked from both of their numbers. That ought to fix it! Sure, Mum and Dad will never be able to call my brother Glen in Canada, but that is a small price to pay for my sanity. It’s about time he shouldered the sole burden of keeping in touch with them, because he has never had to hear ‘Kuwait!’, ‘Fiji!’ or ‘Upper Volta!’ peppered randomly into conversations and I can hardly be forced to endure that thrill all on my lonesome.
* * *
‘You must be on their list,’ Jeff says in the car. ‘They’re relentless. Mine are always from Melbourne. Bloody telemarketers. But I have to take the call if it’s a Melbourne number because a lot of the building materials I buy come from there.’
‘What’d he say?’ Dad asks me.
‘TELEMARKETERS!’ I scream, just short of causing permanent hoarseness.
‘Bastards,’ Dad says, and I’m pretty sure that will be his only contribution to the conversation. We pass a sign for Cessnock and he begins softly whistling Bill Haley’s classic hit ‘Rock Around Cessnock’.
‘Just never pick up a call from overseas,’ I remind Mum.
‘Yeah, and always delete the number like Toddy showed you how to do,’ Jeff adds.
‘They just rile me so much,’ Mum says with a visible shudder.
