I swallow thick gulps of air and fight back tears.
‘We’ve got a bit of a problem,’ Dad continues.
Only then do I hear the loud, irritating sound in the background, tinny and thrashy, like heavy metal being played on the just-off-channel AM radio station in Dad’s car.
‘Is Mum okay?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘Not really, mate.’
‘Dad? What is it?’
‘I just got off your mother’s phone and suddenly it started playing music by itself and we can’t turn it off.’
By the tone of his voice, you’d think he’d just run over a small child. By Mum’s suddenly audible gasps of irritation in the background, you’d think he’d just run over her big toe.
‘Okay Dad, we can fix this.’
Mum screeches something in the background and for a second, I think she must have been stabbed. I can hear her high blood pressure thumping even above the noise of the deafening music. Someone has turned the volume up to its highest. Person, or persons, unknown.
I ask Dad to hand his phone to Mum and she eventually comes to the receiver – it’s been like getting a message through to her on the Western Front.
‘Ohhhh,’ she says, inconsolable.
‘Mum, we can fix this. Don’t worry. Can you get your phone?’
‘Ohhhh,’ she says again, this time with a groan of enormous displeasure.
I hear her get closer to the music which, granted, is incredibly grating.
‘Okay, so what you have to do —’
‘WHAT?’ she screams down the line into my ear.
I snap, having finally come to the end of my long, long tether. ‘Mum! Just listen okay!’
‘WHAT?’ she screams again, even louder this time. Dad says something in the background – an attempt to calm her that royally backfires. ‘I CAN’T HEAR HIM, DARL!’ she screams back at him.
The neighbours must assume a bloody murder–suicide is taking place. I expect a call from the police on my other line at any moment.
‘IT WON’T TURN OFF!’ Mum screams, though it’s unclear whether she’s screaming at me, my father or the universe.
Any joy given to me by Miss Streep has now been completely obliterated. I hang up the phone.
‘What?’ Jeff asks.
‘I can’t do it,’ I say. ‘They can murder each other for all I care.’
I stomp to our room to get out of my pyjamas and into some clothes so I can drive the fifteen minutes to their house and put an end to Armageddon. It is the most horrendous crime committed in the long history of their fifty-five-year marriage, – accidentally pressing play on the music icon on Mum’s phone. Sure, it’s a song that Jeff has downloaded to our shared Cloud, so a certain measure of distaste is to be expected, but this is a little too extreme (even for me, and I have been known to overreact to the odd thing, over the years).
As I begin getting into a pair of shorts, I can hear Jeff on the phone to Mum. Calm and serene, he talks her through the three simple steps to turn the music on her phone off.
‘Unlock the phone. Press the music icon. Press pause. That’s it.’
The music is off. My father will not be murdered. Not tonight, at least. My mother’s pulse will return to normal, or at least as normal as hers can be.
This event is still, without doubt in Mum’s mind, the worst thing Dad has ever done in their lifetime together. And Jeff remains a hero for putting an end to it. Yet perhaps the most pertinent question is: why is it that someone who isn’t their child is able to solve the situation so quickly, so quietly?
* * *
For their own safety (really), I’m trying to wean them off using me as their 24/7 tech desk help guy. Under my close supervision, Mum even worked out how to send Glen a photo of the vine that he and James bought her. She was immensely proud of herself for the feat.
I wouldn’t attempt the same test with Dad. He’s likely to end up sending ASIO a cryptic message they’ll decode as a death threat to some VIP.
Over time, I have managed to train my mother on how to pay bills and do basic banking online. She’s so adept with this technology, in a cavalier gesture of wild abandon, she even did away with her chequebook. Imagine a world without need of a chequebook!
Getting her confident enough to make online purchases has, however, been a bridge too far. It’s a common enough occurrence to hear, ‘Next time you’re online, I’ll get you to buy . . .’ and before she’s even finished the sentence I’ve completed the purchase.
‘It’ll be on your doorstep Friday afternoon,’ I announce.
‘Thanks, Toddy, what do I —’
‘Oh, don’t be silly.’
* * *
Given how difficult they find it to actually answer their phones, it suddenly strikes me that this may be a reflection on the abilities of their teacher. Surely not? Whether to press red or green and how to avoid pressing the speaker button don’t appear to be the only hurdles my parents face with ringing devices. Whenever I’m in their company they’ll swiftly and deftly make their way to the phone and answer it promptly – no matter what they were doing, what time of day it is or whose name shows on the screen. Why then, when I am calling about something important are they never able to pick up? It’s as if they have an inbuilt radar and go far away from their phones just before I dial their numbers. Or maybe Glen or Grant have programmed our parents’ phones to play a certain song when it’s my number calling? Perhaps ‘Bossy Boots Song’ from SpongeBob SquarePants?
Then, if they do pick up my call and the phone drops out while we’re speaking, I dial back immediately, but suddenly they won’t be there to answer.
