Her Name Was Lola

30 Phone Talk

‘Seven three eight five, seven two seven seven,’ says a male voice, very refined.

‘I’m calling Lola Bessington,’ says Max. ‘Have I got the right number?’

‘Miss Bessington’s calls are being diverted to this number,’ says the voice.

‘Whom am I speaking to, please?’ says Max.

‘This is Poole,’ says Poole.

‘Poole is where I’m calling from. This is Max Lesser.’

‘Yes, Mr Lesser. Was there anything else?’

‘Can you tell me how she is?’

‘No,’ says Poole. ‘I am not able to do that. Goodbye.’

‘Chambers,’ says a crisp female voice answering Max’s next call.

‘I’d like to speak to Basil Meissen-Potts, please,’ says Max.

‘Who’s calling, please?’ says Ms Crisp.

‘Max Lesser.’

‘Mr Meissen-Potts is out of the country at present.’

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘Try again in two weeks.’

‘Thank you,’ says Max, and rings Poole again.

‘Seven three eight five, seven two seven seven,’ says Poole.

‘Max Lesser again,’ says Max. ‘Can I speak to Lady Bessington?’

‘Lady Bessington cannot be reached at this time,’ says Poole.

‘Lord Bessington, then?’

‘I’ll have to put you on hold for a moment,’ says Poole. Silence. No music.

The next voice has a Victorian moustache and wears a sola topi. ‘Bessington here,’ it says, switching a riding crop against its boot.

‘Lord Bessington,’ says Max, ‘this is Max Lesser. I was hoping to talk to Lola.’

‘Yes, no doubt you were.’

‘Can you at least tell me how she is?’

‘I’m a rather busy man,’ says Lord Bessington, ‘but if you’d like to speak to my secretary I’ll try to squeeze you in for a horsewhipping.’

‘Would that make you feel better?’ says Max.

‘Yes, it would give me the comfort of knowing that at least one of us has behaved correctly.’

‘If you’ll allow a personal question, Lord Bessington, have you ever behaved incorrectly?’

‘Yes. At the age of eight I brought my pony back to the stables without cooling him down and I was thrashed for it.’

‘Thank you,’ says Max. ‘I have nothing further.’

‘Hello,’ says Vicky at the Coliseum Shop. ‘Coliseum Shop.’

‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Max Lesser here. Any word from Lola?’

‘Only that she’s quit her job and gone away.’

‘Did she say whether she … Did she say how she is, you know, physically?’ says Max.

‘All she said was what I just told you.’

‘Nothing about where she was going or how long she’ll be away?’

‘Nothing. I have to go now.’ She hangs up.

‘Our child,’ says Max to his mind, ‘is it alive or dead?’

‘I can’t help you,’ says his mind.

Max dials the speaking clock. ‘At the third stroke,’ says the clock, ‘the time, sponsored by Accurist, will be fifteen thirty-three and ten seconds. Beep. Beep, etc. Every hour wounds; the last one kills.’

‘You can say that again,’ says Max.

‘Every hour wounds,’ speaks the clock; ‘the last one kills.’