It's Maryby Rodney Devitt
‘IT’S MARY,” she says, handing me the phone and walking out the door as I walk in. Feckin’ hell, I know forty-seven Marys. Mary from the office? Mary my sister-in-law? Mary two doors down? “Hello, Mary,” I say, with a sort of neutral enthusiasm, hoping her voice, or the context of the words, will pinpoint this Mary.
“John, hello,” the voice says.
Not my sister-in-law. Not Mary from the office. No follow-on. Oh God.
“Well, em, how’re things?” I say, lamely. Please say something to identify yourself.
“Yes, good thanks. And yourself?” Not a flaming clue. Oh God, God, God.
“Em, yes, fine this end.” Inspiration. “I’m, em, just in the door.” Brilliant. She has to respond to that in some sort of “context”. Like bidding two no trumps, partner has to respond in a certain way. It’s the rule.
“Well done. Must have been lovely out this afternoon.” Bloody hell.
She’s reneged, she’s cheated, she’s offered me nothing to work with. By now I should be at that eureka moment. “Oh, of course, Mary. Just for a moment there you had me . . .” But I’m not there. I’m still nowhere. Oh feckidy, feckidy, feckidy, feck.
“It was. Lovely. Hasn’t it been a lovely few days?”
I’m surprised at how friendly, confident and upbeat my voice is, even though this is getting stupid, and I know I am going to have to capitulate, to grovel, to admit complete ignorance about this bloody Mary.
“Yes, lovely. Tell you what I’m ringing about.”
Oh, thank God. Tell me, tell me, tell me, and I’ll fall on your neck in gratitude just for knowing who the bleeding hell you are.
“It’s about the meeting.”
“Em, the meeting?”
“You know, next Monday’s effort?”
No, I don’t know, I don’t, I don’t.
Monday is choir practice. Is that what she’s talking about? Is she that tall one in the second sopranos? Marie or Mareee or something. Maybe Mary?
“Oh, eh, choir practice?” I try tentatively, my teeth and buttocks clenching. Now I’m the one who is probably completely out of context.
“Choir practice?” she repeats, and the word “choir” nearly hits the ceiling. I feel as if I have mouthed an obscenity.
“Well, it’s just Monday is usually, em . . .”
I wish an out-of-control cement truck would career into the front wall of the house. I wish aliens would sever all telecommunications instantly.
“Pardon?” “Monday, isn’t it, em . . . ? Look, just remind me again.” Good man, assert yourself.
“Yes, well, thing is, it’s all off. Probably just as well, it was never a runner. They’ll let you know if it’s rescheduled. Listen, I have to tell David. Talk to you again. Bye.”
David? “Okay. Thanks a lot . . . em . . . Mary. Bye.”
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