David Charters: There are many ways of dealing with strangers who call to discuss money

Mar 18 2008 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

DARKNESS chilled the night down to the marrow of the old trees, which moaned, heaved and shuddered against the anger of the wind, sweeping from the river across the hooded town.

And I was kneeling on a mat contemplating the many differences between the sexes. For example, why do women transfer the milk from the bottle to a jug, before pouring it on their cornflakes?

As I was grappling with this mystery, a noble spider was climbing the sheer, south face of our bath, attempting to reach the overflow hole. Periodically he would lose his footing and slip back.

“Should I give the poor chap a leg-up?” I asked myself, but the creature had such dignity that I didn’t want to deny him the solo triumph.

I was reminded of dear Aunty Gwladys at the church social, rising from her chair to scuttle over the parquet floor in a magnificent bid to reach the final scotch egg and pickled onion lying on the cardboard plate – only for her left eye to feel the squirt of bitter juice from the mouth of the nimble-toed organist, whose dentures had just closed on the plump onion.

Anyway, it was 8.50pm and I was changing into my wynceyette pyjamas for an early night, after the heavy demands of the day.

Suddenly, the peace was broken by the insistent ringing of the phone.

“Anyone expecting a call?” I cried. There was no reply, so I legged down to the hall, two stairs at a time.

“Hello, is that Mr Charters?” said the Glaswegian voice at the other end. Whom did he think I was – the neighbourhood burglar, the Holy Ghost?

“Yes,” I said, tartly. “Who is that?”

It was the bank wanting to tell me about the “advantages” of changing my account. Was this a good moment to call?

“No, I’m afraid that it’s a very bad moment,” I said. “You see, the priest has just called to see Uncle Clarence, who has been very poorly. He wanted to catch him before it was too late.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” said the caller. “I expect you’ll miss him when he moves on but perhaps in a way it will be a relief, the end of his suffering.”

“Up to a point,” I said, “but for years, he has left us panting in his wake with all that whiskey, the gambling, the women and horses, the bingo and feasting.”

“A full life, coming to a natural end,” commiserated the caller.

“No! I’m talking about Father O’Flaherty, not my uncle,” I scolded.

“Clarence is an old bore. We’ll be glad to see him out of the door.”

“I take it then that this not a good time to explore the really exciting interest rates available in our new account?” asked the caller. “Should I call back at a more suitable time?”

“Yes, after the funeral.”

There are many ways of dealing with strangers who call to discuss money.

But how one longs for the reassurance of an old fashioned bank manager’s office with timber-panelled walls, a stout desk, the leather ledger, the ink-pot and blotter.

A company, which seems to be using a call centre in India, has been ringing regularly to tell us that they are conducting a survey about kitchens in our area. Would we like to take part?

“Ahhhhhoooh! I’ve trodden on a spike rushing to answer the phone. Please don’t call back, ever,” I bellow.

My first reaction to these calls is fury, but it soon subsides to sympathy – remembering the earlier generation of bagmen, who actually knocked on doors to sell their products, whether it was pegs, encyclopaedias, lottery tickets, goldfish, Bible tracts, miracle stain-removers, razor blades, tarot cards, potato-dicers or the parish magazine.

An old friend, who had a shambling gait, a vivid imagination and despairing parents, bounced from job to job without any obvious advances. One day he found himself applying for a coveted position as a mop salesman. Surprisingly, he was successful. But there was a cunning smirk on the manager’s face when he began dividing the map into sales’ areas for his team. My friend, a pedestrian, was allocated the hill country of Westmoreland – one of the most sparsely populated regions in western Europe. “You’ll have to work that patch,” admitted the manager.

Earning an honest crust is never easy, but those cold callers are hired by companies trying to take us for mugs, so why shouldn’t we reverse the game with a few tall tales?

The next morning, I returned to the bathroom. The spider had completed his job of crawling into a black hole.

* LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk