Excerpt: The Accidental Concierge

Peter set his coffee down on the desk and initiated the phone call. A peculiar series of pops and boops heralded the connection. And then he waited. His mother knew he called at this time – it was prearranged – but she was never present at the computer itself when the call came. It was one of the most reliable things about her.

Presently, she clicked on the connection.

“Peter darling,” she said, her broad flat vowels coming clearly across the connection. The webcam connection popped up, revealing Mavis Davies – his one and only mother – in all her bouffant glory. How she managed to clamp the headset over the hair never failed to amuse her son.

Before he could reply, she turned and yelled into the house. “Shirley! It’s our Peter on the computer!” A moment’s pause. “Our Peter! Your grandson!” She turned back to face the webcam. “How are you, dear? Your grandmother still won’t wear her hearing aid.”

“I’m fine, Mum,” Peter said.

“And how’s the job going?”

“It’s good,” Peter replied. “I’m a natural at it, or so I’m told.”

“Of course you are,” his mother said, smiling at his image in the camera. “Are you getting enough to eat? You look a little haggard.”

“I’m fine, Mum,” Peter insisted. She always asked the question and she never believed the answer.

“Well try to eat a little more anyway,” she said. “Ah, here’s your grandmother.”

Peter reached for his coffee.

He saw his mother get up and his grandmother – Shirley Davies, lean and hawk-nosed with dyed-brown hair – lean over, looking at the webcam image. His mother showed her how to put the headset on – again. It never failed.

“Hello Gram,” Peter said when she settled herself in.

Her right hand clamped protectively over the earpiece, she leaned in and spoke loudly and distinctly. “Hello Peter. It’s your Grammy Shirley. Over.”

The mic picked up Mavis correcting her mother-in-law. “It’s not a radio, Shirley,” she said – too loudly, in deference to the missing hearing aid. “It’s a telephone.”

“Shut up,” his grandmother replied. “I know the difference between a bloody telephone and a long-range radio! Let me talk to my grandson.” She clamped the headset again, reclaiming her radio voice. “Your mother still thinks I’m a senile old woman. Over.”

Peter smiled. He wasn’t quite sure whether his grandmother played balmy for laughs, or whether she really was getting a little senile. “How are you, Gram? I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Peter,” she said. “Since you and your brother moved out, it’s no fun around here anymore. Over.”

“Tell him about your club,” Mavis prompted.

“Go soak your head,” Shirley shot back. “Your mother got the bright idea that I wanted to go hang out with the bleedin’ over sixties. They have a woman what calls us all dearie and thinks we ain’t got no common sense, the ignorant twat. That’s your mother’s idea of fun, not mine. Over.”

“I told you, you don’t have to say over,” his mother said again. “And don’t use foul language on the phone.”

“Sod off,” Shirley repeated, absentmindedly slapping at her daughter-in-law with her free hand.

Peter took another drink from his cup.

“Now that isn’t so,” his mother said defensively. “Just the other day you took that nice caravan trip down to Brighton, didn’t you?”

“Two hours in a mini-bus with a bunch of old geezers, to go walk down a boardwalk full of amusements you ain’t allowed to ride, full of food you ain’t allowed to eat, to look at a large body of water what you can’t mix a drink with?” She clamped the headset again. “If that’s what your mother finds fun, I think she should go with them and leave me be, don’t you think? Over.” She gave Mavis a long, appraising glance before adding, “Sides which, she could pass for sixty easy. Over.”

“I think,” Peter said, “that I had better stay out of it.”

“You’re a sensible lad,” his grandmother said, turning to give Mavis a long, lingering look. “You get that from your father. Over.”

“It’s no use talking to you when you get in a state,” Mavis said dismissively, walking out of range of the webcam.

Shirley turned back to the computer. “How long you reckon it’ll take her to remember you’re on the Internet?” she asked.

Peter laughed. “A couple of minutes?” he guessed. “Where’s dad?”

“Your father’s down the pub playing darts, most likely,” his grandmother replied. “I may join him in a bit. Reckon they’ll let me have a go?”

“Gram,” Peter said, “I don’t think it’s safe to hand you a sharp, pointy metal thing designed to be thrown.”

“Pffft!”

Peter laughed out loud. His grandmother might not be the only septuagenarian to go around blowing raspberries, but she seemed to take more joy in the act than most.

“How’s your new job?” she asked.

“I’m a natural,” Peter replied. “A typical American hears a British accent and thinks you’re brilliant and all-knowing. It’s really perfect for a concierge.”

“Of course you are, dear,” his grandmother replied. “Uh-oh, I hear the Heels of Doom clicking forth.” She raised her voice a bit, adopting her “radio” voice again. “I’m going to put your mother back on the Marconi, Peter dear. Lovely talking to you. Over and Out.”

She took the headset off and handed it back to Mavis. “Where’d you get that nice movie of Peter?” she asked, pointing at the screen displaying the webcam image. “It’s uncanny!”

“It’s not a movie, it’s ... oh never mind,” Mavis said, slipping the headset on again.

Suddenly a look of concern crossed her face. “Hold on,” she said, tearing the headset off. “Shirley! Oi! You’re not going down the pub! Get back here!” For a brief moment her rear end filled the screen as she hurried off.

Peter took a long pull from his coffee cup, finishing it. He wanted another cup, but didn’t want to leave the computer before his mother returned. Mavis, upon seeing an empty screen, invariably hung up – then nagged him on his next call home. No, better to wait.

Mavis returned, flushed. “Your Grandmother is going to be the death of me,” she said, sinking into the chair heavily and readjusting the headset so as not to muss her backcombed hair. “Your father doesn’t believe me when I tell him the way she is.”

Peter knew why.

“So tell me all about your work, dear.”

Peter thought about it for a second. “Well, it’s dead easy,” he said. “Most of the people who live there have lived there for years, so they know what they want and what they like. I only have to figure out how to get it for them – and there are notes and lists and everything to help with that.”

“Oh lovely,” Mavis said.

“Technically, I supervise the doorman, the runner, and the valet parking attendant, but we all kind of work together to make things happen,” Peter continued. “I told you how the owner of the company likes people with accents, right? Well, I wasn’t kidding – we have two Portuguese, a German, a couple of French blokes, and the entire maintenance staff is from South America!”

“Blimey,” Mavis said. “How’s the pay, then?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s regular,” he said. No need to explain it didn’t pay enough – his mother would worry. “The photo jobs are good paying jobs, but you get your money in fits and spurts. This pays me every week.”

“Are you still working for those wedding photographers?” Mavis asked.

“If I’m asked, I would,” Peter said. “People don’t often have big weddings in November, though – least not around here. They’re too busy buying winter coats and writing books and stuff. It’ll pick up in the spring.”

“Well, don’t you let ‘em forget about you,” Mavis said. “Mrs. Axelrod down Layton Road asked after you a couple of days ago. Her daughter’s the one in school to be a quantity surveyor, and she don’t let you forget about it for a bleedin’ half second, either. Next thing you know, she’ll be holding candlelight suppers with her Royal Doulton with the handpainted periwinkles.”

Peter laughed.

“She don’t think that having an artist in the family is worth much – like Middlesex Community College is the bleedin’ LSE” – London School of Economics. “I ...” Mavis looked away for a second. “On the kitchen counter.” She looked puzzled. “Shirley, why do you want my purse? Shirley? Shirley!”

Mavis bolted up, then quickly removed the headset. “Sorry, Love, have to go,” she said, setting the headset down and hurrying out of frame.

Peter sighed, killed the connection and stared at the screen for a long beat. Finally, he stood to refill his coffee cup.

The conversation with his family had brought back a few memories, and a trace of the Cockney accent he’d worked so hard to eradicate. As he poured, he launched into his verbal exercises, to bring back his Received Pronunciation and more upmarket accent. He intoned:

“Beware of "heard", a dreadful word, That looks like "beard" and sounds like "bird"; And "dead": it's said like "bed", not "bead" - For Goodness' sake, don't call it "deed"! Watch out for "meat" and "great" and "threat", They rhyme with "suite" and "straight" and "debt ..."