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The day before they came to take it away I decided to stage a sit in with a chair.
Without the chair I would be obliged to stand As is customary in a red telephone box.
I didn’t bring chains or super glue Or a placard
Just a thermos of Bovril and a novel
As it might be quite a while before I got the call.
The novel was new and unopened
Unlike our box which was old and abandoned. It concerned a man approaching seventy
Who had lost his wife but had found love. The cover had a face like mine
With a dotted line
Where the word loss should be “After …… comes love”.
I sat in such a way that I could see the street The alternative was to face the phone and wait. I didn’t fancy that as ‘a watched pot never boils’ That is unless you are in control of the gas.
I am not in control, I am not sure who is
God or Man.
But when I get the call later today It may satisfy my curiosity.
A few passers-by take a peep. Probably surprised to see somebody Sitting supping Bovril with a novel
After all, nobody uses phone boxes anymore.
I pretend not to notice and keep my head down As if the novel offered more than
just a mask to keep the thoughts at bay To make the time pass.
Around tea-time the phone rings.
“Will you accept a reverse charge call from Saltburn-on-Sea?” “Yes please,” I say, frantically.
“Go ahead, caller.”
“Joyce, is that you? Are you there?”
“Hello Frank. Yes, it’s me. I died a year ago But never fear
For strange as it may seem, I find myself in Saltburn-on-Sea In a phone box near the pier.”
We spent an hour or more the two of us
Catching up with family, the garden, and the kids, Until the pips popped up and cut us off.
I didn’t say goodbye; there was no need. I’d said my piece. It’s time to move on.
So home I went with the Bovril and the novel. I left the chair
And the next day the box had gone.
December 12, 2023