The home line

David Walker was ex-directory, now 54 years of age and newly retired from his job as a civil servant in the real corridors of power that lay in the offices of Whitehall and not as one naturally assumed, in parliament. During his thirty plus years he'd done his tour of duty of various ministries; Health, education, transport and he'd latterly been with Ag and fish before responsibilities were, for want of a better term, farmed out to what had become Defra and they'd decided that it was time to put him out to pasture, something which he'd not fought and accepted with a humility not found in others who'd equally been given the chop. In London he was always referred towards as Walker, first names for some strange reason that escaped his attention seemed of little use to anyone in the nation's capital. In the Dog and Duck Inn in Walkington the locals called him Johnnie, like the Whisky. Not because that's what he drank, simply because they already had a David, Dave, Davey and even a Daffid amongst their ranks and that had already been confusing enough for all. So Johnnie it was and would always be which was fine by him. Despite a little trepidation on his part he'd taken to early retirement like one of the fish under his last ministries protection would have taken to water. That was assuming the bastard European neighbours trawlers hadn't scooped it up in the first place. But that aside, he had found retirement to be most agreeable with him to date. He kept a tidy home, enjoyed a potter in the garden as befitted a man of his age, took walks in the Dales, quaffed the odd pint and munched on a cucumber sandwich after putting willow to leather or vice versa during the days the rain didn't ruin the cricket season. His new neighbours found him affable and whilst they didn't always understand some of the big words and turn of phrases he used they didn't hold it against him. 

Retiring to God's own country on a London civil servants pension meant that financially at least he had no worries. For the price of a London pint he could buy a round in the Dog. The air was clean and largely he understood what everyone said even if every other word spoken seemed to be tut and they used aye instead of yes. He understood it far better than the ever changing vocabulary of youth he'd left behind in the nation's capital and he'd be quite happy to never see a computer again as long as he lived or an IT technician for that matter trying desperately not to lose their patience with him and usually failing miserably in record time. When he'd first started in the service the ministries word was stronger than God's and indeed taken more literally by those at the top in power. Now, in his experience, government ministers would have their flunkies skim your reports and then ignore the advice totally and piss downwind with whichever way public opinion happens to be blowing on any given week. Walker was a happy man to have been able to walk away relatively unscathed and with a few extra quid in his pocket for redundancy pay to boot. As far as he was concerned the new Labour government and its ministers could quite frankly go bugger themselves as much as the Tories all could for the giant shit show they'd presided over before them. Not that he said it aloud to his former masters, he left as courteous as he'd ever been during his long period of gainful employment, smiles and handshakes all around. 

His daughter Megan, who he himself alone called stumbles on account of her frequently falling over as a child, had long fled the family nest. She'd taught him how to use WhatsApp and he'd been quite chuffed with himself that an old dog had learned a new trick afterall and would deliver her little musings on a far too regular basis for her liking through voice memos. After a short while Megan wished she'd never shown him how to use it, but nevermind, no harm done. After Mum had died her father's anxiety had gone through the roof and well you couldn't blame him could you? They'd been childhood sweethearts and unlike the marriages of so many her friends parents growing up their love for one another had never diminished. Her untimely passing proved to be an unwelcome reminder of the truth of the sage old adage that life really wasn't fair. 

Throughout his adult life David forged a reputation with all who knew him as a man who'd grant a favour to anyone if it was within his power to do so, no matter how big or small and never ask for anything in return. To assist ones fellow human beings was something to gain joy from. All he asked of everyone he knew and loved was one thing and that was simply never to deliver bad news to him on his mobile phone. That would be the exclusive domain of his old fashioned home phone. It was his own way of keeping the tiger from the bay and if it were ever to ring, at least allow him to compose himself in readiness for whatever bad news was about to come his way. ‘A man likes to be prepared for these things, doesn’t like the shock you know.’ A well rehearsed line he trotted out when giving his new telephone numbers out. Same system he'd used when he'd lived in London after his wife's passing and his family, old friends and colleagues had respected his wishes to the letter, it was the least they could do at this quirk thinly disguised a coping mechanism. 

Whilst it's true that bad news can take many forms, for David it meant terminal news, the sort where the train has reached the end of the line and would not be continuing on it's journey anywhere. Whilst his beloved Fulham and Middlesex losing could be construed as bad news, their results weren't life altering. Neither were Megan's frequent requests to the bank of Dad which he always reassured her where no problem by confirming that she was merely spending her inheritance in advance. It wasn't that the house phone didn't ring once a week, he was after all and ex-ministry man and therefore understood practicalities better than most, but when it did ring it was only because he did his weekly test to reassure himself that yes, all was shipshape and in working order. Every day that passed without it ever ringing was therefore counted as a blessing, another chalk mark on an invisible tally kept in his head. Then one day many months into his new retirement he had fallen asleep in front of the TV and was woken with a jolt by the sound of the landline ringing in the hall and there he sat in a paralysis of fear willing his legs to work but finding them most reluctant. His heart beat sped up at a rate which was probably too fast for a man of his age. If he could have watched the colour from his face he'd have seen it vanish like water down a sink. Finally he released himself from the grip that had held him down…