The Call Centre Operative

Rebecca liked her job because you never knew who you were going to encounter in that snapshot you had of someone's life. She often speculated on what room they were in when they answered the phone.

It wasn't the most exciting job, working for Heating World, but she could leave it and pick it up again without a thought about work in between.

Or so it was usually.

*

"Hello, is that Mrs Horton?" Rebecca asked.

An old lady, answered, dully with no intonation.

Rebecca launched cheerfully into her preamble about who she was, why she was calling and asked if they had a problem with their heating.

"Yes" was the monotone answer.

Rebecca sensed reticence but was hoping that she would perhaps be able to provide some more details: "Error codes or flashing lights?"

At last, a spark of life.

"Oh yes," Mrs Horton said." I'll pass you over to my husband," and Rebecca was regaled with the sound of an exchange between wife and husband, snatches of "woman about the boiler" and "error codes" and "wants details."

A man came onto the line.

"Yes?" he said, loudly and sharply.

Rebecca explained again who she was and details she needed.

"What?" Said with unneeded aggression, Rebecca thought and could she detect a lack of clear pronunciation in his diction? Drink? A stroke? She wasn't sure.

More slowly, she repeated her request but Mr Horton was belligerent.

"Err codes? What?"

And then, still shouting, he diverted his attention to his wife who had put him in this position in the first place. Rebecca was subjected to listening to his scorn and his derision and his anger as he railed at his wife, her soft mumblings barely discernible.

Mrs Horton returned, shaken, her sniffs discernible despite trying to stifle them.

"I'm sorry," she said, softly. "It's been a struggle."

"It's okay, Mrs Horton. No worries."

In that moment, Rebecca's heart swelled with feeling for this woman and gently, she guided her to the information needed.

Never had Rebecca been more conscious of the fact that moments later, she would be leaving Mrs Horton there.

On her own.

With him.

And that she was powerless to do anything.

***

366 words

I work in an office and often have to make calls, and I find myself, as a storyteller, venturing into thoughtful meanderings, where I wonder about the intricacies of the lives of the many people I encounter.

Sometimes I have calls similar to this that upset me, when I know that the person at the other end is in a situation which is not dire enough for it to be an emergency or dangerous, but is uncomfortable to end at that point and I feel completely helpless and unable to help that person once contact has ended.

Horrible.

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