Father of the Man by Stephen Benatar Page B

walking the dog and leaving for work, and as he was too roughly towelling her dry—poor Polly standing quite as patiently as ever—the telephone rang. He heard a faint feminine voice telling him, and it took several seconds to adjust to its accent, that there was a call for Mrs Mild from her son in Calcutta and would she please be prepared to accept the charges?
    Inwardly Ephraim cursed. He had no desire whatever to speak to Oscar at the moment and only wished that the call had come through two minutes later, even though Jean probably wouldn’t have heard it ring—indeed, partly because of that. But he didn’t go to the foot of the stairs and shout: by the time she arrived he could imagine those charges racing towards a positive frenzy of ticks and whirs and revolutions. This was the fourth time Oscar had rung—“Just wanted to say a big hello to my folks and tell them how my heart is pining!”—but such endearing messages would have meant more to Ephraim if they hadn’t always come collect and at the most expensive time of day. Added to which—no, thoroughly superseding which—he felt resentful that it was Mrs Mild who unmistakably had been the person asked for.
    “Yes, yes, we’ll pay for it. This is his father. Please put him through.”
    “Hello, Pop. How’s my pop?” Oscar’s voice sounded amazingly loud and clear, especially after the soft incomprehensibility of the operator. He might have been speaking from somewhere just a mile away. Ephraim would have preferred it if he had.
    “Worried about the cost of our next phone bill, my son.” But he struggled to keep his tone light—and truly believed he had managed it. He felt relief. It would now get easier. “How are things in our late lamented empire?”
    “Actually, not too good. That’s why I’m phoning. Is Mum there?”
    “What’s the matter, Oz? Mum’s in bed.” Despite the abbreviation, his answer had been sharper. Well, you could ascribe that—and with some legitimacy—to concern about the boy’s wellbeing. He also realized he might have given the impression that Jean was unwell; if so, let it stand.
    “I’ve had my wallet stolen,” said Oscar.
    “Oh, Christ.” Oscar was frequently having things stolen—or in any case mislaying them—because he was too forgetful, too trusting, too careless. Recent claims on their insurance had included a newish bicycle, which they’d had to pretend had been padlocked when taken, and an equally valuable camera. This wasn’t to count such sundries as a suede jacket, three Walkmans, a sweater, a pair of swimming trunks and even two long-playing records still in the carrier bag from HMV, for all of which Ephraim had refused to seek reparation, but each of them gone missing within the past couple of years. (On the other hand, Oscar was continually finding things, as well: five- and ten-pound notes, coins, a pair of good sunglasses; most importantly, a Rolex wristwatch, unclaimed after the statutory month it had needed to be left at the police station, but then, barely another month later—almost incredibly—lost again.) “Was all your money in it?” asked Ephraim.
    “Yes. And traveller’s cheques. And credit cards.”
    “Oh, Oscar, I don’t believe this! Don’t say you kept them all together?”
    “Listen. Can I just speak to Mum?”
    “No, you can’t just speak to Mum. Does this mean you’ve been left without a thing?”
    “Yes.”
    A pause. A voice cried out in Ephraim: “For God’s sake…only connect! Only connect!” Maybe he hadn’t ever let the bathwater run over, or the bottom burn out of a saucepan, but he too in his time had been known to be casual about certain articles of clothing…although never about money. Perhaps in their different ways they were both adventurers, daredevils, possessing all the plusses and minuses that being such things entailed. “Only connect!” cried out this voice.
    “Some students I’ve fallen in with,” said Oscar, “have managed to