Smoke signals work for the Vatican

Press, 10 August 1985, Page 14

Smoke signals work for the Vatican

Helen Brown

I cursed. I had been trying to ring a businessman, but a recorded message answered his phone. I was about to slam down the receiver when a voice said “Is that you, Helen?” Not only had the real person interrupted his machine, but he had also identified my voice from a single uncouth word. I was acutely embarrassed and swore I would never own an answering machine. “It’s great,” he said. “From now on we’ll always know who rang when we were out.” I cast a suspicious eye over the box of knobs and switches that had been fitted under the bed. ‘lf it’s really important won’t they ring back?” I asked. “But they might ring back when you’ve gone out again.” I thought of all the calls I wouldn’t mind missing — invitations to bake cakes for organisations of which I consider myself a fringe member; women who think they knew my cousin once; men in phone boxes. He pressed a button. A stiff and formal version of his voice crackled into action: “This is a recorded message. This telephone is unattended at present .i. ”

“It doesn’t sound very friendly,” I said. “That’s what it says to say in the book.” “Can’t you just say we’re out?” “What if a burglar rings up?” “How about saying we’re tied up?” He rolled his eyes. We settled for “We can’t get to the phone ...” The first recording was to Phillip Sherry. The second, to Karyn Hay. By the time he taped the message for the third time, his voice took on a weary note. “That’ll do,” I said, doubting my capabilities as a producer. “But what about the bit where I come to the beeps?” “It sounds nice and ... relaxed.” At last the machine was poised for action. It lay in wait like a watchful Indian in the bushes ready to pounce on his first victim. Three-and-a-half hours later, the phone rang. “No!” he said. “Don’t answer it.” “But it might be important.” The machine ground out the recorded message. Then we heard the resounding clatter of someone hanging up. “They’re not sophisticated enough, that’s all,” he said.

“If we lived in the States, they wouldn’t think twice about talking to a machine.” Every time we went out, we hurried home to listen to the sound of people hanging up. Only the most extrovert and emotionally secure dared leave a message. I began to see how the businessman had got so good at identifying oaths. If I rang home while I was out, I was infuriated when my prerecorded husband answered. No wonder most of our friends stopped getting in touch. When I was home, I rushed to the ringing phone to beat the machine. Sometimes it got there first. I found myself abusing it and shouting over it at the caller. “It’s ruining our lives,” I said. “It’s just a matter of time before it rules the world.” “Rubbish,” he said, handing me the receiver. “Here, it’s for you.” “Hello?” I shid. “This is a recorded message,” said a metallic voice. For a moment I believed the machine really had taken over. Then I detected an hysterical undertone. It was one of the neighbours. In future, I think I’ll stick to smoke signals.