Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

to get in touch with the Post Office telephone department. I was going to call in at the next farm along to ask how they had gone about it, but in the end, I decided that I’d enquire at the Post Office in town. Knowing the way bureaucracy worked, I was sure it would entail filling in a form.

I had a wash in the sink to get rid of the piggery smell that used to stick to me like a coat of glue, put on my best coat, a pair of flat shoes, and walked at a brisk pace up to the town. Barney had taken the truck out to pick up a supply of ammonium sulphate fertiliser for the middle acre. Amy was at work at the mill, which was probably a good job, because a ten-minute chat with her could last for hours.

The Post Office official was very efficient and handed me the correct form which I filled in there and then. She told me that my request would almost certainly be granted, and because the two farms either side of ours already had telephones, the cabling would already be in place. Therefore, I should have my own telephone installed and connected to the system by the end of the week.

True to their word, on Friday morning, two Post Office engineers arrived and began the installation. Their names were Reg and Jack. Jack seemed to be the senior of the pair as he spent his time in the house, unpacking the internal equipment and finding the best position for the junction box to be placed.

Initially, I wanted it installing in the kitchen but Jack said that would be more expensive as the cable would have to be run all the way around to the back of the house. There was also the issue of steam getting into the wires. I wasn’t sure about that, as we had electric lights and power sockets all over the kitchen and we had never had a problem with steam. I began to think that Jack was hoping for an easy installation so that he could get an early lunch. However, when he told me that if the box was installed in the front room, facing the lane, we could be on the network within an hour, I was instantly on board. I was so excited about getting the thing put in, I’d have agreed to have it in the outside lavvy.

An hour later, Reg joined Jack in the lounge and the telephone was ceremoniously connected to the junction box. The telephone itself was black, with a pyramid shaped body and a cradle on top that held the transceiver, which was the posh name for the bit you picked up to listen and speak with. On the pyramid was a rotary dial that contained both numbers and letters.

Jack informed us, proudly, that our newly installed telephone was a Bell system, model number 204. At the centre of the dial was our very own, three-digit, telephone number (in case we forgot it) and a 999 prompt which we would only ever dial to connect to the brand-new emergency service. Handy if we needed the police or an ambulance.

Most of this information went over my head, so I was glad when Miriam came in to see to my father. I asked Jack to go over it all again, so she could hear it too.

Thankfully, the telephone came with a directory containing the names, addresses and telephone numbers of every household that was connected to the network. In the front of the directory was a section that explained to the user, everything that Jack had just told us. I opened the thin book and searched for my name and address, but I wasn’t listed although the farms either side of us were there.

‘I can’t see my name in here,’ I said to Jack.

‘That’s because you’ve only been on the system for two minutes,’ he replied, looking at me as though I had a screw loose. ‘You’ll be in the next edition; they update them every so often. Until then you’ll need to tell people what your number is.’

I gave the engineers a shilling each, they touched their navy caps and returned to their Post Office van.

For the next hour, Miriam and I sat and watched the telephone, waiting for our first call. I picked up the transceiver thingy from the cradle twice, to see if I could hear a voice, but all I got was a buzzing noise. I was about to go to the Post Office to complain that the bloody useless thing wasn’t working, when Miriam, who had more patience than me, read out a couple of lines from the front of the directory, explaining what a dial tone was.

Twenty minutes later we realised that no one was going to call us, so we went back to the kitchen. I decided to walk around the town in the afternoon and give the number to everyone we knew.

I wrote Spinton 134 out twelve times on a sheet of notepaper and tore the list into strips for the farm workers. None of them had a telephone, nor would most ever possess one, but we thought if they ever had a problem, they could walk to the Post Office kiosk near The Old Bull and let us know.

Later that afternoon, I walked up the lane to Farrow’s Farm and told Iris Farrow that I was now on the telephone network. She eyed me with a look of distaste, said she’d save my pregnant legs and ring Mrs Cooper at the farm below us, and give them my new number.

‘Ring any time,’ I said, hoping she’d take the hint and give us our first call.

Iris nodded, said ‘Good Afternoon’ and with one last look at my bulging waistline, closed the door.

I dropped in at The Old Bull and gave the number to the landlord who was still providing my father with a bottle of whisky a day, down