The Phone Box And The Storm

The Phone Box And The Storm

I was small. Really small. The kind of small where your whole world can fit into your mam’s coat pocket, and every noise feels ten times louder than it should. Especially the sound of a Thunder Storm,that is every child’s fear when it picks upon the look it’s mothers worried face.

We were out shopping, me and Mam, and the sky had already turned black before we left the last shop. You could smell the storm before it broke. Or was it simple the smell of fear a child picks up on. Thick air, puddles already gathering around our feet, that quiet hush that falls just before it starts.

Then it came. Rain like it had been waiting all week to fall. Thunder rolling so deep it felt like it was coming up through the ground. Lightning cracked across the sky like someone had split it open. I still remember the sound. Sharp, close, wrong. I wanted not to be there. I wanted to go home to my dad.

Mam didn’t hesitate. She pulled me straight into the nearest phone box. I can still feel that moment, even now.

Her arms wrapped around me, my cheek pressed to her chest, her coat folded around us like a tent. I couldn’t see much, just the grey lining of her coat and the steady thud of her heartbeat. She held me so tight, saying, “Shush, it’s okay, it’s only God moving his furniture round in heaven. Don’t be frightened.” I was frightened Very frightened. That was the moment. That is when my fear was born. Brontophobia.

It did not go away. It grew up with me. Thunder meant panic, meant hiding, meant holding my breath. Even as I got older and taller and started going shopping or paying bills, storms still brought me to my knees.

When I got married, it was my dad who took up the role of protector. It did not matter if it was night or day, we lived just half hour away. It did not matter if buses were not running. He would walk, just to sit with me. Never made a big deal of it. He would have a brew, maybe put the telly on low.

And I would sit there quietly, waiting for the sky to settle, watching the windows like they might burst. Just knowing he was there made it bearable. I then worried about my dad walking or bussing it home in case it came back. It was never about fixing it. Just sitting through it with me. I was blessed with a wonderful Dad.

I am not as frightened now. I can hear a rumble and not curl up into myself. I can close the curtains instead of diving under the bed. But it is still there, a quiet clench in the gut when the first boom hits.

Today, I often think of Mam’s words, “It’s only God moving his furniture round.” It makes me smile. I also remember how she would cover the mirrors and leave a window open, and the door too, so if lightning hit, it could pass through the house. I never questioned it. That was just what you did. That was what Mam did. And somehow, it made me feel safer.

Brontophobia is the fear of thunder, specifically a persistent and often irrational fear of thunder and storms. The word comes from the Greek brontē meaning “thunder,” and phobos, meaning “fear.” It is not something you outgrow easily, if at all. For some of us, it stays in the background like a shadow, ready to tighten its grip when the sky darkens.

Maybe that is why the sound of thunder still makes me pause. It is a reminder of how early fears take root, how they grow with us, and how sometimes the smallest comforts, a coat wrapped tight, a hand to hold, a familiar phrase whispered in the dark, can be what helps us face the storm.