“It’ll be alright, son…”
“Alfie, love, it’s Mum,” came a quiet voice through the phone.
Alfred—always called Alfie by his mum—was irritated by how she announced herself, as if he wouldn’t recognise her voice. He’d told her countless times that her name popped up on the screen when she rang, but she still did it.
She still used an old button phone, despite him buying her a smartphone. She’d waved it off.
“I’m too old for gadgets, love. Give it to… Mabel. Her daughter never gets her anything nice—she’d be chuffed.”
Mabel was delighted with the phone, mastering it quickly. Alfie hadn’t given it to her out of kindness alone—if anything happened to his mum, Mabel was to call him immediately. He’d even saved his number in the contacts.
“Mum, I know it’s you,” Alfie said, smiling. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
A chill ran down his spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?”
“They’re operating tomorrow. Hernia’s flared up. Can’t bear it anymore.”
“Why didn’t you call sooner? I’ll come get you first thing, bring you to the city. The surgeons here are brilliant. Mum, please, don’t go through with it here!”
“Don’t fret, Alfie. You remember Dr. Phillips? He’s very good—”
“Mum, listen to me. I’ll be there by morning. Just wait, yeah?” His voice rose as hers faded.
“Don’t worry, love. It’ll all be fine. I love you…” The line went dead.
Alfie checked the screen—23:10.
That wasn’t like her. She never called so late. Something was wrong. He tried ringing back. Again. And again. No answer.
He stood from his desk and looked out. Wet snow pelted the window. Five hours to the village in good weather; tonight, six. He had to leave now. The roads would be a mess, but he wasn’t driving to the village—just the county hospital.
Grabbing his coat, he paused. Had he forgotten his phone charger? He turned back, snatching it. An old superstition of his mum’s floated into his mind—if you return for something, check your reflection before leaving.
His face in the hall mirror was drawn, eyes wide with worry.
“She said it would be alright,” he muttered. “She never lied to me.”
The engine roared to life. Should he call Mabel? She and his mum were thick as thieves, but she’d be asleep by now. Why hadn’t she called?
His fingers tapped the wheel. How many times had he begged his mum to move in with him? A big flat, more than enough space. But she’d always refused.
“You’ve your own life, Alfie. I’d just be in the way. I’m fine here.”
Oh, Mum. Why wait so long to ring? Always so careful not to be a burden.
Something about her voice had been off—hollow, distant. Guilty, even. As if she’d woken him. But she never called this late.
The hernia had bothered her for years, worsening in damp weather. She’d put off surgery—gardening, harvest, Mabel catching flu—always an excuse.
And him? Barely an hour’s drive, but always “too busy”. Making excuses of his own.
She’d been kind, but firm. When he’d staggered home at dawn at sixteen, reeking of cheap beer and stolen kisses, she hadn’t shouted. Just stared.
“Where’s the fire, then? Think you’ll be ready when you’ve a wife? You’ll howl like a dog then. Get to bed—I can’t bear to look at you.”
The silent treatment the next day had been worse than any row. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t with anger, but a story—how she’d fallen in love at seventeen, how the boy ran when she got pregnant. How Alfie’s dad had stepped in, married her despite the miscarriage. How Alfie came eight years later.
The road was dark, hypnotic. His eyelids drooped. Twice, he nearly crashed—once swerving into the opposite lane, another time almost skidding into a ditch. He blasted the radio, singing along to stay awake.
The hospital was a red-brick relic, only three doctors—a GP, a surgeon, and an assistant. Serious cases went to the city; they handled the rest.
He buzzed the door. To his surprise, it opened quickly despite the early hour—6:30 am. A nurse eyed him.
“Reception starts at eight,” she said flatly.
“My mum—Edith Clarke. She’s meant to have surgery today.”
The nurse studied him, then stepped aside. “Wait here.”
The room was tiny, half-painted windows, a stained examination couch. Oppressive.
Ten minutes later, a doctor entered. Alfie recognised him—the same man who’d treated his stomach ache as a boy.
“Dr. Phillips?”
The doctor didn’t answer immediately. “About your mother… Edith Clarke passed away yesterday.”
“What? The surgery was today! She rang me, said—”
“We operated yesterday morning. It was… too late. She died in the evening.”
“That’s impossible! She rang me at half-eleven, said it was tomorrow—today! I drove all night—” He fumbled for his phone. No missed calls. Had he dreamt it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. Clarke’s belongings.” The doctor watched him carefully. “Are you alright?”
Alfie sank onto the couch. “I heard her. I’m not mad. She said…”
His phone buzzed—Mabel. He declined the call.
“Can I see her?”
The doctor shook his head. “She’s in the morgue. Best arrange the funeral—here, or in the city? The parlour’s down the road.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. Grey, heavy sky. He drove to the village in a daze. How had she called? Ghost stories flashed through his mind—but he hadn’t been asleep.
Mabel saw his car and rushed out, weeping.
“Alfie, finally! I’m so sorry. I begged her to call an ambulance, but she refused. Stubborn as a mule! Only when she couldn’t walk did she let Jim take her in his van. Said she moaned the whole way—roads here, you know. They took her straight to theatre. I didn’t go—no room. Forgive me!”
He led her inside.
“She told me not to call you. ‘No need to worry him,’ she said. Jim went back last night—that’s when we found out. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Come to mine. House’ll be freezing—not been lit in days.”
“No. I need to be here.”
Alone, he straightened the rug by the bed—crumpled where she’d lain. Then he collapsed onto it, howling into her pillow.
He woke shivering. Lit the fire—still remembered how. A pot of cold porridge sat in the oven. He ate straight from it, tears salting every bite.
That evening, Mabel returned with a small bundle.
“Edith kept this ready. A dress, slippers, a scarf. We all do—mortal sin not to.” She crossed herself. “Ask them to put her cross on—they might forget.”
He fished out a tin crucifix on a black cord.
“They gave it back, then. You do it. Just in case.”
“You fetching her tomorrow? I’ll tell the ladies.”
“Here. Bury her next to Dad.”
Mabel nodded, weeping again. “How’d you know, anyway? I never rang…”
“She called me. Said the op was tomorrow—today. That’s why I drove.”
“Lord above…” Mabel paled, crossing herself rapidly. Then she froze. “But Jim said she was beside herself in the van—left her phone here!”
She yanked open the dresser drawer.
“There. See?”
He stared at the old phone. No outgoing calls—his last one to her was a week ago.
“So she… rang from beyond?” Mabel whispered.
That was why her voice had sounded strange. Not weak—final.
Alfie broke down. Mabel patted his back.
“Leave me. I need to be alone.”
He sat with an old photo album—his mum smiling, young. His dad. Him as a boy.
That night, he dreamt of her. “It’s alright, love. I’m glad you came.”
“Mum!” He woke shouting.
Couldn’t sleep after that. Just lay in the dark, guilt gnawing. If only he’d visited more. Called.
But—village gossip never lied. Years ago, his dad had started staying out late, helping a mate build a house in the next village. Then, suddenly, he’d stopped.
Mabel had hinted once.”Years later, when his own daughter placed a tiny hand in his and whispered, ‘It’s alright, Daddy,’ just like her grandmother used to, Alfie finally understood—love never really leaves, it just finds new ways to call you home.”
