Crafty Tim
Emily and her mum had been rowing for days. They’d wear themselves out, retreat to opposite ends of the house, stew in silence—but the moment one of them tried to restart the conversation, it all flared up again.
*”You never listen! It’s always your way or nothing. You didn’t even hear Dad, so no wonder he left,”* Emily snapped. She knew dragging her father into it was a dirty move, but she couldn’t stop herself—anger had taken the wheel.
*”Fine, I’m leaving too. I can’t live without Dan. I love him. I wanted to do this the nice way, but I guess that’s not happening. I’m twenty—back in your day, girls were considered spinsters at this age. You’re always so *right* about everything. Doesn’t it choke you? I don’t want to end up like—”* She bit her tongue.
*”I’m not stopping you. And I *am* listening. So why don’t you just marry him if you’re so in love?”* her mum said, unnervingly calm, thrown by her daughter’s outburst.
*”Oh, brilliant,”* Emily groaned. *”How? We’re students. Live off you? Or sponge off his parents? They already bought him a flat!”*
*”Then how will you afford to eat?”*
*”I *told* you—Dan’s got freelance work building websites and coding small programs. He *earns*. Ever heard of remote work, Mum? We’ll scrape by till graduation, then get married.”*
*”So wait a year. What’s the rush—unless you’re pregnant?”* Her mum eyed her suspiciously.
*”No, I’m *not*. This is pointless.”* Emily stormed off to her room, yanking clothes from the wardrobe and stuffing them into a backpack. When it wouldn’t zip, she stalled, glaring at the mess.
Her mum appeared in the doorway. *Here we go*, Emily braced herself. But her mum just stood there, silent, then left. Confused, Emily froze—until she returned minutes later and dropped a battered suitcase on the bed. The one from her old holiday trips with Dad.
*Thanks!* Emily hugged her. *It’s not like I’m vanishing—I’ll visit. Call every day. Need help? Dan and I will come.*
Her mum crumpled onto the bed, face in her hands. *”Everyone leaves. Run along, then—I’m just some monster in your way. Your dad needed me young and healthy, but now I’m in the way. That new wife bled him dry—now he’s back, skin and bones. I bet she tossed him out like rubbish. But when his ulcer flared up or his back gave out, suddenly *I* was good enough. Juicing cabbage and potatoes for him, massaging his aches. And the second he felt better? Gone. Well, he’ll crawl back when it hurts again—but I won’t forgive him.”*
She swiped at tears. *”And now you. Why rush? You’ll be cooking, laundry, shopping, *and* studying. Gets worse if you get pregnant. Why throw yourself into it?”*
Emily sat beside her, squeezing her shoulders. She felt the tension, the grief. For a second, she almost caved.
*”Why not just date like before? Why move out?”* her mum pressed.
*”People live together because they *can’t* be apart. I *love* him. I’ll visit—promise. Want us to move *in* with you?”*
Her mum recoiled. *”Don’t be daft.”*
Emily almost laughed. Her mum had married late—strict Gran kept her close till the day she died. *Jumped on the last train*, as they say. Now, at twenty, Emily was leaving, while her mum, already retired after her factory shut down, faced empty days.
*I’m sorry. I love you. But I love Dan too.* She stood, resuming packing. Once alone, she fished her phone from her jeans.
*”Waiting?”* she whispered. *”Soon.”*
Slinging the backpack over her shoulder, she wheeled the suitcase out. Her mum sat at the kitchen table, back turned.
*”Mum… don’t be mad. I’ll call tomorrow,”* Emily said softly.
No response. The hunched silhouette looked so small, so *hurt*, that Emily’s chest ached. But Dan was waiting outside—probably freezing—and if she hesitated now, she’d never leave.
No taxi—they were saving every quid—so they trudged to the bus stop.
*”How’d it go? Bad?”* Dan asked, squeezing her hand on the bus.
*”Fine,”* she muttered. No energy for details.
*”Regretting it?”*
*”No,”* she said too quickly, clinging to his arm.
She called her mum daily between lectures. The updates were always the same: *blood pressure’s up, joints ache*. Late November’s damp chill made *anyone* miserable, let alone someone with bad knees.
Emily urged her to rest, take pills—what else *could* she say? But the litany of ailments wore her down. Calls became less frequent. That weekend, she visited with tangerines and a Victoria sponge.
The flat reeked of cough syrup. Her mum lay on the sofa, a towel over her face.
*”Mum! Should I call an ambulance?”*
*”Been and gone. Gave me an injection,”* came the frail reply.
Emily put the kettle on. *She’s exaggerating. Wants me to feel guilty. Probably lied about the ambulance too.*
She peeled a tangerine. *”Remember buying me oranges when I was ill?”* She fled before her mum could refuse.
The tangerine vanished. Over cake and tea, her mum perked up, prodding about their life, pointedly calling Dan *that boy*.
*”He wanted to come, but I thought he’d just annoy you. Next time. Or visit *us*?”*
*”When I’m better,”* her mum deflected.
By the time Emily left, they were almost back to normal.
*”Need money?”* her mum asked at the door.
*”We’re fine. Just *ask* if you need shopping done.”*
*”I’ll manage.”*
Her mum shuffled after her, clutching her back—*since when* did she walk like that? *Acting helpless again.* Emily hugged her goodbye.
Dan was glued to his screen when she got home. *”How’d it go?”*
*”Okay. She asked why you didn’t come. I said we’d both visit next time.”*
*”Progress,”* he grinned.
*”Dinner?”*
*”Swamped—got a tight deadline. Paying well, though. This time I’ll send half first, wait for payment.”*
Emily sighed, reheating spaghetti bolognese.
The next day, a grubby mutt blocked their path outside Tesco. It stared at Emily with soulful eyes.
*”Probably waiting for its owner,”* Dan said, tugging her away.
*”Look at him—no owner’s *had* him in months.”*
The dog trotted after them.
*”I can’t leave him. What if we clean him up… and take him to Mum’s? Give her something to care for—walks, companionship?”*
Dan grinned. *”Genius.”*
The dog hesitated at their building’s door. *”Coming or not?”* Dan fake-slammed it. The dog darted inside.
Post-bath (a *very* soggy ordeal), the dog hid under the table.
*”Not scared—just hungry,”* Dan said.
It ate politely, then begged for seconds.
The vet confirmed: *”Recently stray, just flea-ridden.”* A vaccination later, they left, anxious he’d wreck the flat—but he’d just napped on the sofa.
Sunday, they brought him to Mum’s. *”She’ll throw us all out,”* Dan muttered.
*”Surprise! We brought company!”* Emily chirped.
Her mum’s hopeful smile died. *”A *dog*?”*
*”Yours now. *Very* well-behaved,”* Emily lied.
*”Where’d you *get* it?”*
*”Neighbours moved—left him,”* Dan bluffed.
Her mum ranted (*bad back, can’t bend*), but the dog flopped at her feet. *”See? He’s chosen you,”* Emily said.
*”Crafty thing,”* her mum muttered—no real bite.
They fled before she changed her mind.
Now, phone calls were all about *Tim* (named after her childhood pet). No more aches—just *Tim stole my slipper! Tim loves sausages!*
Then, one Saturday, her mum rang first.
*”What’s wrong? Tim misbeSuddenly, her mum’s voice softened, “Tim brought your dad home—he’s sitting right here, scratching that daft dog’s ears like nothing happened.”
