Three Days Without a Call
Margaret Elizabeth adjusted her glasses for the fourth time that morning and picked up the phone, listening for a dial tone before setting it back down. The landline was working fine, so the problem wasn’t technical. She glanced at the clock—half past ten. Usually, James called at nine sharp, just after arriving at work, but today marked the third day in a row without so much as a text.
“Maybe he’s ill?” she muttered, dusting the side table absentmindedly. “Or sent away on a last-minute assignment?”
But James always gave her a heads-up about trips—it was their unspoken rule. She poured herself tea, though it tasted bitter despite her usual spoonful of sugar. Sinking into her armchair by the window, she watched the street. Next door, Mrs. Whitmore hung laundry, humming a cheery tune. Her children phoned daily, grandchildren visited every weekend. And James…
The phone rang sharply, jolting her. Margaret nearly knocked over her chair lunging for it.
“Hello? James?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” a woman’s voice replied.
“Oh… pardon me.”
She lowered the receiver slowly, her pulse drumming in her throat. Fancy getting so worked up over a wrong number. Returning to the window, she couldn’t focus on the street anymore. Her thoughts spiraled—each worse than the last.
James drove lorries for a delivery firm, covering routes across the county and sometimes beyond. What if there’d been an accident? The news was always reporting road incidents. Margaret sprang up, pacing the room. Her hands trembled as she dialed his number again.
“The subscriber is temporarily unavailable,” announced the automated voice.
“Lord, what’s happened?” she whispered.
She recalled their argument a week prior—silly, over nothing. James had visited, and she’d pressed him about settling down. “Thirty-five and still single?” she’d chided. He’d frowned, saying he needed to get steady on his feet first. She’d pushed.
“Mum, not now,” he’d sighed. “I’ve enough on my plate.”
“What troubles? You’ve a job, a flat, a car—what’s missing?”
“Understanding,” he’d muttered before leaving early.
Margaret had sulked all evening. Now, she regretted every word. Was he giving her the silent treatment out of spite? No—James wasn’t petty. She knew that much.
By lunch, her worry was unbearable. She threw on her coat and knocked on Mrs. Whitmore’s door. The neighbor raised an eyebrow.
“Maggie! You look peaky—what’s wrong?”
“May I come in? I’m beside myself.”
They settled in the kitchen with tea. Margaret spilled her fears while Mrs. Whitmore listened, nodding sympathetically.
“Have you gone round to his place?” she finally asked.
“How? I’ve no key. And it’s not done, just turning up unannounced—”
“You’re his mother! Go, knock. Might be he’s poorly and couldn’t call.”
“What if he’s not home?”
“Ask his neighbors, then. Folks understand a mother’s worry.”
Margaret hesitated. The idea made sense, yet terrified her. What if James wasn’t alone? What if he had company she’d interrupt?
“Perhaps I should wait? He might ring tomorrow—”
“Maggie, love, three days? That’s not like him. Better check than stew.”
That night, Margaret couldn’t bring herself to go. She tossed in bed, straining for the phone’s ring. Silence clung to the flat.
By the fourth morning, she’d had enough. She took the Tube to his block in Islington, climbing to the fifth floor. At his door, she hesitated, then rang the bell.
No answer. She pressed again. Shuffling footsteps.
“Who’s there?” James’ voice—hoarse, tired.
“It’s me, Mum.”
A pause. Locks clicked. The door opened. James stood in rumpled joggers, unshaven, shadows under his eyes.
“Mum? What’s happened?”
“Oh, Jamie!” She moved to hug him, but he stepped back.
“Come in,” he mumbled, trudging inside.
The flat was a mess: takeaway containers, beer bottles, an overflowing ashtray—odd, since he didn’t smoke. Crumpled sheets on the sofa.
“Son, what’s wrong? I’ve been frantic—three days, no word!”
James slumped into an armchair, rubbing his face.
“Not now, Mum.”
“Not now? Are you ill? Feverish?” She reached for his forehead; he flinched away.
“Not ill. Just…” He stared out the window.
“Just what? You’re scaring me!”
A long silence. Then, quietly:
“Got sacked.”
“Sacked? Why?”
“Crashed the lorry. My fault. Now I owe damages.”
Margaret sat heavily on the sofa’s edge. Suddenly, the mess, the silence—it all made sense.
“Jamie, why didn’t you say? You think I’d scold you?”
“What’s to say? Lost everything—job, reputation… Can’t pay the mortgage now.” His voice cracked.
She stood, took his hand. This time, he didn’t pull away.
“Jamie, it’s not the end. Jobs come and go. You’re alive—that’s what matters.”
“You don’t get it. Thirty-five, no family, no savings, no proper trade. Just debt.”
“You’ve a mother who loves you. And you’re clever with your hands—always were.”
James gave a bitter laugh.
“Clever hands don’t wreck lorries.”
“Tell me what happened.”
He exhaled.
“Was behind schedule. Boss said deliver by noon, but traffic was snarled. Took a back road—wet tarmac. Skidded on a bend, hit the barrier. Cargo ruined, lorry written off…”
“You weren’t hurt?”
“Bruises. The rest is…” He waved vaguely.
Margaret bustled to the kitchen, clattering dishes. She returned with tea.
“We’ll sort this. First tea, then plans.”
“Mum, there’s no sorting. It’s over.”
“Nonsense. Jobs can be found. As for money—I’ve some put by.”
“I won’t borrow from you.”
“It’s not borrowing. It’s family.”
James looked up, and she saw the same lost boy who’d come home with scraped knees or bad marks—always comforted by her words.
“Remember your maths mark in Year 8? Thought your life was over, cried for hours.”
“I remember.”
“And what happened?”
“You tutored me till I caught up.”
“Exactly. There’s always a way—sometimes you just can’t see it yet.”
They drank in silence. Margaret kicked herself for waiting three days. A mother’s intuition had whispered trouble, yet she’d feared being meddlesome.
“Mum… sorry I didn’t call. Was ashamed. Thought I’d fix it myself.”
“Silly boy. You don’t hide these things from me. I’m not just here for the good times.”
“Didn’t want to upset you.”
“And I thought you were cross about… you know, the wife talk.”
James smirked.
“Wasn’t that. Though… maybe you had a point. If I had a missus, wouldn’t be moping here like a stray.”
“There’ll be time for that. First, you clean up. When did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“Exactly. Look at you—pale as a sheet. I’ll pop to Tesco, make you a proper roast.”
“Mum, don’t—”
“I will. You shower, shave. We’ll tidy this place together.”
At the door, she turned.
“Never—hear me? Never go silent like that again. I need to know you’re safe.”
“Alright. I’ll call.”
“Every other day, minimum.”
That evening, they ate at a scrubbed table. James had two helpings, even asked for thirds. The flat gleamed, smelling of lemon polish and home cooking.
“Maybe getting sacked’s a blessing,” James said, setting down his fork. “Hated that job—tyrant boss, dodgy hours…”
“What would you rather do?”
“Thought of mechanic work. I’m decent with engines. But no cash to start.”
“Find a partner? Or join a garage first, gain experience?”
“Could ask Rob—my mate from school. Runs a small shop. Said he needed hands.”
“Ring him tomorrow. Till then, I’ll help with funds.”
“Mum—”
“No arguments. I saved for you—let it be useful.”
James stood, hugging her tight.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“I’m your mum. Who else?”
Next morning, the phone woke her.
“Mum! Morning. Sleep well?”She smiled as she hung up, knowing that no matter what storms life brought, the bond between a mother and son would always be their safest harbor.
