Margaret Jones had just slipped into her pyjamas and was wrestling her hair into a braid when the phone shattered the quiet. Its shrill ring made her jump. Half-past nine glared from the clock.
“Hello?” Silence crackled down the line. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Mum?” The voice was a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard.
“Eleanor? What’s wrong? You know I hate late calls!” Margaret perched on the bed edge, clutching the receiver. “Are you alright?”
“Yes… No… Mum, can I come over? Right now?”
Something in her daughter’s tone squeezed Margaret’s heart. Eleanor never asked for help; she prided herself on independence.
“‘Course, love. Come on over. But what’s happened?”
“Tell you later. I’m leaving now.”
The dial tone hummed. Margaret stared at the phone, then set it down and shuffled to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. Eleanor lived across London – a forty-minute bus ride from Peckham to Clapham, traffic permitting. An hour, then.
Margaret fetched the best china from the dresser – the one for guests – sliced lemon, arranged biscuits on a plate. Her hands trembled slightly; a half-drowned bad idea wouldn’t let go.
Eleanor arrived quicker than expected. On the doorstep she stood, eyes red-rimmed, hair wild, clutching a gym bag.
“Oh, my love…” Margaret pulled Eleanor into a hug, feeling her shake. “Come in, come in. Kettle’s just boiled.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Eleanor sipped tea in silence, the occasional sniffle escaping. Margaret waited, not daring to pry. Her daughter would talk when ready.
“He hit me, Mum,” Eleanor finally whispered, the words barely there. “Not the first time.”
Margaret set her cup down as cold dread pooled in her chest.
“Hit you? Andrew? Don’t be daft!”
“Think I’m lying?” Eleanor snapped her head up. A yellowing bruise peeked from under poorly applied make-up near her eye. “Have a look!”
“Good lord…” Margaret reached out, but Eleanor flinched away.
“Don’t pity me! My own fault, asking for trouble. Thought after the wedding he’d change, settle down… Silly me, Mum. Proper idiot!”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could’ve…”
“And what would you have done?” Eleanor gave a bitter little laugh. “Told me to stick it out? Save the family? For the children? Always said it: marriage is for life.”
Margaret looked down. She *had* thought that. Stuck it out with Eleanor’s father forty years, rough patches and all – the drinking, the snappiness, the tuned-out silences. Thought it normal.
“Where are the kids?”
“With his mum. Told them I’m visiting Gran.” Eleanor wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Didn’t want them seeing me like this. Emily’s only seven, Oliver… he knows things aren’t right. Yesterday he asked why Daddy shouts at Mummy.”
“What did you say?”
“Said Daddy was tired from work.” Eleanor clenched her fists. “Learnt to lie to my kids. Champion, eh?”
Margaret rose and walked to the window. Rain spattered outside, lamplight painting yellow blobs on the wet pavement. How often had she stood here, waiting for a husband who rolled in late, or worse, loud and angry? How often had she thought of leaving, but stayed? For her daughter, she’d told herself.
“Where is he now?”
“Home. Spark out. Got bladdered and passed out.” Eleanor took a ragged breath. “Mum, I can’t. Won’t have the kids growing up like that. Remember how terrified I got when Dad came home soused? Hiding in the wardrobe, praying he wouldn’t yell at me?”
“Your father never raised a hand to us!”
“No, he just bellowed fit to make the neighbours bang the wall! And you forgave it, every time. I grew up thinking that’s just what men *do*.” Eleanor stared at her mother. “I won’t have Emily thinking it’s okay for a man to treat her like dirt.”
Margaret returned to the table, sitting opposite her daughter.
“But he wasn’t always like this. Remember how lovely it was those first years? He does love you…”
“Mum!” Eleanor slammed a fist on the wood. “This *isn’t* love! A man who loves you doesn’t hit you! *Ever*! Full stop!”
“Maybe… maybe you upset him?”
“*I* upset *him*?” Eleanor sprang up, pacing the tiny kitchen. “Know what ‘upset’ him this time? I asked him not to smoke in the children’s room! Emily coughs at night, doctor said it looks like asthma starting. His reply? ‘Don’t tell me where to smoke in my own house!’ Then he smacked me.”
“Perhaps… pick your battles? Be a bit softer?”
“Mum, listen to yourself!” Eleanor stopped dead, eyes wide. “You’re making excuses for the man who hit your daughter!”
Margaret flushed. Not excuses, surely? Just trying to understand. A lifetime believing keeping the peace was paramount. Man works, man’s tired, man needs a quiet house. Woman provides it, bends, doesn’t argue.
“Not excuses. Only… perhaps try again? Have a proper chat?”
“I did. After the first time he shoved me. Sat him down, told him proper. Said it hurt my soul as much as my body. He apologised, promised never again. Brought flowers, played angel for a week. Then… back to normal.”
Eleanor returned to the table, picking up the framed photo from the windowsill. Her and Andrew on their wedding day: young, beaming, smitten.
“Mum, remember what everyone said when we moved in? He was a ‘good bloke’, ‘hard worker’, didn’t drink much, didn’t smoke. Everyone said how lucky I was.”
“Remember. Still do. Work troubles, maybe?”
“Who hasn’t?” Eleanor slammed the photo down. “I’ve got a pillock for a boss and late wages! Doesn’t mean I go home and belt the kids or Andrew!”
“The kids… they love their dad.”
“They do. And that’s the worst bit.” Eleanor covered her face. “Yesterday Oliver asked me: ‘Mummy, does Daddy punish you like me when you’re naughty?’ See? He thinks it’s *normal*!”
Something shifted inside Margaret. Yes, she remembered that fear in her daughter’s young eyes, the flinch when the front door slammed. How Eleanor hid behind her.
“Where will you go? With the kids, no job… House is in his name.”
“Find work. Rent a room. Manage somehow.” Eleanor straightened her shoulders. “Kids being safe? That’s the main thing.”
“What if he won’t let them go?”
“Belts his wife? Can’t control himself? What sort of father is that?” Eleanor stood, walking back to the window. “Know what I realised? When a man hits a woman, he
The next morning, as sunlight streamed through the curtains, Margaret decided her own ‘never after nine’ rule deserved a permanent exception—after all, grandchildren’s laughter at breakfast was worth far more than a bit of lost beauty sleep.
Never Call After Nine
