**Three Days Without a Call**
Margaret Thompson checked the phone for the fourth time that morning—lifted the receiver, listened for the dial tone, then set it back down. The line was fine, so the problem wasn’t the machine. She glanced at the clock—half-past ten. James always rang at nine, the moment he got to work, but today marked the third day in silence.
*Has he fallen ill?* she muttered, dusting the telephone table. *Or did they send him on an unexpected business trip?*
But James always gave her notice before travelling—that was their unspoken rule. She poured herself a cup of tea, but it tasted bitter, though she’d stirred in sugar just as usual. Sinking into the chair by the window, she watched the street below. Neighbour Evelyn Parker was hanging laundry, humming cheerfully. *Her children call every day, grandchildren visit on weekends. And James…*
The phone rang suddenly, sharp and shrill. Margaret leaped up, nearly knocking over the chair.
“Hello? James?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Oh. My apologies…”
She replaced the receiver slowly. Her heart pounded in her throat. Fancy getting so worked up over a call. She returned to the window but couldn’t focus on the activity outside now. Her thoughts tangled, one worse than the next.
James drove for a haulage firm, covering the county routes and occasionally farther. What if there’d been an accident? The telly was always reporting road incidents. Margaret jumped up, pacing the small parlour. Her hands trembled as she picked up the phone and dialled his number again.
*”The person you are calling is currently unavailable,”* said the automated voice.
“Lord, what’s happened?” she whispered.
She recalled their quarrel the week before—silly, over nothing. James had visited, and she’d pressed him about settling down, why he kept putting it off at thirty-five. He’d frowned, muttered something about needing to be steadier on his feet first. She hadn’t let it drop.
“Mum, please, not now,” he’d said wearily. “I’ve enough on my plate.”
“What else could you possibly need? You’ve work, a flat, the car—”
“A bit of understanding would help,” he’d snapped, leaving earlier than usual.
Margaret had sulked all evening. Now she regretted every word. Maybe James was ignoring her out of resentment? No—he wasn’t the grudging sort. She knew that much.
By noon, the worry was unbearable. She pulled on her coat and went next door to Evelyn, who blinked in surprise.
“Margaret! You look dreadful—what’s happened?”
“I can’t bear it, Evelyn. Three days without a word.”
Over tea in Evelyn’s tidy kitchen, Margaret spilled her fears.
“Have you gone round his flat?” Evelyn finally asked.
“How could I? I haven’t a key. It’s not done, just turning up uninvited—”
“You’re his mother! Pop round, knock. Might be he’s ill, feverish—that’d explain it.”
“And if he’s not there?”
“Ask the neighbours. Folks understand a mother’s worry.”
Margaret hesitated. It made sense, yet the idea unnerved her. What if James wasn’t alone? Some girl he hadn’t mentioned—she’d only embarrass him.
“Perhaps I should wait? He might ring tomorrow.”
“Three days is odd for him, you said. Better to know.”
That night, Margaret couldn’t bring herself to go. She lay awake, straining for the phone’s ring. Silence.
By morning, she could wait no longer. She took the bus to his neighbourhood—a modern block of flats. On the fifth floor, she hesitated before the familiar door.
She pressed the bell. No answer. Tried again. Movement inside—footsteps.
“Who’s there?” His voice was rough, tired.
“James, it’s me.”
A pause. Locks clicked, the door opened. James stood unshaven, in a rumpled T-shirt, hollow-eyed.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, darling!” She moved to embrace him, but he stepped back.
“Come in,” he muttered, shuffling inside.
The flat was a mess—dirty plates, beer cans, overflowing ashtray. The sofa was strewn with crumpled bedding.
“James, what’s happened? Three days—I’ve been frantic!”
He slumped into an armchair, rubbing his face.
“Not now, Mum.”
“Are you ill? Feverish—?” She reached for his forehead; he waved her off.
“I got sacked.”
*”What?”*
“Crashed a lorry. My fault. Now I owe damages.”
Margaret sat heavily on the sofa’s edge. Suddenly it made sense—the silence, the disarray, his drained look.
“Why didn’t you *tell* me? Did you think I’d scold?”
“What was there to say? Lost everything—job, reputation… Mortgage payments due, and no income.” His voice cracked.
She stood, sat beside him. This time, he didn’t pull away when she took his hand.
“This isn’t the end, love. Jobs come and go. Thank God you’re unharmed.”
“You don’t *get* it. Thirty-five, no family, no proper trade. Just debts.”
“You’ve a mother who loves you. And clever hands—you’ll land on your feet.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Clever hands? Wouldn’t have wrecked the lorry if they were.”
“Tell me what happened.”
A pause. Then, quietly:
“Rushing a delivery. Boss insisted it be on time, but traffic was jammed. Took a backroad—wet tarmac. Skidded into a barrier. Cargo ruined, lorry written off…”
“And you?”
“Bruises. The rest… gone.”
Margaret rose, busied herself in the kitchen—scrubbing, filling the kettle. She returned with tea.
“We’ll sort this. First, get some hot food in you.”
“Pointless. Everything’s shot.”
“Nonsense. Work’s out there if you look. As for money—I’ve savings.”
“I won’t take your—”
“It’s not borrowing. It’s *help*.”
He met her eyes then—the same lost look he’d had as a boy after scraped knees or failed tests.
“Remember your maths mark in Year Eight? Thought your life was over.”
“Aye.”
“And what then?”
“You tutored me every night till I caught up.”
“Exactly. There’s always a way—just takes finding.”
They drank in silence. Margaret cursed herself for waiting three days. A mother *knows*.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ring,” he said suddenly. “Too ashamed.”
“Silly boy. Do you think I’m only here for the good times?”
“Didn’t want to upset you.”
“I thought you were still cross about… the marriage talk.”
James managed a faint smile.
“Nah. Though… maybe you had a point. A wife’d keep me from sitting here like a hermit.”
“You’ll find one. After you’ve cleaned up. When did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“Exactly. Pale as a ghost. I’ll nip to Sainsbury’s—make you a proper roast.”
“Mum—”
“Hush. Then a shower, a shave. We’ll tidy this place together.”
At the door, she turned.
“Never go silent on me again. Understood?”
“Aye.”
That evening, they sat to a proper meal. James cleaned his plate, even asked for seconds. The flat gleamed, smelling of lemon polish and home-cooking.
“Maybe getting sacked’s for the best,” he said after. “Hated that job—rotten hours, tyrant boss.”
“What would you rather do?”
“Thought of a garage. I’m good with motors. No start-up cash, though.”
“Find a partner? Or apprentice at an existing shop?”
“Rob Wilson—remember my mate? Runs a small place. Said he’s shorthanded.”
“Ring him tomorrow. I’ll help till you’re steady.”
“Mum…”
“No arguments. My savings are yours.”
James stood, hugged her properly.
“Ta. For everything.”
“I’m your mum. Who else?”
Next morning, the phone woke her.
“Mum! Morning. Sleep well?”
“James! Oh, I’m so glad—”
“Spoke to Rob. Going round today. I’ll pop by after, yeah?”
“I’ll wait. And James—”
“Aye?”
“No more three-day silences. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Love you, Mum.”
Margaret hung up, smiling. Sunlight streamed through the window. Evelyn was hanging laundry, humming. And now *she* had reason to hum too—James had rung. Everything would be alright. A mother’s heart knows—when to wait, and when toWith a quiet sigh of relief, Margaret set the phone down and reached for her knitting, knowing that no matter what storms lay ahead, she and James would weather them together.
