“Mum, that homeless bloke’s come round again!” the daughter said with a sneer, wrinkling her nose.
“He’s not homeless—he’s got a place. Just down on his luck, that’s all.” With that, her mother hurried to the door, offering a warm smile as she beckoned the man inside. He hesitated, embarrassed, then asked if she could spare a bit of cash. She handed him the money along with a few sandwiches wrapped in cling film.
“Here—get yourself something to eat.”
He grinned, revealing a gap-toothed smile, promised to pay her back in a week, then stepped outside where a few equally scruffy mates waited.
“Why d’you always let that… that tramp in?” her daughter pressed, stressing the last word. “You lend him money, and he never gives it back!”
“Course he does—sometimes.”
“Oh, come off it! Once or twice, maybe. And why’s he even called ‘Hang in There’? Weird nickname.”
“It’s his thing—always telling people to ‘hang in there’ when they’re struggling. Shame he couldn’t take his own advice. He’s not even old. Drink’s ruined him. And that unrequited love nonsense—he’s sweet on me, but I don’t feel the same.”
“He fancies you?! You and him… did something happen?” Her daughter’s eyes widened as she half-rose from her chair.
Her mother hesitated, then sighed. “We’ve known each other ages. Back when I was young, I had a row with my fella one night, ended up stranded across town with no cash. No mobiles then, no one to call. Just me, walking home. Cars kept stopping—some refusing to take me, others… well, let’s just say they wanted payment in kind. Bloody taxi drivers. Then along comes Sammy. He was a cabbie back then.”
“‘Excuse me, love,’ he says, ‘you wouldn’t know where Ibiza is round here, would you?’ I didn’t twig he was joking, started explaining I’d no idea. He just laughed. ‘Hop in, gorgeous—we’ll find it together!’ Took me ages to realise Ibiza’s a Spanish island. We dreamed of going—turquoise skies, emerald hills, all that. Then he introduced me to his mate. Took one look, and I was gone. Daft cow, I was. Loved him something rotten.”
“Wedding came soon after. Sammy ended up best man, like you do. Turned out my husband was a right womaniser. Took me a year to cotton on. Got pregnant—contraception wasn’t exactly advertised back then. ‘No sex in Britain,’ my arse. But abortions? Plenty. My ‘darling’ talked me into it. Never knew he could be so persuasive.”
“Went through with it. Worst mistake. They did it at St. Thomas’—conveyor belt stuff. Scraped you out inside and out, no proper anaesthetic. Just a whiff of gas, then agony. Crawled to the ward, surrounded by other miserable women. Sat there fuming, hating men, when the nurse walks in with a bucket of roses and a massive cake—Victoria sponge, must’ve been two kilos. Proper posh, from Harrods. There I was, sobbing into cake, thinking, ‘He loves me!’ Till I read the note on the box: ‘Hang in there, Nat.’ Then I knew—wasn’t my husband. It was Sammy.”
“Divorced the cheat soon enough. But me and Sammy? Never took. Decent bloke, just… no spark. He vanished after realising I’d never love him. Heard he’d gone up north for work. Then I met your dad. Lucky me, eh?”
“Sammy came back in the nineties. Rough time—streets full of gangsters. My sister visited from Manchester. Pretty girl. Few lads tried dragging her into a car. Happened all the time back then. No one stepped in—too scared. But Sammy was there, half-cut on cheap cider. Only one who intervened.”
“One thug floored him straight off. Sammy got up, smashed their car window with a brick. They let my sister go, then set on him. Animals. Four days in hospital before he woke. Leaned in, heard him murmuring—some Bowie song: ‘The doctor cut me up just fine, said, “Hang in there, mate,” so I hung on…’”
“Gangsters forced him to sell his flat—nice three-bed in Chelsea. Downgraded to a bedsit, gave them the cash. Would’ve lost that too if they hadn’t been nicked. Coppers finally cracking down. But by then, Sammy was done. Doctor said they’d ruined him—not just the beating. After that, he gave up.”
Silence fell. The daughter sat stunned. What could she say?
*A year later, a solicitor knocked. Inheritance papers. Plane tickets—Ibiza, open-dated. Cash from Sammy’s sold bedsit. And a note: ‘Hang in there, Nat.’*
