“Everything will be alright, son…”
“Bernard, it’s Mum,” came the quiet voice on the phone.
Bernard always found it irritating how his mother felt the need to announce herself, as if he wouldn’t recognize her voice. He’d told her countless times that her name popped up on the screen when she called, so of course he knew it was her.
She still used an old push-button phone. He’d bought her a modern one, slick with features, but she’d refused.
“Too old for new tricks, love. Give it to… Margaret instead. Her daughter never buys her things like this. She’d be made up.”
Margaret had been over the moon with the phone, mastering it in no time. Bernard hadn’t given it to her out of kindness alone—he’d programmed his number into it, just in case anything happened to his mum.
“Mum, I know it’s you,” Bernard said with a chuckle. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?” he pressed.
“They’re operating tomorrow. The hernia’s flared up. Can’t bear it anymore.”
“Why didn’t you call sooner? Mum, I’ll come first thing, take you to the city. Better hospitals there, top surgeons. Please, cancel the op,” he pleaded, panicked.
“Don’t fret, love. Remember Dr. Philips? He’s very good—”
“Mum, listen, I’ll be there by morning,” Bernard cut in, raising his voice as hers faded. “Don’t let them operate till then.”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be alright, love. I love you…” The line went dead with a click.
Bernard checked the screen. The glowing numbers read 11:50 pm.
Her last words had been muffled, distant. His mother never called this late. Something was wrong. He dialled her back—no answer. Again. And again. Nothing.
He pushed back from his desk and stared out the window. Rain and sleet had been lashing down for two days straight. Five hours to the village in good weather; tonight, six. He had to leave now if he wanted to make it before the surgery. The roads would be a mess, but he wasn’t heading to the village—just the county hospital.
He shut down his computer and grabbed his things. As he reached the door, he remembered he’d forgotten his phone charger. Doubling back, he snatched it from the counter. His mother’s voice echoed in his head: *If you forget something and go back for it, always glance in the mirror before leaving again.* He caught his reflection—tired eyes, tense jaw. *She said everything would be fine. She never lied to me.*
In the car, he debated calling Margaret. They’d been neighbours for decades, thick as thieves. But villagers kept early hours, and he worked nights. Why hadn’t *she* called? He’d warned her. The worry gnawed at him again. The engine warmed, and he pulled out into the night.
How many times had he begged his mum to move in with him? His flat was big enough. But she always refused. *”You’ve got your life, love. I’d just be in the way. I’m fine here.”*
Oh, Mum. Why didn’t you call sooner? Always so careful not to be a bother.
He replayed the conversation. Only now did he realize what had unsettled him—her voice had been odd. Muffled, almost guilty. Like she thought she’d woken him. She’d never called this late.
The hernia had troubled her for years, aching in bad weather. But she’d put off surgery. *”Garden needs planting… Margaret’s poorly, can’t leave her…”* Always an excuse.
And him? Not even that far away, with a car. Yet somehow, he was always “too busy.”
He remembered her as kind, soft-spoken—but cross her, and she’d scold him sharpish, even swat him with whatever was handy. He never held it against her; she was fair.
When he’d rolled in at dawn at sixteen, drunk on first love, she’d been waiting. She’d taken one look at him—rumpled, grinning—and said coldly, *”What’s the rush? Think you’re ready for marriage? You’ll howl like a wolf when it’s too late. Go to bed—I can’t even look at you.”*
The silent treatment the next day had been worse than any shouting. Later, when she thawed, he’d grumbled, *”Everyone stays out late! Didn’t you?”*
So she’d told him how, at seventeen, she’d fallen hard. How she’d sneaked out, whispering under the stars—until she got pregnant. Her sweetheart bolted. Bernard’s dad had stepped in, claimed the baby was his. They set a wedding date—but a miscarriage came first, during harvest. He married her anyway. Bernard arrived eight years later.
The road stretched ahead, dark and empty. His eyelids drooped. Twice, he nearly crashed—once jerking awake just in time to swerve back from the wrong lane. The second time, he barely missed the ditch. He cranked the radio, yelling along to stay awake.
The hospital was a tired brick building, only a few windows lit. Three doctors ran the place: a GP, a surgeon, and an assistant. Anything serious got shipped to the city.
He knocked. To his surprise, the door opened quickly despite the early hour—6:30 am. A nurse eyed him, then peered past him.
“Can I help you? Appointments start at eight,” she said flatly.
“My mother. She’s scheduled for surgery today. Nora Bennett.”
The nurse studied him, then stepped aside. “Come in. Wait here.”
The room was bleak—peeling paint, a stained examination table. Ten minutes later, a doctor entered. Bernard recognized him. Years ago, when he’d had stomach pains as a kid, this man had poked his belly and sent him home with prune tea.
“Dr. Philips?”
“Here’s the situation,” the doctor said, skipping pleasantries. “Nora Bennett passed yesterday.”
“What? The surgery was today! She called, she said—”
“Operated yesterday morning. Came in too late. Died by evening.”
“But—she rang me at half eleven last night! Said the op was *today*! I drove all night!” He fumbled for his phone. No call log. Had he dreamt it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. Bennett’s things.” Dr. Philips watched him carefully. “You alright?”
Bernard sank onto the table, hands over his face. His phone buzzed—Margaret. He declined the call.
“Can I see her?”
The doctor shook his head. “She’s in the morgue. Best arrange the funeral. Burying her in the village? Cheaper than the city. The undertaker’s down the road.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. He drove to the village in a daze. How had she called him? He’d heard of such things but never believed them. Was the doctor wrong? Had he hallucinated? No—he’d been awake, working.
Margaret spotted his car and rushed out, sobbing into his coat. “Bernie, finally! I’m so sorry—I begged her to call an ambulance! Stubborn as a mule, she was. Only let Frank drive her when she couldn’t walk. Said she moaned the whole way—roads are awful. They took her straight to theatre. I should’ve gone—forgive me, Bernie!”
He led her inside.
“She wouldn’t let me call you. Said not to fuss. Frank checked last night and told me she’d… Oh, I didn’t know how to say it!”
“It’s alright.”
“Come to mine. It’s freezing here.”
He shook his head. Once alone, he noticed the rumpled rug by the bed—she’d lain there. He smoothed it, then collapsed onto the mattress and wept.
He woke chilled, lit the stove. A pot of porridge sat inside, still good. He ate straight from it, tears mingling with the food.
That evening, Margaret returned with a bundle. “Nora kept this ready. A new dress, slippers, a scarf. We all have one. Never know, do we?” She crossed herself. “Ask them to put her cross on.”
He fished out the tin crucifix from his pocket.
“They gave it to you? Good. Put it on her yourself. When are you fetching her?”
“Tomorrow. Tell the others.”
“Burying her here? Right, next to your dad. I’ll sort the wake. Oh, Bernie—how’ll I manage without her?” She dabbed her eyes. “Wait—how *did* you know? I never called!”
“She rang me. Said the op was today. I drove like mad to stop it.”
“Lord above…” Margaret sank onto the bed, crossing herself rapidly. “Then how—? Frank said she left her phone here!” She yanked open a drawerShe pulled out the phone, and there it lay—cold, silent, with no record of that final call.
