— Geoff, get up, it’s broad daylight, time for work! — Valerie shook her husband, clutching a slightly charred frying pan in one hand and clinging to the faint hope he was joking in the other.
— Not happening. Leave me alone, Val. That’s it. No more factory for me, — Geoff grumbled without opening his eyes, turning his back to her.
At first, Valerie laughed it off—so what if the holiday was over? He’d snap out of it.
— Oh, come on, don’t be daft! We’ve had Emily’s wedding, a proper break—now it’s back to routine. Loads to do!
— I’m serious. Finished. Quit. Handed in my notice before the holiday. Yesterday was my last shift.
— Geoff, have you lost the plot?! Where d’you think you’ll find another job like that? You’ve got two years till pension! Tough it out! — Val went pale, nearly dropping the pan.
— Can’t do it anymore. Worn out. Done my bit. Raised five kids. Three lads, two girls. Fed them, schooled them, set them up. Now it’s my turn to rest. Job’s done.
— You’ve got a nerve, thinking you’ll just mooch off them, — Val hissed, heart sinking. — Who’s supposed to keep you? My pension’s peanuts. So, what, they’re meant to pay your way?
— Course. They’re mine, aren’t they? Five of ’em! Surely they can manage one old man.
— You’re off your rocker, you old sod! — Val exploded. — They’ve got their own plates full. Mortgages, grandkids in school. And here you are… a freeloader! — She grabbed his sleeve.
He shoved her off—hard—and she banged into the wardrobe.
— Back off. My mind’s made up.
Her eyes welled. She knew Geoff—once set, no turning back. She flung on a scarf and bolted next door to Auntie Marge, the street’s sage, who even the bobbies consulted.
— Oh, Auntie Marge, it’s a disaster! Geoff’s gone mad! Quit his job, says he can’t work another day. What do I do? How do I knock sense into him?
— Oh, stop your fussing. Man’s tired. Five kids raised—no walk in the park, is it? Probably run himself ragged. Let him rest. Be kind for once.
— Kind? I’ll show him kind! Wait till the kids hear—they’ll give him a holiday all his own! — Val spat, eyes gleaming.
A week later, the house was packed. Val had rung them all, piled the table high—no empty bellies here. Laughter, hugs, grandkids tearing about the garden. But after pudding, silence hung thick.
— Dad, — began Alfie, the eldest, — is it true? You’ve really quit?
— True enough, son. Had my fill. No more.
— But, Dad, — cut in Tommy, the middle, — two years to go. Tough it out. It’s just… bonkers!
— Done and dusted. Forty-odd years in. Pension’ll cover me. And you lot—five of you. Reckon you can spare a bit for your old man.
Val smirked behind him. The kids shifted. Alfie cleared his throat:
— Well… we’re on a car loan. Tight as it is.
— Our Lizzie’s in music school, tutors and all. Costs a fortune, you know, — added Tommy’s wife. He stayed quiet.
— I’ve just started the extension. Got to finish before winter, then sell. Can’t stretch further, — sighed Billy, the youngest.
The girls chimed in—one with hire-purchase furniture, the other with her husband offshore, money tight for months. Val rose like a general.
— See, Geoff? Bills and bother, the lot of ’em. And here you are—another mouth to feed. No shame? Expecting handouts, not helping. Tomorrow—job-hunting. No appointment slip, no entry. Clear?
Geoff stood. Silent. Looked at his kids. At Val.
— Raised five of you… and not one can spare a crust for your dad, — he rasped, then vanished to the bedroom.
Next morning, he went job-hunting. Hired—half the pay, but work. Val crowed—she’d “fixed” him. Two days later, he didn’t come home.
Late that night, a knock. The hospital rang: Geoffrey was gone. Massive heart attack. Collapsed at work. Died in the ambulance.
Now Val lives alone. Pension? Pennies. The kids visit—mostly the girls. Sons phone at Christmas.
And in her head, Geoff’s last words loop:
*Raised five of you… and not one can spare a crust for your dad.*
