“Mum, that tramp is here again!” Emily wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“He’s not a tramp! He’s got a place to live. Just a man down on his luck.”
With that, her mother hurried to the front door, smiling warmly as she coaxed the visitor inside. He hesitated, shuffling his feet before finally asking for a small loan. She returned with the money and a plastic bag stuffed with sandwiches.
“Here. Take these—you must be hungry.”
He grinned, his front teeth missing, and promised to pay her back in a week before stepping outside where a group of equally rough-looking men waited.
“Why do you bother with that… that *beggar*?” Emily spat the last word with deliberate contempt. “He never pays you back!”
“He does, sometimes.”
“Oh, please! Once or twice, maybe. And why’s he called ‘Hang On,’ anyway?”
“Because that’s what he always says to people—‘Hang on!’—when they’re struggling. Funny, isn’t it? He tells everyone else to keep going, but he couldn’t hold on himself. He’s not even old. Drink’s ruined him. And heartbreak—unrequited love. He’s in love with *me*, but I’ve never felt the same.”
“In *love*? With *you*? Did you two ever…?” Emily’s eyes widened as she leaned forward.
Her mother hesitated before sighing.
“We knew each other years ago. When I was young, I had a row with my boyfriend one night and ended up stranded, miles from home. No mobiles back then, nobody to call. I was walking alone when this cab pulled up—and there was Danny. He asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where Brighton Pier is, would you?’”
“I didn’t realise he was joking, so I said no. He just laughed and said, ‘Hop in, love—we’ll find it together!’”
“Later, I learned Brighton was this seaside place we dreamed of visiting—blue skies, turquoise water, green hills. But then he introduced me to his mate, and that was that. I fell hard. Stupid girl.”
“They were best men at our wedding, and Danny stayed a family friend. My first husband was a womaniser. A year in, I got pregnant. Contraception wasn’t talked about much back then—reckon half the country was in denial about sex. But abortions? Plenty of those.”
“My ‘darling’ husband talked me into it. Smooth talker when it suited him. Worst mistake of my life. They did it at St. Thomas’—like a factory line. No proper anaesthetic, just agony. Afterward, I sat in that ward with other broken women, hating the lot of them.”
“Then the nurse walks in with a bucket of roses and a cake—huge thing, from that fancy bakery near Covent Garden. I sat there, stuffing my face, crying happy tears. ‘He loves me!’ I thought. Until I saw the note on the box: *‘Hang On, Nat!’*”
“I looked at my husband later and knew—it wasn’t him. It was Danny. We divorced soon after. Danny and I… it never happened. He was kind, decent—but I felt nothing. When he realised, he disappeared. Went up north for work. Then I met your father. Second chance at love.”
“Danny came back in the ‘90s. Rough times. Gangs everywhere. My sister was visiting from Manchester when some thugs grabbed her near our estate. Dragged her toward a car. Nobody moved—too scared. But Danny was there, half-drunk on cheap cider. He stepped in.”
“One punch knocked him down, but he got up and smashed their windscreen with a brick. They turned on him instead. Beat him half to death. Took him days to wake up in hospital. When he did, he whispered that old song—*‘Doctor cut me up just fine, said “Hang on, mate,” so I hung on…’*”
“The gang didn’t stop. Made him sell his nice flat—three bedrooms, right in town. He swapped it for a bedsit, gave them the cash. Lucky for him, they got nicked soon after. But by then, he was broken. The doctor told me… well. After that, he just gave up.”
Silence fell. Emily sat stunned, searching for words.
A year later, a solicitor knocked. Danny had left two things: plane tickets to Brighton—open-dated, fully paid—and the last of his money from the sold flat.
With them, a note. Just two words:
*”Hang On, Nat.”*
