“Mum, that homeless bloke’s back again!” The daughter wrinkled her nose in disdain.
“He’s not homeless! He’s got a room. Just a sad soul, that’s all.”
With that, her mother hurried out onto the landing, beckoning their guest inside with a warm smile. He refused, shuffling awkwardly before asking for a small loan. She returned with the money and a few sandwiches tucked into a plastic bag.
“Here—take these, too. Eat something.”
He grinned, his gap-toothed smile flashing as he promised to repay her in a week before stepping outside, where a group of equally scruffy men waited.
“Why d’you keep helping that… that tramp!” the daughter snapped, stressing the last word. “You lend him money he never pays back!”
“He does sometimes.”
“Oh, come off it! Once or twice, maybe. And why’s his nickname so weird—’Hang In There’?”
“It’s his favourite phrase. He tells everyone to ‘hang in there’ when they’re down. Shame he couldn’t take his own advice. He’s not even old. Booze ruined him. And heartbreak—unrequited love. Fancies me, he does. I don’t feel the same.”
“Loves you?! You and him—was there something?” The girl’s eyes widened, and she nearly shot up from her chair.
Her mother hesitated, then sighed.
“We’ve known each other years. When I was young, I had a row with my bloke one night, left stranded in the middle of nowhere. No mobiles back then, no one to call. Had to walk. Cars kept stopping—some refusing a lift, others offering… other payment. Then along comes Johnny in his cab:
‘Love, any idea where I might find Palma de Mallorca round here?’
I didn’t get the joke, started explaining I didn’t know. He just laughed. ‘Hop in, gorgeous—we’ll find it together!’
Later, I learned it was a Spanish resort. We dreamed of going—turquoise skies, blue seas, emerald mountains. Then he introduced me to his mate. One look, and I was gone. Stupid girl.”
She married the friend, Johnny becoming the best man. But her first husband was a womaniser. A year in, she fell pregnant. Contraception wasn’t advertised much back then—’no such thing as sex in the UK’, right? Just abortions. Her ‘darling’ talked her into it, smooth as anything.
She agreed. Big mistake.
They did the procedure at St. Mary’s—conveyor belt work. No proper anaesthetic, just a whiff of gas. Agony. She dragged herself to the ward, surrounded by other miserable women, stewing in hatred.
Then a nurse walked in with a bucket of roses and a cake—huge, from that fancy bakery off Kensington High Street. She sat there, flowers in her lap, stuffing her face, crying happy tears. ‘He loves me! He cares!’
Until she read the icing: ‘Hang in there, Nat.’
She glanced at her husband—knew instantly it wasn’t him. Johnny.
Divorced the rat. Tried with Johnny, but… nothing there. He vanished, headed north for work. Then she met her daughter’s dad. Lucky her.
Johnny returned in the ’90s—rough times. Gangs ruled the streets. Her sister visited from Manchester, got snatched outside. No one dared step in—except Johnny, half-drunk on cheap cider.
One thug decked him. He got up, smashed their car window with a brick. They turned on him instead. Beat him bloody.
Four days in hospital before he woke, whispering a Bowie lyric:
‘Doc cut me up, said, “Hang tough, mate.”
So I did.’
The gang forced him to sell his flat—nice one, three-bed in Chelsea. Downsized to a bedsit. They wanted that too, but got locked up when the crackdown came.
By then, Johnny was broken. The doctor said they’d ruined him—as a man, as everything. He gave up after that.
Silence fell. The daughter sat stunned. What could she say?
*A year later, a knock. A solicitor, holding plane tickets—open date, Palma de Mallorca—and cash from Johnny’s sold bedsit. A note tucked inside: ‘Hang in there, Nat.’*
