Three Days Without a Call
Valerie Thompson checked the phone for the fourth time that morning, lifting the receiver, listening for the dial tone, then setting it back down. The line was fine—so it wasn’t the phone. She glanced at the clock: half ten. Normally, Charlie called at nine sharp, right when he got to work, but this was the third day in a row with nothing.
“Maybe he’s ill,” she muttered, dusting the telephone table. “Or got sent off on some last-minute job?”
But he *always* told her beforehand—that was their unspoken rule. Valerie poured herself a cuppa, but it tasted bitter, even though she’d stirred in the usual spoonful of sugar. She sat by the window, watching the cul-de-sac. Next-door Margaret was hanging out her washing, humming some cheery tune. *Her* kids rang every day, grandchildren visiting weekends. And Charlie…
The phone rang sharp and sudden. Valerie nearly knocked over the chair scrambling for it.
“Hello? Charlie?”
“Wrong number, sorry,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Oh… my mistake.”
She lowered the receiver slowly. Her heart thudded in her throat. Fancy getting so worked up over a wrong number. Back at the window, she couldn’t focus on the street anymore. Her thoughts tangled, each one worse than the last.
Charlie drove lorries for a freight company, mostly local routes, sometimes farther. What if there’d been an accident? The telly was full of motorway pile-ups. Valerie jumped up, pacing the lounge. Her hands shook as she dialled his number again.
“The person you’re calling is unavailable,” droned the automated voice.
“Lord, what’s happened?” she whispered.
A week ago, they’d rowed. Over nothing, really. Charlie had visited, and she’d nagged him about settling down—why was he dragging his feet at thirty-five? He’d scowled, said he needed to get his footing first. She’d pressed: decent job, flat, car… what was the holdup?
“Mum, *drop it*,” he’d sighed. “I’ve enough on my plate.”
“What plate? Work’s steady, you’ve got—”
“What I haven’t got is *you* not hounding me.” He’d left early.
She’d sulked all evening. Now she regretted every word. Maybe he was avoiding her? No—Charlie wasn’t the spiteful type.
By lunch, the worry was unbearable. She threw on a cardigan and went next door. Margaret blinked at her.
“Val? You all right? You look—”
“Marg, can I come in? I’m at my wits’ end.”
Over tea, Valerie spilled her fears. Margaret listened, nodding slowly.
“Have you gone round his?”
“Don’t have a key. And barging in’s not—”
“You’re his *mum*. Go knock. Might be poorly, can’t ring.”
“What if he’s not there?”
“Ask the neighbours. They’ll understand.”
Valerie hesitated. It made sense, but… what if he *wasn’t* alone? Some girl he hadn’t mentioned? Awkward, that.
“Marg, maybe wait? He might ring tomorrow.”
“Three days, Val. Not like him. Better know than fret.”
That night, she didn’t go. Tossed and turned till dawn, ears straining for the phone. Silence.
On the fourth morning, she couldn’t stand it. She took the bus to his estate, a new-build block of flats. Fifth floor. The door loomed. She pressed the bell. Nothing. Again.
“Who’s there?” Charlie’s voice, rough.
“Love, it’s me.”
A pause. Locks clicked. Charlie stood there—unshaven, in a crumpled tee, reeking of stale lager.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Charlie!” She moved to hug him; he stepped back.
“Come in.”
The flat was a tip. Takeaway boxes, beer cans, an ashtray (he didn’t smoke—must’ve had mates over). Sheets crumpled on the sofa.
“Sweetheart, what’s happened? Three days, no word—”
Charlie sank into the armchair, rubbing his face.
“Not now, Mum.”
“Not *now*? Are you ill?” She reached for his forehead; he swatted her away.
“Sacked.”
“*What*?”
“Crashed the lorry. My fault. Now I owe damages.”
Valerie sat heavily. The mess, the silence—it all made sense.
“Charlie, why didn’t you *say*? Think I’d berate you?”
“What’s to say? Blew it all. Job, rep… mortgage due, no quid.” His voice cracked.
She edged closer, took his hand. This time, he didn’t pull away.
“Love, it’s *fixable*. Jobs come and go. You’re *here*—that’s what matters.”
“You don’t get it. Thirty-five, skint, no trade—just debt.”
“You’ve got *me*. And those clever hands—always fixing things.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Clever hands? Couldn’t even keep a lorry straight.”
“Tell me what happened.”
A long silence. Then, quiet:
“Detour round traffic. Wet road. Skidded, smashed into barriers. Cargo written off, lorry totalled.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Bruises. The rest…” He waved at the flat.
Valerie bustled to the kitchen, clattering dishes. Returned with tea.
“Drink this. Then we’ll sort it.”
“Mum, there’s *nothing* to sort.”
“Rubbish. Jobs exist if you look. And money… I’ve some saved.”
“Not taking your pension.”
“Not *taking*—it’s *help*. From your mum.”
He looked at her then—just like when he was small, scraped knees or bad marks. She’d always known how to fix it.
“Remember Year Eight, that maths exam you failed? Thought your world had ended.”
“Yeah.”
“And then?”
“You tutored me till I caught up.”
“Exactly. Answers *exist*—just need spotting.”
They sipped tea. Valerie kicked herself for waiting three days. A mother *knows*.
“Mum… sorry I didn’t ring. Ashamed.”
“Sweet boy. You *never* hide this stuff. I’m not just here for the good bits.”
“Didn’t want to worry you.”
“And I thought you were cross about the marriage talk.”
He half-smiled.
“Nah. Though… maybe you had a point. Be nice not to stew alone.”
“You’ll find someone. *After* you shower. When did you last eat?”
“Dunno.”
“Thought so. Pale as a ghost. I’ll nip to Tesco, make a proper roast. You—shave. Then we’ll tidy.”
At the door, she turned.
“Never. Three days. *Never* again.”
“Promise. Daily calls.”
“Weekly’s fine. But *silence*? That’s out.”
That evening, the flat gleamed. Charlie devoured two platefuls, even asked for thirds.
“Y’know… maybe this is for the best,” he said, pushing his plate away. “Hated that job. Rotten boss, dodgy hours.”
“What’d you fancy instead?”
“Thought about a garage. I’m good with motors. No capital, though.”
“Partner up? Or start as a mechanic, learn the ropes?”
“Could ask Pete—from school? Runs a small garage. Said he needs hands.”
“Ring him tomorrow. Money’s sorted till then.”
“Mum—”
“Hush. That savings account’s *yours* anyway.”
Charlie hugged her tight.
“Ta. For everything.”
“Who else, eh?”
Next morning, the phone rang early.
“Mum! Slept alright?”
“Charlie! Oh, love—”
“Sorted with Pete. Seeing him today. Swing by after, yeah?”
“Course. And Charlie—?”
“Yeah?”
“No more three-day silences. *Deal*?”
“Deal. Love you, Mum.”
Valerie hung up, smiling. Sun lit the cul-de-sac. Margaret hung washing, humming. And *her* boy had rung—proof enough. A mother’s heart *knows*: when to wait, when to act.
