**Three Days Without a Call**
Margaret Wilkins checked the phone for the fourth time that morning. She lifted the receiver, listened to the dial tone, and set it back down. The line was working fine—no fault there. A glance at the clock told her it was half past ten. Usually, James would ring by nine, right after he arrived at work, but today marked the third day in a row with no word.
“Maybe he’s ill?” she muttered, dusting the little telephone table. “Or sent off on a sudden business trip?”
But James always warned her ahead of time—their unspoken rule. Margaret poured herself tea, but it tasted bitter, despite the usual spoonful of sugar. She sat by the window, watching the street below. Next door, Mrs. Thompson hung laundry, humming cheerfully. Her children called daily, grandchildren visited every weekend. And James…
The phone rang sharply, startling her. Margaret nearly knocked over the chair in her rush to answer.
“Hello! James?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Oh… my mistake.”
She lowered the receiver slowly. Her heart hammered in her throat. Imagine getting worked up over a wrong number. She returned to the window, but now the street held no interest. Her thoughts spiralled—each worse than the last.
James drove for a haulage firm, covering local routes, sometimes farther. What if there’d been an accident? The news was full of road incidents. Margaret jumped up, pacing the room, hands trembling as she dialled his number again.
“The person you are calling is temporarily unavailable,” recited the automated voice.
“Good heavens, what’s happened now?” she whispered.
She remembered their row the week before. Such a silly thing. James had visited, and she’d pressed him about settling down—why, at thirty-five, he still hadn’t married. He’d frowned, muttered about needing to stand on his own two feet first. She hadn’t let up.
“Mum, leave it, please,” he’d said wearily. “I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“What else could you need? Steady job, flat, car…”
“Bit of understanding would be nice,” he’d snapped, leaving early.
Margaret had sulked all evening. Now she regretted every word. Maybe James was punishing her with silence? No—he wasn’t the grudging sort.
By lunch, the worry became unbearable. She pulled on her coat and went next door. Mrs. Thompson blinked at her.
“Margie! You look awful—what’s wrong?”
“May I come in? I’m beside myself.”
“Of course. Tea?”
They settled at the kitchen table. Margaret spilled her fears; Mrs. Thompson listened, nodding slowly.
“Why not go to his flat?” she suggested.
“How? I’ve no key. And barging in uninvited—”
“You’re his mother! Knock. He might be laid up ill and can’t ring.”
“What if he’s not there?”
“Ask the neighbours. They’ll understand—a mother’s worry.”
Margaret hesitated. It made sense, yet the thought unsettled her. What if James wasn’t alone? What if she walked in on something private?
“Maybe I should wait another day?”
“Three days is enough. Better to know.”
That night, Margaret couldn’t bring herself to go. She tossed in bed, ears straining for the phone. It never rang.
By the fourth morning, she couldn’t stand it. She took the bus to his block of flats, climbed to the fifth floor, and stood before his door, gathering courage.
The bell chimed. Silence. She pressed it again. Rustling sounds, then footsteps.
“Who is it?” His voice, rough with sleep.
“James, it’s me. Mum.”
A pause. Locks clicked. The door opened a crack. James stood there in rumpled pyjamas, stubble shading his jaw.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Darling!” She stepped forward, arms reaching, but he shifted back.
“Come in.” He trudged to the sitting room.
The flat looked a disaster. Plates crusted with old food, beer cans, an ashtray overflowing—though James didn’t smoke. Rumpled sheets on the sofa.
“Sweetheart, what’s happened? I’ve been frantic—three days without a word!”
James slumped into an armchair, rubbing his face.
“Not now, Mum.”
“Not now? Are you ill?” She reached for his forehead; he batted her hand away.
“I’m fine. Just—” He stared out the window.
“Just what? You’re scaring me!”
A long silence. Then, without looking at her:
“I got sacked.”
“Sacked? Why?”
“Crashed the lorry. My fault. Now I owe damages.”
Margaret sank onto the sofa. Suddenly, the mess, his haggard face—it all made sense.
“James, why didn’t you say? Did you think I’d scold you?”
“What was there to say? Blew it all. Job, reputation… Mortgage payments due, and no income.” His voice cracked.
She moved to his side, took his hand. This time, he didn’t pull away.
“This isn’t the end. You’ll find work. You’re safe—that’s what matters.”
“You don’t get it. Thirty-five, no family, no proper trade. Just debts.”
“You’ve got a mother who loves you. And clever hands—you’ll land on your feet.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Clever hands? Couldn’t even keep a lorry on the road.”
“Tell me what happened.”
James exhaled.
“Rush job. Boss insisted on the deadline, but traffic was gridlocked. Took a shortcut—wet roads. Skidded on a bend, hit the barrier. Cargo ruined, lorry written off.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Just bruises. The rest…” He waved a hand.
Margaret stood, marched to the kitchen. Clattering sounds followed. She returned with a teapot and two mugs.
“Tea first. Then we sort this out.”
“There’s nothing to sort.”
“Nonsense. Jobs exist if you look. And money—I’ve some savings.”
“I won’t take your money.”
“Not a loan—help. From your mum. There’s a difference.”
James met her eyes then, and she saw the same lost look he’d had as a boy after scraped knees or bad marks. She’d always known how to fix it then.
“Remember that maths test you failed at twelve? Thought the world had ended.”
“Yeah.”
“And then?”
“You tutored me till I aced it.”
“Exactly. Solutions exist—you just have to look.”
They sipped tea in silence. Margaret regretted waiting three days. A mother’s instinct had whispered trouble, but she’d feared being pushy.
“Mum… sorry I didn’t call. Ashamed.”
“Don’t be daft. You don’t hide these things from me.”
“Didn’t want to upset you.”
“And I thought you were cross about the marriage talk.”
He snorted.
“No. Though… maybe you weren’t wrong. If I had a wife, wouldn’t be moping alone like this.”
“You’ll find both. But first—when did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“Exactly. You’re pale as a sheet. I’ll nip to the shops, make us a proper roast.”
“Mum, don’t—”
“I will. Shower, shave—then we’ll tidy this place.”
At the door, she turned.
“And never—never—go three days without calling again.”
“Promise. Daily check-ins.”
“Not daily. But every other—that’s sacred.”
That evening, they sat at a clean table. James devoured two helpings of roast. The flat gleamed, smelling of lemon polish and gravy.
“Maybe getting sacked was for the best,” he said suddenly. “Hated that job. Rotten hours, tyrant boss.”
“What would you rather do?”
“Thought about a garage. I’m good with cars. But the capital…”
“Couldn’t you partner with someone? Or work at an existing garage first?”
“Maybe. Remember Dave from school? Runs a small shop. Said he needs mechanics.”
“Ring him tomorrow. Till then, I’ll help with funds.”
“Mum—”
“Final word. I saved for you—let me use it.”
James hugged her tightly.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“I’m your mum. Who else?”
Next morning, the phone woke her.
“Mum! Morning. Sleep well?”
“James! Oh, I’m so glad you called.”
“Spoke to Dave. Seeing him today—I’ll pop round after, tell you how it went.”
“Please do. And James?”
“Yeah?”
“No more three-day silences. Deal?”
“Deal. Love you, Mum.”
Margaret hung up, smiling. Sunlight streamed through the window. Mrs.She watched the sparrows dart about the garden, thinking that no matter how grown they became, a mother’s heart would always find its peace in the sound of her child’s voice.
