“Everything will be alright, son…”
“Eddie, love, it’s Mum,” came the quiet voice on the phone. Edward always found it annoying when his mum said it was her calling—as if he didn’t recognise her voice. How many times had he explained that her name popped up on the screen when she rang? Still, she kept doing it.
Mum had an old flip phone. He’d bought her a modern one with all the bells and whistles, but she refused.
“Too old for all that now, love. Give it to… Margaret. Her daughter never gets her nice things. She’d appreciate it.”
Margaret *did* appreciate it—took to it straight away. Edward hadn’t given it to her for no reason, though. He’d made sure his number was saved in case anything happened to his mum. That way, Margaret could call him straight away.
“Mum, I know it’s you,” Edward chuckled. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?” he rushed out, panic threading his voice.
“Operation tomorrow. Hernia’s flared up proper. Can’t bear it anymore.”
“Why didn’t you call sooner? Mum, I’ll drive up first thing, bring you back to London. Better hospitals here, brilliant surgeons. Please, love, don’t go through with it there—”
“Don’t fret, Eddie. Remember Dr. Harrison? He’s ever so good—”
“Mum, *listen*—I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Edward cut in, voice rising as hers faded. “Till then, don’t let them operate.”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be alright, son. I love you…” The line went dead with a soft click.
Edward checked the screen—10:12 PM.
Her last words had been muffled, distant. She *never* called this late. Something was wrong. He rang back—nothing. Again and again. No answer.
He pushed back from his desk, glanced out the window. Two days of sleet. Five hours to the village in good weather, six in this mess. He had to leave *now*—drive steady but make it before they wheeled her in. The lanes near Mum’s would be sludge. But he wasn’t heading to the village—straight to the hospital in the market town.
He shut down his PC, grabbed his coat. Halfway out, he doubled back for his phone charger. *”If you forget something and turn back, look in the mirror before leaving,”* Mum’s voice echoed. Edward caught his reflection—haggard, eyes shadowed. *”She said it’d be alright. She never lied to me.”*
In the car, he debated ringing Margaret. Next-door neighbours, friends for decades. But he kept odd hours—village folks were early to bed. Why hadn’t *she* called? He’d *warned* her. The dread coiled tighter. The engine warmed; he pulled onto the road.
How many times had he begged Mum to move in? Plenty of space in his flat. But she’d refused. *”You’ve your own life, love. I’m fine here. Won’t be a bother.”*
Oh, Mum. Why’d you wait so long to call? Always fretting over being a nuisance.
Something nagged at him—her voice. Strange, hollow, like she was speaking through a barrier. The last words, barely audible. Guilty, too. Thought she’d woken him. *She never rings this late.*
The hernia wasn’t new—acted up in bad weather. But she’d put off surgery. Garden to tend, harvest to bring in, Margaret catching flu—always an excuse.
And him? Only a few hours away, car at the ready, yet never finding time. Excuses of his own.
He remembered her as kind, soft. But cross her rightly, and she’d clip you round the ear. Never held a grudge when deserved. Rare enough he remembered each time.
Like at sixteen, stumbling home at dawn after snogging Sarah Wilkins behind the pub. Mum waiting up, arms crossed. Took one look at his rumpled shirt and dreamy grin and said coldly, *”What’s the rush? Ready for a wife, are you? You’ll howl like a stray soon enough. Bed. Now. Can’t bear to look at you.”*
Next day, silence. Worse than shouting. When she thawed, he’d whinged, *”Everyone stays out late! You must’ve done the same!”*
So she told him—how at seventeen, she’d sneaked out with a boy from the next village. How they’d kissed under the oak till dawn. How he’d bolted when she fell pregnant. How Eddie’s dad—barely more than a friend—stepped in. *”Tell them it’s mine.”* Wedding set. Then, weeks before, lifting potato sacks, she’d lost the baby. Dad married her anyway. Eddie came eight years later.
Dark. Empty roads. His eyelids drooped. Twice, he nearly veered off—once jolting awake on the wrong side, once wrenching the wheel to miss a ditch. Blared the radio, sang himself hoarse to stay alert.
The hospital—a red-brick relic—had two lit windows. Only three doctors: a GP, a surgeon, his assistant. Anything serious went to London; they handled the rest.
He buzzed. Expected a wait, but the door clicked open fast—6:30 AM. A nurse eyed him, then the empty car park behind him.
“Can’t help you. Outpatients starts at eight.”
“My mother. Catherine Edwards. Surgery today.”
The nurse studied him, then stepped aside. “Wait here.”
The room was bleak—peeling paint, a stained exam couch. Ten minutes later, Dr. Harrison entered. Edward recognised him—same man who’d prodded his belly at twelve, diagnosing constipation after Mum’s berry tea fixed him.
“Dr. Harrison?”
“Right. About Catherine…” The man hesitated. “She passed yesterday.”
*”What?* She rang last night—said the op was *today!* I drove all night to stop it—” Edward fumbled for his phone. No call log. Had he dreamed it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. Edwards’ things.” The doctor softened. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. But she *called*—I’m not mad. She said…” Edward sank onto the couch, head in hands.
His phone buzzed—Margaret. He declined.
“Can I see her?”
The doctor shook his head. “Mortuary. Best arrange the funeral. Burying her in the village? Cheaper than bringing her to town.”
Outside, the sleet had stopped. Grey skies. He drove to the village numb, replaying that call. Ghost stories—he’d never believed them.
Margaret spotted his car, rushed out, clutched at his coat. “Oh, Eddie—I’m *sorry!* I begged her to call an ambulance! Stubborn as a mule, she was! Only let Fred drive her when she couldn’t stand! The roads—oh, *love*—”
He led her inside.
“She wouldn’t let me ring you. Said not to fuss. Fred checked last night—told me she’d gone. I didn’t know how to say it—”
“S’alright. Not your fault. Mine. When did I last visit?”
“Come to mine? This place is freezing.”
“Nah. Need to be here.”
Alone, he righted the rug by the bed—where she’d lay last. Fell onto it, howling into her pillow.
Woke chilled. Lit the stove. Found porridge in the pot—still good. Ate it cold, tears salting every bite.
That evening, Margaret returned with a bundle. “She kept this in the cupboard—new dress, shoes, everything. We all do. Never know…” She crossed herself. “Ask them to put her cross on.”
Edward fished out the tin crucifix from the hospital bag.
“Put it on yourself. Just in case… Funeral tomorrow?”
“Aye. Tell the others.”
“Burying her here? Good. Beside your dad. I’ll handle the wake.”
Next morning, the mortuary. Mum looked peaceful. “Like she’s sleeping,” Margaret sniffed. Edward stared dry-eyed—all cried out.
Villagers filed past the coffin at the house. Men took her to the churchyard; women laid out the wake spread.
They toasted her kindness—stories he’d never heard. Mum never bragged. As folks left, Margaret washed up.
“Staying the nine days?”
“Nah. Can’t.”
Back in London, he jumped at every call—half-hoping. Only Margaret rang again.
“Selling the house? It’ll rot empty. I’ve a buyer.”
“Yeah. Fine.”
Then his ex-wife called—Sarah. They’d split messy, but no one else stuck. Mum had always nudged them back together.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Buried Mum.””And as their daughter, little Cathy, took her first steps in the garden where his mother once grew roses, Edward finally understood—love never really leaves, it just finds new ways to stay.”
