Adolescence
Beatrice trudged home, exhausted and hollow. In one hand, she clutched her handbag, in the other—a bag of groceries bought on the way. Her legs wobbled beneath her. She longed to sink to the pavement and stay there, motionless. But at home, Max was waiting. Her son. The only meaning left in her life. Without him, she might have given up long ago.
Some are born with a silver spoon, their lives unfolding with effortless fortune. Others, like Beatrice, are born to endure. In Year Eleven, at a classmate’s birthday party, she met a boy two years older. He seemed worldly, strong, unbound by society’s rules. She fell for him, head over heels.
Beatrice wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but pleasant enough, as most girls are at that age. Clear grey eyes, straight chestnut hair, full lips, a slender frame with curves in the right places.
That January, her mother was hospitalised with pneumonia. The flat was suddenly hers alone—and his. That was when it happened, as it does with inexperienced girls of seventeen. She yielded to his coaxing, his promises of love, so easily spoken in the heat of the moment.
When she realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
*”What’s it got to do with me? What kind of father would I be? Look at me. Find some other fool…”* With that, he vanished from her life as abruptly as he’d appeared.
What now? Who could she turn to, who would share her burden? Time passed, but Beatrice couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother.
Spring arrived, and with it, the need for lighter clothes. Standing before the mirror, Beatrice struggled to fasten her jeans over her rounded waist. Her blouse strained at the chest.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* came her mother’s voice from behind. Beatrice startled. *”Let me see…”* Her mother turned her, gasped, and pressed a hand to her throat.
*”Who? How far along? Why didn’t you say anything?”* she wailed.
Her mother screamed, hurled insults, chased the sobbing Beatrice through the flat with a towel in hand. Later, they sat on the sofa, arms around each other, weeping together. It was too late for an abortion.
Beatrice sat her A-levels but didn’t go to university. In late September, she gave birth to a sweet-faced boy, whose features bore traces of her reckless, feckless lover.
When her son grew older, her mother secured her a job at the council offices through a friend. Beatrice hated it. Endless complaints from residents, demands, threats. She took on extra work, cleaning offices in the evenings—dusty corridors trodden by countless feet. Max needed clothes, nursery fees.
He was a quiet boy, causing his mother and grandmother little trouble. Beatrice denied herself everything so he’d never want for love, care, or toys.
When Max started school, her mother fell seriously ill and died eight months later. Beatrice took on another cleaning job—floors, windows, the aftermath of office refurbishments. She returned home each night utterly spent.
Then adolescence hit. Max grew prickly and withdrawn, brushing off her questions about school, snapping back. She knew he needed watching—it wouldn’t take much to lead him astray. But she came home late, barely managing a simple dinner before asking, *”How was school?”*
Lately, she’d noticed scrapes on his face, bruises on his arms. *”Fell in P.E.,”* he’d mutter.
Then she saw him with a girl. Not just any girl—dressed in a black hoodie four sizes too big, wide trousers, hair dyed cherry-red, a nose ring. Maybe she was nice—just a fashion thing. But not all girls dressed like that.
She tried talking to him, but he snarled and locked himself in his room. What could she do? Forbid him? Scold him? She decided to let it pass, like an illness. But her heart ached. He was alone all day. What if he repeated her mistakes—or worse?
Exhausted, she limped home, peering through the young leaves at their flat’s windows. Dark squares—Max wasn’t home.
She dragged herself upstairs, head bowed like a tired horse. The bag’s handles bit into her fingers. She barely had time to press against the wall as Liam, Max’s mate, barrelled past.
*”Liam?”* she called. *”What’s the rush?”*
He skidded to a stop, hesitated, then bounded back.
*”Aunt Bea…”* He caught his breath. *”Thought I imagined it… Max isn’t home. Then he’s with them.”*
*”What’s happened? Where is he? Who’s *them*?”*
*”I overheard… That girl, Tasha, dared him. Jump between roofs—proof he loves her. They’ll film it, post it. I came to warn him, but he’s gone. Saw him with those lads, I think.”* Liam turned to leave. *”I’ll try to stop him!”*
*”Liam!”* she cried, but the front door slammed below.
Her fingers loosened. The bag dropped, groceries scattering. A milk carton burst, white rivulets trickling down the steps.
A door opened. A man—neat, early thirties—stepped out. He took in the mess, the distraught woman.
*”You alright? Did someone push you?”* He began gathering the spilled food.
*”No… My son’s friend said he’s… God… Said he’s on the nine-storey roof. They dared him to jump—film it. I don’t know what to do.”* She stumbled, nearly slipping in the milk. He steadied her.
*”Stay here. I’ll go.”* He thrust the groceries into her hands. *”Wait at home.”*
She numbly gathered the rest, carried them inside. Filled a bucket, scrubbed the steps.
*”Taking up cleaning now, love?”* A neighbour with a toy poodle smirked. Beatrice didn’t answer.
Back home, she washed her hands, stared out the window. Through the trees, rooftops loomed. Should she run there? Would the lads listen? Call the police? Would they believe her?
Restless, she paced, arms wrapped around herself. Her gaze fell on a small paper icon stuck to the fridge—her mother’s, from church.
The Virgin’s eyes met hers—reproachful, pitying.
*”Please… Stop them. Save my boy. I can’t live without him.”*
The doorbell nearly stopped her heart.
Max stood there, hood shadowing his face. The man from upstairs beside him.
*”Thank God,”* she whispered, swaying, gripping the doorframe.
*”All in one piece,”* the man said, nudging Max forward. *”Think of your mum next time. Love’s one thing—suicide’s another. Need an outlet? Try rugby. Or help your mum—three jobs she’s got.”*
Beatrice pulled Max into a hug.
*”Tomorrow, five o’clock. Sports gear,”* the man told Max.
*”Wait—where? Why?”*
*”Too much energy. Needs channeling. I’ll teach him self-defence—how to handle idiots.”*
*”Thank you. Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”Another time.”*
Alone, Beatrice clung to Max.
*”Forgive me, son. I failed you. Should’ve thought about a father.”*
*”Mum, don’t.”*
*”You needed a man to talk to. It’s my fault.”*
*”I’m sorry,”* Max choked out.
*”It’s over. You’re safe.”* She stroked his hair. *”Go with him. Seems a decent bloke.”*
*”His name’s Daniel,”* Max mumbled.
She busied herself in the kitchen—tea, buttered bread, thick slices of ham. Max ate hungrily. She watched, torn between joy and fear. *”This time, we got lucky. What next? Will Daniel teach him to fight? Will he stand his ground?”*
That night, she crept to Max’s door. Moonlight lit his face, his hand tucked under his cheek. She crossed him gently, shut the door.
Max began training with Daniel. He met her after work, carried bags, talked. Peace returned.
*”Mum, Daniel says you’re pretty. Just dress better. Buy a new frock, some shoes.”*
*”Ashamed of me?”*
*”No. Think he fancies you.”*
She listened. Started wearing a touch of mascara, smarter clothes.
*”You *are* pretty. Daniel says you look under thirty.”*
*”Daniel says… Daniel does…”* Jealousy pricked, but she was glad Max had a man to look up to. *”Under thirty? Used to look ten years younger.”*
One day, she bumped into Daniel on theShe hesitated, then smiled, realising that after all the years of struggle, perhaps happiness was finally within reach.
