Aunt Margaret stood by the kitchen window, watching a battered old Ford pull into the driveway. A tall, lanky bloke in a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans climbed out slowly, hauling two bulging rucksacks and a duffel bag from the boot.
“Well, he’s here,” she muttered under her breath, wiping her hands on her apron before going to greet her nephew.
Tommy had grown. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a scrawny fourteen-year-old with ears too big for his head. Now he stood at the door, beard stubble and all—a proper man, though a bit lost-looking.
“Aunt Maggie?” he asked hesitantly as she opened the door.
“Course it’s me! Come in, Tommy! Good Lord, you’ve shot up!” She hugged him, catching the scent of motor oil and cheap aftershave. “Go on through to your room, get settled. Must be knackered after the drive?”
“Nah, I’m all right. Cheers for putting me up. Won’t be long, just till I find work and a flat, yeah?” He shifted his weight, eyeing the hallway.
Margaret nodded, though doubt had already begun creeping in. Words were easy. Her sister, Tommy’s mum, had always promised the moon, then vanished for months.
“Right through here,” she said, motioning to what had been her study just yesterday. The desk, the bookshelves, her favourite armchair by the window—all shoved into the bedroom to make space.
Tommy hesitated in the doorway.
“Listen, maybe I should kip on the sofa instead? Don’t wanna mess up your things.”
“Don’t be daft! Lad your age needs a bit of privacy,” she said, though her stomach twisted. Twenty years she’d arranged that room, every object with its place, its story.
Tommy dropped his bags, glancing around.
“Where d’you work now? Saw the desk was gone.”
“Moved it to the bedroom. No bother.” She forced cheer into her voice, but it wavered.
If Tommy noticed, he didn’t let on, already unzipping a rucksack.
“Mind if I unpack a bit? All me clothes are wrinkled to hell.”
“Go on, love. I’ll start supper—what d’you fancy?”
“Not fussy. But don’t go to trouble—I’ll crash early. Job hunt starts proper tomorrow.”
She hummed in agreement, retreating to the kitchen as the sounds of furniture scraping began behind her. Tommy clearly wasn’t keeping the room as she’d left it.
While frying up bangers, Margaret recalled her neighbour Brenda’s warning that morning:
“You sure about this, love? Lads these days—today it’s your nephew, next week it’s his mates round all hours, then some girl moving in. Before you know it, they’ll be planning a wedding in your front room.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Brenda! He’s family. My brother’s boy.”
“Family, my foot,” Brenda had sniffed. “Where was this ‘family’ when you were laid up after your hip op?”
At the time, it’d seemed unfair. Now, listening to Tommy rearrange her old study, the words slithered back.
“Aunt Maggie!” he called. “Can I shift the telly into my room? Better viewing angle.”
Her wooden spoon froze. That telly had sat in the lounge fifteen years, where she watched the news from her armchair.
“What about me, then?” she asked carefully.
“Use the one in your bedroom. Or pop in mine—we’ll watch together!”
Margaret bit her tongue. Needing permission to enter her own room? Watching telly slumped on the bed like an invalid?
“Let’s leave it for now, eh?”
A sigh carried from the room, but the subject dropped.
Over supper, Tommy rambled about construction work—good pay, skilled labour, sure to afford a flat soon.
“What about college?” Margaret asked. “Your mum said you were at technical school.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“Boring, innit? All talk, no doing. I’d rather work with me hands.”
“That’s a shame. Qualifications open doors.”
“Yeah? You got your accountant papers—what’s that earning you?” He shrugged. “I’ll make your month’s wages in a week on site.”
Margaret said nothing. Explaining she worked for more than money—that she loved her job—would be wasted breath. Kids thought differently these days.
After eating, Tommy vanished into his room, claiming exhaustion. She washed up, settled with a book, but the thumping bass through the wall made reading impossible.
She nearly knocked twice—to ask him to turn it down—but stopped herself. First night. Let him settle.
At half-six the next morning, the shower’s roar woke her. She usually rose at seven-thirty, breakfasted leisurely. Now Tommy commanded the bathroom precisely when she needed it.
Knocking, she called, “Tommy, I’ve work too!”
“Five minutes!”
Twenty later, he emerged, forcing her to rush breakfast-less out the door.
“Rough night?” her colleague Elaine asked at the office.
“Nephew’s staying. Settling in.”
“For long?”
“Says till he finds work and a flat.”
Elaine gave a knowing look.
“‘Temporary’ my aunt Fanny. My cousin’s brother-in-law camped at hers eighteen months. Still ‘looking’, last I heard.”
All day, Margaret wondered what Tommy was doing. Job hunting, supposedly—though he’d still been snoring when she left.
Returning home, she found unwashed dishes, bread crumbs, and an empty baked beans tin.
“Tommy!”
“Hold on!”
He shuffled out bleary-eyed, in boxers and a vest.
“Any luck job hunting?” She eyed the mess.
“Gonna hit it tomorrow. Proper knackered today.”
She nodded stiffly as he yawned.
“Least I’ll help round here,” he added. “Bathroom bulb’s gone—noticed earlier.”
True enough—it’d been out a week.
“Need to buy a new one first.”
“No sweat. Just lend us a tenner.”
She gave him twenty, though bulbs cost two quid.
“Change, mind.”
“Course.”
He returned with the bulb—plus fags and a Red Bull.
“Your change.” He handed her a fiver.
“The rest?”
“Needed smokes, didn’t I? And this—proper wiped out. No issue, yeah?”
Margaret bit back complaints—not worth quarrelling over cigarettes.
Fitting the bulb, Tommy cursed the “dull as ditchwater” screwdriver and “wobbly as a jelly” step ladder. She steadied it, ignoring his language.
“Sorted,” he said, jumping down. “Proper bright now.”
“Ta, love.”
“No bother. Told you I’d pull me weight.”
At supper, Tommy wolfed down her cooking, told tales from his hometown. Maybe he wasn’t so bad—just young, clueless about responsibility.
But when music blasted from his room later, then loud phone chatter past midnight, her patience frayed.
Next evening, she returned to find Tommy and a stranger at the kitchen table with lagers.
“Aunt Maggie, meet Dave—old mate. Might have work for me.”
Dave, mid-twenties in a tracksuit and gold chain, nodded without standing.
“What sort of work?” Margaret asked.
“Odd jobs. Deliveries,” Dave said vaguely.
“What deliveries?”
“Whatever’s needed.” He and Tommy exchanged glances.
Unease prickled her neck.
“Tommy, what about the construction job?”
“That’s graft, ain’t it? This is flexible. Work when I want.”
After Dave left, she tried reasoning:
“That doesn’t sound right. That friend of yours—”
“Dave’s sound! You just don’t know him!” Tommy’s voice tightened. “I’m not a kid. Back off!”
“Watch your tone. This is my home—I won’t have trouble here.”
“What trouble? It’s business! You watch too much telly!” He stormed off, slamming his door.
Sitting alone, Margaret knew she’d lost control. Tommy treated her flat like his own, while she tiptoed around. Mornings rushed, evenings noisy. Now dodgy mates.
The weekend brought worse. Tommy introduced a skinny, bleached blonde called Stacey.
“We’re together now,” he said.
Stacey barely nodded before disappearing into his room. Soon, laughter and music faded into suspicious silence.
Margaret sat in her bedroom, book unread. In her old study, among her things…
That evening, Stacey stayed over—without asking.
“Aunt Maggie, Stace’ll be living here now. Till we get a place.”
“Living here?”
“Well, yeah. We’re serious.” He squeezed Stacey’s waist.
“You said you’d stay briefly! Now there’s two of you indefinitely?”
“Don’t make a scene! Stace won’tThat night, as silence finally settled over the flat, Margaret leaned back in her armchair by the window, telly softly playing the ten o’clock news for the first time in weeks, and thought—not without sorrow—that sometimes kindness had to wear the sharp teeth of a boundary.
