“Mum, that homeless man is here again!” sneered the daughter, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
“He’s not homeless! He’s got a room. Just an unlucky soul.”
With that, the mother hurried to the stairs, smiling warmly as she coaxed the visitor inside. He hesitated, embarrassed, then asked to borrow some money. She handed him the amount he needed along with a few sandwiches wrapped in a plastic bag.
“There you go. Eat something.”
He grinned, his mouth missing a few front teeth, and promised to pay her back in a week before stepping outside where a group of equally scruffy men waited.
“Why do you keep helping that… tramp?” the daughter pressed, stressing the last word. “You always lend him money, and he never pays it back.”
“Sometimes he does.”
“Oh, come off it! Once or twice, maybe. And why does he have that weird nickname—‘Hang In There’?”
“It’s his favourite phrase. He tells everyone ‘Hang in there!’ when things go wrong. But he couldn’t manage it himself. He’s not even old. Too much drink ruins anyone. And then there was the heartbreak—unrequited love. He loves me, but I don’t feel the same.”
“He *loves* you? Were you two… involved?” The daughter’s eyes widened, and she nearly leapt from her chair.
The mother hesitated before answering.
“We’ve known each other a long time. When I was young, I had a row with my boyfriend one night and found myself stranded, miles from home with no money. No mobiles back then, no one to call anyway—I lived alone. I walked. What else could I do? Cars kept stopping, but either they wouldn’t take me or they made disgusting offers. Taxi drivers, what can you expect? Then along came Johnny. He drove a cab back then.”
“‘Excuse me, love,’ he says, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know where I can find the Costa del Sol around here, would you?’”
“I didn’t realise he was joking and started explaining I had no idea. He just laughed.”
“‘Hop in, gorgeous. We’ll find it together!’”
“Later, I learned it was a resort in Spain. We dreamed of going there—turquoise skies, blue seas, emerald hills. But my luck ran out when he introduced me to his best mate. The moment I saw him, I was gone. Stupid girl—how I loved him!”
“They were best men at our wedding, and Johnny, as you’d expect, became a family friend. My first husband was a womaniser. I suffered until I finally saw him for the worthless man he was. A year in, I fell pregnant. Contraception wasn’t exactly advertised back then—‘no such thing as sex in Britain,’ they said. But abortions? Plenty. My ‘darling’ husband talked me into it. Where he found the words, I’ll never know.”
“I agreed. Worst mistake. The pain—I’ll never forget. They did it at a hospital off Oxford Street. A conveyor belt. They scraped you out inside *and* scrubbed your brain clean of any romantic notions between men and women. Practically no anaesthesia—just a useless gas mask. Agony. I dragged myself to the ward, where other heartbroken women sat in silence. I hated every man alive.”
“Then this song stuck in my head—‘Sweet berries we picked together, bitter ones I ate alone.’ I thought, *bastards, not a care in the world*. But then a nurse walks in with—would you believe it?—a bucket of tulips and a cake! A massive Victoria sponge, the kind you had to order special from Harrods. There I sat, flowers in my lap, stuffing my face, crying again—but this time from happiness. *He loves me! He remembers!*”
“Then I saw the note on the cake box—just two words in block letters: ‘Hang In There, Nat!’ Everyone envied me. I went home glowing, though my body ached. I looked into my husband’s eyes and knew—it wasn’t him. It was Johnny who’d remembered. I left my husband soon after. But Johnny and I? Never worked. He’s kind, decent—but I’ve never felt a thing for him. Nothing. When he realised, he vanished. Went up north for work. Then I met your dad. Luck smiled on me again.”
“Johnny came back in the early ‘90s. Awful times. Gangs ruled the streets. My sister was visiting from Manchester—pretty thing. Some thugs grabbed her in the yard, tried forcing her into a car. Happened all the time. They’d have their fun, dump her somewhere. Maybe kill her. No one stepped in. Too scared. But Johnny was there, drinking cheap cider with the lads. He was already slipping into the bottle. Still, he was the only one who moved.”
“One of them—a great brute—knocked him down. Johnny got up, smashed the car window with a brick. They dropped my sister and turned on him. God, how they beat him! Animals! I visited him in hospital. Took four days for him to wake up. He was whispering. I leaned in—he was singing a Bowie song.”
*‘Doc cut me up, side to side.
Said, “Hang in there, mate,” so I tried.’*
“But the gang didn’t stop. They made him sell his flat—three bedrooms in Chelsea. He swapped it fast for a bedsit, paid them off. They wanted that too, but the law finally caught them. By then, Johnny was too far gone. The doctor told me they’d ruined him—as a man, he was finished. That’s when he truly gave up.”
The mother fell silent. The daughter said nothing, stunned. What *was* there to say?
**A year later, a knock came at the door. A solicitor stood there—inheritance papers. He handed over plane tickets to the Costa del Sol, open-dated, plus the money from Johnny’s old bedsit. A note lay on top—two words: *‘Hang In There, Nat!’***
