Hang in There a Bit Longer
Mum, this is for Lucys next term.
Catherine set the envelope down on the battered kitchen tablecloth. A thousand pounds. She counted it three times at home, on the bus, and again just outside her mums place. Each time, it was exactly the amount needed.
Margaret put aside her knitting and peered over her reading glasses at her daughter.
Cathy, you look awfully pale, darling. Shall I put the kettle on?
No, mum. I cant stay Ive got to make it for my second shift.
The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and that faint medicinal scent, perhaps from the arthritic cream or the eye drops Catherine bought monthly. Thirty pounds a bottle, lasting three weeks. Then there were blood pressure tablets, and quarterly check-ups.
Lucy was over the moon when she found out about her placement at Lloyds, Margaret said, gingerly taking the envelope as if it were made of glass. Says the prospects are good there.
Catherine said nothing.
Tell her this is the last of the money for her studies.
The last term. Five years Catherine had shouldered this burden. Every month an envelope for her mum, a transfer for her sister. Every month, calculator in hand: minus rent, minus groceries for mum, minus Lucys fees, minus prescriptions. What was left? A rented box room in a dingy house-share, a winter coat six years past its best, and dreams of her own flat long since packed away.
Once, Catherine wanted to go to London. Just for a weekend see the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. Shed even started saving, but then her mum had her first major health scare, and all the money was swallowed by hospital bills.
You need a break, love, Margaret patted her hand. Youre worn to the bone.
I will. Soon.
Soon. When Lucy finds a job. When Mums health evens out. When at last theres room to breathe and think of herself. Catherine had been saying soon for five years.
Lucy got her degree with honours, no less in June. Catherine took time off to go to the ceremony, watched her little sister walk the stage in a new dress (Catherines own gift, obviously), and thought: thats it. Everythings about to change. Lucy will start work, earn her keep, and perhaps at last Catherine can stop counting pennies.
Four months passed.
You just dont get it, Cathy, Lucy said, curled up on the sofa in fluffy socks. I didnt slog through five years of uni to be paid peanuts.
Twenty-five grand a year isnt peanuts.
Maybe not for you.
Catherine clenched her jaw. Her day job paid £21,000. A weekend cleaning gig brought in another eight or nine, if she was lucky £30,000, if you rounded up. Of which she kept, at best, a few hundred each month.
Lucy, youre twenty-two. Its time to start somewhere, anywhere.
I will. Just not in some dead-end office for peanuts.
Margaret clattered about in the kitchen, pretending not to hear her usual routine when her girls argued. She would disappear, hide out, then quietly beg Catherine not to quarrel with Lucy before she left. Shes young, Cath, doesnt understand
She doesnt understand. Twenty-two, and still doesnt get it.
Im not going to be around forever, Lucy.
Oh, stop being so dramatic. Im not asking you for money, am I? Im just looking for something proper, thats all.
Not asking, technically. It was always mum: Cathy, Lucy needs some money for a language course. Cathy, Lucys phone has packed in; she needs to send applications. Cathy, Lucy wants a new coat winters coming. Catherine would transfer the money, buy the phone, pay for the coat. Quietly. Because thats how it had always been: she pulled along; everyone else just assumed she would.
Ive got to go, she said, standing. Extra shift tonight.
Wait, Ill box up some sausage rolls for you! called Margaret from the kitchen.
The pastry was cabbage and potato. Catherine took the bag and stepped out into the grim, draughty stairwell, thick with the scent of damp and old cats. Ten minutes brisk walk to the bus, then an hours ride, eight hours running about on her feet, and if she was lucky, a few more freelance hours at the computer when she got in.
Meanwhile Lucy stayed home, scrolling job sites, waiting for the universe to produce a perfect job, sixty grand salary, remote work, and staff yoga.
The first real row happened in November.
Do you actually do anything? Catherine snapped, finding her sister draped over the sofa, same as last week. Sent out a single CV yet?
Three. This month.
Three? In a month?
Lucy rolled her eyes, burying her face in her phone.
You dont understand the state of the job market. Its cut-throat you have to be strategic.
Strategic as in jobs that pay you for lying about on the sofa?
Margaret poked her head out from the kitchen, anxiously wiping her hands on a tea towel.
Girls, shall I put the kettle on? Theres some Victoria sponge…
Dont bother, mum, Catherine massaged her temples. Her head had throbbed for three straight days. Just explain why Im working two jobs and Lucys not working at all?
Shes young, Cathy. Shell find her way
When, exactly? Next year? In five? I had a job at her age!
Lucy bristled.
Sorry I dont want to be like you driven into the ground, knowing nothing but work!
Silence. Catherine picked up her bag and left. On the bus home, staring through rain-slapped windows, she thought: driven into the ground. Is that what I look like?
Margaret rang the next day, asking her not to be upset.
Lucy didnt mean it. Shes just struggling right now. Just hang on shell find something soon.
Hang on mums favourite phrase. Hang on till Dad got his act together. Hang on till Lucy grew up. Hang on till things improve. Catherine had been hanging on her entire life.
The rows became routine. Each visit Catherine trying to get through to Lucy, Lucy biting back, Margaret scrambling between them, pleading for peace. Catherine would leave, Margaret would phone with apologies. Then it all happened again.
You must remember, shes your sister, mum would say.
And she must remember Im not a cash machine.
Cathy
In January, Lucy called herself. Something odd in her voice.
Cathy! Im engaged!
What? To whom?
Tom. Weve been dating three weeks. Hes Cathy, hes perfect!
Three weeks. Catherine wanted to say this was madness, that she didnt even know him, but stayed silent. Maybe it was for the best. Married, Lucys husband would provide for her, and Catherine could finally get a breather.
That hope lasted until the family dinner.
Ive sorted everything! Lucy beamed. A hundred guests, live band, dress from that boutique in Kensington
Catherine set her fork down slowly.
And how much will all that cost?
Well Lucy flashed a winning smile. About fifteen thousand? Maybe eighteen. But its once in a lifetime! The wedding!
And whos paying?
Cathy, you know Toms parents cant help theyre still paying off the mortgage. Mums on a pension. Youll probably have to take out a loan.
Catherine stared at her sister. Then at her mum. Margaret looked away.
Youre serious?
Its a wedding, Cathy, mum cooed smoothly, using that syrupy voice Catherine had known since childhood. Its a special day cant be stingy with memories
So Im meant to get a loan for fifteen grand to pay for a wedding for someone whos never bothered to get a job?
Youre my sister! Lucy banged the table. You have a duty!
A duty?
Catherine stood. The air around her felt calmly sharp and clear.
Five years Ive paid for your education. Mums medicine. Your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. No home of my own, no car, no holidays. Im twenty-eight and havent bought myself a new dress in over a year. And you sit here telling me about my duties? Thats enough. From today, Im living for myself.
She left before she could change her mind, just grabbing her coat off the peg. It was below freezing outside, but Catherine didnt feel the cold at all. Some strange warmth was spreading inside as though she had finally shrugged off the sack of stones shed carried all her life.
Her phone rang off the hook. Catherine hung up and blocked their numbers.
…Six months passed. Catherine moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat finally hers. That summer, she took herself to London: four full days, the National Gallery, the riverside, Soho late at night. She bought a new dress. Then another. And shoes as well.
She found out about her family through an old school friend, now working round her mums way.
Heard your sisters wedding was called off?
Catherine froze mid-sip of coffee.
No?
Groom legged it, apparently. Found out there was no wedding fund, and scarpered.
Catherine drank her coffee. Bitter and yet oddly delicious.
Dont know. We dont talk anymore.
That evening, she sat by her window in the new flat, reflecting that she felt not a trace of schadenfreude. Not a bit. Only a quiet, steady satisfaction the kind that comes from finally leaving behind the burden and simply living for yourself. Thats something I wish Id learnt sooner: you cant serve love from an empty cup.
