Clever Timmy
Emily and her mum had been arguing for days. They’d tire themselves out, retreat to their corners, sulk in silence, only for the bickering to flare up again the moment one dared to speak.
“You never listen! It’s always your way or no way. You didn’t even listen to Dad—that’s why he left,” Emily shouted, immediately regretting the low blow. But anger had taken the wheel, and she couldn’t stop.
“I’m leaving too because I can’t live without Dan. I love him. I wanted to do this nicely, but fine. I’m twenty, Mum. Girls my age used to be called spinsters in your day. You’re always so bloody perfect—doesn’t it make you sick? I don’t want to end up like—” Emily cut herself off.
“I’m not against it, and I *do* hear you,” her mum replied, unnervingly calm, caught off guard by the outburst. “Why not just marry him if you love each other?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Emily groaned. “Marry with what? We’re students. Live off you? Or his parents? They’ve already bought him a flat.”
“How will you support yourselves?”
“I *told* you—Dan works! He builds websites, writes small programmes. People pay him for that. Ever heard of working online, Mum? We’ll manage. We’ll marry after graduation.”
“Then wait a year. What’s the rush? Are you pregnant and not telling me?” Her mum scrutinised Emily’s waistline.
“No! It’s pointless talking to you,” Emily snapped, storming off to her room. She yanked clothes from the wardrobe, stuffing them into a backpack until it bulged. Staring at the heap, she hesitated.
Her mum appeared in the doorway. *Here we go*, Emily braced herself. But her mum just stood there silently before leaving. Emily frowned. Minutes later, her mum returned and dropped an old suitcase—the one she’d taken to Brighton with Dad—on the bed.
“Thanks,” Emily mumbled, hugging her. “I’m not vanishing. I’ll visit. Call every day. If you need anything, Dan and I will sort it.”
Her mum slumped onto the bed, face in her hands.
“Everyone leaves. Run along, then—like I’m some monster. I was good enough when I was young and healthy, but now I’m just in the way. Your dad found someone younger, didn’t he? Needed me when his ulcers flared or his back went out—massages, steamed meals, cabbage juice. Then he bounced back and left. Well, when *she* tires of him, he’ll come crawling. But I won’t forgive him.”
She wiped her eyes. “And now you. Why rush? Cooking, shopping, laundry, studies—it’s hard enough. And if you get pregnant? What then?”
Emily sat beside her, arm around her stiff shoulders. For a second, she considered staying.
“Why not just keep dating? Why move out?” her mum pressed.
“Why do people live together? Because they can’t bear to be apart. I’ll visit. Promise. Want us to move in *here*?”
Her mum jerked upright. “Over my dead body.”
Emily almost laughed. Her mum had married late—Gran had been strict, never let her out of her sight. Only after Gran passed did she marry, “climbing aboard the last train,” as she put it.
At twenty, Emily was grown, but her mum was already retired. The factory where she’d worked closed, dumping older staff onto pensions. Then Dad’s midlife crisis. Emily got it. But how to split herself between Dan and her mum? They’d never coexist.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I love you. But I love Dan too.” She stood, resuming packing.
Once alone, she fished her phone from her jeans.
“Waiting?” she whispered. “Be there soon.”
She slung the backpack on, wheeled the suitcase out. Her mum sat at the kitchen table, back turned.
“Don’t be upset. I’ll call tomorrow,” Emily said softly.
No response. Her mum looked so small, so wounded, that Emily’s resolve wavered. But Dan was waiting outside, probably freezing. She couldn’t falter now.
They took the bus—no splurging on taxis.
“How’d it go? Did she beg you to stay?” Dan asked, squeezing her hand.
“Fine,” Emily muttered. She didn’t want to talk.
“Regretting it?”
“No!” She clung to his arm.
At first, Emily called daily between lectures. Her mum complained of aching joints, blood pressure spikes. Late November brought sleet and damp—miserable even for the healthy.
Emily cheered her on. But the litany of ailments wore thin. *Take a pill, rest*—what else was there to say? Calls grew less frequent. That weekend, she visited.
“Should I come?” Dan offered.
“Better not. To her, you’re enemy number one.”
Emily brought satsumas and a Battenberg cake. The flat reeked of valerian—nerves or theatrics? Her mum lay on the sofa, towel over her forehead.
“Mum! Should I call an ambulance?”
“They’ve been. Gave me an injection,” she said weakly.
Emily boiled the kettle. *I’ll ask the neighbor to check on her. But she’s probably exaggerating.*
She peeled a satsuma. “Remember how you always bought me oranges when I was ill?” Before her mum could refuse, she hurried back to the kitchen.
They ate cake, sipped tea. Her mum perked up, asking about their life. Dad was still a sore subject.
“Dan wanted to come, but I thought he’d irritate you. Next time.”
“When I’m better,” her mum hedged.
By the end, they were almost at ease.
“Need money?” her mum asked as Emily left.
“We’re fine. And tell me if you need shopping done.”
“I’ll manage.”
In the hall, her mum shuffled, clutching her back—uncharacteristic dramatics. Emily hugged her. “Love you. I’ll call.”
“How was it?” Dan asked later, eyes on his screen.
“Okay. She asked why you didn’t come. I said we’d both visit next time.”
“Progress,” he grinned.
“Dinner?”
“Got a rush job. Paying well if I finish tonight.”
“Hope they don’t stiff you like last time.”
“Learned my lesson. Partial delivery, full payment, then the rest.”
Emily sighed, reheating spaghetti.
The next day, outside Tesco, a sodden, grimy dog blocked their path. His eyes, wise and mournful, locked onto Emily.
“Waiting for his owner,” Dan said, tugging her away.
“He’d be cleaner if he had one.”
“Em, he’s flea-ridden. Come on.”
But the dog trailed them.
“We can’t leave him!”
“Clever sod. Playing you like your mum does.”
Emily gasped. “That’s it! We’ll clean him up and take him to Mum. She’ll have to care for *him* instead of herself.”
Dan grinned. “Brilliant.”
The dog hesitated at the door.
“Coming or staying on the streets?” Dan fake-slammed it. The dog darted inside.
“Sorry, mate—bath first,” Dan herded him to the tub.
“Need help?” Emily knocked.
“Nah. Bloke talk.”
After a messy scrub, the dog bolted under the table, dodging the hairdryer.
“Don’t scare him. Feed him,” Dan suggested.
The dog ate neatly, then begged for more.
“Won’t sick it up?” Emily hesitated but gave extra pasta.
The vet said he’d not been stray long—just flea-ridden. A quick jab, and he was fit.
Emily worried he’d wreck the flat while they were at uni. But he’d just napped on the sofa, guiltily hopping down when they returned.
On Sunday, they took him to her mum’s.
“She’ll boot all three of us,” Dan muttered.
“Surprise! We brought company,” Emily announced.
Her mum’s face lit up—then fell when the dog trotted in.
“A *dog*?”
“He’s housetrained. You’ll love walking him,” Emily said.
“Where’d he come from?”
“Neighbors moved, abandoned him,” Dan lied.
“Absolutely not! My back’s agony, and you dump a stray on me?”
But the dog flopped at her feet.
“See? He’s chosen you!” Emily beamed.
“Cheeky devil,” her mum grumbled.
They left before she could protest.
Now, when Emily called, her mum gushed about Timmy (her childhood dog’s name).
Then, one Saturday, her mumOne evening, as Emily and Dan walked hand in hand past her mum’s flat, they glanced up to see her at the window, laughing as Timmy licked crumbs from her fingertips while her dad—back for good—dried dishes beside her, the warm glow of the kitchen spilling out into the autumn dark.
