Hang On a Bit Longer
Mum, this is for Sophies next term.
I set the envelope down on the battered kitchen table. One thousand pounds. Id counted it three timesat home, on the Number 25 bus, just outside the doorstep. Each time, it was exactly enough.
Margaret put her knitting aside and peered at me over her glasses.
You look pale, Emma. Fancy a cuppa?
No, Mum. Ive only popped ingot to get to my second shift.
The kitchen was thick with the scent of boiled potatoes and something medicinalsome deep heat rub for Mums joints, or her monthly drops. The bottle of those cost nearly forty pounds, lasting scarcely three weeks. Plus her blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups.
Sophie was so chuffed when she found out about the placement at Barclays, Margaret said gently, holding the envelope as though it were fragile crystal. Says theres good prospects.
I said nothing.
Tell her this is the last of the money for her course.
Final term. Id shouldered this for five years. Each month, an envelope for Mum, bank transfer for my sister. Every monthcalculator in hand, endless subtractions: rent, bills, medication, groceries for Mum, Sophies course fees. What was left? A poky room in a shared house, a six-year-old winter coat, and abandoned daydreams of a place of my own.
Once, Id planned to visit London. Just a weekend away. To see the British Museum, amble beside the Thames. I even started to set some money asideuntil Mum had her first scare, and the whole lot went on doctors bills.
You need a break, love, Mum said, giving my hand a pat. You look absolutely worn out.
I will. Soon.
Soonwhen Sophie lands a job. When Mum stabilises. When I can finally breathe out and think of myself. Id been spinning this soon for five years.
Sophie graduated with her economics degree in June. With honours, mind youI made sure to get time off for the ceremony. I watched my little sister step onto that stage in a brand new dressmy gift, naturallyand I thought: this is it. Things will be different now. Shell start working, earn her way, and I wont have to scrimp every penny.
Four months passed.
You dont get it, Em, Sophie said, sitting cross-legged on the sofa in her fluffy socks. I didnt slog through five years at uni to break my back for peanuts.
Fifteen hundred a month isnt peanuts.
Maybe not to you.
I clenched my jaw. My main job brought in fourteen hundred. Overtime and tempinganother seven hundred if I was lucky. Two grand a month, and if I was careful, Id have three hundred left for myself.
Soph, youre twenty-two. Time you started on the ladder.
I will. Just not at some dead-end firm for a rubbish wage.
Mum clattered dishes in the kitchenpretending not to hear, as she always did when we argued. Shed slink away, only to whisper later as I left, Dont lose your temper with Sophieshes still young, she just doesnt understand.
Didnt understand. At twenty-two.
Im not going to be around forever, you know, Soph.
Oh, dont make it so dramatic. Im not asking you for money, am I? Im just waiting for a proper job.
Not asking. Not technically. Mum would ask. Emma, Sophie needs money for a course, she wants to brush up her English. Emma, Sophies phone broke, she needs to send her CV. Emma, Sophie needs a new coat for winter.
So I paid, quietly. Thats how it always was: I kept things afloat, and they carried on as usual.
I need to go, I said, standing up. Ive got another shift this evening.
Wait, Ill send you off with some sausage rolls! Mum shouted from the kitchen.
Sausage rollsrustic and hot. I grabbed the bag and stepped into the chilly hallway, thick with the scent of damp and stray cats. Ten minutes brisk walk to the bus. Then forty minutes crammed on a bus. Then eight hours on my feet. Then four more hunched over the computer if I landed any freelance gigs that week.
And Sophie, shed sit at home scrolling through job adverts, waiting for the universe to hand her a dream positionthree grand a month and working from home.
Our first real row came in November.
Are you even trying? I snapped, finding her on the sofa again, in the same spot as last week. Sent off any applications?
I sent three.
In a month? Three?
Sophie sighed theatrically and turned to her phone.
You dont know what the job markets like now. Its chaos, you have to be selective.
Selective? Looking for a job where they pay you just to loll about all day?
Mum peeked in, drying her hands on her apron.
Girls, tea? I made a pie…
No, thanks, Mum. I rubbed my temples. My head had been pounding for three days straight. Tell me, why am I working two jobs while she does nothing?
Emma, shes young. Shell find her feet…
When? In a year? Five? I was working at her age!
Sophie jerked up.
Sorry I dont want to be like you! Running yourself into the ground, all work and nothing else.
Silence. I grabbed my bag and left. On the bus home, watching my reflection in the window, I thought: Running myself into the ground. So thats what it looked like from outside.
Mum phoned the next day, asking me not to be upset.
Sophie didnt mean it. Shes struggling. Just hang on a bit longershell find a job, promise.
Hang on. Mums favourite phrase. Hang on until Dad recovers. Hang on till Sophie grows up. Hang on until things improve. Id been hanging on my whole life.
The rows became regular. Each visit ended the same: I tried to reason with Sophie, she retorted, Mum fluttered between us, begging us to make peace. Afterwards, Id leave, Mum would ring with apologies, and wed rinse and repeat.
Youve got to understand, shes your sister, Mum would say.
And she needs to understand Im not a cashpoint.
Emma…
In January, Sophie phoned. Her voice was buzzed with excitement.
Emma! Im getting married!
What? To who?
His names Luke. Weve been seeing each other for three weeks. Hes perfect!
Three weeks. I wanted to say it was mad, to at least get to know him first, but I bit my tongue. Perhaps itd be a blessinglet a husband take over and I could finally breathe out.
That naive hope lasted until the family dinner.
Ive got it all planned! Sophie beamed. A reception for a hundred, live band, and Ive seen the perfect dress in John Lewis…
I slowly put my fork down.
And how much is all this?
Well… Sophie shrugged with her most winning grin. About ten grand. Maybe more. But its once in a lifetimea wedding!
And whos footing the bill?
Well, you understand… Lukes parents cant help, their mortgage is huge. Mums nearly on a pension. Youll probably have to apply for a loan.
I stared at Sophie, then at Mum. Margaret couldnt meet my gaze.
Youre serious?
Emma, its a wedding, Mum said in that syrupy voice I remembered from childhood. Once in a lifetime. We cant be stingy…
You expect me to borrow ten grand to pay for a wedding for someone who still refuses to get a job?
Youre my sister! Sophie banged her hand on the table. Its your duty!
My duty?
I stood. My mind went strangely clear and silent.
Five years. Five years paying for your degree. Mums prescriptions. Your food, your clothes, the heating bills. Ive worked two jobs. No house. No car. No holidays. Im twenty-eight, and the last time I bought myself a new pair of shoes was over a year ago.
Emma, calm down Mum began.
No! Enough! Ive supported you both for years, and you sit there telling me about my duties? Thats it. From now on, Im doing things for myself!
I left, snatching my coat from the rack. It was below freezing outside, but for the first time the cold didnt touch me. I was warmed by an odd inner glowlike Id finally thrown off a backpack full of rocks.
The phone rang through the night. I muted the calls and blocked both their numbers.
Six months later. I rented a little one-bed flat at last. In the summer, I visited Londonfour days, the Tate, riverside walks, the city at night. Bought myself a new dress. And another. And shoes.
News of the family came by accidentfrom an old school friend working near Mum.
Heard your sisters weddings offis that right?
My hand stilled on my mug.
What?
Word is her fiancé left. Found out about the money, scarpered.
I sipped my coffee. It was bitter. And somehow, marvellous.
I wouldnt know. We dont speak.
That evening, looking out of my little flats window, I realised I didnt feel a shred of spite. Not a drop. Only calm contentmentthe kind that comes when you finally stop running yourself ragged for everyone else. Id learnt that sometimes, you just have to give yourself permission to stop hanging on.
