“Mum, that homeless man is here again for you!” Poppy wrinkled her nose in disdain.
“He’s not homeless! He has a room. Just an unlucky soul, that’s all.”
With that, her mother darted to the front door, warm smile in place, urging their guest inside. He hesitated, shuffling his feet before quietly asking for a loan. She handed him the money, along with a plastic bag stuffed with sandwiches.
“Here. Eat something.”
His grin was crooked, gaps where teeth should have been, but his voice was earnest as he promised to repay her in a week. Then he was gone, disappearing into the street where a handful of equally ragged figures waited.
“Why do you even bother with him?” Poppy sneered, emphasising the word as if it tasted foul. “You always give him money, and he never pays you back!”
“He does, sometimes.”
“Oh, please! Once or twice, maybe. And why’s he even called ‘Hang In There’? It’s ridiculous.”
“Because that’s what he tells everyone. ‘Hang in there!’—like he’s cheering them on. But he couldn’t hang on himself.” Her mother sighed. “He’s not even old. Drink ruined him. And heartbreak. Unrequited love. He’s in love with me, but I don’t feel the same.”
“Loves you?!” Poppy’s eyes widened, her chair scraping as she bolted upright. “Were you two—?”
Her mother hesitated, then exhaled. “We knew each other years ago. When I was young, I had a row with a bloke I was seeing. Ended up stranded late at night, halfway across London. No mobiles back then, no one to call. Just me, walking, trying to get home. Cars slowed down—some wouldn’t take me, others just leered. Then along came Simon. He was a cabbie back then.”
“‘Excuse me, love,’ he says, ‘any idea where I can find Palm Springs around here?’”
“I didn’t realise he was joking—started explaining I didn’t know. He just laughed. ‘Hop in, gorgeous. We’ll find it together!’”
“Later, I learned it was some fancy resort in California. We used to dream of going—turquoise skies, blue sea, emerald hills. Then, like an idiot, he introduced me to his mate. The second I saw him, that was it. I fell hard. What a fool I was!”
“They married soon after, Simon stood as best man, like you do. My first husband was a womaniser. Took me too long to realise he was rubbish. Got pregnant within a year. Contraception wasn’t exactly advertised back then, and forget about ‘the talk.’ But abortions? Plenty. My ‘darling’ talked me into it. Never knew he could be so persuasive.”
“I agreed. Worst mistake of my life. They did it at St. Thomas’—like a factory line. No proper anaesthetic, just a mask that did nothing. The pain was unreal. Afterwards, I dragged myself to the ward, surrounded by other broken women. Sat there, numb, fury boiling inside me. Men—useless, the lot of them.”
“Then a nurse walks in with a bucket of roses and a cake. A massive thing, ‘Strawberries and Cream’ from Harrods. There I was, covered in flowers, stuffing my face, crying again—but this time, happy. ‘He loves me! He remembers!’”
“Then I saw the note on the box: ‘Hang in there, Nat!’”
“Everyone was jealous. Went home glowing, even though I felt like death. Looked my husband in the eye—and knew. It wasn’t him. It was Simon.”
“Divorced the rat. But Simon and I? Never worked. He’s kind, decent—but I felt nothing. Empty. When he realised, he vanished. Heard he went up North for work. Then I met your dad. Got lucky again.”
“Simon came back in the ‘90s. Dark times. Streets were lawless. Thugs running wild. My sister was visiting from Manchester—pretty thing. Some yobs grabbed her in the courtyard, shoving her into a car. No one moved. Too scared. Except Simon. He was there, drinking with mates, already half-gone. Stood up anyway.”
“One of them—a brute—laid him out flat. But Simon got up, smashed the car window. They dropped her quick, turned on him instead. Beat him senseless. Animals. When I saw him in hospital, he was barely conscious. Mumbling. I leaned in—he was singing: ‘The docs cut me up, said, ‘Hang in there, mate!’ And I did!’”
“The gang didn’t stop. Made him sell his flat—nice three-bed in Kensington. Downgraded to a bedsit, gave them the cash. They wanted that too, but got nicked soon after. Law finally cracking down. By then, Simon was done. The doctor told me they’d ruined him—as a man. After that? He gave up completely.”
Silence. Poppy sat stunned, words failing her.
A year later, a solicitor knocked. Simon had died. Left behind a ticket—open-dated, first-class to Palm Springs. The rest from his flat sale, converted to pounds. And a note, just two words:
‘Hang in there, Nat.’
