Hanging On

Will you three stop fighting,for goodness sake!!'

This was mum's signature tune. We never did; stop fighting, that is. We couldn't help it; three kids in a small house; middle of winter; bored to the eyeballs. What else was there to do?

Mum tried her best; Cluedo, Monopoly, Playstation, Sky TV ... We had the lot, but no matter what we had to entertain us, when the three of us were together it would always end in a fight. Boys will be boys, and if there's a sister thrown in for good measure, the potential for arguments is emmense.

Mum had a very short fuse that winter. She and dad had divorced in the spring of that year; then she lost her job and money became really tight. It was around New Year that her behaviour became very worrying.

She joined a wood-work class. This in itself wasn't a problem; it was when she began using her new skills that I began wondering.

Looking back I suppose we kids had taken advantage of our situation. Mum had grown weary of our constant bickering and began to spend more and more time in her room, away from us. I was the oldest and must admit to noticing the tired, worried expression which had replaced her sunny smiles; but there was fun to be had, and mum, being mum, would soon bounce back, I told myself.

One day after a particularly explosive outburst she retreated into the shed. As we rampaged our way through the day our curiosity was aroused by the sounds of sawing, sanding and hammering.

Mum emerged eventually and locked the door after her.

It was sad to witness her present state. I was old enough to remember the days when our family were as happy as the next. When the arguments began I was puzzled, but eventually their life together was one long row. Mum became worn down by it all and dad found comfort elsewhere. Now it seemed her life was disintegrating, together with the house, furniture and, I suppose, hope.

Two days after the shed episode, mum was summoned to school by my Head-Teacher. I was in trouble, again. I knew it would go down badly, and waited for the onslaught. Nothing angered her more
than school problems; but when she emerged from the Head's office her face was pale and imobile. She walked right past me without a word. We clambered into the car and drove home in silence. At home mum cooked tea, washed up and locked herself in the shed. Of course I knew she was upset and on reflection the silent treament was a lot worse than rage. I wondered what was going on. She had withdrawn from us and seemed absorbed in her shed project and woodwork lessons. Books had appeared with strange titles, 'Do It Yourself Shelving', 'Hinges and Brackets', 'Dovetailing for Beginners', a far cry from mum's usual 'Mills and Boon'.

One evening, not long after the school incident, I answered the phone. A strange man's voice asked for mum.
'Who's speaking?'
I snooped.
'Constable Metcalf.
Came the brusk reply. Stunned, I went to fetch mum, whereupon I was driven out of the room. Mum talked in low, serious tones, then hung up and headed straight for the shed.
I began to worry something was terribly wrong. Why was she getting calls from the police? What had she done?.
It was early March and the days were lengthening. One afternoon I came home from school to find what looked like a scaffold erected in the garden.
'What's that?' I asked.
'What does it look like?' mum replied. curtly.
'I know what it looks like mum but what's it for?'
'What do you think?' she snapped, and walked into the house. I was flabbergasted. Had things really got that bad? I knew it had been a horrible year, what with the divorce, school problems, no money and then the business with the police. But surely not!
I followed mum into the house. She was on the phone and hung up hastily. My stomach was churning.
'Mum are you OK?'
'Yes, never better.'
Strange words for mum.
'How about a cup of tea?'
I heard myself asking. Mum glanced at me, puzzled.
'Are you OK?'
'Yes of course. We all love you mum. You know that don't you?'.
'Well you have a funny way of showing it sometimes.' she smiled 'I will have that cuppa though.'
I made the tea and sat beside her as we drank. She was smiling for the first time in ages, and it occured to me that this was probably the first cup of tea anyone had made her since dad left.
When she'd finished I took her cup and gave her a big kiss. She beamed, just the way she used to I thought. That's my real mum; she's still there I told myself. I only have to try a little and perhaps she'll come back for good.
At school next day my mind wandered frequently to the gruesome structure in the garden and I was more than a little worried.
Jumping off the school bus, I noticed a police car parked outside our house. I felt sick. This wasn't happening.
My brother and sister ran ahead, excited by the sight of the police-car. I hesitated at the gate. My brother was calling,
'Come and see. Come and see!'
Taking my hand he pulled me along to the back of the house. There stood the most beautiful array of hanging baskets, cascading from mum's handywork.
'John.' Mum smiled. 'This is Constable Metcalf from my woodwork class. He came to help me fix the frame for the baskets. Do you like them?'
She was beaming radiantly, and as I gushed my admiration, I noticed she slipped her hand into Constable Metcalf's.
Mum was back, and everything was going to be fine!