“Did you get the bog roll?” he asks, barely tearing his eyes away from the screen. Ah, the magic of parenthood.
“I’m fine, son, thanks for asking. My day was good, nice of you to inquire.”
He pulls a face and rolls his eyes in patented teenage fashion but doesn’t fight me off when I give him a hug. My coat is a shabby affair, frayed at the cuffs and repaired at the hem. I am wet and hot and probably look terrible. He is wearing a really nice Regatta jacket that I picked up in the sales that seems to be keeping him toasty. Mama’s Little Soldier.
We climb into the car, and I ask him how his day was—because it was definitely better than mine.
“All right,” he answers, twisting his long legs to get comfortable. “Met some of the gang. Did some hard drugs, drank ten pints, hooked up with some exotic dancers...”
“Ah. The usual stuff then?”
“Yeah. Plus, I was looking for a job.”
I pause as he says this, biting my lip. He is eighteen, and it would be good for him to have a job. He wanted one earlier, but I was keen for him to do well on his exams. To be able to goto uni—to build the kind of life he deserves; the kind I turned my back on. It has been a touchy subject between us—we don’t disagree about much, but this is one of those things. We had a spectacular row about it, where I pointed out he needed to concentrate on his studies, and he pointed out that I was “an emotional vampire trying to live my life through his.” It blew over, as these things do, but the fact that he is looking for work pretty much straightaway after his exams tells me it has not been forgotten. Now, though, I have to accept that it would be good for him—both as a human and as a person who lives with me, the possibly soon-to-be-unemployed mum. Things are different now—and he might not be able to rely on me forever. It hurts to even think that, but it’s true.
I hide all of this from him, and simply ask: “Find anything?”
“Not yet. There was a kitchen porter job in the hotel, but I wasn’t keen on that. Dangerous.”
“Really? How? I mean, I know there are sharp knives and stuff...”
“Nah, Mum, it’s not that. You know when you watch a film or a TV show, and there’s a bad guy being chased? They always run out through the kitchens, don’t they? And the cops chase them, and all the poor staff get knocked over or hit with frying pans or flying bullets... dangerous.”
He winks at me to show he is joking, and I reply: “Yeah. You’re right. Lots of brutal gun chases in small towns in Norfolk. What’s the real reason?”
“Pay was rubbish and the nights were late. Like, after the bus late.”
“I’d always come and get you, you know that!”
“Mum, you’re usually in bed by ten!”
“I know... but I’d wait up for you, Charlie. You know I would.”
He pats my hand and nods. “I do know, Mum. Thanks. And once I get a job, I can pay for driving lessons, and that will be cool. Can we go home now? I’m really soggy.”
I turn the key in the ignition, realizing that it is that weird temperature where it’s too warm to put the heat on but too wet to feel warm enough. It’ll be a jiggle with the buttons all the way home, balancing tropical heat against a steamed-up windscreen. Life, eh? Full of challenges.
Except, I soon find out, getting the air right won’t be one challenge I need to face today—because the car doesn’t start. I try again, and again, and again. I swear a bit, and remind myself that I filled it up only a week or so ago, and wonder if I’ve somehow got a flat battery. This is, unfortunately, the extent of my mechanical knowledge.
“The car isn’t starting,” says Charlie, frowning.
“Really? You think?”
“Um... is there enough petrol in it?”
“Of course!” I say, a bit too sharply.
He raises his eyebrows and wisely remains silent. He is, I know, thinking about a time a few years ago when I was trying to budget a bit too carefully and driving on fumes for a day. We ended up stuck at the side of a country lane in weather very similar to this while I walked to the nearest garage—which was four miles away. Happy times.
I try the key again, but nothing happens. No sound, no gas, nothing at all. I sit still and feel my fake sense of “everything’s okay” float away from me. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white, and I have bitten my lip so hard that I taste blood.
“Do we have... I don’t know... like, roadside assistance or something?” asks Charlie quietly.
I shake my head, feeling tears start to sting. No, of course we don’t. That would be an unnecessary expense. I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks until they’re stuck in a parking lot in torrential rain with a broken-down car.
“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head to clear away the impending panic. “I’ll sort it tomorrow. Or the day after when I get paid. For now, my darling child, we will have to get the bus!”
He makes a gagging noise, but laughs as he gets out of the car again. I grab the shopping, button up my wet coat, and join him.
