Short Story: A Proper Tea

Short Story: A Proper Tea

He’s coming – look at him, marching along the path like he owns the place. I suppose he does. Half the estate has the bread on the table, the milk in the fridge, the big flat screen telly in the living room, because of him. But at what price though? Anything he likes basically. You’re alright, so long as you keep up the payments. Nice and regular, like. He’ll agree an amount weekly, doesn’t mind if it’s small – the interest you see. Longer it takes, the more he gets. Oh God, he’s almost at the door. I know because he’s disappeared out of sight. That means he’s taking the stair up to our walkway. He’ll go past Tiff’s door, then old Mr Ramsay’s – he never leaves his house anymore, not since that mugging by Big Ella’s boys – then he’ll maybe stop at 1B, that’s the druggie’s squat. I hate living next door to them. They care about nothing and one of these days they’ll burn the lot of us down when they’re off their faces on something. He hates them too, he told me, but he still supplies. He doesn’t care how he makes his money.

‘Mum, Mum, I’m hungry.’

Jesus, I about jump out of my skin. I told the boy to stay in his room. There’s hardly any time till the bang on the door.

‘Tommy, you get back in your room, stay in your bed like I told you. Door shut, stay under the covers.’

My boy stares at me for a moment with the dark eyes he got off his father, that and his hair, a wiry mess of curls, the colour of treacle toffee. There’s a stain at the crotch of his pyjamas. He’s probably had another wee accident. Well I don’t have time to deal with that now. His face is a question mark of reproach and I feel the bitter taste of failure rise like bile in my throat. I have no food to give him. I pick him up and he swings his skinny arms round my neck, rests his head on my shoulder. I love him so much. I will do what I have to do.

‘Look Tommy,’ I say and I open the fridge door. He leans into the almost empty space. A can of beans, half gone and a lump of orange cheese, all dried out and cracked round the edges.

He reaches in and picks up the cheese. There are little half moons of dirt between his bitten nails.

The front door bangs and shakes with the promised violence of a hard fist. Tommy’s face screws up and he throws the cheese on the floor. Don’t blame him; it was well past it’s sell by date when I bought it.

I take him through the room and tuck him tightly under the duvet. Then I go back and open the door. This is the third week I haven’t had the money I owe but this time I know what is coming. I had thought at first I would get the normal defaulters treatment but it seems he has a soft spot for me. Turns out I can give payment in different ways, turns out I can even get a bit more cash to keep me going, just till I get on my feet again.

I take his hand, it’s tough and scarred, and we go to the other room, the one with my bed in. I undress and lie back on the lumpy mattress. As I wait for him to be ready, I think about tomorrow. I will go down the Co-op and fill my fridge and then I will feed my boy a proper tea.