Working Class Man

A/N - Hello! Haven't written a simple son and mother romance in ages. Now you'll know what to expect going forward.

Check the tags as there might be one or two topics / themes that some readers don't enjoy, even in these stories.

Usual caveats. All editing and reviewing done the author with Microsoft Word. Spelling is usually spot on. Australian / British English. Definitely the occasional typo. Grammar can be ropey at times, but it's been a long time since I sat in a classroom. All mistakes owned up to by the author. Please remember this is only fantasy and I'm an amateur.

Comments and feedback appreciated as always.

*****

Working hard to make a living

Bringing shelter from the rain

A father's son left to carry on

Blue denim in his veins

Oh oh oh he's a working class man

- 'Working Class Man', Jimmy Barnes

*****

Mum gripped my hand tightly as we sat side by side, the celebrant droning on and on. We were surrounded by close friends and family. My grandparents on both sides. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters of my parents. A few cousins. Friends of my parents and my grandparents. I heard the soft sobbing of my father's mother. No parent wants to bury their child.

I was sixteen years old at the time. My father was thirty-three when he was killed. He'd been out for a couple of after work beers with a couple of close friends. CCTV later showed that, after a minor disagreement over a spilled drink, he was punched from behind by the person he'd had the disagreement. The hit alone may not have killed him, but when his head smacked onto the edge of the bar, it was thought he was already dead by the time he hit the floor.

The court case had barely started by the time we were ready to say goodbye to my father.

There would be no burial. We were not a religious family, and one of his requests had been for his body to be cremated upon his death. So as the celebrant droned on, my mother leaned into my side, feeling her body shaking as she cried. Letting go of her hand, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders with my left and took her hand again with my right.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper in between her sobs. I replied by kissing the top of her head, pulling her closer to me. Ever since the night the police had arrived at our front door to tell us, Mum had relied on me, having to be wiser beyond my years as my mother fell apart.

My parents were your oft talked about teenage parents. At the time we buried my father, Mum was only thirty-one years old. They'd only been dating a few months when Mum told him she was pregnant. Thankfully, unlike numerous other stories about young men running from their responsibilities, my father quit school and immediately went looking for a job. He found one easily enough, but with only his High School Certificate, having only complete four of six years at high school, his options were going to be limited for a long time.

Those first few years were difficult for our small family. My father moved in with my mother and her parents once she was about six months along. After I was born, the crib was placed in their bedroom, though my parents knew that situation couldn't remain for too long. Thankfully, the two sets of parents came together to assist our small family into our own apartment. It was a tiny two-bedroom place, but it was somewhere we could call home.

I don't remember too much from those early years. What I realised rather quickly when at school is that my family wasn't the only one struggling. I learned later as I grew up that my parents did what they could, but the most important things were a roof over my head, clothes on my back and food in my belly. It was up to my grandparents and other relatives to spoil me, usually on my birthday and at Christmas.

One thing I realised as I grew up is that despite the circumstances, my mother and father were still deeply in love with each other, at least in those early years. When I was five years old, they wed in a very simple ceremony in the backyard of her parents' place, and although I did hear the occasional argument or disagreement while growing up, it was generally a happy enough household while I was growing up.

My mother did want another child, but considering life was a struggle, whenever I asked about a sibling, my parents would sit me down and explain that life was expensive, and with three mouths already to feed, a fourth one would make things even more difficult. By the time I was at primary school, my father was now working as a tradesman for an old friend from high school, who had his own business, while my mother managed to find work as a part-time receptionist, but she had only just completed her own High School Certificate by the time she gave birth.

By the time I entered high school, we'd managed to move into a larger three-bedroom apartment though things were still difficult. Dad managed to get a better job, making at least a little more money, but not even having a Higher School Certificate counted him out of many jobs, and he simply didn't have the time or energy to continue any studies. As for my mother, she did manage to complete some night classes to finish her High School Certificate, and she did fine herself a full-time job as a secretary. But even with two wages, things were still difficult after all the rent and bills were paid, leaving little money for any luxuries. Dad drove a beat-up used car. Mum relied on lifts to get around. My grandparents bought me a decent bike for me to ride around on, otherwise I'd rely on public transport or I'd walk.

Hitting my mid-teens, I'd long come to accept that life in the western suburbs wasn't always easy, my father a working class, blue-collar worker, doing his best to support his small family, I couldn't complain nor want for anything. Sure, I watched as friends were bought the latest technology, lived in their own homes, ate out more often, but my parents were still happy. I was content with my life, a typical teenager always wanting more,

A week after my fifteenth birthday, I sat down with my parents at dinner as always. "Dad, should I get a part-time job? Only a few of my friends are looking to work, but I'm thinking any sort of wage I can bring in to support myself..."

Both my parents smiled at me. "That's a mature outlook on life, Mark," my father stated, "Where are you looking?"

"Two options. I can either look at a fast-food restaurant, something like Macca's. Don't pay great but apparently it looks good on a resumé. If not there, then somewhere like a supermarket, stacking shelves and shit. Either way, it'll be working nights after school during the week, and I'd likely be required to work at least one day every weekend."

"Looked into it already?" Mum wondered.

"Yeah, got myself a couple of application forms. Filled them out and just deciding what to do."

"I'd go with Macca's myself," my father suggested, "You're right about them looking good on your resumé. And if you leave school and don't go to university, working full-time is nothing to sneeze at. Work your way up the chain and see where it takes you. But that's just one option in life."

Chatting to a few friends at school, and the careers advisor who also offered one or two suggestions, the consensus was to go for the job at Macca's. There was a restaurant only ten minutes from our apartment, so I dropped an application in there. To my surprise, they called me within a week, wanting to organise an interview. Within a month, I had my uniform and was working in the kitchen. Ended up working twice a week after school while having me in there on a Saturday night. As I was only fifteen, it wasn't that bad.

Making my own money was helpful. My parents didn't want me giving them any money, it just meant that I could purchase certain things for myself, while they suggested I start building my own little nest egg of savings.

I was never the most book smart of people. I did okay in class and sitting for my tests, but once I started working and making money, my schooling did start to take a back seat. If they needed me in for extra shifts, I'd happily do it. Dad didn't mind as he knew I wasn't particularly interested in school, and had no desire to go onto university, but my mother did want me to stay until the end of sixth form so I could at least obtain my Higher School Certificate.

The agreement was, if I did that, and if I had my licence by then, my four grandparents would get together and help me purchase my own car. Second hand, of course, but it would give me the opportunity to drive myself around without having to rely on friends and family.

Then my father died. I still remember the night the police arrived, my mother opening the front door to our apartment. She knew already when they asked to speak to her. In that moment, I became the man of the house, the man my mother would rely on for the next few days and months. Despite the fact they'd been so young when getting together, my parents were more in love with each other in their early thirties. My father had devoted himself to our small family. My mother doted on me and adored her husband. Or that's what I thought anyway.

But I digress...

The funeral finally ended. Mum had barely been able to keep herself together the entire time. I was considered too young to give the eulogy. In the end, it was my father's father who stood up and spoke warm words, most of them about his love for his wife and his son. Barely a dry in eye in the small auditorium once he finished speaking.

Viewing his body one last time before he was taken away was difficult. Mum kissed his forehead before she turned around and rested her head against my chest. I'd managed to keep myself together until that last time I'd see my father. I wasn't religious, but in that moment, I wished for a heaven so I could see him again in a few decades.

The wake was held at his parents' place. What I learned is that my parents were loved and respected. Despite the harsh reality of life as two young people who started their family as teenagers, my father had worked hard since the first day he was employed, while my mother was regarded as a friendly and bubbly presence no matter where she was.

My grandfather walked towards with a beer, putting it in my hand. "Had a beer before?"

"No, Pop."

"Well, you'll learn it's an acquired taste, but it's on you now, son. Your mother is going to need you going forward. She'll mourn your father for a while but, after that, she's going to need you to help her through the next few months."

"What should I do?"

"That's for you and her to decide. We'll be around to support however we can, but there's only so much any of us can do. Your mother values her independence. Always has done since she left with you and your father."

"I'll finish fourth form first. I might have to leave and get a job."

"I'm sure your mother will want you to stay on at school, but the reality is that she can't afford to live on her wage alone."

Dad didn't have life insurance. We couldn't afford things like that. There wasn't a will to speak of. My parents owned very few assets so a will wasn't necessary. They had a joint account with a little savings. My father's car was simply passed to Mum, who suggested I would have it once I had my licence. And that was about it.

The next couple of months passed quietly. Mum somehow managed to keep going, dragging herself to work once her bereavement leave was over. I picked up as many shifts at Macca's as I could while trying to stay on top of my schoolwork. My end of fourth form exams were approaching and I was already considering the future. I'd spoken to family about my ideas. I knew Mum wanted me to stay in school, but that didn't seem realistic any longer.

Waiting until I'd finished my exams, I sat down with Mum on a Saturday evening. I'd treated us to some fish and chips, Mum cuddling into me afterwards. Her increasing affection towards me wasn't a surprise. Having lost her husband, I knew she was relying on me for more than just that. I'd often walk into a room and find her staring off into space, so I'd give her a hug. It always made her smile, though I knew how she was feeling. I missed him too.

"Mum, we need to talk about school," I stated.

"What about it?"

"I know you want me to stay on for another two years, but I don't think we can afford to stay here on just your salary. And what I make working part-time simply won't cover the gap because of Dad." She was about to lean back when I tightened my grip on her. "Let me finish. I've already talked to my career's advisor at school. Everyone at school is obviously aware of what happened. I asked her about finding a job if I left school. I'm legally allowed to at sixteen as plenty of young men and women would rather go out and find a job."

"Okay, what's your idea?"

That wasn't the response I was expecting. I thought she'd try and fight me on it. Maybe she just didn't have it in her. "I've looked into apprenticeships. You know how I used to help Dad look after his car?"

I think we both smiled at the memory. Dad had an old ute he bought second hand. To save money, we used to tinker with it ourselves whenever something seemed to go wrong. We'd go to the local library, as they always had books on all sorts of vehicles. We'd borrow and read it, and we'd generally fix any problem with the ute ourselves. He'd always looked after his vehicle himself so he passed on what he knew to me, things like changing the brakes or the oil, while we would also try and fix more difficult things.

"I remember. You both used to come inside covered in grease and oil sometimes."

"Yeah, and we used to make a bit of spare cash doing work for others. Well, I'm thinking of becoming an apprentice mechanic. There are a few workshops around who would be willing to take someone like me on. I won't make a lot of cash the first year or two, but by the time I'm eighteen, I'll be employed full-time and making a proper wage. And if I become a mechanic for just one vehicle manufacturer, I've read there are further opportunities to increase my skills."

"Sounds like you've done a lot of investigation already?"

"I've already talked with a couple of mechanic workshops nearby and asked about the apprenticeship schemes available. More than one would be willing to take me on after the holiday period. But I didn't want to do it without talking to you first. Though I'm legally allowed to leave school, I'd rather do it with your blessing. I want to help us, Mum."

"Man of the house?" she asked softly.

"Well, not the way I wanted to be..." Sighing, I hugged Mum tighter, "But I'm willing to do the right thing to help you, Mum."

She remained silent for a few minutes, and I gave her the time to think. "Are you sure, honey?"

Mum had never used that term of endearment with me before. "I'm sure, sweetie," I replied softly. She turned her head and smiled at me. "Hey, you called me 'honey'."

Snuggling into me again, she giggled. "Well, you are sweet like honey, looking after your mother in such a manner. Okay, I'll contact the school and let them know you won't be returning next year."

The fact I was leaving didn't surprise any of my friends when I told them. Thought there were the usual promises of keeping in touch, I knew the chances of that were slim simply because I would be working full-time while they would be still at school, many of them likely continuing on to university after graduating, and our lives would simply be going in different directions.

Our first Christmas alone wasn't as bad as it could have been. Mum's parents insisted we spent Christmas Eve at their place so we could get up on Christmas Day. I knew they'd gone all out to make the day as special as possible. I think everyone made an effort to be as cheerful as possible on the day itself. I bought Mum a couple of presents that thankfully made her smile. My paternal grandparents arrived in time for lunch, not surprised there were a few tears as they hugged my mother. Mum's brother and sister arrived with the in-laws and cousins, as did my father's sister, husband and cousin.

It was a lovely afternoon, filled with plenty of laughter but also reminiscing about my father, stories shared of when he was growing up, but I also spoke lovingly of him as a father figure and inspiration. Despite the fact life was a struggle at times, he never let it get on top of him, and he'd done nothing but show his wife and his son unconditional love.

Returning home to our quiet apartment, I noticed Mum visibly deflate, and I was hugging her tightly by the time the tears started to flow. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I'll be here whenever you need me, Mum," I whispered back.

"You're too young to be this responsible already."

"It doesn't matter, Mum. You need my help and I do so willingly and gladly. We're a team."

I started my job as an apprentice motor mechanic in early January. Thankful that I already had a little experience, I quickly got into the swing of things. Waking early for work instead of school wasn't much of a culture shock. Having to go to work instead of enjoying the summer holidays did suck to start with, at least until I got my first couple of wage slips, easily making more money than I had part-time at Macca's. After a month, I sat down with Mum with my slips and agreed how much I'd contribute for rent and bills. Even as an apprentice, I was almost making as much as she was, so we agreed to split everything fifty-fifty.

Within a couple of months, I was putting in longer hours, taking all the overtime that was available, even going in on Saturday's if they requested, anything that helped me gain experience and that I'd get paid for. Being an apprentice and only sixteen for the first half of the year, I wasn't paid much, but that changed when I turned seventeen mid-year.

Mum remained in the doldrums for a few months, her heart heavy with grief. I did my best to make her smile whenever she looked really down in the dumps, but I also knew how she felt. I missed my father just as much though I knew it was nothing like losing the man she'd been with for over a decade. Slowly but surely, though, she started to smile again.

As I turned seventeen, life continued on. Mum didn't make a big deal out of it and nor did I, knowing it was another year until I turned eighteen and was legally an adult. My apprenticeship would also end and I'd become a full-time worker. Life was still a struggle at times. Even with our wages pooled together, rent and the bills were easily covered. We didn't splurge too often while grocery shopping, Mum going out of her way to ensure I knew how to cook using simple, cheap but healthy ingredients.

We worked well together as a team at home. I stepped up to ensure I did my fair share of chores. Living in apartment meant no lawns to mow or anything. To my surprise, she did start mentioning perhaps trying to find somewhere else to live. I wasn't sure we could afford it. Renting an apartment was far cheaper. If we looked for a house, even a small one, it was going to be more expensive and could mean moving further away.

Mum sat me down one evening after walking in from work. I wore overalls at work, but always wore jeans underneath with a simple white or black t-shirt. My hands were usually stained, even if I wore gloves while working. Hell, sometimes grease and oil ended up on my face, usually forgetting to wipe my hands before I needed to scratch my nose.

"Hey, baby," Mum stated, kissing my cheek as she welcomed me home. Terms of endearment such as 'baby' and 'honey' now greeted me every morning and evening.

"Hey, Mum. What's for tea?"

"Spag bol."

"Love it. I'll just go clean up first." Kissing her cheek, I added, "And I'll make sure I wipe down the basin once I'm done."