‘Lola … Lola, honey, time to wake up.’
When I hear my mum’s voice my first thought is that I’m going to be late for school. I always had a tendency to oversleep but she would talk me awake ever so gently.
It only takes a few seconds for me to realise that I haven’t travelled back in time to my teens. I am here as a thirty-two-year-old grown person – one who has nothing to get up for.
‘Just five more minutes,’ I plead. Well, old habits die hard.
‘Nope, I won’t let you be an invalid,’ she insists. ‘I’ve made you some breakfast, come on. Do you need me to help you up?’
‘No,’ I insist, pulling myself into more of an upright position. ‘It’s OK, I’m a fully grown woman. I can do it.’
If there’s one thing I don’t want, it is to feel like a child again.
To prove a point I shuffle from the sofa into my wheelchair, being as careful with my leg as possible. I am most definitely overdue some painkillers because an agonising electric shock type pain shoots up and down from the break.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I say as I settle into my chair. I exhale deeply as I realise I’m going to have to move from my chair to the toilet. Perhaps I’ll wait until after I’ve had my painkillers, before I attempt moving again.
‘Oh, love,’ my mum says. ‘Please let me help you. Can I help you to the bathroom? Do you want to get changed?’
I remove a scrunchie from my wrist and scoop my long blonde hair up into a bun on the top of my head.
‘I’ll have something to eat and take my painkillers first,’ I say. ‘But then that would be great, thank you.’
Well, I can’t do it on my own, and a little help isn’t exactly going to make me feel like a big baby, is it? I do have a broken leg; I need to cut myself some slack.
I grab my phone from next to the sofa before my mum wheels me from the lighthouse into the B & B. We go through the door into the B & B office where there is also a door into our private family kitchen, separate from the bistro kitchen where food is prepared for the guests.
A quick glance at my phone turns up two surprising pieces of information. First of all, it’s only 8:30 in the a.m. – way earlier than I want to get up when I don’t have work, but also evidence that my mum has allowed me to sleep in. She’s probably been up since 5:30 a.m., getting ready for a busy day in the B & B, working on her permanently flawless hair and near invisible make-up.
I’ve never really pulled off the natural look like my mum does. I have to spend time on my hair – lest it look like a bird’s nest, like it does today – and it pretty much always takes a full face of make-up to get me looking well rested and healthy. I need to contour and highlight and open my eyes up. Otherwise I look like I do today – old, tired and like I just don’t care anymore. That’s not to say I do it because I think I have to though. I’ve always been a girly girl who loved doing her hair and messing around with make-up; it would just be nice to be a little more effortlessly polished like my mum is.
The other piece of disappointing information gathered from my phone is the fact that Patrick hasn’t sent me so much as a text to see how I’m doing. I know he’s in Amsterdam and I know he’s working, but his phone is never out of his hand, and it wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to punch me a quick text to see how I’m feeling, or if I got home safe.
‘There’s my two favourite ladies,’ my dad says as my mum wheels me into the private dining kitchen, parking me at the table.
‘Morning, Da … Oh my God.’
My sentence is derailed by the breakfast on the table in front of me.
‘What?’ my mum asks.
‘Is this for me?’ I reply.
‘Yes.’
‘All of it?’ I check.
‘Of course,’ my mum says. ‘We need to get your strength up, get you back on your feet.’
My mum, Linda James, has always taken a very domestic approach to any problem she’s ever encountered. This kitchen is her Situation Room and her weapons of choice? Usually food. Today that food is scrambled eggs and toast, but not just any scrambled eggs and toast, a mountain of scrambled eggs and a stack of smiley face toast. She used to make me this when I was younger. I think it came from my obsession with the Teletubbies, but that was over twenty years ago, and I was probably too old for it even back then.
Ordinarily, I’d probably find it cute that my mum has made me my favourite childhood breakfast, but now, in these circumstances, it just makes me feel even more like I’ve regressed.
‘There’s no way I’ll eat all that,’ I blurt out.
My dad chuckles from behind his newspaper. ‘Told you, Lin.’
‘Shush, you,’ my mum ticks him off. ‘This is just what she needs to get her life back on track.’
‘Eggs?’ my dad asks in disbelief.
‘Home cooking,’ my mum replies. She gives my wheelchair another short, kind of sharp, push towards the table. ‘Eat up, baby.’
‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ I say.
I twist my body around awkwardly to try and eat from the table. The eggs are kind of on the cold side and the toast is definitely cold because it is rock solid, but I can see the love that has gone into making it, from carving the faces to including finely chopped chives and pieces of smoked salmon because she knows that’s my favourite. I owe it to my mum to eat as much as I can, without throwing up from the pain coming from my leg. I just need to eat enough to take my painkillers; once they kick in I won’t feel so tetchy.
My mum watches me like a hawk as I eat. She nods encouragingly as I raise my fork to my mouth.
‘It’s so good to have you home,’ she tells me again. ‘Isn’t it, Paul?’
My dad reads his newspaper with that dad brand of harmless ignorance. You know he’s in his own little world, no longer listening to either of us. I suppose that’s a defence mechanism he’s developed over the years, living in a house with two women. Whether my mum and I were at odds over me wanting to go to some house party or other, or if we were just having an in-depth natter about Emmerdale, my dad has perfected the art of tuning out. The only problem there is that he doesn’t always tune back in when we need him to.
‘Paul,’ my mum snaps.
‘What?’ he replies with a similar faux anger.
‘I said it’s nice to have Lola home,’ she tells him.
‘Lovely to have you home, love,’ my dad says, suddenly all warm and welcoming. He immediately goes back to his newspaper.
My mum and dad have always had a happy marriage, but the two of them couldn’t be more different on paper. My dad is, for the most part, the strong silent type. He likes to keep himself to himself and he’ll mostly keep his nose out of other people’s business too. This makes him the perfect B & B owner really, because he isn’t just discreet, he’s oblivious.
My mum is the exact opposite. My dad always jokes that my mum doesn’t have an off button, which is why she’s always talking. She loves nothing more than a good chat, and if she can sort someone’s life out while doing so then she will be even happier.
When I lived here I felt like I acted as a sort of buffer between them. Someone to play the middle ground, bring my dad out of himself a bit, rein my mum in as much as possible. Since I moved out, I’m not sure how the balance is maintained but my parents have been married for nearly forty years. They are living proof that opposites do actually attract and I’ve always taken comfort in that. It’s always filled me with hope that, if I ever do meet someone who isn’t exactly like me, it’s not like we’re doomed. Thankfully I’d say Patrick and I are quite similar – well, except for the fact that since I had my accident he’s been far too busy with work to care about me.
‘This is lovely, Mum, thanks,’ I tell her. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to force too much down, but I’ll do my best.
‘Good girl,’ she replies. ‘Let Mummy take care of you; you’ll be back on your feet in no time.’
‘You want to be careful,’ my dad chimes in. ‘Make sure she isn’t whacking your leg with a hammer while you sleep, just so she can keep you here longer.’
I know that he’s joking, but this triggers my mum.
‘I already have a helpless lump to look after,’ my mum points out. ‘I’m certainly not in need of another.’
‘Ow, ow,’ I say, dropping my fork to grab my leg. It hasn’t actually got worse, but acting like it has seems like a great way to defuse this situation.
My mum jumps up from her seat at the table and rushes round to me. She strokes my hair as she asks me if I’m OK. My dad puts down his newspaper, which is his equivalent.
‘It’s OK, darling. It’s OK,’ she reassured me. ‘You’ll be back to normal in no time at all.’
‘I’m worried it’s going to be a long recovery,’ I admit. ‘I’m scared I’m going to go out of my mind with boredom, without my job or my friends or any aspect of my day-to-day life at all.’
‘We’ll keep you busy,’ my mum insists. ‘Everything we talked about, for the B & B, is in place now, and it’s all been great.’
‘Really?’ I reply.
‘Oh, yes,’ she insists. ‘We’ve had a makeover. We’ve expanded the dining room so we can have more diners – we’re more like a small hotel now. We’ve hired an extra chef – Robbie, such a lovely young man. Vince is training him up.’
‘Oh, that will be nice for him,’ I say sarcastically.
Over the years we have had a few chefs here at the Lighthouse B & B. Vince is the most recent, and he’s very highly strung, very snobby and far too easily angered. He is a great chef though, so I think everyone has adopted a general rule of thumb to just leave him alone and let him do his job.
‘Yes,’ my mum starts. ‘He’s not happy to be sharing the kitchen with an up-and-comer, but everyone needs to start somewhere. And Robbie is so lovely. If you were single …’
‘Ah, but I’m not,’ I remind her. ‘So don’t go trying to play matchmaker while I’m unable to run away.’
‘Would I?’ my mum asks with a faux innocence. ‘Anyway, if you let us meet this Patrick, then maybe I’d see how settled you were.’
I’m not really sure Patrick is a meet the parents kind of guy, not too early at least. I’m sure we’ll do it when the time is right for both of us. My mum will just have to be patient.
‘And then there’s the fact that he isn’t looking after you, in your time of need,’ my mum adds.
‘The man has to work,’ my dad insists from the safety of behind his paper.
‘Too busy for your little girl when she needs help?’ my mum asks him.
‘Ow,’ I cry. ‘Shit, my leg is really hurting.’
This time I’m not pretending.
‘It feels really tight and warm,’ I explain. ‘Is that right? They told me to watch out for things like that.’
‘It could be a DVT,’ my mum says, going from nought to a medical emergency in a matter of seconds. ‘That’s it, we’re getting you dressed and taking you to see the doctor.’
My mum wheels me away from my breakfast and back towards the living room (which is currently serving as my bedroom). She begins sorting through my clothes, looking for something for me to wear, before dressing me in them.
I have never felt more like a child.
I grab my phone to call Patrick. He told me he’d call me this morning, so I should probably let him know that I’m going to the doctor’s, just in case he tries to call.
After a couple of rings someone answers. It isn’t Patrick though, it’s a female voice.
‘Erm …’ I look at my phone and realise that I’ve actually called Patrick’s home phone by mistake. Still, there shouldn’t be someone else answering – especially not a woman. ‘Is Patrick there?’
I feel like an idiot for asking this random woman if my boyfriend is home.
‘Not at the moment,’ she replies. ‘Can I take a message?’
‘Erm … no … I’ll call back later,’ I say before hanging up quickly.
Who on earth was that? Why is she answering Patrick’s phone while he’s away?
I suppose I could text him, tell him that my mum is taking me to see the doctor and that I’ll call him after. I don’t want to seem like I’m keeping tabs on him, and I really don’t want to seem like I’m trying to worry him, as some sort of kneejerk reaction, just because I heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone.
Now I’m more worried than anyone, and not just about my leg – although it is frustrating to be going back to see another doctor. Like it’s not bad enough I thought I was going to be stuck on my arse for six weeks, now I have to go and be poked and prodded again.
But I’m not just worried about that. Now I’m worried about Patrick too, because unless something bad has happened, things are starting to seem a little fishy.