Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
And so we hold each other tightly, and hold on for tomorrow
And so we hold each other tightly, and hold on for tomorrow...
You always know when it’s Christmas in Manchester. Giant, inflatable snowmen are a necessity down my way, and the wonder of next door’s ‘Merry Christmas Manchester’ lights never ceases to amaze me, plus they’ve stuck a terrifying picture of Alex Ferguson to the snowman doll in their window. It’s not the most Christmassy thing I can think of, but I suppose this is Manchester.
The last day of school flies by in a whirl of slutty Santa dresses and bauble earrings, and even Stella is in the festive mood instead of moping about after Dave (who returned to Newquay due to the fact that he was apparently neglecting his surfing), and then the torture is over and I can go home to listen to my resurrected The Great Escape CD. Especially Stereotypes (which, incredibly, is on the brink of semi-converting Dan to Blurism). Except that Dan is already in my house, having a male bonding session over a can of Stella with my dad (again), and he has a huge suitcase with him. What the-
“…She’s in a hospital twenty minutes away from Covent Garden, and I’m going down to see her this weekend, so I was wondering if Lyla wanted to come to London with me. Seeing as she’s always wanted to go to London.”
The ensuing shriek of delight from the doorway is enough to make my father drop his Stella.
“Yer what? London? This weekend? Why the fook would I let you take Lyla to London at this short notice?”
“The train leaves in an hour. My mum desperately wants to meet Lyla – I’ve told her about her in the phonecalls we’ve had – and with her health being so… precarious, I thought it was better to do it sooner rather than later Her health’s been steadily declining recently, so I’m not sure how long she’ll last.”
I know that I should feel remorse for the origins of my proposed trip, but I can’t contain myself. I’m going to London!
***
“SEPARATE BEDS. NO FOOKIN’. JUST BECAUSE YER IN LONDON DON’T MEAN YER CAN-” Fifteen chapters into The Strict Father Handbook later and we’re on the verge of missing our train. Dan’s planned everything – train times, the B&B (separate beds – we’re pointedly refraining from anything like that), an itinerary and even the costs of London buses, should I want to see the sights from the top of a Routemaster (which, incidentally, I do). I am so excited that even the sight of Daisy barging in with Colin in one hand and a Boots’ bag (probably with condoms in it) in the other cannot dampen my delight; the butterflies of soon-to-be fulfilled ambition are fluttering around inside me wildly, joyfully. London! Home to all that I love and cannot touch from Manchester.
“Yes, Mr Kite. That’s fine.” Dan finally found out my hideously, toe-curlingly twee surname at the weekend (according to Colin, you could almost hear the vicar’s thoughts at my christening – “Lyla Kite? What were the parents thinking?”). “But we have to go, our train leaves in fifteen minutes and we need to buy tickets.”
Dad grumbles, stomps off to set up the car and by the time we’ve convinced him that we’re not going to be injecting heroin into our veins all night long, we’re at Trafford Park station and I’ve realised that I’ve forgotten my camera.
Oh well. Shit happens.
***
During the two hours and forty-two minutes spent on various trains, not including the wait between trains, we’ve had some philosophical and soul-searching discussions.
“If you had to marry one person from Blur, who would it be?” We’re rolling through the Midlands at the moment, though the darkness meant I couldn’t see the scenery of southern England – what did I expect? Some kind of golden aura to surround London, a fanfare to commemorate the enormity of the event and a celebratory medal saying “Welcome to London”? So I am uneasily clueless as to our occasion, and work it off by deliberating over ridiculous questions.
“Ummm...” A good fifteen minutes of analysis later, and I come to a conclusion. “Graham Coxon?”
Dan makes a disgusted spluttering sound.
“But... he looks like a male librarian!”
“Well, I have crap taste in men...”
“Touché.” He pauses, pensively. “I thought all the girls fancied Damon Albarn, anyway?”
“Nah – his earring makes him look like a bender. Graham’s just cute in a nerdy way. Like he’d be sweet, but submissive.” I suddenly realise that this makes me sound like a predator and/or dominatrix.
“Am I sweet but submissive?”
“I wish. You’d buy me a whole box of Jelly Tots every week if you were that submissive. I finished the box of Yorkies last month, I meant to tell you.”
“Quelle dommage! I’ll have to- wait! I recognise that place! Don’t squeal, but I think we’re pretty near London-”
I squeal.
***
It’s like Manchester here, but more vibrant. More Southern. More London. More pigeons. I’m painfully aware of my common Manc accent amongst all the clear-cut Received Pronunciation voices that ring out across the Strand as we explore the capital. There are lights everywhere, bustling swarming people of every ethnicity and dress and age walking across the roads, and so many landmarks... galleries and museums that I’ve heard of from newspaper articles, and my God, there’s Nelson on his plinth! We’re in Trafalgar Square! A Japanese tourist takes a picture of me absent-mindedly scooping water from a nearby fountain, crazy with awe. And I force him to take a picture of me hugging Nelson’s Column, and then one of me on the steps of the National Gallery, and then we’re in Leicester Square, walking the same paths as the stars. And it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Everything’s new to me. I’m not just talking about the endless theatres and thousands of Tube stations (the Manchester Interrail doesn’t count) – it’s everything. The Thai food that I gulp down within seconds, having not eaten for eight-and-a-half hours. The pillar-box-red buses which chortle up and down the streets, taking people to exotic places like Camden Town or Crystal Palace. The London taxis, crawling like cockroaches, picking up anonymous people everywhere. It’s magical.
Finally, having kissed in Covent Garden for half an hour, we decide to call it a night. And yes, we did sleep in separate beds, like innocent nuns and monks at a sleepover, or something like that. Dan’s words, not mine.
***
A bad-tempered grey morning dawns – it’s December, after all – and we have a full day to plan. According to Dan, the visiting hours are six ‘til seven this evening, so we have the rest of the day to play with.
“Right... any suggestions, then?” he asks over breakfast, a full English breakfast including French toast with a Union Jack burnt into it.
“Ooh, pick me! I want to see Buckingham Palace. And the Houses of Parliament. And Hyde Park. And...”
“You’re sounding like a tourist brochure.”
“I’ve read enough about this place, I’m allowed to.”
“Well, if we do that this morning, then this afternoon we can go to watch Fulham at Craven Cottage. Why the long face? Is the thought of watching a Division Three team making you feel ill?” I had had a similar thought myself, but one involving the Premiership and Arsenal v Chelsea instead.
“I wanted to watch the Arsenal-Chelsea match...” I mumble. He screws up his face and then unwinds it.
“Ok, well, if you needed any proof that I love you, I’m prepared to ditch my tickets to Fulham v Northampton so that we can see Chelsea. This is akin to me buying a Blur album, by the way.”
“That’s next on my list of things to make you do. You really are submissive.” And with a polite cough from the waitress, who has evidently only picked up on the last two sentences of our conversation if her blush and awkward stance is anything to go by, we’re off to find a London tour bus. Double decker, naturally.
***
We’ve seen it all and done it all. We’ve even done the For Tomorrow video spin round London on the bus. We watched a highly satisfactory draw at Highbury between Chelsea and Arsenal, though Dan was slightly depressed when he found out that Fulham got tonked by Northampton. My first football match! For someone who lives down the road from one of the most famous football grounds in England, it’s odd that I’d never seen a live football match before. The swearing and witticisms from the fans amused me, and Dan’s singing along to the songs (with Fulhamised lyrics) made me break down in giggles. We should have won as well, save for a last minute goal, but what can you do? It is Arsenal, after all.
And now we are in the institution to meet Dan’s mother. All that I know of her is that she is divorced, has a 16-year-old son who I’m quite hopelessly besotted with, and that her married name is alliterative (Rosie Rigby). Oh, and that she is in a London institution due to a mental breakdown two years ago that she is still suffering with.
“Hi, we’re here to see Ms Rosie Robinson.” The reception is warm colours; green and blue, peacock-like, and not at all the sterile white landscape I expected. All white is confined to the staff uniforms and patients’ faces.
“She’s just finishing with Doctor Jacks at the moment. She had a ‘moment’ with one of the other patients earlier today, so we booked her an emergency talk appointment with him. She should be fine, we’re not stopping her visiting rights, so don’t worry.” A moment? I send Dan a quizzical look, but he shakes his head.
“What did she do this time?” he asks. I’ve never seen him look so anxious, not even when I accidentally dropped his copy of (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? onto the tiles in his kitchen when we were playing it on the stereo in his house.
“...Do you want to talk to her about it? If not, you can probably see Dr Jacks about it, as long as he isn’t seeing another patient. Oh, he’s just over there. Robert! Oh, Robert!” The startlingly attractive Dr Jacks strides over in a limping gait, and shakes Dan’s hand.
“Daniel! So good to see you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Ah, well. How’s Manchester? And is this your girlfriend? Excellent stuff! Your mother has mentioned your relationship in passing. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss...”
“Kite. Lyla Kite.” I blush, and to tell the truth, I’m salivating slightly as the Alex James lookalike doctor shakes my hand. Dan and the receptionist both look peeved by this gesture of friendliness.
“Ah, excellent stuff! Now, Daniel, your mother had a minor squabble with Clover earlier. See Clover over there? Yes, yes, they both wanted to read the same magazine at the same time. Well, well. There was a little bit of physical aggression on her part, but nothing too serious-”
“What was it?” Dan snaps, cutting through the medical bullshit.
“She slapped her on the left cheek. Nothing too serious, as I said. Anyway, Clover’s fine now, your mother was restrained and now feels guilty, which is good – it’s another step on the road to recovery. Ah, yes. She’s been moved to Room 14 now, it’s got a far nicer view than her old room. Excellent stuff. Anyway, do excuse me, I need to go and speak to James now. He’s our newest patient. Speak soon, hopefully, Dan. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Kite. I hope we meet again. Have a pleasant evening, both of you. Ta-rah.” And with that, the Alex James doctor hands Dan a key and strolls off to charm some other patient.
“Sleazy git,” snarls Dan under his breath, as we amble towards Room 14. There it is, and there’s Dan’s mum. She resembles Cilla Black, I think, but bonier.
“Daniel! My sweetness!” she cries, and he pats her gingerly on the back. She has no truck with that; scooping him up into a giant bear hug and ruffling his hair, and then letting him go and seeing me. The girlfriend. “Leela! So nice to meet you at last. Dan never talks about anything else. Except for Oasis, of course. And... [she purses her lips] his father’s drinking problem. At least my problems aren’t my fault. Well, he’s not half as good looking as the wonderful Robert. Have you met him? He’s simply divine! If only he wasn’t jamming that receptionist cow, Avaline. Well, I can dream. Darlings! Oh, you’re ever so lovely together. I knew I’d imbued my Daniel with good taste in women.” She chatters nineteen to the dozen and seems as sane as, well, sane can be.
“Mum, why did you argue with Clover today?” asks Dan. Suddenly, there’s a change in her behaviour, she stops – stock still with furious eyes. Then she becomes a banshee.
“That bitch! I was reading, and then that bitch comes and steals my book! I told her to give it back, she said ‘Well, you can’t keep your husband, why would you keep your book?’, and so I taught her a lesson, I did, she’ll never come near me now! Fat, whining bitch! She hears voices, she tried to kill someone, I never tried to kill anyone except myself, but if I had a knife right now, I swear to God I’d fucking kill her! I’d kill her! If I ever see her again, I’ll-” Now I know for sure that she is insane. She is screaming, throwing things across the room, ripping the bedsheets with her teeth, oh God- and then the ‘divine’ Doctor Jacks appears in the doorway, like an angel in white.
“Ms Robinson! Ms Robinson! Oh! Rosie! Stop it! You’re frightening your son and his partner.” He turns to us as she crumples in a heap, cowering, quivering at her own behaviour, shivering despite the heater being turned up to near-Sahara proportions. “Rosie, we’re going to have to put you back into Room 5 if you do this again. You and Clover are going to have to work out your own differences. Anyway, Daniel and Lyla need to go now. Say goodbye to them.”
She embraces both of us, feebly, and collapses into her bed immediately afterwards. Doctor Jacks ushers us out.
“As you see, her feud with Clover is likely to last. We’ll have to move one of them to the second floor, but only assessments will be able to decide which one will be moved.”
“Not the second floor! She’s been getting better recently! Oh, God. I thought she was improving. Going back to the second floor again will kill her. You know it will!” Dan is properly shouting at Dr Jacks, who looks uncomfortable in the situation. The medical bullshit has been cut.
“I’m so sorry, Daniel, but it’s either moving one of them or violence in the lounge. We just can’t have them at each others’ throats, or all the others will be at it too. I’ll keep you updated on her movements throughout the week and let you know the final outcome of our assessments. Don’t worry, we’ll do everything in our power to cure her. Do come and see her again next time she feels worse. I think she will be cured fully, in time.”
Dan drags me limply out of the hospital and back to the B&B, in silence. Every crumb of comfort I offer is rebuked by a monosyllabic answer. And it is only in the middle of the night, when I hear stifled sobs from his pillow, that I am able to comfort him. I slide over to his bed and hold him, purely platonically, until he falls into a dreamless and peaceful sleep. In my drowsy state, my favourite Blur lyrics come to mind.
“And so we hold each other tightly, and hold on for tomorrow...” It’s strangely true.
You always know when it’s Christmas in Manchester. Giant, inflatable snowmen are a necessity down my way, and the wonder of next door’s ‘Merry Christmas Manchester’ lights never ceases to amaze me, plus they’ve stuck a terrifying picture of Alex Ferguson to the snowman doll in their window. It’s not the most Christmassy thing I can think of, but I suppose this is Manchester.
The last day of school flies by in a whirl of slutty Santa dresses and bauble earrings, and even Stella is in the festive mood instead of moping about after Dave (who returned to Newquay due to the fact that he was apparently neglecting his surfing), and then the torture is over and I can go home to listen to my resurrected The Great Escape CD. Especially Stereotypes (which, incredibly, is on the brink of semi-converting Dan to Blurism). Except that Dan is already in my house, having a male bonding session over a can of Stella with my dad (again), and he has a huge suitcase with him. What the-
“…She’s in a hospital twenty minutes away from Covent Garden, and I’m going down to see her this weekend, so I was wondering if Lyla wanted to come to London with me. Seeing as she’s always wanted to go to London.”
The ensuing shriek of delight from the doorway is enough to make my father drop his Stella.
“Yer what? London? This weekend? Why the fook would I let you take Lyla to London at this short notice?”
“The train leaves in an hour. My mum desperately wants to meet Lyla – I’ve told her about her in the phonecalls we’ve had – and with her health being so… precarious, I thought it was better to do it sooner rather than later Her health’s been steadily declining recently, so I’m not sure how long she’ll last.”
I know that I should feel remorse for the origins of my proposed trip, but I can’t contain myself. I’m going to London!
***
“SEPARATE BEDS. NO FOOKIN’. JUST BECAUSE YER IN LONDON DON’T MEAN YER CAN-” Fifteen chapters into The Strict Father Handbook later and we’re on the verge of missing our train. Dan’s planned everything – train times, the B&B (separate beds – we’re pointedly refraining from anything like that), an itinerary and even the costs of London buses, should I want to see the sights from the top of a Routemaster (which, incidentally, I do). I am so excited that even the sight of Daisy barging in with Colin in one hand and a Boots’ bag (probably with condoms in it) in the other cannot dampen my delight; the butterflies of soon-to-be fulfilled ambition are fluttering around inside me wildly, joyfully. London! Home to all that I love and cannot touch from Manchester.
“Yes, Mr Kite. That’s fine.” Dan finally found out my hideously, toe-curlingly twee surname at the weekend (according to Colin, you could almost hear the vicar’s thoughts at my christening – “Lyla Kite? What were the parents thinking?”). “But we have to go, our train leaves in fifteen minutes and we need to buy tickets.”
Dad grumbles, stomps off to set up the car and by the time we’ve convinced him that we’re not going to be injecting heroin into our veins all night long, we’re at Trafford Park station and I’ve realised that I’ve forgotten my camera.
Oh well. Shit happens.
***
During the two hours and forty-two minutes spent on various trains, not including the wait between trains, we’ve had some philosophical and soul-searching discussions.
“If you had to marry one person from Blur, who would it be?” We’re rolling through the Midlands at the moment, though the darkness meant I couldn’t see the scenery of southern England – what did I expect? Some kind of golden aura to surround London, a fanfare to commemorate the enormity of the event and a celebratory medal saying “Welcome to London”? So I am uneasily clueless as to our occasion, and work it off by deliberating over ridiculous questions.
“Ummm...” A good fifteen minutes of analysis later, and I come to a conclusion. “Graham Coxon?”
Dan makes a disgusted spluttering sound.
“But... he looks like a male librarian!”
“Well, I have crap taste in men...”
“Touché.” He pauses, pensively. “I thought all the girls fancied Damon Albarn, anyway?”
“Nah – his earring makes him look like a bender. Graham’s just cute in a nerdy way. Like he’d be sweet, but submissive.” I suddenly realise that this makes me sound like a predator and/or dominatrix.
“Am I sweet but submissive?”
“I wish. You’d buy me a whole box of Jelly Tots every week if you were that submissive. I finished the box of Yorkies last month, I meant to tell you.”
“Quelle dommage! I’ll have to- wait! I recognise that place! Don’t squeal, but I think we’re pretty near London-”
I squeal.
***
It’s like Manchester here, but more vibrant. More Southern. More London. More pigeons. I’m painfully aware of my common Manc accent amongst all the clear-cut Received Pronunciation voices that ring out across the Strand as we explore the capital. There are lights everywhere, bustling swarming people of every ethnicity and dress and age walking across the roads, and so many landmarks... galleries and museums that I’ve heard of from newspaper articles, and my God, there’s Nelson on his plinth! We’re in Trafalgar Square! A Japanese tourist takes a picture of me absent-mindedly scooping water from a nearby fountain, crazy with awe. And I force him to take a picture of me hugging Nelson’s Column, and then one of me on the steps of the National Gallery, and then we’re in Leicester Square, walking the same paths as the stars. And it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Everything’s new to me. I’m not just talking about the endless theatres and thousands of Tube stations (the Manchester Interrail doesn’t count) – it’s everything. The Thai food that I gulp down within seconds, having not eaten for eight-and-a-half hours. The pillar-box-red buses which chortle up and down the streets, taking people to exotic places like Camden Town or Crystal Palace. The London taxis, crawling like cockroaches, picking up anonymous people everywhere. It’s magical.
Finally, having kissed in Covent Garden for half an hour, we decide to call it a night. And yes, we did sleep in separate beds, like innocent nuns and monks at a sleepover, or something like that. Dan’s words, not mine.
***
A bad-tempered grey morning dawns – it’s December, after all – and we have a full day to plan. According to Dan, the visiting hours are six ‘til seven this evening, so we have the rest of the day to play with.
“Right... any suggestions, then?” he asks over breakfast, a full English breakfast including French toast with a Union Jack burnt into it.
“Ooh, pick me! I want to see Buckingham Palace. And the Houses of Parliament. And Hyde Park. And...”
“You’re sounding like a tourist brochure.”
“I’ve read enough about this place, I’m allowed to.”
“Well, if we do that this morning, then this afternoon we can go to watch Fulham at Craven Cottage. Why the long face? Is the thought of watching a Division Three team making you feel ill?” I had had a similar thought myself, but one involving the Premiership and Arsenal v Chelsea instead.
“I wanted to watch the Arsenal-Chelsea match...” I mumble. He screws up his face and then unwinds it.
“Ok, well, if you needed any proof that I love you, I’m prepared to ditch my tickets to Fulham v Northampton so that we can see Chelsea. This is akin to me buying a Blur album, by the way.”
“That’s next on my list of things to make you do. You really are submissive.” And with a polite cough from the waitress, who has evidently only picked up on the last two sentences of our conversation if her blush and awkward stance is anything to go by, we’re off to find a London tour bus. Double decker, naturally.
***
We’ve seen it all and done it all. We’ve even done the For Tomorrow video spin round London on the bus. We watched a highly satisfactory draw at Highbury between Chelsea and Arsenal, though Dan was slightly depressed when he found out that Fulham got tonked by Northampton. My first football match! For someone who lives down the road from one of the most famous football grounds in England, it’s odd that I’d never seen a live football match before. The swearing and witticisms from the fans amused me, and Dan’s singing along to the songs (with Fulhamised lyrics) made me break down in giggles. We should have won as well, save for a last minute goal, but what can you do? It is Arsenal, after all.
And now we are in the institution to meet Dan’s mother. All that I know of her is that she is divorced, has a 16-year-old son who I’m quite hopelessly besotted with, and that her married name is alliterative (Rosie Rigby). Oh, and that she is in a London institution due to a mental breakdown two years ago that she is still suffering with.
“Hi, we’re here to see Ms Rosie Robinson.” The reception is warm colours; green and blue, peacock-like, and not at all the sterile white landscape I expected. All white is confined to the staff uniforms and patients’ faces.
“She’s just finishing with Doctor Jacks at the moment. She had a ‘moment’ with one of the other patients earlier today, so we booked her an emergency talk appointment with him. She should be fine, we’re not stopping her visiting rights, so don’t worry.” A moment? I send Dan a quizzical look, but he shakes his head.
“What did she do this time?” he asks. I’ve never seen him look so anxious, not even when I accidentally dropped his copy of (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? onto the tiles in his kitchen when we were playing it on the stereo in his house.
“...Do you want to talk to her about it? If not, you can probably see Dr Jacks about it, as long as he isn’t seeing another patient. Oh, he’s just over there. Robert! Oh, Robert!” The startlingly attractive Dr Jacks strides over in a limping gait, and shakes Dan’s hand.
“Daniel! So good to see you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Ah, well. How’s Manchester? And is this your girlfriend? Excellent stuff! Your mother has mentioned your relationship in passing. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss...”
“Kite. Lyla Kite.” I blush, and to tell the truth, I’m salivating slightly as the Alex James lookalike doctor shakes my hand. Dan and the receptionist both look peeved by this gesture of friendliness.
“Ah, excellent stuff! Now, Daniel, your mother had a minor squabble with Clover earlier. See Clover over there? Yes, yes, they both wanted to read the same magazine at the same time. Well, well. There was a little bit of physical aggression on her part, but nothing too serious-”
“What was it?” Dan snaps, cutting through the medical bullshit.
“She slapped her on the left cheek. Nothing too serious, as I said. Anyway, Clover’s fine now, your mother was restrained and now feels guilty, which is good – it’s another step on the road to recovery. Ah, yes. She’s been moved to Room 14 now, it’s got a far nicer view than her old room. Excellent stuff. Anyway, do excuse me, I need to go and speak to James now. He’s our newest patient. Speak soon, hopefully, Dan. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Kite. I hope we meet again. Have a pleasant evening, both of you. Ta-rah.” And with that, the Alex James doctor hands Dan a key and strolls off to charm some other patient.
“Sleazy git,” snarls Dan under his breath, as we amble towards Room 14. There it is, and there’s Dan’s mum. She resembles Cilla Black, I think, but bonier.
“Daniel! My sweetness!” she cries, and he pats her gingerly on the back. She has no truck with that; scooping him up into a giant bear hug and ruffling his hair, and then letting him go and seeing me. The girlfriend. “Leela! So nice to meet you at last. Dan never talks about anything else. Except for Oasis, of course. And... [she purses her lips] his father’s drinking problem. At least my problems aren’t my fault. Well, he’s not half as good looking as the wonderful Robert. Have you met him? He’s simply divine! If only he wasn’t jamming that receptionist cow, Avaline. Well, I can dream. Darlings! Oh, you’re ever so lovely together. I knew I’d imbued my Daniel with good taste in women.” She chatters nineteen to the dozen and seems as sane as, well, sane can be.
“Mum, why did you argue with Clover today?” asks Dan. Suddenly, there’s a change in her behaviour, she stops – stock still with furious eyes. Then she becomes a banshee.
“That bitch! I was reading, and then that bitch comes and steals my book! I told her to give it back, she said ‘Well, you can’t keep your husband, why would you keep your book?’, and so I taught her a lesson, I did, she’ll never come near me now! Fat, whining bitch! She hears voices, she tried to kill someone, I never tried to kill anyone except myself, but if I had a knife right now, I swear to God I’d fucking kill her! I’d kill her! If I ever see her again, I’ll-” Now I know for sure that she is insane. She is screaming, throwing things across the room, ripping the bedsheets with her teeth, oh God- and then the ‘divine’ Doctor Jacks appears in the doorway, like an angel in white.
“Ms Robinson! Ms Robinson! Oh! Rosie! Stop it! You’re frightening your son and his partner.” He turns to us as she crumples in a heap, cowering, quivering at her own behaviour, shivering despite the heater being turned up to near-Sahara proportions. “Rosie, we’re going to have to put you back into Room 5 if you do this again. You and Clover are going to have to work out your own differences. Anyway, Daniel and Lyla need to go now. Say goodbye to them.”
She embraces both of us, feebly, and collapses into her bed immediately afterwards. Doctor Jacks ushers us out.
“As you see, her feud with Clover is likely to last. We’ll have to move one of them to the second floor, but only assessments will be able to decide which one will be moved.”
“Not the second floor! She’s been getting better recently! Oh, God. I thought she was improving. Going back to the second floor again will kill her. You know it will!” Dan is properly shouting at Dr Jacks, who looks uncomfortable in the situation. The medical bullshit has been cut.
“I’m so sorry, Daniel, but it’s either moving one of them or violence in the lounge. We just can’t have them at each others’ throats, or all the others will be at it too. I’ll keep you updated on her movements throughout the week and let you know the final outcome of our assessments. Don’t worry, we’ll do everything in our power to cure her. Do come and see her again next time she feels worse. I think she will be cured fully, in time.”
Dan drags me limply out of the hospital and back to the B&B, in silence. Every crumb of comfort I offer is rebuked by a monosyllabic answer. And it is only in the middle of the night, when I hear stifled sobs from his pillow, that I am able to comfort him. I slide over to his bed and hold him, purely platonically, until he falls into a dreamless and peaceful sleep. In my drowsy state, my favourite Blur lyrics come to mind.
“And so we hold each other tightly, and hold on for tomorrow...” It’s strangely true.