‘I was having the most lovely dream,’ she says once she’s finished, sounding more like herself now. ‘George Clooney was in it …’
The tension breaks and everyone laughs. Phoebe glances at her mum, though, and sees the tiredness and worry on her face.
The sound of the curtain around the bed drawing open announces the arrival of a doctor. She smiles at them all and glances down at her notes.
‘It’s good to see you awake, Mrs Trelawney. Now, I’m going to do a few tests and checks – why don’t you all go and get a cup of coffee? The machine stuff is pretty awful, I must admit, but there’s a Costa on the ground floor.’
Phoebe catches her mum glancing nervously at her nan. She steps round to the other side of the bed and wraps an arm around her mum’s shoulders. ‘Come on, Mum. The doctor’s got this.’
Her dad wraps an arm around her mum on the other side. She hesitates for a moment and then nods. ‘OK. Coffee sounds good. See you soon, Mum.’
‘We’ll be back in a bit, Nan. Love you.’
‘Love you too, pet.’
They find a table in the corner of the Costa with one armchair and two plastic seats. ‘You take that one, Mum,’ Phoebe says, leading her towards the comfier chair. She must be exhausted because she doesn’t protest. Instead, she sinks down into it, letting out a long sigh. Then she bursts into tears.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. This is ridiculous, she’s awake now and seems like she’s doing OK.’
‘It’s not ridiculous, Mum. It’s been a really worrying time. You’ve had a lot on your plate.’
Her mum wipes her face, quickly composing herself again. ‘I’m really glad you’re here, sweetheart.’ She reaches for Phoebe’s hand.
‘I’m glad I’m here too.’
As she squeezes her mother’s hand and her mum squeezes back, Phoebe thinks about all the years she’s been background-worrying about her father. Even though it’s been a long time since his last bad depressive spell, the possibility of another one has always hovered there in Phoebe’s mind. Maybe it’s partly why she’s always pushed herself so hard at work. Not just because she cares so deeply about her patients, but maybe, deep down, through some sense that if she dedicates her life to this it might repay the universe for making her dad better. But her mum, her lovely, sunny mum … She maybe hasn’t spent enough time thinking about how she’s doing.
‘I’ve got the week off work,’ she says now. ‘I can stay as long as you need me to. And after this, I want to get back to visit more often.’
‘Oh, love, I know you have so much going on with work, though … And with the break-up too, I’m sorry about that.’
‘But I want to have time for my family too.’ In spite of the awfulness of this trip, it’s been strangely nice too. The morning swim with her dad, even being here in this random Costa … She’s missed moments with her family.
They don’t say anything more, just sit drinking their coffees. Just being together. Sometimes that’s enough.
‘I should have a fall more often,’ her nan says later that afternoon when the whole family is gathered around her bedside. The doctor has reassured them that she’s doing well and should be able to go home in a couple of days. ‘It’s just so lovely to have you all here.’
‘You say it like we’re on holiday, Mum!’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. I’m just so glad you’re all here. And the doctor says I’m doing fine.’
‘Thank goodness your hip wasn’t broken, just bruised,’ says Phoebe’s dad.
‘Just like my ego after you poor things had to find me bloody starkers like that on the bathroom floor.’
Phoebe can’t help but laugh. She’s always thought her dry sense of humour – and her language – comes from her nan. It’s served her well in her job, when sometimes finding a way to laugh is the only way through.
A nurse pops in to check on her. ‘We’re just keeping an eye out for signs of concussion,’ she explains. ‘But we hope to be able to discharge you soon.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. It’s very comfortable here. Much better service than I get at home.’ She winks up at Phoebe’s mum, who rolls her eyes.
‘Please ignore my mother. She lives with us and we will be takingverygood care of her. We’ve already ordered grab rails for the bathroom.’
Phoebe’s nan huffs. ‘Those are for old people!’
‘Or very youthful people who still manage to slip over in the bathroom and knock themselves unconscious,’ teases Seth.
‘OK, OK, I’ll do as I’m told. But if I have to have a walking stick, can we at least please dress it up a bit? Some ribbons, bit of colour maybe? I’ve seen some oldies in here walking around with the most awful grey plastic monstrosities and I’m having none of that.’
