Layla’s other flatmates were very sweet when we arrived back at the flat with Leon and Karl, and to be fair to Marianne, she could certainly turn on the charm when she wanted to. She, Betsy and Flora had concocted a ‘rescue package’ for Layla that they were going to take into hospital the following day as soon as they’d finished lectures. There was hand cream, body spray, and moisturiser wipes, a copy of a thriller that Flora had recently finished and declaredraally amazing, a box of Prestat chocolates, a packet of Jaffa Cakes, a bunch of grapes (‘bit basic but classic hospital gift,’ said Betsy), a bottle of chocolate milk, and can of Diet Coke. I had to hand it to them; these girls knew how to upgrade a hospital stay.
‘That’s really kind of you,’ I said, my eyes rimmed red with fatigue. I felt like I was dead on my feet.
‘Well, like, she’s a really great mate of ours, right?’ said Marianne, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘So, you know, we do what we can, right? I’ve taken a few pics, tagged her on Insta so she’ll see what we’re bringing.’
‘And while you’re here, Mrs Harper, if you need anything – just shout, yeh?’ said Flora. ‘Hair straighteners, shower gel, matcha blend, whatever.’
‘That’s really sweet,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I think we’ll be okay using Layla’s stuff but I’ll let you know.’
Joe and I let ourselves into Layla’s room. It was the first time either of us had been there since before Christmas.
‘I like what she’s done with it,’ I said to Joe, pointing to the colourful posters and photos tacked to the walls, the crocheted blanket and fluffy cushions on the bed. ‘Cosy, but very Layla.’
He grunted, pulled off his shoes and drew back the duvet, collapsing into bed like a condemned building. I snuggled in next to him.
‘Long time since the two of us had to sleep in a single bed,’ I said, but he was already snoring, so I lay there for a while,feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage against mine. Me and my husband marooned together on an island of Layla-ness while our daughter drifted in a morphine haze on the other side of the city and my mother went viral on the internet for being arrested.
Amazing to think that only twenty-four hours ago my main concern had been whether the placards for the protest would fit in the car.
Amazing how quickly everything can change.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Layla stayed in hospital for the rest of the week whilst I lived the life of an elderly student in her halls of residence. It was an odd set-up, but her flatmates were as good as their word and made me feel very welcome. In return I cooked for them most evenings, vast quantities of pasta, curries, casseroles and jacket potatoes that gave me some insight into what it might have been like to have a significantly larger family. Whilst I’m certain I would have struggled to raise eight children (I mean, how do people even do that without losing their minds?) it appears I could at least keep that number fed for a week, and everyone was most appreciative, especially when returning from the pubs and clubs at three in the morning (them, not me – the last time I was out drinking until three a.m. I needed a fortnight to recover).
The reason I was able to rustle up the rolling buffet was that between hospital visits there wasn’t a huge amount to do. I obviously wanted to be with my daughter for her every waking moment, but by day four or five I think I was starting to do her head in. Now that the pain was more manageable, she was itchy and fidgety, keen to get back to normal life. She had exams to revise for and I was able to bring in her laptop and a few of her books, but it soon became apparent that she didn’t need me hovering thereall the time.
Besides, she had plenty of other visitors. Asmaa and Suri came in every day, and I got to know both girls well. Various members of the football team popped in periodically and the housemates, particularly Karl, visited most afternoons (I tended to make myself scarce during Karl’s visits – you didn’t have to be a genius to work out what was going on there – although I was very restrained and never mentioned the blossoming romance).She also had daily physio, which often wiped her out for a few hours after and she would doze in her hospital bed while I used her laptop to catch up on work emails.
After the first few post-operative days (when I was thinking of little else other than my daughter, her injury, her recovery, the implications of her surgery, and the precarious nature of health and illness – you know, light-hearted topics) I started to wonder about what was going on back at home. Joe kept me updated with household information – which was usually limited to what he’d eaten that day, queries about car tax, best before dates and washing cycles, and whether the cats had done anything noteworthy – but I was itching to find out what was happening with the library; whether the protest and petition had had an impact or not. My contact with David had mainly been via email, other than one phone call on the Sunday when I’d thanked him for collecting Mum from the police station (and, as it turns out, vouching for her personal safety and good character when she was released).
Mum had evidently gone back to his house that first night – the duty sergeant had insisted that she was not to be left on her own given the likelihood that there may be some after-effects of smoking Margaret’s weed. Not that she’d told them it was Margaret’s of course –I’m not a grassshe’d reiterated to me –just a smoker of grass, I’d replied. David reassured me that there had been no further criminal behaviour or consumption of illicit substances – in fact, she had been the perfect houseguest.
By Monday morning Mum’s video had properly gone viral and the image of her on the bonnet of the police car was being used as a meme for everything from trans rights to pensioner tax credits. It was everywhere. Thankfully, the original attribution made clear the link to the City Library protest march and thus had sparked a debate across the platforms regarding declining rates of literacy, the importance of accessible public spaces,and the catastrophic consequences of cuts to library services. The online conversation was very much ‘live’ and, as I said to David in an email mid-week, we really needed to capitalise on the publicity as soon as possible, ideally before the news cycle moved on to something more interesting like the new line-up forLove Island, the outfit choices of Selena Gomez, or the latest global atrocity perpetrated by one of the many megalomaniac dictators in current circulation. Whilst awaiting his response to this I had an unexpected and extremely exciting email ping up on my screen.
Dear Hattie
I do hope Layla’s continuing to improve and will be out of hospital soon, it must have been very frightening for you all (frown emoji). Joe says you’ve been staying in her halls of residence and cooking meals for all the students! Can’t imagine what that must be like! I hope you’re okay!!! (eyebrows raised emoji, big smile emoji)
The reason for writing is that I’ve been talking to Steve about the library. I’m sure you already know there’s been loads of publicity since the protest (especially with your lovely mum’s brilliant photo!!!) but it occurred to me that you might want to get in touch with Ben Wythenshawe, our local MP. I always forget he’s an MP to be honest, Ben’s been a friend of Steve’s for ages, in fact, he was supposed to be at the Christmas party, but something came up and he was called into work at short notice. Anyway, I’m not sure if it would help but thought I’d offer to put you in touch. I’ve got his private email – just let me know if you want to set up a meeting.
In the meantime, if there’s anything else I can do as regards the library please say. I do hope that you manage to keep it open. I will say as much to Ben next time I see him!!!
Hopefully see you soon – maybe we could pop out for a drink when you’re back?!!! (glass of wine emoji)
Love and bubbles, (champagne bottle emoji)
Carol xx
I tapped out an immediate reply.
Carol! Oh my god! (the excessive use of exclamation marks was clearly catching) I’ve been trying to get hold of Ben Wythenshawe for months! I had no idea he was a friend of yours. Yes, please. It would be a huge help to have a direct contact for him, if you’re sure it’s okay?
Hattie xx
