“I knew you could hear me, Mum,” said six-year-old Oliver, tugging at his grandmother’s sleeve.
“Tell me a story, Nan?”
“Only a short one,” Nan replied, tucking the duvet around him. “It’s past your bedtime, love. You’ll never wake up for nursery tomorrow.”
“I will,” Oliver promised, already snuggling deeper.
Nan switched off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing, then fetched a book from the shelf, perched her glasses on her nose, and sat back down beside him.
“Not like that—lie next to me,” Oliver insisted, shuffling over to make room.
“I’ll fall asleep,” Nan sighed, but the pleading look in his big eyes was impossible to resist. She stretched out beside him, and Oliver immediately burrowed closer, letting out a sleepy yawn.
As she read, Nan kept one ear tuned to Oliver’s breathing, waiting for the telltale snuffles of sleep. When she was sure he was out, she carefully slipped away, tiptoeing from the room and shutting the door behind her.
Back in the kitchen, she tested the kettle—still warm. She poured herself a cuppa and sank into a chair with a sigh. “Where on earth is Lily? She promised she’d be back by nine, and it’s nearly eleven. Maybe she stayed over at her friend’s? But she’d have called. Should I ring her? No, what if she’s driving? The last thing she needs is me distracting her. God forbid.” She crossed herself toward the little cross on the dresser. “Just a bit longer.”
She took a sip and grimaced. The tea had gone cold. With a sigh, she tipped it down the sink, then wandered to the window, staring out into the thick, uneasy darkness.
Suddenly, the phone blared to life behind her, the jaunty ringtone making her jump a foot in the air. She lunged to silence it before it woke Oliver, freezing when she saw an unknown number flash on the screen—not Lily’s name.
Scammers? A bit late for them. Then again, what if her battery had died? Nan answered.
“Hello. DCI Hodgson speaking. Are you related to Lily Bennett?”
“She’s my daughter. Why? What’s happened?” Nan’s voice shook.
“How… how should I address you?” the officer asked, brisk but calm.
“Margaret. Margaret Carter.”
“Margaret, try not to panic—”
“How can I not panic? The police don’t ring at midnight for a chinwag! Unless you’re some con artist—oh, is this where you ask for money? Because I haven’t got any, and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you! Why aren’t you answering?”
“Lily Bennett was involved in a collision on the motorway…”
After those words, Nan stopped hearing anything else. Her hand flew to her chest, trying to steady her hammering heart as the inspector’s voice droned on. She took a sharp breath and choked, tears welling up.
“Just tell me—” Her voice was a threadbare whisper. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but she’s in a coma. Critical condition.”
“Which hospital?” The words clawed their way out.
“Royal London, but there’s no point coming now. Are you with her son? Stay with him. She’s in surgery—tomorrow, come in and the doctor will explain. Do you know why she was on the motorway tonight?”
“Wait, how d’you know about Oliver?”
“From her phone contacts. Why was she on the motorway?” the inspector repeated, patience thinning.
“I don’t— She went to a friend’s birthday. I told her not to go…” Nan shook her head, as if he could see her. “She promised she’d be back by nine. Oliver was waiting… Oh God, what am I supposed to tell him when he wakes up?” Her voice cracked.
“So she went to a party. Could she have been drinking?”
“What rubbish are you talking? She’s responsible—she had Oliver waiting at home, she wouldn’t drink and drive!” Nan protested hotly—then, in the privacy of her own head, thought, *Though who knows…* “Maybe she stayed over, then changed her mind…”
“Apologies for disturbing you.” The line went dead.
“Disturbing me? You’ve near enough killed me. What do I do now?”
She wanted to bolt straight to the hospital, but the thought of Oliver stopped her. Shakily, she hauled herself up from the chair, wobbled to the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of rescue remedy. Hands trembling, she fumbled with the cap, counting drops before giving up and glugging a generous swig straight from the bottle.
“Just to be sure,” she muttered, chasing it with a gulp of water.
Collapsing back onto the chair, she clutched the bottle, eyes squeezing shut.
“Dear Lord, save and bring back Lily, Your servant. She’s got a little boy—don’t leave him orphaned.” She crossed herself again, fervently, toward the tiny cross on the dresser, praying until exhaustion dragged her under.
“Nan! Wake up! Nan. Did Mum come home?”
Oliver shook her shoulder, jolting her awake. Nan surfaced slowly from the sticky depths of sleep, the memory of last night’s call slamming into her like a sledgehammer.
“She didn’t. She rang to say she stayed over,” Nan lied, even as guilt twisted inside her. She’d have to tell him the truth. Sooner or later, he’d find out.
“You’re fibbing. I heard you talking to someone. It wasn’t Mum.”
“Ollie…” Nan swallowed. “Mum’s in hospital.” She pulled him into a fierce hug before he could see her tears.
“Is she poorly?” Oliver wriggled free, eyes wide.
“Yes, love. She had an operation. Maybe… maybe you should stay with Auntie Marj next door? I’ll pop to the hospital quick and—”
Oliver shook his head violently. “I’m coming with you!”
“All right, then. Go wash up while I put the kettle on.” She nudged him toward the door, then swayed as she stood. “Perfect timing,” she muttered. Bloody blood pressure. She’d need a pill—but the box was empty.
The kettle whistled.
“Critical condition. The surgery went well, but she’s still in a coma,” the doctor explained when they arrived.
“Is Mum gonna die?” Oliver blurted, lip wobbling.
“We’re doing everything we can to prevent that,” the doctor assured him gently.
Nan crossed herself. “Can we see her? She loves Ollie—what if she hears him? I’ve heard coma patients can… maybe it’ll help?”
The doctor hesitated, glancing between Nan’s worn face and Oliver’s wide, terrified eyes.
“Alright. But briefly. And no tears—understood?” He looked pointedly at Oliver, who nodded, though his eyes were already swimming.
“I told her not to go…” Nan wheezed, struggling to keep up with the doctor’s long strides. Oliver’s hand was clamped in hers, his little fingers squeezed white.
Outside the ICU, the doctor reminded them—no noise, no crying. Neither was listening, craning toward the door.
Even up close, Nan barely recognised her daughter—bandaged, bruised, tubes snaking everywhere.
“Lily, love, we’re here. Ollie’s with me. Wake up, darling, we’re waiting…”
Oliver just stared, silent, eyes huge.
“Are you even listening to me?” Nan hissed as they left.
“Grown-ups never tell the truth. I know she can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. What if Mum dies? Will you send me to a home? You’re old,” Oliver mused on the bus ride back.
Nan caught only the tail end.
“I’m not old, I’m *mature*. And don’t you dare say that again! When Mum wakes up, I’ll tell her what you said—you’ll be so embarrassed!”
Every day, Nan visited, murmuring to Lily about Oliver, about home, about hope. At first, Oliver begged to come, but soon he trudged back to nursery—though he didn’t play, just sat drawing in the corner. Nan warned the teacher to leave him be.
Each day, the hope that Lily would wake up dimmed a little more.
Then *he* turned up—Oliver’s father. Rarely visited, never for Oliver, just to moan at Lily about his life, half-hoping she’d take him back. Always skint, turning up with some cheap tat from Tesco or nothing at all. Unshaven, bloodshot eyes—Nan could spot a drinker a mile off.
“Which hospital’s she in? Need any help?”
“Help? From you? The only thing you’d speed up is her funeral,” Nan snapped.
“That’s a rotten thing to say! I come in goodwill, and you—”
“Goodwill, my foot”And when Lily finally smiled at them both from her hospital bed, weak but alive, Oliver whispered, ‘Told you she’d wake up if we kept trying,’ and Nan, wiping her eyes, could only nod and squeeze his hand.”
