2. Lymsil
Chapter two
Lymsil
‘Hiya, Ma!’ Dylan shouted down the hall, the small stained-glass panel rattling in the front door as she kicked it closed behind her.
Dipping her head and wincing, she threw her bag and keys onto the monochrome chequered tiled hallway.
After toeing off her Converse, she headed into the converted dining room of the Victorian terraced house in Chorlton, in the leafy suburbs of Manchester, where Dylan lived with her mum, Margaret.
The house that Margaret had inherited from her parents, had now become part home, part care facility after the tragic accident ten years ago that had taken her mobility and speech, but never her awareness or her love for Dylan.
Although living in an area of affluence, their money didn't go to décor, but to survival, to the care packages and the adaptations that kept Margaret at home.
It was a tight, sometimes gruelling existence, but they had each other and to Dylan that was enough.
Margaret’s room was a jarring collision of Victorian charm and medical necessity.
High magnolia walls boxed in a hospital bed that left little room for much else besides a reclining chair and a bedside cabinet.
A pole clamped to the side of the bed held an electronic feeding pump, the plastic and metal a stark contrast to the original hardwood floors that Dylan had spent days meticulously sanding and staining in a colour similar to the walnut blinds.
The floorboards that were now weathered and worn from the wheels of the silver trolley used by the nurses and Dylan.
Above the mantle, a widescreen TV hung where her grandma’s vintage mirror did when Dylan was little.
Through the bay window, the tree-lined street of smart terraced houses looked as peaceful as ever.
The golden light, sliced into neat rows by the venetian blinds, illuminated Margaret’s wheelchair and the neatly stacked boxes of medical supplies tucked into the alcoves.
Dragging the chair as close to the bed as possible, Dylan leaned to kiss her mum on the cheek. ‘How’s it going, Margs?’ she said cheerily.
Her mum offered the small, hitched smile that was all she could manage, letting out a contented sigh at the mere presence of her only daughter.
Under different circumstances, she would have feigned a bollocking for Dylan’s habit of calling her Margs or Margarillo—or some other variation of her name—instead of Mum.
But in the quiet of that room, Dylan knew her mother loved her cheekiness.
Dylan’s humour had always pushed boundaries, often making her mother wince and shout, even though Dylan knew she was secretly dying with laughter.
It was a reaction Margaret often stifled when Dylan was younger, careful not to encourage her daughter’s perpetual silliness.
By the time Dylan was a teenager, the feigned bollockings—and sometimes real ones if she took things too far—were commonplace in the St John household.
‘Legend-faced Margs here has absolutely smashed it out of the park today,’ Priya enthused in her soft Scottish accent, while hanging Margaret’s feed bottle onto the pole attached to the bed.
Among her mother’s small nursing team—part NHS, small part privately funded by Dylan herself—Priya Anjali was Dylan’s favourite.
The perfect blend of technical nursing skill and raw empathy.
A fifty-four-year-old quintessential Scottish mother of two who never pulled her punches and took absolutely no shit—from anybody.
Priya was the only person brave enough to give Dylan a literal clip around the ear for skipping meals, or spending too many hours buried in her studies or in the gym.
Over the years, their relationship had shifted from professional to personal.
They were confidantes who traded life stories, tears, hugs, and advice over cups of tea and plates of toast at the kitchen table in the quiet moments between care tasks.
Dylan grinned mischievously at her mum and wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Oh, ey? What you been smashing, Mother?’ She leaned to kiss her cheek again and whispered, ‘Better not be someone’s back doors in again.’
‘Dylan St John!’ Priya belly laughed while rolling her eyes at Margaret, who had closed hers in mock disgust.
The pronunciation of their surname was a bug-bear of Dylan’s. People invariably yet understandably—but still much to her annoyance—plumped for Saint John. The way Sinjin rolled off Priya’s tongue, coated in her Scottish accent and motherly tone made Dylan smile every time.
‘Well,’ Priya went on, ‘scorecards of ten all round from physio. Chest is good—no, I’m sorry, the word they used was excellent.
’ Dylan tilted her head and proudly cocked an eyebrow.
‘Last day of antibiotics today and—’ Priya paused, inhaling sharply for dramatic effect.
‘Drum roll, please, Dyl.’ Dylan drummed her fingers on the side of her mum’s bed.
‘No more upset tummy!’ Priya jabbed a plastic spike into the feed bottle with a triumphant grin, as Dylan crashed an imaginary cymbal with a loud ‘tish!’
‘Mother dearest! I’m gonna need you to calm the chuff down!
You’re making me look bad with all this showing off.
All I’ve done today is submit one assignment and pay through the nose for a bloody overpriced iced coffee.
’ A lie felt wrong, but full disclosure was absolutely not an option.
Having sex for money was simply not something she would divulge to anyone.
Resting her forearms on the edge of the bed, Dylan leaned closer.
‘Pri, do you want me to do that?’ she offered, nodding at the extension tubing Priya was about to prime before connecting it to her mum’s gastrostomy tube.
‘Err, no thank you. Don’t be thinking you can be out gallivanting and then waltz in here and take over,’ Priya joked, pushing her glasses up her nose with the back of her hand before pressing the prime button on the feeding pump.
‘I think we’ll manage, won’t we, Margs?’ she said over the sound of the machine’s whirring cogs, tipping her head to Margaret with a smile.
‘In that case, I’m gonna have a quick shower before you go, Pri. Alright, Ma?’ Dylan kissed the top of her mum’s head, leaving her lips pressed into the hair for a long moment, and whispered, ‘Lymsil.’
Love you more, said it last—the acronym they’d traded back and forth for as long as Dylan could remember.
‘Have you started your dissertation, Dyl?’ Priya questioned, her tone soft.
‘Not yet, Pri. Any day now.’ Dylan laughed nervously, crossing her middle and index fingers while waving them in the air at Priya. ‘If only I had chosen a patient group less specialised than young people with rare cancers. It’s almost as if I want to make my life harder.’
‘It’ll be worth it when you’re shaking the hand of the Dean on graduation day in Whitworth Hall, again, Dylly. A degree in nursing and a master’s in clinical research, all in four years? That’s pretty bloody impressive.’
If I survive having to escort to pay for everything, Dylan thought, but instead she bulged her eyes and billowed her cheeks, letting a breath escape slowly. ‘If I get there, Pri.’
‘I have every faith in you. Doing it when you’ve got all this on as well…and being a geriatric student—’
‘Oi! The word is mature, Mrs Anjali.’
Priya chuckled and shook her head. ‘I’m kidding. Doing all this studying at the ripe old age of twenty-eight…it’s very impressive, hen.’
‘Well, it wasn’t an option way back when, so on I crack!’ She winked at Priya. ‘We’ll see anyway. As you know, a career in cancer research is the only option for me, sooo…’ Dylan stood, trailing off while flashing Priya an anxious grin. ‘I’ll be absolutely stuffed if I bugger it up now.’
‘You won’t bugger it up. You just have to get started with that bloody diss—’
‘Ey, Pri, do you wanna hear a joke?’ Dylan said, clunkily segueing into a change of subject, something she was particularly good at.
Priya flared her nostrils and gave Margaret a knowing look. ‘Aye, go on.’
‘Did you hear about that frog that couldn’t get into town for work this morning?’
Priya’s eye roll was almost as loud as her inhale. ‘No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact.’
‘Yeah, sad business really. His car got toad.’
Priya snorted a laugh, shaking her head at Margaret as Dylan laughed far too emphatically at her own joke—again, something she was very good at.
‘This child of yours, honestly.’ She huffed out some air.
‘Take your time in the shower, Dyl…we’re okay here.
I’m starting this feed, and then we’re watching last night’s Corrie before tonight’s Corrie. ’
‘Okay, ladies, I’ll leave you to it. I haven't watched Coronation Street for years.’
‘You’d still be able to pick up the plot…the characters are all the bloody same.’
‘Ken Barlow can’t still be going strong, surely?’
‘As an Ox, Dylly, and don’t call me Shirley.’
Dylan belly laughed while winking at her mum. ‘Right, I’ll be quick. Love you, Margarillo,’ she said, turning to leave.
Stopping at the door frame, Dylan turned to catch Priya’s gaze. Framing a heart with her thumbs and fingers over her chest, she mouthed a silent thank you. Priya caught the silent gesture and winked, her hands never straying from the task of preparing Margaret’s feed.