When she woke in the wee hours, her head and her stomach were sore. What had been a scratchy throat now felt as if it was on fire. Her room was uncomfortably hot and when she got up to go and open a window, she felt unsteady on her feet.
Libby gripped onto the windowsill and pushed open the window, gulping in what little fresh air there was in the dead of night, before making her way back to bed and, without so much as lifting the covers, falling back down on it. It was only then she noticed the fan, but she had no strength to try and stand up again to switch it on.
She looked to the pint of water on her bedside table, the ice long melted, and wondered if there was any way possible she could get it to her mouth and drink it, without using any physical energy at all? How she wished she was a Jedi – able to summon the power of The Force to levitate it in her direction. Unable to do so, she simply fell back asleep, hoping that a few more hours would make all the difference and allow her to get on with everything on her to-do list for that day.
When she drifted back into consciousness, it was to the sound of her mother’s voice. ‘Libby, are you okay? I need to go to work, but I don’t like leaving you like this.’
Painfully, she forced her eyes open – the sun was bright, her head still ached. In fact, her whole body ached. A familiar and very much unwelcome stabbing pain jabbed at her throat, and she struggled to swallow. To add to this abject misery, Libby was also no longer too warm. Instead she was freezing. She shivered as a film of cool sweat clung to her body and tried to haul her duvet across her, with limited success. She was, as her grandad would have said, ‘As weak as water.’
‘Close the window, please, Mum. It’s freezing,’ she muttered.
‘Libby, it’s the hottest day of the year so far!’ her mum said, her voice thick with concern. Libby felt the gentle touch of her mother’s hand on her forehead. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re burning up!’
‘It’s my throat,’ she croaked. ‘Again.’
It was only in her adult years that Libby started to suffer with tonsillitis. And it was guaranteed to hit whenever she was tired or stressed.
‘I’ll get you some ibuprofen,’ her mother said. ‘It will help a little.’
Libby tried to sit up. She really did, but her neck felt as if it was weighed down on the bed.
‘You need to get some more sleep. You’re exhausted. You slept through your alarm and everything. Your dad came in and switched it off and you didn’t so much as stir. That was three hours ago.’
Libby groaned. She should be at the shop. Keith was delivering the shelves. And the new boilers were being fitted to update the long-defunct heating systems in both the flat and the shop. She’d had to scrap the idea of underfloor heating because of the parquet floor, so she desperately wanted to discuss the best way to install discreet heating that wouldn’t impinge too much on her floor space.
‘I need to go to the shop,’ she croaked. The words sliced at her throat like razor blades.
‘No you don’t. You’re not fit to walk the length of yourself.’
‘But…’
‘Now, listen to me, young lady. There’s no but about it – you’re going nowhere today. Your dad will oversee things today. He knows what your plans are, and what he doesn’t know he can improvise. He’s an old hand at this and there’s nothing that can come up that he won’t be able to deal with.’
‘But he has to go to work…’
‘Sure, he is at work! He’s working at the shop,’ her mum reassured her.
‘But the shelves,’ Libby said, though her eyes were growing heavy again. She was exhausted by a simple conversation.
‘They’re grand. They’re in your stockroom. Terry The Spark helped and that fella from across the road? The fella that owns the pub? He saw the van arrive and popped over.’
‘Noah?’ Libby asked.
‘That’s it. I couldn’t remember there, but I knew it was a biblical name. You didn’t tell me one of the Simpsons was running that pub now.’ There was a tone of concern in her mother’s voice. ‘Dear me, but they had their battles in life.’ She made the sign of the cross as if offering up a prayer for the Simpsons and their battles. No doubt they were linked to Noah going into care at fourteen.
Libby would ask later, when she didn’t want to cry out in pain. ‘Ibuprofen, Mum,’ she croaked to remind her mother.
‘Oh God, yes. One minute. You stay there,’ her mother said before bustling her way out of the room.
Libby grimaced, but it was hardly likely she’d be moving anywhere anytime soon, even if she wanted to.
Sick and a little emotional – Libby felt tears prick in her eyes as she allowed them to close against the strong sunlight. She had just enough energy to swallow the two small white pills her mum handed her, but that took all her strength. So much so that she couldn’t shout ‘No!’ when she heard her mum on the phone to Jess, of all people.
‘I’m not happy about her, Jess. Not at all. I know you’re very busy, but if you got a chance, at lunchtime or something, could you call round and check on her? She looks like death warmed up. I know it’s probably just tonsillitis again, and a good antibiotic will sort her out, but you read so many horror stories, don’t you? I’d prefer she was looked at. Just to be sure. Just to rule out anything more serious. Aw thanks, pet. You’re a great girl. Great. Look, I have to nip out for a bit. I’ve an appointment myself. But the key will be in the usual place – go on up. And there’s soup on the stove if you don’t get a chance for lunch before you pop over. Okay, pet. Thank you. I’m glad she has a friend like you.’
Libby cringed, an act that made every part of her, even her very eyelids, hurt. But she didn’t have the strength to argue. She just lay there as she felt her mother stroke her hair gently until she could no longer fight the need for more sleep.
A soft voice cut through Libby’s fevered sleep and she fought to open her eyes.
‘Libby? Lib? It’s Jess. Are you awake? Your mum asked me to check in on you?’
Libby felt the mattress dip as her friend sat down. Straining to open her eyes, she rolled from her side onto her back.
‘There was no need,’ she croaked. ‘I’m sure it’s my tonsils again.’
Jess reached over and placed the digital thermometer in Libby’s ear, waited until it beeped and then informed her she had a fever. It wasn’t exactly news to either of them. It was strange to see her friend in full professional mood. She watched as Jess reached towards her and felt around her neck, seeing if her glands were raised and then asked her to sit up so that she could listen to her heart and lungs with her stethoscope.
‘Can I have a look at your throat?’ Jess asked, taking a tongue depressor from her bag and switching on her torch.
Libby nodded and opened wide. She couldn’t help but see Jess wince as she looked into her mouth at her no doubt rather manky tonsils.
‘Yep. Your tonsils are coated. I think both you and your mum were right. And you will definitely need an antibiotic.’
Libby nodded. She didn’t know what else to say or do. There was so much that she wanted to discuss with Jess, but she felt so absolutely awful, she didn’t know if she had either the physical or the emotional strength to do so.