Her Name Was Lola

74 Whatever

November 2001. ‘Have a little chicken soup,’ says Lady Bessington to Lola. ‘You need to get your strength back.’

‘Chicken soup!’ says Lola. ‘Who are you, some Jewish mother?’

‘All mothers are Jewish mothers,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘Don’t be difficult.’

‘I’m not difficult, just impossible.’ says Lola. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘You’re not well,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘Dr Harley will be here to have a look at you this morning, and we’ll soon have you back on your feet.’

‘Who are you?’ says Lola.

‘I’m your mother,’ says Lady Bessington.

‘Pull the other one,’ says Lola, ‘It’s got ragas on it.’

‘Good morning,’ says Dr Harley. ‘How are we this morning?’

‘How many of us are in this we?’ says Lola.

‘Just you,’ says Dr Harley.

‘Good,’ says Lola. ‘I’m not.’

‘Not what?’ says Dr Harley.

‘Me,’ says Lola.

‘That’s perfectly all right,’ says Dr Harley. ‘I’ll just leave you these tablets and I’ll stop by again tomorrow.’

Lola takes the tablets, and when Dr Harley has left and her mother is out of the room she tries to stand up. Nothing happens.

The first tablets Dr Harley prescribed were Dozit 20mg. On his next visit he prescribes Wazzit 40mg, Thissnt 20mg, and Ennethin 10mg, twice daily with chicken soup as required.

Noah visits his mum several times a day and plays his nakkara while Lola slowly recovers from whatever brought her down. While this is going on Max visits Istvan Fallok, Grace Kowalski, and so on.

After a couple of weeks Lola gets out of bed one morning while everyone else is asleep. She doesn’t know who she is and she doesn’t know where she wants to go but she gets dressed and climbs into the E-type and gives it its head. It takes her to Fulham, up the North End Road, through West Kensington, on to the Great West Road, Hogarth Roundabout, and the M4. Motorway miles move towards her, pass under her, the Jaguar purring contentedly and going a little faster all the time. The E-type swallows the miles as the names of towns grow large in front of Lola, small behind her. PUDDLETOWN, says a sign. An arrow points to WEYMOUTH and she makes the turn. Bang! Flap, flap, flap. Flat tyre. Lola pulls over on to the hard shoulder and gets out of the car. It’s a foggy day, although she hasn’t noticed it until now. She hasn’t ever changed a tyre but she’s seen it done. She opens the boot and finds the spare but where are the jack and the lug wrench? She was certain they were here but they’re not now. She looks in her wallet and her driving licence says Lola Bessington but the name means nothing to her. There’s an AA card with a breakdown number but she’s got no mobile. She doesn’t like to leave the E-type to look for a roadside emergency phone so she can think of nothing better to do than wait by the car. In a matter of minutes something appears out of the fog. It’s a white Bedford camper decorated with scenes from the Kama Sutra.