Lacybourne Manor (Ghosts and Reincarnation #3)(32)

It had a lovely fireplace with a black, wrought iron grate surrounded by tile in a rich jade colour. It had gleaming, wide-planked floors scattered with thick, pastel-coloured throw rugs. The walls were painted a very pale green. She and her father had found and restored an ornate iron bed and they’d painted it white. It was covered with very feminine, soft sheets and comforter scattered with dainty, pastel flowers with big, fluffy pillows at the head. It had window seats in the diamond-paned windows covered with plump pillows and cushions. The bed was flanked with lovely French provincial bed stands and there was a matching dressing table with an oval mirror.

It was all girl, fresh and inviting and lovely.

If Colin Morgan stood in this room, his immensely masculine presence would be so out of place, the very thought made her laugh out loud. She took comfort in that thought and in her room that morning. She needed as much comfort as she could get after the fiasco at Lacybourne, the conflicting events of last night and her glorious dream.

Later that morning she walked into the Community Centre with a cheerful wave to Tina who was cooking lunch for fifty pensioners in the enormous kitchen.

Sibyl went straight to work on a grant to get their own minibus. Social Services could help Annie, of course, but even after another visit from Sibyl, they remained firm that they couldn’t do much about the minibus driver.

So Sibyl had priced the cost of buying the bus and training Kyle to drive it. They also needed enough money for petrol, insurance, maintenance and a cushion in case of repairs for several years.

As she created the budget, she saw the rising amount with even more rising alarm.

They’d need a heck of a lot of money but, as ever, Sibyl was determined to find it.

And she would, somehow.

It turned out Annie had no children even though she said she did. Sibyl thought that everyone had to look out for their neighbours and the best people that did that were the volunteers and staff at the Centre. Certainly, the minibus driver did not.

Kyle walked into her shabby, corner office with its makeshift tables she used as desks and the hand-me-down (most likely handed down two or three times) couch shoved against the wall. Detritus from talent shows, fayres, Easter parades and all sorts of Community Centre events crowded every corner and available surface.

His droopy moustache twitched and she found herself grinning at him after witnessing this endearing habit.

“You want me to make those deliveries for you today, luv?” he asked.

Kyle helped her deliver her girlie goods to the various stores that stocked them.

“Please. The shops in Clevedon and Clifton are out of product, they’ve ordered huge and the boxes won’t fit in the MG.”

“Great car but a death trap,” Kyle commented darkly and he’d said this before, about half a million times.

Day-after-day, Kyle was assuming more and more of a position as Father Figure in Absence of Bertie and Sibyl appreciated his gruff, but loving, concern.

Before she could reply, Jemma ran in, her dark hair bouncing around on the crown of her head, her face panicked.

“I’ve got to call 999, Meg just fell out of the minibus.”

At these words Sibyl’s heart squeezed painfully and her stomach lurched.

Her friend grabbed the phone while both Kyle and Sibyl flew out of the office, through the Day Centre and out to the street.

Sibyl wanted to burst into tears at what she saw.

Instead, she ran forward and skidded to a halt next to the heavy, prone body of Meg.

“Meg, honey, are you okay?” Sibyl asked, dropping to her knees and grabbing the woman’s hand, a hand which closed around her own in a painful grip, expressing her acute discomfort.

“I think I’ve broken a hip,” Meg answered on a tortured whisper and Sibyl knew Meg was trying to be strong but at this pronouncement, her voice betrayed a steady whine of hurt.

“Jem is calling the medics, we’ll get you to hospital in no time at all,” Sibyl tried to reassure her.

“Don’t leave me, Sibyl,” Meg begged, her hand clutching Sibyl’s desperately and Sibyl nodded her head fervently. Then Meg pleaded, “Can someone please call my son?”

“I’ll call her son,” Tina was standing over them, wringing her apron in concern. She stopped wringing her hands and ran off awkwardly on mangled feet to do her task as Jemma rushed toward them.

“They’re on their way,” Jem announced when she was close.

Hours later, the doctors reported to Sibyl, Jemma and Meg’s son (who had left straight from work to see to his mother) that Meg had broken her hip.

Sibyl waited until she and Jemma were outside the doors of the hospital before she let her formidable temper explode.

“That bloody, bloody minibus driver. He knows Meg needs help with transfers. He knows Kyle or I have to be there when Meg gets out of the bus. How could he let her fall?”

“Her son is with her now, she’s a strong lady, she’ll be okay,” Jemma assured her, her chocolate eyes melting as she watched Sibyl in full, heartfelt, outrage.

“She’s my responsibility when she comes to that Centre, Jem,” Sibyl replied, her voice rising. “And she’s my friend! How am I going to face her after this?”

And as she spoke, Sibyl felt the same hated reminder that no matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, things went very, very badly for people who mattered.