The problem is that these days, the process confuses her. Following recipes is almost impossible, and even dishes she’s been making for decades can go bad. It’s one of the ways her condition makes itself most obviously known, apart from the memory thing – doing set actions in a set order can slip beyond her grasp. Not always, and not with everything, but the cooking? It can be a nightmare.
Many times, she’s insisted, and I’ve ended up sitting through an awful meal while we both pretend to enjoy it. No fun at all.
That night we had butterbean and rosemary soup from the café, with thick wedges of chunky bread that Laura sent round to us. It was all very pleasant. Mum was a little on the hyper side, after a whole day of being a superhero, and I wasn’t sure how she’d react to someone new being in the cottage. She might accept it as normal, or she might attack him with a frying pan while accusing him of breaking in to steal her kids.
In the end, something even weirder happened – she remembered who he was. And not in a putting-the-pieces-together-and-coming-up-with-flange-bracket kind of way, but in a real way.
One of the mysteries of her memory is the way it’s all spooled up inside her brain, looped around and tangled, so weird bits pop out at strange times. She might struggle for days to remember the word for ‘those woollen things you put on to keep your legs warm’ – tights – but then tell a brilliant story in glorious technicolour about something that happened three decades ago, with all the skill of a seasoned after-dinner speaker.
She took one look at Tom, who was outside playing with Rick, and walked right up to him, still wearing her cape and red knickers. She paused in front of him, hands on hips, and gave him a thorough eyeballing. For a moment I feared a bout of the gut-wrenchingly cringe-worthy behaviour that she occasionally displays, where she thinks she’s a lot younger than she is – but his virtue was safe.
Tom handled the situation perfectly. He stood up straight, made eye contact, and said very simply: ‘Hi there. My name is Tom. It’s nice to meet you.’
‘I know who you are!’ she replied, suddenly all smiles. ‘I wasn’t sure at first, but now I’m up close I know who you are … you’re Tom, the boy from Briarwood. You wouldn’t leave your room, would you? Just locked yourself in there with all your gadgets. Mrs F was worried you were going to burn the place down.’
‘Yeah … there was a small incident with a waste-paper bin, once …’ he answers, looking sheepish.
‘There was. That’s right. A bin and a chemistry kit. Terrible smell for ages afterwards. I used to bring you books, didn’t I? About all the inventors. I tried to get you to join the workshops, but you were having none of it. Didn’t like the look of the other wild lost boys. Goodness, how nice it is to see you. It seems like it was yesterday, doesn’t it? It does to me anyway – but as you probably know, I’m a little bit …’
She pulled a ‘ga-ga’ face and formed the traditional ‘screw loose’ gesture at the side of her headwith her fingers, while also making cuckoo noises. I had to laugh. Every now and then, you get one of these brilliant moments of clarity and self-awareness, where she’s able to poke fun at the whole situation.
‘It doesn’t seem so long ago to me, either,’ Tom said, sitting down with her to reminisce about the good old days. If, of course, you could describe the time when you moved to a children’s home after your parents had died and the rest of your family had rejected you as ‘the good old days’.
He went back to London for some business the morning after, and life settled back into a less disrupted routine. I took Mum to the hospital in town for one of her check-up days, where she meets with her doctors and occupational therapists and a counsellor and does some memory work.
It’s always hard, and this time was especially tough. When she’s surrounded by people she doesn’t really know, she can look so bewildered it makes me want to cry.
She’s always had a lot of dignity, my mum – she can even stand on her head and look dignified – but something about a day at the clinic seems to suck it all out of her. She starts bravely, but after a day of tests, and answering questions, and feeling like she’s somehow failed it all, she deflates from the inside out.
She clings onto me, getting smaller by the minute, and asks repeatedly – in a hushed whisper to hide her embarrassment and confusion – ‘Where are we? Who are these people? Why are we here?’
Everyone there is very kind and very understanding – sadly, they’ve seen it all before – but it always drains me as much as her, seeing her distressed and unsure of herself. I always make sure I’m at home with her the next day, as it can leave her unsettled for a while. We try and write it all down as we go, for both our sakes, and go over it when she’s feeling calmer.
Today is her first time back at the day centre, and she seemed happy and eager to go. I left her with Carole this morning, clutching her notepad and waving me off as I tootled down the drive in my van. For all I know, she immediately turned back to Carole and asked who the hell I was, but at least she was smiling. Sometimes I have to take what I can get – even if I suspect she’s faking it.
Now I’m here, back at Briarwood, and I’ve had a lovely day. I’ve been scrubbing and polishing and whistling away, Bella by my side. We’ve been a regular grime-fighting team, out here in the wilderness, singing along to a collection of Disney tunes. Belting out the words to ‘A Whole New World’ is very life-affirming, I can tell you.
Pleasantly tired, I’m having my lunch break sitting on the rim of the fountain in the sunshine, watching the insects buzzing around and the birds dive-bombing, feeling thoroughly alive and thoroughly affirmed. I’ve filled in my own notepad, even doing a few terrible sketches of the building, and I’m enjoying the solitude. Nothing quite makes you appreciate solitude like spending a day in a busy hospital.
I’m about to pack up and leave for the café when Tom arrives – bizarrely wearing a smart suit. Rick Grimes gallops over to lick Bella, and I give Tom a little wave as he walks towards us, emerging from the dense green trees in the clearing. The sun dapples through the leaves, dancing on his shoulders, and given my recent Disney binge I think he looks decidedly prince-like.
‘You look pretty,’ I say, gesturing at him and his fancy outfit. ‘Have you just won second prize in a beauty contest?’
‘Yes, I collected ten pounds and everything …’
He perches next to me on the fountain, and looks around at the lush wilderness of the gardens. The sun is zinging off the windows of the house, and it looks a lot less haunted just for that. I see him already planning and scheming as he takes in the building, and wonder if that brain of his is ever quiet.
‘You look warm,’ I say. ‘Peanut?’
He accepts both the oddness of the words, and the offer of peanuts, throwing one up in the air and catching it masterfully in his mouth.
‘I am warm,’ he says, tugging off his jacket and opening a couple more buttons on his white shirt. ‘Had to actually go to a proper meeting for once. Not about work – about this place. I’m considering hooking up with some colleges and apprenticeship schemes, and thought I’d better look more like a successful designer than a serial killer hermit who lives on his own in a caravan in the woods.’
‘Oh. Cool. How did it go?’ I ask. ‘And can I please have permission to stroke your head?’
He stares at me, and I see the lopsided grin creep across his face as the amusement sets in.
‘You are completely random today, Ms Longville. Even more than usual, I mean. The meeting went well – lots of good ideas and possibilities. And yes, you have permission to stroke my head.’
I reach up and run my fingers over the closely shaved hair. It’s dark, and soft, and actually pretty thick even though it’s so short. It feels exactly like I thought it would.
‘Thank you,’ I say, laughing at myself. ‘The first day I saw you – as a grown-up – I wondered if it felt all velvety, like a mole’s bottom. I’m glad to report that it does.’
‘Wow. I
don’t think I’ve ever been compared to a mole’s arse before, but … thank you? I have to keep it short or I look insane – it just grows up and out like a big fuzzy halo, and makes me look like I spend all day playing video games and smoking dope. How are you, anyway? I was hoping I’d bump into you …’
I’m still trying to imagine him smoking dope – and failing – when I realise I haven’t answered him.
He’s right. I am especially random today. It happens when I’ve had an intense few days with my mum – the sheer relief of being on my own makes my mind expand rapidly from its protective, curled-up ball, grasping in wonder wherever it goes. It reminds me of one of those school science experiments where you drop some food colouring into oil, and it blobs all over the place like a lava lamp.
‘All good, thanks,’ I say, screwing the lid of my flask back on. ‘But I’m due at the café in half an hour. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go! Maybe we can catch up tomorrow?’
He nods, and looks slightly worried, as though he has something to say that he’s nervous about. Maybe my scrubbing hasn’t been quite up to standard. Maybe he doesn’t like my dwarf singing … no. My dwarf singing is perfect, it can’t be that.
‘Spit it out,’ I say, nudging him so hard he almost falls backwards into the empty fountain. ‘I can tell something’s buzzing around in your mole arse.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ he replies, smiling as though he’s been caught out. ‘Two things, actually. One of them is the café – I’ve had a text from Cherie, who seems to have used her contacts at NASA to get hold of my number, telling me I have to start coming for ballroom dancing lessons. Is that an actual thing, or have I accidentally wandered into an alternative universe?’
‘Ah. Right. Well, probably both. It’s Edie’s birthday soon – you know, Edie of the House May? And she’ll be ninety-two years old. Cherie’s thinking, which you can’t dispute, is that once you reach that age, every birthday is a landmark. So there’ll be a party, and Cherie and Laura like planning parties – I think they get some kind of sick thrill from making the rest of us play along. We’ve had horror shows, country and western nights, Mexican siestas, the lot … and this time it’s Strictly-themed. Edie’s nuts for Strictly, so we’re all learning some basic ballroom to make her night special. This is mandatory. If you refuse, Cherie will make your life a living hell.’
‘I’m pretty sure that being forced to have ballroom dancing lessons with a bunch of people I barely know is my idea of a living hell, but okay … will you be there? And how will you manage a quickstep in Doc Martens?’
‘I’m more of a Charleston girl, I think. And I have a wide and varied collection of Doc Martens, some of which are very glittery and perfect for such an occasion, thank you very much. Don’t diss the Docs. I never saw Fred Astaire in Converse either, pal.’
He raises his feet and shows off the shoes he’s wearing today – proper, grown-up ones, made from soft, shiny black leather. They look like they cost a lot of money, and go perfectly with his posh suit. Neither of them, though, go perfectly with him, and I prefer the goofy tops and jeans.
‘Fair enough, twinkle toes,’ I reply, after he wriggles them around proudly. ‘So that’s sorted. You will endure Cherie’s torments for the sake of Edie. I know you haven’t met Edie yet, but believe me, when you do you’ll be happy to undergo any variety of tortures just to make her smile. So what was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?’
He nods, and looks more serious. He gazes off at Rick and Bella, and seems to be weighing up whether to speak or not. His nerves are making me nervous, and I fidget next to him as he builds up to the big reveal, whatever the hell it is.
‘Okay. Well, this is a bit more complicated,’ he says eventually, turning to face me. ‘And I hope you don’t mind. I haven’t done anything with this information – that’s entirely up to you. But … well. I’ve found your brother and sister.’
Chapter 12
The lunch shift at the café is insanely busy, which is exactly what I need. It feels like half the world’s population has decided this would be the perfect day to go fossil hunting in the spring sunshine, and they all need feeding and watering.
The day is warm, but with a nip in the breeze as it whips up from the sea, so people often wander into the café looking a little chilly, hands shoved in pockets and hair blown wild. The big hit of the day is smoked salmon fillet with spring greens, which thrills Laura as it’s her new seasonal dish. We also serve approximately 7,000 tuna melts, 3,798 bowls of pea and sorrel soup, 1,508 rhubarb toffee muffins and precisely 4.2 million assorted chocolate bar milkshakes.
By half two, the kitchen is wrecked. It should have crime scene tape around it, and sinister-looking men in hazmat suits wandering in and out wearing gas masks. It’s crammed with plates that need putting in the dishwasher, denuded lettuce heads, squeezed oranges, empty cartons for recycling, and the discarded foil wrappers of all the Kit Kats and Twixes and Turkish Delights that Laura used during the Great Milkshake Rush of 2018.
When it all finally tails off and we get the chance to breathe, the only people left are myself, Laura, Cherie, Laura’s sister Becca, and both Edies.
Little Edie is sitting on Big Edie’s lap over in the bookshelf corner, contentedly cooing away and trying to pull off her namesake’s glasses. Big Edie is reading out loud to the baby – it’s a racy scene from Jilly Cooper’s Riders, but I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm.
‘Do you think Little Edie will grow up with a liking for fit-looking men in jodhpurs now?’ I ask, gesturing towards the pair.
‘Who doesn’t have a liking for fit-looking men in jodhpurs?’ replies Becca, sipping her coffee and looking at me as though I’m mad. Fair point. Behind her, Cherie and Laura have formed a very small human chain, passing plates and mugs towards the dishwasher while singing along to ‘Stairway to Heaven’.
It’s usually at this stage in the proceedings that we’d all sit down, eat something delicious, and talk about absolutely bugger all. But today, I need to keep busy, and stop my mind from wandering over the same territory again and again – because it’s Groundhog Day on Planet Willow.
I take myself outside with a bin bag and a cloth, stylish yellow rubber gloves up to my elbows, and get busy clearing the garden tables. Laura introduced kids’ lunchboxes this week, and it feels harsh to crush up all the brightly coloured little cardboard dinosaurs and princesses and pirates. Harsh but possibly cathartic, and I work my way around the whole place swooping them off tables and up from the grass, scrunching as I go.
When I’ve done that, I even venture into the doggie crèche field, and do a poo collection. This is a job most of us try to avoid, for obvious reasons, often waiting until there is a handy teenager around to wrangle into it. Bella trots around at my ankles, tail wagging, laughing at me, I think. Ha ha, she’s saying, you humans and your silly ways – we own you all!
I deposit the deposits in the depository, and finally let myself stand still. I feel about as enticing as what I’ve just scooped up, and am blatantly trying to stave off the moment when I have to make some decisions. Or at least think about making some decisions. Perhaps pencil in a provisional date to have a meeting with a sub-committee to compile an action plan to provide a framework for developing a strategy about possibly making some decisions.
‘Oh, shit …’ I say out loud, kicking the bin, full of exactly that, in frustration.
Predictably enough, the bin topples over and I spend the next fifteen minutes picking up small black bags full of canine excrement. I now need to scrub myself all over, and maybe pay some extra attention to the inside crevices of my brain. I peel off the gloves, and lob them into my bin bag. I’ll treat myself to a new pair, maybe something from the latest Stella McCartney Domestique line.
I sit down on one of the benches and stare out at the sea. I take some deep breaths in and out, and let myself relax as I watch the waves crashing over the sand. I can hear the sounds of children squealing and dogs barking
and the jingle-jangle tune of the ice-cream van arriving in the car park.
I remind myself that the world is not coming to an end. People are still buying 99s with flakes; dogs are still chasing sticks; kids are still paddling in water cold enough to make them yell with delight. The Earth is still revolving around the sun, I am still sitting here, breathing slowly, surviving. I have grass beneath my feet and I am solid – I will not float away like an unloved helium balloon.
I have no idea why I feel so stressed and tense. Stress I’m used to – in fact it’s like caffeine, and I use it to get through the day. But the tension is something different. All the various bits of my poor body feel clenched and pinched; even my toes seem to be scrunched up in my boots.
Well, it’s not a complete mystery, if I’m honest. It’s because Tom has found my brother and sister. This is not a big deal, I know. It’s not as though they’ve been missing for twenty years, and he’s discovered them being used as alien slave labour in the outer reaches of the solar system.
They haven’t been missing – they’ve been living the life my mum always wanted them to live. The life she encouraged all of us to pursue – a life of freedom and discovery and fulfilment. They’ve just been missing from the events of the last two years. Missing at the time when everything changed.
I don’t think I’d realised how much Angel’s rejection had hurt me. Not just his rejection of me, but his rejection of Mum, the way she can sometimes be now, and his rejection of being part of our lives. It had been an awful day, only a couple of months post-diagnosis, after the brain scans and the interviews and the sympathetic meetings with neurologists. Just about classed as early-onset, it had started small, as I’m told it often does.
Car keys would go missing and turn up at the bottom of the bread bin. She’d come home from the shops with nothing apart from the list she left with, because she got confused in the supermarket aisles, blaming the store manager for rearranging things without consulting her first.
Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café Page 11
