She’d forget my name, and point at me as though it was my fault for being deliberately mysterious. She tried calling her parents, and couldn’t understand why the number now belonged to someone else, phoning the poor people back three times and eventually accusing them of locking her mum and dad in the cellar.
All of this was spread out over months, so random that it had probably been going on for a lot longer than that. My mother isn’t the most conventional of people to start off with, and we have a generous approach to eccentricity in our home. I’d see her trying to find words, and piece together information, looking confused and scared, until eventually she’d shake her head and say something like, ‘I give up! I must be getting old, my memory’s not what it used to be.’
I think the fact that she was so physically fit and active helped to shield it, and it was only when Cherie started to notice the difference that I accepted there might be a problem. Getting my mum to accept there might be a problem was an altogether different matter though, and I think she was still angry about it the day Angel came.
To start with, she’d been up all night, looking for a book she was reading –a book she’d finished ages ago, and had already taken to the charity shop. Then, on the morning he arrived, she decided that Bella was Pickle – one of her predecessors in the long line of Border Terriers who’ve owned us at various times.
All of this was building up and up, and when he finally arrived, she didn’t recognise him. To be fair, neither did I – he’d shaved off all his blonde curls and the wispy beard he had the last time we’d seen him, and he was dressed like … well, like a biology teacher. Mum thought he was someone from the hospital – she was feeling quite irrationally resentful of anyone from the hospital at that stage – and sat in the corner of the room with her arms folded, glaring at him like he was about to whip out a straitjacket and pile her into the back of a white van.
He couldn’t cope and left quickly, with promises to come back, and to send money. The money materialised – but the return visit never did. He emails me occasionally asking about her, but it’s not quite the same. Angel was never the strongest of characters – he was squashed between Van and Auburn, who were both alpha dogs, and me, a scrappy little terrier. Despite not being the youngest, he still managed to be the runt of the litter.
He was a quiet kid with no real sense of self although, perhaps ironically, he might actually have had the strongest sense of self of all of us. He just needed to find a new self, with a new name, and a new lifestyle.
After that, I vowed I wouldn’t reach out for help again. That I’d cope.That we’d cope. She’s not your typical mother, Lynnie – she wasn’t pining away for her babies, or hoping for grandchildren and a multi-generational trip to Center Parcs. She’d always wanted us to be independent, and that’s what she got, except for me.
I was significantly younger than the others, and was at home on my own for longer. I was only twelve when Van left, and the other two followed within a couple of years. Maybe that’s why I stayed – Mum and I became close after that. I liked Budbury, and loved being out in nature, and was content to stay at home. I tried college for a few weeks – some weird course involving creative writing, as it was the only thing I was ever any good with at school – but it didn’t take. I missed the coast. I missed the open spaces. I missed my mum.
The sad thing is, I still miss my mum – sometimes even when she’s in the same room as me.
Now, I have to decide whether to take the risk again – to reach out to Auburn and Van, and open us both up to change. Change that could be potentially heart-breaking or, I tell myself, absolutely brilliant. There’s no use hiding away from the facts; things are only going to head in one direction.
I’ve seen some of the other people at the clinic, and I’ve read the leaflets. I know what might be down the road – more confusion, more memory loss, physical problems, trouble with eating and washing. Less lucid spells, more challenges. She’ll become less and less her old self, and more her new self. It’ll be my job to love her and look after her – but I have to be realistic about how much of that I can do on my own.
Admitting I need help doesn’t come easily to me, especially when it comes to my siblings. My family role as the pup at the bottom of the heap has left me guarded and defensive. There are only so many times you can get the chair pulled out from beneath you at dinner, or have your diary stolen and read out loud on the school bus, or be goaded into bursting into a haunted room, before you decide enough is enough.
I loved them all, and I know they loved me – but we were never friends. Van used to make me feel safe and protected, until he decided it was more fun to make me feel freaked out and jittery. And Auburn … well, Auburn and I always had a confrontational vibe. When she left home I was thirteen, and I celebrated with a tea party in the bedroom that was now mine, all mine. I still get a childish thrill at not having to share my space after all these years.
They’ve all come home at various times, regaling us with stories of their travels and adventures and in Angel’s case, teacher training college. Mum lapped it all up – well, the travels bit anyway. Van headed straight for the backpacking trail; Auburn started university but dropped out after a year and followed him on a similar path. They’d turn up now and then, filthy and hungry, their hair in tangles and feet coated in foreign soil, full of stories and plans.
Mum occasionally mentions them, but not in a ‘where are my children, why have they forsaken me?’ way – more as though they’re on some kind of spirit quest, living in ashrams with ancient yogis, which makes her proud and content.
She once even gently suggested it might be about time I followed suit, and set off on a spirit quest of my own – which might have been more convincing if she hadn’t been calling me Joanna at the time. I still have no idea who Joanna is, but I’m sure she totally rocks.
I’m still turning all of this over in my mind when Cherie bangs the doors to the café open with one bountiful hip, and ambles towards me bearing a tray of goodness. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and she’s kicked off her Birkenstock sandals so she can feel the grass beneath her toes. The toes in question are painted bright turquoise. Old hippy chic.
She places the tray down on the table, and I automatically hold it steady. The ground is sloping so much in parts of the garden that a strong breeze can whisk a cafétière down the side of the cliff in seconds. It might bop someone on the head as they sunbathe, which would prove once and for all that coffee can be bad for your health.
I inspect the contents of the tray approvingly: a long, tall mocha topped with whipped cream and grated Galaxy, and a slice of the raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake that Laura’s had chilling in the big fridge ready for tomorrow.
Cherie lowers herself onto the bench, propping her feet up in front of her so she can catch the now-fading sun. She closes her eyes, and turns her face to the sky, sighing with satisfaction. I leave her to bliss out, and use my spoon to scoop up the cream and chocolate. Better eat it quick before one of the raucous seagulls wheeling and turning overhead decides to dive-bomb us.
‘Gorgeous …’ says Cherie, once she’s absorbed a few minutes’ worth of warmth. ‘So – what’s going on with you, Willow? And don’t say “nothing”, because I can tell something’s wrong. Come on. Tell your Auntie Cherie all about it. You know you want to.’
I pause for a moment, licking the spoon clean, while I try and formulate a sentence that describes a very complex situation in very simple terms.
‘I’m trying to decide whether to get back in touch with Van and Auburn,’ I say, frowning. It actually sounds pretty simple when I say it out loud.
‘I thought you didn’t know where they were?’ she replies, obviously confused.
‘I didn’t, but thanks to Tom, I now do. And now I know, I can’t really carry on ignoring it … which I’d kind of been planning to do for a bit longer.’
‘Ah. So as well as having to make that decision, you’re also maybe a b
it annoyed with Tom, even though you know you shouldn’t be? Because he’s forced you to think about something you were happier not thinking about?’
‘Exactly! I knew I wasn’t going mad! Tom was only being kind – I know that. And it’s not like it was even difficult. Apparently he managed it with this amazing new thing called Google. And it’s also not like he’s invited them over to eat pizza and watch telly with me or anything – all he’s done is find them, tell me where they are, and in Auburn’s case, come up with a phone number. So I shouldn’t be annoyed …’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ she says gently, smiling at me like she totally understands. ‘But I see that you are, even though you hate yourself for it. Do you know what I think is going on?’
‘Is there anything I could do, short of severing your vocal cords, that would stop you telling me?’
‘Of course not. Even then I’d do it with sign language. Look … it’s been you and your mum against the world for so long, Willow, that whenever someone gets too close, you feel a bit invaded. You’re like that with us sometimes, without even noticing it.
‘The difference is, we know you well enough to ignore you and do whatever it is that needs doing anyway. We respect your independence, but try and support you by stealth. Now there’s someone new on the scene – someone you sort of like, which even by itself is a bit worrying for you. You work so hard, love, and you’re such a strong girl, but I know you’re clinging on by your fingertips sometimes, and change can be scary when your grip on life feels so fragile.’
I am horrified at the fact that her words immediately bring the sting of tears behind my eyelids, and I screw them away. I don’t even know why I’m crying. It’s like I have the world’s worst case of PMT, my emotions are all over the place.
‘Ignore me,’ I say, swiping at my face. ‘I think I have something in my eye.’
‘You do. They’re called tears,’ she says, reaching out to cover my hand with hers and gently squeezing my fingers.
‘Tom doing this for you, sweetheart,’ she continues, ‘isn’t going to suddenly erode all your superpowers and leave you as a puny human. It’s not a sign that he sees you as weak.’
‘Well, what is it a sign of, then?’ I ask, mashing my cake up mercilessly. Die, cheesecake, die.
‘It’s a sign that he’s a decent human being,’ she replies. ‘That he’s a friend. That he cares what happens to you. That he wants to find a way to help you.’
‘Oh … what a bastard.’
‘I know – we should tar and feather him!’ she says, laughing at me. I don’t mind. It’s a nice laugh, one that says ‘you’re a dick but I love you anyway’, not one that says ‘I am mocking you for the fool you so clearly are.’
‘And as for Van and Auburn, well … life’s too short for keeping loved ones at arm’s length, my love. I should know. Me and my sister Brenda lost most of our adult lives to that sort of nonsense, and we only have Laura to thank for us being in touch now. It’s been such a joy to me, getting to know her again, and all those nieces and nephews I never knew I had. If Laura had asked my permission first, I’d have said no – it felt too big, too scary. So I’m forever grateful that I had a friend who knew me well enough to do it anyway.’
‘So you think I should call Auburn?’ I ask, desperate by this stage for someone to simply tell me what to do.
‘I can’t make that decision for you, Willow. I barely know them – I have vague memories of them as wild teenagers, that’s all. I wasn’t as much a part of life here back then. But I will say that maybe you should go upstairs to my flat, take half an hour on your own, and think about it. There’s a phone up there, you know. Maybe it’ll come in handy. And if not, help yourself to the orange truffle flavoured Baileys …’
Chapter 13
Today is April 1st. My name is Willow Longville. I am twenty-six years old. I live in a village called Budbury, with my mum Lynnie. I work as a waitress at the Comfort Food Café, and I run my own cleaning business called Will-o’-the-Wash. I have a dog called Bella Swan, and I love my life. In the last twenty-four hours, the following things have happened …
1. I kicked over a whole bin full of dog poo.
2. I changed the scarecrow’s name from Wurzel to Superwurzel.
3. I dreamed about Girls Aloud coming into the café and all of them ordering milkshakes.
4. I found my mum’s bedroom completely covered in yellow Post-it notes – she seems to be taking a pre-emptive strike against forgetting the words for ‘wardrobe’ and ‘knicker drawer’.
5. I held Little Edie while Becca nipped to the loo, and I swear the baby looked right into my soul – she immediately giggled and sicked up some milk.
6. I decided to wear an entire dress made out of shiny silver material, because I was in a reflective mood.
7. I saw Cal and Zoe snogging in the bookshop, and felt happy for them and also sad for me – I haven’t had a snog in a very long time.
8. I realised how lucky I am to have all these friends who help me by stealth – Katie, who refuses to let me pay her for spending time with my mum; Frank, who hasn’t put the rent up on the cottage for donkey’s years; Cherie, who pays me well over the odds for being a weird waitress; Laura, who always packs up food for me to warm up later; all the millions of little ways people’s kindness makes my life better. I am lucky, and I am grateful.
9. I spoke to my sister Auburn for the first time in almost three years – she isn’t living on an opium farm or anything; she’s living in London, where she’s qualified as a pharmacist. She has a real job in a Boots near Charing Cross, and says she’ll come home to see Mum soon, and was actually quite nice to me.
10. I noticed what today’s date is and am now wondering if it has all been a joke. I mean, how can Auburn have a real job? And why was she nice to me? Maybe she’s been abducted by aliens?
Chapter 14
The next morning, I know I need to make amends. I didn’t leave things badly with Tom – there was no exchange of cross words, no storming off, no slamming of van doors. But there was some silence, some obvious surprise, and a less than ecstatic response on my part. Things have been so natural between us since we first met that anything less than easy banter felt almost as bad as me slapping him across the face and calling him a ball-bag.
I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I suspect I did, and he doesn’t deserve that. He’s uncertain of himself in social situations already, without me making it any worse.
I have decided to make amends via the gift of a Baby Groot – one of those things with wibbly-wobbly arms and a smiley face made of crochet and pipe cleaners, bouncing around in his own tiny plant pot. When I arrived at the day centre yesterday to collect my mum, they were in the middle of a craft activity, which she always loves.
She was always the kind of woman who was knitting or crocheting or creating, and we grew up doing the same. Even Van is a dab hand with an embroidery needle, or at least he was until he decided it wasn’t something Kurt Cobain would do and dumped it.
Mum was sitting at a table, showing some of the others how to make crocheted flowers to put in tiny plant pots. She’s patient and kind and, when she’s focused, really good at this stuff. Of course, that’s not always the case – sometimes the connections don’t quite click and she gets frustrated.
Yesterday, she seemed to be on form. In fact, she appeared to be holding the class, rather than taking it. Carole, bless her, often lets her do this kind of thing and it’s one of the main reasons she enjoys going to the centre. We’re lucky to have it, even if it seems to live under constant threat of closure due to budget cuts.
At first I wasn’t sure how she’d take to it, as most of the other clients are much older than her, and many of them are in different stages of dementia conditions. But Carole’s a smart cookie, and by letting my mum help out rather than be helped, she gets to feel useful and valued rather than dumped in a room full of strangers.
That day had clearly been a good day, and Mum see
med serene. I sat down with them all, and joined in. I fully appreciate the charms of crochet – you need to concentrate enough that your mind can’t wander too far, but not so much that it becomes stressful. I decided against the flowers, and instead started to fashion little Groot, taking him home to finish him off that same night.
He’s a beautiful creature, with shiny dark eyes and a zig-zaggy head and a big grin. The perfect peace offering for a man who speaks Klingon.
Mum is at home now with Jackie, one of the carers social services introduced us to, and Bella, who wasn’t at all keen on Baby Groot. She was giving him that look she gets when she’s thinking ‘I’d like to tear you apart and see what’s on the inside.’
Successfully rescued from a potentially lethal terrier experience, Groot is now with me at Briarwood, on a quick visit before my shift at the café starts.
I get out of the van, and see that a small parallel universe of building supplies has arrived. No workmen as yet, but it won’t be long before the place is filled with clomping steel-toed boots, flasks of strong tea and the smell of sawdust.
The weather is weird today – really warm, but slightly unreal. As though Mother Nature is toying with us, and will unleash an insane rainstorm later on to keep us on our toes.
The trees are hanging lush and green as I make my way down the path at the side of the building, heavy boughs rich with blossom holding hands over my head to create a fragrant arch, the low-level humming of insects all around me. I can hear the joyful chirruping of finches and nuthatches, the slightly more sinister screech of jays, and even the distant drumming of a woodpecker. It’s like a bird orchestra.
The path beneath my feet becomes softer as I walk deeper into the woods, cushioned by a springy layer of leaves and moss, my boots padding on natural carpet as I make my way down to the pond. It feels sticky and moist out here, as though I’m wading through the jungles of Brazil rather than ancient woodland in a quiet corner of England.
Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café Page 12
