I don’t see Tom for a few days after that, which is possibly not an altogether terrible thing. I talked more to him about my family situation that afternoon than I have for years, and it left me feeling raw and exposed, like a live wire dangling in a monsoon.
Not that he did anything to make me feel like that. In fact, he swept me away in a good half-hour boogying session that left us both sweaty and laughing. For a hermit, he has some moves; I suspect he’s practised along to all those disco scenes in Guardians of the Galaxy.
He even stayed for dinner which was, as promised, provided by Cherie. That’s a good thing – I can cook, but it’s sometimes a battle with my mum. She loves cooking and is never happier than when stirring a big pot of something wholesome, messing with herbs from the garden, or baking.
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.’