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.
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 bit 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 …’