I am sitting in a pub. Drinking a pint of lager. With my friends.
This might not seem overly exciting, but for me, it’s something of a revelation. I mean, I get out every now and then, but usually I have Mum with me, or I’m dashing around watching the clock.
Tonight, I am not watching the clock. Well, I am – but only so I can keep track of when it might be last orders, so I don’t miss my chance for another pint. I seem to have turned into an alcoholic after two hours of freedom.
This newfound freedom is one of the very nice side effects of my new circumstances. Auburn has been here for four days now, and we’ve started to settle into each other’s company. When I say settle, I mean we’ve reduced the bickering, and been at least partially united in our common goal – Mum.
It’s not been easy for my big sister, and I’ll say this for her – she’s grown up a heck of a lot in the last few years. Way more than anyone should. I’m guessing some stuff has happened to her, some stuff she doesn’t want to talk about, and that’s fine by me. For the time being, we’re focusing on Lynnie, and life as it evolves. Maybe there’ll be time to catch up properly at some point but for now, it’s one day at a time, sweet Jesus.
She’s been introduced to Carole and the team at the day centre, and even agreed to join in with their frantic fundraising activities; she’s met Jackie, the carer we sometimes use, and she’s talked to Katie in some foreign health-speak language I suspect they were making up to prove that nurses and pharmacists are special snowflakes.
Mum, as usual, has had her up days and her down days. There was an almighty battle of wills over her medication, which she declared was poison – she even drew a skull and crossbones on the pill box.
That one was eventually only won when Auburn persuaded her they were homeopathic, putting them in a new pill box and spritzing it with lavender oil. I felt bad about that – about lying to her, about manipulating her, about treating her like a child having a tantrum. She’s my mum and it doesn’t feel respectful, but she needs to take the tablets. Auburn knows more about what they do than me, and she’s insistent they will be helping.
Mum also lost her notepad briefly, which sent her into a downward spiral for hours while we turned the house upside down searching for it. She was convinced ‘that boy from the caravan’ had broken in and stolen it. We have no idea who the boy from the caravan is but to her, he’s very real, and obviously based on either a genuine memory or a jumble of snippets of memories. We found the notepad under her yoga mat, where she’d hidden it the day before.
On the plus side, today had been a very good day. She spoke to us both completely lucidly at breakfast, asking about our plans for the day and laughing at our surprised expressions when she voluntarily walked up to her pill box, chose the right day, and took the right tablets. I did feel a twinge of guilt when she sniffed it appreciatively though.
‘Don’t worry, girls,’ she said, scribbling away on her pad of Post-it notes. ‘I’m feeling groovy today. Living the sweet life – like Zack and Cody. That’s spelled S-U-I-T-E, you know, because they live in a hotel and get up to all kinds of shenanigans! Anyway – here’s my little reminders all sorted.’
With that, she leaned over the table, and slapped a Post-it note each on both our foreheads. I stared at Auburn, and she stared at me, and for a moment it felt like one of those weird party games where you have to ask each other questions to figure out what’s written on your face.
‘Am I male or female?’ asked Auburn, obviously thinking the same thing as me.
‘Yours says “Daughter Number One – Auburn”. What does mine say?’
She screwed up her eyes, as though trying to decipher the writing, and replied: ‘Yours says “Daughter Number Two – Willow – the Inferior One”.’
‘It doesn’t say that, does it?’ I asked, flicking a spoonful of muesli at her face and watching it splatter on her nose.
The day continued in a similar vein – quite a lot of fun, in other words. Auburn and Mum came with me to the café, but then went off to spend the day together, strolling the cliff pathways and doing some shopping and even going on one of Sam’s nature walks down on the beach.
By the time I got home, they were both crashed out on the sofa, bare-footed, in various stages of snooze with an episode of Shameless playing on the TV. Definitely not Disney. Must be the Auburn effect.
I crept around in the kitchen unpacking the leftovers that Laura sent me home with, making myself some tea and clearing up. Having Auburn here was strange – good in many ways, unnerving in others. It had also massively increased the amount of tidying up I have to do, as the woman seems incapable of putting milk back in the fridge or washing a mug.
I try not to focus on such trivialities, because life is way too short to argue over housework, and because, I tell myself, she’ll be gone again soon, back to London, and her real life. This is just a visit, so there’s no point getting upset about what’s wrong – or relying too much on what’s right.
I was drinking my tea, and reading a message from Tom on my phone when Auburn walked into the room, stretching her arms over her head and yawning loudly. Her shiny hair was tied up in a pony tail, and I reached out to swish it from side to side.
‘Your pony tail actually looks like it belongs on a pony,’ I said, closing my screen down. ‘A nice shiny chestnut. One of those ponies that shits a lot and bites people’s hands when they offer them apples.’
‘Yep, that’s me,’ she answered, baring her teeth and whinnying. ‘Who was on the phone?’
‘Nobody was on the phone. Somebody was on the text.’
‘Oooh. I bet it was Tom. If it was anybody else, you’d have said who. You’d have been, like “oh, it was Laura”, or “oh, it was Cherie”, or “oh, it was Brad Pitt”. You always go a bit moony-eyed and mysterious when it’s Tom.’
I glared at her, and started wiping down the surfaces, giving some real consideration to slapping her across the smug chops with the soggy cloth. Mainly because she was right.
‘What did he want?’ she persisted, actually putting the milk away in the fridge. Probably just to annoy me.
‘He wanted to know if I was going to the pub tonight. Some of the others are and they invited him, but he probably won’t go if I don’t.’
‘Is he shy?’
‘Yeah, he is, actually. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘No,’ she’d replied, picking my phone up from the counter and running away with it. ‘But I do have a problem with you moping around the kitchen cleaning when you could be getting hammered with sexy geek boy …’
I chased her through the kitchen, into the hallway, and out through the back door, Bella following us, tail wagging as she sensed a game afoot. We played a small instalment of dodge-the-scarecrow, and I almost caught her when she tripped over a potted lavender bush by the patio, but she was too nimble for me to get her in time. It was always the same when we were kids.
After dashing around the garden shrieking and laughing, she finally came to a standstill, hands on hips, out of puff. She passed the phone back and said: ‘Wow. I’m knackered after that. I really need to pack in the ciggies. There – all sorted. You’ll meet them all there at eight. I’ll stay in with Mum. You’re welcome!’
I snatched the phone back, and quickly flicked through to my messages. She’d tried to keep it simple, but I suspected had blown it with a giant row of alternating kisses, smiley faces and winky devil emojis at the end. Sure enough, a reply landed immediately: ‘Is this actually you Willow?’
That was the perfect moment to back out, of course. All I needed to do was answer, ‘no, my sister stole my phone, sorry I can’t make it tonight.’
My fingers were hovering over the keypad when Auburn spoke.‘Don’t. Don’t cancel. Go to the pub for goodness’ sake. You deserve a night out, Willow, and we’ll be fine here. I know it doesn’t come naturally, but try and trust me – if there are any problems, I’ll call you straightaway. Go on. Have a shower, put some nice smellies on, treat yourself to your favourite Docs. I’ll hold down the fort, I promise.’
I think it was the thought of the smellies that did it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a really long, luscious soak. With bubbles and oil and maybe even one of those bath bombs that sheds fragrant petals in the water. These days I’m usually more of a quick shower kind of girl, always keeping an ear out for what’s going on in the rest of the house.
But with Mum dozing, and Auburn here, I could actually make a bit of time for myself. Maybe even – drum roll please – shave my legs. The weather’s hotting up, and I didn’t want people to mistake me for a St Bernard when I wear skirts.
So, fully buffed, polished, exfoliated and coated in lovely shea butter body cream, I was waiting for Tom to collect me at 8 p.m. at the end of the lane. We’d changed the arrangement to that because he wanted to show me his new car, which he’d bought to avoid cramming the camper van around narrow country lanes.
I’d asked him to collect me away from the cottage to avoid Mum and Auburn looking at us out of the window, and my sister running outside singing ‘Willow and Tommy, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G …’
Tom’s new car was a shiny red Fiat 500, and he looked frankly ridiculous driving it. He could barely squeeze his head in beneath the roof space.
‘Hello Noddy!’ I said, as I climbed in.‘Busy day in Toytown?’
‘Very busy, thank you Big Ears,’ he replied, sniffing and staring at me as I fastened my seatbelt.
‘What’s that smell?’ he asked.
‘It’s the smell of clean woman. You’re probably not used to it.’
‘It’s lovely. I feel a bit giddy. I’m not sure I’ll be able to drive.’
‘Man up, Mulligan – I am in need of beer.’
He’d given me a little salute, and done as he was told. Now, two hours later, I am on my fourth drink, and feeling decidedly tipsy. I don’t drink very much, to be honest – at parties, and every now and then at the café if we’re all feeling sociable, but not at home, and rarely in the pub.
I find that I’m enjoying the novelty. Enjoying being here, in the Horse and Rider, surrounded by chatter and warmth and the hustle and bustle of human companionship. The village pub is packed, as usual, its long wooden-topped bar surrounded by men in cords and plaid shirts perched on stools; its various nooks and crannies filled with tables of locals and tourists.
Our own corner of the room is especially convivial. Cal and Zoe are squashed together, holding hands and celebrating the fact that Martha’s teachers have suggested she should apply for Oxford. This is quite a turnaround for Martha, who until only quite recently was bunking off school and skulking around Bristol with squatters. Understandably, the two of them are pleased – and in Cal’s case, amazed. He’s a clever bloke – one of those men who can build sheds and fix engines and, as we saw with Becca last year, actually deliver babies.
He’s not, however, ‘book’ clever, as he puts it. Martha’s mum, who died before they moved here, was by all accounts book clever enough for both of them – and they’re thrilled that Martha seems to be following suit. Or, as Zoe said, ‘doing anything at all that doesn’t involve me being on first-name terms with the local police’.
Laura and Matt are here, and Matt has been talking to Tom about Rick Grimes. He thinks the issues with other dogs will be helped by neutering, which makes all the other men at the table gulp down some of their ale and look uncomfortable.
He’s also going to try some obedience classes, so that Rick will respond more readily to ‘sit’, ‘heel’ and ‘down’, even when another dog is around. He even has a plan to borrow some very calm, non-aggressive dogs from a friend, and do sessions where Rick is given a treat and encouragement every time he sees them, so he starts to associate other dogs with good things that taste of bacon, rather than bad things that need destroying.
‘It won’t happen overnight,’ he warns Tom. ‘And you’ll probably always need to be cautious with him – he’s a big, powerful dog. But hopefully some of this will help. If you get more relaxed, he will. At the moment, you probably tense every time another dog is around, because you’re worried about what might happen. He picks up on that, and it makes him tense as well so he associates the other dog with you feeling unhappy. Does that make sense?’
‘Perfect sense,’ replies Tom, nodding. I can see him turning it all over in his mind, processing the logic of it, and formulating his response. He’ll probably have invented a Crazy Dog Taming Machine by the end of the night.
Frank and Cherie are here too, sharing their plans for a round-the-world cruise. We all nod, and pretend to believe them – but as Laura and I have learned, it’ll probably never happen. They’re both semi-retired now, but neither of them seems able to completely give up work. Probably because it’s not work to them, it’s a way of life. They’re happy to have given the bulk of the responsibility to Cal at the farm and Laura at the café, but they’re always chipping in and helping.
‘You’ll never go on a world cruise,’ I eventually say, pointing at them accusingly. ‘You’re both too nosy to be away for that long – you might miss something.’
Edie – who has popped over ‘for a quick sherry’ – bursts out laughing at this, giggling so hard her perm wobbles.
‘You’re so right, dear!’ she says, once she’s recovered. ‘If I were a betting woman, I’d take any odds on them never making it past Southampton. In fact, I might open a book on it – who’s in?’
Becca immediately whips a notepad and pen out of her bag, and starts jotting down our bids. Cherie and Frank ignore us with great dignity, and carry on muttering about the wonders of Bali as if to prove us wrong.
Becca and Sam are doing shifts with us – they live across the road from the pub, and Sam got the first half of the night. Now Becca’s here instead, even though he claimed it was wasted on her as she doesn’t drink. He’s probably back at home telling Little Edie about his plans to open a bar in Tenerife one day.
‘What about you, Tom?’ Cherie says, once the gambling fever has died down. ‘Have you travelled?’
Tom, who has been quiet but in an I’m-still-enjoying-myself way, looks momentarily shocked to be the centre of attention. I let my hand lie on his thigh beneath the table, and he holds onto it.
‘A bit,’ he replies. ‘With my parents, before they died. Then later, for work – I spent some time in Hong Kong. That was interesting. Not as interesting as Budbury, but close.’
‘How old were you, Tom?’ asks Laura, who I can tell has been dying to know more about him. ‘When you moved to Briarwood?’
‘I was twelve. My parents died in a car crash.’
He leaves it at that, and there are sympathetic sighs around the table.
‘That’s a tough break, mate,’ says Cal, who can be weirdly sensitive given the fact that he looks like he’d rather be lassoing cattle than talking about emotions. He offers Tom a salt and vinegar crisp in manly solidarity.
‘It was,’ says Tom, accepting the offer. ‘But here I am. Back again. All grown up and doing okay.’
‘More than okay,’ says Cherie, reaching across the table to pat his hand. ‘Doing brilliantly. Nobody can change their past, but I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job with your present, my love. Willow’s told me what you’re doing with Briarwood, and it’s fantastic. You just let us know if you need any help at all, and we’ll be there.’
I can see that Tom is touched by this, and perhaps that’s why he says what he says next.
‘I will. And maybe … well, I was thinking that it’s about time you all came out and saw it anyway. The roof’s been sorted, and the damp-proofing. Some building work as well. Things are going to start changing, and I thought you’d all like to come and see what’s going on? It’s part of your community, after all. I was even thinking of gathering some information about its history, putting it on the website eventually …’
This is a major step forward for Tom – actively inviting strangers into his territory. Maybe Rick Grimes isn’t the only one benefiting from training, maybe the treats Tom always receives at the café are conditioning him to respond differently to people as well.
‘Oh, that would be marvellous!’ says Edie, clasping her tiny wrinkled hands together. ‘Will you take me, Becca? I’d love to see it again. It was very different, you know, years ago – there were balls and parties and it was the social centre of the whole village. Then during the war, it was used as a base for some very glamorous American airmen who always had chewing gum and nylons … I know the war was a terrible thing, but I have some very happy memories of that time as well. My fiancé and I went to quite a few dances up there at Briarwood, you know.’
We all nod at this, treading carefully, as we always do when Edie’s fiancé is mentioned. She’s already tucked a bottle of what she calls ‘stout’ in her handbag to take home for him later.
‘Aye, I remember some of that,’ chips in Frank, nodding. ‘I was just a kid during the war, but I remember the airmen. They were like film stars to us. And the evacuees, Edie, remember them? Poor little kids from London, with their suitcases and strange accents.’
‘Of course I remember! I was just a young girl myself, back then. We all tried to make them feel welcome, but they must have been terrified, the mites. I was in the Timber Corps in those days, you know.’
She says this last part with great pride, and I try not to look clueless.
Frank notes our confused expressions, and fills in the gaps: ‘You’ll all have heard of the land girls, but there was also a women’s timber corps. We didn’t have enough timber, see, because of Norway being invaded by the Germans …’
He goes a little misty-eyed when he says this and, like Edie, I suspect he also has some fond memories of what was undoubtedly a terrible time.
‘Yes,’ says Edie, sipping her last drop of sherry. ‘I was a lumber jill. Had a nifty little uniform and everything. Anyway! I must be going. Can’t be a dirty stop-out – what would the neighbours say? Tom, I would love to come and see Briarwood, so please don’t forget about me.’
‘I could never forget about you, Edie,’ he replies, standing up like a gentleman and helping her through the crowd of seats. ‘In fact, I think you could be the star of my website.’
She pauses, and strikes a giddy pose, hands under her chin like a Hollywood starlet.
‘I always knew I’d make it big one day! I’ll be insta-famous, like that Kim Kar-do-dah one – I’ll break the internet!’ she replies, before cackling in amusement at the idea.
‘I’ll walk you over,’ says Becca, climbing nimbly over the assembled feet and bags. ‘There’s only so much Diet Coke a girl can take. Plus, Sam is probably making cheese on toast by now and I need to stop him burning the house down.’
Once those two have gone, waving goodbye to half the pub as they leave, linked arm in arm, the party slowly but surely starts to break up. Zoe and Cal make some excuse about needing to go home and check on Martha, and I see Laura and Cherie exchange significant glances across their G&T glasses. Both of them yawn, as though choreographed, and make ‘time for bed’ noises. Laura is the world’s worst actress – it’s official.
I can’t help but grin as they drag their obviously confused menfolk away with them, Matt looking yearningly at the half-pint of Guinness he’s forced to leave behind. Frank is quicker on the uptake, and gives us a salute as he and Cherie wind their way towards the door to a chorus of village farewells.
‘What just happened?’ asks Tom, frowning and looking around at the now-deserted seats and orphaned glasses. There are crumpled crisp packets and randomly scattered peanuts, and Laura has left behind her umbrella, which I collect to pass on the next day. It’s not been raining, but she’s one of those women, Laura – always prepared.
‘What just happened,’ I reply, laughing, ‘is Laura and Cherie giving us some time alone. You know – so we can fall in love and plan our wedding and choose names for our babies?’
‘Oh. Right. Well, in that case, I’d better finish my pint. Celeste and Starbuck.’
‘What?’
‘The babies. Celeste for the girl, and Starbuck for the boy. After my favourite character in the original Battlestar Galactica.’
‘Hmm … well, I can live with Celeste,’ I reply, giving it some thought while I drain my glass. ‘That’s actually really pretty. But I have to use my fictional parent veto power on Starbuck. Everyone would think he was named after a coffee shop. And even worse, they might think we were like the Beckhams, and naming him after the place where he was conceived …’
‘You’re right,’ he says, tidying up the table litter as he speaks. Of course. ‘That’s not classy. I didn’t think of that. What do you suggest?’
‘I suggest we make a move,’ I answer, standing up and gathering my things. ‘And that we give some consideration to naming our son Idris Elba. Everyone would think that was cool.’
I lead Tom out of the pub, shouting goodbye to the bar staff, and we get into his Noddy car for the drive home. We debate the coolness of Idris Elba for a while – undeniable, we both agree – but ultimately decide that it might make him the target of much schoolyard mockery. Settling on a shortlist of Bill Murray, Indiana Jones and Sirius Black takes up a good proportion of the drive back to the cottage, and somehow distracts me from the fact that I’m actually quite drunk.
I notice this more as we approach the road that leads home, and ask him to park a short walk away. I need the air.
‘They might still be up,’ I say, explaining the other reason as I clamber out of the car, just about stopping myself from toppling into a hedgerow that suddenly leaps out in front of me. ‘And I don’t want them to have any wind-up material.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Tom replies, getting out next to me, and placing a steadying hand on my back. ‘We’d be best keeping it quiet until we’ve narrowed down that shortlist. But I will of course be a gentleman, and walk you the whole ninety seconds home.’
‘Good idea,’ I answer, smiling up at him. It’s dark out here – there are no streetlights, and the only illumination comes from a cloudy moon and the silver scattering of stars. ‘Just in case any more hedgerows get frisky with me. How are you handling the quiet now?’
He pauses, and pretends to listen, cupping one hand around his ear.
‘It’s not that quiet, is it?’ he says. ‘Not once you know what you’re hearing. Owls. Foxes. Occasionally cows. The sea, if you’re close enough to the bay. It’s just a different lullaby to the one I’m used to, and I’m growing to like it. In fact, I’m growing to like most things around here.’
‘I noticed that,’ I reply. ‘It was nice, inviting them all out to see Briarwood. Can I stroke your head again? It looks all dark and fuzzy.’
He leans down obligingly, and I run my fingers over the thick fuzz. Lovely – like a velvety carpet.
As we make our way slowly along the lane, he takes my hand in his, and I let it rest there. Maybe it’s the starlight. Maybe it’s the velvety head. Maybe it’s the lager. I don’t know, and I don’t care – because it feels like the most natural thing in the world, and I’m not going to spoil it with too much thinking. Thinking is the enemy of happiness.
We near the end of my driveway, and I glance over the gate at the lights shining from the cottage windows, casting a welcoming yellow glow over the garden. I make a ‘shhh’ gesture with my fingers, not wanting to wake Mum or Auburn up, and we stand silently together, breathing in the warm night air and listening to the solitary hoot of the tawny owls that live in the woods nearby.
‘This is funny, isn’t it?’ I whisper, reluctant to say goodnight. ‘Sneaking around like this. Does it remind you of being a teenager?’
‘Not so much,’ he whispers back, smiling sadly. ‘I was living in Briarwood, and hiding in my room most of the time, wishing I was Starbuck.’
I reach up, and stroke the side of his face, feeling suddenly sad for him. What a lonely childhood he must have had.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, letting my hand come to rest on his shoulder.
‘Don’t be,’ he answers, pulling me closer towards him, so our hips meet and our faces are inches apart. ‘Don’t be sorry, because everything in life leads on to everything else, doesn’t it? Like the great George Michael once said …’
‘Turn a different corner and we never would have met?’
‘That’s the one. And right now? I get the feeling I’ve turned the corners I needed to turn. I get the feeling I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, at exactly the time I’m supposed to be there, and with exactly the right person.’
I know the kiss is coming. I see the light reflected in the deep brown liquid of his eyes, and feel his fingers tilt up my chin, and sigh as his hand tangles up into my hair.
I know the kiss is coming – but I don’t know how good it’s going to be.
I am expecting a drunken fumble, maybe something we’ll giggle over tomorrow – an awkward battle of the noses, maybe, or an accidental clash of foreheads. The usual first kiss hilarity.
What I actually get, though … well, what I actually get is quite simply the best kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life. Gentle but confident; slow and easy; starting warm and building to hot, it’s a kiss that takes its time. A kiss that knows its business. A kiss that tells me Tom might be unsure of himself in many ways, but this isn’t one of them.
I hold onto his shoulders, feeling the solid bulk of the man beneath the jersey of his T-shirt, and give myself over to it, letting myself sway into him, his arm holding me steady as he slowly and surely reduces me to a trembling mess of girl.
When we eventually pull apart, he sweeps my ruffled hair away, holds my face between both his hands, and lays a soft kiss on the end of my nose. He breaks out the lopsided grin, and gives me a wink as he finally moves away. I lean against the fence post, and relearn how to breathe.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he says, as he retreats down the pathway. ‘Sweet dreams, Willow …’
I stand there for a few minutes, watching until he disappears into the shadows, listening until I hear his car door close, and the noise of his engine starting up. I hear the Fiat move off, and I hear the tawny owl whistling – I swear it sounds impressed – and I can even hear my own heart thudding in my chest. At least that’s what it feels like.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts, and walk towards the cottage. I say walk, it’s more of a float, really. I’m shaken and stirred and completely manboozled, as my mother might say. My feet crunch on the gravel, my head’s in the clouds, and I feel like every nerve ending in my body is tingling. My lips feel tender, and I touch them with my own fingers, already replaying the whole scene in my mind.
I unlock the doors, glad that Auburn remembered the security precautions, and drift through the cottage. The living room is empty and the TV has been left on, but I don’t care. The kitchen is peppered with dirty plates and leftover pizza, but I don’t care. The milk is out, as is the butter, but guess what? I really don’t care.
I dump my bag on the kitchen table, and walk down the corridor towards my mum’s room. I peek my head through the partially open door to do my usual late-night check, and see that her bed is empty. That, I do care about, and I bite down on a surge of panic as I trot towards the Boys’ Room.
I open the door as quietly as I can, and my mind is immediately put at rest. Auburn is out for the count on one single bed, dark red hair cascading over the pillow, legs twitching slightly, not even fully at rest in her sleep. Mum is in the other bed, curled up and peaceful, wearing a zebra-print onesie. Between the two of them, on the bedside table, a CD player is still issuing low-level whale sounds, and a stick of incense has burned down to its floppy ash remnants. All is well with the world.
I smile, taking a mental photo of the two of them, and pad down to my own room. I fling off my clothes, still feeling a bit wobbly from both my night out and a very fine kissing, and curl up beneath the duvet. Bella has been waiting for me, and contorts herself into a very small ball next to my head. She raises one whiskery eyebrow at me, and I know she’s asking a question.
‘I did have a very good night, yes, thank you, Bella,’ I say, reaching out to stroke her ears, unable to get what I know must be a very silly grin off my face. ‘And right now? I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, at exactly the time I’m supposed to be there, and with exactly the right dog.’