My sister is driving us in her Ford Fiesta, and this is making me nervous. She drives like she lives – full on. Her nervous energy and constantly moving limbs translate into an aggressive journey, sharp jolts of the gears accompanied by abrupt turns and last-minute brake-slamming.
Her constant yells at the lunacy of other drivers, as she cuts them up and fails to indicate at roundabouts, is only matched by the loudness of her singing along to Adele.
‘We’re rolling in the deeee-eeee-eep!’ she bellows, as we bounce along A-roads in darkest Cornwall.
‘You have the singing voice of an angel,’ I say, looking back at Bella, who is curled up in a ball behind us, one paw over her face as though she’s trying to block out the noise.
‘I know, right? I should audition for The X Factor …’
I snort at the thought of that – she’s just crazy enough to do it, Auburn. She’s certainly crazy enough to have planned this outing for us, and I guess her crazy must be infectious, because here I am, sitting right by her side as we head on an odyssey into the past.
Mum is on a day out with Carole and the team at the day centre. It’s a special day that’s been organised for dementia sufferers, focused on memory work and creative ways to support it. There’ll be crafts, classes, and music – basically it seems right up her street. Carole had seemed a little flustered when we dropped her off, stressed about the latest funding crisis, but Mum didn’t pick up on that and was looking forward to her outing. To be specific, she was looking forward to ‘helping the old people’.
Tom is busy at Briarwood, and it’s the day the café is closed, so Auburn and I found ourselves in the very rare position of having time to ourselves. Heaven forbid we spend it lounging around in our pyjamas, eating a tub of Cadburys Heroes and watching a Spongebob marathon – my first choice. Oh no, we had to do something. Go on an adventure. Stir up trouble.
‘Tell me again why we’re doing this?’ I say, sipping coffee from my flask and watching the rolling green hills slide by from the window. It’s been raining this morning, and the landscape looks like it’s just come out of a wash cycle. It’s not that different from Dorset out here in the wilds of the West Country, but I still feel like I’m in a foreign land.
‘Because I want to? Isn’t that enough?’ she says, beeping at the car in front, who is daring to drive at the actual speed limit.
‘Nope.’
‘Okay, we’re doing this because … because Mum is changing. She’s kind of disappearing in some ways. She remembers some of the past really vividly, but we get a distorted view of it. And because her past is part of ours, I just want to reconnect with it.’
‘Reconnect? That’s a terrible word,’ I reply, frowning at her. ‘Next you’ll be saying you’re going on a journey. Have you become American?’
‘Well, I did watch an entire series of The Biggest Loser last night, so I’m feeling quite at one with the motivational life coach lingo.’
‘That sounds like an exciting night,’ I answer, cringing as she takes a whole branch off one of the hedgerows.
‘We can’t all be out razzling and dazzling with our dashing inventor boyfriends.’
‘We weren’t razzling or dazzling – we were having a pint with Matt after dog training classes. And he’s not my boyfriend.’
She turns to give me a sarcastic look, and I gesture for her to look at the road instead. Driving with Auburn is possibly the most terrifying experience of my life.
‘Whatever … Anyway. Look, I want to do this, okay? We’ve never been a very conventional family, have we? It’s not like we have a lot of background history, or a family tree in an old bible. If I was asked to go on Who Do You Think You Are? – the non-celeb edition – I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.
‘I remember my dad, and I remember life at the commune, but only just. Pre-digital so hardly any photos. It’s hazy, and I’m never sure when Mum’s talking about it how much is real, and how much is a construct. I swear to God the other day she started talking about something I thought was a family story, and halfway through I realised she was describing a plot from Emmerdale in the nineties. I only noticed when she started talking about the aeroplane crash.’
I have to laugh at that one. She’s done the same with me before, telling me what I thought was a sad and revealing story about her childhood, that turned out to be a synopsis of an episode of Tracy Beaker.
Auburn has a point – we don’t know much about our background. I, in particular, know very little. Mum was a free spirit, and obviously classed little things like marriage and naming dads on birth certificates as boring technicalities she could live without.
‘Besides – doesn’t it bother you?’ she asks. ‘Not knowing who your father is?’
I shrug, and sip some more coffee. I may have had one pint too many last night.
‘I don’t think about it that much,’ I say, honestly. ‘I’ve never believed that I am the sum of my parents’ private parts, you know? But I suppose as Mum’s Alzheimer’s has progressed, I have thought about it all a bit more.
‘She’s always been evasive, and now she has a condition that completely lets her off the hook – even now, she clams up, and looks a bit embarrassed if it ever comes up. I think everything that’s happened with her has made me a bit more … aware, maybe? Aware of the fact that we can’t take what we know, or what we think we know, for granted. It’s one of the reasons I started keeping a notepad as well.’
Auburn’s tapping her fingertips on the steering wheel, listening to me and also to the sat nav, and suddenly whirls the wheel to the right to change lanes and take a turning into a quiet one-track country lane. God help any fool who dares to be driving in the opposite direction.
‘Well maybe we’ll have more material for you after this,’ she says, narrowing her eyes as she looks ahead. ‘And you can write about things other than Tom, and how dreamy he is. Look – I think that’s it …’
I ignore her comment about Tom – this is a key survival tactic with Auburn – and follow her gaze as we approach another turning. The mud has been churned up after the rain, and thick tyre tracks have been left where off-road vehicles have driven in and out. There’s a sign, hand-painted on what looks like driftwood, that tells us we’ve arrived at the Twisted Sisters Artists’ Retreat, with a picture of an eerie stone circle beneath it.
‘The Twisted Sisters – is there a stone circle here?’ I ask, as Auburn pulls into the car park.
‘From memory, it’s less of a circle, and more two lumps of rock on a hill. Maybe there were more, once. God, this is weird …’
We get out of the car, and I leave the back doors open in case Bella wants to get out. She doesn’t. Auburn is standing still, hands on hips, looking around her. Her hair is loose and shining, and she’s wearing her biker-boots-and-skinny-jeans combo, along with some kind of ethnic knit with brightly coloured stripes and geometric designs. She looks completely at home in this place.
I give it a quick once-over, and am actually a bit surprised by what I see. I suppose I have these inherited folk memories of camp fires and feral children and mushroom tea, and expect it all to be a lot more … seventies.
In reality, it’s all pretty neat and well-kept, with a couple of rows of old brick terraces, a central courtyard dotted with baskets and pots full of flowers and lavender sprigs, and a building that seems to be an office.
‘Is this how you remember it?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows.
‘Kind of … but it seems smaller. Or maybe I’m bigger. And it seemed a bit wilder in my mind as well. It definitely seems a lot more business-like than it used to. And did you notice the sign said it was a retreat, not a commune? Maybe these days they do mindfulness workshops and help rich people improve their watercolour techniques.’
‘Maybe. Only one way to find out, I suppose …’
I head towards the office building, and she follows behind, suddenly more quiet and timid than I’m used to. I suppose this must be, to use a technical term, a bit of a head-fuck.
I push open the office door, and find that it’s also a shop. There are framed paintings hanging on the walls, tiny price tags hanging from their corners, as well as all kinds of home-made produce – jam and honey and free-range eggs and mead and elderberry wine and gnarled loaves of bread. It smells of incense, and there’s wafting hippy background chanting playing, and I can totally imagine my mother in here.
Auburn browses around the shop, while we wait for someone to emerge from the back room in response to the tinkling of the doorbell.
When that someone does emerge, again it’s not quite what I expected. I’ve been anticipating someone who looks like a Cornish Gandalf, or a woman wearing a tie-dye kaftan – instead, a tall, good-looking guy dressed like a farmer pops his head around the corner. He looks to be in his forties, and is wearing clean, pressed cargo pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over sinewy arms.
He gives us both a big, beaming smile, and basically exudes a healthy, outdoorsy vibe, his thick brown hair still damp from the morning’s rain. He looks a bit like the George Clooney of the artists’ commune world.
‘Good morning!’ he says, walking out into the shop space. ‘Welcome to the Twisted Sisters! How can I help you today?’
I can see Auburn gazing at him, mouth slightly open, and just know that she’s about to make up some crazy story that involves her watercolour skills and the need to be naked in a teepee. I step right in to head her off at the lying pass, because there simply isn’t any need for it.
‘Hi there – we were wondering if it would be all right to have a look around? My sister here lived on the commune when she was a child, and fancied a trip down memory lane. Would you mind?’
He stares at Auburn some more, as though trying to place her, taking in her height and her hair and obviously attempting to make some connections that aren’t quite falling into place. She would have been, what, five or six when she left? I’m guessing she’s changed a bit.
‘Of course it would – feel free. But before you do, why don’t you come in for a cuppa? I’ve just put the kettle on. I was probably living here then, so maybe I can help?’
We nod, and follow him through into the back room. I catch Auburn eyeing up his arse as he goes – it is, to be fair, a good arse – and nudge her hard to tell her to behave herself. She grins, and makes a little bump and grind gesture with her hips to let me know exactly what she’s thinking. Just in case, you know, I was completely stupid.
The office is not at all what I thought it would be. It’s clean and uncluttered and the bare brick walls are painted entirely white, giving it a cool antique minimalist look. There’s smooth blonde wood furniture, a MacBook Air, and a tidy pile of papers he’s obviously been working on.
He disappears off into yet another room – maybe they get smaller, like in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory – and we hear him clunking pottery and pouring water. He comes back carrying the drinks, all in mugs bearing the name of the Twisted Sister Retreat. It’s a lot more corporate than I thought, and I find myself looking around in curiosity as we settle into the guest chairs across from his desk.
‘Not what you expected?’ he asks, noting my inspection and smiling. He sounds amused, not insulted.
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Cleaner? Tidier? No topless women wrapped in Aztec blankets?’
I nod, and smile, uncertain how to react.
‘That’s okay. I keep them all in the back room, ready for our campfire orgies. My name’s Robert, by the way. I run this place – by which, of course, I mean I lead the co-operative. I was born here, and took over from my dad, Malcolm, a few years back. When was it you were here?’
He looks at Auburn, who is fidgeting with the hem of her jumper and staring at him intently. Her face breaks out into a grin, and she says: ‘I remember you! You were a lot older than us, but I remember you – Blister Bum Bobby!’
I groan a little inside, but he bursts out laughing, and points at Auburn like she’s caught him out in something. He has a good laugh, one of those that you catch.
‘Right! That’s me … I had an unfortunate incident when I was doing a daring backwards slip-and-slide off the rocks into the lake, when I was about ten, and got called that for years afterwards. What can I say? Happy times – but please call me Robert in public, I’ve got a rep to protect! So, that dates things. What’s your name, and who were you here with? You’re far too young to have been here on your own.’
‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ says Auburn, actually batting her eyelashes at him. ‘I’m Auburn Longville, and I lived here with my brothers Angel and Van, and our dad, who died when we were little, and our mum—’
‘Lynnie Longville,’ he finishes for her, the words coming out as something of a sigh. We look at each other in confusion as we watch his face go from jovial and welcoming to something altogether more wistful. Robert gazes off into the distance, over our heads and through the window at the fields beyond.
He realises he’s been quiet for too long, and snaps himself out of it.
‘Sorry – lost in space for a minute there. Yes, I remember you now – your hair was a lot shorter, and you looked like an angry boy. Van was older, wasn’t he? And Angel was the cherub with the blonde curls. It was so sad when your dad died. Lynnie … well, she did her best. She always did. She was an inspirational woman. I missed her when she left. I mean, we all did. She never even said goodbye, and I always wondered what had happened to her …’
He drifts off again, and I look at Auburn as she mouths the words ‘what the fuck?’ to me. I shrug, and make a haven’t-got-a-clue gesture.
‘Your mum and dad were really good friends with my mum and dad,’ he says, explaining. ‘When your father passed, we all spent a lot of time together. I was only nineteen or twenty at the time, but, well … she was a special lady. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you two that. Is she … still around?’
He sounds ridiculously hopeful as he says this, and it’s obvious that the younger Robert had a massive crush on Lynnie Longville. My mother – the femme fatale. I think it’s sweet, but Auburn is starting to look horrified.
She pauses, chews her lip, and stares, before finally, she nods, abruptly. She starts to tap her fingernails on the desk, and then slugs down all her tea in one go, like it’s medicine she doesn’t like the taste of. She stands up quickly, and looks agitated. I have no idea what’s wrong with her, but I get up as well. Looks like our trip down memory lane is coming to an early finish.
‘She is,’ replies Auburn. ‘Alive and well, thanks for asking. And thanks for the tea. And thanks for the talk. And … well, thanks. I think we’ll go and have that wander, now, if that’s still all right? We need to get home in time for our cheese and wine tasting.’
Robert looks confused by the sudden change in mood, and I’m confused by the sudden appearance of a cheese and wine tasting. He nods, and stands up to see us out.
‘Of course. It was lovely to see you again, and to meet you – I’m sorry, what’s your name?’ he asks, holding his hand out to shake mine.
‘She’s Willow,’ says Auburn, quickly, bustling me out of the room, through the shop, and into the courtyard so fast I barely have time to wave goodbye.
‘Say hello to her for me, won’t you? To Lynnie?’ shouts Robert from the doorway, as we leave.
‘Will do! Bye now!’Auburn yells back, saluting him, and practically running off into the distance. I scoot after her as fast as my boots will carry me, eventually catching up at the foot of a hill behind the buildings. I look up to the top, and see the two Twisted Sisters, smooth stone glinting in the sunlight.
‘Race you up …!’ she says, and starts to jog before she even finishes the sentence. I chase, and overtake, and am standing at the top of the hill laughing at her by the time she reaches the crest.
She sits down on the grass, ignoring the fact that it’s damp.
‘I really must give up smoking …’ she says, as she lights a cigarette and takes a deep, desperate puff. I clamber down next to her, grimacing slightly as I feel my leggings go all moist – and not in a good way.
I give her a minute to smoke, and look down from our perch. It really is a beautiful view – the rolling fields and hills a patchwork of every shade of green nature has to offer; the blue sky crashing down to meet them; the distant Norman castle in the little market town of Launceston clear on the horizon.
I amuse myself making a daisy chain until she finishes the cigarette, waiting for her to stub it out on the damp grass. She looks around, realises that there isn’t a handy ashtray up here by ye ancient stone circle, and pops the end into her jeans pocket with a little shrug.
‘So,’ I say, eventually. ‘What was that all about? One minute you’re flirting with him, and the next you’re galloping out of there like your knickers are on fire!’
She looks at me disbelievingly, and shakes her head as though I’ve just won the World’s Greatest Moron championships. Yay, I’m a winner.
‘You really didn’t figure it out?’ she says, sounding shocked.
‘Figure what out? That you’re bonkers? Because, yes.’
‘No! You didn’t notice the way he looked when he talked about Mum?’
‘Of course I did – he turned into a lovestruck teenager, which is weird in a man who seemed otherwise sensible, and must be, what, in his mid-forties? He was obviously completely ga-ga about her.’
Auburn nods, and waits. And waits some more. And pulls a face at me.
‘Okay. Let me put my hypothesis into plainer terms,’ she replies, starting to actually look amused now.
‘Go ahead,’ I say. ‘I’m just a simple country girl, making a simple daisy chain …’
‘Right. Here goes. Pay attention, country girl. Robert, when he was nineteen or twenty, was clearly in love with our mother. Are you with me so far?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I reply.
‘Good. So then my dad died, and as we’ve both gathered from her, she struggled afterwards. And then, not too long after, she found out she was pregnant with you and for some reason, she uprooted us all and did a runner two counties over. We never got an explanation for that – she literally just bundled us all up in a moving van one day, it was kind of horrible to be honest.’
‘That wasn’t my fault …’
‘I know,’ she says, looking at me like I’m mad. ‘Nobody thinks it was, as you were a foetus at the time – it was still horrible though. Anyway, that’s not the issue. The issue is this – I don’t think the Angel of the Lord came down to create you, Willow – I think Bobby Blister Bum did.’
I drop my daisy chain, and stare at her, eyes wide. I want to tell her it’s nonsense – but now she’s pointed it out, I can’t argue with her logic. I mean, the timing fits at least.
‘Don’t you see?’ she asks, prodding me. ‘It explains it all. Why she left in such a hurry. Why she cut ties with the place. Why she’s always embarrassed and avoids the issue. It’s because our mum was a cougar, before the word was even invented – she had a fling with her friends’ kid, and then ran away to hide the evidence! And the worst thing is, I was even considering shagging him myself …’