We sit down next to each other on the rocks, not quite touching, faces staring out towards the sea rather than at each other. I feel terrible, I really do. The physical separation only reflects the mood, and I am full of regret at how I’ve behaved. I’m not the kind of person who plays games, or manipulates, or pretends – I wasn’t raised that way, and I’ve never lived that way, and it’s painful to think that that’s how he’s seeing me right now.
But I have to face it – from his perspective, that’s what’s happening. We kissed. We kissed well. And now, I’m freezing him out. What’s he supposed to think?
‘Tom, I’m sorry,’ I say, as it seems as good a place as any to start. ‘I’m not playing games, honest I’m not. And to use a good, solid cliché – it’s not you, it’s me.’
‘I need more than that, Willow. If you regret what happened between us, that’s okay – I’ll live with it. It won’t be the first time in my life I’ve dealt with rejection. I’m a bloody expert at living with it.’
My guilty feet have definitely got no rhythm by this stage, and I kick my boots into the damp sand, angry with myself. Of course it’s not the first time he’s dealt with rejection – that started when he was just a kid, and nobody in his extended family cared enough to offer him a place in their hearts when his parents died. If my cowardly lion routine has made him feel even the tiniest fraction of that again, I’ll never forgive myself.
I reach out, and snake my fingers into his. He’s stiff at first, and I can only imagine what must be going through his mind, but eventually he relaxes, wrapping my hand in his.
‘Okay,’ I say, edging slightly closer towards him with a classy bum-shuffle. ‘This is the thing.’
‘What’s the thing?’
‘The thing is, I’ve acted like a bit of a dick, and I’m sorry. I don’t regret what happened between us. In fact, I’ve not stopped thinking about it. I’ve not stopped thinking about you. Laura gave me a big talk tonight about needing to be brave, and I thought it was nonsense – but she’s right. I’m scared of this. I’m scared of what’s happening, and might happen, and might not happen. I’m scared of how it will affect my life if it goes wrong – and I’m even more scared of how it will affect my life if it goes right. I’d written off me and men. I’d willingly given up on it all, because I have too much else going on. You know that. And then, you …’
‘And then I come along and mess everything up. Is that it?’
‘Yes! But that makes it sound too harsh. You haven’t messed everything up. You’ve just messed me up.’
‘Messed you up in a bad way? Because honestly, that wasn’t the intention. I don’t go around kissing women just to mess with them. And they usually seem to like it.’
Oh God, I think. I liked it – I liked it too much. That’s the whole problem, I suppose. I liked it so much I could get addicted, and I don’t have time for rehab.
‘Of course I liked it,’ I reply, squeezing his fingers to show him I mean it. ‘I was walking on air for days afterwards. I can’t get you out of my head, Tom, and my head is already a pretty crowded place. I’m just not sure I have space in it for anything else. Or anyone else.’
He turns to look at me, one half of his face in shadow, the other bathed in moonlight. With his short hair and aquiline nose and the cheekbones, he looks like a Roman warrior, rather than a good-looking geek. He also looks frustrated and I can’t say that I blame him. He sighs, shakes his head, and pulls his fingers from mine.
‘That,’ he says, standing up and towering over me, ‘is the story of my life. Don’t worry about it.’
He leans down to drop a quick kiss on my head, and strides off down the beach, heading for God knows where but obviously needing to get away. I’ve said exactly the wrong thing again, and I need to fix it. I jump to my feet, and run after him, grabbing hold of him from behind and turning him around to face me. I reach up, and stroke his cheeks, and wrap my hands around his neck so he can’t escape. His body language says angry – but his face says sad.
‘Don’t go,’ I say, quietly. ‘Especially don’t go down there, because there’s nothing apart from the old boat house and some really steep paths and a load of nettles. But don’t go anywhere. I’m saying this all wrong, and I’m sorry. Give me a chance to try and explain – it’s hard, because I don’t even really understand it myself.’
I feel his arms go around my waist, and my body brought in to his, and he nods, once. I let my hands drift up into his hair – it’s sawdust – and I wipe the smudge of dirt from his face. I take a deep breath. I remember that talk that Laura gave me. I remind myself that Auburn is at home with my mother – that my mum is safe.
That my mum, of all people, would never want me to avoid an adventure. And adventures come in many different shapes and sizes, don’t they? Not all of them involve paragliding over the Andes or walking the Great Wall of China. Some of them are right on your own doorstep.
‘I like you, Tom – I like you a lot. I have done right from that first day we met. You make me laugh, and you get me, and you’re kind and clever and understanding. You love Rick Grimes, and you love Briarwood, and you’re sweet and shy with everyone else, and open with me, which makes me like you even more. Plus, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re hot. I’d been trying to ignore that bit – and then we kissed, and I felt like it changed everything.
‘Since then, you’ve constantly been in my thoughts. I think about you when I wake up, and when I’m at work, and when I’m lying in bed at night. I’ve tried not to, but it isn’t working. And that is scary. I’m not going to apologise for being scared – I can’t help that. But I will apologise for behaving like an idiot tonight, okay? I just … freaked out. I saw you, and I was nervous, and I don’t like feeling nervous, and … this is all new to me, all right?’
He thinks about this for a moment, and puts his hands on the back of my hair, and nestles me into his chest. He smells of wood and work and man, and it’s a glorious place to be nestled. We stand there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the sounds of the bay all around us. If life came with a freeze-frame button, I’d probably use it right now.
‘All right,’ he says, his breath whispering past my ear. ‘I understand. I’ve been the same. I’ve been playing the Willow Show in my mind ever since that night. I’ve been binge-watching the Willow Show, in fact. And this is all new to me as well, you know?
‘You’ve seen how I live. In my own space. That’s behaviour I’ve learned over the years, and it’s not easy to step outside that. I’m scared too. But I’m at least willing to try, if you are – because I think it would be a bloody waste not to, don’t you? Let’s just take this slowly, for both our sakes. Try and enjoy each other, and enjoy the here and now, rather than torturing ourselves with what might be. Neither of us knows that, do we? Unless you really do have Romany blood.’
I shake my head, and burrow even deeper, wiping my face against his T-shirt.
‘Are you crying down there?’ he asks, tipping my chin up so I’m forced to look at him.
‘No,’ I reply, knowing that the moonlight is probably reflecting off my tears and making me look a bit like a sad clown. ‘I just have allergies.’
He uses his thumbs to gently wipe away the tears, and kisses the marks they’ve left. He looks at me, smiling. ‘What are you allergic to?’
‘Emotional intimacy, apparently. Look, I am sorry, honestly. I didn’t want to hurt you – I was just protecting myself, and that’s stupid. I can’t live like that. My life is complicated, but you know that. And … I trust you. That’s a big deal, so don’t screw it up, all right?’
He nods, and promises he won’t, and then he kisses me. He kisses me for what feels like an eternity, and by the time he stops, my head is spinning, my knees are weak, and the waves are starting to lap at our ankles as the tide comes in.
‘Come on,’ he says, holding me steady in his arms. ‘I’ll give you a piggyback up to the café.’
‘Promise you won’t
drop me?’ I ask.
‘Never,’ he replies, so firmly I dare to believe him.
Chapter 22
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.
Sunshine at the Comfort Food Café Page 19