Lime and Soda ✓

one - return

I gaze out of the open window as we drive through the Dorset country lanes. The wind whips my hair and numbs my cheeks, but I keep my eyes open, watering, trying to separate the individual blades of grass from the blurring mass of green as we speed past. My eyes threaten to close against the wind so I turn my gaze to my right, to my mum in the driver's seat.

She's always been pretty, my mum. Warm hazel eyes, crinkled at the corners, smile out of a tanned, weather-beaten face, freckled. She has dark hair, long; at the moment it streams back in the wind, a wild mass of waves, and she turns to grin at me.

'Nearly there,' she says.

Every summer, as far back as I can remember, it's been the same. My mum is something of a hippy, and every summer she goes off to some obscure place up north, in the mountains, on a retreat. This means every summer I go to stay with her sister, Bea, in a little town by the sea in Dorset. I love the sea, and Bea and I get on like a house on fire, so this suits me just fine.

We begin to slow down as the van encounters narrower roads, and we have to squeeze into the sides, right up to the dry stone walls, as other cars pass us. Then we pass a little sign: LYME REGIS, PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY. We're here. I could reach my hand out and drag my fingers along the rough stone, if I wanted to, but all too soon Mum is turning off the tiny little lane into a driveway, and we crunch to a halt amidst the gravel. I jump down from the passenger side of Mum's little VW camper, and spot a glimmer of blue caught by the light, out of the corner of my eye. The sea can't be more than a hundred metres from Bea's front doorstep. I turn my head to look at the house, as the door opens and a largish, motherly-looking woman bustles out. She's dressed in a patchworky sort of dress, like a kite, and I picture her getting bigger and bigger until she's blown away, out to sea.

Bea is the opposite to my mother in looks, but her twin in temperament; they're both kind, gentle and welcoming. Bea rushes over and sweeps me up into a hug, and I am well and truly crushed against her patchwork bosom.

'There's my Violet, all grown up!' she croons, as I struggle to escape. 'My, you've grown so tall since last time I saw you!'

Bea says this every year. It's her obligation as an aunt. She finally lets me go and I stagger backwards, trying to draw breath. I help Mum and Bea take my stuff into the house, and then Mum's off. She wraps me in a hug as tight as Bea's, but somehow I feel I can still breathe.

'You be careful,' she says, stroking my hair; I breathe her in, her exotic perfume. She always smells like incense and essential oils - today I can smell patchouli and jasmine. 'Look after yourself. Be smart, darling. I'll see you soon. I love you.'

'I love you,' I echo, wrapping myself in Mum-smell, cocooning myself in it. I decide I'm going to become a chrysalis and stay wrapped in this warm earthy scent forever. Then she pulls apart and grins at me, and I smile too - she looks so happy when she smiles that I have to, though my insides are scrunching themselves into a ball at the thought of her leaving.

Mum speaks over my head to Bea. 'You know what she can and can't eat? And where to go if she runs out of anything?'

Bea nods, reassuring. 'I've had her every summer since she was six, Josie. We'll be just fine, won't we, Vi?'

I nod too. 'I'll be fine, Mum. I'll see you soon. Have fun at your hippy thing.'

Mum laughs and jumps into the driver's seat of the van, and then she's gone. I wave at the little yellow camper as it appears above the hedgerows down the lane, and then she turns right onto the main road, and I can't see her anymore. I stare after her until I realise my right hand is still raised, palm open, towards the gate, and I turn around and head inside.