Home Truths (12 page)

‘McCabe,’ said Mr Merifeld the landlord, with a grave shake of his head, ‘sounds right costly to me.’

‘Merifield,’ said Django, ‘What's money? I can't take it with me and I
am
well into my eighth decade.’

‘Marquees don't come cheap,’ said Mr Merifield.

‘Tents it is then!’ Django exclaimed, to much raucous approval.

By the time the four men made their somewhat unsteady passage up the garden path after a lock-in at the Rag and Thistle, Django's party had been planned to an imaginative degree; the minutiae mapped out down to the wording of the invites, the order of speeches and cleverly themed play-lists for each hour.

‘The devil is in the details,’ Matt justified, with drunken solemnity.

‘Then the devil can come too!’ Django proclaimed. ‘Who's for a cup of tea or a nightcap?’

‘Nightcap,’ said Ben.

‘Nightcap,’ said Matt.

‘Nightcap,’ said Zac.

Ben gave Django a hand, while Zac checked on Tom and Matt tiptoed in on Cosima and Fen, who sleepily protested that he reeked of booze.

‘Django,’ Ben said cautiously, while he searched under the kitchen sink and found a bottle of cognac shoulder to shoulder with Domestos, ‘are you happy with your health? Is all well?’

In the context of the lightness of the evening's conversation, Ben's question surprised Django. ‘I'm in rude health, doctor,’ he declared, placing four enormous brandy balloons on a tray.

‘Any concerns?’ Ben pressed. ‘However minor?’

‘I can't shift and shunt the beds about like I used to,’ Django joked.

‘It's my job to notice that you appear to go to the loo a lot,’ said Ben. ‘Have you noticed an increase in this? Pain? Discomfort? Any change in the old waterworks?’

‘You cheeky whippersnapper,’ Django protested, ‘don't you go calling my waterworks old.’

‘I'm just saying perhaps a check-up might be a good idea,’ Ben said evenly.

Django didn't reveal that He'd thought the same himself. He didn't tell Ben He'd gone so far as keeping an appointment with the GP.

But the GP turned out to be a girl who looked no more than twelve. Don't doctors seem younger and younger these days? I'd really rather not discuss my waterworks with a young lady. I had to invent a sore throat as the purpose of my visit. She told me to go easy on the Tabasco. And she recommended Strepsils. Jolly nice they are too.

‘Django?’ Ben was saying. ‘There are basic steps you can take – restrict fluid intake after 6 p.m., cut down alcohol and caffeine. Limit spicy food. Increase fish, carrots, broccoli. And exercise.’

Django nodded thoughtfully. ‘Life would be a bit of a bore,’ he said.

‘Just cut down on some stuff and increase other things. Invent new stews,’ Ben suggested.

Django was about to respond but then Matt and Zac were joining them again, switching the conversation back to party planning.

He's Not There

If the devil is in the details, if the pleasure is in the planning, then the fun is in the fantasy. Though Fen knew well enough how reality can let a daydream down, that Monday she made sure she forgot. Though she was aware that the planning might well be pointless, she happily indulged herself. Though she knew that her own guardian devil was guiding her, she turned deaf ears to her conscience. All her conscience wanted to say was
Think about it – what is the point?
But for Fen, just then, the point was that her imagination had been ignited and running with it was fun. And wasn't it refreshing to have the energy and the desire to spend a little time choosing what to wear? And didn't it seem entertainingly decadent to put mascara on in the daytime? And wasn't it fun to think about something other than baby food for a little while? And when it all seemed suddenly fanciful, questionable even, Fen simply justified that Cosima needed some nice fresh air. And wasn't a stroll up Bishops Avenue as good a route as any? And if further corroboration was needed, then a date with Cat at the café in Kenwood House provided it.

‘He's not there,’ Fen said to Cosima as they walked up the Bishops Avenue, ‘but there again, why would he be?’ She walked on, mulling theories on coincidence, unrealistic expectations and downright improbability. She stopped to pick up Cosima's teething rings. She looked back over her shoulder to the tree and the flowers. ‘Shall we leave a little note?’ she asked. ‘there's no harm in that. It would be friendly, wouldn't it – might make his sad task a little less so.’ She turned the buggy and retraced her steps.

Hi Al!

Cosima and I were passing.

I noticed a couple of Kay's daffodils were looking peaky so I've removed them.

Hope That's OK.

Fen.

‘Shall we leave Mummy's mobile number too? I mean, It's no big deal, is it, It's just a friendly gesture – communication being a global thing.’ Fen added her number after her name.

She set off for Kenwood in earnest and thought to herself how She'd just done the right thing.

It's not like I'm hoping he'll call. It's not like I'm swept up in daft daydreams.
She spent the rest of the route distinguishing between the Daydream and the Distraction.

There's a major distinction between the two. A daydream can be pointless, a distraction useful.

It was with a spring in her step that she crunched along the sweep of gravel driveway heralding Kenwood House.

Cat was already there, sitting in the converted coach house, caressing a cup of tea. Fen zoomed the buggy over to her, mimicking a screech of brakes with her voice. An elderly
couple looked slightly alarmed, as if that was no way to handle a buggy, as if babies should be in nice coach-built prams, not bizarre three-wheeled monstrosities.

Though they'd spent all weekend together, Fen gave Cat a kiss and a hug. She took Cosima from her buggy.

‘Here, you cuddle your Auntie Cat,’ she told the baby. ‘Mummy's going to get herself an enormous slice of cake.’

‘You're chirpy,’ Cat told Fen on her return, declining the gateaux that Fen had bought.

‘And you look miserable,’ Fen commented, giving Cosima an organic sugar-free rusk. ‘Everything OK?’

‘I feel glum,’ Cat admitted, ‘and I want to be allowed to feel glum. So thank God You're not Pip.’

‘What's up?’ Fen asked, spooning butter-cream from the cake's surface directly into her mouth.

‘I'm not pregnant. I don't have a job. I don't like Clapham. Ben's never home and I wish I'd stayed in Colorado,’ Cat declared.

‘Cat,’ Fen said, ‘you've only been home two minutes.’

‘It's been three months,’ Cat corrected. ‘I've had sex forty-two times and have sent out nineteen pre-emptive letters for jobs. Nothing.’

‘Cat, you make the former sound like a chore and You're being unrealistic about the latter,’ Fen admonished her lightly.

‘And you sound like Pip,’ said Cat, ‘so stop it because I need you to be the one who there-theres me.’

Fen paused to consider this. It was true. Go to Pip for practical advice and accept her authority. Go to Fen for a hug and be assured of some plain sympathy. ‘It takes time,’ Fen soothed, ‘both take time.’

‘You got pregnant overnight!’ Cat objected.

‘It wasn't planned,’ Fen said.

‘Then It's not fair,’ said Cat.

Fen looked at her younger sister apologetically and put
her hand over Cat's. ‘Come back to mine this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Let's look at my books and magazines. There's sure to be Ten Top Tips For Tip Top Fertility or something.’ Though Fen made it sound as though she was doing Cat the favour, privately she liked the idea of a way out of the mumsand-babies group.

‘What's wrong with Clapham anyway?’ Fen asked. ‘I thought it was meant to be quite a happening place?’

‘I stick out like a sore thumb,’ Cat said. ‘All the women bustle about with perfect children, or sit smug behind the wheels of their SUVs.’

‘But That's your goal too,’ Fen said, ‘That's what You're hoping for. And actually, it doesn't sound dissimilar to this part of North London.’

‘But while It's not happening for me, it makes me feel so isolated,’ said Cat, ‘and It's made me realize that I really want to be nearer to you. And Pip. I felt less far away when I was living in Colorado – how mad is that? I feel lonely stuck over the river. Ben's really upbeat about his job but He's working really long hours. I haven't made any friends. I miss Stacey and the gang in Boulder. And I miss my mountain.’

‘Your what?’ Fen asked.

‘Flagstaff. Remember that hike we went on? That's my mountain. You saw where Ben and I lived, Fen. You saw the awesome wilderness right on our doorstep. You filled your lungs with that crystal-pure air. You stayed in our gorgeous apartment. You hung out with our mates. You saw how people drive SUVs out there because of the terrain, not fashion. You had a taste of our quality of life.’

‘But you wanted to come back,’ Fen pointed out. ‘It was part of your game plan and you were adamant.’

‘I know,’ said Cat, ‘It's true. We had a purpose. A goal. Hopes and dreams. Absolutely. But you see, It's March, It's
been three long months and none of it has happened. And in that context It's really difficult to like Clapham. And It's bloody easy to wonder whether we've done the right thing. You know me – I love planning in my head but in reality I can't set the pace. I was so eager to return, I suppose I've been a bit deluded too – thinking nothing will have changed, like everything has been on hold for four years, awaiting my return.’

Fen nodded. She rubbed her sister's knee. She wondered what constructive advice she could give. But then she thought, That's Pip's job. What Cat wanted her to be was typical Fen just then. ‘I understand,’ she said, with a ruffle to Cat's hair. It was still short, but longer than that stunning elfin crop She'd arrived back in the UK with. ‘It will happen, Cat. I promise you. Everything will be fine. Don't worry – That's the main thing. You'll make a wonderful mummy. We'll pick up brochures from estate agents on the way back to mine. Make some appointments for next week. There's a new kitchen design shop in Muswell Hill – we could go there after Cosima's nap.’

‘Thanks, Fen,’ Cat said, squeezing her sister's hand, ‘That's just what I needed to hear.’

Walking back down Bishops Avenue, Fen considered crossing the road as they neared Al's flowers. It was as if they suddenly personified Al; that Cat might see something she shouldn't, make something out of nothing. While Fen didn't want Cat even to comment on the flowers, she knew she needed to bite her tongue herself. Must not make a bouquet out of a hasty posy. Must not read into this. Must not say anything out loud.

Her note had gone.

A piece of folded paper was tucked between the stems of a few daffodils and the trunk of the tree. As they passed by, Fen could see her name written on the paper. Neat and bold
handwriting. There was no way she could take it just then and though she didn't resent Cat, she reprimanded herself for having invited her forlorn little sister back home with her.

I wonder what it says?

I suppose I'll have to wait until Matt's home before I can retrieve it.

But say That's too late? It's windy. It looks like it might rain.

It's exciting!

Of course Fen couldn't wait for Matt. Could you? She nipped out while Cosima slept, supposedly to the shops, leaving Cat snuggled up on the sofa with back issues of
Prima Baby
and the property section of the
Ham & High
.

The note just said ‘Thanks, Fen. Alistair.’ There wasn't much to read. Certainly, nothing could be read into it. But she quickly reconfigured a crashing disappointment into no big deal. It was nice, anyway, wasn't it? Nice of him to reply, and nice to have a tiny, harmless secret.

However, it was difficult not to feel a little glum when, a week later, Fen saw that the flowers had been taken down. That there'd been no phone call to her mobile phone. It made it difficult to know what to do with his note. She'd kept it folded and tucked into a book of stamps in her purse. She'd have to throw it away, and her silly fantasy with it. The note was only three words long, after all, and you could hardly read into those. It wasn't as if it was even long enough for there to be any lines to read between.

April Fool

Penny had specified no flowers at Bob's funeral. She didn't much like flowers – not cut ones. You cut flowers and then the natural process decrees that you witness them die. Why be reminded of death by things that are themselves dying? Much better to say
‘No flowers. Donations to the Lance Armstrong Cancer Foundation’
. Lucky Lance – cancer hadn't killed him, like it had Bob. Perhaps if other mourners over recent years had boosted the funds of cancer charities, rather than the coffers of the funerary florists, then things might have been different for Bob. Wishful thinking, perhaps – but what else could she think about or wish for?

She didn't feel like going out. But she knew it wasn't sensible to mope around the house. Not at this time of day. It would make the wait until bedtime interminable. Marcia was back from Florida and Penny thought to phone her, but they already had an arrangement for the next day and she didn't want to come across as needy. Marcia would worry. And when Marcia worried, she would fuss. And Penny had never liked being fussed over. So she summoned up some sense and energy and went out for a drive. Just a drive, she told herself, no rush to be anywhere specific. It was a fine
day, though there was a chill to the air – the sharp brilliance of April sunshine issued a defiant dismissal of winter. Just beyond Hubbardton's Spring, Penny stepped from the car to admire the herd of unusual red-and-white Holstein cattle peacefully chomping away at the lush spring grass. She gazed at the cows for a while and found she was often gazed back at. ‘I'll see you in a moment, ladies,’ she said, marvelling how beasts so lumbering and lugubrious could also be unequivocally female. She walked to the famous covered bridge a few yards ahead. She read from the plaque aloud because she didn't want to hear Bob's voice in her head. He'd loved this spot: postcard perfect yet untainted by commercialism. ‘
1872. Horsemen keep at a walk
,’ Penny read. She glanced around her. ‘If they went at a trot, the bridge would bounce,’ she explained conversationally, though there was no one around. ‘It was used as a boxing ring too, you know.’ Suddenly, she found the sound of her voice a little embarrassing – talking to no one sounded worse than talking to cattle – so she walked briskly back to the car, nodding quickly to the cows on her way. Making much of the correlation between the rich Holstein milk and the ingredients for Vermont ice cream, Penny headed off for Ridge as if the idea to drive there for an ice cream had only then occurred to her.