Home Truths (14 page)

‘Pip?’ Zac was incredulous. ‘Pip Isn't remotely broody!’

‘Have you asked her?’

‘We discussed it before we got married,’ Zac said.

‘Tick-tock tick-tock,’ said Ben, with a shrug. ‘Biological clock, mate, biological clock.’

‘We have Tom,’ Zac exclaimed, ‘our family is complete.’

‘Talking about tick-tock,’ said Matt, glancing at the old clock above the bar, ‘one for the road? My round. We need to discuss the music for the party.’

‘A soundtrack to Django's life?’ Ben said.

‘It's going to be a memorable night,’ Zac said. ‘Take tissues. You know how over-emotional the McCabes become en masse.’

‘Has Django been all right?’ Ben asked. ‘His health? The last couple of years?’

‘I think so,’ said Zac and Matt nodded. ‘He always has a comedy moan about gammy hips and old bones and such. Why do you ask?’

‘It's probably nothing,’ said Ben. ‘I'm trained to notice things, I suppose. Age can creep up on a person in quite a sudden way.’

‘Pip grills him about how he is on a weekly basis,’ Zac said. ‘She goes through a checklist which covers everything from the freezer to the hot water to his bones and brain.’

‘The trouble is, though Django's such a big character and he appears so robust – He's seventy-five.’

‘Or at least he will be next weekend,’ said Matt.

‘Here's to a great party,’ said Zac, ‘and to Django McCabe's very good health.’

‘Here's to Fen,’ Ben said, knocking his beer bottle against Matt's pint glass.

‘And to Cat,’ said Zac.

‘And Pip,’ said Matt. They drank.

‘Swing Out Sister,’ said Ben, ‘remember them? Are they in your collection, Zac?’

‘Sisters of Mercy,’ said Matt.

‘Sister Sledge,’ said Zac.

‘Scissor Sisters,’ said Matt.

‘As if having two older sisters wasn't enough,’ Ben laughed, ‘I have two sisters-in-law too.’

Zac thought about what Pip had said that morning and he realized how much he liked Matt and Ben. He chinked his glass against theirs. ‘Brothers in Arms,’ he said and called it a night.

Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow

The fact that Django McCabe's seventy-fifth birthday party happened at all was a feat of some engineering and community spirit. On the Monday he had to admit that to single-handedly cater for over a hundred people was a tall order for anyone, let alone a man of his advancing years; but to request outside assistance was such an affront to his pride and his culinary standards that temporarily he thought he'd rather cancel than do so. On the Tuesday, the Matlock Marquee Company went out of business and though Django left a message saying he'd buy the bloody tents for cash, no one replied. On the Wednesday, the storms came with such ferocity that only an extreme heatwave could prevent the lawn becoming a quagmire on the night. However, by the Thursday, the sun indeed blazed and by Friday morning, Babs Chorlton had already made the spiced-chicken-and-white-chocolate vol-au-vents to Django's stringent specifications. By lunch-time, Mrs Merifield was baking Bakewell tarts with the quince jam and crystallized ginger that Django provided, and the Blakes car dealership in Chesterfield were installing their marquee on Django's lawn. He didn't mind in the slightest the ubiquitous Vauxhall branding emblazoned all
over it – it brought back very colourful memories of playing jazz with Vauxhall Vinnie and the Bebop Boys.

Cat and Ben arrived at tea-time on the Friday; Zac, Pip and Tom were in time for supper – a vast, misshapen pie using all leftover ingredients, from pickles to plums, chillies to cherries. The beds were shifted and shunted, Pip turned her hand to floral arrangements, and Tom painted an old sheet with ‘!!! go Django !!! go Django!!!’. Cat managed to persuade Django to put the heirloom canteen of cutlery back under his bed and let her buy plastic cutlery, rather than silver polish, at Morrison's tomorrow. Fen, Matt and Cosima arrived in time for the institution of After Eights with
News at Ten
, and the family were sleeping soundly by midnight.

The day of the party dawned fine and the family gathered for a civilized breakfast. ‘Speeches,’ Django announced as if he was requesting the jam, please.

‘Before or after the food?’ Zac asked, noticing that the sisters were motionless in shocked silence.

‘There will be no
before
or
after
,’ Django said, ‘the food is to be a constant for the duration of the party.’

‘After the savoury and before the sweet, then?’ Matt asked.

‘I never make such distinctions,’ Django said. ‘One must respect one's taste buds – if one fancies Bakewell tart
before
Scotch eggs, then there's probably a jolly good reason for it.’

‘When would you like the speeches to happen?’ Ben asked him.

‘Before we're all too blotto,’ Django reasoned.

‘What time is kick-off?’ Tom asked, already anticipating this party to be the highlight of his life so far.

‘Seven thirty,’ Django told him.

‘Cool!’ said Tom, looking forward to staying up well past his bedtime.

While the menfolk, accompanied by Cosima and a long list of Fen's handwritten notes taped to the buggy, spent the morning chuffing between Matlock and Rowsley on the Peak Rail steam train, the sisters took up position under the apple tree with notebooks and pens and adjectives scattered around them.

‘I Don't know what to say,’ Cat wailed. ‘I used to write for a living and I Don't know what to say. I feel pretty emotional, I must admit.’

‘Me too,’ Fen said, ‘and I've never written a speech – only dissertations and academic lectures which are easy compared with this.’

‘And here's me, able to juggle, do flikflaks and balloon-modelling in front of an audience, but I shudder at the thought of an ode to Django in public,’ Pip declared.

‘he'd love it in rhyme,’ Fen smiled.

‘We haven't the time,’ rued Cat.

They looked at each other and laughed.

‘Barber's shop?’

‘A cappella?’

‘God, he'd love that!’

‘No bloody way.’

When Django and the others arrived back, he requested a run-through of the speeches. ‘Just to check your chronology,’ he said, ‘and to approve the length and breadth of superlatives. You only have a few hours to perfect it, you know.’

‘Django,’ said Pip, ‘if It's a dress rehearsal You're after, you need to follow suit – literally. We'll read our speeches – if you give us a twirl in what you'll be wearing.’

Django looked outraged. ‘And spoil the surprise? Philippa!’

Pip gave a triumphant shrug and rolled her piece of paper tightly into a scroll. Cat and Fen copied her.

‘I do hope everyone will come,’ Django said thoughtfully. ‘I'm looking forward to it immensely.’

And they came; they came from all over the county, from up and down the country, from further afield too. Jim McKenzie came down from Glasgow in his kilt, and Bibi came from Paris swathed in the shawls and jangling with the bangles the girls remembered so vividly from their childhood. Gregor and Ferdy brought their banjos and strolled amongst the guests like minstrels. Landed gentry rubbed shoulders with rogues; lifelong friends mingled with folk of a more recent acquaintance; musicians and artists vied for eccentricity – it wasn't officially a fancy-dress party but the colourful flamboyance of many guests suggested otherwise. Pip, Fen and Cat were embraced constantly as faces they'd forgotten beamed back into their lives. People ate and ate and their eyes watered; they drank and they drank and their tears rolled, theatricality seamlessly blending with genuine emotion.

Django coasted around; resplendent in voluminous batik trousers from the Caribbean, a floral shirt that was alarmingly diaphanous, a suede waistcoat in colours of fire and a trademark neckerchief in incongruous toile de jouy. He kissed everyone regardless of their sex or age, how well he knew them and whether he'd kissed them already. He sang and he danced, he improvised impressively on Ferdy's banjo and the sound of his laughter became the underlying theme tune to the party. He could not pass Cat, Fen or Pip without hugging them – and if he hadn't seen them for a while, he searched them out.

‘Where's your sister?’ he asked Pip who was mopping a splodge of mayonnaise from the knee-skimming hem of her black shift dress.

‘Which one?’

‘The Fenella one,’ he said, having already noted Cat jiving with Joe and Jack, still nimble on their feet at seventy-five.

‘Checking on Cosima, probably,’ said Pip, scanning the
throng and noting Bibi encircling an entranced Tom in one of her shawls like a wizard taking an apprentice.

‘Fetch the girl,’ Django said. ‘I feel a speech coming on.’

Pip made her way through the marquee and over to the house. She called Fen softly from the hallway and made her way upstairs. She trod a careful path along the corridor, knowing which floorboards to avoid. From Django's bedroom, she could hear gentle music. The door was ajar and Pip tapped out a little rhythm on it.

‘Shh!’ came the response. Pip put her head around the door. ‘Oh It's you,’ Fen whispered.

‘Do you always hiss at Matt?’ Pip asked quietly.

Fen put her index finger to her lip. Pip looked over to the travel cot where Cosima was evidently sound asleep. ‘Just changing the CD,’ Fen whispered. Pip frowned and mimed that the baby was fast asleep. ‘In case she wakes up,’ Fen mouthed. Pip looked at the CD case of
Elvis for Babies
. To the sound of ‘Love Me Tender’ being played out on a glockenspiel, Pip raised her eyebrows and made the universal symbol of insanity; corkscrewing her finger against her temple. Fen stuck her tongue out at her, and gazed down at her baby for a long moment before tiptoeing from the room.

‘What's wrong with “Baa Baa Black Sheep”?’ Pip said as they went downstairs.

‘Nothing,’ Fen said, ‘but a girl is never too young for Elvis. Django will back me on that one.’

‘Talking of Django, he sent me to fetch you. It's time for the speeches.’

‘God,’ Fen groaned. ‘Hang on, I'll just double-check the baby monitor. Stay here.’ She placed a plastic egg-shaped receiver in Pip's hand. ‘I won't be a moment.’ She went back upstairs. Pip held the machine to her ear. She could hear heavenly angels la-la-ing to ‘Suspicious Minds’. Then she
heard Fen's whisper crackle through. ‘Pip? Pip? Code word: Tabasco.’

‘Tabasco,’ Pip declared, as soon as Fen joined her again.

‘Good,’ said Fen, ‘now I can relax.’

‘No you can't,’ Pip said. ‘It's the speeches.’

Django's speech was surprisingly short but effusive with thanks and characteristically emotional. ‘But enough from me,’ he concluded, ‘let's hear all about me instead! I hasten to add I've paid them proudly so I'm confident They'll be extravagant with the compliments. Ladies, gentlemen, troubadours and one important young man of nine years old – I give you my three exquisite girls, Pip, Fen and Cat.’

The sisters weaved their way to the head of the gathering, turned to face the guests and curtsied to much applause.

‘As you all know, my sisters and I are famous for having the mother who buggered off with a cowboy from Denver when we were small,’ started Pip, clutching her hands in front of her and then behind her and not really knowing what to do with them.

‘And a father – Django's brother – who died not long after,’ Fen said, nervously tying and retying her pony-tail.

‘But far from being poor little orphans, or being remotely rootless or in any way scarred,’ said Cat, fiddling furiously with the beads decorating her cardigan, ‘our glory is that we had Django.’ There followed much applause and whooping from those gathered and the three sisters felt each other relax. The smiles broadened, their confidence and showmanship blossomed and they started to enjoy themselves.

‘Most of you know Django as a friend, a musician, an artiste, a culinary superpower,’ said Pip. ‘For my sisters and me, He's all of these – but He's also our parents. A good father makes you feel safe, he provides for you and protects you.
He teaches you about trust and explains fairness so clearly that you can understand it even if you Don't agree. He teaches you to ride your bike without stabilizers, he makes you a sledge by adapting the old garden slide, he takes you out for your first driving lessons and doesn't protest when you crunch his gears or clip his wing-mirror. He gives you pocket money when You're young, bales out your overdraft when You're a student and helps you with your first mortgage when You're trying to afford to be a grown-up. A father instils your sense of right from wrong.’ Pip smiled and winked at Cat and Fen. ‘You grow up hoping the man you'll spend your life with might possess even half the qualities of your father. We three are true daddy's girls. Thank you, Django, for being Superdad.’

Pip stepped back to whistling and clapping, stamping and banjo-strumming. She saw Zac wink, watched Tom clap his hands high above his head and Django dab tears from his eyes with Ferdy's polka-dot handkerchief.

‘Encore!’ Django cried. ‘Encore!’

‘A good mother,’ Fen began, ‘nourishes you.’ She let it hang and raised an eyebrow. Laughter was spontaneous, followed by a tide of applause, just as She'd hoped when She'd practised it silently in the bathroom mirror earlier. ‘When it came to love and food, Django ensured we were fed like royalty. A mummy strokes your hair when you've had a nightmare and mops up after you when You're sick. A good mother soothes your heart when some cad or other has broken it. A mother hands down prized recipes – be they for beetroot crumble or fish pie with olivey hollandaise – and has a snack waiting for you when you get home from school. A mother takes in your jeans to drainpipe proportions, lets you borrow Pucci scarves for dressing up, and French-plaits your hair perfectly before you go to school. A mother makes curtains for your Wendy house and clothes
for your dolls. A mother brings you hot chocolate when It's that time of the month. You should always feel that a mother loves you more than anything and anyone. A mother must make you believe you are the purpose of their very existence. A mother is a daughter's best friend.’ Fen looked at her sisters and giggled involuntarily, shrugging helplessly as tears spiked her eyes and caught in her throat. ‘I raise my glass to the best mother in the world.’