Home Truths (17 page)

‘I am
sorry
,’ Penny said with a hand at her heart for emphasis, ‘this must be a terrible shock. Derek – could you not help me out here?’

All eyes turned to the man in the candy-striped cheesecloth smock, the man with the moccasins on his feet, wearing patched cords with fraying seams and a faded CND patch appliquéd under one knee. Whatever his name was. There had to be an explanation. He was the man who had always made everything all right. Who had made sense of everything. He had always told them, when they were hurt, that he was there to make them better. That it was his job to kiss that bruise. That he was the world expert in cuddling away tears. There there. There there. Django is here. Don't cry. Don't worry. Django's here.

Except he Isn't.

Some bloke called Derek is standing in his moccasins.

He suddenly looks very old and tired
, thought Pip.

He doesn't look well
, thought Fen.

I hate him
, thought Cat.

Christ, this is one crackpot family
, thought Ben.
Bugger, Cosima needs changing
, thought Matt.

‘I,’ Django said. ‘She.’ He paused. ‘You,’ he said, though he focused on no one. Silence fell and Django felt powerless to do anything about it.

She took off her glasses. ‘My name is Penny Ericsson,’ she told them, ‘and I am your mother.’ Her voice was gentle and clear, tinged with reflection but underscored with relief; a timbre that told everyone that the truth was being told. ‘I was married to Nicholas McCabe when I was a very young girl. I was seventeen and pregnant – not with you, Philippa, with another child. I miscarried. I had you. I had Fenella. I had Catriona. And I left.’

The silence, no less heavy, was calmer.

‘Why do you say that Cat has Django's eyes?’ Pip asked finally, the reluctant spokesman for the sisters.

‘You have Nicholas's chin, Philippa,’ Penny said levelly, ‘Fenella has Nicholas's eyes.’ She stopped. ‘And Catriona has Derek's eyes.’

‘What are you
saying
?’ Fen then turned to Django who finally met her gaze. ‘What is she saying?’

Django looked around him. His home. His garden. His girls. His grandchildren. All that he loved. He was soaking up the sights, as if within seconds he'd be denied them for ever. All that he held sacred, all he had hoped to keep safe, was teetering on a precipice that was as much of his own making as of Penny Ericsson's. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to step in as protector or if he was about to push what he held most precious straight over the edge. He stumbled, grabbed the
cold edge of the curlicue garden chair and sat down heavily. With a hand on each knee, and rocking gently, he spoke with audibly heart-heavy reluctance. ‘My name is Derek McCabe – or at least That's what it says on my birth certificate.’ Suddenly, it seemed like a good if desperate idea to fixate on the triviality of this particular revelation, to step outside the bigger picture and the graver question. A glance at his girls suggested they were almost glad of the diversion. ‘Look at me, I hardly look like a Derek, do I?’ he tried a meek smile. ‘Derek was my given name – but Django is my true name. Can we settle on that?’

‘
Django
?’ Pip enunciated the word as if it sat awkward on her tongue, as if it were no longer a name. ‘How the hell did you go from Derek to Django?’

Django looked hurt. ‘Jazz,’ he declared, as if to prompt, ‘
jazz
.’ Fen and Pip nodded as if they thought they understood. ‘When I heard the music of Django Reinhardt, the colour and spirit at my core leapt free,’ he explained, ‘and in the sixties, to be who you felt was the easiest thing in the world. You think Bibi's parents called her Bibi when she was born in 1939? They called her Doris, but what did they know? Can you imagine Bibi being called Doris, for goodness' sake? One day she said, Hey call me Bibi, so we said, Cool. And one day I said, Hey call me Django, and they said, Cool. Feel the vibe. Tune in. Dig it.’

Too many psychedelic drugs
, Ben mused in a quick, private glance to Matt.

Good thing his hero was Django Reinhardt and not Bix Beiderbecke or Thelonious Monk
, Matt thought as he raised his eyebrow to Ben.

But for the sisters, Django's eccentricity was suddenly baffling and irritating. Throughout their lives, in spite of his quirks, he'd been utterly reliable and had ensured consistency in their lives. Now they felt conned.

‘But are you?’ Cat's voice suddenly rang out, far stronger than Pip's, much calmer than Fen's. She locked eyes with Penny. ‘Is he?’

‘I am,’ said Django.

‘How long have you known?’ Cat asked.

‘I've always known,’ Django said.

With that, there was now nothing else to misconstrue, nothing to cling to in the faint hope of a mistake. And in the here and now, the hear and now became far too onerous for Cat. Burying her head in Ben's chest was her only option because, just then, he was the closest she felt she had to proper, genuine family.

Penny cleared her throat, to invite all eyes back to her. She looked from Fen to Pip, gazed at the back of Cat's head, at Ben's hand holding it protectively against his chest, his wedding ring glinting in the sunshine. Then Penny glanced at Django. ‘He's kinda right,’ she said. ‘I Don't know.’ She stopped. Attempted to speak again. Stopped. ‘Nowadays there's Prozac,’ she said, ‘and therapy. But back then, there were magic mushrooms and acid and free love. Only it wasn't free. None of it was free or liberating. The cost was high.’

‘But why are you here?’ Pip asked.

‘You're screwing up our lives a second time around,’ Fen cried.

Penny looked crestfallen. She hadn't anticipated this and she certainly had not intended this. Privately, she cursed Grief for having centred her world around herself. ‘If I could try to explain?’ she asked them and continued before they could deny her. ‘Despite the fog of my screwed-up 1960s state, I met the love of my life. The love of my life. The light in my life. A beautiful man called Bob Ericsson.’ She looked around her. Their faces wouldn't be blank if they'd known him, she thought. ‘He died, you see. He died five months ago. The
light in my life went out. And I am here because suddenly I Don't want to be hated like Juliette hates her father.’ Penny faltered. So much to explain. How could she have suddenly arrived at Fountains ice cream when there was over a quarter of a century's details to divulge? ‘Juliette is this young woman I've met,’ she said, a little meekly. ‘She's about your age, Fen, I would imagine. I Don't actually know.’

‘Don't you even know how old I am?’ Fen cried.

‘Oh, I know
exactly
how old you are,’ Penny said, her voice so hoarse it had no tone, ‘to the day. The minute. I just Don't know how old Juliette is, precisely.’

For the sisters, details were now irrelevant. Other people's sob stories were irrelevant. The quandary all three shared was who to feel most betrayed by. The mother who had abandoned them when they were small? Or the man who had lied to them, to a greater or lesser degree, throughout their lives? In their past, at tumultuous points in their lives, there had always been that one place to go to – home, Derbyshire, Django. Now it was the one place they wanted to run from. Their hearts were not here so how could it be home? Their hearts had been fractured into splinters and shards by the arrival of this woman saying she was their mother, and this man called Derek admitting he was Cat's father.

‘I want to go,’ Fen told Matt.

Pip looked over at the tyre swing. ‘Zac?’ she called. He looked up.
we're going
, she mouthed with an urgent beckon.

She and Fen looked at Cat, at the back of her head, Ben's chest keeping her face from view, her hands still protecting her ears. ‘Us too,’ Ben nodded, kissing the top of his wife's head again and again.

Where were you when you found out that Pip and Fen were only your half sisters? That your father was a man
called Derek McCabe whom you'd known your whole life but was now a complete stranger?

I was listening to Ben's heartbeat, sixty-two beats per minute. Strong and steady. Take me away from here, Ben. Quickly. Back to Clapham – That's fine. Wherever. As long as I'm with you. Home is where my heart is. And it won't ever be here in Derbyshire. Never again.

From standing stock still with time suspended, suddenly the emphasis was on movement, on going, on getting away and fast. There was no flouncing, no histrionics, just calm and purposeful organizing.

‘Have you had a wee?’ Pip asked Tom.

‘I'll just change Cosima,’ said Matt.

‘It's OK, I'll do that,’ said Fen. ‘You pack the car.’

Finally, the sisters hugged each other and pointedly stayed beyond arm's reach and avoided eye contact when muttering goodbye to the approximate location of Django and their mother.

How can something planned to perfection go so horribly wrong? Though the thought had conflicting relevance in terms of timescale, both Django and Penny pondered as they stood in the garden transfixed by the space made by the girls' leaving.

‘Oh dear,’ Penny said, ‘this I did not plan. How dumb am I?’

‘Ditto,’ said Django, ‘still. Still.’ He sighed and glanced at her. ‘One can't expect to hoick secrets one's whole life. They're far too cumbersome.’ He spoke for them both. She nodded and hung her head. ‘Though I'd say I'm more deluded than dumb,’ Django said. ‘I've spent over thirty years keeping them from hurt. How conceited I must be to have assumed I could maintain this.’

He looked at her. Penny at fifty-three. She hadn't really changed. Physically, the years had apparently treated her relatively well but a good complexion could not mask a certain delineating sadness. And it was precisely this that he remembered, from thirty years ago; more than the colour of her eyes, the set of her mouth. Still the same sad, mixed-up girl, currently hiding behind a more weathered façade. ‘Why on earth did you come back?’

Penny looked at her sandals, looked at Django's moccasins, made an oddly childish semicircle in the grass with her foot. ‘I Don't really know right now.’

‘Well it can't have been to wish me happy birthday.’ ‘No,’ Penny agreed, ‘I'd already booked my flight when I remembered your birthday and realized it was your seventy-fifth.’

‘Why come?’ Django asked. ‘Why now?’

‘Because Bob died,’ Penny shrugged, hastily blinking away tears and feigning that it was the sunlight bothering her.

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Django said, his eyes and his voice softening a little.

‘I tend to lose most things, Don't I?’ Penny remarked. ‘But I really did try to take good care of Bob, you know.’

I've just lost the lot
, Django thought sadly to himself.

The M1

Junction 27

Guns N' Roses was a very odd choice. Odd, because Ben had no idea that Cat particularly liked their music. Odd because they'd always favoured Moby for motorways. Odd because the thrash and slash of heavy rock should surely be utterly at odds with the fragile, solemn mood. Wouldn't Cat want to listen to something more ambient, something to soothe the scorch on her soul? Obviously not. Sweet child of mine.

At first, Ben thought she was singing silently. From the corner of his eye, he assumed Cat was miming along to Axl, imitating his physiognomic contortions. But a swift glance across at her and he realized she was hyperventilating, tears streaming, her face racked in torment.

‘Oh babe,’ he said, while thinking to himself that he was driving at eighty miles an hour and wondering if he could pull over to the hard shoulder. He placed his hand on her knee. ‘It's OK. It's OK.’

‘It's not!’ she cried. ‘Nothing's OK. And I can't breathe. Help me.’

‘In through your nose, out through your mouth, in through
your nose, out through your mouth,’ Ben chanted at her, calm but insistent. ‘Cat, breathe into that paper bag. Down there – that the bananas came in.’

‘It has rubbish in it.’

‘Take the banana skin out. Throw it on the floor. Put the bag against your mouth and breathe into it. Come on Cat – in through your nose, out through your mouth, in through your nose, out through your mouth.’

With the music hammering and Cat sucking and blowing into the bag, Ben thought it ludicrously plausible that she should look like some solvent-abusing rock chick.

‘I want to stop.’

‘Babe, I can't stop on the hard shoulder. There's a services in a couple of miles. In through your nose and out through your mouth.’

‘I need to stop,’ Cat gasped. ‘Stop the car.’ Ben swerved the car to the hard shoulder. He flicked on the hazard lights, unclipped his seat-belt and leant across to hold his wife. However awkward and uncomfortable the angle for him, he knew it was nothing compared to the pain she was in. There were hundreds of questions he wanted to ask but of course he refrained. There'd be time for that. Way too much time. Just now, he knew there was not much he could say at all. His job was to hold her and fill her ears with comforting hushing, place the tender kisses on her forehead and keep her freezing cold hands warm within his. He promised her, over and over again, that everything would be all right though he hadn't the faintest idea how to fulfil such a pledge.

‘I can't believe it. I Don't know what happened. What does it all mean? I Don't want anything to change. Life will never be the same again.’

No. Oh fuck no. Not the fucking police. Blue lights flashed up behind Ben's car and an officer walked over. Ben racked
his mind for explanations, excuses, lies – anything would do. He wound down his window.

‘Everything OK?’ the policeman asked, peering in to the interior of the car and politely overlooking the state of Cat's tears-ravaged face for the time being.

‘Yes,’ said Ben, ‘fine.’

‘Your car OK, sir?’ the officer asked. ‘Broken down?’

Ben faltered. It was his wife who had broken down. Wasn't that glaringly obvious?

‘Everything all right?’ the officer asked again, now looking directly at the sobbing, shivering heap of Cat half in Ben's arms.

Ben didn't know what he ought to say. ‘I. It's. She.’ He shrugged. ‘It's personal.’