Home Truths (48 page)

‘It's weird, isn't it,’ Zac says to Ben and Matt, sharing more Pimm's, this time with courgette in lieu of cucumber, ‘it's a fucking awful time, really, shit news, horrible things to come – but it's been a blazing weekend. Really happy. All of us.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Matt concurs. ‘This will probably sound trite but I just want to say, Aren't families
great
.’

Ben chinks glasses with them. ‘It's been a good weekend,’ he agrees, ‘but more than a weekend. I don't know – it feels like we're approaching this truly privileged time. Many families aren't granted this – loved ones are taken suddenly, violently, by cars or heart failure. Or worse. But we have hindsight before the event has happened – we know from the tragedy of others not to let this man go before we say goodbye. That he'll never wonder how much he was loved. That we – the girls – his friends – will never rue not saying all there was to be said. Managed well – and advances in medicine mean it can be managed well – Django can have a good death. When that time comes.’

‘When will it come, Ben?’ Zac asks.

‘Level with us,’ says Matt.

‘I don't know,’ Ben says. ‘I'm not just saying this – truly, I don't know. I don't think it will be a sudden, steep deterioration. But the process has started. We'll have to see. He'll make this Christmas,’ he pauses sadly, ‘but perhaps not the following one. There's a general reluctance to specify possible time remaining, because it can only sound like a death sentence –
when
you'll die, instead of how much life you can still live.’ Ben pauses. ‘I think Django's take on it is robust – and I think he's kept our girls firmly in his heart by plying them with ambiguity.’

‘You don't feel we're pulling the wool over their eyes?’ Matt wonders.

Ben shakes his head. ‘No, I think we follow Django's lead.’

‘Pip will read up on it,’ Zac says. ‘If she wants to – can she speak to you?’

Ben nods. ‘It seems what Django wants them to know is that though there's no cure, it's quite possible to live a normal lifespan in spite of it.’

‘I tell you,’ says Zac, ‘if ever a man will truly live until he dies, it'll be Django McCabe.’

‘Hear, hear,’ says Ben.

‘To Django McCabe,’ Matt toasts. ‘Long may he live.’ And they chink their mugs of Pimm's together.

Sundae

‘Maybe I'll just sell the house and move to a nice condo in Florida. Somewhere near Marcia's place. Buy new things. Have a yard sale before I go. Give
you
away for free,’ Penny Ericsson says to her late husband's chair. She crosses to the mantelpiece, but instead of looking at the photos, she raises her eyebrow at her reflection in the mirror.

‘Or maybe I'll just stop talking to myself, stop it with the pie-in-the-sky planning and just go into town and do my grocery shopping.’

It was the hottest July on record. It was a day for ice cream. It was the day that Penny felt able to return to Fountains ice-cream parlour. Juliette welcomed her as if she'd only been in the day before.

‘Hey Penny,’ she said, ‘take a seat. I'll be right there.’

Penny perused the menu. There were new additions but she fancied old favourites. ‘I'll have a scoop of Banudge-nudge, a scoop of Chippy Chippy Bang Bang and a scoop of Fudge Fantasia.’ She stopped, not because she was deliberating over toppings, but because she was suddenly thinking of Derek McCabe and his imaginative take on food.

‘Excellent choice,’ Juliette said. ‘Toppings?’

‘Hot chocolate,’ said Penny, ‘and Lucky Charms.’

‘Coming right up.’

Penny sat and gazed down the street, the heat haze wavering the vista.

Juliette returned soon, presenting the sundae with a triumphant smile. ‘Enjoy!’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Penny said. She paused. ‘It's nice to see you again, you look very well.’ She unfurled the long-handled spoon from the paper napkin and toyed with the ooze of toppings.

She was aware that Juliette was about to speak. ‘I'm getting married!’ Juliette announced.

Penny looked up. ‘That is just so nice,’ she said with genuine warmth. ‘Congratulations, my dear.’

Juliette took this as an invitation to sit down and tell Penny all about the proposal and to sketch out her ideas for frocks on the paper napkin. Meanwhile, Penny made headway into her ice cream, feeling obliged to take small, polite mouthfuls though it was so delicious she wanted to wolf it down. She'd started doing that at home, on her own. Sometimes, when she was very hungry, she'd scoff directly from the tub or container or foil tray. Sometimes, her supper was so hot, she'd have to stand there with her mouth agape, fanning her hand at the food scalding her tongue. Occasionally she'd even given out a great appreciative burp. She had no audience, after all. Now that her appetite had returned, she realized how hungry she had been feeling.

‘Last time I saw you,’ Juliette said, ‘I wasn't engaged.’

‘That's lovely,’ said Penny, thinking that Chippy Chippy Bang Bang was possibly the closest thing to ambrosia she'd ever tasted.

‘You were with the three girls,’ Juliette continued.

Penny stopped mid-mouthful, a glob of ice cream electrifying her sensitive gums.

‘Were they your daughters?’ Juliette asked shyly.

Penny waited, using her tongue energetically to calm the flare from her teeth. She nodded. ‘Yes, they were my girls.’

Juliette beamed. ‘How neat that they came over.’ She touched Penny's forearm. ‘Did you talk it all through? Did you make amends? All that crap about you being a bad mother,’ Juliette chided gently. ‘I knew you were nice. I told you so.’

‘You're very sweet,’ Penny said, feeling very uncomfortable.

‘Bet your phone bill is mighty big, what with all those long-distance calls,’ Juliette laughed.

It occurred to Penny that she didn't have any contact numbers for her daughters. She did have Django's number. But actually, was there any point in phoning him? And if she did find out her daughters' numbers, whom would she phone first? More to the point, what would she say? What would they say? Reluctantly, she had to admit to herself that she'd already said everything, really, that day at Logan airport. And she knew that she'd relinquished any right to contact when she'd left them all those years ago. It was quite possible that she would never see them again.

Moving On

Ben glanced at Cat who was spooning through her cornflakes as if searching for a more tasty one elsewhere in the bowl.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Hmm?’ She looked up. ‘Pardon?’

‘Are you OK?’ Ben repeated. ‘You seem miles away.’

‘Oh, I'm fine,’ said Cat, ‘just thinking about work and Django and Django and work.’

Ben gave Cat a kiss and headed for the door. He paused and returned to her.

‘Pinch, punch,’ he said, doing precisely that. ‘August 1st?’

‘Oh,’ said Cat, rubbing her arm. ‘Ouch.’

‘You're meant to give me a slap and a kick for being so quick,’ Ben told her, ‘or at the very least, a poke in the eye for being so sly.’

‘Ben,’ said Cat, who did usually biff and bash him on the first of each month, ‘do you think someone ought to be with Django when he has his first radiotherapy next week?’

‘Well, what does he say?’ Ben asked though he knew what Django had said, having spoken to him about precisely that the day before.

‘He says no,’ said Cat.

‘Let's go up a couple of days after that, at the weekend,’ Ben said. ‘We'll probably be of more practical use to him then.’

Cat brightened.

‘The sales will be on at Meadowhall,’ Ben told her, with a wink.

Ben thought about it again all that day. And the next. And he thought about it intermittently throughout the following week, even talked to colleagues and superiors, all of whom listened intently. He thought about it as he drove up to Derbyshire, two days after Django's first session of palliative radiotherapy. But it was only when Cat dragged him around Meadowhall that he knew he had thought about it thoroughly and enough.

All angles. Pros and cons. For and against. On the one hand, and on the other. He'd considered everything to arrive at an informed decision about which he was more than content, he was actually fairly excited.

He'd choose his moment.

‘This is where Dovidels' flagship store is going to be,’ Cat told him as she tried to peer through some unremarkable boarding.

This was his moment.

‘I've been thinking,’ said Ben, peering through the gap as well, ‘about leaving St John's.’

Cat looked at him, alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘Because I fancy a change—’ Ben started.

‘A change? But what would you do? You're a doctor – you're a specialist!’ Cat exclaimed, aghast.

‘A change of scene,’ Ben said. ‘Same job – well almost – different hospital.’

‘But why?’ she pressed. ‘You like St John's, don't you? The department? The staff? Your colleagues?’

‘I do,’ Ben said, ‘but an interesting opportunity has been put my way to do something similar elsewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘Sheffield.’

‘
Sheffield?
’

Ben shrugged. ‘Makes sense,’ he said, ‘in terms of
my
career. But of course, you have to feel happy with it.’

‘It makes perfect sense in
my
career too!’ Cat enthused artlessly. ‘Lorna Craven from head office as good as offered me this very store as my own.’ And she began to pat the boarding affectionately. ‘Best of all, we could be nearer to Django,’ she declared, ‘nearer home.’

‘You won't hanker after Tufnell Park, then?’ Ben teased her.

‘I tell you something, Dr York, we can multiply our Tufnell Park pounds by three round these parts.’ Cat took a step back, crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, as if envisaging what the Dovidels shop front could look like. ‘What a coincidence,’ she marvelled guilelessly, ‘how very serendipitous.’

Not really
, thought Ben, for whom Cat had long been an open book. And his best ever, all-time favourite read at that.

Christmas

‘Bugger the brandy butter,’ Django said as his family gathered around on Christmas Eve. ‘This year we're having good old tomato ketchup with
everything
.’

Tom wrinkled his nose in delight at the deliciously revolting thought of ketchup and Christmas pud or, better still, ice cream and ketchup.

‘Did you forget the Bisto?’ Pip asked.

‘Bugger the Bisto!’ Django declared. ‘When did you ever,
ever
, know me not to make my gravy from scratch. Bisto, she says,
Bisto
!’

‘She has a thing about Bisto,’ Tom said darkly. ‘It's a mad pregnant-woman thing.’

‘She makes it up in a mug and drinks it like tea,’ Zac colluded with his son, ‘by the gallon.’

‘It's just a craving,’ Pip shrugged, ‘it's only natural.’

‘She even drinks it at
breakfast
,’ Tom said, with a lively repertoire of throwing-up faces for emphasis. ‘That's
so
not natural.’

‘Anyway, I've brought my own Bisto,’ Pip told them, ‘so what's with the ketchup, Django?’

‘Lycopene!’ Django announced. ‘A wonderful antioxidant
to be found in the humble tomato but the potency, the
bioavailability
increases when cooked. So, it's out with the HP and in with the ketchup – I have it with everything now. Ben, I read that Lycopene is twice as potent as the better-known anti-cancer betacarotenes, and one hundred per cent more bioavailable.’

‘It sounds about right,’ Ben confirmed.

‘Ketchup it is then,’ Django declared.

‘Will ketchup make you better then, Django Gramps?’ asked Tom.

Django gave the boy a smile and ruffled his hair. ‘It makes me
feel
better,’ he told him, employing the gentle ambiguity which his friends and his family had come to respect as his right over the last few months.

‘Can I help?’ Cat asked. ‘Anything I can do? Squirt the ketchup, or something?’

‘Everything bubbles and simmers,’ Django told her. ‘Everyone relax and enjoy. Christmas is coming and the family is here. Supper will be in an hour or so. Don't chew that, Cosima – it's very old. Django Gramps found it in Alaska. In 1965.’

‘I'm lucky, aren't I?’ Tom announces to Pip who has brought him up a glass of water and a torch, at bedtime.

‘Are you? In what way?’

‘Some people – actually, what I mean is some
children
– have rubbish families. Like Tom B in my class – he's having a divorce. And Alex doesn't see his dad at all, hardly, now he lives not in London with a new baby.’

Pip tips her head to one side. ‘We are lucky, aren't we?’ she says warmly.

‘But isn't it strange, then, that here's you and your sisters with that mum who ran away with the cowboy, and here's me with two lots of dads and mums – but we're all the
happiest bunch I've ever known in my whole life.’ Pip smiles and Tom welcomes her ruffling of his hair. ‘Because did you know something? Ed's parents have done a divorce too and Ed told me that they try and out-present each other. At first I thought, Wow cool. But then he was really upset and actually told me he
hates
it. He even hates the stuff they buy him, he says. Can you believe that? Even hates his
bike
.’ Pip makes sure she looks suitably stunned. ‘Ed says all those gifts are like
bribes
. He said they're called guilt-trips. He says “Can't buy me love”.’

‘That's a song,’ Pip tells him, ‘do you know it? It's by the Beatles.’

‘The Beatles are cool,’ Tom tells her, ‘everyone knows that.’

‘Did you know Django actually worked with them for a short while?’

‘No way!’ Tom exclaims.

‘Yes way,’ Pip laughs, ‘you can ask him all about it tomorrow.’ She kisses him. ‘Night night, Tomtom.’

‘Night, Pippity.’

Pip hovers in the doorway. ‘If I said “I love you” would you squirm and puke?’

Tom takes a moment. ‘Nah. You can say it, if you like.’

‘I
love
you,’ says Pip.

‘And I “
el
” you,’ says Tom.