The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  Come on, come on – start!

  Outside the hallowed area of the village, into which admittance was strictly by pass only and controlled by scrupulous sentries, the public was gathering along the Prologue route. The crowds were massive, holding flags that they’d wave frantically every now and then if any Tour vehicle should pass. Cat felt enormously privileged, being able to walk inside the snaking barriers, on the very surface that each of the 189 riders would soon be pedalling for position. Just then, she did not feel like a journaliste at all, merely an ardent admirer blessed with a pass and she felt extremely lucky. She would walk around for a while, soak up the atmosphere whilst noting specific details of the course. If she could infuse her article with her experience of the former, the details of the latter would surely interest her readers all the more.

  ‘I want to do eight thirty,’ Luca says to Ben. The doctor nods, just as he had for Travis, who wants to do eight thirty-two, and just as he did for Hunter, who wants to do eight twenty-seven.

  ‘You coming to watch?’ Luca asks. Ben hadn’t intended to but as both Hunter, Travis and two other members of the team had asked the same question, he has changed his mind.

  ‘Of course I’ll be there,’ he says to Luca, ‘just don’t make me scrape bits of you off the tarmac. Have a good ride. Go for your eight thirty but remember there’s tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’

  ‘Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ Luca says wistfully.

  ‘Fuck me!’ Ben exclaims, looking at Luca in genuine amazement. ‘You? Shakespeare?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ says Luca, frowning, ‘and I’ll tell you something for free, I’m not going at a creeping, petty pace. I’m going to ride for all I’m worth, race my heart out.’

  Over an hour before the start, the colourful conga line of the 220 novelty vehicles in the publicity caravan was delighting the crowds, already six deep, with their flamboyance and freebies. The riders were arriving in their team buses and campers, parking en masse in the Place Victor Hugo. Bikes were held stationary on blocks and the riders were warming up, their fans gawping just inches away from their noses. Some riders stared fixedly at the frame of their machines, or their knuckles, or the ground, as they pedalled; others gazed, glazed, directly ahead, directly at some stranger without seeing them at all.

  Cat caught sight of Alex chatting to a girl at the Zucca MV bus and walked over to see if chance might provide her with Massimo Lipari or Stefano Sassetta. Or even Vasily Jawlensky.

  For a soundbite. OK, then, just for a glimpse!

  She smiled quickly at Alex and the woman.

  ‘Cat, this is Rachel – the soigneur nine out of ten riders said they’d like to, er, have.’

  This typical remark from Alex enabled Cat and Rachel immediately to share a look that shot heavenward and was followed by a conspiratorial smile apiece.

  ‘Cat McCabe,’ said Cat, holding out her hand.

  ‘Press?’ Rachel asked. Cat nodded. ‘First Tour?’ Rachel enquired. Cat nodded again, matching the girl’s smile with one of her own. ‘Me too,’ said Rachel. ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cat. ‘It’s great to be here.’

  She seems my type – I could have a good natter with her, but I’d better be a bit more journalisty.

  ‘How’s the team?’ Cat asked nonchalantly. Rachel looked over her shoulder to the closed door and blacked-out windows of the camper.

  ‘Tense,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Cat colluded. Massimo Lipari appeared and Cat had to ensure she did not break into a wild grin though a small smile crept out unannounced anyway.

  ‘Hey, Massimo,’ said Alex. The rider tipped his head in recognition, asking Alex, in Italian, how he was and Alex, in Italian, rabbiting away until he had achieved an obvious goal of making the rider chuckle. Rachel was gladly telling Cat about how she came by her job – she’d never had a journalist express interest in her career, she’d never actually talked directly to a female journalist – when Massimo tapped Rachel on the shoulder, stood for a moment before tapping her again, staring intently at Cat all the while.

  ‘Rachel, I need the jacket, yes, for here?’ he proffered his left elbow displaying a glistening and pretty grave graze acquired from a careless fall whilst training yesterday.

  ‘Jacket?’ Rachel asked, shooting a glance at Cat. ‘You mean the gauze tube? Excuse me,’ she said to Cat with an apologetic shrug, ‘it’s been nice talking. Pop by again some time, hey?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Cat enthused. Massimo stared at her again. It was only when Rachel had turned from her and led the cyclist into the secret interior of the van that it struck Cat that Massimo had actually stared at her quite accusatorially.

  And why shouldn’t he? I was hogging his soigneur. How awful of me.

  Alex had disappeared. Josh was nowhere to be seen. Cat turned and decided that to walk around with purpose even if she hadn’t a clue what to do next, was a sensible option. Everywhere she looked, she now saw the faces and bodies of the men she had previously known only second-hand, behind the glass of a television, or two-dimensionally in print. Now they were surrounding her, life size, in the flesh, en masse. It was so overwhelming, she found herself unable to establish eye contact with any of them. In turning away from the awesome Mario Cipollini whom she could see from the corner of her eye, hands on hips and a vision in a red lycra skinsuit, she found herself by the Megapac vehicles. By concentrating on not catching sight of her best friends of yesterday – Hunter or Travis or Luca (whose eyes were in any case shut as he pedalled the course in his mind whilst his bike remained stationary on the blocks), her eyes went instead to someone else. Or were they pulled there? Or were they caught?

  It’s that guy. The one who sat by Luca at the medical. Oh blimey, what a smile. Hey! I didn’t say that I could smile back.

  The man stepped towards her and fingered her pass. ‘Hullo, Catriona McCabe,’ he said, ‘journaliste, the Guardian.’

  ‘I’m, er,’ she cleared her throat, ‘Cat.’

  ‘Are you now?’ he said. ‘I’m er doctor.’ Cat regarded him. He gave her an open smile.

  ‘I’m Ben. York. Hullo.’

  Cat nodded rather enthusiastically because she had no idea what to say. She then smiled fleetingly but not directly at Ben York, sweeping it instead quickly and non-commitally over the riders, the Megapac vehicles, and Dr York’s shoes before nodding, biting her lip and moving away, rifling through the pages of her pad whilst chastizing herself silently.

  He’s English. That’s nice.

  It was gone three o’clock and she thanked God that it was. Cat made her way slowly to a vantage point near the starting ramp and gazed at Travis Stanton as he and his bike were held steady or, Cat felt, perhaps embraced, by a blue-blazered official. She watched another official count the rider down, she observed the rider’s face, the focus, the deep inhalation and exaggerated exhalation. The official’s fingers had finished the count and he sliced the air with his hand. Off. Go. The rider swept down and away towards a lonely, strenuous eight and a half minutes. Cat found that she was holding her breath and had her fingers crossed.

  ‘My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

  Hunter Dean chants the familiar phrase to himself as he pedals slowly through the mêlée around the team cars and on towards the starting ramp.

  ‘My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

  He spits. He is wearing his burgundy and green skinsuit and space-warrior style helmet.

  ‘I am aerodynamic. My legs. My heart. My mind. My soul.’

  He spits again. He does not notice the crowds, nor does he hear them banging on the barriers, cheering. He does not listen to the fading, megaphone drone from a team car out on the course yelling ‘Allez! Allez! Allez!’ at the rider it is following. Hunter notices in a glance that his own team car is ready and he sees his name, printed on a board positioned above the front bumper. Dean.

  ‘Hunter Fucking Dean. Strong legs. Strong heart. Strong mind. Strong
soul.’

  He sweeps his bike through two controlled circles and ignores a fellow competitor leaving the ramp.

  ‘I am fit for this. I am prepared. I am built for this Time Trial. Legs to pump. Heart to pump. Mind steady. Soul ready.’

  He takes his position, aware there is a man’s arm under his saddle, which presses lightly against his back.

  ‘Backbone – strength. Legs – stamina. Heart – power. Mind – focus. Soul – commitment. I am good. I am ready.’

  The official is counting him down.

  ‘Open, lungs – fill. In. Out. Ready.’

  Away. Allez.

  ‘Corner. On. On. Go go go. Corner. Done. Propel me, legs. Drive me, back. Cobbles. Take them. Take them. On. On.’

  Hunter is riding well. He is surrounded by noise, but that of the ecstatic crowd is but a sub layer deep in the recesses of his awareness. What he hears is his breathing. As he sweeps the wide arc which takes him to the finishing straight, he does not listen to the growing clangour of the spectators thumping the barriers, he hears instead the pounding of his heart banging in his chest and in his mouth and in his stomach, flat out.

  ‘Legs. Legs. Legs. Eight twenty-seven. Eight twenty-seven. Come on, you fucker, go.’

  Hunter is out of the saddle, stamping down hard, making a great sprint of his final metres. His head is down as he thrusts forward for the line, then it is up and over his shoulder immediately, to clock the time.

  Eight minutes, twenty-seven point six eight seconds.

  ‘Point six eight. Shit.’

  Django McCabe took three plain chocolate digestive biscuits and carefully swiped a lick of Marmite over the chocolate sides. He steeped three tea-bags in a small teapot, added three spoonfuls of sugar to the inch of milk in the china cup, selected a non-matching but china saucer and put everything on a tray. He went into the Quiet Room and turned it into the Family Room merely by way of flicking on the television set. He selected Channel 4, muted the volume on the closing scenes of Brookside and made to telephone both his nieces, sipping tea but saving the biscuits until later.

  ‘Fen, darling, Django here – are you switched on? The bike race is starting in five minutes or so.’

  ‘God, I almost forgot,’ said Fen, untying and then rebunching her pony-tail two or three times, the telephone receiver tucked under her chin. ‘Does Pip know?’

  ‘Isn’t she with you?’ Django enquired, a little perturbed. For some reason, Fen actually looked around her flat before replying.

  ‘No, she isn’t – should she be?’

  ‘Well, you two live in the same town, I thought perhaps you’d be sharing the experience together.’

  ‘Django,’ Fen laughed, ‘London’s a sprawling metropolis. I don’t think the bike race is an experience I, or Pip, have been waiting with bated breath for.’

  ‘I didn’t really mean that,’ said Django, ‘not those shiny boys and bikes themselves, I meant your sister. I meant Cat. This is her experience – I think we should take an interest.’

  Fen felt humbled. Suddenly, she wished Pip was here. ‘You’re right,’ she said quietly, ‘maybe we might catch Cat on screen. She’s there, after all, in the thick of it. So we should switch on and tune in.’

  ‘And share,’ mused Django, quite relieved he was on his own and could have his biscuits to himself.

  ‘Don’t worry about phoning Pip, I’ll do that right now,’ Fen said. ‘You warm the TV up,’ she told her uncle, using a phrase Cat had frequently employed in childhood.

  (‘Cat? Where have you disappeared to? Pip’s clearing the table. Fen’s washing up and there’s a tea towel with your name on it.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I was just warming the TV up.’)

  ‘Hey, Pip, it’s me.’

  ‘Hi, Fen. Get off the phone. The Tour de France is about to start.’

  Half an later, the phone lines of Django, Fen and Pip were jammed engaged as each tried to contact the other. Ten minutes on, Pip arrived at Fen’s flat and they called Django together.

  ‘Wasn’t that exciting!’ Django boomed, wishing they could see the two uneaten biscuits as proof.

  ‘It was,’ Fen agreed, ‘I had no idea!’ Pip, bobbing up and down on the spot, took the phone from her.

  ‘That famous bloke won!’ she exclaimed breathlessly. ‘I remember Cat talking about him.’ She handed the telephone back to Fen and executed a handstand against the wall in celebration.

  ‘Josh,’ Cat asked, ‘might you cast your expert eye over my piece?’ Though she was confident about the quality of her copy, her request had a twofold function. She was rather proud of her first race report and felt it warranted immediate approval before she wired it to London. Also, she still wanted to consolidate her new colleague’s respect for her journalistic abilities and her cycle sport knowledge. Josh was flattered, more so when Alex looked up from his laptop, regarded Cat with a ‘Why not me?’ glance and bestowed on Josh a glare that said ‘Wanker!’ a little enviously.

  ‘I like it that you’ve explained the gap of 53 seconds between first and last rider being in contrast to the hours that will develop as the race progresses,’ Josh defined and read on, sometimes to himself, sometimes out loud.

  During a day in which the sun shone unabated and lively crowds chanted indiscriminately, Britain’s Chris Boardman, riding for the French team Crédit Agricole, equalled the great French rider Bernard Hinault’s five Prologue triumphs. He turned a heavy gear throughout, his extraordinary aerodynamic position complementing his futuristic Time Trial bike whose handlebars he designed himself.

  ‘Good for Chris,’ Cat mused, recalling the rider’s consummate Time Trial. ‘Might we raise a glass to him tonight?’

  Aren’t I being brave, organizing après-race activities!

  Alex, however, laughed. ‘If we manage to leave the salle de pressé before last orders.’

  Cat shrugged as if to say ‘Whatever’, whereas actually she was shaking off the sudden embarrassment she felt. She read her article over Josh’s shoulder. He could feel her breath on the side of his neck. It felt nice. He didn’t comment.

  ‘So,’ Cat said, ‘Fabian stormed to second place today, 0.19 of a second faster than Vasily.’

  ‘Yes,’ clarified Josh, ‘but Jawlensky still has the incentive of racing with Number 1 on his back.’

  ‘But Fabian is tasting blood,’ Cat commented.

  ‘Well, it’ll be Boardman wearing the first maillot jaune of this year’s Tour when the race starts in earnest tomorrow,’ Josh said.

  ‘It will be interesting to see who makes the first assault on the jersey,’ Cat pondered, ‘Vasily or Fabian.’

  ‘I like the way you’ve commented on how Ducasse showed greater bravura but Jawlensky looked consistently more comfortable,’ Josh remarked.

  Alex, who had left the salle, returned with cans of Coke for everyone. He read Cat’s work over Josh’s other shoulder. ‘I don’t know whether you should be using solely their Christian names, girl,’ he commented.

  But they’re my boys! Cat protested to herself, with no intention of changing a word.

  ‘Good closing paragraph,’ Josh said.

  Tomorrow, the Tour de France will be under way with a week of flat road racing Stages providing the spectators and sponsors alike with the flamboyance and daredevilry of the sprinters.

  ‘Good comment on strategy,’ Alex furthered, ‘to explain that those aiming for overall victory will be keeping quiet in the centre of the bunch, maintaining a safe distance from the unavoidable mayhem of sprint finishes.’

  ‘She calls it “the broiling hurl”,’ said Josh approvingly.

  ‘Come on,’ Cat tried again, ‘let’s finish up and toast Mr Boardman.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Josh said, to her satisfaction.

  ‘Could do,’ Alex said. Cat allowed herself an inward smile.

  STAGE 1

  Delaunay Le Beau-Rouen. 195 kilometres

  When Luca Jones tripped on the stairs of the start podium to sign in, h
e did not see it as an omen for his ride but as cultivation of his popularity. He recovered his composure, signed the vast chart and beamed and waved at the crowd as his name was blasted out by the PA system.

  ‘Stage 1 of the fucking Tour de France,’ he marvelled to Travis as if he might not have realized, while, astride their bikes, they waited for the ceremonial off.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ Travis laughed.

  ‘Everyone’s watching!’ Luca responded. He felt absolutely ready for the day’s racing and was looking forward to enjoying himself. ‘It’s fairly flat today,’ he had reasoned to his soigneur who was slapping his legs warm earlier, ‘I’m just going to hang out with the bunch, turn and tune my legs. I’m going to clock the crowds, even the landscape – perhaps there’ll be some gorgeous scenery along the way, softly undulating and bikini-clad – you know?’

  Luckily for the riders around Luca, the weather was dry, bright but too cold for bikinis. Crashes were a foregone conclusion without the added jeopardy of roadside distractions on Luca Jones. The peloton rode in unison for a while, teams happily dispersing to chat in native tongues to fellow riders.

  ‘You’re a tart, Luca,’ Stuart O’Grady teased when Luca came back to the English contingent, having ridden leisurely with an Italian posse for a few miles.

  ‘Yeah, but my tan, man,’ Luca reposted, ‘better than you, Stu.’ After tapping on for a few miles more, the bunch stepped up the pace and began to race. For over two hours, the only view Luca examined was the colourful contours of the mass of torsos around him. He was well prepared therefore when a Banesto rider took down four others just far enough ahead and to the left to avoid the pile up. Lucky Luca, he said to himself. He worked his way to the front forty for a while, rode alongside Vasily Jawlensky who gave him a nod of recognition, which served as fuel injection to the legs. Lucky Luca, he said to himself, Vasily fucking Jawlensky.