The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  Fen smiled. ‘I’ll need bloody long arms to stretch to Clapham from East Finchley,’ she said.

  ‘Clapham is not, I repeat not, permanent,’ Cat said. ‘You know I’ve always had a thing for Tufnell Park.’

  ‘It’s good to have you home,’ Fen said, ‘but it’ll be even better to have you on the doorstep.’

  Pip returned. ‘Cardboard bread with rubber cheese in between,’ she announced. ‘Don’t anyone tell Django what we’re about to eat.’

  Peeping through the window, it is a joy for Django to behold his three precious girls spill out of the taxi. Momentarily, he turns away from the sight and offers a prayer of sincere thanks to all the gods and spirits who have ever interested him at any stage during his life. He can hear their laughter and their excited chatter. Will you look at Cosima – how she has grown in the last month. How naturally Fen has the baby against her. See the sun spin gold through Pip’s hair. And Cat, that can’t be Cat! Cat was the little girl with the jaunty pony-tail. Who is this beautiful woman? And what’s with the red hair!

  Django had intended to position himself in the hallway, so that when the girls opened the door He’d be there; his arms flung wide, like a celebrity tenor on an album cover. In the event, he is as excited as they are and he strides out to meet them, booming his welcome. The only member of the family who does not cry is Cosima. She regards the grown-ups with her solemn unblinking eyes, absorbing all the facts and details as if logging the information that when you haven’t seen your family for a long time, you leap about and sob and touch each other’s hair a lot.

  ‘I’m still stuffed from tea-time!’ Cat whispered to Pip while Django tinkered in the kitchen. ‘Those scones were like cannon balls. Never mind enough to feed an army – enough to sink the navy!’

  ‘Shh,’ Pip said.

  ‘Has he been well?’ Cat asked quietly. ‘Hasn’t had flu, or something? It’s just that he looks a little tired to me, a bit peaky, since I last saw him.’

  ‘I think He’s been fine,’ said Pip. ‘He certainly hasn’t said anything to the contrary. He’s probably been slaving over the stove all week, preparing for our arrival.’ She spied a copy of the Racing Post. ‘Or else He’s put all his money on some old nag and lost the lot.’

  Cat walked around the living-room, fingering objects, lingering over framed photos, feeling the heavy brocade of the curtains, running her hands over the worn warm upholstery, filling her nostrils with the scent of home. It was like remaking her acquaintance with the essential elements of her personal history; reminding herself how everything looked and felt and smelt and should be, while at the same time reasserting her own presence in this sacred family space.

  The Spread was simmering and sautéing and roasting and steaming. Elements of it were happily marinating, or being chilled, or else ripening at room temperature. All the pots and pans were in use and every utensil had served many a purpose. The various scents emanating from oven and hob joined forces to create an olfactory explosion that, to Django, was as contradictory yet ultimately pleasing as a jazz chord.

  The point of cooking and the point of jazz are essentially one and the same, Django thought to himself as he ran a sink of water and half a jar of Bar Keeper’s Friend to soak all the knives. It’s about an element of surprise, of revelation and re-education. Of experimentation. Like when the African pentatonic scale met the European diatonic scale and jazz was born; a sound that was initially bizarre, disconcertingly discordant. It simply required one to open one’s ears and one’s heart to the flattened third and seventh notes and suddenly the aural pleasure of the blue note coursed through one’s veins. Likewise, one’s initial concern that Tabasco and tuna may be odd accompaniments to duck with a celery stuffing, dissipates when one shrugs off preconceptions of convention and allows the tastes to speak for themselves.

  ‘Not too dissimilar to Kandinsky either,’ Django mused as he left the kitchen in search of his nieces, ‘seemingly an arbitrary cascade of colour and shape yet utterly grounded in structure and purpose. Jazz, Cookery, Abstraction. It’s all art.’

  He found them in the living-room and observed them unseen for a nostalgic moment. Just then, the girls could have been any age. The scene was immediately familiar and timeless and the continuity was poignant. ‘By golly,’ Django declared, ‘sing hey for the return of the nit-pickin’ chicks.’

  The nit-pickin’ chicks looked up at him. Fen stopped plaiting Pip’s hair, Pip stilled her hands from massaging Cat’s foot, Cat brought her head up from Fen’s lap and ceased tracing patterns on her sister’s legs.

  ‘Django, You’re not going all sentimental on us are you?’ Pip asked, resuming her massage in a businesslike way. The girls laughed. Privately, they each felt suddenly very sentimental, in an affirming way. It had been years since Django had referred to them as the nit-pickin’ chicks, because it had been such a long time since they’d sat in their huddle with their hands almost absent-mindedly working on each other.

  ‘Stop fiddling,’ Django said. ‘Let’s eat.’

  ‘I’ll just check on Cosima,’ Fen said.

  ‘You were only up there half an hour ago,’ said Cat, ‘and she was quiet then.’

  ‘you’ll see,’ Fen said, slightly defensively, feeling entitled to her knowing nod, ‘you’ll see.’

  ‘It transpires that Cat hasn’t just come home because she misses your cooking,’ Pip told Django, slipping her arm around his waist, ‘She’s come home to breed.’

  Django took a moment. ‘Wonderful!’ he then said, placing his hand on Cat’s head as if blessing her. ‘Another reason to celebrate. There’s some champagne somewhere. It may well be in the bottom drawer in your room, Pip.’

  ‘I could look in on Cosima for you while I check,’ Pip suggested to Fen.

  ‘No,’ said Fen decisively, ‘I’ll go. I’ll do both.’

  ‘The meal is organic,’ Django told her, ‘mostly. Shall I purée a little for Cosima for tomorrow?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Fen said, hoping she hid her alarm.

  ‘The sauce is relatively orange,’ Django elaborated.

  ‘That’ll be the Tabasco,’ Fen said, ‘which isn’t really appropriate for a six-month-old baby.’

  ‘It’s never too early to prepare the palate,’ Django said.

  Despite the size of the scones, the aromas from the pots and pans were too tantalizing to resist and appetites magically expanded to meet the quality and quantity of food prepared. Though the menu was predictably unorthodox and though they started with dessert because Django didn’t want to risk the lemon-and-rum soufflé collapsing, traditional manners had always been proudly upheld in the McCabe household. Don’t hold your knife like a pencil, elbows off the table, don’t talk with your mouth full. Between courses, after polite dabbing with napkins, news and plans were discussed.

  ‘A toast to absent menfolk,’ Django said, charging his glass, ‘to the accountant, the publisher, the doctor.’ He took a sip. ‘There was plenty of food for them, you know, even if you lot want second helpings.’

  ‘But we didn’t actually want them here,’ Pip said as if revealing a secret. ‘We wanted you to ourselves.’

  ‘And Ben’s mum wanted him to herself,’ Cat reasoned.

  ‘Next time you come, you bring your boys,’ Django said. ‘This stew will be good for days – You’re all to take a tub home.’ He topped up his glass again. ‘Well, another toast. To the clown.’ Everyone chinked Pip’s glass. Django cleared his throat: ‘To the art historian.’ They raised their glasses to Fen. And then they all looked at Cat. ‘What shall we toast you as?’ Django asked her. ‘Sports journalist? Redhead?’

  Cat looked concerned. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But you so love the cycling world,’ Pip said, ‘and you had such respect as one of the few female reporters.’

  ‘And You’re married to the doctor of one of the world’s top cycling teams,’ Fen said.

  ‘Ex-team doctor,’ Cat pointed out.

  ‘No m
ore gallivanting around the globe with that circus of Lycra and bicycles then?’ asked Django.

  ‘No,’ Cat laughed though she looked a little forlorn. ‘I’ve fallen out of love.’ Pip and Fen jerked with concern. ‘With the sport,’ Cat clarified. ‘So has Ben. Too many drugs, too much cheating.’

  ‘So, what’ll you do?’ Pip asked again.

  ‘I’m not sure – maybe write more widely. Maybe not just yet.’

  ‘And are you back for good?’ Django asked. ‘Or is this a pit stop?’

  ‘This is home. This is where we want to start a family. Maybe I’ll take a leaf out of Fen’s book – and yours, Django – and make motherhood my career.’

  ‘No finer, more noble job than that,’ Django said, ‘mark my words.’

  ‘You forgot to add knackering,’ Fen laughed. ‘Academia was a breeze in comparison. Not that I have any desire to go back to it.’

  ‘But You’re so talented,’ said Cat, ‘you’ve had stuff published. You’ve lectured at the Tate. You’re the authority on the sculpture of Julius Fetherstone. You have all those hard-earned letters after your name.’

  ‘Art is still my great love – just because I choose not to work in that field doesn’t negate that,’ Fen shrugged and continued more defensively. ‘I’ve gone for a change of career. Raising my baby is just as challenging, as stimulating – and far more time-consuming.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to see which comes first – a blue line on the dipstick, or a job offer,’ said Cat.

  ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Pip, ‘to my sisters, to our Django. To family.’

  Django makes his announcement over strong Turkish coffee and enormous petits fours. He clears his throat and asks for silence, please, ladies.

  ‘No doubt my impending milestone birthday has been the cause for much speculation – and I hope you haven’t already planned a surprise party.’

  ‘You’re not going on a retreat are you?’ Cat asks.

  ‘On my seventy-fifth birthday?’ Django objects. ‘Good Lord no. I have no intention of retreating anywhere. Quite the opposite. They’ll be coming out of the woodwork, far and wide, because I’m going to throw a party.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Of course here,’ Django says, ‘a huge rollicking knees-up that will rewrite the significance of May 16th in history. I’m going to have a party That’ll be totally, eye-openingly unsuitable for someone of such an age.’

  Cat, Fen and Pip gawp at him.

  ‘You’re all invited,’ he assures them earnestly, ‘along with anyone who thinks they might ever have known me.’

  THE RAG AND THISTLE

  Early the following evening, Django placed his hands on Fen’s shoulders. ‘Do it for me,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It’s only the Rag and Thistle,’ said Pip, ‘It’s only down the road.’

  ‘And It’s my welcome-home weekend,’ Cat protested.

  ‘I don’t feel like it,’ Fen said.

  ‘Your sisters request your company and I’d like to have my granddaughter all to myself,’ Django said but he could see that he hadn’t dented her defence. ‘You do have faith in my abilities, don’t you? Did I not bring up you three single-handedly – and fabulously – when your mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver?’ He paused carefully to assess the just perceptible upturn to the corners of Fen’s mouth. ‘And isn’t Cosima already sound asleep and unlikely to waken anyway?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Fen said. ‘Of course I have faith in you. It’s just I don’t really feel like going out.’ She wanted to sound needy rather than defensive so that they’d sympathize.

  ‘But It’s my weekend!’ Cat reiterated.

  Fen looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘I don’t want to go to the Rag and Thistle because I don’t want to leave Cosima,’ she explained, looking at the semicircle of her family surrounding her. ‘It’s not something that I’ve done. Why can’t we just stay here – open some dodgy home-made elderberry wine?’

  Her sisters and uncle regarded her while she scrutinized a threadbare patch on the Persian rug. Was that newspaper beneath it? Probably. When from, Fen wondered. She’d known the rug all her life.

  ‘You mean to say you haven’t had any time apart from Cosima in six months?’ Cat asked.

  ‘No – yes,’ Fen elaborated, ‘not really. Matt has babysat a couple of times.’

  ‘You mean you and Matt haven’t been out together since she was born?’ Cat asked, thinking it sounded preposterous.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fen, with a tightness that told her audience she thought they shouldn’t be questioning.

  ‘That’s not right,’ said Cat, ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Fuck off, Cat,’ Fen said sharply.

  ‘Don’t swear,’ Django said.

  ‘I have offered,’ Pip said to Cat and Django, ‘to babysit.’

  ‘But Cosima was colicky,’ Fen said.

  ‘No one’s likely to judge your mothering abilities on whether you occasionally have some me-time,’ said Django.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Fen sighed.

  ‘It’s good for you,’ said Pip, ‘it said so in that baby book you keep in the loo.’

  ‘What’s all this Fen-bashing?’ Fen asked. ‘God, You’re my bloody family. Cosima is a tiny baby and I’m allowed to indulge my maternal instincts.’

  ‘I simply want the treat, the honour, of looking after my first granddaughter, and your sisters just wanted a couple of hours down the local with you to themselves,’ Django reasoned. ‘As you say – we are a bloody family.’

  ‘It’s not a challenge,’ Pip said, ‘It’s just a quick drink down the pub, silly.’

  ‘Christ, why is everyone calling me silly these days?’ Fen muttered to herself. ‘And it is a challenge, actually, to me. Do you not think it doesn’t disturb me that my self-confidence can leak away like breast milk? That I’d reject my sisters’ invitation to go out for a couple of drinks? That a strange and terrible part of me doesn’t even trust the man who raised me to look after my baby for two tiny hours?’ Her eyes darted around her family from under knotted eyebrows.

  ‘Look – I’m sorry, Fen,’ said Cat, who looked it. ‘Please come. I’m so excited to be back. I’ve missed you.’

  For a moment, Fen thought she might cry. Then she wanted to stand her ground and refuse. ‘I don’t know,’ she faltered.

  ‘Leave me a long list,’ Django said brightly, ‘with illustrations.’

  So, still a little reluctantly, Fen took him at his word and did just that. When she was quite sure Cosima really was fast asleep, she left with her sisters for the Rag and Thistle.

  As pubs go, the Rag and Thistle was both lively yet homey. Having been in the Merifield family for four generations, it retained the charm and authenticity that many brewery-owned pubs never achieve despite trying so obviously to replicate. Thus there were no mass-produced sepia pictures of Street Scene Anywhere but photos instead of Merifields old and young, dead and alive, their various dogs and horses, adorning most of the wall space. The cast of Peak Practice had signed beer mats which David Merifield had framed in a jaunty pattern around a cast photo. There was a paper serviette, illegibly autographed by an actress whose name no one could remember and sometimes this was hung upside down in case it was meant to be so. There were no laminated menus with novelty meals and photos of the dishes. Just simple home cooking, available whenever required. The bell for last orders was usually rung when someone remembered to ring it. The Rag and Thistle was a mainstay of the community and its community cherished it. Though the McCabe girls left home over a decade ago, they still think of it as their local and the Merifields welcome them back as if they last served them a drink just the day before.

  ‘G & T,’ Pip ordered.

  ‘Glass of house red,’ said Cat. ‘Fen?’

  ‘Oh go on then,’ Fen said guiltily, ‘V.a.T. But loads of tonic and easy on the vodka. I’m still breast-feeding, remember.’

  ‘We couldn’t possibly forget
,’ Pip murmured to Cat though it landed her a harsh glance from Fen.

  ‘I’ll bring them over,’ said the publican Mr Merifield, who always treated the girls like royalty on their visits home. ‘you’ll be wanting to nab that table That’s just come free.’

  ‘So Django’s going to throw a birthday party,’ Cat marvelled, making a beeline for the table in the corner bedecked with horse brasses. ‘Is he serious about having it at home? He could have it here.’

  ‘This place couldn’t fit everyone in – They’ll be coming from the four corners of the earth,’ said Pip.

  ‘Didn’t you know the earth was round?’ said Mr Merifield, setting down their drinks.

  ‘we’re talking about Django’s birthday.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Merifield, ‘and the party. No point us opening the pub that night – everyone will be at yours, if memories of his sixtieth party serve me right.’ The girls laughed and everyone buried their heads in their hands.

  ‘Can you believe He’s going to be seventy-five?’ Fen said, arranging a beer mat in front of each of them and removing the ashtray to the window sill with a look of utter distaste.

  ‘It sounds so old,’ said Cat. ‘Seventy-five.’

  ‘He is a grandpa,’ Fen defined, ‘though actually he likes to be called Gramps.’

  ‘Tom calls him that,’ Pip explained to Cat. ‘Tom calls him Django Gramps which is weird really, because He’s even less of a real grandfather, in the literal sense, to Tom than he is to Cosima.’

  ‘I laughed when you told me in that e-mail that Django refers to Tom as his “step-grandsonthing-or-other”,’ Cat told her.

  ‘I wonder if our children will be confused that they have a grandpa for an uncle, but a non-existent grandmother?’ Fen mused.

  ‘They have other grandmas,’ Pip said. ‘Matt and Zac’s mums.’

  ‘It’s odd,’ said Fen and then she stopped. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just that, having really thought of her so rarely, just recently I’ve thought of her more.’