by Freya North
‘That’s stretching it,’ Zac laughed, peering over Pip’s head to check his reflection in the mirror.
She twisted around and looked up at him. ‘Well, whatever you are officially, you are certainly family,’ she said. Zac kissed the bridge of her nose as the tip of it was already painted red. ‘Anyway, you three need to meet up to discuss the music for Django’s party. It’s less than a fortnight away. He’ll be digging out the gramophone and all his scratchy old vinyl if you Don’t.’
‘Good thinking, Mrs,’ said Zac. ‘Remember to pick Tom up later.’
What a stupid thing to say, Pip thought.
To meet at the Mariners was Zac’s suggestion and it was a good one. Tucked away up a side street off the Embankment, it was a hop across the river from Ben’s hospital, a walk through the City for Zac and a quick taxi ride for Matt, better locating him for the journey home anyway. The establishment itself, though categorically a pub, had the feel of a gentleman’s club, with walls panelled in oak, tub chairs set around tables placed discreetly apart and booths upholstered in dark green leather along the back wall. There were no fruit machines, no television, no music, no menu. The landlord and bar staff were male and conservative, in their waistcoats and ties and neat moustaches and referring to their clients as Sir. There was no active misogynism in play, indeed the landlord was somewhat mystified that the various girls to whom He’d offered bar work had turned him down. His bar, it seemed, was simply not conducive to a female clientele.
‘It’s what the young people refer to as the “vibe”, dear,’ the landlord’s wife defined. ‘It doesn’t have the right vibe for the ladies.’ Even she preferred to take her occasional gin and tonic at the Kings Head in the parallel street.
‘Bitter?’ Zac asked.
‘And twisted,’ Ben quipped. ‘Actually, I hate to say it but I’m a bit of a bottled lager man now – those years in the States lured me away from warm beer.’
‘You drank pints at the Rag and Thistle when we were there the other week,’ Matt commented.
‘Country pubs are different,’ Ben said, ‘and the Rag and Thistle is in a league of its own.’
‘Apparently They’re providing the beer for Django’s party,’ Matt said, ‘in barrels.’
‘We must discuss the music, we only have this weekend to sort it out,’ Zac reminded himself out loud of the reason for their meeting.
‘I can’t do Saturday,’ said Ben, ‘I have clinics all day.’
‘How’s work?’ Matt asked him.
‘Brilliant – but long hours, which pisses Cat off,’ said Ben. ‘But I’m in my element – I’m pleased we seem to be taking sports medicine seriously in this country at last. It’s not so much about treatment – if you get to that stage, You’re a little too late. It’s about understanding and management – That’s why I pressed for the department to be called Sports Medicine, not Sports Injury. If we look after our sportsmen – professional, school, club – we’ll see less injury and better results.’
‘Interesting,’ said Matt. ‘God, It’s years since I put on a pair of trainers.’
‘It’s not years,’ Zac corrected, ‘you and I were playing a bit of tennis last summer – you mean It’s since your baby came on the scene.’
‘Christ You’re right,’ Matt chinked glasses with Zac. ‘All those things I used to do BC.’
‘BC?’ said Ben. ‘B C,’ Matt said. ‘Before Cosima.’ Then he continued, theatrically sotto voce, ‘Can you slip me a nice little tonic, doctor? Some va-va-voom?’
‘Va-Va-Viagra?’ Ben asked.
‘Sod off,’ Matt laughed, ‘not for me. Something I can slip into Fen’s Ovaltine?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Ben, ‘not enough action?’
‘None whatsoever,’ rued Matt, ‘and I’m so bored of furtive wanks in the shower I can’t even be bothered to do that any more.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Ben and Zac sympathetically, grateful it wasn’t them.
‘Bad patch?’ Zac asked, knowing Pip had said so but not wanting to offend Matt by revealing this.
Matt shrugged. ‘I Don’t know,’ he faltered. ‘It’s probably fine.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘Look – It’s just I’d rather it didn’t get back to Fen,’ he said, ‘and you know what those sisters are like.’
‘Off the record,’ Zac assured him while Ben pulled an imaginary zip across his lips.
Matt shrugged. ‘To be honest, things aren’t as good as they were – dare I say it – BC. I mean, I’ve read the mags, the books, I went to the ante-natal classes, I cut the cord and I change nappies. I expect to be tired beyond belief – I understand that tiredness plays havoc with the libido. But actually It’s not just about sex. It’s more.’
‘It’s about more sex?’ Zac asked and they all laughed before Matt buried his head in his hands in exaggerated woe.
‘I love the mother of my child,’ Matt said, ‘but where the fuck has my girlfriend gone? I feel surplus to requirements, you could say. It isn’t in any of the books that when your child has a wonderful mother, you can’t have your girlfriend back.’
‘She’s obsessed with the baby?’ Ben said, being careful to turn it into a question though actually he was stating the obvious.
‘Yes,’ said Matt, ‘and nonplussed by me. I must admit, initially I was delighted and relieved by Fen’s almost fierce maternal instincts – She’s certainly not following in her own mother’s footsteps. But now It’s frustrating me.’
‘It will be temporary,’ Ben told him. ‘It’s hormonal – motherhood is still partly chemical in these months.’
‘But we’re dangerously close to being in a rut. Don’t either of you say “Give her time”,’ Matt warned them, ‘seriously.’
‘Have you talked about this?’ Ben asked.
Matt looked embarrassed. ‘When? How?’ he said. ‘I arrive home from work and Fen badgers me to have quality time with Cosima. Then we eat in front of the television. She goes to bed early and is out like a light. If I can’t use all the tricks of the frigging trade to arouse her for some sleepy shagging, I certainly can’t rouse her for a heart-to-heart.’
‘You two need time together,’ Zac said, ‘grown-up time away from home.’
Matt looked deflated. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but she doesn’t trust babysitters.’
‘We’ll do it,’ Zac offered.
‘Us too,’ said Ben.
‘Thanks,’ said Matt, ‘thanks. The thing is, she doesn’t seem interested. She just wants an early night. Every night.’
Ben took a long pull at his bottled beer. He shook his head with a sorry smile. ‘I tell you, Matt,’ he said, ‘It’s a cruel irony – but I’m having so much sex I’m rapidly going off it.’
‘You total wanker,’ Matt laughed, a little bitterly.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ Ben assured him. ‘Cat’s constantly analysing calendars and her temperature and demanding sex at scientific moments and weird angles. I’m seriously thinking of providing her with samples and a turkey baster. We’ve stopped making love, we’re “trying for a baby”. And I’m the sperm bank.’
Zac laughed. ‘Not really Kama Sutra, then, Ben?’
‘It’s about as far from the Kama bloody Sutra as A Nun’s Story is from Debbie Does Dallas. All this sex – It’s not fucking or shagging or making love. It’s purely mechanical. But of course she also wants me to gaze at her in a deep and meaningful way because we’re baby-making.’
Zac had a contemplative sip of his pint. ‘Much as I do love my two sisters-in-law, I thank heavens Pip doesn’t want to procreate. I have my son and my wife and life is very very good.’
‘You smug git,’ Ben laughed.
‘Isn’t June pregnant?’ Matt said with a sly edge to his voice.
‘June?’ said Ben. ‘Remind me?’
‘Tom’s mother,’ Zac said and Ben slapped his forehead and said, Of course. ‘Yes,’ Zac confirmed, ‘She’s due this summer.’
Ben and Matt exchanged glances and eyebro
w-raises.
‘What?’ said Zac.
‘It won’t be long before Pip’s going to want to keep up with the June-ses,’ Matt said.
‘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.
