by Freya North
Four hours later, Barnardo’s was £193 richer. She took the loose change to the bank and sent the charity a cheque immediately. The next day she dressed as Dr Pippity and immersed herself into her ward rounds at St Bea’s. The following day, Wednesday, she was back at Brent Cross as Merry Martha but raised a disappointing £109.56 for Barnardo’s. She drove back to Hampstead, parked the car outside the flat and, still in full clown guise, walked up the High Street with her bucket of change. She queued at the bank before brandishing the bucket at the teller and being invited to take a seat whilst the money was counted.
It was a beautiful afternoon. Tom would be finishing school, just up the road, in an hour or so. But today was not a Dad and Pip day, it was a Mum and Rob day. So Merry Martha swung her bucket and headed off for a stroll on the Heath. She decided to walk to Kite Hill, overlooking Parliament Hill fields, because the Kenwood side was out of bounds on account of it being the space she traditionally shared with her sisters.
Preschool children pointed at her, delighted, and she happily performed impromptu tricks and mimes much to their delight. Finding a bench, Pip sat. She turned her face to the sun and attempted to smile at its warmth, despite the risk of make-up meltdown. A cloud came and her face chilled. She opened her eyes and tried to see. She couldn’t see the view. She could stare right into the mess of it all but was unable to deflect her gaze. Tears started to well caustically in her throat, impervious to any attempt to swallow them down. They squeezed themselves out of her eyes, resistant to frantic blinking and the digging of nails into the palms of the hand. Attempting to stem the impending flow only provoked her nose to clog with snot that impaired breathing and crackled audibly. Pip realized she could no longer break it all down into objective physiology. She’d just have to break down. Her throat was aching and her nose was running and her eyes were streaming because she was crying. She swiped at her wet cheeks and itched her nose vigorously against her arm. Then she buried her head in her hands before rubbing and rubbing her tired, hot eyes.
‘The clown is crying!’ Pip heard a child’s delighted whisper.
‘It’s all part of an act,’ Pip heard a parent explain. ‘It’s called miming, darling.’
‘Does she have a red nose?’ the child continued. ‘I can’t see – her hand is in the way.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ the parent enthused.
Oh shit, thought Pip, can’t a clown sit in a public space and cry in private?
Of course not.
And then Pip thought, Oh shit, when I look up, my slap will be smudged to gruesome effect and will surely frighten the child.
Well, you’d better make sure that Isn’t the case.
Slowly, Pip unfurled her crumpled form and lifted her head. Her histrionic sigh, her expression of highly theatrical grief, were so fabulously comic that parent and child were delighted and the blurred make-up was an irrelevance. Pip stood and clutched at her heart while contorting her face in the universal mime language of ‘Woe is me’. Then she stooped to the child and pulled her most beseeching face. She pointed to her nose and pressed it lightly. The child looked to his parent for guidance.
‘I think the clown wants you to press her nose,’ the parent whispered.
Gingerly at first, the child eventually did so. Suddenly, there was a chorus of great honking from a small horn hidden in Pip’s pocket. Her face broadened into a smile of prodigious proportions and she outstretched her arms in triumph, performing a jig of merriment on the spot.
‘I did it! I did it – I did a happy spell on her nose!’ the child shrieked with delight, clapping and jumping. The parent put £1.70 into the empty bucket, nodded gratefully at the clown and led the child away in the direction of the ice-cream van.
Pip walks home and finds Zac already there. He looks at her askance.
‘Merry Martha again?’ he asks, privately thinking she looks more like Miserable Molly.
‘Yup,’ says Pip.
‘Blimey, £1.70,’ Zac says.
‘Plus £109.56,’ Pip protests.
‘Are you OK?’ Zac asks her. She looks a fright.
‘Fine,’ says Pip.
‘You look as if you’ve been – well – crying,’ Zac pauses. ‘Your slap is all over the place.’
‘Oh,’ says Pip, thankful she has her mask still on, however blotched and smeared it may be, ‘It’s all part of today’s act.’
‘Oh,’ says Zac, unconvinced, ‘do you want to talk? I want to give Tom a call and I have a little work to do – but I could crack on with it while You’re in the shower.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of having a shower,’ Pip mutters and she leaves the flat, silently cursing Zac for making her feel so low down his list.
Zac takes a beer out onto the balcony and dials Matt’s mobile.
‘Hiya mate,’ he says, ‘It’s Zac.’
‘How are you doing?’ Matt greets the call.
‘Fine, fine. Listen – I Don’t want to speak out of turn or anything, but I’m wondering how Fen is? You know, since all the drama.’
There’s a long, loaded pause. Matt clears his throat. ‘She’s gone absolutely barking bloody mad, if you ask me. Not that she’ll talk to me.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Zac says. ‘What I mean is, Pip too. Bonkers. The only time She’s not being a clown is when She’s asleep. And I can’t get anything out of her.’
‘Fen keeps putting rocks and pebbles everywhere,’ Matt says.
‘Why?’
‘I Don’t know why – but They’re everywhere. On the side of the bath. By the fireplace. On the mantelpiece. That’s not all – suddenly I’m being asked to pay a fortune for some interior designer to go all Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen on the flat. ‘And she keeps baking all this – stuff. I think She’s joined the Women’s Institute or the Stepford Wives or something. Have you spoken to Ben at all? Because if our two are like this, can you imagine how it is for Cat?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ says Zac.
‘I’ll give him a call tomorrow,’ says Matt.
‘I’ll give him a call now,’ says Zac. ‘Pip’s stormed off somewhere. Looking like Smarty Arty on acid.’
SWEET IS THE VOICE OF A SISTER IN THE SEASON OF SORROW
Fen overheard Matt’s conversation with Zac and she was pissed off. It wasn’t because Matt thought She’d gone mad which annoyed her, just then she was far more riled that he didn’t like her pebble motifs. And couldn’t he see that her grand designs for their house were much more Kevin McCloud than Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen? What did he know anyway? Pebbles weren’t indicative of insanity and nor was Pip choosing to dress as her clown character. It occurred to Fen that no matter how deeply they were loved by their menfolk, she and her sisters were fundamentally misunderstood. She realized then that the only people who could possibly appreciate how she was feeling were those feeling just like her. Suddenly she longed for Pip and Cat and realized the last few days had been all the more lonely for lack of them.
Traditionally, Pip had always been the one to take the mature option and decide what to do, taking all matters onto her own shoulders and then dispensing constructive and logical advice. Cat had always simply cried out loud for assistance, inciting the others to rally round. But Fen had customarily kept herself to herself, until her sisters instinctively came looking and coaxed her out into the open.
Well, hadn’t so much changed. She dialled Pip. Zac answered.
‘Is Pip there?’
‘Fen?’ ‘Yes?’
‘Hi – how are you?’ ‘Very well, thanks Zac. Is Pip there?’
‘She’s in the shower.’
‘Please could she call me once She’s dry.’
She dialled Cat. Ben answered.
‘Is Cat there?’
‘Fen?’
‘Yes?’
‘How are you?’
‘Well, you know. Anyway, is Cat around?’
‘She’s not back from work yet.’
‘Work? She has a job?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes. In a bookshop.’
‘Oh. Good for her. Will you ask her to call me when She’s back?’
‘No problem – good to hear you, Fen.’
While Fen waited for either sister to call, she played with the configuration of various pebbles and analysed the Farrow & Ball colour chart through slanted eyes. What gorgeous names: Clunch, Mouse’s Back, Dimity, Cornforth White, Porphyry Pink, Sutcliffe Green, Cook’s Blue. Names are everything. If Dulux or Crown also did these particular colours, Fen reckoned She’d still buy the Farrow & Ball version, even if they were more expensive, on account of them being so inspiringly named.
‘Do you like the sound of Ringwold Ground?’ she asked Matt.
‘Shouldn’t the question be do I like the look of it?’ Matt said. Fen thrust the colour card at him. The shade looked like unpainted plaster to him, though he realized that was probably the point and chose therefore to nod and not comment.
‘For our bedroom?’ Fen furthered. Matt considered this. The bedroom looked fine to him. Though of course he wanted to make her happy, to see her smiling, this was becoming costly in a single-salary household. He was about to allude to this but wisely bit it back. After all, hadn’t he actively encouraged her change of career, from art historian to mother? Realistically, her freelance wage would mostly cover just childcare; the amount She’d bring home would be paltry enough not to be worth the separation anxiety. He thought about asking if B & Q did their own version of Sugar Bag Light but was saved by the bell. Pip was returning Fen’s phone call.
‘Hullo. It’s me.’
‘Hullo, you,’ said Fen. ‘I think It’s time – Don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Pip, ‘We’ll go in our car. I’ll pick you up.’ ‘Thanks.’
From the first-floor window of the flat, Ben watched in disbelief but with great relief Pip and Fen walking up the street. He glanced across to Cat, engrossed in a copy of the Bookseller, and could not anticipate how she might react. Did he have a duty to tell her they approached? Or did he owe it to all of them not to interfere? His wife would be better off for the company of her sisters, of that he was sure, no matter how over-emotional the proceedings might be. It had been difficult enough to gauge her reaction when told that Fen had called. And now the doorbell was sounding. He looked over to Cat and she looked up.
‘Shall I get it?’ he asked and she looked at him with a slow nod as if it was a pretty daft question as he was nearest and it was gone nine o’clock and who could it be.
Fen and Pip filled the room. Cat’s heart heaved with relief. Here was Fen, and Pip too, the promise of their familiar smiles, side by side. And Cat hadn’t even needed to cry out loud, she hadn’t asked for help, she hadn’t said a word. Still they’d come. How lovely to feel so second-guessed, to be known so well, to be loved so fully.
‘We thought you probably wouldn’t return Fen’s call,’ Pip explained, walking straight over to her little sister and kissing both cheeks.
‘So we came to you,’ said Fen, glancing around the flat and thinking it would be really quite nice if it was given a lick of Joa’s White. She went to Cat and hugged her close. ‘I hear you have a job,’ Fen said, ‘in a bookshop?’ Cat gave a nod. ‘Do you get a discount?’ Fen asked slyly.
‘Signed copies?’ asked Pip.
‘I think I’ll just pop out. To Waitrose,’ said Ben, but the girls hardly heard him. Fen was fussing at Cat’s tears with a tissue and Pip was fiddling with mugs and the kettle.
‘Our blokes think we’ve gone nuts,’ Fen said indignantly once Ben had gone. ‘I heard Matt and Zac discussing it.’
Cat still hadn’t said a word but it didn’t bother her sisters. Her tears, and the way she clung to them, told them enough.
‘I mean, Fen and I are entitled to have flipped out,’ Pip reasoned, ‘but You’re allowed to go loop-the-frigging-loop, my dear.’
‘I think we’d be far madder if we were untouched by this,’ Fen said.
‘Anyway, we’re not mad, we’re not insane, and we’re certainly not over-reacting,’ Pip decreed. ‘It was a huge shock. When You’re a child, normal is whatever you know. We’ve suddenly had everything we’ve ever known stripped away from us.’
Cat regarded her. While she felt the official age gap between her and Fen had lessened as they’d become older, she still revered Pip as very much the eldest and wisest – her keeper, her protector. How she loved her. How safe she made her feel, safe enough to finally find her voice. ‘Do you love me less?’
Pip and Fen could clearly hear the quiet fear beneath the plaintive timbre of Cat’s voice and they could see right through her beguilingly mournful expression to the presence of panic. Cat might be dressing her question with a certain theatricality, but the question was no joke. Her sisters let her ask it because they knew she had to. They were well aware that She’d probably tortured herself with the possibility of the notion, since the revelation. Pip folded her arms and raised her eyebrow. Fen put her hands on her hips and looked at Cat. ‘Stupid question,’ Cat answered shyly, on their behalf.
‘Do you need us to answer?’ Fen said softly.
‘Would you like us to answer?’ Pip asked.
Cat shrugged. ‘Yes, please. I think I would.’
‘You’re our baby sister,’ Fen said, nudging her gently.
‘Nothing can ever change that,’ said Pip.
‘I’ve been wanting to be a grown-up so desperately,’ Cat croaked. ‘All these thoughts of baby-making and house-hunting. But now I feel like a crazy mixed-up kid.’ She stopped. The faces of her sisters were close to hers, their eyes large with love and concern. ‘I feel I’ve lost what I had – and what I had I loved.’ Cat continued. ‘Django is a liar. I’ve been lied to my whole life.’
‘This will not come between us,’ Pip said sagely, unfurling her sister’s clenched fists, ‘between us three. It wouldn’t matter to me if I shared no scrap of DNA with you.’
‘But suddenly our stupid little family seems so dysfunctional,’ Cat said quietly, ‘whereas before, I was proud – I felt it was joyously eccentric.’
‘Wonderfully unconventional,’ Fen mused sadly. ‘I agree,’ said Pip. ‘It now seems messed up to the extreme. Remember how we’d vilify those prim mothers of some of our schoolmates for assuming that our family was somehow substandard, not real because of it being not proper? Well, now It’s hard not to think that they were right. I can’t help but feel It’s all been a bit of a farce.’
‘But what can Django have been thinking?’ Fen asked, sitting heavily on a kitchen chair. ‘Did he really believe we’d never find out? Part of me would hope that it was irrelevant to him that one of us was biologically his child. I certainly never felt his love for us wasn’t utterly equal and unconditional. But actually, it appals me that fatherhood didn’t make a difference to him. Sorry Pip – but Don’t you feel he should’ve loved Cat more? Or differently? Or something? Sorry Cat – but You’re his daughter. A parent’s love for their offspring should be omnipotent, it should be chemically impossible for it not to be. So is he an amazing man for loving us the same, or is he downright neglectful for that very reason? I can’t work it out. I can’t.’ She laid her head on her folded arms and focused on the grain of the kitchen table.
Pip wanted to argue that a stepmother’s love for her stepchild could be just as true. But she was aware that this was not the forum for hypothetical discussion.
‘I Don’t know how to handle any of it,’ Cat said with a frantic shake of her head, ‘and we haven’t even spoken about her.’ She began to pace the room.
‘The odd thing is, I’m not so curious as to why She’s returned, why she showed up on his birthday,’ Pip said. ‘Perhaps I would be, had the Django stuff not transpired. I just Don’t know what to do about him.’
Cat looked taken aback – how could Pip not know what to do? She always knew what to do. Cat stomped around the room again.
‘He’s called Derek,’ said Fen, lifting her head from her arms only tempor
arily. ‘It’s so weird.’
‘Why didn’t we ever wonder why he has an Italian gypsy name,’ Pip said, ‘when his family were from Sutton Coldfield?’
Cat stopped pacing and burst into tears. ‘All these years I’ve wept for the father I never knew, now I’m presented with one I’d rather not have.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Pip tried to soothe her.
‘we’re here,’ said Fen, feeling desperately in need of being soothed herself.
‘I never want to see my father again,’ said Cat. ‘I want Django back. I Don’t know. I really Don’t. It’s what Ben would call a complete and utter headfuck.’
‘How very medical that sounds,’ Fen remarked.
‘The thing is,’ said Pip to Cat, with a glance at Fen, ‘It’s your call, Cat, in the first instance. We can cease all communication, if that makes life easier for you. Or we can roll up our sleeves and dig around the mystery.’
‘But I can’t make the call,’ Cat said slowly. ‘I can’t. I can’t.’ She fingered Pip’s wedding ring. ‘But you can.’
Their gaze alighted on the telephone and Pip sensed her sisters look imploringly at her, of course.
Pip wants to duck out. She wants to protest, ‘But what will I say?’ but she can’t. That wouldn’t do at all. Pip has always had the answers for Cat and Fen. She’s grown up knowing that even if she doesn’t have the answers immediately, she has to find them for the sake of her sisters. But today she doesn’t know what to say – and what She’d like to say is that she doesn’t know what to do. There’s been little opportunity for vulnerability in Pip McCabe’s life; the occasions when She’s felt fragile have been kept carefully out of sight and out of earshot. She’s always liked being the Big Sister, She’s found it preferable to be the solver of other people’s problems, She’s been flattered to be hailed as the Great Looker-Afterer. But just now she curses these roles. Actually, she wants someone’s lap for herself to curl up into, to assure her that it’ll be OK.
