by Freya North
‘I,’ the line went very quiet. ‘Well.’ Django cleared his throat. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m still here,’ said Ben continuing to hope that whatever it was that irked Django wasn’t going to take too long to reveal, and would not compromise his loyalty to his wife.
‘Well, I’m telephoning you at work because I appreciate it Isn’t appropriate to telephone you at your home,’ Django said, ‘on account of Cat’s needs. I fear my tones would not be dulcet but despicable to her ears – you needn’t comment. But actually, the main reason I’m telephoning you at work, is because this call is in fact a work call.’
‘I see,’ said Ben, who didn’t, and whose stomach was telling him it was past lunch-time. ‘Django?’
‘Yes?’
‘A work call, you say? Hullo?’
‘It’s my waterworks,’ Django said, his anxiety transmitting straight through the receiver. ‘And. Well. It’s just.’
‘Django,’ Ben said, with bedside manner expertly employed in an instant, ‘has there been a change in the situation?’
‘Oh, just a very minor one,’ said Django.
‘And that would be?’
‘Well, just a little bit of, you know, something a little like blood.’
‘There is blood in your urine?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Discomfort?’
‘No. Not really. Though I’m rather irked by having to spend so many bloody pennies. Especially at night.’
‘When did you first see the blood?’
‘A couple of visits ago.’
‘And since? Is it still present?’
‘A little. I suppose. But you know I am partial to beet-root – and that certainly discolours one’s water. Almost gave me a heart attack, when that first happened. Far more alarming than the effect of asparagus.’
‘Have you eaten beetroot, Django? In the last thirty-six hours?’ Ben asked.
‘No. No. But I am fond of it and have eaten a lot of it in my time.’
‘Django, did you see your GP about your waterworks? After we had our chat?’
‘Well. I did go to my GP. But It’s all changed. Dr Sutton Isn’t there any more. In his place, just some lovely young doctor but she really is too young to be dealing with me, you know.’
‘Django, I really do want you to go and see a doctor. It’s probably nothing. But at your age, we need to check your prostate. It’s very easy to do.’
‘Is it? I see. But I Don’t think this very young lady doctor should be bothered by me because as you say It’s probably nothing.’
‘Is there another doctor at the practice you might prefer to see?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all changed so much. In Dr Sutton’s day, you knew them and they knew you. Now they Don’t even tick you off – you have to tap in your name on a computer screen yourself. You know how I hate newfangled technology.’
‘Will you phone them?’ Ben pressed. ‘Request a male doctor, if you prefer?’
‘I could do that, I suppose.’
‘You do that, Django, you do that. It’s a very simple thing to test PSA. It’s just a quick blood test to measure levels of a particular antigen associated with prostate conditions. Plus, an examination.’
‘An examination?’ Django said vaguely. ‘I Don’t know very much about my prostate, I’m afraid. Or prostates in general.’
‘No, Django,’ said Ben, ‘not that sort of exam.’
‘No. I didn’t think so.’
‘It’s just a very quick digital exam.’
‘Oh a digital exam. Well. Isn’t that marvellous. All this technology. Computers to sign you in and computers to diagnose your prostate. Marvellous. They say we’re living in the digital age, Don’t they!’
‘Django, I’m sorry – I’ve misled you. Digital – as in finger.’ Ben closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s the best way to check your prostate gland.’
‘Oh. Oh dear. A finger.’ There was a horrified pause. ‘The doctor’s?’
‘The doctor’s,’ Ben confirmed. ‘The doctor will need to insert a finger into your back passage to assess your prostate gland.’
‘Oh.’
‘Django, I know it sounds ghastly but It’s fast, gentle and diagnostically efficient alongside the blood test. I really do want you to see a GP. Prostate conditions are common but some can be quite nasty if They’re left too long. I think we’d like to rule out anything more untoward.’
‘You know, I’m just thinking here – but actually, I may have had beetroot.’
‘Django – would you like me to phone your practice? Make you an appointment?’
‘No thank you.’
‘But you will phone them directly?’
‘Well, yes I will. If That’s what you say, doctor.’
‘It is. I’m sure It’s probably nothing – it might just be a minor kidney infection. But combined with your increased bladder activity, I would really like you to have a prostate check-up.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘So will you phone me when you have an appointment?’
‘Well, OK then.’
‘OK then. Good. And if there’s anything that worries you or you Don’t understand in the consultation, will you please call me? Take notes – doctors Don’t mind.’
‘Righty-ho.’
‘OK. OK. Good. I’m glad we’re agreed. But Don’t you worry – as I say, It’s easy to diagnose and sort out.’
‘OK, Dr York. Thank you.’
‘I’m glad you phoned me, Django.’
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Ben?’
‘Yes?’
‘And how is Cat?’
‘How is Cat,’ Ben had to think fast how to answer. ‘She’s up and down, Django. But She’s working at a bookshop and She’s enjoying that.’
‘A bookshop you say?’
‘Yes, She’s really taken to it. Very busy and enthusiastic.’
‘Good for her. Good for her. Is she also – well – OK?’
‘She’ll be OK, Django,’ Ben said carefully. ‘She’s still very confused. We’ll just bide with her, I think. You know how emotional she can be.’
‘Yes. Yes I do. And the others? Might you know?’
‘They’re OK too, as far as I’m aware.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘It’s all been a little – odd.’
‘More than a little odd, dear Ben. On paper, It’s downright preposterous.’
‘Well, you know those McCabe girls – they need to vent their emotions before they can settle down and consider hard facts.’
‘Yes. But the facts are very hard, Ben, for them. Very hard.’
‘I know. But rest assured we’re looking after them. Zac and Matt and me.’
‘Bless you all,’ said Django, ‘bless you all.’
‘Django – will you call your surgery now?’
‘I will.’
‘And We’ll speak later today?’
‘We shall. Goodbye.’
Ben sat and stared at his mobile phone. Ought he to phone Cat? But would it alarm her? Perhaps he should phone Pip and ask her the best tack to take. But Pip would no doubt be struggling with her own reactions. He wondered what would alarm Cat most – that he was phoning her, again, at work? That he’d had the call from Django? Or that there was some concern for the man’s health? Ben decided it might be prudent to wait until Cat had left work and he’d next spoken to Django.
Cosima and her pals were alternately gnawing on wooden spoons and bashing them, or their fat little hands, against a variety of Tupperware containers provided by Anna.
‘We could call them the Rhythm Method,’ Fen remarked, clicking her fingers as if the babies were jamming a catchy beat.
‘Hardly,’ Kate commented. ‘It’s a contradiction in terms. If us lot had kept up the tempo of our Rhythm Method, this little lot wouldn’t be sucking our kitchen utensils.’
Momentarily, Fen thought this was slightly harsh. But then
she told herself it was just Kate’s manner. She was to let nothing detract from her excitement for tomorrow afternoon’s excursion.
‘We heard from Highgate School,’ Ruth was saying. ‘Josh is in in in!’
‘Good for Josh, it’ll suit him. We turned down Highgate, because Jacob’s more of a UCS boy, we feel,’ said Anna.
‘Fen, have you put Cosima down for Channing?’
‘Um. No. No,’ Fen said.
‘God – you must.’
‘Oh?’ Fen felt all the other women nodding at her.
‘Where have you put her name down?’
‘Well. Nowhere, actually. As yet.’
‘You are joking! You must have her down for nursery places, surely. The Avenue? Rosemount?’
‘I haven’t – as yet. I might not send her to a nursery,’ Fen said quietly.
They stared at her.
‘You’re mad!’
‘Or a liberal. Don’t tell us You’re a home-education type?’
‘Fen – honestly, you must start calling around. You owe it to Cosima!’
Fen looked down at her spoon-sucking daughter. ‘I suppose – but She’s only—’
‘No She’s not – She’s old! Believe me! I was phoning schools as soon as the pregnancy-test dipstick went blue.’
‘I’ve spent over two grand on deposits at various schools – but It’s money well spent, I reckon.’
‘Fen you really should – whose phone is that? Mobile alert! Mission Impossible ring tone!’
‘It’s mine,’ said Fen, wondering if ‘saved by the bell’ had ever rung truer, ‘It’s mine.’ It was a mobile number she didn’t recognize. ‘Hullo?’ she answered.
‘Hi,’ it was a man’s voice, ‘is that Fen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi – It’s Al.’
Who is Al? I Don’t know an Al.
Yes you do.
‘Al – with the flowers. On Bishops Avenue.’
‘Hi! Hi! Of course! Sorry – It’s a bit noisy. Hold on.’ Fen moved out of Anna’s sitting-room and into the hallway, turning her back on a particularly vile arrangement of orange amaryllis, red gladioli and yellow something-or-others. ‘Hullo? Al? Are you still there?’
‘I am. How are you?’
Oh you know, my mother popped in to see me after thirty years, I found out my uncle fathered my sister, I’ve been told my daughter stands to be denied a decent education and my partner and I live parallel lives under the same roof which I’m madly redecorating in my misplaced desire to fit in with a group of people I have little in common with.
‘I’m fine,’ said Fen. ‘How are you?’
‘Cool. I’m cool. I’ve been meaning to call,’ he said, ‘say hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
Fen could see Cosima. She loved watching her baby, unseen. Who cared about waiting lists and sodding private schools.
‘I was just wondering if you fancied a quick drink. Sometime,’ Al said.
‘A quick drink?’ Fen was about to add ‘What for?’ but she stopped herself.
‘Yeah – you know. If you were free.’
Free? Free from whom? Free for what? If there’s no such thing as a free lunch, does the same apply to a quick drink?‘Oh,’ Fen said, delighted, flustered, ‘well – I think so.’
‘Babysitting permitting, I guess.’
Now That’s good. His invitation is above board. He’s just being friendly, Isn’t he. And I’ll accept because there’s no harm in a quick drink. It’ll be nice. I’d like to go out for a quick drink. I Don’t get out much – as I like to say.
‘OK – thanks Al. That sounds great.’
‘Cool! When are you free?’
‘Actually,’ said Fen, glancing through the glass door at Kate, in all her sumptuous beige and stain-free white, preening her lustrous hair, ‘I’m free tomorrow, Al. I have babysitting – I’m going to the Chelsea Flower Show. We could meet afterwards, for a quick drink.’
‘OK, you have my mobile number now. Let’s touch base sometime tomorrow and take it from there. Hook up when You’re done with the flowers.’
Fen was helpless not to giggle a little. The last time anyone had spoken to her about touching bases was her second boyfriend who sent her a postcard of the Venus de Milo and a stick of Bazooka bubble gum with the priceless message: ‘Show us your bazookas! Second base? How about it!’
But It’s not what Al meant of course. Gracious no. Just touching base to hook up for a quick drink with a sweet boy I met laying flowers for his late sister.
‘OK,’ said Fen, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
She felt flushed. It was suddenly all rather thrilling to have a proper little secret. A tiny harmless one, but fun all the same.
‘Everything OK?’ Kate asked her.
‘Fine!’ Fen exclaimed. ‘Just an old pal. Might meet up for a quick drink after the flower show tomorrow.’ Kate glowered at her and in an instant Fen sensed the other mums look up, offended, but swiftly pretending not to have heard. Fen scooped up her baby and cuddled her whilst babbling sweet nothings.
‘Come on, gorgeous girl,’ she whispered, ‘let’s head home.’
Ben hadn’t heard back from Django and he was about to leave work. Cat was working late as the honchos from head office were in the shop and there was an after-hours team-bonding or book-binding or something. Ben felt irritated. With all aspects of the situation. He loved the responsibilities of his job, but not when they compromised his family life. Had Django even made the call to his GPs? Ben doubted it. This irritated him. And at what point would he be telling Cat of the call? This irked him. And the cause? This worried him. And how could the cause be any clearer if the old man won’t visit his GP? But what could Ben do about any of it at this precise moment? If he called Derbyshire, would Django even answer? Six o’clock. He’d probably be cooking. Ben didn’t want to make the call from home. Or from his mobile. It felt slightly disloyal to Cat to do so. But he wanted to go home; it had been a long day. It was that time of day when he sensed the smell of the hospital seep through to the fibres of his clothes.
Cat’s phone was switched off. Dovidels’ phone rang through to a chirpy message with opening times and website details. The phone at Farelymoor rang and rang. Ben persevered.
‘Hullo – this is Farleymoor 64920.’
‘Hullo Django, It’s Ben.’
‘Ben! And how are you?’
‘I’m fine. And how are you?’
‘I feel much much better, thank you.’
‘Did you phone your surgery? Django?’
‘I said – I feel much much better.’
‘Right,’ said Ben, rubbing his temples, pinching the bridge of his nose. You daft old man. ‘Right. Oh, Django – can I call you back in two minutes? there’s someone to see me.’ There wasn’t. But there was someone Ben wanted to see.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again at Farleymoor. That will be young Ben, thought Django. And though he really would rather not answer it, it was impossible not to. Ben knew he was there. And Django knew the wretched phone would just ring and ring until he picked up.
‘Farleymoor 64920?’
‘Hullo Django – sorry about that. It’s Ben.’
‘Hullo Ben. I’m cooking a stew. Pots of it. Sans beetroot.’
‘Good, good. That’s very good. Look, Django – I know how awkward all of this is for you. And I Don’t know your GP but I respect that you do. But I do know an excellent chappy down here. And he was just passing by my rooms while we were on the phone before. And I nabbed him and he’d be delighted to see you. He’s a he,’ said Ben. ‘He’s in his late fifties, I’d say. And he sees chaps like you all the time. He’s a dab hand, a first-class doctor.’
‘I see.’
‘He really is,’ said Ben, ‘He’s a specialist. A very nice man. I like him. You would, too.’
‘I would?’
‘Yes,’ Ben said, ‘you would. He’s what you’d class a “proper” doctor. Y
ou’d feel comfortable with him. Confident too.’
‘I would?’
‘Will you come, Django?’ Ben asked very gently, the tone of his voice full of the same soothing care and concern he’d invested the carefully chosen word ‘chappy’ with.
‘To London?’
‘To see my Mr Pisani,’ said Ben. ‘A quick consultation.’
‘Is he foreign?’
‘He’s Scottish,’ said Ben, ‘He’s excellent.’
‘I see. But He’s only a “Mr” not a “Dr”?’
‘He’s a consultant. Mr is far superior to Dr.’
‘I see.’
‘A day-trip,’ Ben said, ‘That’s all. The trains are marvellous. Frequent and fast.’
‘I haven’t been to London in years,’ Django said. ‘The girls have always come to me.’
‘I think you should come. I’m happy to accompany you to the consultation,’ said Ben, ‘or not. As you wish.’
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ said Django after a while.
‘You have come to me in my capacity as a doctor,’ Ben said evenly. ‘I am bound by the Hippocratic oath.’
‘Perhaps I will come,’ said Django.
‘I think so,’ said Ben.
‘All right,’ said Django.
‘I will make an appointment and telephone you tomorrow. I’ll telephone you at this time. Then you’ll know It’s me.’
‘Yes. OK, Ben.’
‘Good. That’s settled.’
‘And Ben?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well – thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it, Django,’ he said, ‘It’s nothing.’ And Ben sincerely hoped that it was.
SEEDS SOWN
It wasn’t so much a case of Fen not being able to see the wood for the trees, more that she couldn’t see the flowers for the florid meanderings of her overactive imagination. It was a waste of a ticket, really. From the moment she arrived, Fen was planning her escape. She walked around the Chelsea Flower Show, her head nodding like a fritillary, while she pretended to listen to Kate’s ostentatious commentary. Scandalously, Fen barely noticed the displays. She was aware of the scale of it all, of a certain cacophony of colour and fragrance, but ultimately her senses were set aside, held in abeyance, until later. She didn’t actually have time to marvel at all this horticulture haute couture; she was too busy preparing for her next appointment. She’d been musing scenarios in her mind’s eye of the various ways to sashay into a bar, finally favouring her version of a classic Western – stranger enters the saloon and all fall silent. It was compulsive to envisage being the centre of attention, to imagine Al give a double take, bowled over, greeting her with an appreciative ‘Wow! I didn’t realize it was you!’ Fen couldn’t actually remember what Al looked like and she was rather hoping he couldn’t remember what she looked like either. After all, when they’d first met She’d been head to toe in frumpy mummy guise. Today, hopefully, She’d appear a vision in floaty bias-cut and dainty kitten heels.
