by Freya North
‘There’s more to that girl than meets the eye,’ he says to himself as he polishes off the After Eights. ‘I’ll have to wait for her to introduce me to her inner quirks – and qualms.’ He creaks himself out of the sofa, with which he has a love-hate relationship because, though he thinks it looks the part, he’s always found it so damned uncomfortable. He pads over to the window and spies Pip kicking at the turf and slumping down beneath the cedar. Her preoccupation makes him acutely aware that she craves space, peace and privacy. Even if he’s unseen, he’s still fundamentally intruding, and as he respects his niece he turns away. One thing is for sure, the inner calm he depends on her exuding, that he’s always been so proud of, is missing.
Pip knows it’s both churlish and childish to boot the poor lawn. But it’s quite satisfying and she’s doing it nimble-footedly and half-heartedly enough so that no clods are actually despatched. She’s softly chanting her mantra, ‘Don’t need a man, don’t need money’, kicking the grass for emphasis on ‘man’ and ‘money’. The rhythm of the words is satisfying. But deep down she knows that the fact that they roll off the tongue so gratifyingly is irrelevant. In all honesty, she admits that her phrase would be far better suited to the soulful voice of some jazz diva, than declared histrionically by a young clown to friends, family and herself. Tonight, Pip can hear how stupid it sounds. The stillness of the Derbyshire air, the darkness of the night, the ageless calm of the landscape, the familiarity of her childhood home, cause her words to reverberate and force her to listen to them. She can kid herself in London, but she can’t do so here.
What on earth does her mantra mean? What does it mean that she has held so steadfastly on to it all these years? Though she may not want to listen, if she is honest – and up in Derbyshire, alone and outdoors, she cannot be otherwise – she’ll have to admit that a little more money would be pretty useful. She may be a great advocate of calico and raw cotton, but she did see a skein of linen and silk the colour of a labrador puppy. She touched it with her fingertips, let it brush against her cheek, wafted it around. But she was already in the red that month and the council tax, water rates and final demand for gas and electricity had yet to be paid.
So a little more money wouldn’t go amiss.
And might not a man be quite nice, Pip? Especially if he was quite a nice man?
Unfortunately, her long-held position as mentor and therapist to the womenfolk around her has given her indirect exposure to all manner of unsuitable men. Those who have toyed with her friends, and the ones who’ve dared screw with her sisters. To say nothing of Dr Caleb Simmons. Pip’s loyalty to her sex and siblings will not permit acknowledgement that, just sometimes, those men might not be quite as bad as they are mercilessly made out to be. That, perhaps, innocent issues of simple incompatibility or love having run its course may have been at the root of her friends’ and sisters’ traumas. Plus, her friends and sisters themselves were hardly blameless – feisty can also be demanding; loyalty can sometimes be claustrophobic; possessiveness can be a by-product of a passionate personality.
The fact that Pip has been single for some time, along with the fact that she’s never been in love, have resulted in her demands becoming more stringent and her expectations being more unrealistic. She has set her bizarre standard concerning baggage, against which no human who has lived a little can ever really measure up. Therefore, in Pip’s eyes, all men do fall short and must be avoided. And, therefore, she can declare with a sense of relief that of course life is easier without them. It is far simpler to be dismissive of all men than even to hint that sometimes, occasionally, she might want just the one.
She’s still kicking the ground in time to her chant. But now her foot makes impact on the word ‘need’.
I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t need more money. I don’t need a bloke. I don’t need the hassle.
She’s caught up in generalizations because if she referred to specifics, she’d have to turn her mind to Zac Holmes. She knows she hasn’t treated him very well, that she hasn’t been honest. Not only has she been rude, she’s also lied to him. What on earth was all that bullshit about being a friend happy to fuck? About being in love with Caleb? And, most unfathomable of all, about a close mummy–daughter relationship?
Surely, the truth will out, as it always does. And then won’t it be Pip herself who appears as one utterly weighed down by baggage accumulated from many provenances? Her behaviour could quite turn a man off. For all you know, Pip, he’s chanting himself to sleep thinking, ‘I don’t need Pip McCabe. I don’t even want to see her again.’ He probably thinks you’re more hassle than you’re worth. Anyway, you don’t need him or want him, do you? And the way you’ve treated him will certainly have made reconciliation so burdensome that it will be more trouble than it’s worth. Is that why you did it? Break something before it had the chance to break you? Are you that fragile?
She can’t hear me. Would she even listen if she could? See, she’s swinging on the tyre-rope, like an ape on acid. It’s nearing one in the morning. She’s hanging from one foot, her arms outstretched. She is saying something. But I can’t quite hear. She’s moving too fast, slicing the air, she’s upside down. She’s slightly breathless – acrobatics uses much adrenalin, hanging upside down, travelling at speed, takes the breath away. What is it that she’s saying?
‘I’ve fucked up.’
She whooshes through the air.
‘Sure – now he’ll never fuck me up. But would he ever have? He wasn’t the type to. He was lovely. But I’ve fucked up.’
Swing. Swoosh back and forth. Over and over and over again.
‘I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up.’
Even when she’s upside down; even when her life is topsy-turvy; she knows herself inside out, does Miss McCabe.
TWENTY-FOUR
So the accountant and the clown set about forgetting each other. Juliana had come back from South Africa and was once more amusing Zac after hours – and often for hours. Once or twice he told himself how good it was to have a woman who made his body feel absolutely spent but in no way taxed his mind. Soon enough, he stopped theorizing altogether and just lay back and enjoyed himself.
Work for Merry Martha picked up now that the school summer holidays were under way. There was face painting to be done, and open-air shows at Golders Hill and Parliament Hill. A friend even set up a weekend’s work in Brighton. Pip was far too busy balancing things on her head, or balancing on her head, to wonder if little Tom might ever be in her audience, his father, too.
Dr Pippity continued to dispense her therapeutic skills at St Bea’s. She was relieved and happy that she never saw Tom – it must mean that his eczema was doing well. Dr Simmons had returned from his holiday and Pip was pleasantly surprised to see how a tan did not become him. He looked a little broiled and somewhat leathery. She also found it quite satisfying that he seemed much more ill at ease in her company than she was in his. She didn’t see him that often anyway, and outside the hospital grounds, she never gave him a second thought. That was the power of her mind over matter; she no longer minded and had swiftly decided that he didn’t matter at all. She’d managed to delete all memories when she deleted his text messages.
Fen continued to dither between her two men and maintained her parallel lives in town and country. She didn’t ask Pip for advice or support, nor did she offer details or anecdotes. Megan and Dominic were at that sickly stage of courtship where verbal and physical declarations of love are far too frequent and cloying for public consumption. Soon enough, they were spending their time together alone together. Even on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.
Cat had made it to the Tour de France and was now heading for the Alps. Pip and Fen often watched the TV highlights together; soon enough they could recognize specific riders in the peloton, understand certain aspects of strategy and even master the correct pronunciation of cyclists’ names and bike components. Cat revealed that she had fallen for a doctor on an Amer
ican team. Her older sisters had only to read between the lines of her race reports for the Guardian newspaper, to detect the enormous uplift in her spirits.
Pip and Fen were, however, realistically cautious on Cat’s behalf. Both felt an overwhelming urge to verify her welfare and authenticate the intentions of this doctor, firsthand. It seemed like a very sensible idea to journey to France for a surprise visit that weekend. Django provided funds and a blessing.
‘Believe me,’ Pip had murmured ominously to Fen, ‘doctors can be perilously seductive.’ Fen didn’t think to pry. It would never have crossed her mind that her sister spoke from anything other than encyclopedic knowledge, certainly not from personal experience, on such matters.
Pip was trying to pack. Fen was sitting on her sofa, flicking through a copy of Procycling magazine.
‘Listen, I’ll take a couple of fleeces,’ Pip was calling from the bedroom. ‘I’m sure it’ll be chilly on the mountains and I’ll bet you’ve only packed flimsy stuff.’
‘’Kay,’ Fen said, somewhat preoccupied by a photograph of the thighs of an Italian sprinter called Stefano Sassetta.
‘And I’ve bought some bumper packs of Mars Bars and KitKats for Cat. It sounds like her diet thus far has consisted of baguette, garlic and complimentary portions of stuff on offer from the sponsors each morning,’ Pip called through, this time from the bathroom.
‘’Kay,’ Fen replied, now distracted by the bulging, Lycraclad crotch of a rider called Fabian Ducasse.
‘And there’s only so many freebie sweets or chunks of cheese that a journalist can eat, surely,’ Pip remarked, coming into the lounge to set the video, ‘or that are good for one’s health.’
‘’Kay,’ said Fen. Pip went over to see what was absorbing her so. And she spent a reflective moment or two appreciating the dimensions and supreme glossiness of a Spanish rider’s physique.
‘I’ll pack her some Colgate, too,’ Pip said, and returned to the bathroom to fetch a new tube of toothpaste. She reappeared with a rucksack packed perfectly and hoisted on to her shoulders. ‘Vive le Tour! Allez!’
Fen laughed. The phone started to ring. Pip checked her watch. They were in good time and their cab hadn’t yet arrived. ‘I’d better take it,’ she said, ‘it could be Django with a last-minute worry, I suppose.’ She answered the phone, her rucksack still aloft.
‘Hullo?’ said a woman. ‘I’m after Merry Martha?’
‘Speaking,’ said Pip, changing her voice and demeanour for professional purposes.
‘Oh! Great! I wanted to book you for a birthday party.’
‘Hold on,’ said Pip, ‘I’ll just check the diary.’
‘The first Sunday in August is the date my husband and I are hoping for.’
Pip checked. She was free. And the Tour de France would have finished the previous week so she wouldn’t be bound to the television. ‘Yup,’ she confirmed, ‘I’ll just take your details today and nearer the time, we’ll discuss what kind of a show would be appropriate. So we have the date. What sort of time?’
‘Mid-afternoon?’
‘Perfect. Now,’ said Pip, ‘name?’
‘June Price,’ the woman replied.
‘And how old will June be?’ Pip asked.
The woman laughed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘between you and me, thirty-four next birthday. Actually, the party is for my son, he’ll be six,’ June Price elaborated.
‘His name?’ Pip asked, nodding to Fen that she’d be wrapping the call up imminently.
‘Tom,’ Mrs Price replied.
‘It’s in the book,’ Pip told her new client. ‘We’ll speak nearer the time.’
‘Wonderful!’
‘Goodbye now.’
The cab had arrived. Fen was heading out for the street. Pip unfurled the blinds and checked that certain lights were on, others off. She double-locked the door and she and Fen headed for Waterloo and the Eurostar to France. Her baggage was starting to nag.
I’ll redress the load, shift the balance, when I have the chance.
TWENTY-FIVE
Pip certainly shifted the balance whilst she was away, though it might take some time to see whether she added to her baggage or lightened her load. Far from home, she did something she’d never done, something she thought she’d never want to do, something she certainly wasn’t setting out to do, something she probably wouldn’t do again. If anyone had told her she would have a one-night stand even once in her life, let alone on the lumpy mattress of a bunk bed in a hostel on a French mountain top, she’d probably laugh in their face and privately feel somewhat disturbed. The thought of it wasn’t remotely titillating to Pip. After all, if she wasn’t bothered about having a man in her life, then a quick one-off shag, devoid of home comforts, must be far down on her list of priorities. Nevertheless, she found herself sneaking away from the bed she was sharing with Fen, for a fumble with a lanky lad called Alex. In a bunk bed. In a hostel. At the summit of a French Alp.
Of course, Pip didn’t leap straight from train to bunk bed. On arrival in Grenoble, her priority was to locate Cat and assess the doctor. Tracking down Cat was not easy – even glimpsing a flash of the race was tough, with the huge crowds lining the route and many areas permitting no access whatsoever without some laminated pass or other. Pip and Fen eventually found Cat and they found her in fine form, too. She was staggered and delighted by their surprise visit, and supremely grateful for the chocolate and toothpaste. She introduced her sisters to her colleagues in the press corps and, of course, to her doctor. Though both older sisters attempted to maintain a certain circumspect aloofness from him, they found Ben York to be genuine and exuding all-important wholesome affection for Cat. The girls were relieved and pleased, not least because they were also secretly hoping for an introduction (though they’d settle for an autograph) to any of his glorious Team Megapac cyclists.
For three weeks in July, the French are obsessed with the thrills, spills, scandal and skulduggery that underscore the Tour de France. If the Tour de France is a soap opera of sorts, the landscape for the race is as much a colourful character as any of the cyclists themselves. Fortuitously, Pip and Fen’s impromptu visit coincided with the race’s high point of theatre, the stage to L’Alpe D’Huez, cycling’s Mecca – twenty-one hairpin bends and gruesome gradients. It is a mountain that most sensible folk ski down rather than cycle up; the riders having tackled a staircase of mountains immediately beforehand. As they did yesterday, and will do again tomorrow. Not to mention having ridden up and over the Pyrenees last week. Oh, and with well over 1,000 km left to ride to Paris.
Pip and Fen’s first full day in France started at 5.00 a.m., with their seasoned hack of a sister driving them to the awesome mountain so they could stake a good vantage point for the race which would reach them late that afternoon. The stage Pip and Fen were to witness was 189 km long, would take the winner just under six hours but would see ten riders quit the race and four others ignominiously disqualified for limping over the line outside the time-limit. With no pause for rest, no chance for mistakes, the cyclists might have to piss, eat, even shit and puke, whilst in the saddle. There were 200,000 fans on L’Alpe D’Huez. Some had camped there days in advance in relative luxury in RVs, others had slept a couple of nights under the stars in sleeping-bags that did little to combat the surprising cold. Some fans had simply partied last night away and would continue to do so until well after the race had finished and the riders were having their massages in the hotels in the next valley.
The atmosphere was of a carnival; Pip and Fen were delighted. They’d only come to France to check up on their sister; now they felt as though they were enjoying a mini-break with entertainment thrown in for free. Spectators had their countries’ flags painted on their faces, some wore ludicrous wigs, others dressed in costumes ranging from angels to the devil. Euro-pop of questionable quality blared from boomboxes. Some people had guitars. A group of six, clad in cycling gear, formed a veritable brass band. Regardless of the ungodly hour, b
ooze flowed and spirits soared. Pip wished she’d brought Merry Martha’s outfits, something to juggle with, a little slap at the very least. Still, she was glad she’d thought to bring fleeces. It may have been July, but up the Alp, at that hour, it was freezing. However, a friendly Dutch crowd brewed the sisters tea and topped it off with schnapps. And some Belgian blokes with alarming moustaches gave them brushes and whitewash so Pip and Fen could partake of the tradition of painting riders’ names along the tarmac for encouragement.
The rain came well before the riders. Fen and Pip were drenched but kept warm by the atmosphere and a considerable amount of schnapps. Though the action of the race and the drama of its cast is a whole other story, suffice it to say that the McCabe girls witnessed the most gut-wrenching but also uplifting sights of sporting prowess, of man against mountain, of triumph over adversity. The riders’ tortured pace as they passed by – still stunning despite the severity of the climb – meant their pain-scorched faces were wincingly visible, their laboured breathing horribly audible, as their lactic-acid-addled muscles struggled to make sense of the final mountain of the day. One rider even slogged past with the added humiliation of an upset stomach coursing down his legs in rivulets mixed with sweat and rain. All the heroes Pip and Fen had come to know from television coverage and magazine photos were within touching distance. It was awe-inspiring. The girls were soon hoarse from cheering. Their brief sojourn in France was turning out to be humbling, entertaining and memorable in equal measures. England seemed far away. That was no bad thing for each of the McCabe sisters.
Pip and Fen were able to see Cat and witness firsthand her change in spirits, her growing confidence, the certain glint that Dr York had sparked.
Fen was afforded time out from the two loves of her life and all the incumbent contemplation and management that this required.