by Freya North
‘What’s wrong with “Baa Baa Black Sheep”?’ Pip said as they went downstairs.
‘Nothing,’ Fen said, ‘but a girl is never too young for Elvis. Django will back me on that one.’
‘Talking of Django, he sent me to fetch you. It’s time for the speeches.’
‘God,’ Fen groaned. ‘Hang on, I’ll just double-check the baby monitor. Stay here.’ She placed a plastic egg-shaped receiver in Pip’s hand. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ She went back upstairs. Pip held the machine to her ear. She could hear heavenly angels la-la-ing to ‘Suspicious Minds’. Then she heard Fen’s whisper crackle through. ‘Pip? Pip? Code word: Tabasco.’
‘Tabasco,’ Pip declared, as soon as Fen joined her again.
‘Good,’ said Fen, ‘now I can relax.’
‘No you can’t,’ Pip said. ‘It’s the speeches.’
Django’s speech was surprisingly short but effusive with thanks and characteristically emotional. ‘But enough from me,’ he concluded, ‘let’s hear all about me instead! I hasten to add I’ve paid them proudly so I’m confident They’ll be extravagant with the compliments. Ladies, gentlemen, troubadours and one important young man of nine years old – I give you my three exquisite girls, Pip, Fen and Cat.’
The sisters weaved their way to the head of the gathering, turned to face the guests and curtsied to much applause.
‘As you all know, my sisters and I are famous for having the mother who buggered off with a cowboy from Denver when we were small,’ started Pip, clutching her hands in front of her and then behind her and not really knowing what to do with them.
‘And a father – Django’s brother – who died not long after,’ Fen said, nervously tying and retying her pony-tail.
‘But far from being poor little orphans, or being remotely rootless or in any way scarred,’ said Cat, fiddling furiously with the beads decorating her cardigan, ‘our glory is that we had Django.’ There followed much applause and whooping from those gathered and the three sisters felt each other relax. The smiles broadened, their confidence and showmanship blossomed and they started to enjoy themselves.
‘Most of you know Django as a friend, a musician, an artiste, a culinary superpower,’ said Pip. ‘For my sisters and me, He’s all of these – but He’s also our parents. A good father makes you feel safe, he provides for you and protects you. He teaches you about trust and explains fairness so clearly that you can understand it even if you Don’t agree. He teaches you to ride your bike without stabilizers, he makes you a sledge by adapting the old garden slide, he takes you out for your first driving lessons and doesn’t protest when you crunch his gears or clip his wing-mirror. He gives you pocket money when You’re young, bales out your overdraft when You’re a student and helps you with your first mortgage when You’re trying to afford to be a grown-up. A father instils your sense of right from wrong.’ Pip smiled and winked at Cat and Fen. ‘You grow up hoping the man you’ll spend your life with might possess even half the qualities of your father. We three are true daddy’s girls. Thank you, Django, for being Superdad.’
Pip stepped back to whistling and clapping, stamping and banjo-strumming. She saw Zac wink, watched Tom clap his hands high above his head and Django dab tears from his eyes with Ferdy’s polka-dot handkerchief.
‘Encore!’ Django cried. ‘Encore!’
‘A good mother,’ Fen began, ‘nourishes you.’ She let it hang and raised an eyebrow. Laughter was spontaneous, followed by a tide of applause, just as She’d hoped when She’d practised it silently in the bathroom mirror earlier. ‘When it came to love and food, Django ensured we were fed like royalty. A mummy strokes your hair when you’ve had a nightmare and mops up after you when You’re sick. A good mother soothes your heart when some cad or other has broken it. A mother hands down prized recipes – be they for beetroot crumble or fish pie with olivey hollandaise – and has a snack waiting for you when you get home from school. A mother takes in your jeans to drainpipe proportions, lets you borrow Pucci scarves for dressing up, and French-plaits your hair perfectly before you go to school. A mother makes curtains for your Wendy house and clothes for your dolls. A mother brings you hot chocolate when It’s that time of the month. You should always feel that a mother loves you more than anything and anyone. A mother must make you believe you are the purpose of their very existence. A mother is a daughter’s best friend.’ Fen looked at her sisters and giggled involuntarily, shrugging helplessly as tears spiked her eyes and caught in her throat. ‘I raise my glass to the best mother in the world.’
Fen grinned at Django who clasped his hands against his heart while coos and ahhs resonated through the marquee.
‘Encore!’ Django croaked. ‘Encore.’
‘A friend,’ said Cat, as if she was about to recite a poem at school assembly, ‘is there whether you need them or not.’ She paused and looked imploringly at Fen and Pip, biting her lip. She scanned the crowd for Ben, who gave her an encouraging nod when she found him. She plucked at her cardigan and faltered. ‘I can’t remember what we wrote.’ The crowd laughed soothingly. ‘Something about It’s our friends who make our world.’ She winced. Fen whispered something to her. Cat shook her head adamantly. ‘But the thing is, usually you choose your friends – but Django McCabe had no choice when we had no one else. He created our world for us. And what a world. How fucking amazing of him was that!’
‘Language, Catriona!’ Django called from the throng, cupping his hands over the ears of an obviously delighted Tom.
‘Django – you always said we could swear when we really needed to, if a situation truly warranted it. Talking of situations – Christ, you had no choice, Django. You had no choice. But look at the life you made for us – our lives are a tribute to your devotion, your friendship, your parenting. And of course your home cooking. You, who are mother, father and friend, to me and my sisters. So you are fucking amazing, OK? We couldn’t live without you. Does everyone realize that?’ Cat looked out amongst the guests. ‘Do you? Does everyone realize how great this man is?’
‘Never let a McCabe girl near the punch,’ Matt whispered to Ben. ‘One sip and They’re squiffy and hyper-emotional.’
‘The sacrifices he made,’ Cat continued, ‘his generosity, his altruism and selflessness.’
‘I’ve always thought tautology a good thing,’ Django nudged Bibi proudly.
‘He’s always made us feel that we are his good fortune,’ Cat declared, ‘but of course he gave up so much for us.’ Thoughts of Maureen and the summer of 1970 sprang to her mind and, momentarily, Cat was unsure whether She’d spoken aloud. ‘He’s our life-force,’ she started to sob.
‘Christ,’ Ben whispered to Matt, ‘never mind journalism, her natural career is Oscar speeches.’
‘Django,’ Cat declared, ‘look around. Look who’s here. From far and wide. From over the sea. From over the years. It’s because you are so fucking amazing.’
Pip patted Cat’s shoulder and interrupted. ‘Could you all please raise your glasses and toast Django McCabe’s seventy-fifth birthday before my sister swears any more and is sent to her bedroom.’
‘To Django,’ said Fen, tears making a mockery of her mascara. ‘Happy, happy birthday.’
The adrenalin from speech-making, combined with the gin, vermouth and some strange green liqueur from Grenada in the punch, had a fast-acting intoxicating effect on the McCabe girls though their reactions differed. Fen became physically demonstrative, offering hugs and hand-holding to whomever was within arm’s reach. Pip became affectionately animated. Cat was simply over-emotional.
‘I do so love my family,’ Cat declared to Pip who was trying to French kiss a bemused Zac much to Tom’s jaw-dropped delight. ‘Family is everything,’ she said, looking desperately fondly at Ben. ‘The family you have, the family you create.’
‘Family is what matters,’ Pip agreed. ‘You’re so right.’
‘Oh God, not the waterworks,’ Ben groaned passing Cat a serviette to mop her eyes.
>
‘I can’t believe you said “fucking” three times in front of everyone!’ Tom marvelled.
‘Fucking fucking fucking fucking,’ Cat laughed. ‘There, That’s another four.’
‘Cat!’ Zac protested, shooting a glance to Pip for backup.
‘Cool!’ Tom laughed, deciding Cat was definitely his favourite step-aunt-or-something.
Cat hugged him. ‘I just can’t wait to have a little Tom or a little Cosima of my very own,’ she told him. ‘Family is what matters most in life.’
‘I agree,’ Tom said earnestly. ‘I’ve got loads.’
‘That’s what they should teach children in school,’ Cat said. ‘Are you excited about your new baby?’
‘Mega excited,’ Tom said. ‘I Don’t even mind if It’s a girl.’
Zac laughed. ‘That’s only because you think your train collection will be safe.’
Tom grinned and shrugged.
Cat and Fen are teaching Tom how to swear in German and French. Matt and Ben have snuck behind the marquee for a secret spliff. Pip’s arms are about Zac’s neck again. ‘Why Don’t we do it?’ she whispers, whilst nuzzling his ear lobe.
Zac regards her with a lascivious grin. ‘Sneak away for a quick knee-trembler against the oak tree?’
Pip frowns fleetingly. ‘I Don’t mean that,’ she laughs, ‘I didn’t mean a shag. I meant why Don’t we do it, Zac. You and me. Us. Have a baby?’
What was previously but the hushest of whispers in the furthest recesses of her own mind, is suddenly out in the open. Though she has enunciated the question mark and made it sound like a request, her words are less a suggestion and more a proclamation of intent. And Zac must respond, he must answer, he must acknowledge her invitation. And for Pip, in an instant, it is irrelevant whether Zac’s expression is specifically one of shock, one of bemusement, one of aversion or an amalgamation of all three. The significance is the absence of a smile. It’s shocking. Zac’s smile was what She’d first fallen in love with. It can’t have gone.
‘You’re drunk,’ He’s saying, ‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not,’ Pip protests. ‘Well, maybe I am drunk. But I’m not joking.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Zac says and he plugs her mouth with an affectionate kiss. ‘And stay off the punch, Mrs.’ He looks around while Pip stares at his shoes and quashes a sudden desire to scuff their well-tended shine. ‘Have you seen Tom?’ he asks her. ‘There he is. Can you keep an eye on him? I’m going to find Matt and Ben for a crafty puff.’
Pip weaves her way to Tom. She feels winded. She hadn’t known she was to make her revelation so of course she couldn’t reasonably anticipate his reaction. But the reaction, when it came, flummoxed her more than her revelation itself. She’s embarrassed. And a little hurt. It’s a sensation she does not like, one that she won’t allow to show because She’d hate anyone to pry. She’s always been very committed and particular in her role as the eldest; She’s taken it to mean that she must appear infallible and in control. How would Cat and Fen cope if she wasn’t? They depend on her. It’s their family way.
And here they are, her little sisters, their arms around her stepson.
‘Where’s my dad?’ Tom asks.
‘I Don’t know,’ Pip says, ‘and you should be thinking bedtime.’
‘But It’s not ten o’clock,’ Tom protests.
‘It’s five to,’ says Pip.
‘But Dad says I can stay up until ten,’ Tom moans.
Pip bites her lip. Fine. Whatever. What does my opinion matter anyway? I’m not your mother. I have no natural authority.
‘Pip?’ Fen asks. ‘Are you OK?’
‘What? Fine,’ Pip says and she walks away.
‘Go after her,’ Cat nudges Fen.
‘You,’ says Fen. ‘I need to check on Cosima.’
‘Come on, kiddo,’ Cat says to Tom whom She’s noticed has much the same hairstyle as her – though his here-and-there tufting is beyond his control while hers requires expensive products and much time. ‘Let’s go and find some crazy chums of Django’s to chat to.’
‘It’s my bedtime,’ Tom says gravely.
‘Fuck bedtime,’ Cat says with a wink and a nudge. ‘Let’s pretend we can’t tell the time.’
‘You’re wicked,’ says Tom, beaming, as Cat puts her hand on his bony little shoulder and guides him into the party.
‘Sleeping peacefully?’ Matt whispers.
Fen turns from the travel cot and puts her finger to her lips. She nods. Matt comes over. He doesn’t glance in the cot. He has eyes only for Fen. She looks so pretty tonight and He’s feeling so horny, a bit drunk and stoned too. He comes up to her, tucks a straying lock of hair behind her ears and cups her head in his hands. He winks suggestively. The gesture is partly comic but engaging too. Over her clothes, Matt’s hands peruse her breasts while his mouth finds hers. To his surprise and delight, suddenly She’s tonguing him greedily, grasping his buttocks and pulling his pelvis against hers. Privately, he salutes the punch and the green stuff from Grenada. He thinks he’ll ply Fen with alcohol on a regular basis. She’s wearing a soft skirt and all evening He’s been noticing how it catches the curves of her bottom, the sides of her thighs. No panty line. No panties? He explores. A thong. God, when was the last time he saw her in a thong? His hands move over her bare buttocks, he slips his fingers under the fabric of the thong and starts tugging it gently, knowing it creates tantalizing friction for her.
Fen’s hands are all over him. Sweeping over his torso, grabbing his neck to pull his face even closer to hers, fondling the bulge in his trousers. He fumbles with buttons while Fen drops to her knees and tugs down his boxers. There’s no preamble. No inner-thigh massage or ball-licking or shaft-caressing. She takes the entire length of his tumescent cock in her mouth and sucks so ravenously that he has to desperately conjure an image of the mad old woman near work, to stop him coming right then. He pulls Fen up to him, pulls at her top and fiddles with her bra cup to release her breasts. Her nipples are hard between his fingers and his cock is now achingly erect. He’d love to spend time sucking her tits, fingering her sex, maybe go down on her, some reciprocal oral sex, perhaps some mutual masturbation but actually all he wants to do is fuck her, get his cock up inside her in some primal urgency to reclaim her as his own. They fall onto the bed, not bothering about what clothing is on or off, just as long as there’s no fabric restricting entry. Fen pulls her G-string to one side, fleetingly Matt brushes through the fuzz of her mound, to confirm the ready ooze from her sex. Her legs are spread, their eyes are locked, their lips are parted and wet. He thrusts into her and they hump vigorously. Usually, Fen likes to go on top. Usually, she wants to go on top, to dictate the pace and the angle to facilitate her orgasm. Usually, she needs penetration interspersed with manual or oral stimulation to climax. Tonight, it is as if she has started to come as soon as Matt is inside her. The longest, most overdue, most body-racking orgasm. She gasps and bucks and scratches and yelps and She’s pretty sure She’s just come again instantaneously. Yet despite this fantastic vast throbbing wet pleasure zone electrifying her body, her mind tunes into her baby’s cry the millisecond before the sound is made.
And then Fen’s eyes are wide open and She’s shoving and pushing Matt off her. He’s a matter of thrusts away from his climax but the strength of a mother is no match for him. She’s gone. She’s gone away. He lies there, his balls aching with unspent sperm, his cock more flaccid by the second. He thinks It’s an amazing but dreadful feat, the way she can flit between sex-greed and maternal obsession. It’s really quite some skill. One to revere, but not necessarily like. What he doesn’t like at all is a lurking sense that while he was compelled by passion for her just now, she was pursuing only her own physical gratification. I’ve come – you can go now. Matt feels used, really. As let down and deflated as his ignored, limp cock.
Once Cosima has settled again, Fen offers herself to Matt; caressing his wilted cock, taking it in her mouth. Though she perfor
ms a variety of usually fail-safe tricks and techniques, it is not possible to disguise her drive as one of desire rather than duty. She’s not even half-hearted; her heart obviously Isn’t in it.
‘Moment has passed,’ Matt shrugs, tapping her head.
Fen looks up. His cock snuggles against his pubic hair like a little creature asleep in a nest. He thinks it looks pathetic. He closes his eyes.
‘Don’t I turn you on any more?’ Fen says and he looks down at her pouting up at him.
He knows She’s trying to be cute but he wants to tell her, Actually, sometimes no you Don’t, especially not when you reject me to faff with the baby. But It’s not worth it. It’s Django’s birthday party. Matt can’t possibly instigate a confrontation, or even a heart-to-heart.
‘You can owe me one,’ he tells her as he rearranges his clothing.
She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Deal,’ she says warmly, led by growing guilt. She’s horribly aware that throughout the fuck she was abandoned to the fantasy that Matt was someone else. No one whom she knew. Just someone specifically not Matt. But now is not the time to worry and analyse it. There’s a party out in the garden. She double-checks the baby monitor and returns to the mêlée.
Django is telling Tom somewhat fanciful stories about his time with the Beatles. Bibi is nodding earnestly, adding details of her own which She’s pretty sure must be true. ‘The thing about the sixties,’ she confides to Zac, ‘is I can’t remember a bloody thing about the sixties! I think LSD may well have been a terrific trip – but the downside is I Don’t honestly know which memories are real and which are purely chemical.’
‘Where’s Ellisdy, Dad?’ Tom asks Zac, wondering if such a trip might be something they could do over the summer holidays. Zac is momentarily thrown. Now does not seem an appropriate time for the ‘just say no’ lecture.
‘Ghastly! Don’t go there!’ Django rues, which is good enough for Zac and good enough for Tom.
‘Gracious me, look at the time – It’s nearly midnight and I’ll turn into a pumpkin. Or, rather, seventy-five years old officially.’