by Freya North
When Pip arrived home from Fen’s, Zac was already there, engrossed in some scintillating spreadsheet or other on his laptop.
‘You’re back early,’ he commented, glancing up.
‘Fen came back early,’ Pip said tonelessly.
‘How was Cosima?’ Zac asked, squinting as he pulled the cursor around the screen.
‘Cute as a button,’ said Pip.
‘Did it all go smoothly?’ said Zac.
‘Of course,’ Pip said defensively.
‘She is a poppet,’ said Zac, ‘a real little munchkin.’
Pip looked at her feet. ‘I want one,’ she said quietly.
Zac laughed a little. ‘Oh God, one night’s babysitting and you’re all broody on me again!’ he declared, returning his attention to his work.
‘Oh will you just fuck off,’ Pip stormed.
Zac looked up, startled. He’d been joking – hadn’t that been obvious? Because hadn’t she been joking too? It was some sort of shared joke, wasn’t it? ‘Pip!’ he began to remonstrate.
‘I’m sick of you not taking me seriously! I’m fed up of you demeaning how I feel,’ Pip said and she flounced off to the bedroom with a slam to the door.
Zac was dumbstruck. He was amazed. He was worried – hadn’t he discussed with Ben and Matt to keep the girls calm and enveloped with love and support? Most of all he was bewildered; Pip’s words were in some ways irrelevant to the violence with which she’d expressed them. Pip rarely raised her voice. She loathed arguing; even mundane bickering upset her. She avoided confrontation and was the person to whom others turned for assistance in deflecting situations. Pip was the least argumentative, least aggressive, most easygoing person he’d ever met. That’s why he’d married her. She was also, in his eyes, so beautifully readable. That’s why he loved her. But this he hadn’t seen coming. And try as he might, it seemed illegible to him. But it was ten to ten and Django mattered most. Further discussion or shouting or whatever would just have to wait.
Cat floated in at quarter to ten. ‘I’ve had the most brilliant day,’ she beamed.
‘Are you hungry?’ Ben asked her.
‘Nope.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Nope – I’m too excited to eat.’
‘You ought to eat, babe.’
‘Oh be quiet, you fussy old doctor.’
‘Cup of tea, then?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘And then you can tell me all about it,’ said Ben, glancing at the clock and hoping Cat could do so within ten minutes.
At 10 p.m. on 15 June, Ben put his finger over Cat’s lip and said, ‘That’s wonderful news but you need to sit down. Babe, I need to tell you something.’
At 10 p.m. on 15 June, Matt switched off the TV and turned to Fen and said, ‘Fen, I need to tell you something.’
At 10 p.m. on 15 June, Zac had to deny Pip her post-argument privacy. He went into the bedroom and sat alongside her. With tenderness and scorching regret, he put his arm gently around her. ‘I need to tell you something, Mrs,’ he said.
WHERE WERE YOU WHEN YOU HEARD THAT DJANGO MCCABE HAD CANCER?
In all his purple splendour, with his eternally optimistic smile fixed across his plastic face, Tinky Winky gazed kindly up at Fen. He was lying at her feet, she was sitting on the sofa, her hands clasped together tightly in automatic supplication. Matt was at her side, stroking her arm, her leg. It was ten past ten. Fen bent and picked up Tinky Winky, Cosima’s favourite Teletubby, and hugged him tight. She pressed her nose to his head. He smelt of her baby. Just then, she gained more comfort from him than from Matt.
Is this my fault? In some horrible skewed scheme of things, I think it probably is. I feel sick. I shouldn’t think of Django and Al in the same context but it all makes horrible sense if I do. Isn’t this what they call karma? Or else, divine retribution? Of course I must have my comeuppance for all that stupid, stupid stuff with Al – but why does it have to be via Django?
‘Is prostate cancer terminal? Where is the prostate exactly?’ Fen turned to Matt, her eyes fixed warily at his groin. ‘What does it do – can you live without one? Like an appendix or gall bladder? Is that what they’ll do – chop it out? But they will be able to fix him, won’t they?’
If I feel I am being punished, how must Django be feeling?
‘He’s on his own,’ Fen continued, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘He hates doctors and hospitals.’ She looked at Matt, seeing worry and tenderness written all over his face. ‘He’ll be redefining cancer “a spot of the lurgy”,’ she said with a sad laugh. ‘He’ll tell us not to worry. What has he ever done to deserve this?’ She stood and paced the room, clutching Tinky Winky to her breast like a prayer book. ‘I think I know that he never meant to hurt anyone,’ she said, ‘so he changed his name from Derek and had a fling with his brother’s wife. But he is a brilliant parent – he couldn’t have been a better father to us, to Cat. His love was perfectly equal.’
‘I know,’ said Matt, ‘I know. It seems so unjust, Fen. He’s always looked after himself, what with his cooking and his love of Derbyshire air. He’s one of the good guys.’
‘Please don’t let him die,’ Fen pleaded, bursting into tears. ‘I don’t want this to be happening. I want Cosima to grow up knowing her Django Gramps. I can’t believe we’ve been so horrible to him. We have to go up there, immediately. It’s our turn to care for him.’
Matt went to her and pulled her into his embrace. She sobbed, knocking her forehead against his chest again and again. Snotty and tear-stained, she took deep breaths. ‘If he could see me now he’d be saying, “Stop it with the sobbing, you’ll ruin the carpets.” Fuck, Matt, I’m terrified.’
Matt offered his arms to her but this time Fen stepped back and turned away, burying her face in Tinky Winky’s tummy and sobbing anew.
I feel as if I don’t deserve the comfort of Matt’s arms, as if I’ve forfeited my place within his embrace because I’ve abused his trust and sullied our love for a pathetic fumble with that stupid Al. What sort of mother was I to Cosima earlier this evening? I have to change, for her sake. But actually, this isn’t about me at all. It’s about Django. And Django has to make it through, for her sake too.
‘Pip’s going to phone you,’ Matt was saying, ‘in a little while – once Cat has phoned her. We had to contrive it this way – it’s why I met up with Ben and Zac yesterday.’ And he told her about Django coming to London which made her cry; of Ben arranging for the consultation, that Django wanted the boys to tell his girls.
‘He hates the city,’ she cried. ‘He must have been so anxious. He must be feeling so alone.’
I can’t believe this is happening. And I can’t believe it’s still the same evening that I faffed around with Al. All that seems unreal, now; distant and past. Totally over and done with. Thank God Pip phoned me when she did. In some ways, she’s always been there to pull me or Cat out of harm’s way, to steer us clear of trouble.
‘Pip will be phoning soon,’ Matt said, and Fen shuddered at how close Matt seemed to her thoughts. ‘Then you’ll be able to decide what to do.’
‘But even if we band together, can we help Django? Are we a match for cancer?’ Fen whispered. ‘Cancer happens to other families, Matt. Not ours.’
Pip was frowning so hard her head ached and the corner of her eyelids twitched.
Zac just said something like Django has cancer. I think I heard him right. But Django can’t have cancer because I saw him a month ago and he looked as fine then as he has looked for the past however many years. And Django can’t have cancer because he isn’t the type. He’s fantastically robust. You wouldn’t believe he’s seventy-five.
‘But the most ill he’s ever been is a head cold, which he cured overnight with his concoction of Caribbean Hot Sauce, brandy and an egg yolk whisked together and served in a Babycham glass,’ she said, a tone of protest to her voice. ‘He made the concoction for me once – just before my A-levels. I swear my cold we
nt before the glass even touched my lips. For Christ’s sake, Zac – Django McCabe found the cure for the common cold. He can’t have cancer.’
She looked at her husband, sitting beside her on their bed, and all the wariness and annoyance she’d harboured for him over the last month evaporated. Suddenly, she doubted she had the strength or the nous to fulfil her role as Great Looker-Afterer and she knew that, without having to be asked, her husband would take on that role. She knew that as soon as her tears came, Zac would be there, solid and close. She began to cry, lowered her head and crumpled into Zac who was there for her at once. She sobbed for a couple of minutes before physically pulling herself together.
‘It’s fine. It’s fine,’ she said loudly, sniffing away her fragility. ‘If Django does have cancer or something, then he’ll sail through it and no doubt discover some history-making, Nobel-prize-winning potion in the process. It’ll be the new penicillin. It’s all going to be OK.’
‘Ben says that prostate cancer is not uncommon,’ Zac said.
‘Then it won’t stand a chance in someone as rare as Django,’ Pip said.
‘Ben said often it is slow growing and the man can live out his normal lifespan in spite of it.’ Zac matched her optimism because he sensed it was what she needed.
‘And he certainly won’t tolerate the ignominy of losing his trademark pony-tail during treatment,’ Pip continued, almost brightly. ‘I can just see him in a hospital gown, brandishing a Thermos of home-made soup, saying to the doctor, “Blast me with whatever but don’t touch the hair, son.” Can’t you?’
Zac said yes he could, and he chuckled because he knew the sound of it would be a relief to Pip.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Pip declared. ‘Everything will be OK. It’s a nasty, nasty shock. It’s a terrible way to reunite us all, but reunite us it will.’
‘Cat’s going to give you a call, then you’re to call Fen,’ Zac explained because he deduced that facts and the opportunity to be proactive was what Pip wanted. ‘We discussed it last night, Ben, Matt and I.’
They’ve thought it all through, the boys, bless them.
‘Django McCabe will give cancer an unceremonious boot,’ Pip said. ‘Come on, Cat, ring me won’t you? I think I’ll make a cup of tea. Want one?’
‘I’ll make it, Mrs,’ said Zac, kissing his wife’s shoulder.
‘We’ll go up to Farleymoor at the weekend,’ Pip said, ‘and sort everything out.’
‘Babe?’ Ben looked at Cat who was standing as motionless and emotionless as a wax statue. She could hear him, but it sounded as though he was in a different room. She couldn’t locate his voice or his presence and it felt safest to just keep standing still and staring straight ahead.
I’m sort of speechless and thoughtless. I can only compute facts at the moment.
I have been made manager at work.
Django has cancer.
‘Babe – prostate cancer is not uncommon. It may have no great effect on Django’s lifestyle or lifespan.’
Ben says prostate cancer is common.
‘And I’m sorry, Cat, that I just couldn’t tell you of his phone calls to me, of his trip down to St John’s.’
Django came down to London on a train and went back home again.
My father is Derek McCabe.
The man who is my father has cancer.
I haven’t seen Django for a month.
I thought I never wanted to see him again but just over a week ago I yearned to see him. Only he wasn’t there because he was down here, with my husband, who helped him learn he has cancer.
‘It broke my heart to know that you were going to Derbyshire, that he wouldn’t be there. That there was nothing I could do about it.’ Ben put his hands on Cat’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She was stiff to his touch. ‘Babe?’
‘I have to be at work an hour early tomorrow,’ Cat said.
‘You need to phone Pip, when you’re ready. Then she’s going to phone Fen. We arranged it that way, the guys and I. With Django’s approval.’
‘OK,’ she said, picking up her mobile phone and pressing the speed dial for Pip, whose number Cat currently had no chance of recalling otherwise.
TESTING TIME
The McCabe girls usually let BBC Radio Four pass the time when they made the journey to Derbyshire by car. That Saturday morning, though the radio was on and Ben was doing the driving, it was no more than a background sound to the lengthy loaded silences. What they wanted to tune into most were Ben’s pragmatic facts about what Django was facing.
‘So he may have had it for a long time?’ Pip asked from the back of the car.
‘Yes. Quite possibly,’ said Ben, nodding at her from the rear-view mirror. ‘Actually, a large percentage of men over eighty have a small area of prostate cancer.’ She nodded back at him.
‘But Django is only seventy-five,’ Fen said. Ben looked at her too, but unlike Pip by whom she sat, Fen didn’t meet his eyes. She was frowning intently at her hands.
‘Many men can live out their normal lifespan without it causing any problems,’ Ben said though he immediately regretted the joint sigh of relief from Pip and Fen. False hope could be a cruel thing. Also, despite being a level-headed scientist, Ben had always feared that Hope without Fact tempted Fate. ‘But we are still unsure of what’s what with Django,’ he continued. ‘He needs more tests. The results can take a couple of weeks to compute. There are all sorts of treatment possibilities, sometimes they even opt not to treat – and nothing drastic happens.’ Ben had repeated the facts so often over the last few days he hoped his voice still sounded convincing.
‘That’s good, that’s positive,’ said Pip, leaning forward and nodding at him assertively. ‘When can he have these tests? Can we bring him to your hospital? I suppose I’m asking if you can organize special privileges?’
‘There are excellent urology and oncology departments local to Chesterfield,’ he said. ‘He’s already been referred and tests have been set up. It’s better for the patient to be closer to home.’
‘Has he had them? These tests?’ Fen asked quietly, disturbed by the thought of Django, on his own, being probed and scanned.
‘I don’t know – he was due to have some yesterday,’ Ben said, trying again to encourage her with eye contact but she continued to look down, her hands now tight fists in her lap. ‘I tried to phone a couple of times but he didn’t answer.’
‘Maybe now he’ll buy a mobile phone,’ Pip said, with a woeful laugh.
Ben was acutely aware that Cat had not reacted, let alone spoken and they were now just north of Junction 24, the eight mammoth cooling stations sighing out steam in slow motion. He glanced at his wife sitting beside him and wondered how much of the conversation she’d listened to. Though she appeared to be gazing out of the window, obviously it was not at the view. Much as Ben was fond of her sisters, and hoped they found comfort in his honest answers, so he also wished he had Cat to himself that journey. Over all others, his duty was to her. This he did not feel was an obligation of marriage, but a reason for it. In Cat he’d found a person other than himself, or anyone he had ever known, whom he wished always to put first. For Fen and Pip, cancer might well cure the situation between them and Django, and Ben understood that by genning up on details and prognosis, they might feel better equipped to make their reacquaintance. What could be more shocking than cancer of a loved one? In the scheme of things, didn’t cancer cancel out all other ills?
For Cat, though, cancer had been thrown into a mix already clouded by complex fears, mistrust, hurt, shock and disbelief. Ben wondered whether, for Fen and Pip, Django’s cancer in some way provided an easy way out, an excuse to move away from the disruptive revelations of the previous month; that cancer rewrote all scales of gravity. Django’s cancer could also redefine their roles as nurses, and not accusers. In a bizarre twist, cancer might just make everything better. Ben felt that for Cat, however, cancer was confusing the ambivalence she was entitled to feel. If she wasn’
t yet ready to accept the shock of her parentage, the untruths she’d grown up believing, the hurt and the deception – then she certainly wasn’t going to be prepared for the hard facts of cancer.
Suddenly, Ben resented her sisters for not being aware of this. Then he asked himself if he would still feel it was worse for Cat than for her sisters, was Cat not his wife? The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about cancer any more because privately his concerns for Django were more grave than he was prepared to reveal before the tests were done. He was beginning to feel tired and irritated by the drive. Why couldn’t Cat take the wheel?
Because she never did.
When the two of them were in the car, it was always Ben who drove. A silly little quirk of marriage, of their dynamic, he’d never really thought about until just now. He didn’t really mind. He was glad to be able to do something.
‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’ suddenly Fen sobbed. ‘Oh God, he’s going to die.’
‘Fen shut up and stop that,’ Ben snapped. ‘You’re being hysterical and that kind of thinking is no good to anyone.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ Fen gasped, and she turned to Pip. ‘Do you think everything will be OK? Pip?’
Pip had to gather her thoughts. It struck her that Fen was reacting in much the way she would have expected Cat to. Yet Cat, sitting in the front passenger seat, was currently doing the deeply thoughtful gazing out of the window more usual for Fen. It was as if the events of the past month had transposed her younger sisters’ traits. It was Cat guarding her emotions now, and Fen spewing out hers. ‘It’ll be fine,’ Pip told Fen in the tone of voice she’d often employed for her youngest sister. ‘It’s a nasty shock. Can you imagine Django as a cancer patient?’ She waited for Fen to shake her head. ‘Nor can I. It doesn’t happen to people like him.’
‘We were just this ordinary bunch, this normal family,’ Fen said croakily, ‘and in a matter of weeks, it’s all fallen apart.’ She thought of Matt and Cosima at home, suddenly praying hard that her other little family would never fall apart, shuddering violently at how close she’d come to ripping them asunder herself.