by Freya North
But though the girls had an ear for jazz, medical information was clangorous to their ears. They didn’t quite understand what they were hearing, nor whether they should turn to Ben or Django for further information.
‘Do you have the results?’ Pip asked.
‘When did they come?’ asked Fen.
Cat said nothing. She couldn’t. Her heart pounded in her throat. Don’t let him have results yet. I don’t want facts. I just want to have hope.
Django peered at the potatoes, as if making his selection required utter concentration. He spooned them onto his plate, added a dollop of HP Sauce, motioned to Matt to replenish his glass with Pimm’s and then he turned to the girls as if he’d forgotten what they’d asked. ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘that they can treat my old bones with radiotherapy which will very much help with the discomfort I sometimes experience.’
‘Has it spread?’ Pip asked. ‘Is it not just prostate cancer – is it in your bones too?’
‘It’s spread a little,’ Django said.
‘What’s the buggery bit – about the prostate?’ Pip persisted.
‘The buggery bit about the prostate?’ Django said, as if trying to recall. ‘Oh – that. Yes, my prostate’s in a sorry state. But it’s a bit like your appendix. Or the Monarchy. Not really needed.’
‘Can they treat it?’ Pip urged.
‘As Ben said,’ Django said diplomatically, with the swiftest of conniving glances to the doctor, ‘sometimes it’s not worth it – the treatments and the side effects are worse than the symptoms of the cancer. And the cancer mightn’t impinge on my lifespan anyway. Now come on, Fen, Cat – you haven’t touched your celeriac. I mashed it with cottage cheese, the pineapple-y variety – is it not nice?’
Ben follows Django through to the kitchen, under the pretext of carrying the pile of plates and empty bowls, all of which have been scraped pleasingly clean. Django is rummaging in cupboards and drawers, muttering. Ben puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes, yes,’ Django says, a little irritated. ‘Ah, here are the little sods.’ He brandishes the jar of morello cherries.
‘OK,’ says Ben. But his hand is staying put. ‘You sure?’
Django thinks about this. ‘I’m choosing not to use the word terminal. When the girls are sad, I am sad. When they worry, I worry. More importantly, when they are happy, I am happy. And however long I do have, I may as well have a gay old time of it.’ He pauses, tips his head and regards Ben. Echoing the affection of his son-in-law, Django places his hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘But thank you, Ben,’ he says. ‘The girls – they all seem different. Not just happy and effervescent and back to their old selves – but as if they are proud to be in new selves too. It must have been a good trip to the States. It must have been a good thing to do. It would be most fitting if good is what ultimately comes out of it all. My lot screwed it up – but Cat, Fen and Pip are ironing out the creases very nicely. Could you fetch the ice cream from the freezer?’
But before Ben can do this, Django puts his hand on his shoulder again. ‘Ben – have I in some way contributed to my condition? I don’t mean to sound bonkers or melodramatic but if health is not just about what we put into our bodies but what we do with them, if health is a state of mind—’ He trails off to clatter around the cutlery drawer. ‘Just deserts,’ he murmurs.
‘Teaspoons will do fine,’ Ben says helpfully.
‘No – not desserts,’ Django smiles. ‘I’m wondering whether my deeds and my actions have somehow contributed to my downfall.’
Ben puts the ice cream down on the counter firmly. ‘Django,’ he says, ‘cancer is cancer. It’s an insidious, revolting affliction. It’s rogue cells. Bastard things. They have no conscience. They certainly don’t differentiate between victims. There’s no proof that reprobates are struck down more than the virtuous. And my God you have far more bloody virtues than you have sodding faults. There’s nothing you could or could not have done. It’s not your fault. It’s just fucking bad luck, Django.’
Django’s eyes are tear stung. ‘You do swear a lot,’ he tells Ben with a fond cuff to his ear.
Cosima spent her first birthday picnicking in the grounds of Chatsworth House. Her father and her Uncle Zac spent her first birthday urging her to walk.
‘Her knees are too fat,’ Ben laughed warmly. ‘Look at them – they look like scones. And look at those rolls of flesh around her thighs. A mini sumo wrestler!’
‘Fuck off, Ben!’ Fen protested, firing cornichons at him.
‘Language, Fenella,’ said Django.
‘I’m teasing,’ Ben said. ‘She’s glorious. Absolutely glorious. She’s a credit to you. Skinny babies don’t bear thinking about.’
‘Talking of babies,’ Django said, ‘how is Tom – what news of his little brother?’
‘He’s so gorgeous!’ Pip drooled, her accent becoming alarmingly like Tweetie Pie. ‘His weeny teeny toes!’
Django flung Zac a very obvious look of sympathy.
‘Pip is currently stuffing herself with alkaline foods and God knows what because she’s decided she wants a girl.’ Zac paused. ‘I’d quite like a girl too,’ he said wryly. ‘I wonder if cousins warrant a discount from South Hampstead High School for Girls.’
‘But we haven’t put Cosima’s name down!’ said Fen, after a pregnant pause and a jubilant wink to Pip.
‘Are you trying for a family?’ Django’s eyes danced from Pip to Zac.
‘Absolutely,’ Zac told him and the pleasure which crisscrossed Django’s face was priceless.
All eyes, with eyebrows raised, were suddenly volleying between Cat and Ben. Ben just grinned but Cat lobbed asunder whatever foodstuffs were still on her plate.
‘Leave me alone!’ she protested, sticking out her tongue. ‘I’m younger than you lot! I assure you Ben and I will pop them out – when we’re ready. But I want to give my career a chance, I really do.’
‘I’m hoping to go back to work,’ Fen announced casually, plucking at grass while a flickering across her face belied an immediate need for approval, ‘in the autumn, perhaps.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ Pip said.
‘Good for you,’ said Cat.
‘Part-time,’ Fen quantified.
‘Well done darling,’ Django said, ‘it’ll suit you.’
‘I know,’ Fen said, ‘I see that. So keep your ears open for a good nanny, everyone.’
‘I’ll ask June,’ said Zac.
‘Someone at work is bound to know,’ Cat told her.
‘I could always help out in the interim,’ Pip offered.
‘Thanks,’ said Fen, having a surreptitious glance from palm to palm, ‘thanks, you lot.’
‘Hey – did you know they’re opening the flagship branch of Dovidels at Meadowhall?’ Cat said to no one in particular. ‘Lorna Craven from head office told me.’
‘Meadowhall, hey,’ Django said. ‘I remember when Meadowhall was just that – all fields.’
‘Django!’ Pip and Fen groaned.
Ben observed his wife looking pensive and with an awkward blush.
‘Excellent hospitals in and around Sheffield. And the outlying area,’ Ben said casually, to no one in particular.
‘It’s weird, isn’t it,’ Zac says to Ben and Matt, sharing more Pimm’s, this time with courgette in lieu of cucumber, ‘it’s a fucking awful time, really, shit news, horrible things to come – but it’s been a blazing weekend. Really happy. All of us.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Matt concurs. ‘This will probably sound trite but I just want to say, Aren’t families great.’
Ben chinks glasses with them. ‘It’s been a good weekend,’ he agrees, ‘but more than a weekend. I don’t know – it feels like we’re approaching this truly privileged time. Many families aren’t granted this – loved ones are taken suddenly, violently, by cars or heart failure. Or worse. But we have hindsight before the event has happened – we know from the tragedy of o
thers not to let this man go before we say goodbye. That he’ll never wonder how much he was loved. That we – the girls – his friends – will never rue not saying all there was to be said. Managed well – and advances in medicine mean it can be managed well – Django can have a good death. When that time comes.’
‘When will it come, Ben?’ Zac asks.
‘Level with us,’ says Matt.
‘I don’t know,’ Ben says. ‘I’m not just saying this – truly, I don’t know. I don’t think it will be a sudden, steep deterioration. But the process has started. We’ll have to see. He’ll make this Christmas,’ he pauses sadly, ‘but perhaps not the following one. There’s a general reluctance to specify possible time remaining, because it can only sound like a death sentence – when you’ll die, instead of how much life you can still live.’ Ben pauses. ‘I think Django’s take on it is robust – and I think he’s kept our girls firmly in his heart by plying them with ambiguity.’
‘You don’t feel we’re pulling the wool over their eyes?’ Matt wonders.
Ben shakes his head. ‘No, I think we follow Django’s lead.’
‘Pip will read up on it,’ Zac says. ‘If she wants to – can she speak to you?’
Ben nods. ‘It seems what Django wants them to know is that though there’s no cure, it’s quite possible to live a normal lifespan in spite of it.’
‘I tell you,’ says Zac, ‘if ever a man will truly live until he dies, it’ll be Django McCabe.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Ben.
‘To Django McCabe,’ Matt toasts. ‘Long may he live.’ And they chink their mugs of Pimm’s together.
SUNDAE
‘Maybe I’ll just sell the house and move to a nice condo in Florida. Somewhere near Marcia’s place. Buy new things. Have a yard sale before I go. Give you away for free,’ Penny Ericsson says to her late husband’s chair. She crosses to the mantelpiece, but instead of looking at the photos, she raises her eyebrow at her reflection in the mirror.
‘Or maybe I’ll just stop talking to myself, stop it with the pie-in-the-sky planning and just go into town and do my grocery shopping.’
It was the hottest July on record. It was a day for ice cream. It was the day that Penny felt able to return to Fountains ice-cream parlour. Juliette welcomed her as if she’d only been in the day before.
‘Hey Penny,’ she said, ‘take a seat. I’ll be right there.’
Penny perused the menu. There were new additions but she fancied old favourites. ‘I’ll have a scoop of Banudge-nudge, a scoop of Chippy Chippy Bang Bang and a scoop of Fudge Fantasia.’ She stopped, not because she was deliberating over toppings, but because she was suddenly thinking of Derek McCabe and his imaginative take on food.
‘Excellent choice,’ Juliette said. ‘Toppings?’
‘Hot chocolate,’ said Penny, ‘and Lucky Charms.’
‘Coming right up.’
Penny sat and gazed down the street, the heat haze wavering the vista.
Juliette returned soon, presenting the sundae with a triumphant smile. ‘Enjoy!’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Penny said. She paused. ‘It’s nice to see you again, you look very well.’ She unfurled the long-handled spoon from the paper napkin and toyed with the ooze of toppings.
She was aware that Juliette was about to speak. ‘I’m getting married!’ Juliette announced.
Penny looked up. ‘That is just so nice,’ she said with genuine warmth. ‘Congratulations, my dear.’
Juliette took this as an invitation to sit down and tell Penny all about the proposal and to sketch out her ideas for frocks on the paper napkin. Meanwhile, Penny made headway into her ice cream, feeling obliged to take small, polite mouthfuls though it was so delicious she wanted to wolf it down. She’d started doing that at home, on her own. Sometimes, when she was very hungry, she’d scoff directly from the tub or container or foil tray. Sometimes, her supper was so hot, she’d have to stand there with her mouth agape, fanning her hand at the food scalding her tongue. Occasionally she’d even given out a great appreciative burp. She had no audience, after all. Now that her appetite had returned, she realized how hungry she had been feeling.
‘Last time I saw you,’ Juliette said, ‘I wasn’t engaged.’
‘That’s lovely,’ said Penny, thinking that Chippy Chippy Bang Bang was possibly the closest thing to ambrosia she’d ever tasted.
‘You were with the three girls,’ Juliette continued.
Penny stopped mid-mouthful, a glob of ice cream electrifying her sensitive gums.
‘Were they your daughters?’ Juliette asked shyly.
Penny waited, using her tongue energetically to calm the flare from her teeth. She nodded. ‘Yes, they were my girls.’
Juliette beamed. ‘How neat that they came over.’ She touched Penny’s forearm. ‘Did you talk it all through? Did you make amends? All that crap about you being a bad mother,’ Juliette chided gently. ‘I knew you were nice. I told you so.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ Penny said, feeling very uncomfortable.
‘Bet your phone bill is mighty big, what with all those long-distance calls,’ Juliette laughed.
It occurred to Penny that she didn’t have any contact numbers for her daughters. She did have Django’s number. But actually, was there any point in phoning him? And if she did find out her daughters’ numbers, whom would she phone first? More to the point, what would she say? What would they say? Reluctantly, she had to admit to herself that she’d already said everything, really, that day at Logan airport. And she knew that she’d relinquished any right to contact when she’d left them all those years ago. It was quite possible that she would never see them again.
MOVING ON
Ben glanced at Cat who was spooning through her cornflakes as if searching for a more tasty one elsewhere in the bowl.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’ She looked up. ‘Pardon?’
‘Are you OK?’ Ben repeated. ‘You seem miles away.’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Cat, ‘just thinking about work and Django and Django and work.’
Ben gave Cat a kiss and headed for the door. He paused and returned to her.
‘Pinch, punch,’ he said, doing precisely that. ‘August 1st?’
‘Oh,’ said Cat, rubbing her arm. ‘Ouch.’
‘You’re meant to give me a slap and a kick for being so quick,’ Ben told her, ‘or at the very least, a poke in the eye for being so sly.’
‘Ben,’ said Cat, who did usually biff and bash him on the first of each month, ‘do you think someone ought to be with Django when he has his first radiotherapy next week?’
‘Well, what does he say?’ Ben asked though he knew what Django had said, having spoken to him about precisely that the day before.
‘He says no,’ said Cat.
‘Let’s go up a couple of days after that, at the weekend,’ Ben said. ‘We’ll probably be of more practical use to him then.’
Cat brightened.
‘The sales will be on at Meadowhall,’ Ben told her, with a wink.
Ben thought about it again all that day. And the next. And he thought about it intermittently throughout the following week, even talked to colleagues and superiors, all of whom listened intently. He thought about it as he drove up to Derbyshire, two days after Django’s first session of palliative radiotherapy. But it was only when Cat dragged him around Meadowhall that he knew he had thought about it thoroughly and enough.
All angles. Pros and cons. For and against. On the one hand, and on the other. He’d considered everything to arrive at an informed decision about which he was more than content, he was actually fairly excited.
He’d choose his moment.
‘This is where Dovidels’ flagship store is going to be,’ Cat told him as she tried to peer through some unremarkable boarding.
This was his moment.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Ben, peering through the gap as well, ‘about leaving St John’s.’
Cat looked at him, alarmed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I fancy a change—’ Ben started.
‘A change? But what would you do? You’re a doctor – you’re a specialist!’ Cat exclaimed, aghast.
‘A change of scene,’ Ben said. ‘Same job – well almost – different hospital.’
‘But why?’ she pressed. ‘You like St John’s, don’t you? The department? The staff? Your colleagues?’
‘I do,’ Ben said, ‘but an interesting opportunity has been put my way to do something similar elsewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Sheffield.’
‘Sheffield?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Makes sense,’ he said, ‘in terms of my career. But of course, you have to feel happy with it.’
‘It makes perfect sense in my career too!’ Cat enthused artlessly. ‘Lorna Craven from head office as good as offered me this very store as my own.’ And she began to pat the boarding affectionately. ‘Best of all, we could be nearer to Django,’ she declared, ‘nearer home.’
‘You won’t hanker after Tufnell Park, then?’ Ben teased her.
‘I tell you something, Dr York, we can multiply our Tufnell Park pounds by three round these parts.’ Cat took a step back, crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, as if envisaging what the Dovidels shop front could look like. ‘What a coincidence,’ she marvelled guilelessly, ‘how very serendipitous.’
Not really, thought Ben, for whom Cat had long been an open book. And his best ever, all-time favourite read at that.
CHRISTMAS
‘Bugger the brandy butter,’ Django said as his family gathered around on Christmas Eve. ‘This year we’re having good old tomato ketchup with everything.’
Tom wrinkled his nose in delight at the deliciously revolting thought of ketchup and Christmas pud or, better still, ice cream and ketchup.
‘Did you forget the Bisto?’ Pip asked.
‘Bugger the Bisto!’ Django declared. ‘When did you ever, ever, know me not to make my gravy from scratch. Bisto, she says, Bisto!’
‘She has a thing about Bisto,’ Tom said darkly. ‘It’s a mad pregnant-woman thing.’