Home Truths

by Freya North

  2 firm friends + 0 desire to marry/cohabit

  (+ never ÷ by £/♡ issues)

  = great + modern parents

  = 1 lucky child.

  June, the mother of his child, can never be an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend because she was neither when Tom was conceived. She's Zac's friend and Zac is her friend and for Tom to have parents who are friends is a gift. Tom also has two step-parents. Everyone is friends. It might appear unconventional, but it works. A large family of friends.

  Django McCabe may have trawled the sixties, trekking from ashram to commune, hiking from yurt to kibbutz, in search of the same. But he was happy to admit that his eldest niece had found its apotheosis in London NW3.

  Pip is hovering. Zac's hour at his laptop has turned into two.

  ‘Coffee?’ she offers.

  ‘No, ta,’ says Zac, ‘need to crack on.’

  ‘Tea?’ she suggests.

  ‘Nope, I'm fine thanks, Mrs,’ says Zac. ‘I have to knock this on its head.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘No, nothing – I'm good. Thanks.’

  ‘Rampant sex?’

  ‘Tempting – on any other night. I have to work. Seriously.’

  ‘One of my very special blow-jobs?’

  Zac looks at his screen. He has a very good head for figures. But if there's one figure that gives very good head, It's Pip. His eyes don't leave his laptop, his finger hovers above the mouse-pad. ‘A special blow-job?’ Zac asks, as if It's a deal-breaker. ‘Not just a standard one?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Pip winks.

  ‘Because,’ says Zac, ‘if It's just run-of-the-mill sucky-sucky, I'll pass. This audit is crucial.’

  ‘I'm not capable of run-of-the-mill sucky-sucky,’ Pip clarifies, hands on her hips, chin up.

  ‘I mean, I'm talking cosmic, Pip,’ Zac stipulates with a lasciviously raised eyebrow. ‘It needs to be mind-blowing.’

  ‘I assure you It's not just your mind I'll be blowing.

  ’ Finally, Zac looks from his laptop to Pip, then back again. Contriving a sigh, as if he was doing her the favour, he logs off. ‘I'm sure the powers that be will understand,’ he says.

  ‘I'll write your boss a note,’ says Pip. ‘I'll tell him the dog ate your homework.’ She takes Zac by the hand and leads him to the bedroom. They undress silently and have rude sex as quietly as they can.

  Matt had come back from work early, made sausages, mash and onion gravy. Perfect for a cold January night and essential for his girlfriend who'd told him she hadn't had time to eat more than toast and Marmite during the day. He'd bought a DVD too, which Fen managed to stay awake through despite snuggling up against the cosiness of Matt's chest. Now She's reading in bed and Matt is nuzzling the fragrant softness of his girlfriend's neck. His cock is surprisingly responsive. He'd only intended to kiss her goodnight. He didn't know he had the energy to feel horny.

  ‘How did we make Cosima again?’ Matt whispers, running his hand the length of Fen's thigh, spooning against her, the sensation of her buttocks against his erection causing his pelvis to rock automatically, his hands to travel up along her torso. He bypasses her breasts. They're Cosima's for the time being. He doesn't really mind, It's lucky He's always been a legs and bum man. And his hands sweep down to Fen's thighs again, and over them, and around. And he walks his fingers up through the fuzz of her sex then attempts to tiptoe them down in between.

  Fen's hand joins his. ‘I do want to,’ she announces, a tinge of apology, a ring of reluctance, which stills Matt's hand immediately. ‘I'm just really really tired. Sorry.’

  ‘I bet I can have you in the mood; bet you I can have you hollering for mercy,’ he tells her. He always used to be able to. He leans across her and kisses her, pulls her to face him, holds her against him. He rocks his groin gently against her, takes her hand down to his perky cock and works his hands over her body. He is not sure whether He's taken her breath away or whether She's holding it to pull her stomach in. But he feels her stiffen, and a glance at her face, where anxiety is mixed with reluctance, causes him to turn away from her, to stare at the ceiling with a sigh.

  ‘Do I feel different to you?’ she asks. ‘I'm still so squidgy and unattractive.’ And then she mutters that she shouldn't have had all that bangers and mash.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Matt says, ‘I keep telling you. God. Wasn't my raging hard-on proof enough how much I fancy you?’

  Fen shrugs and looks downcast. ‘I know you do,’ she says quietly, ‘but I have to fancy myself, too, to feel horny.’

  ‘Will you give yourself a break,’ Matt says. He switches off the bedside light and kisses her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Stop being silly.’

  Fen lies in the dark, wide-eyed and confused and wishing they had a spare room she could withdraw to. She encourages a hot, oily tear to sting its way from the corner of her eye and slick down her cheek and onto the pillow. She knows It's bizarre, but rather than being bolstered by Matt's assurances that he loves and lusts for her however she feels she looks, She's cross that he appears to trivialize her concerns, her loss of confidence, her fragile self-image.

  He called me silly. For the second time today. Silly is a stupid, insensitive word to use. He just doesn't understand.

  God. It's gone midnight. Cosima will wake in a couple of hours. I have to get some sleep.

  Django McCabe

  and the Nit-Pickin' Chicks

  Though only three years separated the oldest and youngest of the McCabe sisters, Cat had always been very much the baby of the family. She was a little shorter than Pip and Fen, her features more petite. She lacked Pip's aptitude for performing, to entertain, which gave her eldest sister her apparent sassy confidence. Nor did she have Fen's self-containment, her ability to seem so quietly self-possessed, so attractively serene. While Pip and Fen had encountered the various dramas in their lives head-on and for the most part single-handedly and discretely, Cat had always simply stood there and cried loudly for help. It wasn't that she was particularly feeble, nor was she excessively attention-seeking or spoilt; Cat was accustomed to being looked after because there was something about her that inspired others to care for her. Ben believed it was to do with the arrangement of her features; her large eyes set winsomely around the childlike upturn to her nose which led down to the natural pout to her lips. It compelled one to offer protection, even if it was not specifically needed or asked for. However, Cat's strength was that she was never too proud to ask. She'd grown up knowing that what made her feel strong and able was the presence of her support network, her sisters in particular.

  When Cat had gone to live in America with a relatively new boyfriend (as Ben was then) and brand new job, everyone anticipated floods of tears to wash her soon back again. But the anticipated plea to be rescued never came. Her letters and e-mails and phone calls attested to her happiness, and her occasional visits home confirmed this. Her apparent self-sufficiency was a source of joy and relief for her family and soon enough they were delighted for her that She'd gone. Not half so thrilled as they are now, four years later, that she has come back.

  Being swept north by rail for their family reunion, the McCabe sisters were initially preoccupied with three-way inane grinning and quietly assessing physical details and changes.

  ‘So.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So!’

  ‘You're back.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘Indeed. For better, for worse.’

  ‘I do love your hair,’ Pip told Cat. ‘When you e-mailed to say you'd gone short and red, I had visions of a ginger buzz-cut.’

  ‘It's very gamine,’ Fen said whilst hastily retying hers into a hopefully smoother pony-tail, ‘very Audrey Hepburn. God I feel a dowdy frump.’

  ‘You don't think It's too short?’ Cat asked them. ‘And You're sure you like the colour? Yours is so much longer,’ she said to Fen, ‘and darker.’

  ‘That's probably because It's greasy,’ Fen said. Sh
e took a twist of her hair and scrutinized the ends. ‘I can't remember the last time I went to the hairdresser.’

  ‘Go this weekend,’ Pip said. ‘Django will know somewhere.’

  ‘When did he last go to a barber?’ Cat interrupted. ‘You're not telling me He's chopped off his pony-tail? I expected things to change while I've been abroad – but nothing that drastic.’

  ‘It's still his crowning glory,’ Pip assured her with a smile.

  ‘How's he been?’ Cat asked.

  ‘Fine and dandy,’ Pip said. ‘Same as ever, really.’

  ‘It's funny, initially I'd curse him for not having e-mail, but actually I loved receiving his letters and writing back,’ Cat said. ‘I've kept them all. They're hysterical. He'd send me the TV listings page every single week so I could keep up with Corrie.’

  ‘Zac and I bought him an answering machine for his last birthday – but he took it back,’ Pip said. ‘I suggested a mobile phone – but you can imagine what he said.’

  ‘Talking of birthdays, I wonder what we'll do for his,’ Cat said brightly. ‘Can you believe he'll be seventy-five this spring?’

  ‘he'll either throw a huge party – or go on a retreat,’ Pip said. ‘In which case we'll make him a surprise party.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Cat. She gazed at the sleeping baby nustled up to Fen in a papoose. ‘Cosima is so beautiful,’ she said dreamily, watching Fen's fingers tap out a mother's instinctive, gentle rhythm against the baby's back. Absent-mindedly, Cat rolled her thumb against her wedding ring. ‘Still no plans to wed then, Fen?’ She felt Pip glance at her.

  Fen balked. ‘What an odd thing to say.’

  ‘Sorry – I just mean, you know, since you now have a baby.’

  ‘Shock, horror, an illegitimate child? Is that what You're implying?’ Fen said.

  ‘Blimey Fen, I was only teasing,’ Cat said, because she had been. She glanced back at Pip who, ever the diplomat, decided it was a good idea to change the subject.

  ‘I'm hungry,’ said Pip.

  ‘I'm hungry now too,’ said Fen. ‘Do you think Django's made a late lunch for us?’

  ‘Followed almost immediately by an enormous tea with just time enough to burp before a Spread for supper?’ Cat laughed.

  ‘I'll go and buy sandwiches for us,’ said Pip.

  ‘And salt-and-vinegar crisps!’ Cat called after her. Fen smiled at her. Cat turned her gaze out to the English countryside zipping by outside the train. So different to Colorado, where she had remained in awe of her surroundings. Here, the scale was comfortingly familiar, if a little tame by comparison, the colours darker, damper.

  ‘Sorry about before,’ Fen said. ‘I've been horribly snappish, lately. I hate it and I can't help it. I'm just so tired. And – well – things at home have been a little strained.’

  Cat watched Fen's gaze drop. She'd been shocked by the physical change in Fen, the wan complexion, the dark eyes, puffiness here and a general lankness there. Objectively, Fen had always been the true beauty of the three of them; her features and complexion adding refinement where Pip was just pretty, where Cat was simply cute. Today, though, Cat noticed a certain pallor now veiling this.

  ‘Is it Matt?’ Cat broached, though She'd intended to seek details from Pip later.

  ‘I don't know, Cat,’ Fen said, a tear clouding one eye, ‘but I think it might be me. My love for my baby is so primal and complete that sometimes I feel like running away so It's just the two of us.’

  ‘Don't do that,’ Cat said and she reached across the melamine for her sister's wrist, ‘please don't do that. I've just come thousands of miles to be back in my family fold. I want Cosima to get to know her Auntie Cat. And when I am pregnant, I'll need you within arm's reach to tell me how to do it all properly.’

  Fen smiled. ‘I'll need bloody long arms to stretch to Clapham from East Finchley,’ she said.

  ‘Clapham is not, I repeat not, permanent,’ Cat said. ‘You know I've always had a thing for Tufnell Park.’

  ‘It's good to have you home,’ Fen said, ‘but it'll be even better to have you on the doorstep.’

  Pip returned. ‘Cardboard bread with rubber cheese in between,’ she announced. ‘Don't anyone tell Django what we're about to eat.’

  Peeping through the window, it is a joy for Django to behold his three precious girls spill out of the taxi. Momentarily, he turns away from the sight and offers a prayer of sincere thanks to all the gods and spirits who have ever interested him at any stage during his life. He can hear their laughter and their excited chatter. Will you look at Cosima – how she has grown in the last month. How naturally Fen has the baby against her. See the sun spin gold through Pip's hair. And Cat, that can't be Cat! Cat was the little girl with the jaunty pony-tail. Who is this beautiful woman? And what's with the red hair!

  Django had intended to position himself in the hallway, so that when the girls opened the door He'd be there; his arms flung wide, like a celebrity tenor on an album cover. In the event, he is as excited as they are and he strides out to meet them, booming his welcome. The only member of the family who does not cry is Cosima. She regards the grown-ups with her solemn unblinking eyes, absorbing all the facts and details as if logging the information that when you haven't seen your family for a long time, you leap about and sob and touch each other's hair a lot.

  ‘I'm still stuffed from tea-time!’ Cat whispered to Pip while Django tinkered in the kitchen. ‘Those scones were like cannon balls. Never mind enough to feed an army – enough to sink the navy!’

  ‘Shh,’ Pip said.

  ‘Has he been well?’ Cat asked quietly. ‘Hasn't had flu, or something? It's just that he looks a little tired to me, a bit peaky, since I last saw him.’

  ‘I think He's been fine,’ said Pip. ‘He certainly hasn't said anything to the contrary. He's probably been slaving over the stove all week, preparing for our arrival.’ She spied a copy of the Racing Post. ‘Or else He's put all his money on some old nag and lost the lot.’

  Cat walked around the living-room, fingering objects, lingering over framed photos, feeling the heavy brocade of the curtains, running her hands over the worn warm upholstery, filling her nostrils with the scent of home. It was like remaking her acquaintance with the essential elements of her personal history; reminding herself how everything looked and felt and smelt and should be, while at the same time reasserting her own presence in this sacred family space.

  The Spread was simmering and sautéing and roasting and steaming. Elements of it were happily marinating, or being chilled, or else ripening at room temperature. All the pots and pans were in use and every utensil had served many a purpose. The various scents emanating from oven and hob joined forces to create an olfactory explosion that, to Django, was as contradictory yet ultimately pleasing as a jazz chord.

  The point of cooking and the point of jazz are essentially one and the same, Django thought to himself as he ran a sink of water and half a jar of Bar Keeper's Friend to soak all the knives. It's about an element of surprise, of revelation and re-education. Of experimentation. Like when the African pentatonic scale met the European diatonic scale and jazz was born; a sound that was initially bizarre, disconcertingly discordant. It simply required one to open one's ears and one's heart to the flattened third and seventh notes and suddenly the aural pleasure of the blue note coursed through one's veins. Likewise, one's initial concern that Tabasco and tuna may be odd accompaniments to duck with a celery stuffing, dissipates when one shrugs off preconceptions of convention and allows the tastes to speak for themselves.

  ‘Not too dissimilar to Kandinsky either,’ Django mused as he left the kitchen in search of his nieces, ‘seemingly an arbitrary cascade of colour and shape yet utterly grounded in structure and purpose. Jazz, Cookery, Abstraction. It's all art.’

  He found them in the living-room and observed them unseen for a nostalgic moment. Just then, the girls could have been any age. The scene was immediately familiar and timeless and the continuity was
poignant. ‘By golly,’ Django declared, ‘sing hey for the return of the nit-pickin' chicks.’

  The nit-pickin' chicks looked up at him. Fen stopped plaiting Pip's hair, Pip stilled her hands from massaging Cat's foot, Cat brought her head up from Fen's lap and ceased tracing patterns on her sister's legs.

  ‘Django, You're not going all sentimental on us are you?’ Pip asked, resuming her massage in a businesslike way. The girls laughed. Privately, they each felt suddenly very sentimental, in an affirming way. It had been years since Django had referred to them as the nit-pickin' chicks, because it had been such a long time since they'd sat in their huddle with their hands almost absent-mindedly working on each other.

  ‘Stop fiddling,’ Django said. ‘Let's eat.’

  ‘I'll just check on Cosima,’ Fen said.

  ‘You were only up there half an hour ago,’ said Cat, ‘and she was quiet then.’

  ‘you'll see,’ Fen said, slightly defensively, feeling entitled to her knowing nod, ‘you'll see.’

  ‘It transpires that Cat hasn't just come home because she misses your cooking,’ Pip told Django, slipping her arm around his waist, ‘She's come home to breed.’

  Django took a moment. ‘Wonderful!’ he then said, placing his hand on Cat's head as if blessing her. ‘Another reason to celebrate. There's some champagne somewhere. It may well be in the bottom drawer in your room, Pip.’