by Freya North
‘Thanks, Fen,’ Cat said, squeezing her sister's hand, ‘That's just what I needed to hear.’
Walking back down Bishops Avenue, Fen considered crossing the road as they neared Al's flowers. It was as if they suddenly personified Al; that Cat might see something she shouldn't, make something out of nothing. While Fen didn't want Cat even to comment on the flowers, she knew she needed to bite her tongue herself. Must not make a bouquet out of a hasty posy. Must not read into this. Must not say anything out loud.
Her note had gone.
A piece of folded paper was tucked between the stems of a few daffodils and the trunk of the tree. As they passed by, Fen could see her name written on the paper. Neat and bold handwriting. There was no way she could take it just then and though she didn't resent Cat, she reprimanded herself for having invited her forlorn little sister back home with her.
I wonder what it says?
I suppose I'll have to wait until Matt's home before I can retrieve it.
But say That's too late? It's windy. It looks like it might rain.
It's exciting!
Of course Fen couldn't wait for Matt. Could you? She nipped out while Cosima slept, supposedly to the shops, leaving Cat snuggled up on the sofa with back issues of Prima Baby and the property section of the Ham & High.
The note just said ‘Thanks, Fen. Alistair.’ There wasn't much to read. Certainly, nothing could be read into it. But she quickly reconfigured a crashing disappointment into no big deal. It was nice, anyway, wasn't it? Nice of him to reply, and nice to have a tiny, harmless secret.
However, it was difficult not to feel a little glum when, a week later, Fen saw that the flowers had been taken down. That there'd been no phone call to her mobile phone. It made it difficult to know what to do with his note. She'd kept it folded and tucked into a book of stamps in her purse. She'd have to throw it away, and her silly fantasy with it. The note was only three words long, after all, and you could hardly read into those. It wasn't as if it was even long enough for there to be any lines to read between.
April Fool
Penny had specified no flowers at Bob's funeral. She didn't much like flowers – not cut ones. You cut flowers and then the natural process decrees that you witness them die. Why be reminded of death by things that are themselves dying? Much better to say ‘No flowers. Donations to the Lance Armstrong Cancer Foundation’. Lucky Lance – cancer hadn't killed him, like it had Bob. Perhaps if other mourners over recent years had boosted the funds of cancer charities, rather than the coffers of the funerary florists, then things might have been different for Bob. Wishful thinking, perhaps – but what else could she think about or wish for?
She didn't feel like going out. But she knew it wasn't sensible to mope around the house. Not at this time of day. It would make the wait until bedtime interminable. Marcia was back from Florida and Penny thought to phone her, but they already had an arrangement for the next day and she didn't want to come across as needy. Marcia would worry. And when Marcia worried, she would fuss. And Penny had never liked being fussed over. So she summoned up some sense and energy and went out for a drive. Just a drive, she told herself, no rush to be anywhere specific. It was a fine day, though there was a chill to the air – the sharp brilliance of April sunshine issued a defiant dismissal of winter. Just beyond Hubbardton's Spring, Penny stepped from the car to admire the herd of unusual red-and-white Holstein cattle peacefully chomping away at the lush spring grass. She gazed at the cows for a while and found she was often gazed back at. ‘I'll see you in a moment, ladies,’ she said, marvelling how beasts so lumbering and lugubrious could also be unequivocally female. She walked to the famous covered bridge a few yards ahead. She read from the plaque aloud because she didn't want to hear Bob's voice in her head. He'd loved this spot: postcard perfect yet untainted by commercialism. ‘1872. Horsemen keep at a walk,’ Penny read. She glanced around her. ‘If they went at a trot, the bridge would bounce,’ she explained conversationally, though there was no one around. ‘It was used as a boxing ring too, you know.’ Suddenly, she found the sound of her voice a little embarrassing – talking to no one sounded worse than talking to cattle – so she walked briskly back to the car, nodding quickly to the cows on her way. Making much of the correlation between the rich Holstein milk and the ingredients for Vermont ice cream, Penny headed off for Ridge as if the idea to drive there for an ice cream had only then occurred to her.
‘Hi Penny,’ Juliette said casually, whilst taking the order of another customer. Penny nodded without checking if Juliette had seen. She didn't go to the counter where Gloria was already preparing her a taster of that week's special flavour but when Penny realized that someone sat at her table – a mother and toddler – she felt so discombobulated as to be tempted to walk straight out of the shop.
‘Penny,’ said Juliette kindly, guiding her to a table with no fuss. She came back a few minutes later with a pink plastic taster spoon, mounded high. ‘It's a new flavour,’ she told Penny. ‘It's called Sing for Spring. It's pistachio and meringue – boss says it symbolizes the spring pasture peeping through the snow fields.’
Penny sucked the glob off the spoon. ‘I'll have a banana split, thanks,’ she said flatly.
‘Banana split for Penny,’ Juliette called and Penny detected excessive jollity and loud kindness in the girl's usually soft voice. Simultaneously, Penny felt her eyes smart and her toes curl.
‘It's April Fool's Day,’ Penny told her with a shrug. ‘In Britain everyone plays pranks – practical or intellectual.’
‘I knew it,’ said Penny, triumphant. ‘I says to Gloria, that Penny's not from around here. You're English? How cool is that?’
‘A long time ago,’ Penny confirmed.
‘I'm sorry – I interrupted. You were saying about playing tricks?’
‘I made an April Fool of Bob one year,’ Penny shrugged. ‘He took it well – but I know he was a little upset. I never said sorry for it.’
Juliette wasn't quite sure what to say. ‘Bob won't have taken anything by that,’ she mumbled.
‘That stupid movie Love Story got it wrong,’ Penny frowned. ‘Love means you must say You're sorry. I never said, Sorry Bob – that wasn't funny and I apologize. I've been saying it over and over today. But It's too late.’
Juliette hovered. Penny had barely established eye contact with her this visit. Juliette glanced over at Gloria who used her eyebrows and vigorous tilting of her head to signify for her to sit down. She slid into the chair next to Penny. ‘My dad used to tell me I was a fool the whole time – he didn't need April 1st,’ she told Penny. ‘He used to tell my mom she was a fool as well. Actually, he didn't use that word. He called us dumb. Dumb-ass bitches.’
Penny jerked and locked eyes with Juliette.
‘When he said sorry, he never meant it so I stopped believing him quick,’ Juliette said with a shrug. ‘He'd even try tears, get down on his knees and holler that he was sorry. He was a better actor than Ryan O'Neal, I'll say that. It's a crap film anyway.’
‘I left my husband on April Fool's Day,’ Penny suddenly interrupted in a hoarse whisper. Juliette's eyes darted in confusion. ‘Not Bob,’ Penny hastened to add. ‘I left this other man for Bob. I left this other man for Bob thirty-three years ago today.’ She tucked into her banana split that was on the verge of being renamed banana spilt. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said to Juliette, ‘I interrupted you. It's just I never told a soul about this until right now.’
Two weeks later, when Penny caught sight of Juliette at the Pack'n'Save, a world away from Fountains Ices, she wasn't sure what to do but she didn't think she wanted to be recognized. Fountains had become a sacred space for her, her visits there sacrosanct. She liked the anonymity, the sense of sharing but of confidentiality. She'd come to feel that it was as close to a support group as she would ever come by. And it was a comforting thought that wherever she was, whatever the time, the candy-coloured parlour where everything was sweet and pretty, existed. So, it didn't
seem right to see Juliette in Pack'n'Save. But Juliette was apparently pleased to see Penny there as She'd made her way over, an older woman with her.
‘Hi Penny.’
‘Hi Juliette.’
‘This is my mom, Cyn.’
‘Hi Cyn.’
‘Hi Penny.’
‘You shopping?’
‘I am. You too?’
‘We are. My aunt's coming to stay.’
‘That's nice.’
‘Honey, I'm going to pick up some soda.’
‘OK Mom, I'll be right there.’
Penny and Cyn nodded at each other, smiled cordially. Penny thought about the woman's deceased husband calling her a dumb-assed bitch. It chilled her. ‘Well, you have a nice weekend,’ Penny told Juliette.
‘Thank you,’ Juliette said, ‘and you. You doing something?’
‘Not especially,’ Penny said.
‘Oh. Oh. Well, see you next week, I guess.’
‘Yes,’ said Penny, ‘goodbye.’
But Juliette loitered. ‘Bob sure was special,’ she said to Penny. ‘I mean – for you to up sticks and leave like that. Your home, your country. When you were so young.’
Penny was taken aback. She couldn't possibly comment.
Juliette tipped her head to one side and regarded Penny. ‘I know you can come across a little frosty and all,’ she said with kindness, ‘but I say It's a shame you never had kids of your own. You'd've been a good mom.’
Penny was so stunned she hadn't the self-possession not to let it show, scrambling around for her composure whilst scrabbling for something to say. However, her feelings of disarray obviously didn't offend Juliette who smiled sweetly and made to go.
‘Don't you go thinking you and your mom aren't special just because your daddy didn't say so,’ Penny suddenly said.
Juliette was visibly touched. ‘See you next week, Penny,’ she said.
‘Actually, I won't be here next week,’ Penny heard herself telling Juliette though she knew the thought was unformulated.
‘Oh?’
‘No. No. I'm going to be in England,’ Penny told her, ‘I haven't seen my family in many many years.’
Juliette smiled and placed her hand warmly on Penny's arm. ‘You do that,’ she enthused, ‘you do just that.’
My Round
Predictably, it had been Pip's idea to encourage the menfolk to meet.
‘You always say what a good bloke you think Ben is,’ she said casually to Zac as they dressed for work: Pip braiding her hair tightly into pigtails and securing them both ends with polka-dot ribbons, Zac donning a sober navy blue suit enlivened by a Paul Smith tie emblazoned on the underside with a 1950s pin-up girl. ‘You should get together more often with him and Matt. You're brothers-in-law.’
‘That's stretching it,’ Zac laughed, peering over Pip's head to check his reflection in the mirror.
She twisted around and looked up at him. ‘Well, whatever you are officially, you are certainly family,’ she said. Zac kissed the bridge of her nose as the tip of it was already painted red. ‘Anyway, you three need to meet up to discuss the music for Django's party. It's less than a fortnight away. He'll be digging out the gramophone and all his scratchy old vinyl if you Don't.’
‘Good thinking, Mrs,’ said Zac. ‘Remember to pick Tom up later.’
What a stupid thing to say, Pip thought.
To meet at the Mariners was Zac's suggestion and it was a good one. Tucked away up a side street off the Embankment, it was a hop across the river from Ben's hospital, a walk through the City for Zac and a quick taxi ride for Matt, better locating him for the journey home anyway. The establishment itself, though categorically a pub, had the feel of a gentleman's club, with walls panelled in oak, tub chairs set around tables placed discreetly apart and booths upholstered in dark green leather along the back wall. There were no fruit machines, no television, no music, no menu. The landlord and bar staff were male and conservative, in their waistcoats and ties and neat moustaches and referring to their clients as Sir. There was no active misogynism in play, indeed the landlord was somewhat mystified that the various girls to whom He'd offered bar work had turned him down. His bar, it seemed, was simply not conducive to a female clientele.
‘It's what the young people refer to as the “vibe”, dear,’ the landlord's wife defined. ‘It doesn't have the right vibe for the ladies.’ Even she preferred to take her occasional gin and tonic at the Kings Head in the parallel street.
‘Bitter?’ Zac asked.
‘And twisted,’ Ben quipped. ‘Actually, I hate to say it but I'm a bit of a bottled lager man now – those years in the States lured me away from warm beer.’
‘You drank pints at the Rag and Thistle when we were there the other week,’ Matt commented.
‘Country pubs are different,’ Ben said, ‘and the Rag and Thistle is in a league of its own.’
‘Apparently They're providing the beer for Django's party,’ Matt said, ‘in barrels.’
‘We must discuss the music, we only have this weekend to sort it out,’ Zac reminded himself out loud of the reason for their meeting.
‘I can't do Saturday,’ said Ben, ‘I have clinics all day.’
‘How's work?’ Matt asked him.
‘Brilliant – but long hours, which pisses Cat off,’ said Ben. ‘But I'm in my element – I'm pleased we seem to be taking sports medicine seriously in this country at last. It's not so much about treatment – if you get to that stage, You're a little too late. It's about understanding and management – That's why I pressed for the department to be called Sports Medicine, not Sports Injury. If we look after our sportsmen – professional, school, club – we'll see less injury and better results.’
‘Interesting,’ said Matt. ‘God, It's years since I put on a pair of trainers.’
‘It's not years,’ Zac corrected, ‘you and I were playing a bit of tennis last summer – you mean It's since your baby came on the scene.’
‘Christ You're right,’ Matt chinked glasses with Zac. ‘All those things I used to do BC.’
‘BC?’ said Ben. ‘B C,’ Matt said. ‘Before Cosima.’ Then he continued, theatrically sotto voce, ‘Can you slip me a nice little tonic, doctor? Some va-va-voom?’
‘Va-Va-Viagra?’ Ben asked.
‘Sod off,’ Matt laughed, ‘not for me. Something I can slip into Fen's Ovaltine?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Ben, ‘not enough action?’
‘None whatsoever,’ rued Matt, ‘and I'm so bored of furtive wanks in the shower I can't even be bothered to do that any more.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Ben and Zac sympathetically, grateful it wasn't them.
‘Bad patch?’ Zac asked, knowing Pip had said so but not wanting to offend Matt by revealing this.
Matt shrugged. ‘I Don't know,’ he faltered. ‘It's probably fine.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘Look – It's just I'd rather it didn't get back to Fen,’ he said, ‘and you know what those sisters are like.’
‘Off the record,’ Zac assured him while Ben pulled an imaginary zip across his lips.
Matt shrugged. ‘To be honest, things aren't as good as they were – dare I say it – BC. I mean, I've read the mags, the books, I went to the ante-natal classes, I cut the cord and I change nappies. I expect to be tired beyond belief – I understand that tiredness plays havoc with the libido. But actually It's not just about sex. It's more.’
‘It's about more sex?’ Zac asked and they all laughed before Matt buried his head in his hands in exaggerated woe.
‘I love the mother of my child,’ Matt said, ‘but where the fuck has my girlfriend gone? I feel surplus to requirements, you could say. It isn't in any of the books that when your child has a wonderful mother, you can't have your girlfriend back.’
‘She's obsessed with the baby?’ Ben said, being careful to turn it into a question though actually he was stating the obvious.
‘Yes,’ said Matt, ‘and nonplussed by me. I must admit, initially I was de
lighted and relieved by Fen's almost fierce maternal instincts – She's certainly not following in her own mother's footsteps. But now It's frustrating me.’
‘It will be temporary,’ Ben told him. ‘It's hormonal – motherhood is still partly chemical in these months.’
‘But we're dangerously close to being in a rut. Don't either of you say “Give her time”,’ Matt warned them, ‘seriously.’
‘Have you talked about this?’ Ben asked.
Matt looked embarrassed. ‘When? How?’ he said. ‘I arrive home from work and Fen badgers me to have quality time with Cosima. Then we eat in front of the television. She goes to bed early and is out like a light. If I can't use all the tricks of the frigging trade to arouse her for some sleepy shagging, I certainly can't rouse her for a heart-to-heart.’
‘You two need time together,’ Zac said, ‘grown-up time away from home.’
Matt looked deflated. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but she doesn't trust babysitters.’
‘We'll do it,’ Zac offered.
‘Us too,’ said Ben.
‘Thanks,’ said Matt, ‘thanks. The thing is, she doesn't seem interested. She just wants an early night. Every night.’
Ben took a long pull at his bottled beer. He shook his head with a sorry smile. ‘I tell you, Matt,’ he said, ‘It's a cruel irony – but I'm having so much sex I'm rapidly going off it.’
‘You total wanker,’ Matt laughed, a little bitterly.
‘It's no laughing matter,’ Ben assured him. ‘Cat's constantly analysing calendars and her temperature and demanding sex at scientific moments and weird angles. I'm seriously thinking of providing her with samples and a turkey baster. We've stopped making love, we're “trying for a baby”. And I'm the sperm bank.’