Home Truths (23 page)

‘I am. How are you?’

Oh you know, my mother popped in to see me after thirty years, I found out my uncle fathered my sister, I've been told my daughter stands to be denied a decent education and my partner and I live parallel lives under the same roof which I'm madly redecorating in my misplaced desire to fit in with a group of people I have little in common with.

‘I'm fine,’ said Fen. ‘How are you?’

‘Cool. I'm cool. I've been meaning to call,’ he said, ‘say hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

Fen could see Cosima. She loved watching her baby, unseen. Who cared about waiting lists and sodding private schools.

‘I was just wondering if you fancied a quick drink. Sometime,’ Al said.

‘A quick drink?’ Fen was about to add ‘What for?’ but she stopped herself.

‘Yeah – you know. If you were free.’

Free? Free from whom? Free for what? If there's no such thing as a free lunch, does the same apply to a quick drink?
‘Oh,’ Fen said, delighted, flustered, ‘well – I think so.’

‘Babysitting permitting, I guess.’

Now That's good. His invitation is above board. He's just being friendly, Isn't he. And I'll accept because there's no harm in a quick drink. It'll be nice. I'd like to go out for a quick drink. I Don't get out much – as I like to say.

‘OK – thanks Al. That sounds great.’

‘Cool! When are you free?’

‘Actually,’ said Fen, glancing through the glass door at Kate, in all her sumptuous beige and stain-free white, preening
her lustrous hair, ‘I'm free tomorrow, Al. I have babysitting – I'm going to the Chelsea Flower Show. We could meet afterwards, for a quick drink.’

‘OK, you have my mobile number now. Let's touch base sometime tomorrow and take it from there. Hook up when You're done with the flowers.’

Fen was helpless not to giggle a little. The last time anyone had spoken to her about touching bases was her second boyfriend who sent her a postcard of the Venus de Milo and a stick of Bazooka bubble gum with the priceless message: ‘Show us your bazookas! Second base? How about it!’

But It's not what Al meant of course. Gracious no. Just touching base to hook up for a quick drink with a sweet boy I met laying flowers for his late sister.

‘OK,’ said Fen, ‘I'll call you tomorrow.’

She felt flushed. It was suddenly all rather thrilling to have a proper little secret. A tiny harmless one, but fun all the same.

‘Everything OK?’ Kate asked her.

‘Fine!’ Fen exclaimed. ‘Just an old pal. Might meet up for a quick drink after the flower show tomorrow.’ Kate glowered at her and in an instant Fen sensed the other mums look up, offended, but swiftly pretending not to have heard. Fen scooped up her baby and cuddled her whilst babbling sweet nothings.

‘Come on, gorgeous girl,’ she whispered, ‘let's head home.’

Ben hadn't heard back from Django and he was about to leave work. Cat was working late as the honchos from head office were in the shop and there was an after-hours team-bonding or book-binding or something. Ben felt irritated. With all aspects of the situation. He loved the responsibilities of his job, but not when they compromised his family life. Had Django even made the call to his GPs? Ben doubted
it. This irritated him. And at what point would he be telling Cat of the call? This irked him. And the cause? This worried him. And how could the cause be any clearer if the old man won't visit his GP? But what could Ben do about any of it at this precise moment? If he called Derbyshire, would Django even answer? Six o'clock. He'd probably be cooking. Ben didn't want to make the call from home. Or from his mobile. It felt slightly disloyal to Cat to do so. But he wanted to go home; it had been a long day. It was that time of day when he sensed the smell of the hospital seep through to the fibres of his clothes.

Cat's phone was switched off. Dovidels' phone rang through to a chirpy message with opening times and website details. The phone at Farelymoor rang and rang. Ben persevered.

‘Hullo – this is Farleymoor 64920.’

‘Hullo Django, It's Ben.’

‘Ben! And how are you?’

‘I'm fine. And how are you?’

‘I feel much much better, thank you.’

‘Did you phone your surgery? Django?’

‘I said – I feel much much better.’

‘Right,’ said Ben, rubbing his temples, pinching the bridge of his nose. You daft old man. ‘Right. Oh, Django – can I call you back in two minutes? there's someone to see me.’ There wasn't. But there was someone Ben wanted to see.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again at Farleymoor. That will be young Ben, thought Django. And though he really would rather not answer it, it was impossible not to. Ben knew he was there. And Django knew the wretched phone would just ring and ring until he picked up.

‘Farleymoor 64920?’

‘Hullo Django – sorry about that. It's Ben.’

‘Hullo Ben. I'm cooking a stew. Pots of it.
Sans
beetroot.’

‘Good, good. That's very good. Look, Django – I know how awkward all of this is for you. And I Don't know your GP but I respect that you do. But I do know an excellent chappy down here. And he was just passing by my rooms while we were on the phone before. And I nabbed him and he'd be delighted to see you. He's a
he
,’ said Ben. ‘He's in his late fifties, I'd say. And he sees chaps like you all the time. He's a dab hand, a first-class doctor.’

‘I see.’

‘He really is,’ said Ben, ‘He's a specialist. A very nice man. I like him. You would, too.’

‘I would?’

‘Yes,’ Ben said, ‘you would. He's what you'd class a “proper” doctor. You'd feel comfortable with him. Confident too.’

‘I would?’

‘Will you come, Django?’ Ben asked very gently, the tone of his voice full of the same soothing care and concern he'd invested the carefully chosen word ‘chappy’ with.

‘To London?’

‘To see my Mr Pisani,’ said Ben. ‘A quick consultation.’

‘Is he foreign?’

‘He's Scottish,’ said Ben, ‘He's excellent.’

‘I see. But He's only a “Mr” not a “Dr”?’

‘He's a consultant. Mr is far superior to Dr.’

‘I see.’

‘A day-trip,’ Ben said, ‘That's all. The trains are marvellous. Frequent and fast.’

‘I haven't been to London in years,’ Django said. ‘The girls have always come to me.’

‘I think you should come. I'm happy to accompany you to the consultation,’ said Ben, ‘or not. As you wish.’

‘You won't tell anyone, will you?’ said Django after a while.

‘You have come to me in my capacity as a doctor,’ Ben said evenly. ‘I am bound by the Hippocratic oath.’

‘Perhaps I will come,’ said Django.

‘I think so,’ said Ben.

‘All right,’ said Django.

‘I will make an appointment and telephone you tomorrow. I'll telephone you at this time. Then you'll know It's me.’

‘Yes. OK, Ben.’

‘Good. That's settled.’

‘And Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well – thank you.’

‘Don't mention it, Django,’ he said, ‘It's nothing.’ And Ben sincerely hoped that it was.

Seeds Sown

It wasn't so much a case of Fen not being able to see the wood for the trees, more that she couldn't see the flowers for the florid meanderings of her overactive imagination. It was a waste of a ticket, really. From the moment she arrived, Fen was planning her escape. She walked around the Chelsea Flower Show, her head nodding like a fritillary, while she pretended to listen to Kate's ostentatious commentary. Scandalously, Fen barely noticed the displays. She was aware of the scale of it all, of a certain cacophony of colour and fragrance, but ultimately her senses were set aside, held in abeyance, until later. She didn't actually have time to marvel at all this horticulture haute couture; she was too busy preparing for her next appointment. She'd been musing scenarios in her mind's eye of the various ways to sashay into a bar, finally favouring her version of a classic Western – stranger enters the saloon and all fall silent. It was compulsive to envisage being the centre of attention, to imagine Al give a double take, bowled over, greeting her with an appreciative ‘Wow! I didn't realize it was you!’ Fen couldn't actually remember what Al looked like and she was rather hoping he couldn't remember what she looked like either. After all,
when they'd first met She'd been head to toe in frumpy mummy guise. Today, hopefully, She'd appear a vision in floaty bias-cut and dainty kitten heels.

God – hi, Fen. You look great. Let me buy you a drink.

She'd carefully blow-dried her hair and had spent as much time as Cosima had allowed her, to blend and blend the Mac and Bobbie Brown mainstays of her neglected makeup bag.

Fen? Blimey! I didn't recognize you. What are you drinking?

While Kate went into paroxysms of wonderment for the Great Pavilion, Fen convinced herself that Al would be currently awaiting her call. She was to let him know when she was free, and he was to tell her where they were to meet; that was the plan. As she was pushed along by the throng, Fen was too busy musing over the best way to touch base with Al to notice the gardens, or that she was being vigorously poked and shoved by all those green fingers. Fen suspected Kate was well able to appreciate the displays
and
eagerly eavesdrop her call, but Fen thought She'd be far more conspicuous standing stock still frantically texting in the midst of all this magnificent flora. A man next to her sneezed. And sneezed again. And suddenly Fen had her motive. She began to rub her nose, to feign a look of discomfort entailing much blinking and nose-twitching.

‘Isn't it stunning? Who'd've thought to bind akebia quinata through actinidia? Inspired!’ Kate gushed.

Fen realized she couldn't even pronounce let alone identify the majority of the exhibits. ‘Kate,’ she sighed, ‘I hate to say this – but I think my hay fever is about to take hold with a vengeance.’

‘At Chelsea Flower Show?’ Kate looked at her, horrified, as if the salubriousness of the event surely counteracted such a vulgar affliction.

‘I can't bloody believe it,’ Fen bemoaned after an impressive chain of sneezes. She blinked and rubbed her nose. ‘I'm going to have to go,’ she apologized, with a woeful expression.

‘OK,’ said Kate glumly, ‘OK. Come on then, let's go.’

‘Kate – you needn't!’ Fen rushed. ‘Please stay – I'll be fine. My bloody hay fever shouldn't spoil the day for you too.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Very.’

Both women quietly considered just then how Ruth would have been a far more worthy recipient of this spare, precious ticket.

As Fen fought her way out, she thought about flowers and gardening and pomp.

Give me a wild-flower meadow over formal planting any day; give me a thatch of heather on a moorside over topiary and edging. I've never been one for bouquets. I'm more of a daisy-chain girl. Pip and I once made one with daisies and buttercups that was almost two yards long. Django pressed the entire thing, between volumes of
Encyclopaedia Britannica
set out for weeks in a long line down the hallway. He even contacted the
Guinness Book of Records
about it. I bet he has it still.

For a while, Matt and I couldn't decide between Cosima and Daisy as names.

I do not want to think of family today.

Fen aimed to come across as imperturbably casual to the point of downright cool when she phoned Al from a side street and said yeah, wine bar coffee shop whatever. However, her stomach was flipping, her conscience was goading and her handwriting was scrawled with adrenalin as she attempted to jot down the location of the bar Al suggested. And then she stood there, palms clammy, heart pounding, wondering how to kill time for the next hour.

You are on the King's Road, Fen. Window-shop? Impulse buy? Full-on Retail Therapy?

Look, Daisy & Tom – their kids' stuff is adorable.

But today Isn't about babies.

At first, she was tentative; nipping in and out of L.K. Bennett as if she was being monitored on CCTV beamed straight to all who knew her. She settled into browse mode after circumnavigating the collection at Jigsaw, and in Karen Millen she relaxed a little more, gently running her fingertips along the racks of garments like a pianist from one end of the keyboard to another. Though nearly everything struck a chord with her, still she didn't try anything on. It wasn't the price tags, or the fact that all the pieces she fancied were in implausible shades of white, it was her perceived decadence of the situation that prevented it.

I shouldn't be trying on organza cream shift dresses with bugle beads under the bust; I should be hurrying home to mash sweet potato with organic
crème fraîche.

However, Whistles seduced her away from all thoughts of domesticity, luring her into a luxurious world lined with wafts of chiffon and silk, floating with sequinned butterflies and populated by retro imagery woven with humour and imagination into lovely skirts, groovy tops, heavenly knitwear and divine undies. So absorbed was she in the gorgeousness of it all, it was with some consternation that she noticed time had flown and she had five minutes to find the bar and no time to try anything on.

It felt as though a stampede of butterflies, sequinned or otherwise, had suddenly taken flight in her stomach, causing havoc with her ability to walk without tripping and interfering with the demure smile She'd planned. And so, with a slightly twitching physiognomy, she hurried into the bar. The first
thing she noticed was the smell. It was overpowering; at once nostalgic and now faintly intimidating. When on earth had she last smelt that wine-bar smell: alcohol, cigarettes, olives in garlicky marinade, leather slouchy sofas? When?
When?
It was evocative – but unnerving – to realize it was not since her pre-pregnancy days. The Rag and Thistle, with its aroma of stale beer and fags partly soaked up by carpet and beer mats, was somehow a warmer, more welcoming smell. Similarly, the sounds at the Rag and Thistle were more affable, as if the carpet and the beer mats absorbed some of the volume and infused the interior with a convivial resonance, a hubbub of cheer. In this bar, however, with the obligatory stripped floorboards, the volume was unmoderated and the clatter and chatter of the clientele were staccato, loud and slightly inhibiting.