Home Truths

‘God, fine,’ Cat assured him. ‘I don’t know. It’s just that it’s all changed a little since we’ve been gone. I suppose I was expecting to find my life, my family, just as I left them. As if they’d been happily freeze-framed in anticipation of my return.’

‘And?’ Ben said.

‘Now Django’s going to be seventy-five,’ Cat said quietly.

‘You staying in the UK the last four years couldn’t have prevented that,’ Ben pointed out.

‘And Pip is more sensible than she used to be,’ Cat bemoaned. ‘By that I mean she’s all settled and content with her grown-up role as a school-run stepmum.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Ben asked. ‘And aren’t you settled and content?’

‘Of course I am, you know I am,’ said Cat. ‘But Pip’s the one who should be doing cartwheels down the hallway, who makes teaspoons disappear and then reappear from behind my ear. She didn’t do one handstand against the wall this weekend.’

‘It was the weekend. She was off duty,’ Ben pointed out. ‘It’s normal for people to not want to take their work home with them. Imagine if I came home with my stethoscope, or took the blood pressure of any visitors to our house.’

‘But we don’t own a house,’ Cat mumbled, ‘just this horrid rented flat.’

‘Cat!’ Ben remonstrated. ‘We’ve been back in the UK two bloody minutes.’

Cat ignored him by changing the subject. ‘Fen is in the throes of this immense love affair with her baby and she can talk of nothing else.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Ben asked. Cat shrugged.

She wasn’t prepared to say out loud that though her niece was utterly adorable, she had found Fen uptight, boring even.

‘They’re not who they were,’ Cat said. ‘Their identities have changed.’ She could hear the plaintive edge to her voice.

‘That’s par for the course – growing up, growing old,’ Ben said, though he saw his wife flinch from his cheeriness. ‘Anyway, they probably find you different too. But that’s no bad thing.’

‘I don’t like this place,’ Cat said, irritated. ‘I don’t like other people’s furniture. I don’t like stupid Clapham. I want to be in our own place, with our stuff. Perhaps we should have rented unfurnished. Perhaps we should have stayed in the US. It’s all going to take ages.’

Ben looked at her, suddenly serious. ‘Nothing’s going to happen overnight,’ he said. ‘It’ll take a while to attain Pip’s peace of mind and Fen’s healthy baby. Nine months at the very least.’

Cat thought for a moment. Perhaps that was it – perhaps she didn’t resent her sisters their changes, perhaps she aspired to what they had. Or there again maybe it was just jet lag.

‘I’ll tell you what was peculiar,’ she said. ‘Fen talked about how being a mother had made her really think about our own mother. It had me thinking too.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘But say. Just say.’ She looked imploringly at Ben, as if he might know what without her having to just say.

‘Just say what?’ he asked.

Cat paused. ‘Just say it’s hereditary?’

‘But you just said that Fen is a caring mother to the point of being obsessed,’ Ben said carefully.

Cat glanced at him shyly. She shook her head. ‘I don’t mean Fen. Say it runs in the family. Say I’ll be a crap mother? Maybe I should concentrate on my career for the time being.’

Ben thought for a moment, scratched his neck. ‘Actually, genetics rarely play a part in such extreme behaviour,’ he said. ‘For all you know, your mother sucks in her bottom lip – like you do – and that’s the only family trait you’ve inherited from her. Think of Fen – mother superior, however much she might irritate you. Think of Pip – her maternal connection with Tom is great and there’s no blood there. You McCabe girls are all destined to be extraordinary mothers – by virtue of the fact that your own set such a poor example.’

He watched Cat start to thaw. He ruffled her hair and she ruffled his. Then they put their foreheads together for a moment.

‘Being a mother is a state of mind, a condition of the heart, as much as it is biological,’ Ben said. ‘Christ, look at Django – he’s the best mother you girls could have wished for. Stop worrying, Cat. You’ll be a star.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Cat asked, a little bashful but privately delighted.

‘I do,’ said Ben, ‘but we have to get you pregnant first.’

Cat propped her head, chin in her hand, and looked over to Ben. ‘It’s what I love about you,’ she said in an intentionally dreamy tone, ‘that you know me inside out but I never feel I’m getting on your nerves. You love me in spite of my foibles. You’re so tolerant. That’s what I so love about you – that you so love me.’

‘Stop it,’ Ben joshed, getting up and checking his pager, ‘you make me sound a wuss. And anyway, I thought you loved me for my enormous dick.’

* * *

‘I cannot believe that I’m going to spend my Saturday traipsing around Alexandra Palace at a convention of model railway nutters and their train sets!’ Pip declared, only half joking, surveying the hall and its eccentric population.

Zac raised his eyebrows. ‘Firstly, it’s the Thames and District Society of Model Engineers. Secondly, if it wasn’t for me, you’d have to spend every Saturday dressed ridiculously trying to entertain roomloads of sugar-crazed party children.’

Pip fanned out her fingers in front of her sulky expression, then furled them away to reveal a winsome look with much batting of doe eyes. Zac crossed his arms and regarded her sternly. She fanned and then furled her fingers once more, reinstating a natural grin to her face.

‘Thirdly,’ Zac continued, ‘we haven’t had Tom for two weekends in a row.’

Pip nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I’m only joking.’

‘Look at him,’ Zac said softly, noting that his son had teamed up with a new-found posse of young rail boffins, ‘he’s in his element.’

Tom was a thoughtful child; not shy, popular at school, but thoughtful. Zac had a theory that boys were divided into two camps: football and fantasy. His nine-year-old son was firmly in the fantasy camp. It wasn’t that the restrictions of his eczema ruled out football, it was that Tom’s natural interests were dominated by trains and dinosaurs. My son the trainspotter who knows his connector rods from his couplings, Zac would say with pride. My son who could spell pterodactyl before he could spell his own name, Zac would beam.

Watching an animated Tom admiring the array of essential pieces of kit and name-dropping each model engine from at least fifty paces with his new pals, Pip was consumed by a totally unexpected pang. It was like an electric shock and she jolted physically.

‘Are you OK?’ Zac asked.

Pip nodded earnestly and went off at a tangent to dislodge the thought. ‘Django called us lot the “nit-pickin’ chicks” last weekend.’

‘That’s a fine Djangoism if ever I heard one,’ Zac laughed, strolling on to the next stand.

‘He hasn’t called us that for ages. Mind you, it’s been a while since the three of us sat like that,’ Pip said wistfully. ‘We always used to, when we were little – gravitate into a huddle, play with each other’s hair, trace patterns on each other’s clothes, tickle each other’s forearms. We do it absent-mindedly.’

‘Nit-pickin’ chicks,’ Zac mused. ‘I’d’ve called you a bunch of monkeys, I think. Did you ever actually have nits?’

Pip laughed. ‘I do remember that we all had them at the same time – some epidemic at school. But of course Django couldn’t be doing with those torture combs and vile chemical shampoos so he doused our hair in some bizarre concoction of mustard powder and bicarbonate of soda. Or something. Tabasco. I don’t know.’

‘Did it work?’

‘The daft thing is, I can’t remember,’ Pip laughed. ‘I can only remember feeling slightly miffed that not even a case of head lice was going to make Django conform to conventional methods. I do remember the three of us having pretty short haircuts soon after. Django appeased us by saying our hair was so glorious that he’d been able to sell the offcuts to a master upholsterer in London and we would each be paid £5. We believed him. Even though the salon junior was sweeping it all away.’

‘And you were £5 richer?’

‘We were,’ Pip laughed, ‘though of course, Django made a rod for his back because we expected payment for every haircut thereafter.’

‘You must have done well, between the master upholsterer and the tooth fairy,’ Zac said.

‘The tooth fairy never paid cash,’ Pip bemoaned.

‘Can I have some money?’ a flushed and rather breathless Tom jogged over to ask. ‘I’d like to buy the guys a juice. They’re 50p each. I need about £2.’

Pip looked over to where the other three boys were loitering by a spectacular G Scale display. ‘They seem nice,’ she said, ‘nice guys.’

‘They are,’ said Tom proudly. ‘They’re coming again tomorrow. It’s the last day of the show. There’s a prize draw. A model of Lampton Tank. Can we come again too?’

‘Sure,’ Zac told Tom, and Pip took a deep breath. Hadn’t they planned to take Tom to Tate Modern and then have lunch with Cat and Ben? Yes, father and son hadn’t had a whole weekend together for three weeks but Tom had met Cat only a handful of times over the last four years. However, watching Tom belt off to buy refreshments for his steam gang, Pip let her breath and the objection go. He was a sweet, sweet boy.

Again, the pang confronted Pip and she shuddered. Zac sensed it. ‘Pip?’

‘Do you think Tom minds?’ she asked Zac. ‘I mean, do you think he ever minds being an only child?’

Zac looked at Pip and frowned into thought. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said at length, ‘I mean, he’s never mentioned it. He has plenty of pals and he’s thick as thieves with his first cousin.’

‘I know,’ Pip rushed, ‘I just meant. I was just thinking about my sisters. Our closeness. I read a lovely saying the other day – Vietnamese, I think. Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet.’

Zac kissed Pip. ‘Well, worry no more,’ he said, ‘because Tom isn’t to be an only child for much longer. I mean, he may be our only child, but he’s soon to have a sibling. June is pregnant. She told me this morning when I picked Tom up. He doesn’t know yet – June wants to wait till the tests are all-clear. Rob asked me if we’d mind having Tom an extra night now and then while June is feeling ropy.’

Pip was dumbstruck, felt flushed and suddenly lightheaded.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Zac pressed. ‘You look a little odd, Mrs.’

‘I’m fine. Good for June. Great news. I’ll call her later. Odd, though,’ Pip said, though she was aware that her thoughts were unreliably half-formed and should stay silent until worked through, ‘odd that Tom’s being was the result of two friends getting drunk, feeling horny and being careless – yet his half sibling has been meticulously planned. I wonder how he’ll feel about that later on.’

Zac stopped. ‘What a weird take on it all, Pip,’ he murmured.

Pip shrugged. ‘I used to wonder if I was planned, you see,’ she said. ‘I used to presume that I wasn’t planned – because that meant my mother had some kind of excuse for buggering off.’ Pip linked arms with Zac. ‘But then I think of Fen and Cat and my theory goes out the window. No one could be that careless.’

Zac slipped his hand into the back pocket of Pip’s jeans and gave her buttock a light feel. ‘Well, I’m pleased for June and Rob. And I’m made up for Tom.’

‘Me too,’ Pip said, ‘me too.’ But she turned away from Zac to conceal the prickle of tears, feigning interest in a Hornby set-up, while trying to figure out the provenance of these tears. And whether they were happy or sad.

Cosima was fed orange food, entertained, fed more orange food, played with, bathed, given some bosom, sung to, cuddled, cuddled some more and placed gently in her cot where she’d promptly fallen into a blissful sleep with the revolving night light and an Elvis for Babies CD playing softly.

‘Perfect perfect baby,’ Fen thought to herself as she padded out of the room. ‘Bloody awful day.’

She went to the bathroom and tidied up, catching sight of herself in the mirror.

‘Yuk. You haggard old bag.’

With a rubber duck in one hand and a Miffy flannel in the other, she peered closer at her reflection. Sallow and saggy, limp and lacklustre, hollow and haggard, she thought. Then she thought, poor old Matt. Fancy coming home to this every evening. Not much to fancy at all. So she rummaged around in her long-forsaken make-up bag and turned to her faithful Clarins mainstays for assistance. Just closing her eyes and slowly, properly, cleansing her face felt as heavenly as a spa facial. Exfoliate. Moisturize. A careful dab of concealer under the eyes, a swipe of mascara, a lick of lippy for the hell of it. Lastly, a few pinches to her cheeks which made her eyes smart a little but gave her cheek-bones a comely emphasis. Matt’s key in the door. Hear Matt sigh. A dormant butterfly taking wing in her stomach. Here, Matt, this’ll make you feel better.

‘Hullo,’ Fen said, walking downstairs, carefully tucking her hair behind her ears.

‘Hiya,’ Matt replied. ‘You look – have you got make-up on?’

‘Yup.’

‘Why?’

Fen frowned and wondered which way to take this. She felt helpless not to opt for the wrong way. ‘Because I feel a frump and I feel I look worse than I feel,’ she snapped.

‘Are you fishing for compliments and craving attention?’ Matt teased her. Fen felt embarrassed.

‘Well, I think you look very pretty,’ said Matt, ‘and it’s a nice distraction from the baby puke on your top.’

Fen didn’t know which to take off first, the make-up or her messy top.

By the end of a rerun episode of Taggart, Fen was chanting to herself, I will instigate sex; I will, I will. But by the end of News at Ten half an hour later, she was willing herself to simply stay awake.

‘Tired?’ Matt asked.

Ruefully, Fen nodded.

‘Go to bed,’ he suggested with a friendly pat to her knee.

And therein lay the calamity. As much as Fen feared the platonic mundanity of Matt’s knee-patting, she loved his suggestion that she go to bed. She still wanted Matt to desire her, she thought she wanted to desire him, but actually her strongest inclination at the moment was to go to sleep. She sat beside him, torn between what her body was shouting at her and what her conscience was whispering and what her partner was sweetly telling her.

‘I was trying to be all vampy for you,’ she confessed, ‘like the girl you fell for. But I’m just a tired old frump.’

‘Fen,’ Matt said, ‘don’t worry about it. Just go to bed.’

Fen had looked nice. Matt thought about it as he zapped TV channels. The messy top didn’t matter. He felt a little badly for her – she’d made an effort but an effort it had obviously been. There was nothing on television. Matt looked around the living-room. A soft towelling rabbit on the armchair, one tiny sock under it. A muslin square, scrunched up, on top of yesterday’s Evening Standard. A glob of something orange just above the skirting board. The all-pervasive scent of laundry washed in hypo-allergenic powder. But suddenly, Matt didn’t want to smell drying babygros. He snapped his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see any of these accoutrements of fatherhood. Actually, all he wanted to see was tits and arse. Quietly, he tiptoed up to the bedroom. It was dark, Fen was sleeping. Could he wake her? Would she mind? Dare he risk it? But realistically, was there really much point trying? He went instead to the cupboard, eased open the door, waited a moment to see if she’d woken. She hadn’t. By feel, he differentiated between the suits that were hanging there, found the Paul Smith one according to its superior cloth. He slipped his hand into the pocket and tiptoed his fingers along the edges of some discs. One would do. It didn’t matter which. Though Fen slept on oblivious, Matt still felt obliged to tuck the DVD up his jumper and hurry from the room as noiselessly as he’d entered.

Porn. Odd stuff, really. In reality, pneumatic women had never been Matt’s type, let alone the stuff harboured in secret fantasies. He’d never pursued a situation of sharing a girl with another bloke, exotic underwear had never really turned him on and he could take or leave the thought of getting down with a pair of rampant twin sisters. But Matt had always enjoyed porn. He’d been sustained by top-shelf supplies as a teenager, even wondering if sex for real could ever match up to the thunderous wanks he indulged in. And then in his early twenties, purchasing hardcore videos by mail order became a rite of passage. Did he dare? Yes he did. Matt Holden became Mr M. Smith and Mr M. Smith shared his consignments amongst the lads with whom he lived. By his mid-twenties, Matt was a serial monogamist and there were rarely fallow periods long enough between girlfriends to warrant the purchase of new porn. But then his girlfriend had become the mother of his child, their sex life had dwindled and porn had progressed to DVD.

Tiptoeing back downstairs, he didn’t check which disc he’d pulled out. He’d never been one for the stories; he never had to start a scene from the beginning. He wanted cunts and cocks to fill his screen just as soon as he pressed play; fast forward any kissing or slinky foreplay, just delve in deep to the fucking and sucking. Matt loaded a disc and, with the sitting-room door ajar and the TV volume low, skipped forward until a mêlée of bodies was having sex in his face. Fantastic, he commented under his breath, as a variously pierced woman with a shorn head and spiked dog-collar was simultaneously being double penetrated, wanked upon, and orally stuffed from an incongruously orderly queue of erections.

Matt masturbated frantically and synchronized his orgasm with a generalized spurting from the remainder of his onscreen cohorts who were not yet spent. Their spunk was gobbled up; Matt had to mop up his from his belly. He didn’t realize until he’d done it that he’d used the muslin square his daughter nustled up to, not the sheets of kitchen paper he’d prepared in advance. He was aghast. He put the soiled muslin into a plastic bag, knotted it and then threw it away in the dustbin outside. He wouldn’t even want it washed on the hottest cycle. He took his DVD and made his way quietly upstairs, putting it back in the pocket of his Paul Smith suit before going in to check on Cosima. He slipped into bed and lay in the dark, staring at an approximation of the ceiling. He felt utterly empty.

I’ve always thought a wank to porn is similar to a curry. The sort of thing one craves, one hungers for. You’re absolutely in the mood, so looking forward to it, ravenous to the point of visible drool – poppadams or a smooth little blow-job scene to whet the appetite and get you started, then straight for the glut of hot and spicy. Stuff it in. Gorge. But like a curry, once you’ve had your fill you really don’t want to look at what’s left on your plate; so it is with hardcore – once you’re done you just don’t want to see any more.

I feel grubby and not nice. I wanked into my baby’s muslin. Fen’s asleep upstairs while downstairs I’m shooting my load with a bunch of blokes over some really quite ugly woman. Physically I’m relieved, sated. But I feel a bit, I don’t know – sad.

He listened to Fen’s breathing, soft and shallow. Turning towards her he spooned lightly against her. The sleep-scent wafted from her neck. Matt closed his eyes.

My sexy girlfriend who I used to fuck became this amazing vessel who carried and bore my child. But I miss fucking my sexy girlfriend.

Winter Ice

‘Perhaps I’ll thaw when spring comes,’ Penny muttered to herself, a gaze at the wide white world beyond her picture windows informing her that she could thus stay exactly as she was for a good couple of months still. Her solitude and grief felt cathartic, they were becoming a way of life though she quietly wondered if they risked becoming a habit that would soon be hard to break. Penny Ericsson may have lived in the States for most of her adult life and though her accent was commendable and she had not left the country for practically thirty years, she displayed a control when it came to expressing emotions that her friends fondly remarked was transparently English.

‘Oh honey,’ Marcia once laughed, ‘you fool no one with your rhinestones and your blue jeans and your Chevy and all. You’re still an English Rose at heart – and that’s because you keep your heart all polite and proper.’

‘You mean to say that English women are incapable of expressing their emotions?’ Penny had retorted.

‘Heavens no,’ Marcia had said, ‘it’s just we guys gush, while you chaps are more, well, sparing. It’s genetic, is all. Nothing any of us can do about it. We are who we are. Can’t deny that.’

And yet just recently, Penny felt her all-American friends, with their gushing and their ability to frequently say I love you, now seemed to expect her grief to have lessened. That she ought to feel able to find closure, be ready to move on, and confront a host of other emotional achievements carrying the Oprah Winfrey seal of approval.

Noni had left her a message, inviting her to see a movie at the Mall.

‘I’ll not go,’ Penny told herself and justified that it was because she didn’t share Noni’s taste in film. Really, she didn’t want to have to act upbeat and lie that she was doing just fine. But what else to do? What might pass time, occupy a couple of hours of her day which would be otherwise devoted to the futility of missing Bob? Where could she go in her snowbound county on a bright February afternoon and not bump into a soul?

‘I could go for an ice cream,’ she said, and she found that the notion was sweet. In fact, she was nearly excited. She’d go in honour of Bob, who had always loved the stuff, and by venturing by herself back to their favourite parlour she’d be simultaneously closer to him while also laying just a little more of him to rest.

There was only the one road into the mountains, with three communities of decreasing scale placed along it. They’d developed organically but a town planner could not have done better. Nothing was duplicated. Everything was shared. Lester Falls, where Penny lived and the largest town, had the Mall and a cinema and a Pack’n’Save on the outskirts. The smaller Hubbardton’s Spring, further along and higher up, had a great fish place, a lively pizzeria, a gallery and a hardware store amongst its amenities. The last village, smallest in population but servicing the wider community no less, was Ridge. There, on Main Street, cosy alongside the bookstore, a small theatre, art supplies and a cheese maker, was Bob’s favourite ice-cream parlour, Fountains.

Supply and demand. Make superior ice cream from the finest ingredients and people will want it, whatever the weather. The parlour wasn’t busy, but it was by no means empty and Penny was relieved to see it wasn’t patronized solely by brave widows out for day-trips. Recently, when browsing at the Mall, or strolling the nature trail to the panorama, or visiting the library, Penny had passed other women who’d catch her eye and hold her gaze with a searching nod of recognition. Yes, I lost my husband too, you know, they seemed to say. Join the club.

But I don’t want to join your club, Penny would divert her gaze quickly, I’m not ready to be a widow. It’s different for me. You wouldn’t understand. I don’t want to nod knowingly back at you. I don’t want to learn to play bridge. I’m not going to buy a little dog to give me a reason to leave the house every day and join communal walks. I’m perfectly content to pop out for an ice cream. By myself.

‘You want a taste?’

Penny looked up. The waitress behind the counter was offering her a pink plastic spoon on which was a furl of ice cream the colour of butter and the texture of suede.

‘It’s a new flavour. Banudge-Nudge.’

‘Banudge-Nudge,’ Penny marvelled at the appetizing name, accepting the sample.