Home Truths Page 22

  ‘What?’ Cat said, her eyes darkening to khaki as her brow furrowed and she regarded Ben anxiously. ‘Don't you think it's a good idea?’ She looked crestfallen, her lips pouting inadvertently.

  ‘It's an amazing idea,’ Ben assured her, though his instincts goaded him otherwise. ‘I'm so proud of you. Sorry – I've just got stuff on my mind. Sodding politics with the Trust and the NHS. Budgets. Funding. Targets. Sorry.’

  ‘That's OK,’ said Cat, ‘but you do think I should go, don't you? It's not so much a gut instinct I'm acting on – my gut is in a knot right now – it's a carefully considered decision. The timing seems good to me. It feels like it's the right thing to do.’

  ‘Have you told your sisters?’ Ben asked. ‘Are you going alone?’

  ‘I am going alone,’ Cat said, with slow, awkward nods. ‘I haven't asked them along. I haven't actually told them I'm going.’ She looked a little unnerved, trying to find twists of hair to bind around her finger though mostly it was too short and quickly sprung free. ‘Do you think I should have told them? Or asked them along?’

  ‘Not if you don't want to,’ Ben told her while his mind sped through a variety of plausible suggestions to dissuade her from going. But it was too complicated. He needed more time to figure it all out. But Cat needed his advice. Now. ‘This particular side of the story is yours,’ he told her. ‘You need to act on what feels right.’

  ‘It's a rare old thing for me not to feel I have to analyse such a momentous decision with Pip and Fen first,’ Cat said. ‘I was proud of myself for having arrived at it on my own.’

  ‘I'm proud of you, too,’ Ben repeated. ‘You'll be even more proud of yourself when you step down from the train at Chesterfield station.’ And he wondered whether he should be phoning Django and alerting him. Ben's sense of duty, always hailed as one of his key qualities, was today giving him a headache. He rubbed his eyes. Not a good sign to feel this knackered at only breakfast-time. He suddenly loved his own family for being so conventional and dull. He must phone his mother, it was a good couple of weeks since he'd done so. He wouldn't phone Django. He couldn't. Ultimately, it wouldn't be fair on Cat. He rapidly justified that his duty to Cat was partly to ensure that Django kept the appointment he'd made for him.

  ‘I don't know what I'm going to say,’ Cat was saying, ‘but I feel ready to talk. To listen. I just need to make sense of my past, Ben. I feel in limbo until I do.’

  Ben put his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face close for a kiss. ‘I hope you have a good day, babe,’ he said. ‘I hope it feels good to go back there, whatever you hear or don't.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cat. ‘If you wait, I'll walk to the Tube with you.’

  We know Django won't be there. But Cat spent the train journey alternately smiling and frowning as various scenarios came into her mind's eye. She even laughed out loud at a fanciful scene in slo-mo, she and Django running down the platform into each other's arms. Daft. She hadn't even tried the Farleymoor number from her mobile phone, let alone announced her visit to him in advance. She didn't want to give him a shock though she knew he'd be taken off guard. She anticipated his initial concern would be that he hadn't prepared anything special for lunch. What was she going to ask him? What did she hope to learn? She gazed out of the window and watched the landscape rush past, slip seamlessly from one landscape into another. The flatness of the South-East, the uniformity of the Midlands, soon enough the rolling promise of the Derbyshire Dales.

  She thought about phoning from the station. Then she thought about phoning from the cab. But soon enough she was within ten minutes of the house and if she phoned now, the adrenalin coursing through her would surely give her voice little more than a whisper. The house came into view, sitting solid and squat in the grounds, as indigenous to the locality and as comfortable in the landscape as the moor-land ponies or hardy little sheep.

  ‘Just here is fine,’ she told the cab-driver. She needed the walk up the drive to take deep breaths, plucking at the ivy which clustered along the drystone wall. If Django wasn't looking out of the window, she'd have the chance to stand awhile on the doorstep and collect her thoughts. As she walked up the path to the front door, she could only fix her sight on her feet. Her teeth chattered. It's June! she told herself, and it's only Django.

  No Django.

  No one at home.

  She's been sitting on the great grey flagstone doorstep for some time, hugging her arms around herself. She'd envisaged a bear-hug from Django. It had been one of the driving thoughts that had got her here. She'd thought that no matter what she might say, or hear, that hug was a given. Only it wasn't. Because Django is not here.

  The courage Cat had summoned to make this journey, the pride and excitement she'd felt in a huge affirmative surge when she'd stepped from the train at Chesterfield station, have now dwindled into disbelief and deep loneliness and despondency. Where could he be? Cat circumnavigates the house, peering into all the downstairs windows. Were there no clues? A pot of jam is on top of the Racing Post on the kitchen table. Not much to read into that. The living-room is extremely tidy. The flip-flops that Fen was wearing on Django's birthday, one broken, are on the bench in the utility room with other variously sized footwear neatly laid out to either side. The opaque window to the downstairs toilet is fixed ajar but though Cat squints inside, she can't really see anything, certainly no pointers to the whereabouts of the master of the house.

  I don't believe this. Where can he be? Where does he go on a Wednesday? Dominoes is Thursday afternoon and he usually shops on a Tuesday and a Friday.

  She taps on all the windows as she makes her way back round to the front door. She raps on that and calls through the letter-box. She has a long look through, but the hallway is empty of details.

  ‘Django!’ she calls. ‘Django!’ She waits and listens. ‘Where the fuck are you?’ she mutters under her breath because she knows Django is not here to admonish her language. ‘What am I going to do?’ she sobs, sitting heavily on the doorstep.

  You could go to the Rag and Thistle?

  But I wanted Django to myself. And if he's not there, word will soon be out that I came looking. But that I didn't stay. Stupid man for not having a mobile phone!

  Are you not going to wait awhile? Write a note?

  And say what? ‘Hi, Dad, I summoned every ounce of courage to come and see you. Oh well, never mind, I'll try again tomorrow?’ No. I may as well just call a cab to take me back to the station. My gesture was meant to be momentous. But all that's happened is that the moment has passed. It's all been spoilt. It's no good. I just want to go home to Ben.

  If only Django had said yes to the answering machine Pip wanted to buy him, hey?

  Whatever. It was probably a stupid idea of mine anyway. Perhaps I should've run it by Pip first.

  A Fish Out of Water

  Django had always liked trains, but recently he liked them more so on account of Tom's fervent and endearing obsession with them. As he boarded at Chesterfield station early that morning, Django thought of Tom, thought how much he'd like to see him that day, to tell him about the Virgin train ferrying him to London and back. Wouldn't it be nice if Pip brought Tom to meet him at St Pancras? She might well have done so, had he not been Derek, the father of her youngest sister. Half sister. Anyway, they didn't know he was coming to town. Only Ben knew. He'd sent Django the ticket. Django felt uncomfortable about this. He would reimburse Ben the price of the ticket. He had the cash on him. Most, though, he felt uncomfortable about the trip itself; he didn't like London, he didn't like hospitals and he didn't like it that Ben felt it necessary to send him a ticket to ensure he'd keep the appointment.

  As he settled into the seat, arranged the Telegraph and his Thermos flask in front of him, he tried to think of trains and tracks and north and south and not that he hadn't spoken to his girls since Pip's call to him over a fortnight ago. He curtailed the thought that told him he hadn't seen them for a month. Customarily, their visit
s home were every two months or so. But, devoid of all contact, this one month seemed the longest separation yet. Django thought about Cosima, wondered if she was crawling by now, imagined Fen dressing her in sweet, pink cotton creations. Did Cosima have more teeth? Did they make her grin look different? He smiled sadly but gazed out of the window as if he was particularly interested in the passengers alighting at Derby station. And was Cat perhaps pregnant, Django wondered, taking a long time to pour a cup of tea from his flask, trying to counteract the careen of the train. How wonderful that would be – although no more wonderful than Fen having Cosima or Pip having Tom of course – just a blessed situation for all three girls.

  ‘The continuation of family,’ Django said quietly, ‘that's what it's all about.’ And he felt appalled that his family were continuing without him. And he felt appalled that the purpose of this trip was not to visit family but to see Dr Mr Pisani. And he felt extremely disconcerted that the emotion this raised was fear.

  I am seventy-five years old. I am frightened.

  At Leicester, a young girl came and sat opposite Django, smiling politely before burying her nose in a novel with a candy-coloured cover festooned with illustrations of handbags, high heels and squiggly writing. So squiggly that Django had to squint hard to read the words, wondering which was the author, which was the title.

  ‘Sandwiches, snacks, cold drinks, tea and coffee.’

  The refreshments trolley was announced in robotic monotone by the stewardess, who was less trolley-dolly, more sturdy dinner-lady. Django had a good look at what was on offer because he could not believe that food could appear so un-appetizing. The girl sitting opposite bought a can of fizzy something, tapping the ring-pull sharply before opening it.

  ‘So it doesn't go insane,’ she announced and Django realized he must have been staring. He felt a little awkward. Does aluminium have sanity to lose? Is this a technique that everyone knows about, instilled in all teenagers along with the importance of condoms and just-say-no when it comes to drugs? Why don't the manufacturers do something about the design, if drinks go mad unless tapped sharply? Django knew his thoughts were meandering excessively so that his mind could be diverted from Dr Mr Pisani. He rummaged around in his old canvas knapsack, the one that Pip, Fen and Cat had each clamoured to use at some point or other during burgeoning teenage trendiness. He took out a Tupperware container and regarded the selection of sandwiches he had packed. The fizzy girl was looking too.

  ‘Carrot, cheese and Marmite,’ he told her, ‘or tuna, piccalilli and tomato.’

  She looked at him as if he might be one of those dreaded loonies that seem to inhabit every carriage of every train journey one ever takes. Django showed her the sandwiches. ‘Would you like one?’ he offered. ‘They're mostly organic.’ She shook her head though her gaze remained fixed on the sandwiches, intrigued. ‘Go on,’ said Django, ‘they're easy on the calories and whatnots.’ She smiled meekly and shrugged, peering into the container and asking which were the carrot and cheese. Django felt a sense of triumph that she took one and, though she nibbled gingerly at first, finished the whole thing, inch-thick crusts and all. She offered Django a Malteser but he declined, saying forlornly he was watching his weight, which made her giggle.

  ‘I'm going to see my nan,’ she told him, unprompted. ‘She lives near Luton.’

  ‘I'm going to see my girls,’ said Django, ‘and their offspring.’

  ‘Are you a granddad then?’ asked the girl.

  Django nodded proudly.

  ‘My granddad died when I was small and I don't remember him,’ the girl said with regret, ‘though I tell my nan that I do, of course.’ Django didn't want to talk further on this. He was now worried he'd tempted Fate and tampered with Fortune with his white lies to the girl. But what was he meant to say – that he was going by himself to St John's Hospital so that Dr Mr Pisani could put a finger up his bottom?

  ‘Your beads are cool,’ the girl was saying.

  Django touched the nibs of tiger's eye and turquoise, strung on leather around his neck. ‘There's a story behind them,’ he said. ‘It starts in New Mexico.’ And he set off on an extravagant elaboration of the truth which saved him from ruminating on whether or not he'd see his girls and their offspring ever again.

  ‘Ta for the sarnie,’ said the girl, as she disembarked at Luton, ‘and have fun with your family.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Django, ‘you too.’

  The train shuffled into St Pancras a quarter of an hour late. Django felt agitated; which was itself exacerbated by the unfamiliarity of the emotion. He observed people in his carriage, making calls on their mobile phones to alert whomever to the train's delay. Django would have liked to have warned Ben, but he didn't have a mobile phone. He thought of Pip offering him one as a birthday present and remembered denouncing them as preposterous, invasive and unnecessary. How his girls had laughed at him. Cat had said, Nonsense Django, you won't have one because you know you won't know how to make it work. And Fen had said, Yes yes, the apotheosis of mobile communication was via smoke signals at the reservation in North Dakota so do tell us the story featuring you and Chief Lone Hawk for the umpteenth time. And Pip had said, But Django, why don't you have one just for emergencies. And he'd been comically huffy while they teased him relentlessly and laughed. They all laughed. How they laughed. Always laughter when his girls were around.

  Now he felt anxious. Leaving the train, stressed passengers bustled and shoved. Django did not like London, the pace of it all intimidated him. He felt apprehensive about taking the Tube to the hospital, with two changes of lines and escalators and people rushing and being underground. And he was already fifteen minutes late, at least, though Ben's ticket had afforded him plenty of time. He kept to his regular walking pace and attempted to wear an expression that said I know where I'm going, I'm savvy, don't shove me – and there's no need to stare.

  When did buskers become beggars? I busked with Flint Maystone in Paris and we had a following. We made music. We were respected. I would go so far as to say we were the precursors of skiffle. But this isn't busking, it's begging and it's threatening and how can someone so unkempt and unsightly dare to stare at me?

  But the chanting, ranting beggar wasn't the only person to stare at Django. Everyone who passed him gave him more than a passing, smileless glance. You'd've thought Django would have been more of a talking point, an eyesore even, in the calm backwaters of Derbyshire, than in the swirl of London where his physical eccentricities shouldn't raise an eyebrow or bat an eyelid. However, right from the start, when he moved to Derbyshire in 1969, hirsute and kaftan-clad, with beads clanking and pony-tail flowing, they welcomed him for bringing moccasins and Pucci neckerchiefs, Astrakhan waistcoats and voluminous, embroidered flared denims to their dale.

  However, on the Victoria line decades later, people steered clear of Django, as if he might bark, in case he smelt. To his consternation, he realized they held him in the same regard as they held the ranting stinking beggar on the platform. He hardly felt that a Liberty shirt, suede waistcoat and green linen drawstring trousers warranted such suspicion. Yet it made him suddenly fret that perhaps protocol dictated the wearing of a suit to see a consultant. Soon enough he was embarrassed, ashamed even, of his apparel, denouncing himself a stupid bugger and feeling miserable. Would Ben be disappointed? Would Ben have to apologize on his behalf? If he had a mobile phone, Django supposed he could have forewarned Ben of his sartorial gaffe. Perhaps Dr Mr Pisani would decline to see him. And then he could go straight back home again.

  But Ben is delighted to see Django, mainly because he'd been quite convinced that he would not appear. He's been loitering around the hospital's main entrance and silently praises Django's dress sense for holding him aloft from the crowd; a beacon of colour walking awkwardly amongst the drab bustle of everyone else.

  ‘How was your journey?’ Ben asks, guiding Django through hallways and corridors to his own office. ‘Would you like a drink?’

&
nbsp; ‘Scotch?’ Django asks hopefully. Ben laughs. ‘Is the tea plastic?’ Django asks. ‘Do you press a button for it?’

  ‘No,’ Ben assures him, ‘Marjorie makes it in a teapot. She insists. It's why I gave her the job – that perfectionism.’

  ‘I should like a cup of tea,’ Django says and Ben calls through to Marjorie.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Oh, you know – a little like a fish out of water,’ Django confides. ‘I don't like this town at all.’

  ‘And how are you feeling otherwise,’ Ben asks, ‘in yourself?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Django dismisses any gravity, ‘rather good for a gent of seventy-five. Can't complain about a rickety hip, gammy knee and mischievous waterworks.’

  Ben nods and smiles. ‘I didn't know you have a gammy knee and rickety hip,’ he says conversationally, though privately this concerns him.

  ‘All that thigh-slapping to Lonnie Donegan,’ Django says, ‘all that toe-tapping to Namesake Reinhardt.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Ben. ‘I made the appointment under Django McCabe.’

  ‘Bless you,’ Django says quietly.

  ‘But do you know under what name your GP has you listed?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Well, Dr Sutton always called me Mr McCabe in the surgery and Django at the Rag and Thistle,’ Django tells him, ‘but that new young girl called me D. McCabe. So it could be the one, or the other.’

  ‘OK,’ says Ben, ‘don't you worry. I'll handle it.’ Ben looks at his watch. ‘Do you have any questions? About the appointment? I'll come with you – all the way, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Ben,’ Django says with a light laugh that belies the slight tremor of his hand when he raises the tea cup to take a sip. ‘Will you tell Dr Mr Pisani that you are my personal physician and anything he says to me he can say to you too? I'm no good with medical jargon.’