Home Truths. Freya North
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the three key stages of any good party. Conduct starts off good, behaviour then worsens until hopefully proceedings become downright shameful. Each marquee would have food to facilitate, cocktails to complement and soft furnishings to, well, accommodate.’
‘McCabe,’ said Mr Merifeld the landlord, with a grave shake of his head, ‘sounds right costly to me.’
‘Merifield,’ said Django, ‘what’s money? I can’t take it with me and I am well into my eighth decade.’
‘Marquees don’t come cheap,’ said Mr Merifield.
‘Tents it is then!’ Django exclaimed, to much raucous approval.
By the time the four men made their somewhat unsteady passage up the garden path after a lock-in at the Rag and Thistle, Django’s party had been planned to an imaginative degree; the minutiae mapped out down to the wording of the invites, the order of speeches and cleverly themed playlists for each hour.
‘The devil is in the details,’ Matt justified, with drunken solemnity.
‘Then the devil can come too!’ Django proclaimed. ‘Who’s for a cup of tea or a nightcap?’
‘Nightcap,’ said Ben.
‘Nightcap,’ said Matt.
‘Nightcap,’ said Zac.
Ben gave Django a hand, while Zac checked on Tom and Matt tiptoed in on Cosima and Fen, who sleepily protested that he reeked of booze.
‘Django,’ Ben said cautiously, while he searched under the kitchen sink and found a bottle of cognac shoulder to shoulder with Domestos, ‘are you happy with your health? Is all well?’
In the context of the lightness of the evening’s conversation, Ben’s question surprised Django. ‘I’m in rude health, doctor,’ he declared, placing four enormous brandy balloons on a tray.
‘Any concerns?’ Ben pressed. ‘However minor?’
‘I can’t shift and shunt the beds about like I used to,’ Django joked.
‘It’s my job to notice that you appear to go to the loo a lot,’ said Ben. ‘Have you noticed an increase in this? Pain? Discomfort? Any change in the old waterworks?’
‘You cheeky whippersnapper,’ Django protested, ‘don’t you go calling my waterworks old.’
‘I’m just saying perhaps a check-up might be a good idea,’ Ben said evenly.
Django didn’t reveal that he’d thought the same himself. He didn’t tell Ben he’d gone so far as keeping an appointment with the GP.
But the GP turned out to be a girl who looked no more than twelve. Don’t doctors seem younger and younger these days? I’d really rather not discuss my waterworks with a young lady. I had to invent a sore throat as the purpose of my visit. She told me to go easy on the Tabasco. And she recommended Strepsils. Jolly nice they are too.
‘Django?’ Ben was saying. ‘There are basic steps you can take – restrict fluid intake after 6 p.m., cut down alcohol and caffeine. Limit spicy food. Increase fish, carrots, broccoli. And exercise.’
Django nodded thoughtfully. ‘Life would be a bit of a bore,’ he said.
‘Just cut down on some stuff and increase other things. Invent new stews,’ Ben suggested.
Django was about to respond but then Matt and Zac were joining them again, switching the conversation back to party planning.
If the devil is in the details, if the pleasure is in the planning, then the fun is in the fantasy. Though Fen knew well enough how reality can let a daydream down, that Monday she made sure she forgot. Though she was aware that the planning might well be pointless, she happily indulged herself. Though she knew that her own guardian devil was guiding her, she turned deaf ears to her conscience. All her conscience wanted to say was Think about it – what is the point? But for Fen, just then, the point was that her imagination had been ignited and running with it was fun. And wasn’t it refreshing to have the energy and the desire to spend a little time choosing what to wear? And didn’t it seem entertainingly decadent to put mascara on in the daytime? And wasn’t it fun to think about something other than baby food for a little while? And when it all seemed suddenly fanciful, questionable even, Fen simply justified that Cosima needed some nice fresh air. And wasn’t a stroll up Bishops Avenue as good a route as any? And if further corroboration was needed, then a date with Cat at the café in Kenwood House provided it.
*
‘He’s not there,’ Fen said to Cosima as they walked up the Bishops Avenue, ‘but there again, why would he be?’ She walked on, mulling theories on coincidence, unrealistic expectations and downright improbability. She stopped to pick up Cosima’s teething rings. She looked back over her shoulder to the tree and the flowers. ‘Shall we leave a little note?’ she asked. ‘There’s no harm in that. It would be friendly, wouldn’t it – might make his sad task a little less so.’ She turned the buggy and retraced her steps.
Hi Al!
Cosima and I were passing.
I noticed a couple of Kay’s daffodils were looking peaky so I’ve removed them.
Hope that’s OK.
Fen.
‘Shall we leave Mummy’s mobile number too? I mean, it’s no big deal, is it, it’s just a friendly gesture – communication being a global thing.’ Fen added her number after her name.
She set off for Kenwood in earnest and thought to herself how she’d just done the right thing.
It’s not like I’m hoping he’ll call. It’s not like I’m swept up in daft daydreams. She spent the rest of the route distinguishing between the Daydream and the Distraction.
There’s a major distinction between the two. A daydream can be pointless, a distraction useful.
It was with a spring in her step that she crunched along the sweep of gravel driveway heralding Kenwood House.
Cat was already there, sitting in the converted coach house, caressing a cup of tea. Fen zoomed the buggy over to her, mimicking a screech of brakes with her voice. An elderly couple looked slightly alarmed, as if that was no way to handle a buggy, as if babies should be in nice coach-built prams, not bizarre three-wheeled monstrosities.
Though they’d spent all weekend together, Fen gave Cat a kiss and a hug. She took Cosima from her buggy.
‘Here, you cuddle your Auntie Cat,’ she told the baby. ‘Mummy’s going to get herself an enormous slice of cake.’
‘You’re chirpy,’ Cat told Fen on her return, declining the gateaux that Fen had bought.
‘And you look miserable,’ Fen commented, giving Cosima an organic sugar-free rusk. ‘Everything OK?’
‘I feel glum,’ Cat admitted, ‘and I want to be allowed to feel glum. So thank God you’re not Pip.’
‘What’s up?’ Fen asked, spooning butter-cream from the cake’s surface directly into her mouth.
‘I’m not pregnant. I don’t have a job. I don’t like Clapham. Ben’s never home and I wish I’d stayed in Colorado,’ Cat declared.
‘Cat,’ Fen said, ‘you’ve only been home two minutes.’
‘It’s been three months,’ Cat corrected. ‘I’ve had sex forty-two times and have sent out nineteen pre-emptive letters for jobs. Nothing.’
‘Cat, you make the former sound like a chore and you’re