Home Truths. Freya North

since Django had referred to them as the nit-pickin’ chicks, because it had been such a long time since they’d sat in their huddle with their hands almost absent-mindedly working on each other.

      ‘Stop fiddling,’ Django said. ‘Let’s eat.’

      ‘I’ll just check on Cosima,’ Fen said.

      ‘You were only up there half an hour ago,’ said Cat, ‘and she was quiet then.’

      ‘You’ll see,’ Fen said, slightly defensively, feeling entitled to her knowing nod, ‘you’ll see.’

      ‘It transpires that Cat hasn’t just come home because she misses your cooking,’ Pip told Django, slipping her arm around his waist, ‘she’s come home to breed.’

      Django took a moment. ‘Wonderful!’ he then said, placing his hand on Cat’s head as if blessing her. ‘Another reason to celebrate. There’s some champagne somewhere. It may well be in the bottom drawer in your room, Pip.’

      ‘I could look in on Cosima for you while I check,’ Pip suggested to Fen.

      ‘No,’ said Fen decisively, ‘I’ll go. I’ll do both.’

      ‘The meal is organic,’ Django told her, ‘mostly. Shall I purée a little for Cosima for tomorrow?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ Fen said, hoping she hid her alarm.

      ‘The sauce is relatively orange,’ Django elaborated.

      ‘That’ll be the Tabasco,’ Fen said, ‘which isn’t really appropriate for a six-month-old baby.’

      ‘It’s never too early to prepare the palate,’ Django said.

      Despite the size of the scones, the aromas from the pots and pans were too tantalizing to resist and appetites magically expanded to meet the quality and quantity of food prepared. Though the menu was predictably unorthodox and though they started with dessert because Django didn’t want to risk the lemon-and-rum soufflé collapsing, traditional manners had always been proudly upheld in the McCabe household. Don’t hold your knife like a pencil, elbows off the table, don’t talk with your mouth full. Between courses, after polite dabbing with napkins, news and plans were discussed.

      ‘A toast to absent menfolk,’ Django said, charging his glass, ‘to the accountant, the publisher, the doctor.’ He took a sip. ‘There was plenty of food for them, you know, even if you lot want second helpings.’

      ‘But we didn’t actually want them here,’ Pip said as if revealing a secret. ‘We wanted you to ourselves.’

      ‘And Ben’s mum wanted him to herself,’ Cat reasoned.

      ‘Next time you come, you bring your boys,’ Django said. ‘This stew will be good for days – you’re all to take a tub home.’ He topped up his glass again. ‘Well, another toast. To the clown.’ Everyone chinked Pip’s glass. Django cleared his throat: ‘To the art historian.’ They raised their glasses to Fen. And then they all looked at Cat. ‘What shall we toast you as?’ Django asked her. ‘Sports journalist? Redhead?’

      Cat looked concerned. ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘But you so love the cycling world,’ Pip said, ‘and you had such respect as one of the few female reporters.’

      ‘And you’re married to the doctor of one of the world’s top cycling teams,’ Fen said.

      ‘Ex-team doctor,’ Cat pointed out.

      ‘No more gallivanting around the globe with that circus of Lycra and bicycles then?’ asked Django.

      ‘No,’ Cat laughed though she looked a little forlorn. ‘I’ve fallen out of love.’ Pip and Fen jerked with concern. ‘With the sport,’ Cat clarified. ‘So has Ben. Too many drugs, too much cheating.’

      ‘So, what’ll you do?’ Pip asked again.

      ‘I’m not sure – maybe write more widely. Maybe not just yet.’

      ‘And are you back for good?’ Django asked. ‘Or is this a pit stop?’

      ‘This is home. This is where we want to start a family. Maybe I’ll take a leaf out of Fen’s book – and yours, Django – and make motherhood my career.’

      ‘No finer, more noble job than that,’ Django said, ‘mark my words.’

      ‘You forgot to add knackering,’ Fen laughed. ‘Academia was a breeze in comparison. Not that I have any desire to go back to it.’

      ‘But you’re so talented,’ said Cat, ‘you’ve had stuff published. You’ve lectured at the Tate. You’re the authority on the sculpture of Julius Fetherstone. You have all those hard-earned letters after your name.’

      ‘Art is still my great love – just because I choose not to work in that field doesn’t negate that,’ Fen shrugged and continued more defensively. ‘I’ve gone for a change of career. Raising my baby is just as challenging, as stimulating – and far more time-consuming.’

      ‘I suppose I’ll have to see which comes first – a blue line on the dipstick, or a job offer,’ said Cat.

      ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Pip, ‘to my sisters, to our Django. To family.’

      Django makes his announcement over strong Turkish coffee and enormous petits fours. He clears his throat and asks for silence, please, ladies.

      ‘No doubt my impending milestone birthday has been the cause for much speculation – and I hope you haven’t already planned a surprise party.’

      ‘You’re not going on a retreat are you?’ Cat asks.

      ‘On my seventy-fifth birthday?’ Django objects. ‘Good Lord no. I have no intention of retreating anywhere. Quite the opposite. They’ll be coming out of the woodwork, far and wide, because I’m going to throw a party.’

      ‘Here?’

      ‘Of course here,’ Django says, ‘a huge rollicking knees-up that will rewrite the significance of May 16th in history. I’m going to have a party that’ll be totally, eye-openingly unsuitable for someone of such an age.’

      Cat, Fen and Pip gawp at him.

      ‘You’re all invited,’ he assures them earnestly, ‘along with anyone who thinks they might ever have known me.’

The Rag and Thistle

      Early the following evening, Django placed his hands on Fen’s shoulders. ‘Do it for me,’ he said quietly.

      ‘It’s only the Rag and Thistle,’ said Pip, ‘it’s only down the road.’

      ‘And it’s my welcome-home weekend,’ Cat protested.

      ‘I don’t feel like it,’ Fen said.

      ‘Your sisters request your company and I’d like to have my granddaughter all to myself,’ Django said but he could see that he hadn’t dented her defence. ‘You do have faith in my abilities, don’t you? Did I not bring up you three single-handedly – and fabulously – when your mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver?’ He paused carefully to assess the just perceptible upturn to the corners of Fen’s mouth. ‘And isn’t Cosima already sound asleep and unlikely to waken anyway?’

      ‘It’s not that,’ Fen said. ‘Of course I have faith in you. It’s just I don’t really feel like going out.’ She wanted to sound needy rather than defensive so that they’d sympathize.

      ‘But it’s my weekend!’ Cat reiterated.

      Fen looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘I don’t want to go to the Rag and Thistle because I don’t want to leave Cosima,’ she explained, looking at the semicircle