Home Truths (39 page)

‘I met some bloke,’ Fen admitted, ‘a bloke called Al and he was flirty and young and the opposite of Matt. And I was flattered and tempted. More than tempted. And thank God Pip phoned when she did because if she hadn't I probably would have.’

‘Would have what?’ Cat asked. ‘Phoned Pip?’

‘Had sex with Al,’ Fen admitted. Suddenly, she realized that she could fob off her sisters with this limited version of events, but not herself. It was time, at last, to change tack and face facts. ‘I have to admit, I practically did,’ she revealed forlornly. ‘If we're talking all the other bases, I'd passed Base 3. We were on the home straight when Pip called.’

‘You're joking!’ Cat laughed, because Fen's terminology seemed so adolescent and the notion seemed so preposterous.
Fen
? Fen being fingered and having her tits groped while she fiddled with the cock of a bloke called Al? Fen who had
embraced to the hilt the all-consuming responsibilities of being a mother at the expense of even a night out at the Rag and Thistle? Fen, the conventional, stay-at-home mummy with lovely Matt providing for her and her perfect daughter?

‘I'm not,’ Fen said, her eyes downcast as she hid behind her fringe.

‘Not what?’ said Cat.

‘Not joking,’ Fen declared.

‘But you're not allowed to do that!’ Cat protested.

‘I lost sight of that fact,’ Fen admitted, ‘but I swear to you, it stares me in the face every time I look in the mirror.’

‘Do you no longer love Matt?’ Pip asked carefully, her tone more level, her look softer.

‘Of course I do,’ Fen said, suddenly realizing she couldn't even consider answering the question any other way.

‘But who is this Al?’ Cat pressed.

‘I don't really know,’ Fen admitted, ‘just someone who wasn't Matt. Someone with whom I could be more than just me.’

As they walked back to the guest house, Cat and Pip wondered why their sister should think there was anything wrong with just being herself. While Fen just thought there must be something wrong with her. None of the other new mums she had met had gadded off with flower-laying toyboys. The only new mum of whom she knew who had behaved in a similar fashion was her own mother. And Fen and her sisters were in agreement that there must have been something very wrong with her. Fen's last thought on the matter, before she was distracted by the flashing red button on the phone in the room, was to pray that her wayward detour had been temporary and to thank God that it hadn't taken her away from her baby.

But had the woman who had taken herself away from her three babies decades ago, now tracked them down?

Cat, Fen and Pip stared at the flashing red light.

‘Could be Ben,’ said Cat.

‘Or Matt,’ said Fen.

‘Or Zac,’ said Pip.

But there was no message. Just a long recorded silence.

Probably one of the boys.

Playing silly buggers.

Cat looked at her watch. ‘If it's 10 o'clock here, it must be three tomorrow morning in proper time.’

‘Proper time?’ laughed Pip, putting an affectionate arm around Cat.

‘Check your mobile for messages,’ Fen told Pip, who had the only tri-band phone between them. ‘Just in case it's for me.’

Pip took her phone from the bedside drawer where she'd placed it on top of their passports and next to the complimentary copy of the bible which was alarmingly covered in lilac suedette.

The envelope icon signified a message.

‘It's just a text from Zac,’ Pip told them, opening the message.

Hope all ok. Just 2 say Tom has baby bro!!! Nathan Oliver, 7lbs 13oz. Evryone doing just fine!!! Z xx

‘What does he say?’ Cat asked.

‘Pip?’ said Fen, because her sister's face had dropped.

‘What? Oh,’ said Pip, ‘nothing really.’

‘Sweet nothings?’ Cat smiled.

‘Something like that,’ Pip said, switching off the mobile and putting it back by the purple bible.

The girls were exhausted. It had gone three in the morning proper time, and they'd had a day beset by travel, jet lag, strange towns, their mother's front door and their mother's voice. Cat and Fen shared the kingsized bed, falling asleep
within seconds of each other, within minutes of clambering in. Pip turned away from them in her queen bed. Hot tears seeped silently from tired sore eyes.

Evryone doing just fine. Evryone doing just fine. Welcome little Nathan. But I'm not fine. I'm not doing just fine at all.

Those three silent calls. Penny guessed it was them, her daughters. Her three girls, silent for almost three decades. She surprised herself by hoping that it was. They just wanted to listen, didn't they? Who dialled last? Who was it who hung up on ‘Hi’? She had traced the call, to put a place to the number. Brook Barn Inn. She knew exactly where that was. It was a decent enough place. She had spent the remainder of the afternoon and all evening meandering around the house, walking in and out of rooms that had seen no person other than her for seven months. She went to bed early but couldn't sleep. Nearing midnight, she dressed and drove into town. Parked her car, switched off the engine and just gazed and gazed at the Old Lester Inn; wondering what she should do.

Plastic Tubing

‘Are you awake?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Cat awake?’

‘Yes I'm awake too.’

‘Sodding jet lag. It's not even seven o'clock.’

‘I bet that diner will be open by now.’

‘What day is it – is it Saturday?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘It
is
Saturday. We arrived in Boston Thursday night – then came up here yesterday morning. So yes, today must be Saturday.’

‘Perhaps the diner won't open so early on a Saturday.’

‘Only one way to find out.’

The diner was open and Cat, Fen and Pip were greeted by Betty the waitress who, bizarrely, had ‘DeeDee’ embroidered on her uniform today.

‘The English Roses return, Joe!’ she called through to the back before fussing around them, wiping an already gleaming table and straightening the napkin dispenser and cruets. ‘You take a load off, girls,’ she said. ‘What'll you have? Did you meet with your friend?’

The sisters exchanged glances; if they couldn't refer to her as their ‘mother’ they certainly couldn't refer to her as their ‘friend’.

‘She wasn't in,’ said Pip, deciding to gloss over the ambiguity by polishing her vowels. ‘Frightful shame.’

‘Frightful shame!’ the waitress repeated, marvelling at the words, not the matter. ‘Well, if you're kicking around today, there's a lot of fun to be had round here. There's the Falls for a start – if you guys like hiking that sure is one pretty place. There's also some quaint villages near by – Hubbardton's Spring and Ridge – just like you see on the postcards, though most of the postcards are taken in the fall so don't go expecting those colours. And if you like to shop, you head over to Manchester – the finest outlet village. Puts New York in the shade, I'll say.’

Cat's glance to her sisters was sufficient to say that she for one rather hoped the house on Emerson would be empty again today. She found herself looking at the waitress's left breast as coffee was replenished. ‘I say,’ she said plummily, ‘I hope you don't think me rude – but yesterday you were Betty, today you're DeeDee.’

The waitress looked at her bosom, as if to check herself who she was. ‘You're right!’ she said cheerily, and busied away to collect the girls' breakfasts from the grill, piping hot and delicious.

After a leisurely breakfast, though coffee was topped up and more pleasantries were exchanged with the waitress, they were no nearer finding if she was DeeDee or Betty. Fen and Cat called goodbye to Betty, Pip called goodbye to DeeDee, all three said see you tomorrow.

‘Bugger Boston,’ Cat remarked as they walked up Main Street, ‘let's just do a day-trip to Manchester. When Betty said “dickny” do you think she meant “DKNY”?’

‘Or do you think
we've
been mispronouncing the brand?’ Fen challenged and she and Cat laughed in mortification.

‘Ralph Law-rn,’ said Cat.

‘Ralph L'Ren,’ Fen said.

‘Sad thing is, I don't possess a single item from Ralph or Donna,’ said Pip. ‘I'm not what one would call a designer clown.’

‘So let's go to Manchester!’ Cat said.

‘Or we could just catch an earlier—’

‘Hi.’

It was Penny.

Right in front of them.

Sunlight bouncing off her glasses and flashing platinum through her short, silvering hair; her slim, wiry frame appearing to fill the sidewalk. Fen glancing sharply behind herself, as if looking for an escape route; Cat staring at her mother's feet, ten toes with neat nails; Pip stepping forward just slightly but able to raise her eyes only as far as her mother's tiger's-eye pendant.

‘Hi,’ she says again, this time with an awkward shrug. Pip can feel Cat and Fen looking beseechingly at her.

‘Hullo,’ says Pip.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ Penny says with what would have been a wry smile though her nervousness and the intense sunlight make it appear more of a grimace and a squint.

‘We've just had breakfast,’ Pip says, cringing inwardly. Since planning the trip, she's prepared many a soliloquy and rehearsed varying degrees of acerbic wit and biting truths. Not once has she practised the line ‘We've just had breakfast’.

‘You have plans for today?’ Penny asks, steering clear of the undisputable fact that the girls can only be in Lester Falls on her account.

‘We were going to go to Manchester,’ Cat says shyly, addressing her mother's feet. ‘Shopping.’

‘Nice,’ said Penny, as if this was reason enough to have Lester Falls as their base.

‘Perhaps a walk to the Falls,’ Fen says, glancing over her shoulder again though that's the opposite direction to the Falls.

‘Real pretty,’ Penny says, as if a hike to the Falls could indeed be the sole purpose for crossing the Atlantic to this little town. ‘You could come for lunch,’ she says, ‘if it fits your day?’

The sisters regard each other in silent consultation.

‘Could do,’ says Pip, noting half a nod from Fen and a small shrug from Cat.

‘Good,’ says Penny, wondering what they like to eat. She's never been much of a cook. Never attempted the eccentric fusion cuisine of Django McCabe. ‘You vegetarian or anything?’

‘What – having been brought up by Django?’ Fen says to Penny's sandals – she remembers distinctly they are the same she wore that morning in Derbyshire.

Penny surprises herself by smiling easily. ‘So, shall we say noon? I live on Emerson Street.’ She pauses. ‘But you know that.’

The sisters consider their mother's slightly cryptic allusion.

‘Hey, Penny!’

A young woman, much their own age, has approached and she's smiling at their mother, regarding them quizzically.

‘Oh,’ Penny flusters, and Cat can see that her toes curl slightly, ‘Juliette. Hi.’

‘Haven't seen you for a while,’ Juliette says warmly. ‘How you doing?’

‘Fine,’ says Penny, acutely aware that the last time she saw Juliette was when she stormed away from her, ‘just fine. Real busy.’

‘Oh,’ says Juliette, ‘cool.’

There follows a pause so pregnant Penny fears she is on the verge of bellowing in discomfort. Juliette is looking from the girls to Penny, and back again. Smiling sweetly, genuinely friendly.

‘I'm Juliette,’ she says to the sisters, with a childish little wave. ‘Hi.’

The sisters respond with awkward hand-raising of their own.

‘Pip.’

‘Fen.’

‘Cat.’

‘Well, I gotta go,’ Juliette says, with polite reluctance. ‘Sure was nice to meet you all,’ she smiles at the girls. ‘Don't be a stranger,’ she says to Penny, touching her hand. ‘We miss you.’

And there they stand for a mammoth moment or two longer.

Penny, a woman who feels she has no right to introduce herself as ‘mother’.

And the three sisters who can't yet bring themselves to be known as her daughters.

Pip walked a large, aimless loop. Fen and Cat followed.

‘Christ, are we sure about all of this?’ Fen asked, standing stock still. ‘Isn't it just too bizarre to be having lunch with her? Too quick? Too – I don't know – normal? Too friendly, too accepting?’ Pip sighed as she thought although Fen didn't wait for an answer. ‘I don't know about you two but I don't feel prepared. I've run through so many scenarios in my head these last few days and in all of them, I'm this empowered woman brimming with erudite proclamations and condemnation. But now I feel very, very small.’

Pip looked ahead. ‘Look, we all feel weird – her too, no
doubt – but we're here and this is an opportunity and we have to take it, whatever the outcome.’ She paused, tying and retying her pony-tail while she thought. ‘If we don't – if we blow her out – imagine how you'll feel once you've returned home. Jesus – I've said it before, it's not a holiday. It's not a social engagement. It's necessary. It's a summit.’

‘What do we do about Django? Say she asks?’ Fen asked. ‘Are we going to tell her?’ She looked at Cat who appeared lost in thought.

‘I think we avoid lies,’ Pip said, reflecting on it. ‘After so much dishonesty, the plain truth will do. But let's not volunteer information. If she asks directly how he is, then we'll answer directly. Agreed?’

Fen nodded. Pip looked to Cat who was still avoiding eye contact or comment. ‘Cat?’

‘Whatever,’ Cat muttered. ‘I'm not hungry,’ she said, thinking fast that she could find if there was a flight from somewhere to take her to Boulder.

‘That's totally irrelevant and you know it,’ Pip snapped.

‘But we don't know her at all,’ Cat said, cross with Pip for her reaction.

‘What we do know is that she ran away with a cowboy from Denver when we were small,’ said Pip. ‘Here's our chance to find out why.’

In their fantasies, over the years, they'd created an image of their mother that was far from flattering. They'd never quite given her form – a stereotypical warted wicked witch seemed too contrived – but they'd created the world in which she lived. Most damning of all, they'd given her a world with no style. With the cowboy-from-Denver situation always to the fore, they'd positioned their mother in a poor and tacky version of
Dynasty
. An ostentatious driveway in a boring flat land. A preposterous fountain flanked by disparate figures
from antiquity, poorly copied and made from resin. Fake Corinthian columns and disproportionate pediments. White leather sofas. Reproduction furniture with ubiquitous claw-and-ball feet. Lots of gilt. Lots of guilt. Uniformed staff, who all secretly hated her, addressing her as ‘ma'am’. The cowboy himself, laughably repulsive in a rhinestone-encrusted ten-gallon hat; corpulent, porcine and with a gait dictated by gout.