Home Truths (47 page)

‘Is that it?’ Ben suddenly says.

And now he's turning onto his back and plugging her mouth with his tongue before she can say, You sod, you were awake the whole time. His hands are everywhere. He pinches her nipple lustily and she gasps. He burrows between the lips of her sex to find her oozing with expectation and desire for him. He fingers her, nudges at her hardening clitoris and she moans and she could come there and then but suddenly his hand is away and he's brought it up to her mouth where her tongue and his lick her juice from his fingers.

‘I am going to fuck your brains out now,’ Ben murmurs and Cat is too turned on to answer him back, to use her voice for anything other than panting. Hot and sweaty, they giggle and grunt their way through a rude shag.

To the Bone

After Ben's phone call at lunch-time, Matt and Zac spent the rest of the day saying ‘Shit’ and ‘Fuck’ at regular intervals until it was time to meet at the Mariners.

‘Glorious day,’ the landlord enthused.

‘Was it?’ Matt remarked, realizing he'd taken no notice of the weather, no notice of much else at all.

‘It's a shit day,’ Zac sighed as they took their pints and awaited Ben, ‘just awful.’

Ben arrived soon after, draining his pint to quench his thirst and prepare his voice.

‘As you know, Django has requested that I am fully briefed by his doctors,’ he started, ‘and today we have been told that the grade of cancer in Django's prostate is high: 8–10 and the stage of the cancer is T4. It's not good. There's secondary cancer in the bone – as was feared. It is anticipated that it will spread to the lymph nodes too.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose and winced audibly. ‘It's not good. Not good at all. We have nothing we hoped for – nothing that we told him, or the girls, to stay positive for.’

‘No treatment?’ Zac asked.

‘There is treatment,’ Ben said, ‘but no cure. He'll be offered radiotherapy – as a palliative treatment. It's very effective at alleviating symptoms like pain, especially in the bone. There's some discussion of hormone therapy – reducing his testosterone levels can slow down the growth of cancer cells and can even shrink the tumour and minimize the spread but they need to know more about the spread of the cancer to decide whether treatment is viable.’

‘More tests?’ Zac said.

‘Scans, mainly,’ Ben explained. ‘They could operate and remove all or part of the testicles – but I doubt they'd do that for Django considering his age and the stage and grade. Then there are drugs given as injections or pellets under the skin of the abdomen, or as liquid injected into the muscle every month or so. Or there are hormone therapy drugs in tablet form.’

‘Those sound better,’ Matt said. ‘He'll find a way to integrate them into some recipe or other.’

Ben smiled only briefly. ‘There are awful side effects,’ he said. ‘Sexual impotence, loss of desire, hot flushes, weight gain, tiredness. Even breast swelling and tenderness.’

‘Christ almighty,’ Zac said angrily, ‘if the poor bugger hasn't suffered enough indignity, enough worry and enough discomfort already.’

Matt spread his hands on the table. ‘Look, whatever treatment he goes for, this thing is going to kill him – is that what you're saying?’

‘In a hard, hard nutshell, yes,’ Ben sighed.

‘Django McCabe has terminal cancer,’ Matt said, to make quite sure he had the facts. ‘And there's nothing that can be done apart from alleviate the symptoms? How the hell am I going to tell Fen?’

‘It's for Django to,’ Ben said, ‘though I know for a fact that Cat won't want to know specifics. Will Fen? Will Pip?’

‘You know Pip,’ Zac said softly.

‘Look,’ Ben said, ‘when we go up tomorrow, we'll see how he's taking it and perhaps we, as a family, can gauge how to proceed.’

Hard Facts and White Lies

Fen had bought a book for Cosima's first birthday. She'd bought her many other gifts too, predictably, but she felt the book was the central present. She bought it because she liked it though it was arguably beyond the intellect of a one-year-old. Even for a bona fide art historian with a double distinction from the Courtauld Institute, the illustrations were beautiful and accomplished: exquisitely gentle, unwhimsical and somewhat melancholy. Coupled with this, Fen found the tale simultaneously heart-rending yet uplifting – the lonely little beaver who thinks the echo of his own crying is the sorrow of another and sets off across the great lake to see, befriending a clutch of other lonely souls en route. Something about the book struck a chord with Fen and she made Matt read it, cover to cover, who said, Very nice, dear, and returned to his issue of
GQ
.

There was something of the little beaver in each of the McCabe sisters; something of the echo in those who loved them.

When you are sad, the Echo is sad … When you are happy the Echo is happy too.

Thus, when they tumbled out of their convoy on a clammy Saturday morning in July, and bounded over to Django like excitable puppies, what could the man do but allow his depleted cells to become bolstered by their happiness.

‘Do they know?’ Django asked Ben, out of earshot of the others.

‘We haven't told them yet,’ Ben said.

‘But you have told the menfolk, like I asked?’

‘Yes,’ said Ben, ‘I did. Everything is your call, Django. We're here for you. Here to help.’

Django thought about it. ‘Let's see how things progress. There's a birthday to celebrate. And tales from their trip to be heard. And why would I want to risk losing their laughter, those expansive smiles, all this happy love by imparting gory details and gloom?’

‘How are you feeling?’ Ben asked.

‘No worse. No better. A little tired, perhaps – but I do find this heat rather enervating. I ache and I creak and I wake up on the dot of 5.15 each morning.’ Django paused, then he slapped Ben on the shoulder. ‘But other than that, not too bad for a cancerous old septuagenarian. Now come along. I've made Pimm's. I had no mint but there was parsley in the garden so I've used that instead. Let's gather the troops.’

Quite conversationally, after the hors d'oeuvres and whilst serving the main course, Django dished out details of his illness whilst spooning out the fisherman's pie which also had kidney beans added for their gorgeous colour, plus a little chicken for extra protein. ‘Good news, the radiotherapy will put paid to the aches and pains. Potatoes, Cat? It's just a bit of a bugger about the other bit – but as Ben said, it's quite possible to live a normal life, to enjoy just as long an innings, in spite of it.’

The McCabe sisters looked from Django to Ben. Ben read
the situation in an instant: he knew that Django was tinkering with the truth just as he tinkered with recipes – all the essential items were used, but in quantities Django had decided were best, with one or two added ingredients to make the flavour uniquely his own. Django's way with cancer was going to be like his way with food. Django would justify to himself that it was a little like jazz, a collection of notes to make into a scale for which he had the freedom, the right, to tinker with the emphasis and the order.

But though the girls had an ear for jazz, medical information was clangorous to their ears. They didn't quite understand what they were hearing, nor whether they should turn to Ben or Django for further information.

‘Do you have the results?’ Pip asked.

‘When did they come?’ asked Fen.

Cat said nothing. She couldn't. Her heart pounded in her throat.
Don't let him have results yet. I don't want facts. I just want to have hope.

Django peered at the potatoes, as if making his selection required utter concentration. He spooned them onto his plate, added a dollop of HP Sauce, motioned to Matt to replenish his glass with Pimm's and then he turned to the girls as if he'd forgotten what they'd asked. ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘that they can treat my old bones with radiotherapy which will very much help with the discomfort I sometimes experience.’

‘Has it spread?’ Pip asked. ‘Is it not just prostate cancer – is it in your bones too?’

‘It's spread a little,’ Django said.

‘What's the buggery bit – about the prostate?’ Pip persisted.

‘The buggery bit about the prostate?’ Django said, as if trying to recall. ‘Oh – that. Yes, my prostate's in a sorry state. But it's a bit like your appendix. Or the Monarchy. Not really needed.’

‘Can they treat it?’ Pip urged.

‘As Ben said,’ Django said diplomatically, with the swiftest of conniving glances to the doctor, ‘sometimes it's not worth it – the treatments and the side effects are worse than the symptoms of the cancer. And the cancer mightn't impinge on my lifespan anyway. Now come on, Fen, Cat – you haven't touched your celeriac. I mashed it with cottage cheese, the pineapple-y variety – is it not nice?’

Ben follows Django through to the kitchen, under the pretext of carrying the pile of plates and empty bowls, all of which have been scraped pleasingly clean. Django is rummaging in cupboards and drawers, muttering. Ben puts his hand on the man's shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes,’ Django says, a little irritated. ‘Ah, here are the little sods.’ He brandishes the jar of morello cherries.

‘OK,’ says Ben. But his hand is staying put. ‘You sure?’

Django thinks about this. ‘I'm choosing not to use the word
terminal
. When the girls are sad, I am sad. When they worry, I worry. More importantly, when they are happy, I am happy. And however long I
do
have, I may as well have a gay old time of it.’ He pauses, tips his head and regards Ben. Echoing the affection of his son-in-law, Django places his hand on Ben's shoulder. ‘But thank you, Ben,’ he says. ‘The girls – they all seem different. Not just happy and effervescent and back to their old selves – but as if they are proud to be in
new
selves too. It must have been a good trip to the States. It must have been a good thing to do. It would be most fitting if good is what ultimately comes out of it all. My lot screwed it up – but Cat, Fen and Pip are ironing out the creases very nicely. Could you fetch the ice cream from the freezer?’

But before Ben can do this, Django puts his hand on his shoulder again. ‘Ben – have I in some way contributed to my condition? I don't mean to sound bonkers or melodramatic
but if health is not just about what we put into our bodies but what we do with them, if health is a state of mind—’ He trails off to clatter around the cutlery drawer. ‘Just deserts,’ he murmurs.

‘Teaspoons will do fine,’ Ben says helpfully.

‘No – not
desserts
,’ Django smiles. ‘I'm wondering whether my deeds and my actions have somehow contributed to my downfall.’

Ben puts the ice cream down on the counter firmly. ‘Django,’ he says, ‘cancer is cancer. It's an insidious, revolting affliction. It's rogue cells. Bastard things. They have no conscience. They certainly don't differentiate between victims. There's no proof that reprobates are struck down more than the virtuous. And my God you have far more bloody virtues than you have sodding faults. There's nothing you could or could not have done. It's not your fault. It's just fucking bad luck, Django.’

Django's eyes are tear stung. ‘You do swear a lot,’ he tells Ben with a fond cuff to his ear.

Cosima spent her first birthday picnicking in the grounds of Chatsworth House. Her father and her Uncle Zac spent her first birthday urging her to walk.

‘Her knees are too fat,’ Ben laughed warmly. ‘Look at them – they look like scones. And look at those rolls of flesh around her thighs. A mini sumo wrestler!’

‘Fuck off, Ben!’ Fen protested, firing cornichons at him.

‘Language, Fenella,’ said Django.

‘I'm teasing,’ Ben said. ‘She's glorious. Absolutely glorious. She's a credit to you. Skinny babies don't bear thinking about.’

‘Talking of babies,’ Django said, ‘how is Tom – what news of his little brother?’

‘He's so gorgeous!’ Pip drooled, her accent becoming
alarmingly like Tweetie Pie. ‘His weeny teeny toes!’

Django flung Zac a very obvious look of sympathy.

‘Pip is currently stuffing herself with alkaline foods and God knows what because she's decided she wants a girl.’ Zac paused. ‘I'd quite like a girl too,’ he said wryly. ‘I wonder if cousins warrant a discount from South Hampstead High School for Girls.’

‘But we haven't put Cosima's name down!’ said Fen, after a pregnant pause and a jubilant wink to Pip.

‘Are you trying for a family?’ Django's eyes danced from Pip to Zac.

‘Absolutely,’ Zac told him and the pleasure which crisscrossed Django's face was priceless.

All eyes, with eyebrows raised, were suddenly volleying between Cat and Ben. Ben just grinned but Cat lobbed asunder whatever foodstuffs were still on her plate.

‘Leave me alone!’ she protested, sticking out her tongue. ‘I'm younger than you lot! I assure you Ben and I will pop them out – when we're ready. But I want to give my career a chance, I really do.’

‘I'm hoping to go back to work,’ Fen announced casually, plucking at grass while a flickering across her face belied an immediate need for approval, ‘in the autumn, perhaps.’

‘That's wonderful!’ Pip said.

‘Good for you,’ said Cat.

‘Part-time,’ Fen quantified.

‘Well done darling,’ Django said, ‘it'll suit you.’

‘I know,’ Fen said, ‘I see that. So keep your ears open for a good nanny, everyone.’

‘I'll ask June,’ said Zac.

‘Someone at work is bound to know,’ Cat told her.

‘I could always help out in the interim,’ Pip offered.

‘Thanks,’ said Fen, having a surreptitious glance from palm to palm, ‘thanks, you lot.’

‘Hey – did you know they're opening the flagship branch of Dovidels at Meadowhall?’ Cat said to no one in particular. ‘Lorna Craven from head office told me.’

‘Meadowhall, hey,’ Django said. ‘I remember when Meadowhall was just that – all fields.’

‘Django!’ Pip and Fen groaned.

Ben observed his wife looking pensive and with an awkward blush.

‘Excellent hospitals in and around Sheffield. And the outlying area,’ Ben said casually, to no one in particular.