Home Truths
FREYA NORTH
Home Truths
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This edition 2006
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006
Copyright © Freya North 2006
Freya North asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007180356
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780007325788
Version: 2015-10-13
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Praise for Home Truths:
‘An eye-poppingly sexy start leads into a family reunion laced with secrets. Tangled mother/daughter relationships unravel and tantalising family riddles keep you glued to the end.’
Cosmopolitan
‘An engrossing emotional drama that's sure to feature on bestseller lists.’
Eve
‘You'll laugh, cry, then laugh some more.’
Company
‘Freya North manages to strike a good balance between drama, comedy and romance, and has penned another winner in Home Truths … touching, enjoyable.’
Heat
‘Extremely skilful.’
Daily Telegraph
Praise for Freya North:
‘Freya North has matured to produce an emotive novel that deals with the darker side of love – these are real women with real feelings.’
She
‘Tantrums, tarts, tears and text-sex … what’s not to love about this cautionary tale for true romantics?’
Heat
‘A distinctive storytelling style and credible, loveable characters … an addictive read that encompasses the stuff life is made of: love, sex, fidelity and, above all, friendship.’
Glamour
‘Passion, guilt, envy, love and sex, topped with lashings of laughs. Freya North has done it again, only better.’
Daily Express
Dedication
For Georgiamy beautiful, beautiful girl
Epigraph
Write your sister’s weak points in the sand and
her strong points in stone.
Anon
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Django McCabe
Tuesday
Django McCabe and the Nit-Pickin’ Chicks
The Rag and Thistle
Penny Ericsson
Home from Home
Winter Ice
Road Kill
Waterworks
He’s Not There
April Fool
My Round
Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow
Derek
Then What?
1960s and All That Jazz
The M1
Dovidels
Kate and Max and Merry Martha
Sweet is the Voice of a Sister in the Season of Sorrow
Coupling
On the Phone
Seeds Sown
Seeds Not Sown
Seeds in a Packet
Bad Seed
Stray Cat Blue
A Fish Out of Water
Al and the Girl from Purley
Cat Out of the Bag
The Ten o’Clock News
Where Were You When You Heard that Django McCabe Had Cancer?
Testing Time
Time for Tests
VT 05154
Lester Falls
Plastic Tubing
Love at Long Distance
No-Brainer
Freedom Trail
Red-Eye
Return of the Natives
Fen McCabe and Matt Holden
Pip and Zac Holmes
Cat and Ben York
To the Bone
Hard Facts and White Lies
Sundae
Moving On
Christmas
Keep Reading
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Freya North
About the Publisher
Prologue
‘How do you say goodbye to a mountain?’
From her vantage point, Cat York looked across to the three Flatirons, to Bear Peak and Green Mountain. She gazed down the skirts of Flagstaff, patting the snow around her and settling herself in as though she was sitting on the mountain’s lap. ‘It’s like a giant, frozen wedding dress,’ she said. ‘It probably sounds daft, but for the last four years, I’ve privately thought of Flagstaff as my mountain.’
‘There’s a lot of folk round here who think that way,’ Stacey said. ‘You’re allowed to. That’s the beauty of living in Boulder.’
The sun shot through, glancing off the crystal-cracked snow on the trees, the sharp, flat slabs of rust-coloured rock of the Flatirons soaring through all the dazzling white at their awkward angle.
‘When Ben and I first arrived and I was homesick and insecure, I’d walk to Chautauqua Meadow and just sit on my own. It felt like the mountains were a giant arm around my shoulders.’ Cat looked around her with nostalgic gratitude. ‘Then soon enough we met you lot, started hiking and biking the trails and suddenly the mountain showed me its other side. You could say it’s been my therapist’s couch and it’s been my playground. It’s now my most favourite place in the world.’
Stacey looked at Cat, watched her friend cup her gloved hands over her nose and mouth in a futile bid to make her nose look less red and her lips not so blue. ‘This time next week, the only peaks I’ll be seeing are Victorian rooftops,’ Cat said, ‘grimy pigeons will replace bald eagles and there’ll just be puddles in place of Wonderland Lake. Next week will be a whole new year.’
‘Tell me about Clapham,’ Stacey asked, settling into their snow bunker.
‘Well,’ said Cat, ‘it’s a silent “h” for a start.’
They laughed.
‘God,’ Cat groaned, leaning forward and knocking her head against her knees, ‘I’m still not sure we’re doing the right thing – but don’t tell Ben I said so. I can’t tell you about Clapham, I don’t think I’ve ever been.’ She paused and then continued a little plaintively. ‘God, Stacey, I have no job, my two closest friends don’t even live in the city any more and I’m moving to an opposite side of London to where I used to live, where my sisters still live.’
‘It’s exciting,’ Stacey said, ‘and if you don’t like it, you can always come back.’ She tore into a pack of Reese’s with her teeth, her chilled fingers unfit for the task. ‘And there’s some stuff that’s really to look forward to.’
Placated and sustained by the pack of peanut butter, the comfort of chocolate, Cat agreed. ‘I’ve missed my family – by the sound of it, my middle sister Fen is having a tough time at the moment. And it’s going to be a big year for Django – he’ll be seventy-five which will no doubt warrant a celebration of prodigious proportions.’
‘I’d sure like to have met him,’ Stacey said and she laughed a little. ‘I remember when I first met you, I thought you were like, so exotic, because you came to Boulder with your English Rose looks and a history that Brontë couldn’t have made up. You with the mother who ran off with a cowboy, you who were raised by a crazy uncle called Django, you and your sisters brought up in the wilds of Wherever.’
‘Derbyshire’s not wild,’ Cat protested, ‘not our part. Though there are wallabies.’
‘What’s a wallaby?’
‘It’s like a mini kangaroo,’ said Cat. ‘They were kept as pets by the posh folk in eighteenth-century Derbyshire – but some broke free, bred, and now bounce happily across the Dales.’
Stacey took a theatrical intake of breath. ‘So we have you and your sisters, living in the countryside with your hippy dude uncle and a herd of mutant, aristocratic kangaroos because your mom eloped with J. R. Ewing?’ She whistled. ‘You could sell this to Hollywood.’
‘Shut up, Stacey,’ Cat laughed. ‘We’re just a normal family. Django is a very regular bloke – albeit with a colourful dress code and an adventurous take on cuisine. I’m starting to freeze. Let’s go into town and get a hot chocolate. My bum’s numb even in these salopettes.’
‘Weird, though,’ Stacey said thoughtfully.
‘What is? My bottom?’
‘Your butt is cute, honey,’ Stacey assured her, as they hauled each other to their feet. ‘I mean it’s a little weird that your mom runs off with a cowboy from Denver when you were small, right?’
‘Yup.’
‘And you’ve been living pretty close to the Mile High City these last four years, right?’
‘Yup.’
‘But you never looked her up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Never even thought about it? Never went shopping in Denver and thought, Hey, I wonder if that lady over there is my mom?’
Throughout Cat’s life, it had always been her friends who’d been far more intrigued by her family circumstances, her absent mother, than she. ‘But I never knew her. I was a baby. I have no memories of her,’ Cat explained. ‘I’m not even curious. We had Django, my sisters and I – we wanted for nothing. Just because we didn’t have a “conventional” mother or father didn’t mean that we were denied a proper parent.’
Stacey linked arms with Cat. ‘Conventional families are dull, honey – stick with your kooky one.’
‘Oh I’m sticking with my kooky one all right!’ Cat laughed. ‘I love them with all my heart. And now that Ben and I want to start our own, it feels natural to want to be within that fold again.’
At the time, Cat and Ben York had argued about putting the set of three matching suitcases on their wedding list. Cat had denounced them as boring and unsexy and why couldn’t they peruse the linen department one more time. Ben told her that some things in life were, by virtue, boring and unsexy and he pointed out there were only so many Egyptian cotton towels a couple could physically use in a lifetime. Three years later, Ben and Cat are contemplating the same three suitcases: frequently used, gaping open and empty, waiting to be fed the last remaining clothes and belongings. The process is proving to be far more irksome than the packing of the huge crates a few weeks ago, now currently making their passage by sea back to England.
‘Weird to think that this time next week we’ll be back in the UK,’ Ben says.
‘Weird that we both now refer to it as “the UK” rather than “England” or simply “home”,’ says Cat. ‘Stacey and I went for a fantastic walk this morning.’ She looks through their picture windows to the mountains, a huge cottonwood tree in its winter wear with stark, thick boughs boasting sprays of fine, finger-like branches, the big sky, the quality of air so clean it is almost visible. ‘God, it’s stunning here.’
‘Hey,’ says Ben, ‘we’ll have Clapham Common on our new doorstep.’
Cat hurls a pillow at him. He ducks.
‘We can always come back,’ Ben tells her, ‘but for now, it is time to go. We have things to do. That was the point, remember. That’s why we came here in the first place. It’s the things we do now which provide a tangible future for our daydreams. That’s why it’s timely to return to the UK.’
‘Do dreams come true in Clapham?’
Ben hurls the pillow back at Cat. She hugs it close and looks momentarily upset. ‘I don’t even have a job to go back to,’ she says, ‘and not from want of trying. And I’m not pregnant yet – not from want of trying. I feel like I’m just traipsing behind you.’
‘We’re a team,’ Ben states, ‘you and me. I’ve been given a great job which will be big enough for both of us. I’ve taken it – for the both of us – so you can take your time and think about you.’
‘I know,’ Cat smiles sheepishly. ‘But what’ll I do in Clapham all day? Are we packing the pillows?’
‘I don’t know – do furnished flats come with pillows?’
‘I’m not sleeping on pillows used by God knows who,’ Cat protests, though she calculates that three pillows will fill an entire suitcase.
‘You do in hotels,’ Ben reasons, with a frustrated ruffle through his short, silver-flecked hair. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to some boarding house – I told you, the flat is really quite nice. And when I’m up and running, we’ll look for somewhere to buy.’
‘In North London,’ Cat says and Ben decides not to react to the fact that this is emphatically not a question. ‘Pip says she’s worried about Fen.’
‘Your eldest sister worries about everyone,’ Ben says, remembering that, actually, these pillows came with this apartment. He doesn’t comment.
‘But she says that Fen and Matt aren’t getting along. Since the baby.’
‘You’re not your sisters’ keeper,’ Ben says carefully.
‘Oh but I am,’ Cat says, as if she’s offended, as if Ben’s forgotten to understand the closeness between the McCabe girls, ‘we all are. It’s always been that way, it had to be.’
Ben decides to change the subject. He knows that when his wife is emotional, the legend of her family can be detrimentally overplayed. But he knows, too, that once she returns to their fold again, all the normal niggles and familial irritations will surface and Cat will no doubt be glad of Clapham. He wedges socks into spaces in the cases and then crosses to Cat. ‘Your family won’t recognize you,’ he says. ‘They’ll be expecting that blonde girl with the pony-tail they saw last summer – not this auburn pixie. Mind you, they won’t recognize me – you couldn’t call my hair “salt and pepper” any more, it’s just plain grey.’
‘Makes you look very distinguished,’ Cat says, brushing her hand tenderly through Ben’s hair. She tufts at her elfin crop with a beguiling wail. ‘Do you think mine’s too short? I told them to cut it shorter than usual, and colour it stronger than normal because I wouldn’t be coming back for a while. It’s like I forgot that the UK basically invented places like Vidal Sassoon and John Frieda.’
‘You look gorgeous,’ Ben says, ‘really sexy and cute and fuckable.’ He’s behind her, nuzzling the graceful sweep of her neck that her cropped hair has exposed. He fondles her breasts and then takes his hand down to her crotch and cups at it playfully.
‘Dr York!’ Cat says. ‘I have packing to do.’
‘And I want to fuck my wife,’ Ben whispers, with a titillating nip at her ear lobe.
Cat resists theatrically but he catches her wrists and suddenly he’s tonguing her hungrily. ‘Come on, babe. Procreation is top of our list after all, remember.’
‘Making babies is a very serious matter, Dr York,’ says Cat with mock consternation though she is wriggling out of her clothing.
Ben plugs her mouth with a kiss and takes her hand down to his jeans where his hard-on wells at an awkward angle. ‘Well then, we’d better commit ourselves to honing our technique.’
‘You’re the doctor,’ Cat says, dispensing with her knickers. Ben’s hands travel her body, he gorges on the sight of her. He loves her naked when he’s still fully clothed, the tantalizing interference of fabric between him and his wife’s silky skin. She squats down and unbuckles his belt, makes achingly slow progress with the flies of his trousers, easing down his boxer shorts as if it’s the first time she’s done so. She’s on her knees. His cock springs to attention. Her mouth is moist but teasingly just beyond reach.
‘Christ, Cat,’ Ben says hoarsely, clutching her head and bucking his groin to meet her.
‘Blow-jobs don’t make babies,’ Cat tells him artlessly, but she kisses the tip of his cock and follows this with swift, deep sucks that make him groan. She stands and looks up at him. His height has always turned her on and when he dips his face down to kiss hers it darkens his brown eyes. ‘Isn’t there some position that’s meant to facilitate fertility, doctor?’
‘Yes, Mrs York,’ Ben confirms, turning her away from him, running his hand gently up her back, pushing between her shoulder-blades so that she is bent forwards, ‘there is. Just. Like. This.’
He takes her from behind. The sensation is so exquisite that, for a while, they are silent, motionless.
‘Dr York? Are you sure doggy-style is medically proven to assist conception?’
‘No,’ Ben pants as he thrusts into her, his hands at her waist to haul himself in, ‘but I’m quite certain that the sight of your immaculate peach of an arse improves the quality of my load.’
Django McCabe
Often, making light of the dark makes good sense. When Django McCabe was trekking in Nepal in the early 1960s, en route to some saffron-robed guru or other, he came across a man who had fallen down a screed slope along the mountain pass.
‘Need a hand?’ Django had offered.
‘Actually, wouldn’t mind a leg,’ the man had responded. It was then that Django saw the man in fact had only the one leg, that his crutch had been flung some distance. Django learnt more from his co-traveller than from the guru: not to let hardship harden a person, to keep humour at the heart of the matter, to make light of the dark. A decade later, when Django found himself guardian to three girls under the age of four, the offspring of his late brother, he thought about his one-legged friend and decided that the circumstances uniting him with his nieces would never be recalled as anything other than rather eccentric, strangely fortunate and not that big a deal anyway. ‘I know your mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver, but …’ has since prefixed all manner of events throughout the McCabe girls’ lives.
I know your mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver, but crying because I accidentally taped over Dallas is a little melodramatic.
It was mid-morning and Django McCabe felt entitled to a little sit-down. But there wasn’t time for forty winks. It was Monday and if the girls were coming home for the weekend then he needed the week to prepare for their visit; he couldn’t be wasting time with a snooze. However, to sit in a chair and not nod off was as difficult, perhaps even as pointless, as going to the Rag and Thistle and not having a pint of bitter.
‘I’ll multi-task,’ Django muttered. ‘Apparently it’s a very twenty-first-century thing to do.’ And so he decided to combine his little sit-down with doing something constructive, in this instance scanning today’s runners. After all, studying the form would stop him dozing off.
And there it was. Staring him in the face. 2.20 Pontefract. Cool Cat. Rank outsider – but what did they know.
‘It’s a sign,’ he said, patting himself all over to locate his wallet which, after an extensive grope through the collection of jackets draped over most of the chairs in the kitchen, he finally found. ‘I’ll put a tenner on the horse. In honour of Cat. I need to pop into town anyway so either way, it won’t be a wasted trip.’
Django would never place a bet by phone. He doesn’t trust the telephone. He says, darkly, that you never know who may be listening. But his Citroën 2CV he trusts with his life and, along the lanes of Farleymoor and the roads around Chesterfield, the little car filled to bursting with Django is a familiar sight. At seventy-four, Django is physically robust. Tall and sturdy, affably portly around the girth and crowned by a mane of grey hair always pony-tailed. He toots and waves as he drives. He thinks fellow drivers are slowing down to let him pass, to wave back. Actually they’re swerving to keep out of his way, holding up their hands in protest.
There are people in every continent who regard Django as their friend, though his travelling days ended with the arrival of his three small nieces some thirty years ago. He has rarely left Derbyshire since and it is the area around Farleymoor, on the Matlock side of Chesterfield, where his warmest clutch of friends are massed.
‘Morning, Mary, and don’t you look divine for a Monday,’ Django says, entering the bookmakers.
‘And don’t you look colourful for January,’ Mary says, wondering if he’s warm enough in his paisley shirt and tapestry waistcoat.
‘From Peru,’ Django tells her, opening his waistcoat wide, like a flasher. ‘I had to trade with bandits on a mountain pass.’
‘And what did they get of you, duck?’
‘My passport,’ Django says and he roars with laughter. ‘A tenner on Cool Cat, if you please.’
‘Rank outsider,’ Mary warns him.
‘I know,’ Django shrugs, ‘but the odds were worse for Fenland Star yesterday and truly terrible for Pipistrelle last week and they both won.’ He hands over a ten-pound note. ‘She’s flying home as we speak, you know. Cat. I have all three girls descending on me for the weekend.’
Mary knows Django’s girls. They were at school with her daughters. ‘No doubt you’ll be cooking up a treat for them, then?’
‘She’s been in America for four years,’ he says, leaning on the counter and beckoning Mary closer. ‘That’s an awful lot of McDonalds. Apparently her hair is now red.’
Mary can’t see the connection between McDonalds and hair colour. If she remembers correctly, Cat is the sporty one who married the doctor of a professional cycling team.
‘So I am indeed preparing a Spread to welcome her home and put back some nutrients,’ Django is saying. ‘Oh, and let’s have a tenner on Three’s Company at Fakenham. Good little horse, that.’
Django McCabe hasn’t had a beard for over twenty years, yet still, in moments of contemplation, he strokes his chin with fingertips light and methodical as if his goatee still sits proud on his face. The habit is one that he uses for all manner of pontification, from selecting horses according to their names or the form given them by the Racing Post, to his choice of the next domino at the Rag and Thistle. Currently, he is toying with his chin while wondering what to cook. Laid out before him are all the foodstuffs from the fridge, most of those from the larder, and a few from the capacious chest freezer too. He doesn’t believe in shopping according to a recipe, he cooks to accommodate available ingredients; he invented food combining in its most oblique sense. He fingers his invisible beard and begins to make his considered selection, as an artist might choose pigment for the day’s palette. Indeed, Django feels at his most creative when cooking – he sees blending, mixing, combining, concocting, as art, not science. Thus he never measures or weighs and he believes cookery books are to cooking what painting-by-numbers kits are to painting.