appeared because the scent of maple syrup warming over pancakes or waffles or some such, had drifted evocatively into their room and filled them with hungry memories of American breakfasts. Next came Fen and Cosima, the baby dressed immaculately down to the colour-coordinated tiny hair grip gathering together the few strands she had, while her mother wore mismatched socks. Finally, Matt emerged, still sleep-crumpled but characteristically cheerful.
‘The morning is for Chatsworth, the afternoon is for lolling and party planning, and the evening is for the Rag and Thistle – for men who are over the limit,’ Django announced.
‘Over the limit?’ Zac and Matt asked.
‘Over the age limit,’ Django said, with an apologetic ruffle to Tom’s wayward hair.
‘I see,’ said Cat, hands on hips with consternation that wasn’t wholly mock, ‘while we womenfolk keep the home fire burning?’
‘And do the washing-up,’ Django added calmly. The men cheered. The baby cried. Let the day begin.
* * *
If Django was a perk of being married to, or partnered with, a McCabe girl, it was definitely a high point of a trip to Derbyshire to share an evening at the Rag and Thistle with their eccentric host. While Zac, Matt and Ben donned a change of shirts, Django certainly dressed for his big night out; watched by Tom fascinated with the provenance of each article of clothing. Django gathered this was a delaying tactic but it was his pleasure to spin yarns about his threads. Whether they were fact or fancy was of little relevance to Tom. He’d further embroider it all at school next week anyway. Tales of Django Gramps and his pink shirt with the gold buttons. Real gold. A gift from the King of Kathmandu.
To Matt, Ben and Zac’s urbane, understated signatures of Ted Baker, Gap and Paul Smith, Django added a certain flamboyance with his Astrakhan waistcoat, his Pucci neckerchief, his peculiar multi-seamed corduroys and yet another great big fuck-off belt, this one with an amber-encrusted buckle. The only item no one had seen before was the excessively floral shirt.
‘I knew a woman who worked at Liberty’s,’ Django explained nonchalantly. ‘Her name was Maureen. The summer of 1970. She was spectacular.’ And with that, the men left.
While Fen checked on Cosima, who was compliantly sound asleep, Pip served up the casserole Django had left simmering and Cat poured the wine.
‘Come on, Fen,’ Cat muttered to herself, ‘I’m starving.’
‘Cravings?’ Pip probed.
‘Unfortunately not,’ Cat said, ‘but not for want of trying.’
‘Django’s recipes would be perfect for pregnant women,’ said Fen, who’d appeared and sat herself down in a chair with a great exhausted sigh, ‘on account of all his bizarre combinations.’
‘I’ve just found a walnut,’ Cat said, chewing thoughtfully. She detested walnuts and was privately slightly irked that Django appeared to have forgotten this. ‘God, I’ve only been away four years.’
‘They’re very good for you,’ said Fen.
‘Isn’t there stuff one should eat if you want to have a boy, and other stuff if you want to have a girl?’ Cat asked her.
‘Apparently there is,’ said Fen, ‘but I couldn’t tell you which was which. Would you like one more than the other?’
‘No, no,’ Cat said, ‘but I would like just the one – I don’t think I have the space for twins.’
Fen glanced at her sister’s slender frame with gentle envy.
‘You certainly wouldn’t have the space in that Clapham place,’ Pip remarked. ‘What’s happening with all that?’
Cat sighed. ‘Apparently, we’re under contract until June. I keep telling Ben it’s never too early to scout around. There’s no harm in planning. It’s fun. I’ve always really loved Tufnell Park,’ Cat enthused, ‘and Parliament Hill. I know it can be expensive – but what an investment. Then we’d all be within a mile or so of each other. And I’d have Hampstead Heath on which to push my pram and have picnics. It’s Nappy Valley, isn’t it?’
‘You need to conceive first,’ Fen said.
Cat giggled. ‘Each time we have sex, I hold my legs up for about five minutes. Ben thinks I’m daft.’
‘It’ll happen when it happens,’ Fen tried to reason.
‘I hope it happens soon,’ Cat said wistfully. ‘I’m doing everything right with the folic acid and the yoga and the magazines. Or watching repeats of Location Location Location. I’ve always had a thing for Shaker kitchens and tumbled mosaic tiles in bathrooms.’
‘You need to find a job,’ Pip interjected. ‘You have a little too much time on your hands at the moment, methinks.’
‘And expensive taste,’ said Fen.
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Cat muttered. ‘I have looked. There’s nothing. Not even freelance work.’
‘Maybe you should think tangentially,’ Pip suggested.
‘You mean settle for less?’ Cat said gloomily.
‘No,’ Pip said gently, ‘but perhaps you have to consider the bigger picture rather than fixate on details.’
‘You’re so sensible,’ Cat muttered with slight irritation.
‘What do you expect me to say?’ Pip said.
‘It was something he said,’ Fen interrupted.
‘Who?’ Cat was confused. Hadn’t they been focusing on her?
‘Django,’ said Fen, ‘about that flowery shirt. About a woman called Maureen.’
‘Who was spectacular!’ Pip mimicked.
‘I wonder who she was,’ Fen said. ‘A spectacular woman called Maureen, who defined Django’s summer of 1970.’
‘We can ask him,’ Cat suggested. ‘He’s bound to be fantastically verbose when he comes rolling home with the boys later.’
‘Come to think of it, I do remember him in other floral shirts,’ Pip said. ‘They were probably all Liberty. Perhaps they were all from this Maureen.’
‘When you have children, there’s so much you leave by the wayside,’ Fen said pensively.
Instinctively, it didn’t seem right to Pip or to Cat to tease their sister just then for contradicting her previous conceit.
‘Flowers by the wayside,’ said Fen, her voice cracking. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, ‘sorry.’
‘Are you OK?’ Pip asked. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Are things no better with Matt?’ Cat asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fen, ‘I don’t know. I’m just tired, I suppose.’
Django’s posse was the centre of attraction at the Rag and Thistle, especially when it became known that the main topic of discussion was the forthcoming infamous seventy-fifth birthday party to which, it seemed, all the clientele and staff of the Rag and Thistle, plus their pets, had already been invited.
‘I was thinking of three marquees,’ Django proclaimed, accepting a complimentary pint of Guinness with effusive thanks, ‘the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.’
‘But Django,’ Zac pointed out, ‘how will you decide which guest goes in which tent?’
‘Marquee!’ Django objected.
‘Marquee,’ said Zac. ‘It’s rather subjective. I mean, take Matt, he’s bad and ugly.’ Matt raised his pint.
‘I didn’t see it like that,’ Django mused, as if he now found Zac’s