Home Truths. Freya North

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      ‘Stop it,’ Ben joshed, getting up and checking his pager, ‘you make me sound a wuss. And anyway, I thought you loved me for my enormous dick.’

      * * *

      ‘I cannot believe that I’m going to spend my Saturday traipsing around Alexandra Palace at a convention of model railway nutters and their train sets!’ Pip declared, only half joking, surveying the hall and its eccentric population.

      Zac raised his eyebrows. ‘Firstly, it’s the Thames and District Society of Model Engineers. Secondly, if it wasn’t for me, you’d have to spend every Saturday dressed ridiculously trying to entertain roomloads of sugar-crazed party children.’

      Pip fanned out her fingers in front of her sulky expression, then furled them away to reveal a winsome look with much batting of doe eyes. Zac crossed his arms and regarded her sternly. She fanned and then furled her fingers once more, reinstating a natural grin to her face.

      ‘Thirdly,’ Zac continued, ‘we haven’t had Tom for two weekends in a row.’

      Pip nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I’m only joking.’

      ‘Look at him,’ Zac said softly, noting that his son had teamed up with a new-found posse of young rail boffins, ‘he’s in his element.’

      Tom was a thoughtful child; not shy, popular at school, but thoughtful. Zac had a theory that boys were divided into two camps: football and fantasy. His nine-year-old son was firmly in the fantasy camp. It wasn’t that the restrictions of his eczema ruled out football, it was that Tom’s natural interests were dominated by trains and dinosaurs. My son the trainspotter who knows his connector rods from his couplings, Zac would say with pride. My son who could spell pterodactyl before he could spell his own name, Zac would beam.

      Watching an animated Tom admiring the array of essential pieces of kit and name-dropping each model engine from at least fifty paces with his new pals, Pip was consumed by a totally unexpected pang. It was like an electric shock and she jolted physically.

      ‘Are you OK?’ Zac asked.

      Pip nodded earnestly and went off at a tangent to dislodge the thought. ‘Django called us lot the “nit-pickin’ chicks” last weekend.’

      ‘That’s a fine Djangoism if ever I heard one,’ Zac laughed, strolling on to the next stand.

      ‘He hasn’t called us that for ages. Mind you, it’s been a while since the three of us sat like that,’ Pip said wistfully. ‘We always used to, when we were little – gravitate into a huddle, play with each other’s hair, trace patterns on each other’s clothes, tickle each other’s forearms. We do it absent-mindedly.’

      ‘Nit-pickin’ chicks,’ Zac mused. ‘I’d’ve called you a bunch of monkeys, I think. Did you ever actually have nits?’

      Pip laughed. ‘I do remember that we all had them at the same time – some epidemic at school. But of course Django couldn’t be doing with those torture combs and vile chemical shampoos so he doused our hair in some bizarre concoction of mustard powder and bicarbonate of soda. Or something. Tabasco. I don’t know.’

      ‘Did it work?’

      ‘The daft thing is, I can’t remember,’ Pip laughed. ‘I can only remember feeling slightly miffed that not even a case of head lice was going to make Django conform to conventional methods. I do remember the three of us having pretty short haircuts soon after. Django appeased us by saying our hair was so glorious that he’d been able to sell the offcuts to a master upholsterer in London and we would each be paid £5. We believed him. Even though the salon junior was sweeping it all away.’

      ‘And you were £5 richer?’

      ‘We were,’ Pip laughed, ‘though of course, Django made a rod for his back because we expected payment for every haircut thereafter.’

      ‘You must have done well, between the master upholsterer and the tooth fairy,’ Zac said.

      ‘The tooth fairy never paid cash,’ Pip bemoaned.

      ‘Can I have some money?’ a flushed and rather breathless Tom jogged over to ask. ‘I’d like to buy the guys a juice. They’re 50p each. I need about £2.’

      Pip looked over to where the other three boys were loitering by a spectacular G Scale display. ‘They seem nice,’ she said, ‘nice guys.’

      ‘They are,’ said Tom proudly. ‘They’re coming again tomorrow. It’s the last day of the show. There’s a prize draw. A model of Lampton Tank. Can we come again too?’

      ‘Sure,’ Zac told Tom, and Pip took a deep breath. Hadn’t they planned to take Tom to Tate Modern and then have lunch with Cat and Ben? Yes, father and son hadn’t had a whole weekend together for three weeks but Tom had met Cat only a handful of times over the last four years. However, watching Tom belt off to buy refreshments for his steam gang, Pip let her breath and the objection go. He was a sweet, sweet boy.

      Again, the pang confronted Pip and she shuddered. Zac sensed it. ‘Pip?’

      ‘Do you think Tom minds?’ she asked Zac. ‘I mean, do you think he ever minds being an only child?’

      Zac looked at Pip and frowned into thought. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said at length, ‘I mean, he’s never mentioned it. He has plenty of pals and he’s thick as thieves with his first cousin.’

      ‘I know,’ Pip rushed, ‘I just meant. I was just thinking about my sisters. Our closeness. I read a lovely saying the other day – Vietnamese, I think. Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet.’

      Zac kissed Pip. ‘Well, worry no more,’ he said, ‘because Tom isn’t to be an only child for much longer. I mean, he may be our only child, but he’s soon to have a sibling. June is pregnant. She told me this morning when I picked Tom up. He doesn’t know yet – June wants to wait till the tests are all-clear. Rob asked me if we’d mind having Tom an extra night now and then while June is feeling ropy.’

      Pip was dumbstruck, felt flushed and suddenly lightheaded.

      ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Zac pressed. ‘You look a little odd, Mrs.’

      ‘I’m fine. Good for June. Great news. I’ll call her later. Odd, though,’ Pip said, though she was aware that her thoughts were unreliably half-formed and should stay silent until worked through, ‘odd that Tom’s being was the result of two friends getting drunk, feeling horny and being careless – yet his half sibling has been meticulously planned. I wonder how he’ll feel about that later on.’

      Zac stopped. ‘What a weird take on it all, Pip,’ he murmured.

      Pip shrugged. ‘I used to wonder if I was planned, you see,’ she said. ‘I used to presume that I wasn’t planned – because that meant my mother had some kind of excuse for buggering off.’ Pip linked arms with Zac. ‘But then I think of Fen and Cat and my theory goes out the window. No one could be that careless.’

      Zac slipped his hand into the back pocket of Pip’s jeans and gave her buttock a light feel. ‘Well, I’m pleased for June and Rob. And I’m made up for Tom.’

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