Freya North - Pip

Tom managed a smile. ‘You are Dr Pippity,’ he declared.

‘Sort of – I’m actually also Merry Martha today. Are you all right?’ Tom nodded. ‘Boys like him,’ Pip said, in a gentler voice, with a cursory nod of her head in the direction of the other children, ‘they’re just silly bullies. I bet he wets his pants and has no proper friends.’ Tom’s smile broadened. Pip glanced towards the entrance to the park. She had a party to do in a couple of hours. She really should be on her way. But then she glanced at Tom.

God. I can’t just leave him. Little mite.

‘Where are your parents?’ Pip asked.

‘My mum’s in the St Lucy Jalousie,’ Tom said, wondering if he had the word order correct, ‘in the Caribbean. But my dad’s over there.’

‘Come on, let’s go over there, then,’ Pip said – though giving her stalker the wrong idea, or the slightest encouragement for his perversion, was something she’d really rather not do. ‘I hope you don’t let idiots like that stupid boy upset you,’ Pip said as they walked.

‘I try not to,’ said Tom with a weariness Pip felt no child his age should know. ‘I just say “sticks and stones” to myself.’

‘“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”,’ Pip quoted back to him.

‘That’s right!’ Tom said, feeling he had a true ally. ‘My dad says it’s what’s on the inside that counts.’

‘Beauty comes from within,’ said Pip. Tom loved her even more.

‘And anyway, the doctor says I will grow out of my eczema when I’m older. And it isn’t catching at all,’ he continued, almost pleadingly.

‘Of course not,’ said Pip, taking his hand and walking on. ‘Why aren’t you and your dad in St Lucia, too, in the Caribbean?’ she asked conversationally, on their way over to the trees. Aware of the yarns children could spin, Pip had presumed the boy’s mother wasn’t truly away.

Mummy’s probably making all sorts of North London organic stuff for the kid’s tea. In a kitchen more suited to a Cotswold cottage, no doubt – Aga and gingham and scrubbed wood units.

‘My mum’s on honeymoon,’ Tom explained, ‘with Rob-Dad.’

Pip decided it was time to give the child’s imagination a break so she changed the subject to balloons instead. ‘If you could have a balloon that looked like anything you wanted it to, what would it be?’

And please God choose a cat, dog, parrot or tortoise.

Luckily, Tom procrastinated for so long that Pip had blown a balloon and twisted it into a parrot by the time he said ‘Giant anteater, actually’.

‘Will a parrot do?’

‘It’s brill! Thanks, Dr Pippity.’

‘Martha.’

‘Martha, then.’

‘Actually, you can call me Pip.’

‘Who?’

Zac, unaware of his son’s altercation with the bully, did not know where to look, let alone what to expect, on observing the clown and his son making their way towards him. So he pretended he was engrossed in his newspaper. But that seemed rude. So he watched them approach. But that seemed ruder. So he decided to meet them halfway.

‘Look at my parrot, Daddy.’

‘It’s lovely,’ Zac told Tom, thanking the clown without looking at her. Pip thought the man spent an inordinate amount of time displaying a bizarre level of interest in her balloon sculpture but it gave her a chance, however fleetingly, and however quickly she dismissed it, to see that, in the sunlight, away from the hospital, no matter how peculiar he was on the inside, he was clad in a most appealing exterior. Eyes the colour of slate. Handsome face with neat features. Dark hair, short and neat. Trim physique clad in nicely cut clothes. Though a slight preponderance of navy, Pip felt, considering the balmy weather.

I don’t know why I’m even noticing. He’s not my type.

Oh? What’s your type, then, Pip?

Don’t have one.

So how do you know this chap isn’t for you?

Because he’s not. He’s nuts, for starters, plus he has a kid. A child, for heaven’s sake. Anyway, there’s Caleb to consider.

I thought you weren’t considering Caleb at all?

‘She’s got lots of tricks,’ Tom was telling his father, ‘and lots of names, too.’

‘I have,’ said Pip in Martha’s voice. ‘It means never a dull moment for me. If I’m boring myself, I just become Martha. If Martha’s getting on my nerves, I summon up Dr Pippity. If Dr Pippity is tired, then I’m just plain old me.’

See! Zac thought, with a degree of relief. She is an utter weirdo. With what is probably a sectionable personality disorder, too .

Yet he couldn’t help but think that she wasn’t ‘plain’ in the slightest, whatever she might protest to the contrary. And however lurid her clothing and daft her make-up.

‘Most people are locked up if they have as many personalities as me!’ Pip said, right on cue, but to Tom and not Zac.

See, Zac thought, vindicated, she’s barking.

‘I must be off,’ said Pip. Then she looked at Tom and took a sniff at her arm. She wrinkled her nose: ‘Yeuch, I am off – past my sell-by date!’ Tom giggled, Zac tried not to. She stopped herself from saying ‘not really’ to the bloke lest he thought she actually did smell, though why she cared what he thought she didn’t know.

‘Watch how fast I can run!’ Tom boasted. Watching him belt off towards the deer enclosure, Pip marvelled how quickly children could bounce back from a knock. She was also quite charmed to see how his father timed him.

‘Two revolting kids were picking on him,’ Pip told his father when Tom was out of earshot, ‘little sods.’

Zac nodded gravely, keeping an eye on the second hand of his watch. ‘I bet he bore up OK,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Pip confirmed, ‘but they were vile.’

‘Poor old Tom,’ said Zac. ‘It’s awful to say he’s used to it – but he is. And for the most part, it doesn’t happen often.’

‘Well, I’m off,’ said Pip, despite a perceptible loiter to the contrary which infuriated her.

‘Yeah, good idea,’ Zac said, with a derisory sniff in her direction, ‘you do whiff a bit.’

Why did you say that?

Why did he say that?

Why the fuck did I say that?

Your sense of humour is so dry it’s positively parched, Zac. Backtrack.

But he’s standing there, an unfortunate and involuntary smirk stuck to his face while he racks his brain for a way to minimize the insult without drawing more attention to it. It’s taking him too long. See, Pip is smiling cursorily but she’s backing off.

She must think I am an absolute arse, now. I was only trying to pick up on her own joke.

Pip didn’t see it that way. Why should she? After all, look what she’s had to go by from Zac before.

What a dick. And whether it’s a lack of manners or a warped sense of humour on his part, I can’t say I really care.

‘How fast?’ said Tom, panting.

‘There and back?’ Zac asked. ‘Two minutes forty in all.’

‘Where’s my clown?’

‘Gone home, little ’un.’

Tom wasn’t too upset. He now felt sure he’d see her again. Dr Pippity. Or the Martha one with more make-up and fewer clothes. Zac reckoned so, too. And didn’t quite know how he felt about it, now that he’d made a prat of himself for the second, even third, time. Hastily, he reminded himself she was a clown, and wasn’t that an odd thing to choose to be? And hadn’t clowns frightened him when he was young? He thought of Juliana; her long legs and no holds barred. Then he considered Clowngirl with her stripy tights and daft voices.

Well, not that he’s to know, but the next time Zac sees Pip, he simply won’t recognize her at all.