The Stranger In My Home: I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong.

by Parks, Adele

  The fireworks bang and zoom all about. The pitch-black sky is dizzy with red, pink, white, purple and blue cascades. The colours explode, then smoke trails dreamily as they float into nothingness. The encouragement from the crowd becomes more robust as people get caught up in the magic and lose their inhibitions; everyone appreciatively calls out: Ooooh! Ahhhh! Ohhhh! Tom occasionally bends towards Katherine and makes some comment or other; she laughs, smiles, nods in response. Next, Jeff comes up with his own witticism or remark. It’s like watching two seagulls struggle over a chip on the seafront.

  ‘Ever since the millennium, firework displays have been expertly choreographed, don’t you think?’ says Tom. ‘Not like in my day.’

  ‘True,’ interjects Jeff. ‘Katherine has never experienced the let-down of the last firework being a pop rather than a bang, have you, darling?’ Katherine shakes her head obligingly.

  ‘I love the flinty smell of fireworks,’ enthuses Tom. ‘Do you, Katherine?’ She nods.

  ‘Did you go to the Thames, last New Year’s Eve? They have multi-sensory firework displays now, you know. Remember, Katherine?’ She moves her head. I’m not sure if she’s nodding or shaking it.

  ‘What are they, exactly?’ asks Tom.

  Jeff explains. ‘They made the fireworks smell of apple, cherry, strawberry and peach. They also filled thousands of bubbles with Seville orange-flavoured smoke and pumped out thousands of grams of edible banana confetti.’

  ‘Oh,’ mumbles Tom, not showing whether he’s impressed or not.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you go?’

  ‘No,’ admits Jeff, which rather takes the shine off his story. He tries to recover. ‘Maybe this year. What do you think, Katherine?’

  ‘I might have plans for New Year’s Eve.’

  I get the feeling she’s quite ready to go home by the time the display comes to a finish.

  We fall in with the vast majority, who are now gladly shuffling towards the gate. Some children are asleep in buggies, the older ones are yawning and trailing behind, watchful parents reach for their little, sticky hands. Jeff suggests we stop off at Costa for a hot chocolate but about a thousand other people have had the same idea and Tom says he needs to get home to the kids. He pulls me into a brief but tight hug and Katherine opens out her arms to him.

  20

  Tom peels away, and is swallowed by the crowd almost instantly. We start to walk home in silence. A group of teenage boys across the road catches my attention because they’re heading in the opposite direction to most of the teeming crowds. I suppose they are going to the funfair that we’ve just left. They are the decent sort, boys that are wearing hoodies but not carrying cans of beer, the sort that will step on to the road to allow a mother with a buggy the right of way. One of them says something particularly funny and the rest throw their heads back with raucous laughter. That’s when I spot him. Callum. A snail’s trail of cars divides us and I lose sight of him for a moment, but I’m sure it was Callum. My mind makes fast jumps as I try to understand what’s happened. I can imagine his friends texting him all night, telling him they are off out to meet girls and have some fun at the fair. He must have become frustrated about having to stay in with Amy. No doubt he shoulders a lot of responsibility. I understand he’s been through a great deal, I can imagine he wants to blow off steam, but really! She’s eight years old. How could he have been so irresponsible as to leave her alone? Without thinking about it too much, because if I did I might talk myself out of it, I cut through the line of cars and start to chase after him. I call to Jeff and Katherine to carry on: ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’ Jeff sounds irritated.

  ‘I thought I saw Jan Bonville from school. I need to talk to her about something. I’ll be five minutes. Don’t wait.’

  I push through the crowds, forced repeatedly to hop up and down, on and off the kerb, but pretty soon I’ve caught up with the group of teenage boys. I reach out and tap Callum on the arm. He turns around, a wide grin plastered on to his face. It falters for a moment.

  ‘What are you doing out?’ I demand. I know that, technically, this boy is none of my business, not my responsibility in the least, but the thought of poor Amy abandoned makes me breathless with anger. As a kid who was often left in alone from the age of eight, I know it’s a terrible thing.

  ‘Erm, I’m going to the funfair,’ he replies, seemingly unperturbed, unrepentant. ‘Have you had a nice night?’

  I’m taken aback by his composure. ‘Lovely, thank you,’ I reply automatically. He glances behind him. His friends have not slowed down to wait for him; boys don’t, I’ve noticed. If this were a gang of girls, they’d all be huddled around me, giggling and waiting for an introduction.

  ‘Fireworks were good.’ I’m not sure if he’s making an assertion or asking me a question.

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Again he throws out a look of desperation towards his mates. They are fifty yards away now. It’s clear he wants to catch them up. I scowl. That’s not my concern.

  ‘Where’s Amy?’

  He points further up the road, in the direction I’ve just come from. ‘Up there somewhere.’

  ‘On her own?’ I gasp.

  He looks perplexed. ‘Of course not. We’re with a whole gang of people.’

  Now I’m the one who is confused. ‘Olivia?’

  ‘Yes. She’s there, with all her friends, and Mum—’ He stumbles over his words, goes red. My heart contracts for him. ‘Mum’s friends. Everyone.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought—’ But I can hardly say what I thought.

  How could I have imagined Callum would be so irresponsible? I now realise what’s happened. Annabel’s friends have scooped up the children. Probably, there’s a whole host of women who are desperate to help the family of their late friend. Capable, kind men and women who are keen to get the Trubys through these holidays and high days. I imagine a lot of people will have had the instinct that made me invite Tom and the children here in the first place, and those people no doubt have a lot more right and ability to offer sympathy and care. What was I thinking? I’ve put Tom in a difficult position. It’s clear what’s happened. The children evidently refused to spend the evening with us and Tom was too polite to say so. As he’d already committed to the arrangement, he saw it through. He must have been torn. Naturally, Annabel was the sort to have numerous friends: uni friends, NCT friends, school-gate friends. I bet she cut calm and confident swathes through life, I bet she charmed and inspired everywhere she went. I guess they’ll have children Callum, Olivia and Amy have known since birth. I hadn’t considered the wider support circle.

  I can’t explain it, but I feel a bit wrong-footed. Silly of me. I should be delighted the Trubys have this support. I am. I really am.

  It’s just that, well …

  I thought I was beginning to get to know Tom.

  This gaggle of strangers, however kind and compassionate, don’t fit with the picture I was drawing of him. Admittedly, we haven’t spent long with the Trubys but, whenever we have, Tom always seems so dreadfully alone. Lonely. Yes, he’s delightful and inquisitive, but I’m pretty certain his focus on me is simply a deflection device; it’s as though he can’t bear talking about himself, not in any detail.

  I guess I thought he needed me.

  Callum glances back over his shoulder again; he doesn’t want to lose sight of his pals. He’s keen to get away from me.

  ‘I don’t want to be rude, but I’d better get going. Just been let off the leash.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Nice seeing you. Have fun. Stay warm.’

  I turn round and head back up the road, searching out Jeff and Katherine, but I also keep an eye out for Olivia and Amy and their friends, too. As much as I’m surprised by the existence of a cheerful bunch of pals, I do understand it’s a really good thing for the children. I would like to see them wrapped in a compassionate and loyal group. I’d like to hold that im
age in my head, rather than the one of their stark, grieving house.

  When I catch up with my family I don’t mention seeing Callum; it’s too complicated; Katherine has enough to think about without having to concern herself with the fact that the Truby children have slighted us.

  When Katherine is safely tucked up in bed, Jeff hands me a glass of red and we both sit down on the sofa, not next to each other exactly; we’d have to reach out to touch. Still, I sense that he’s trying to be as pleasant as he possibly can with me. He put away all the coats, hats and gloves when we arrived home rather than dumping them on the chair in the hallway as he does normally, he set the table while I made a quick bowl of pasta pesto and then he offered to pop out to buy me a bar of chocolate, although I declined. Significantly, he didn’t rush off to his office and squirrel himself away but instead sat down with the clear intention of making conversation. I know he is trying. I just wish I could appreciate it fully. Instead, I find it a bit depressing: I think that he shouldn’t have to try; being nice to one another used to be effortless. I notice the cat/rabbit toy propped up against the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s a cheap, peculiar-looking thing, as fairground toys often are; I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t pass any safety standards. Its eyes are sewn too close together, which makes it look a little nervous, tense. I’m in a bad way, I must be, if I’m humanising a toy.

  ‘Did you have a good time tonight?’ he asks.

  An accurate answer would be ‘sort of’. That type of response would definitely lead to a more in-depth and truthful conversation. ‘Yes, great, thank you,’ I say. Then, as an afterthought, ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very pleasant. Pretty good show,’ he mumbles, nodding. He seems defeated. There’s no vigorous insistence that we ‘just have to see how things play out.’ I suppose he’s still feeling a bit scratchy because he couldn’t knock a bloody coconut off its shy and Tom could.

  I know Jeff is staring at me, waiting to say something more. I consider telling him about spotting Callum and the fact that he, Olivia and Amy all chose to be out with family friends rather than us but then I notice he is wearing a tense expression, similar to that of the cat/rabbit, so I decide against it. I’m pretty sure a trouble shared would be a trouble doubled in this case. There’s a long pause. Neither of us even bothers to pick up a section of the newspaper or a novel to fake a distraction. Eventually, Jeff says, ‘Tom has a very relaxed way with Katherine, don’t you think?’ I can hear the discomfort in his voice. Jeff is rarely uncomfortable; usually, he is so relaxed in his skin I live in perpetual fear that it might slip off him like a seducer’s kimono. His obvious unease is disconcerting.

  ‘No more relaxed with her than you are with Olivia.’ He doesn’t look convinced. ‘I suppose it’s because he’s used to having more than one child. He knows how to keep things equal. We’re at a disadvantage.’

  ‘I certainly am,’ says Jeff. His irritation has a whiff of animosity.

  ‘Why you more so than me? You are doing far better with Olivia than I am.’

  ‘But that’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Why is it irrelevant?’

  ‘Because it’s not Olivia you want to be mother to, is it?’ I stare at him and his meaning slowly sinks under my skin. ‘Oh, come on, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.’ He swallows back his wine and then hastily refills his glass. ‘There are two dads, two girls, one mum. You can’t lose.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I can.’

  ‘No, not really.’ He looks crushed, and I feel someone squeezing my heart. He hasn’t been my focus for days now, weeks, but in that moment I remember his fragility, his humanity. It’s not that I don’t think about Jeff, it’s just that out of all the people I think about – Katherine, Olivia, Tom – I consider Jeff the most self-sufficient. He doesn’t need me the way they do. However, he’s my life partner. He is Katherine’s dad.

  ‘We’re in this together,’ I assure him. He gives me a look that says, No, not really. The hurt and humiliation colour the air. It’s unendurable; after a moment, he picks up the remote control and starts to channel-hop desultorily from one show to the next. The gesture is crippling in its futility.

  ‘Everything all right with Jan Bonville?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she still going on about the damned car scratch?’

  ‘No, she’s let that drop.’

  ‘Good thing, too. Daft bitch,’ he says, attaining a casual, dismissive tone. ‘She needs more to worry about.’

  No doubt. And we so obviously need less.

  21

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Hello, Alison.’ I can hear the warmth and pleasure in his voice. I feel flattered and, at the same time, guilty as I think of Jeff’s trounced demeanour last night. Admittedly, he seemed jauntier again this morning. He always rallies. He said something about having to get to the university library and dashed out of the door, a slice of toast in his hand. He likes eating on the run. It makes him feel vital. When we first met I’d often find a used mug in his beaten-up car because he’d have made a cup of tea and then had a thought about somewhere he needed to be or go. He’d rush out of the door with the mug and slurp the hot, sweet liquid at traffic lights.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you during work hours.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not interrupting anything important.’

  ‘You must be working on something,’ I insist laughingly. Tom’s approach to his work is the opposite of Jeff’s. Tom has been through enough to understand that he works to live: to pay the bills, to keep a roof over the kids’ heads, et cetera. Jeff lives to work: he thinks the only thing that really matters is what he produces. I once heard him say that he thinks of himself as a writer before he thinks of himself as a man. I’m sorry, no matter how much he reminds me of a badly put-together toy, that comment is pompous, ridiculous. It’s impossible not to note that Tom’s life experiences are beyond Jeff’s and that his attitude to work is more pragmatic.

  ‘You’re really interested? OK. Well, I’m looking at several almost identical yellows on a RAL K7 colour chart to try to make a decision which one says “sunshine”. It’s for the lettering on a margarine tub.’

  I can’t stop myself giggling. Assured that I’m probably not interrupting anything vital, I say, ‘I just wanted to talk about last night.’

  ‘OK. There’s something I want to talk to you about, too. Can you meet for a coffee?’

  I had planned to ask him about Olivia, Callum and Amy’s non-appearance over the phone, but a coffee does sound tempting. I’ve been to my Pilates class this morning and I have nothing else to do with myself other than plump cushions in an already immaculate house. ‘Yes, all right. Fine.’

  Tom suggests a small, independent bistro in town he knows. I haven’t visited it but I have often walked past and it always looks inviting. I’m not sure why I haven’t ever been inside. Habit, I suppose. I tend to visit the tea shops in department stores or one of the many coffee chains. Those sort of establishments offer anonymity. No one is likely to want to strike up a conversation.

  Although I’m very prompt, Tom is waiting for me. He has a seat at a table right at the back, and I’m oddly relieved. Not that there is anything wrong with meeting him for coffee, but I don’t need to advertise the fact by sitting in the window. What if someone I know walked past – a school mum, or Jeff?

  Tom jumps to his feet and I notice his long, loose limbs. They seem as though they should belong to a younger man. He leans towards me but instead of pulling me into his habitual hug he catches me off guard by going for a kiss on either cheek. Not the maw-maw kiss of air or the vague hovering of his chin near my ear, actual warm kisses. One, two. His lips on my cheeks. Soft. His hand is on my elbow, too. He squeezes it. It’s nothing. Just good manners. A social greeting appropriate for two adults meeting in a public place. But my cheeks and elbow tingle. ‘I didn’t know what to order for you,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll have an ordinary coffee.’ I correct myself because, although he�
��s bound to understand my order, I sound gauche. ‘An Americano.’

  We order; Tom asks where I parked.

  ‘I didn’t drive, I walked. It’s only ten minutes. The traffic is heavy; it might very well have taken me the same length of time in the car.’

  ‘I guess people are already starting their Christmas shopping.’ He shakes his head, as though to dislodge the thought. ‘Bella used to love Christmas. She would have been writing Christmas cards by now.’

  ‘Really? I’m surprised, I guess I had her down as a bit more laissez-faire, a bit more relaxed.’

  ‘It wasn’t a neurotic planning thing, it was excitement.’

  The waitress brings our coffee mugs to the table; the hot liquid slops over the rim as she puts them in front of us. I don’t grab a paper napkin to mop it up because this is the first time Tom has voluntarily opened up to me about Annabel. I don’t want to interrupt his flow. He is on a roll. His small talk has been swallowed by his memories. I wonder whether this was why he was so quick to suggest we meet up; he must have reached a point where he needs someone to talk to. ‘I know lots of women turn into she-devils at Christmas.’ He glances at me apologetically, correctly guessing I have been guilty of being such a woman. Then he adds, ‘I mean, it’s understandable, women still seem to take the brunt of the extra work. Wrongly.’

  I smile to show I’m not offended. My brief but boisterous blow-up on Christmas Eve is practically a family tradition. I always want to be at the nativity service at church or serving mince pies to friends in the warmth of our sitting room; the reality is I’m usually dashing about with the vacuum cleaner, worrying whether the turkey will defrost before the big day, panicked that Jeff’s family are going to arrive before their allotted time. Katherine and Jeff are quite understanding when I lose it for twenty minutes. Jeff pours me champagne. Katherine asks if she can use the wrapping paper as she has something special to wrap. Wink, wink. I know she means something special for me. Sweet girl.