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

by Parks, Adele

  I didn’t imagine it would come like this.

  ‘Tom won’t use it against us. He’s not like that. He doesn’t want to hurt us.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  He storms out of the kitchen, letting the door bang behind him. It isn’t until after I’ve poured myself another glass of wine, cleared the pots, stacked the dishwasher and wiped all the surfaces that I realise I didn’t answer him. I didn’t accept his proposal.

  25

  I love Fridays when there are away games timetabled for the afternoon across the school, because parents can collect their daughters from school to take them there at two o’clock. Some parents can’t manage this and their daughters travel to the games by minibus. Katherine has mentioned that she’d love to go on the minibus because the team sings songs and fools about. I understand the attraction but, even so, I usually pick her up. I’m not certain that all the minibuses have safety belts and, besides, we get to spend a bit more time together. The truth is, at the moment I’m reluctant to let her out of my sight. If I could, I’d go to school with her. I almost feel as though I want to swallow her whole; literally consume her. Jeff keeps saying I have to loosen my grip. He says the way I’m behaving is depressing. ‘It’s as though you’re admitting she might not be around for the duration, that you’re trying to make the most of her,’ he scowls. Well, yes.

  I swap the odd word with one or two of the mums who have been able to pick up their daughters early. We talk about the upcoming Christmas fair and the carol concert. There’s some confusion as to what we have to donate for the former and when we can buy tickets for the latter. I’m able to help because I have a digital copy of last week’s newsletter on my phone; I always download it for just this sort of emergency. As we chat, we all keep one eye on the tide of girls flowing from the main door, waiting to spot our own. There’s the usual noise of feverish final gossip and chat: it’s as though they haven’t had time to talk to each other all day, which I know isn’t true; sometimes it seems like that’s all they do at school. I see Katherine walking with her friend Maddie Goodwin; they start to scan the pick-up point and sideroads for Maddie’s mum, who never gets out of the car to greet her daughter. This isn’t neglect: Maddie forbade her to do so in Year 8. In truth, I might be the only Year 11 mother who regularly appears at the gate. Mrs Goodwin drives a great big silver Range Rover, so you’d think she’d be easy enough to locate, but then practically every mum seems to have the need for an off-road vehicle in this busy urban town, so it’s not.

  I notice Tom leaning against the fixtures board, where a lot of parents mill about. He stands out: not only is he tall but he’s male, and not many dads do the pick-up from this school. He doesn’t look particularly comfortable and I notice he hasn’t shaved. It’s shallow of me, but I wish he had. The parents at Wittington High tend to be a clean-cut bunch. I’ve been extremely nervous about him meeting us here. I’d have much preferred it if he could have met us at the match; there are so many people on the sidelines we might not have been as conspicuous. To be absolutely frank, I’m not even sure I want him at the game at all. It’s bound to lead to lots of questions. However, he has said on two or three occasions how much he’d love to see Katherine play lacrosse, the last of which was in front of her. She seemed reasonably responsive; she said, ‘I think you’ll be bored,’ which, as Tom pointed out, from a teenager is virtually a gold-edged invitation. I didn’t know how to dismiss the suggestion without appearing rude.

  We make eye contact and he nods at me, throws out a small wave. It’s a discreet gesture; that’s very thoughtful of him. I ruin it by waving back anxiously, which catches his, Katherine’s and everyone else’s attention. I’m panicky.

  ‘Who is that?’ asks Zoë Rutter, standing on tiptoes to get a better look above the swarm of heads and boater hats. Even when he’s unkempt, Tom’s good looks are the sort to cause a stir.

  ‘That’s my uncle – I mean, Katherine’s uncle,’ I mumble as I start to head his way.

  ‘Lovely,’ she says, with outright appreciation. She nods, smiles and turns away, accepting my word. The thing about being known for the sort of scrupulous honesty that makes me no fun at a pub quiz is that it means I’m never going to fall under suspicion when I do tell a lie.

  ‘Hey!’ He kisses me on both cheeks in greeting. I glance about to see if anyone is taking undue interest. He picks up on my nervy behaviour. ‘Are you OK with this?’ I nod. It’s too late to change anything. Katherine wanders up to us. He has teenagers, so he knows better than to make any attempt at greeting her beyond a smile and a nod in front of her friends.

  He doesn’t ask about her day but says, ‘Your mum told me you took the test.’ While I’m sure anyone eavesdropping will assume he means Grade 7 cello or some module or other of one of her GCSEs, Katherine understands immediately. For us, there’s only one test now.

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  ‘You are a brave girl.’ He smiles and his eyes crinkle up. He must have been devastatingly handsome when he was young. Irresistible. It’s pretty clear that a number of the mums, nannies and au pairs think he’s really quite something as he is now; they are tripping over their tongues. Small girls are earnestly trying to tell their mothers about their part in the nativity play or how they answered a geography question, but they are being ignored. Katherine notices. She glares at Tom’s admirers, rolls her eyes, folds her arms across her chest, no doubt despairing that they find this man attractive. In her opinion he’s too old to be noticed; the mums are too old to be noticing. She probably thinks it’s all a bit pathetic.

  ‘She was amazing,’ I confirm. All I can think of is her quietly determined face smiling at the doctor in the clinic, assuring him, and anyone who’d listen, that she wasn’t in the slightest bit afraid.

  ‘Are you OK with me taking it?’ she asks Tom thoughtfully.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He actually looks rather stressed, maybe a bit tired – none of us is looking forward to the result – but he rallies. ‘You must know that I support any decision you make. You’re a really sensible girl, Katherine. Even though we’ve only known each other for—’ He looks to the sky, obviously doing the maths.

  ‘Eleven weeks,’ I offer.

  He grins. ‘Eleven weeks – I knew from the onset that you were level-headed, wise.’ Katherine has received this particular compliment a million times over. We’re always telling her as much, and so are her teachers; her friends’ parents often agree to their child attending an excursion only if Katherine is going along. I’d have thought she’d be bored of being called sensible, but she beams at him. He beams back at her. Mirror images.

  I notice that the minibus is already pulling away. ‘So, shall we get going? We don’t want to be late.’

  Tom slaps his hands together. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Do you know where you are going? Elseward Grammar.’

  ‘In Chitterfield, just up the A307? I have to turn left just after the little playpark; if I get as far as the new Waitrose I’ve gone too far, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m impressed he has made the effort to look it up. Whenever Jeff has to attend a school function or a game, or on the rare occasion he has to pick Katherine up from a friend’s, he dashes out the house, yelling at me to text him the postcode. He entirely depends on satnav to find anywhere. There’s something quite appealing about a man checking a map and then simply driving to his destination with confidence. That said, Katherine loves it when Jeff changes the programming on the satnav and we’re given directions by the voice of Homer Simpson.

  ‘I know it. It’s not that far from Amy’s school.’

  ‘OK. We’ll see you there.’ I stoop to pick up Katherine’s rucksack. She always has so many heavy bags; it’s all the textbooks they have to carry. I worry she’s going to damage her back. In a flash, Tom swoops up both the rucksack and her kitbag and effortlessly throws both over his shoulder.

  ‘Aren’t we all travelling together? There doesn’t seem any sense
in taking two cars. It would be nice to chat on the way. I’ll drive.’ I glance at Katherine. She shrugs. We’ve been in Tom’s car before on a number of occasions. It’s a terrible mess. It’s full of loose CDs and empty cases and the two things never seem to tally. There are sweet papers and empty Red Bull cans on the floor. It’s nothing like my immaculate car, which smells of pine air fresheners and is valeted inside and out once a month.

  ‘Erm, fine. That’s very good of you.’ I really wish I could learn to say the word ‘no’.

  As we walk to the car Katherine tells us that they expect to win this game. Elseward Grammar are well below Wittington High in the league ‘They’re pretty lame and, besides, we’re really on form at the moment.’ I know it’s probably because she’s simply excited about Tom coming to spectate but she sounds a bit too confident.

  ‘Pride comes before a fall,’ I warn. She glares at me and I kick myself. Why couldn’t I have kept that thought in my head?

  Tom tries to come to the rescue by changing the subject. ‘How are we going to introduce me on the sidelines?’

  ‘As Tom Truby,’ I say. Both Katherine and Tom throw me a despairing look. It’s obvious I’m trying to avoid the issue. I acquiesce. ‘Well, we should stick to the story that you are Katherine’s uncle,’ I mutter.

  ‘Fine.’ Tom smiles, willing to accommodate me. ‘Am I your brother or Jeff’s?’

  I think of my own brothers, hard-faced and cold; respectively, grasping, irresponsible and spoilt. ‘You could never be my brother,’ I assert firmly.

  Tom’s smile broadens. ‘I’ll be Jeff’s, then. Is that all right by you, Katherine?’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s unnecessary. I don’t feel like Mum does. I don’t have a great desire to keep our peculiar situation under wraps.’ I stare at Katherine, surprised. This is news to me. ‘I reckon if I told the girls about it I’d be such hot news. It would be all over Instagram and the whole world would be snapchatting about me in a heartbeat.’

  ‘My biggest fear.’

  ‘But Mum, what’s the worst that can happen? So what if our situation was leaked to the press? That would be a result.’

  ‘You’d be interviewed in the paper, everyone would be clamouring to be your bestie,’ chips in Tom.

  ‘I might even get to go on breakfast TV or The Wright Stuff. You would be good on breakfast TV, Tom.’

  ‘Yeah, I could sit on the sofa effortlessly, almost inadvertently, flirting with the female presenter.’

  I stare at him, shocked.

  ‘I’ve actually considered anonymously calling a tabloid to spill our story,’ says Katherine.

  ‘What?’ I’m aghast. I stand stone still and stare at the pair of them. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No, not seriously, Mum.’ Katherine links her arm through mine and laughs. ‘We’re teasing you. Hashtag chill.’

  Tom is walking on the other side of me; he casually flings his arm around my shoulder. ‘We wouldn’t do that to you. We know it would crush you. You’re so intensely private. Katherine wouldn’t ever want to do anything that would upset you. I mean, even if you two have your ups and downs, she loves you to bits.’ Katherine squeezes my arm, affirming what she won’t say herself nowadays.

  I’m touched that he’s noticed, that he cares enough to let me know he sees it’s the case. I wonder what we look like to other people, walking down the street huddled together, all of us smiling now. A unit. A family? I’m thinking about that as Tom unlocks the car; he opens the door for me as Katherine checks her Instagram feed and scrambles into the back. ‘You are adorable and, with your funny, worrying ways, so very easy to wind up. We all love you.’ He’s laughing as he says it and so I don’t know. I can’t quite be sure. An affable comment. Or? Something more?

  I have to move an out-of-date newspaper and a tatty old copy of Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock before I can sit down. I hand them to Katherine to put on the seat next to her. She doesn’t appear to have heard his comment. It’s not surprising; like all teenagers, she assumes that most of what adults say is a bit dull. ‘Oh, I’m studying Brighton Rock for my GCSE,’ she comments.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Well, yeah. A book with gang murders, suicide pacts and a sociopath who thinks killing someone or marrying them are about equal – what’s not to love?’ She stares out of the window. I happen to know she recently wrote a very good essay likening the book to a morality play, a clash between two characters equally obsessed with good and evil, but I get it: showing that much enthusiasm for literature is hardly cool. ‘It’s made me want to go to Brighton, though. I haven’t been for ages. We used to go when I was younger, didn’t we, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘We always had a brilliant time. It was forever hot and totally heaving. I remember being thrilled by how much plastic and sugar was available.’ I remember the strings of cheap, beaded necklaces, the snow globes, the lettered rock and the bubblegum machines that lined the pavements; stuff which I pronounced tat and Jeff called fun. ‘I think there’s an old photo of me somewhere, wearing a naff kiss-me-quick hat. Isn’t there, Mum?’

  Yes, there is. She’s grinning, too young to be shy or to think to pretend she’s only enjoying wearing it with a sophisticated sense of irony. She’s simply wearing a hat that demands her parents hug and kiss her. I’m in the photo, too. I don’t even look disapproving; my expression is the one every mother wears when she’s irresistibly charmed.

  ‘I’d like to see that, some day,’ says Tom.

  ‘I think I remember eating Nutella-filled crêpes,’ she muses. ‘We haven’t been to Brighton for ages.’ I cross my fingers and hope she doesn’t mention why. It’s quite possible I was the one who insisted we stopped visiting and instead went to West Wittering if we wanted to be by the seaside, by the sea. West Wittering is not a destination point for riotous hen nights where the bride opts to wear an inflatable penis on her head. I’m just saying.

  She does change the subject but, as it happens, I’m no more comfortable with her next topic. ‘Will you be picking up Amy at three fifteen?’ she asks Tom.

  Tom coughs. ‘Well, I wasn’t planning on it.’

  ‘You could bring her here to catch the second half. I bet she’ll enjoy the match tea. Elseward always serve delicious brownies.’

  ‘She’s got a ballet class today.’

  Disappointment radiates off Katherine. ‘So you’ll have to take her to that? How will we get home?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. We can get a lift back to the school off Maddie’s mum,’ I chip in. ‘I’m certain she won’t mind.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Tom says. ‘I do a lift share with one of the mothers for ballet class so I don’t have to get back for three fifteen. I don’t need to be home until five.’ Tom looks strained. Katherine doesn’t bother to ask about Olivia or Callum; she knows they get themselves to and from school. We’re sitting at a red light and he takes the opportunity to turn to try to look directly at her. Clearly unimpressed, she stares out of the window, apparently fascinated by the Christmas decorations hanging from the street lamps.

  ‘I think it’s rather lovely that when Tom isn’t playing chauffeur to any of his three he opts to spend time with you,’ I say in a sing-song voice that falls on deaf ears. We finish the journey in a difficult silence. Exactly like a family.

  26

  The minute we arrive at Elseward Grammar Katherine dashes off towards the changing rooms. I find Tom and I a spot to stand on the sidelines. I pick a place where we are some distance from the other Wittington High supporters because, if I can minimise tricky questions, I will. Tom looks downcast. ‘What did I say wrong?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s because you haven’t brought Amy along.’

  ‘She’s at ballet,’ he groans.

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘What?’

  I don’t see any point in lying. ‘Well, Katherine thinks you are keeping the kids at arm’s length because you are concerned about
her health.’ He looks confused. ‘You know, if the worst comes to the worst.’ I stutter out the words; they actually hurt me physically, but better that than me becoming used to saying it. ‘She thinks you’re trying to avoid putting them through any more trauma.’ Tom doesn’t look sad, as I expected; he looks angry. I guess he has enough to be fuming about: the cards he’s been dealt have not been fair.

  ‘What put that idea in her head?’ he demands.

  I don’t want to get Amy into trouble, so I shrug. ‘Oh, you know, teens. They come up with the strangest thoughts.’

  He joins the dots. ‘So that’s why she decided to take the test all of a sudden.’ I nod. He runs his hands through his hair, grasps it. Practically yanks it. ‘She must be terrified. Totally fucking terrified.’ I glance about, mentally urging him to keep his voice down.