by Penny Parkes
And, even though she’d allowed herself to coast, investing less and less of her energy into her studies and her dreams, she was still confident that she would manage a handful of Bs and perhaps the odd A.
Avoiding drama and turmoil was something they spoke about at school – being selective about where you focused your attention.
But her dad – after nearly a decade – thought this would be a good time to get in touch. Apparently.
As she’d got older, she’d revisited her memories of him over and over again, looking for clues and understanding. They all did it. At night, the air in the corridors positively hummed with crackling emotion.
With the benefit of a little life experience of her own, one thing was now clear to her that had eluded her worshipful six-year-old eye: her father was a selfish man.
A simple statement, but years of soul-searching had brought her to that realisation and with it – dare she consider it? – a small scrap of sympathy for her mother.
Her father had done as he pleased, to please himself. His choices, his priorities, were never those of a father or a family man – he was too interested in the next big thing, being the centre of the room, or indeed the centre of attention. His charisma and bonhomie bought him entry wherever he went, however ill-advised.
And he loved it.
How Anna and her mother could ever have competed with that compulsion she’d never know, but she could be fairly certain that he hadn’t given her circumstances much thought before penning that birthday card.
And then, just like that, the tears began to flow, filling the hole in her chest where the anger had been. Because, deep down, whether she liked it or not, she still longed to see him, to be swept up into his arms and the warm security of his conviction that better things were on their way for them. He had a plan…
Anna, on the other hand, just wanted a hug. She’d adored the light of his pride as she’d sat on his knee, reading way above her grade, and showing him how smart she was, how clever.
‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ he would say, ruffling her hair and smiling deep into her eyes.
Graham Wilson, with his three O levels and buckets of egotism would lay claim to her talents, as his wife prepared supper, hands raw from another cleaning shift to pay the bills, while her degree certificate only gathered dust on the wall of the downstairs loo.
Yes, at sixteen, there were things that Anna could see more clearly now, even if she still struggled to understand.
Yet, at sixteen, the thought of seeing her father at long last still pulled tightly at her closed-off heart, threatening to overwhelm her with thoughts of what might have been.
* * *
Anna sat at the back of the school gym the next morning, the cloying smell of sweat and trainers emanating from the changing rooms behind her. Rows of desks were laid out in a grid and bored teachers patrolled like Pacman as the minutes ticked by.
‘Q1: Discuss the use of imagery in An Inspector Calls and how it adds to the mood and impact of the piece.’
She read the question again – for possibly the twentieth time – but her brain stubbornly refused to engage with the words, let alone their meaning and what they might be asking of her.
So far, she had written precisely two words: her name. And her candidate number, which had taken more effort to recall than one might have imagined.
The birthday card from her dad though was fully memorised, a visual stamp on her brain that seemed to be blocking any other function.
She turned the page, leaving the answer lines blank.
‘Q2: Is Mr Birling a bad man? Discuss.’
Two seats in front of her, Lara Maxwell burst into tears. There was always at least one crier in every exam and, for the first time ever, Anna felt empathy rather than exasperation.
How easy it would be to fold her arms on her desk and simply admit defeat; a good sob might even be cathartic, even though her throat and eyes were still raw from the night before.
‘Anna. Anna?’
She looked up to see Mrs Holt looking down at her in concern. ‘Is everything okay? It’s just – well, we’re halfway through the exam and you haven’t started yet.’ She laid a hand on Anna’s shoulder and it was the kindness of her favourite teacher that was her undoing.
‘No,’ Anna gulped, her shoulders shaking. ‘I’m not okay, actually.’
Supporting her as they left the hall, Anna could see heads craning in voyeuristic delight. She might have dropped the ball, but English was the one subject where Anna still held her own.
There would be gossip now, and speculation.
She could lay odds that none of it would be halfway near the truth.
Settled in Mrs Holt’s little study across the corridor, Anna struggled to get her breathing level and was only grateful that Mrs Holt didn’t see fit to quiz her, focusing instead on making a mug of hot chocolate and pressing it into her hands.
‘It’s only a mock,’ Mrs Holt said simply, her care and compassion going apparently far beyond her class’s grade average.
She pulled open a desk drawer and unearthed an open packet of Hobnobs. ‘Times like this call for carbs and a chat, Anna. So, once you’ve caught your breath, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? You know all that stuff inside out and back to front, but you were staring at that paper like it was written in Ancient Greek.’
Anna just nodded, shoving a biscuit into her mouth, suddenly ravenous. And even though she recognised it as that hollow, emotional hunger that no amount of hot chocolate and Hobnobs could ever fill, they still made her feel better. Warmed, from the inside out.
‘I heard from my dad yesterday.’ There was no point beating around the bush; Jackie had taught her that. Hiding the main issue behind a house of cards and complaints until your hand was on the door knob was a fool’s errand she’d run too many times.
‘The first time since he walked out, when I was six.’ The words were matter-of-fact but Anna’s staccato delivery hid a world of pain.
‘Wow,’ breathed Mrs Holt, her hands folded neatly on her tweed skirt, like a cuddlier version of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. Whatever she’d been expecting Anna to say, it clearly hadn’t been that.
‘Not the birthday present I was expecting, to be honest,’ Anna said, attempting a wry smile, but feeling her resolve collapse as she saw the kindness and sympathy on Mrs Holt’s face.
‘How does it feel, hearing from him again? I’m guessing you’ve a few conflicting emotions on that front?’ Mrs Holt leaned forward, gently taking Anna’s hands in her own. ‘And in case nobody has mentioned it, that’s okay too.’
Anna looked up sharply. These weren’t empty words of commiseration, there was a resonance in her words that spoke of personal experience. ‘Did you—?’
Mrs Holt nodded. ‘My dad never left us, Anna. More’s the shame. He was just a serial womaniser who ground my mum’s self-esteem down into nothing. And there’s nothing like loving a person and hating them at the same time to make you feel utterly lost and confused.’
‘Ye-es,’ breathed Anna. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it’s like there’s an argument running in my brain all the time and there’s no room for anything else. Am I going to be a doormat if I agree to see him, or would I be missing out if I stand my ground and say no? This is supposed to be my time, to take my exams… And right now, I couldn’t even name one character in An Inspector Calls if there was fifty quid and a jam doughnut on the table.’
‘Oh and now you go mentioning jam doughnuts, which means that’s all I’m going to be thinking about when I’m trying to teach the year tens iambic pentameter after break,’ Mrs Holt chided her, a warm smile encouraging Anna to share.
‘He’s been moved to an open prison, and since I’m sixteen now, apparently he feels ready to have a visit. Notice I said that he feels ready. Just gave me the choice, said it would be nice to see me “now I’m all grown up”!’ Anna felt the anger heating her cheeks just quoting his words. ‘No menti
on of how I might be feeling about spending most of the last decade without so much as a postcard!’
‘Well then, I suppose you ask yourself this – what’s the rush? Put him from your mind and do your mocks. And do your best, because it’s your future that’s in the balance, not his. And then, if you’ve questions to ask, or just things you want to get off your chest, then you go see the man. With no expectation of happy ever after, just a chance to talk.’
‘I’m guessing it’s bad form to scream at a prisoner?’ Anna said, a twisted smile lighting her face.
‘You wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last…’ Mrs Holt said. ‘But you have to think about what’s best for you. Would you really feel better venting your anger, or would you like answers, maybe even closure?’
Anna shook her head. ‘If he’s looking for forgiveness then he’s barking up the wrong tree.’ She paused. ‘What if he’s found God in prison and he’s all about making amends?’
‘Then you have to decide if a relationship with your father is what you really want,’ Mrs Holt said calmly. ‘But either way, Anna Wilson, you owe it to yourself to put your studies first. You are an exceptional student – and don’t think I haven’t noticed you slacking off. You are capable of building a wonderful life for yourself. From nothing. With nothing except your God-given brains. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’
Chapter 29
Coventry, 2004
Her mocks had been a bust; a train wreck that brought derisive schadenfreude from others in her class and disappointed looks from her teachers.
Still, that was what mocks were for – a dress rehearsal for the real event in a few months’ time.
And throughout the long hours sitting in the gymnasium, her thighs pressed against the hard plastic chairs and the nervous tapping of pencils on desks like nails on a blackboard, her thoughts had never strayed far from Graham Wilson.
‘Are you sure about this?’
Anna wound down the car window, a gust of fresh air diluting the heavy scent of Shalimar.
‘No,’ Anna replied. She swivelled in her seat to face Jackie, who was frowning at the road signs directing them to the visitors’ centre at HM Darwent Open Prison.
‘Well then, let’s sit in the car until you are,’ Jackie said firmly.
Their relationship had evolved as Anna got older, less prone to holding her social worker responsible for every problem in her life, with her school, with her placements. They talked now, properly talked. As though that day, waiting for bus after bus to arrive bearing her mother, had somehow forged a bond of understanding between them; Anna finally got that Jackie was looking out for her best interests without bias or agenda, and Jackie seemed to grasp that Anna’s mind didn’t allow her to be fobbed off or left out of the loop.
‘Hope you haven’t got plans to be somewhere else after this then,’ Anna said.
There was a slight dig in there somewhere but Jackie let it go. She was always chasing her tail; overcommitted and under-resourced, she worried constantly about letting her charges down. Or, worse, making them feel rushed, as though their conversation was simply something to be ticked off a list.
It was only when she’d explained this to Anna that the tension had truly abated.
‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ Jackie said, turning off through the hammering rain and pulling up in front of a nondescript grey building that could just as easily have been a warehouse or office block, were it not for the cameras clustered on every corner and the uniformed guards in the reception area. ‘But you can’t put the genie back in the bottle with stuff like this. So I want you to be sure.’ She hesitated. ‘I also want you to remember that he’s just a man.
‘Yes, he’s your biological father and you have some fond memories of a long, long time ago. But he’s just a man. And whatever he says, even if it’s something that feels hurtful, you don’t need to believe it, or buy into it.’ She frowned. ‘Look, Anna, I would never dream of talking to another child like this, but your mind – well, it sees things and remembers things that other kids your age would miss. Just, don’t let Graham Wilson rewrite your history.’
* * *
Anna struggled to pull her belt free of its loops on her jeans, feeling sweaty and under scrutiny as she went through the security protocol with the burly man in uniform. Not that he was unkind, quite the contrary.
‘First time, is it, love?’ he said in a broad Midlands accent.
Anna nodded, a ball of tears already wedged in her throat and she hadn’t yet made it past the form-filling stage. She emptied her pockets and placed her mobile phone into a grey plastic tray, watching as he locked it into a pigeonhole with a bright blue door.
For a second a wild surge of laughter threatened, as Anna found herself reminded of her locker at primary school. All that was missing was her animal sticker. A for Aardvark. Not the easiest to spell, but certainly the coolest – who wanted to be Freddie the Frog?
She glanced over at Jackie, sitting in the waiting area, and wobbled for a moment.
Anna was here to listen.
That had always been her plan, but it genuinely hadn’t occurred to her until they were sitting in the car outside, that Graham Wilson would tell her anything other than the truth.
Hesitating in the doorway, as other prisoners greeted their spouses and their children, Anna couldn’t help but wonder whether Graham had made the right call.
Some of the children threw themselves into their father’s arms, laughing happily, delighted to see them and hardly drawing breath in their quest to share everything. ‘And then, Mum got my jeans out the tumble drier and the snail was still in the pocket!’
Another little boy, sensitive, quiet, and in possession of the worst haircut that Anna had seen in a very long time, clung tearfully to his mother’s arm, eyes fixed on the exit and refusing to engage with anything his father said.
It was different for everybody, it seemed, but oh how nice it would have been to be consulted.
She looked around the room, seeking out the dark glossy hair and wickedly laughing eyes that were her abiding memory. Her heart thudded into her throat – he wasn’t there.
She looked back over her shoulder for Jackie but she was three locked doors and a world away. The tears threatened to fall just as she felt the guard’s hand on her shoulder.
‘’S’a lot to take in, love, the first time. But you get used to it. Come on, I’ll walk you over.’
She opened her mouth to contradict him, to point out that even imprisoned, her feckless father had managed to stand her up, when she saw where he was pointing.
A man in a blue denim shirt and jeans stood up, his face a mask of surprise, his greying hair receding back from a pale, lined forehead. No sparkling amusement, just a tired resignation of his state. ‘That’s my dad?’ Anna said in disbelief, willing him to correct her.
Who was this man?
She waited for a connection, a memory, anything that would make this stranger morph into the man she had so missed. But there was nothing.
She gave an awkward smile, tugging at the orange plastic chair to sit down opposite him, before realising that it was bolted to the floor. The guard gave her an encouraging nod. ‘I’ll be just over here, okay, bab?’
‘Okay,’ said Anna, remembering her manners just in time. ‘Thank you.’
‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ said the man. Dad, she reminded herself. Graham possibly.
‘I don’t know what to call you,’ she said quietly, watching him flinch and wondering whether the hurt was genuine or for show.
‘I’m your dad, so I guess we can stick with that for now?’ he replied. ‘And you – Anna – you look so different. So like your mother actually, it’s uncanny.’
‘Not really.’ Petulance slipped into her voice. ‘We are related.’
‘Sure, sure you are. But still, it’s nice for an old man to know he has a beautiful daughter.’
Anna stilled. The whole concept made her uncomfor
table. He didn’t know her; what she looked like really was the very least part of what made up Anna Wilson. She tried to be generous and believe that he simply had nothing else to say to her. Not yet, not before they’d got to know each other again. But she had a sinking feeling that being beautiful was all he actually needed from her.
‘How long are you here?’ Anna asked.
He shrugged. ‘How long’s a piece of string, love. There was a misunderstanding at my old place, said it was a parole violation and pulled me back in for another five to seven, but they’re all bent. I was tricked, really.’
Anna simply nodded, his words only familiar to her from bad TV dramas. Any minute now he’d talk about the ‘screws’ giving him grief, or doing a ‘stretch’.
‘What did you do?’ She had no need to look at the list of questions she’d written on her hand.
‘Anna, do we have to talk about that? I haven’t seen you in forever. It would be nice to catch up, wouldn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘Eight years, nine months, five days, in case you’re wondering. One grammar school place. Six sets of foster parents and three group homes. But yeah, let’s catch up.’ Her words were snide, but she felt snide. She wanted him to know what she’d been doing while he’d been licking his wounds inside.
His face seemed to crumple, the flesh of his cheeks literally sinking into his face as he stared at her. ‘You’re kidding me?’
Anna shook her head and waited.
‘But your mum? I mean, I know she was struggling, needed some help once I wasn’t around… Anna – she said, she promised you were being looked after.’ He looked pained and angry.
Too little too late from where Anna was sitting.
‘Yeah, well, that’s what it’s called now. You’re not “in care” ’ – she made the quotation marks with her fingers in the air – ‘you’re a “looked-after child” so she was right, I guess.’
