I Invited Her In

by Adele Parks

  This is something Abi points out while we are sipping coffee in the kitchen. I’ve just returned from school drop-off, accessorised with a red face and generally frazzled demeanour that advertises the fact Imogen and I struggled through another tussle at the school gate. Abi has witnessed enough tussles over the past two weeks that the moment I walked in through the door she flicked the switch on the kettle. Thinking about it, Immie seems to be kicking off more frequently of late. I know she adores Abi being here, but at the same time it’s somehow unsettling. She’s a little more hyper and my mind isn’t really in the game as much as it is when we don’t have guests. Obviously, I mean, it’s just maths. I have one more person to think about, cook for, talk to. Immie doesn’t like sharing my attention.

  Abi asks, ‘What was it today?’

  ‘I made the mistake of kissing her goodbye.’

  ‘Doesn’t she usually kiss goodbye?’

  ‘Yes, she kisses me. That’s the point. She didn’t like it that I kissed her. It’s a phase she’s going through, I know that – I just momentarily forgot.’

  ‘She certainly likes to be in charge. On the bright side, she’s never going to be anyone’s fool,’ says Abi breezily.

  ‘Right,’ I agree, reaching for one of the biscuits that Abi has set out on a plate. The plate belonged to my great grandmother and I don’t generally use it, it’s more for show. I stop myself saying so because no one wants to be known as the sort of person that keeps things for best; it shows a lack of self-confidence. I should think that having coffee and biscuits with my friend is occasion enough to use the plate. I’ll just be very careful with it when I’m washing up. ‘Immie is extreme. She’s passionate and stubborn and furious and adorable, all on the flip of a coin. I’m already saving for all the professional psychological help that will be needed to see her through her teen years. Help for me, I hasten to add.’

  Abi laughs loudly, like I’m extremely funny. I love her for it. Her reaction encourages me to carry on. ‘She redefined the terrible twos, leapt up the Richter scale. Other mums used to complain about the tantrums their kids had and then Immie would put that in perspective for them.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Maybe she’d think her T-shirt was too scratchy, or say someone picked up her purple sippy cup by mistake, then she’d put on a show. Why be a storm when you can be a tsunami? I found it mortifying. The other mums looked at me with a naked expression of horror and condemnation, the expression that so obviously said, ‘Oh my gosh. My kid is a saint in comparison to yours. Where did you go wrong?’ I pause; this time Abi does not laugh. I’m not funny – what made me think I was? ‘Sorry, I do go on about my kids a bit.’

  ‘No, no, not at all, I find it interesting.’ I doubt she does. I mean, I bore myself sometimes and she hasn’t even ever been through it. Still, it is nice of her to pretend. She has always been a very polite person. Great at parties, a master of interested and interesting small talk. I sometimes doubted she really did think that French film noir was fascinating but I remember her talking about it for hours with Rob, when she was first trying to secure his attention.

  ‘Was Lily the same? Liam?’

  ‘Lily was a little doll. No trouble at all. Everyone loves her. In fact, I think that’s part of Imogen’s fury at the world. Sweetie Lily came along just as Imogen was approaching the notorious terrible twos. It must be a bit like feeling menopausal and your husband running off with another younger wo— Hell, I’m sorry.’ I feel the colour flush up my face and neck. Sweat prickles under my arms. I’ve made the joke about feeling grumpy and then displaced, many times to my mum-friends, and it always raises a laugh. I’ve just never said it to someone who has actually been displaced. ‘I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean, I didn’t think,’ I gush.

  Abigail waves her hand, coolly. Calmly. She doesn’t appear to be particularly offended or affronted. Her aloof, confident demeanour is so infinitely impressive. The thought of boring her embarrasses me, the thought of hurting her wounds me. ‘Anyway, no, in answer to your question, Lily didn’t play up in the same way, she was much more self-contained,’ I manage to stammer.

  Abi nods. ‘I’m so glad I’m getting to know the girls, but I feel I missed out with Liam. What was he like?’

  I never know where to start when I talk about Liam’s babyhood and early childhood. Illogically, it seems so much bigger than either of the girls’. I’m not saying I love him more; I love them all with equal ferocity. It’s just that Liam’s childhood memories are somehow more vulnerable than the girls because I’m the only custodian of them. The vulnerability, I guess, makes them more precious. I’ve a responsibility to remember everything carefully and accurately, almost formally, because I can’t allow myself to colour the memories with my own inflection. I must keep them true, it’s a duty. For example, if I say Lily was two when she got her ten metres swimming certificate, Ben might dive in and insist she was three.

  ‘Really?’ I’ll ask sceptically.

  ‘Yes,’ he’ll say firmly.

  ‘Early though,’ I’ll insist.

  ‘Yes, early,’ he’ll agree.

  Or if I said Imogen wouldn’t go to sleep without her cuddly cat, he’ll gently remind me it was a cuddly raccoon, because he’ll know. We remember and recall and capture together.

  But with Liam there was only me.

  He got his ten metres swimming certificate aged three and four months; by five he could swim a hundred metres; his favourite game was hide and seek, which I always cheated at. I kept my eyes open when he was hiding so I knew where he was and (this is the worst bit) sometimes I didn’t bother looking for him until say, after I’d made a cup of tea, and even then, I’d do it really slowly, just because it was nice to get a few minutes to myself.

  ‘Liam?’ Abi prompts.

  ‘Off the scale cool and cute, an extraordinary kid,’ I blurt, without really considering how gauche this makes me sound. Abi laughs. ‘I know, every mum thinks the same about their child,’ I admit, blushing.

  ‘Oh, I believe you. I’m fully briefed on his achievements.’ I look at her quizzically. ‘The interview prep I helped him with. He seems like a genius to me,’ says Abi, laughing. ‘No one could fail to be impressed.’

  I nod, gratified. Then I demur, because it’s the law. ‘Kids are impressive nowadays. They do so much.’

  ‘So, what do you mean when you say he’s an extraordinary kid?’

  ‘I suppose they’d call it emotional intelligence now. He was always thoughtful. Perceptive.’

  I don’t know how to explain it and having tried a few times over the years I now know it’s better not to bother; it just leaves me sounding weird, pushy, or deluded. But from an early age he really did seem to understand way more than other kids did, many of whom seemed a bit glassy eyed and interchangeable to me, if I’m to be perfectly frank.

  ‘He was born with an old soul. It was as though he knew and understood far more than he should, or possibly could, for his age.’ I glance at Abi. If she’s outright sceptical, she’s managing to hide it. I rush on. ‘It wasn’t just me who thought so; my parents, other mums and the nursery teacher made the same observation.’

  His difference was simultaneously a source of pride and pain for me. I figured it was almost certainly the result of the fact he had one, fairly inadequate parent to muddle through with, instead of two competent ones, which was what he deserved. He had to grow up quicker than most other kids.

  ‘Liam isn’t your usual teenager, is he?’ Abi muses. ‘I was talking to him about parties and drinking. He doesn’t seem that interested.’

  ‘No, he’s not really,’ I agree.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have many friends.’

  I freeze. I know Abigail doesn’t mean to criticise but it’s a sensitive subject. ‘He has friends,’ I say, a little snappily. ‘He has the guys he plays football with and—’

  Abigail puts a hand on my shoulder. I relax. ‘I didn’t mean anything. It’s just a guy like him –
handsome, funny, clever, you’d think there would be mates knocking on the door all the time.’

  ‘Tanya takes up a lot of time.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘He’s never been the sort to need a big gang of pals,’ I add.

  ‘Always had you?’

  ‘Yes, and well—’ I break off. It’s hard to talk about. It’s hard for people to listen to. I rush at it. ‘He had a best friend throughout primary and secondary school. Austin. They were inseparable. But he’s gone.’

  ‘Did they have a fall out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he move away?’

  ‘Austin died two years ago.’

  ‘Oh Mel, how awful. I’m sorry.’

  ‘He ran out in front of a car. Liam was there, actually.’

  Abi turns pale. People do. It’s devastating. The worst thing a parent can ever conceive. Losing a child. It was a dreadful time. Dreadful. Stupid word. It doesn’t cover it. Words don’t, I found. Not at the time when I was trying to comfort Liam, not when I was offering my sympathy to Austin’s devastated parents, not now two years later. Never. ‘It really changed Liam, obviously. They were being chased by a gang of kids.’

  ‘Chased? Why?’

  ‘There was some bullying going on. Awful stuff. Relentless. Austin was gay, trying to come out. These other boys, from another school, had picked up on something. Like dogs, sniffed it out, his vulnerability. Literally, hounded him to his death.’ I break off again – it’s too much to talk about.

  Abi tilts her head to one side. She murmurs small encouraging sounds which make me pour out the entire story.

  ‘They were so close, Liam and Austin. Always had been. Forever in and out of each other’s houses, in all the same classes at school. They had different hobbies – Liam is sportier, Austin was into the theatre, but Austin would come along and stand on the freezing sidelines as often as not, and Liam sat through various plays because Austin had some bit part.’ I smile at the memories. ‘They were at a party. They’d had a couple of beers. Not drunk but you know, fifteen, so not anywhere near sober. This gang of boys had started on them in the party, name calling, bit of shoving and jostling. They’d tried to leave but the gang wouldn’t let them, probably drunk too, probably trying to impress someone. Mindless, thoughtless, ignorant thugs. Austin was quite slight but fast, he was a couple of metres ahead. Liam told me something snapped in him. He didn’t think he could out-run these morons so he turned around and started to shout them down. You know, he’s pretty big for his age.’ Abi nods. I sigh. ‘I guess it’s a bit easier to fight back if you know what they’re saying isn’t true.’

  ‘Still, very brave.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Undoubtedly. Austin kept running, slipped between two parked cars to get across the road. You know, the very thing you warn them against from the moment they can walk.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Liam told me afterwards he wished he hadn’t stayed to fight. If he’d kept up with Austin maybe he’d have seen the car, warned him.’

  ‘That poor boy.’

  ‘The terrible thing is, his parents are so open and adjusted, they’d have celebrated him being gay. They’d have been excited about the fact.’ I try to smile. ‘He had nothing to be worried about or ashamed of. He didn’t have to run from those kids.’

  ‘Except he did, because otherwise he’d have taken a beating.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose.’

  ‘They are to blame.’

  I shrug. Ignorance, brutality, a lack of understanding of where their actions would lead, or an unhappy accident? I often still think of that awful night, the worst in our lives. The bright lights flashing, Austin’s blood running into the gutter. It was raining. Liam called us while they were waiting for the ambulance – it all happened just two streets away from Austin’s house, just around the corner. We arrived as they were taking them away. The gang of thugs scattered, gone, Liam and the driver in need of treatment for shock, and Austin, already dead. His mother sobbing. Howling. His father silent, stone.

  ‘Kids are cruel. Savage. Gay is bandied around as an insult, so is girl or woman, come to think of it. It’s disgusting, mind-blowingly stupid. It’s the twenty-first century. We should know better.’ I sip my coffee and confess, ‘Liam was in bits, broken. Going to the party was his idea. There was a girl there that he fancied. He’d persuaded Austin to go along. Austin would have preferred to have stayed at home.’

  ‘Liam must feel so guilty.’

  I nod. ‘Yes. We tried to get him to see a counsellor but he wasn’t keen. It’s taken him a long time to get back on track. He’ll never completely get over it. I don’t think you can.’ I wonder whether to share my theory with her. I’ve never said anything to anyone else, not even Ben. Suddenly I don’t want to hold it back. ‘I think Austin was in love with Liam.’ It’s what I’ve always believed. It’s something I’ve never articulated. It would be too much of a burden for Liam to bear. ‘That’s why he went to the party. That was why he was struggling with coming out. Not because his parents would mind, but other kids would have put pressure on Liam. Their friendship would have been threatened.’

  ‘At the very least put under a microscope,’ Abi adds.

  I nod. ‘It makes me want to run up and down the country and fling my arms around every teen and beg them to stay safe, to not worry, to just hang in there. Mostly, to be kind to each other. It’s the one and only thing that you can’t change. Those bullies ran that beautiful boy to his death. Once it’s done, it’s done. Everything else they worry about or get mixed up in can be saved, improved, restored, fixed. No matter how horrendous. But not death.’

  Abigail waits patiently to hear what more I might say about Liam, but I can’t talk about this anymore. I wipe my eyes on the back of my sleeve. I hadn’t realised I was crying. I force myself to make a conscious effort to move the conversation on.

  ‘Honestly, you shouldn’t get me started on the subject of children,’ I say apologetically. ‘What about you? What are your plans today?’

  ‘Me?’ Abi sees that I need to move off the subject. She beams at me. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about what Ben said to me, about getting back in the saddle.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Do you want to read my online dating profile?’ she asks with a coy grin.

  ‘Do I!’ Really, I need to put on a load of washing and run about with the vacuum cleaner before I start work at eleven. Sod that. I plonk myself down on the chair next to hers and she pulls her laptop closer. As she does so, in one of those slow-motion moments I watch as she knocks the biscuit plate and it falls to the floor and smashes into a thousand pieces.

  ‘Oh my God, Mel, I’m so sorry,’ gasps Abi. ‘I know you love that plate. Wasn’t it your granny’s or something?’

  ‘My great grandmother’s, but it’s OK,’ I assure her as I stand up to get the dustpan and brush. ‘It’s only a plate.’

  20

  Abigail

  Thursday 15th March

  Abigail, a chameleon, easily settled into the Harrisons’ home. She’d been with them for three weeks now, turning a deaf ear to Ben’s increasingly frequent hints that he could help her look for flats in London if she needed a second opinion, instead choosing only to hear Mel’s enthusiastic extensions on her hospitality. Abi had started to recognise, then expect, and finally understand their routines, their habits and humour.

  She knew that Imogen woke first and that she couldn’t resist giving Lily a nudge to get her out of bed, too. She heard their whispers and giggles, then their feet clatter down the stairs, cupboards opening and closing as cereals pitter-pattered into bowls. Their mother would dash downstairs the moment she heard them stir; pulling her drab, bobbled dressing robe around her, make-up smudged beneath her eyes, morning breath. The one time she didn’t get to the kitchen before her daughters, they came down to a carpet of Rice Krispies. They were spilt across every surface in the kitchen – spilt or thrown, they never really got to the bottom of it.
Ben liked to shower and shave before he emerged. Smart, groomed, dashing, some might say.

  Abigail for instance, she’d say so.

  And Liam? Well, he preferred to stay in bed, keep out of the way of all the morning anarchy, if he could. This was easiest on Tuesdays and Wednesdays because he didn’t have timetabled lessons first period. The other days he loped down the stairs in whatever garment first came to hand. Sports shorts, more often than not. He didn’t bother with a top. Liked to show off his broad chest and developing pecs. Something that often elicited comment from Ben.

  ‘No one wants to see your hairy pits, mate, put on a T-shirt.’

  The level of noise cranked up a notch once they’d eaten, then the hunt for a lost shoe or book would begin. The girls argued as they cleaned their teeth, Abi stood back from the bathroom door as their toothbrushes swished and then they spat, enjoying feeling part of this domesticity. School uniforms would be hunted, at least twice a week something needed a hasty last-minute iron, and eventually school shoes were tracked down. The goodbyes casually flung, the door banging behind them.

  She knew the dance in reverse too, the sounds of them returning. Their chatter as they fell through the door, how long it took from key in the lock to TV on. She could tell what after-school snacks Melanie was dishing up, just by listening to whether it was a cupboard or the fridge that was opened.

  She loved both anthems, the family setting off, the family coming home. The girls were easy to read; they paraded their emotions with the entitlement of youth. ‘I’m tired.’ ‘I’m hungry.’ ‘I love you.’ ‘She started it, I hate her.’ It was enviable, their instinctual prerogative to say what they thought about everything; to have everyone listen and care and respond. Liam was harder to read. To reach. Obviously. He was well past the age where an ice-cream or some extra gaming time could solve everything. He wasn’t a child anymore. Although Melanie couldn’t see it. She patronised him, closeted him.