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

by Parks, Adele

  ‘You know what I’ve just read?’ he says.

  ‘What?’ we chorus, humouring him. Since he reads so much, he has naturally become the self-appointed conveyer of interesting facts. His specialist subject is Mother Nature’s mothers.

  ‘Female octopuses lay between 50,000 and 200,000 eggs at a time.’

  ‘So many?’ Katherine comments. As an only child, she’s fascinated by how many siblings other people have, but even she must be overwhelmed by the thought of such a vast number.

  ‘The mum ensures their survival by separating the eggs into groups based upon factors like size and shape. She then dedicates the next two months of her life to protecting them from predators and getting them enough oxygen by pushing water currents towards the eggs. Think of that – she actually tries to turn tides for her offspring.’

  ‘Quite some dedication,’ I remark.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it? The thing is, she’s so busy keeping them all alive, she doesn’t have time to feed herself so she often ends up dying shortly after they hatch.’

  ‘Er, thanks for that, Dad. I remember a time when all the stories you told me ended with “And they all lived happily ever after”.’ Katherine giggles and then rolls on to her side, effectively giving us leave to go downstairs.

  As soon as we’re on the landing, Jeff whispers, ‘I’ve been to the garage, Alison, love, and bought Snickers.’ When we are with Katherine we avoid eating the sort of snack that’s laden with refined sugar; her diet is appropriate for an athlete, lots of protein and veg. ‘G&Ts poured,’ he adds; our diets are appropriate for a couple in their forties who have been together for ever and kindly refer to each other’s excess pounds as ‘love handles’, ‘something to grab on to’ or ‘more to love’; that’s if we refer to them at all. We settle in front of our rather too-big flatscreen TV. Jeff says I can pick the film; I choose a political thriller I know he’ll enjoy, because he did buy the king-size Snickers.

  The thriller manages to hold about sixty per cent of my attention. A further thirty per cent of my mind is running through what I need to do tomorrow: what will I put in Katherine’s packed lunch? Is her uniform clean and ironed? I must not forget to give her the cheque for the school trip to the theatre. The final ten per cent is wrapped up in acknowledging how damned lucky I am and offering up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever is listening, whoever I ought to be grateful to. People say that nothing is perfect and while, obviously, that’s true – world peace continues to evade us, the queue you didn’t choose will, inevitably, clear faster, and even Kate Moss doesn’t have a figure like Kate Moss any more – things are good for us. I never thought it could be like this. I’m thankful. Very, very thankful. I love Jeff. I love my daughter. I’m extremely lucky. I’m safe. That’s what I tell everyone, over and over again, before they can jinx my excellent fortune with an envious glance or an irritated comment. All right for some. I’m lucky. Safe.

  That’s what I tell myself.

  Thirty Years Ago

  Not a single teacher listened when she said she wanted to be a lawyer. Mr Potter, supposedly the careers-guidance teacher, actually smirked. He was such a sad case. Still lived with his mother, carried a string bag to the shops. It shouldn’t matter to Alison what he thought of anything but it did because these adults, they controlled things, decided things. Potter was disgustingly discouraging, patronising; it made her want to slap his stupid face. He asked her if she really understood what being a lawyer involved. No, clearly, she didn’t. She didn’t know any lawyers, she’d only seen them on TV, but she did know that they wore great suits and kicked ass. People listened to lawyers. She would have liked to know what one did, exactly. How someone could become a lawyer. Someone like her. Potter had asked her if any of her family had gone to university. Wanker. He knew the answer to that. He just wanted to hear her admit it. Her dad was a mini-cab driver. God knows what her mother was. A skank was what most people had called her when she still lived around here. Long time ago. She was unlikely to be a lawyer, Alison knew that much. More likely to be on the wrong side of the law.

  ‘Have you thought of nursing?’ Potter asked.

  ‘I don’t like the sight of blood.’

  ‘Did you take typing?’ He reached for the file that sat on the table between them and started to flick through it, half-heartedly hoping to remind himself what subjects she was taking. He didn’t seem as though he’d ever find the relevant piece of paper, so she put him out of his misery.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame. It’s very useful.’

  Fairly or unfairly, Alison considered typing an option for thick girls; the ones who had been thrown on the scrapheap at fourteen when the results of the summer exams decided if a kid could do chemistry, physics and biology or just general science; when it was decided whether you could do geography and history or you would do typing and cooking. She wasn’t thick. She was poor. People often mixed the two things up. She had got decent results in those exams, even though her doing so was met with universal surprise from the teachers and the other kids alike. On the whole, it was accepted that the kids from the council houses would mess about in bottom sets until they left school at the age of sixteen. The kids from the three-bedroom semis had gawped when she first walked into the top-set classrooms; they were literally open-mouthed, like in a cartoon or something. One teacher had actually asked if she’d taken a wrong turning; could he direct her to another room? Fuckers.

  ‘Here are some leaflets about the army. It’s a career for girls, too, you know, nowadays.’ Potter had raised his eyebrows in a way that was supposed to convey a sense of shared surprise and yet offer encouragement. There was something about his complacent grin and even his sweat, which he mopped with a handkerchief, that seemed to say, Gosh, aren’t I the hero? What would you do without me? Like he was Rambo, Mad Max and Indiana Jones all rolled into one. She knew he’d dispensed the same leaflets to three quarters of the year group; the army produced them and recruited at schools like hers. No effort whatsoever was required from Potter. The only kids likely to get any differentiating guidance regarding their careers were the handful whose parents had gone to grammar schools and universities themselves but still held socialist views so had refused to send their offspring to private schools: the dentist’s kids, the vet’s kids. Although they were unlikely to come to Potter’s dingy little office – no more than a cupboard, really – their parents would tell them everything they needed to know about UCCA. It must be nice, thought Alison. To have someone in your corner.

  ‘You know, with the army, you could travel the world, meet interesting people—’

  ‘And kill them. Yeah, I know. My friend has a mug that says that.’

  Alison had left the office, shoulders practically dragging on the floor. She knew she should have walked tall, jutted out her chin, somehow shown Potter that she was vibrant and thoughtful, ambitious and full. So full of yearning. But he had sapped her energy. Potter did that. The school did that. This village did that. So far from anywhere.

  Far from the glittering world she was sure must exist.

  She saw it sometimes. The glittering world. It beamed into their front room through TV programmes like Moonlighting, Dynasty and Dallas; it took the form of enormous white leather sofas, sequinned dresses and strange foodstuffs like lobster and BLT sandwiches. But then, they were all American shows. Maybe that’s how far she’d have to go to find some glamour, some success. Unimaginable. How would she ever get to America? She’d once been to Benidorm, but that was it. Foreign travel seemed so, well, foreign. Truthfully, her life was closer to Brookside or EastEnders. Insignificant, claustrophobic, morose. There had to be more, even here in Britain. Down South somewhere? Maybe there? The adverts swore there was. In adverts, women had glossy hair and creamy skin – they all looked a bit like Princess Diana, but not as good; people spoke in smooth, posh voices; families ate Shredded Wheat; mothers cooked with Oxo cubes; children were excited to see their fathers arrive home from work after a l
ong commute. Cosy kitchens, heated front rooms, lots of food.

  Steve’s house was a bit like that. Warm. There were some obvious differences, though. His dad was a builder, not a banker, and his mum worked at a factory doing laundry for local restaurants and hotels, so she was rarely home before her husband. Their house wasn’t tidy like those on the adverts; more often than not there were piles of washing-up or ironing lying around waiting to be sorted out. (Steve’s mum said that was her least favourite job, that it was a busman’s holiday.) No one spoke with a smooth, posh voice, they were for ever shouting, teasing and laughing; often the jokes they made were pretty rude, especially Steve’s dad’s ones – his mother sometimes flicked a tea towel at him and said, ‘Eh, Sewer Mind, that’s enough’ – but it was warm.

  In both senses of the word.

  When Alison visited she often felt a thaw in her soul. Time off from being her: abandoned, alone. Even the tea-towel-flicking was affectionate.

  Saturdays were the absolute best because before she and Steve went to the pictures she was asked for tea and they had steak, fried onions, chips and beans. Every Saturday! Steak! Imagine! Steve’s mum cooked it in a way that when she put it in front of you the juices still ran around; fat and blood on your plate, but somehow it looked delicious. You had to move your chips to one side pretty quickly or they’d go soggy, but mopping those juices up with bread and butter was heaven, or as near as Alison had ever got to it. They ate it around a table. All the family. Steve, his mum and dad, his two sisters, an aunt, sometimes Steve’s brother if he was home, and Alison. Just a little pine table. It was a squash but, still, it was nice. Alison and her dad rarely ate together but if they did it was off a plate on their knees in front of the TV.

  At Steve’s, Alison didn’t even have to clear up afterwards; his mum would always tell them to hurry on their way. Steve was allowed the keys to his dad’s Renault and handed money for popcorn, like he was still a kid. The popcorn in the cinema was extortionate! Alison didn’t let him spend his mother’s hard-earned cash that way, it was a waste. Instead they spent it in the Co-op on Mr Kipling French Fancies and Wispa bars, which they’d eat after the movie, in the car, parked up on a quiet B road. She always felt sexier on a full stomach. The food warmed her up enough to make her want to take her bra off.

  2

  ‘Muuuuuummm, have you seen my lacrosse socks, the ones for the home game?’ Although it is yelled from upstairs, even above the noise of the water running on to the breakfast pots, I hear the hint of frustration and panic. This morning when the alarm went off I hit snooze, and the second time it went I didn’t hear it and Jeff hit snooze, meaning we all overslept by twenty crucial minutes.

  ‘In the drawer!’ I call back. I resist adding, Like they always are. I’ve learnt that is a hopeless comment to make to men or teenagers.

  ‘Which drawer?’

  ‘Top-right-hand one.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘I can’t find them.’

  So I dash up the stairs, suddy hands and all. I walk straight into Katherine’s bedroom. Usually I knock but the door is wide open and she is standing in the centre of the room, glaring, not so much at me as at life, which today she is finding a bit testing. She’s panicking because, officially, the school rule is that if you haven’t got the correct kit you can’t play in the game. In my day, you just had to grab something grotty from the lost-property box (actually, that was quite an effective reminder for most, because some of that stuff reeked) or, if you were banned from the game, you’d gratefully slink behind the bike sheds to gossip or even smoke a cigarette. Katherine would hate to miss the game, though – she’d feel she was letting down the school.

  Yesterday’s triumph of scoring two goals is forgotten. It is literally so yesterday. Life, for teenagers, is a rollercoaster. Parents, like it or not, have to hang on for dear life.

  As I walk into the room I notice two things; one, the top-right-hand drawer is open and I can see the socks from here. Two, Katherine’s hand is hovering over her skirt pocket, where I can see the outline of her phone; I deduce that something on the phone has upset her. ‘Everything OK?’ She scowls at me and folds her arms.

  ‘I said – I can’t find my socks.’

  ‘Yes, but is there anything else?’ I wonder whether she’s having some trouble at school. Bullying again? My thoughts jump to Dolly Bridge, the troublemaker in Katherine’s year. Last term there were a number of occasions when I dearly wanted to rip off Dolly Bridge’s head and use it as a football.

  She scowls and refuses to answer. I reach for the socks.

  ‘There.’ My tone is not as patient as I’d like it to be. After all, the damn socks were where I said they were, but I’m not really angry with Katherine, it’s just that Dolly Bridge isn’t standing in front of me. If she was, I could cheerfully stuff the socks into her big, annoying mouth. I am somewhat irritated with Katherine, though, because she’s allowed Dolly to rule her world. I wish Katherine understood the power of being the kid who can win the game for the team; she should tell Dolly where to get off, but she won’t. It’s not in her. When I was a kid I would not have taken any crap from Dolly Bridge (it’s odd then that I do as an adult, albeit indirectly); indeed, her snide comments might not even have registered. When I went to school someone would have had to set my hair on fire for it to be a really bad day. However, I’ve sent my daughter to a totally different sort of place and, at Wittington High School for Girls, Dolly’s behaviour should not have to be tolerated.

  I thought things were better this term. And they may well be; Katherine’s anxiety might just be about socks. That’s the thing with teenagers: it’s easy to know when they are upset, harder to know why. I’ll get to the bottom of this tonight; now’s not the time. I know, I sound overprotective, a little bit too involved. I can’t help myself.

  She pushes the socks into her kitbag, heads downstairs, grabs her enormous rucksack and packed lunch and then checks her reflection one last time. I see hesitancy and insecurity flash across my sweet daughter’s, frankly, beautiful face. She straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin and then pulls on a beam. That’s my girl. The world’s a bitch, but whatcha gonna do?

  Outside, the weather is blustery, the first falling leaves are being flung over the road; one catches in my windscreen wiper, the others gang together at the kerb, making it difficult to see where the pavement ends and the road begins. Inside the car there’s a fog. I consider how to draw out the sun. ‘Fancy listening to Radio 1?’ This is a big concession. I really don’t understand a word that’s said on Radio 1 and haven’t for about ten years. I prefer to listen to Radio 4 and usually insist that we do so on school commutes, in the hope that Katherine will learn something worthwhile. I’m not sure when I decided this was a good idea. I mean, it’s not as though Radio 4 can put a person in a good mood; all it does is make me feel depressed about the economy and calcify my belief that everything I’m feeding my family is poisoning them. Still, I stick with it because it helps me have something to talk about at dinner parties.

  Katherine looks delighted at the reprieve and immediately retunes the radio and turns up the volume, starting to move her shoulders coolly in time with the track that’s now playing. Something shifts in my brain. For a second I remember a time when I absolutely loved Radio 1. In my mid- and late-twenties, Sara Cox and Zoë Ball were my idols. Still are. I used to think every single tune they played spoke to me, every single lyric was written for me. I used to feel the conversation and music throb throughout my body. There was a time when listening to the radio made me feel sexy, alive, vital. The only throbbing that takes place nowadays is in my head.

  The effort I’ve made is worthwhile: by the time I pull up at the school Katherine seems relaxed and vibrant.

  Drop-off has to be efficient. There’s a one-way ring system that allows three cars at a time to pull into a bay outside the main building so that parents can deposit their daughters. There�
��s no tolerance of lingering farewells, as approximately four hundred cars have to filter through this spot before eight twenty in the morning. Still, Katherine risks leaning over the gear stick and gives me the briefest of kisses on the cheek, almost a whisper. Pretty brave and decent, because most kids stop giving any PDA towards parents at about eleven years old. She grabs her weighty bags and hops out of the car. I can’t stop myself, I yell out. ‘Don’t worry about those who talk behind your back, they’re behind you for a reason!’ If she hears me, she doesn’t acknowledge my Hallmark-card wisdom. Nor does she reply when I add, ‘Love you!’ I hear someone call her name and she starts to run to catch up, deftly wending her way towards a gaggle of svelte, babbling creatures. I quickly lose sight of the flicky-haired bunch, as a big BMW 5 Series is blocking the view.

  In a moment of horror, I realise that it’s also blocking the exit and that a number of parents in cars behind my big BMW 5 Series have started to hit their horns. I smile diffidently, hoping they are discerning enough to notice that I’m not the one causing the jam; I can’t get past. At times like this, I wish we’d bought a Fiat 500.

  After three girls with enormous backpacks and sports bags are spewed from the car in front I watch as the glossy, impeccably manicured mother unloads a cello, a violin and a hockey stick. She unpacks slowly and carefully, seemingly oblivious to the growing resentment of the parents who need to pull into the drop-off bay so their children can safely get out before the school bell rings. It’s the blow-dry and the French manicure which allow her to be so sanguine. The mothers with visible roots, flat shoes and hastily selected Boden T-shirts and cardigans always hurry. We don’t want to be seen. I need a good two hours getting ready before I’m just about passable, time I haven’t got in the morning. I feel the palms of my hands turn clammy. I really should have a smaller car. Eventually, the manicured mum gets back into her vehicle and I watch as she rearranges the contents of her handbag, makes a phone call and then, after another Jurassic age, smoothly pulls away. I start after her with a violent jerk, stall and then hear the dreadful, distinctive crunch as the car behind me hits my bumper.