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

by Parks, Adele

  ‘Is this a fundraising matter?’ Jeff asks. He’s regularly approached by people who want his financial support or for him to be patron of some charity or other. He helps where he can, freely giving signed copies of his books as prizes in raffles; occasionally, he donates an entire set of his first-edition hardbacks. Mr Truby shakes his head. Jeff looks puzzled but gestures for him to go on. As a storyteller, Jeff appreciates that some things have to be explained in their own time. Unrolled. He allows the stranger in our kitchen to tell his tale.

  ‘A woman’s risk of developing breast and/or ovarian cancer is greatly increased if she inherits a deleterious – that is to say, harmful – mutation in the BRCA1 gene or the BRCA2 gene. My wife inherited the gene from her mother, who also died young.’ He barely takes a breath but continues, ‘Men with these mutations also have an increased risk of breast cancer.’ It’s a throwaway thought. Not his concern. ‘Both men and women who have harmful BRCA1 or 2 mutations may be at increased risk of other types of cancer.’ He puts me in mind of an infant child who has learnt his lines for a school play and is simply intent on delivering them by rote. Expression sacrificed to speed.

  It’s awful that this poor man is so grief-stricken he feels the need to explain this level of medical detail to strangers. I’m trying to show concern and mask my perplexity. Jeff’s expression is now one I’m familiar with: he is interested, very much so. He probably thinks there’s a story line in it for him. Sadly, fresh inspiration can come from tragedy.

  ‘Genetic tests can check for these particular mutations in people with a family history of cancer that suggests the possible presence of a harmful mutation in one of these genes.’ We stare at him, unsure how to react.

  ‘What has this to do with us?’ Jeff asks eventually.

  The man seems stunned. Did he think he’d explained? He runs his hands through his hair and glares at us, eyes enormous and pleading for understanding, but what is it that he wants us to understand? He looks at us, heavily, and then adds, ‘After my wife died my teenage daughter took herself off to have this genetic test, to see if she had the gene. She was terrified, you see. They all were. I have three children.’ Poor man, left alone with three children. Poor children, left without a mother. ‘She shouldn’t have gone for the test. They normally recommend counselling and a much more measured approach when it’s something so monumental, especially for children. Somehow she managed to persuade the staff it was in her best interest. I’m not sure she was one hundred per cent honest about parental consent.’ He sighs. ‘Olivia can be economical with the truth if she wants to be.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s teenagers,’ I comment sympathetically. Actually, Katherine is reasonably honest and frank with us, but I want to be able to say something soothing, and telling the parent of a rebellious teen that your teenager is an angel is not that.

  ‘And does your daughter have the gene?’ Jeff asks, cutting to the most pertinent question. He is managing to concentrate on the story much better than I am, not allowing himself to be distracted by sentimental imaginings of this family being ripped apart by the early death of the mother.

  ‘No.’

  Jeff looks delighted. He lets out a deep sigh of relief. I take his cue and smile too, saying, ‘Well, that’s wonderful. Something to be grateful for.’

  ‘She’s not a genetic match at all.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Jeff. He is beaming now, his most charming smile, the one that makes his eyes twinkle. He makes the effort to charm men and women alike; there’s not a sexist bone in his body.

  ‘You misunderstand me. The test results for the cancer have confirmed that Olivia isn’t my child.’ Tom Truby’s eyes bore into me. Bleak now.

  ‘You mean your wife had an affair?’ Jeff asks the question. I don’t because, somehow, for some reason, I suddenly understand. It is as though I am being gradually lowered into an icy bath and I can feel the freeze in my toes, my legs, my hips.

  My heart.

  Slowly, he spells it out, ‘Olivia isn’t my genetic daughter, nor is she my wife’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but—’ Jeff and I are standing side by side. I feel him put his arm around my shoulders but I shake it off, step away from him. I don’t want him to try to comfort me. If he is trying to comfort me it is because he, too, has made the leap that I have. His gesture makes my assumption seem more credible. I can feel my heart beating so quickly the others must be able to hear it. I feel dizzy, disorientated.

  ‘What has this to do with us?’ asks Jeff again, his voice breathy. I can hear the effort he is making to remain measured.

  ‘I think you have my baby.’

  I stumble forward and reach out to the kitchen counter. I have to steady myself. My knees are shaking, but I can’t collapse. Can I? Maybe I can. Maybe this is the one time in my life when I can just let go, because who would blame me? I feel vomit rise up and I clamp my mouth closed, swallow it back. Both men look at me with concern but, as I’ve cast off Jeff’s arm, neither moves towards me. I am grateful. I don’t want them near me. I feel I am being tested, and I need to stand on my own two feet. It is important that I do so.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I think your daughter is our daughter. Mine,’ he corrects himself, clearly still not used to referring to himself alone and excluding his dead wife. ‘I think there was a mix-up at the hospital.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ I snap. I don’t know where that particular word came from, it is a stupid word to pick; inadequate and incongruously posh as a response to such a diabolical, bloody statement. I should have said something more visceral. An Anglo-Saxon cuss – I know plenty of them, but I’m out of practice. ‘No. No.’ Tom looks at me pityingly.

  ‘I’ve done quite a lot of research. There were only nine babies born during the relevant time. Five of them were boys. I’ve tracked down the other two girls, but they don’t seem likely options for a swap.’

  ‘Why?’ I am grateful that Jeff has the capability to ask this. Moments like this are why people form couples. I can’t … I just can’t … This is too …

  Much.

  ‘Because your baby is the only other Caucasian girl.’ He sighs but pushes on. He cares about us, but not as much as he cares about his own agenda. ‘You’ll need to do a DNA test. If she’s ours – mine – then you’ll need to get her tested for the cancer, too. Well, at least, you might want to. I’d recommend it. If not straight away, then as soon as she’s old enough to cope with it. If a harmful mutation is found, several options are available to help a person manage their cancer risk.’

  This Tom Truby looks brittle. He’s been broken and patched back together again but not mended. Not quite. Not ever. Wary concern sits stubbornly in his eyes, the skin beneath them is the colour of a bruise, his mouth stays narrow and disappointed even when he tries to smile. I feel compassion for him and hate him at the same time. How can that be? It is devastatingly confusing. I stare at Jeff, waiting for him to say it isn’t so. To say there must be a mistake, that it can’t be this way. It’s ridiculous! Katherine is our baby! She’s my pride and joy, my everything. I hate it that those phrases have popped into my mind. They are hackneyed. They don’t cover it. They don’t get anywhere near the point of her. Of us. I’ve sometimes noticed that parents who are victims of the most horrendous crimes or dreadful luck who release a statement on TV always fall back on clichés; now I understand why. There are no words for this horror. Pain, shock, reduces us all to dumb animals. Jeff, Jeff! I silently plead with him. Make it not so. Make it not this. Do something. Say something!

  But he doesn’t say anything.

  He looks crushed. Stamped on. I feel a huge surge of pity for him and myself but almost instantaneously it morphs into fury, a fury so vicious and primal I want to hit him. I want him to do something – anything – to stop me believing what Tom Truby is saying. He should throw this man and his ridiculous suggestion out of our house. He is polluting it. Attacking us. Why did Jeff invite him in in the first place
? What a stupid, imbecilic thing to have done. I push Truby, sort of jab him in the chest. It is a pathetic move. Not a shove, nothing substantial, something terrified and mean. Both he and Jeff stare at me with incredulity. But I jab him again and again. To no effect. He is strong and solid. Immovable.

  ‘Get out of my house. Get out!’ I cry.

  ‘We need to talk this—’

  ‘Out!’

  I cut him off and start to push him towards the door. Thankfully, he cooperates, no doubt sympathetic to my shock and hysteria, which makes me almost admire him even while I despise him. He walks towards the front door, head hanging. ‘Here’s my address.’ He puts a piece of paper on the hall console, pre-prepared. There is something too sensible and determined about his gesture and it frightens me. ‘I’ll go. Leave you to get used to the idea.’

  Get used? Is he insane? ‘Out, out!’ I yell. I push him in the back as he crosses the threshold then immediately slam the door behind him. I lean against it, body tense. Rigid. Jeff staggers away and sits on the bottom stair. I glare at him. He sinks his head into his hands, refusing to meet my gaze. I look at the address, expecting it to be a London one – after all, that’s where Katherine was born – but it’s not, it’s a town less than twenty minutes’ drive from ours. This in itself isn’t unusual – we live in a commuter belt; ninety per cent of the parents of children in Katherine’s class are ex-Londoners – but still I feel trapped and hemmed in. Pursued. A London address would have given me something – space, anonymity.

  ‘Can it be true?’ I ask.

  ‘Possibly, I suppose.’ He shrugs. I realise it is defeat rather than indifference but still I loathe him for the betrayal.

  ‘It’s not! It’s not!’ I shout, then shove my way past him and clump up the stairs.

  Thirty Years Ago

  The assembly hall had always seemed enormous to Alison, but today it felt stuffy and cramped. There were almost two hundred kids hunched over desks; panicking, sweating into their polyester uniforms. Their despair drew the walls closer together, squashed the ceiling towards the floor. Anxiety stained the air; hormones and Oxy 10 effectively eroded hope and self-esteem. This was what it was all about, when the axe fell. It would be decided: losers, winners. The invigilator, Mr Scott, who taught RE, was repeating the instructions: there was to be no talking, if extra paper was needed they were to put up their hand.

  Alison thought it was an appalling piece of timetabling that the first exam was maths. Miss Wilson had tried to be upbeat about it – ‘Better to get it over with,’ she had insisted – but no one had been convinced by what she or any other teacher said. As far as Alison could make out, the teachers seemed to hate the kids at Manse Newton comprehensive. If anyone wanted to be a teacher, actively chose the profession, they would not end up here. At best, the sort of teacher here had entered into the profession because there was nothing else for them to do; at worst, to feed a merciless desire to torture. Teachers didn’t take their pupils’ relationships seriously, let alone their ambitions, or even their thoughts. All they ever said was that you had to ‘work hard’ and that the exams ‘were important’, then they contradicted themselves by saying stuff like ‘You’re young, you have your whole life in front of you, nothing is make or break.’ Make your bloody mind up.

  Alison sighed. It was confusing. Adults were confusing. And hopeless. They understood absolutely nothing. Not what it was like to be here. Or what it was like to want not to be here.

  ‘You can now turn over your papers.’

  Once, when she was eight, Alison’s gran had taken her to a pantomime in London. It was the year her mother had left; her gran had been trying to fill a gap. It couldn’t work; no matter how much Domestos and furniture polish Gran used to clean the house, it still smelt of hopelessness, despair, abandonment. The panto was Dick Whittington and His Cat. Alison had been disappointed; she’d have preferred it if they’d gone to see Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, something with a princess in a flowing dress. The best bit had been the orchestra. She’d watched them before the show began – shuffling, disordered, squeaky – then they had transformed on cue. Made magic. That was how it was when they were told to turn their papers over. A crescendo of shuffling, then a lull. Alison thought it must be quite something to be able to play an instrument. Or to be especially excellent at anything, really.

  Two and a half hours

  Answer ALL questions in Section A. In Section B, full marks may be obtained for answers to FIVE questions.

  All necessary working MUST be shown.

  You are reminded of the necessity for good English and orderly presentation in your answers. In calculations you are advised to show all the steps in your working, giving your answer at each stage.

  Section A

  Answer ALL questions in this section.

  1.

  (i) Calculate the probability that, when a die is thrown, the number obtained will not be divisible by 3.

  (ii) A coin is tossed and a die is thrown. Calculate the probability of obtaining a tail on the coin and a 5 on the die.

  (4 marks)

  Fair enough. She picked up her pen.

  The maths paper wasn’t that hard. It wasn’t easy, but Alison had done quite a few past papers so she had a sensible idea as to what to expect. She flew through section A, answering all twelve questions with reasonable confidence.

  Section B

  Answer FIVE questions in this section.

  What was it with the capitals? Why did the examiners feel the need to shout at them all the time? It was OK; they didn’t have to. They had her attention.

  She carefully read through the first question in section B; it was all about angles and calculating distance. Pythagoras’s theorum. It was a gift! She’d seen this exact question on a 1982 paper; all they’d done was change the numbers. Lazy devils. She’d got the idea of looking at past papers after the January mocks, when she had realised they were doing the paper the previous year had taken as their final exam. Before then, she’d imagined that all the papers were written following a process in which the teachers conferred and came up with individual questions; she didn’t know much about the examination system. The people she knew didn’t talk about that sort of stuff. They talked about electricity bills, whether they could afford to go to the pub or whether they’d have to make do with just getting in a few cans.

  She wondered what Steve’s paper had been like. He’d taken his exams two years ago. The thought of her older boyfriend always filled her with a strange sense of pride and excitement. She wondered all sorts of things about Steve, practically all the time. What might he have had for his breakfast? What did he think of Tears for Fears or Kool and the Gang? Would she ever be able to persuade him to read The Cider House Rules? Did he really like cherry cola or was he just saying that to be different? He’d got a C in maths, which was all right, all he needed to get him into the sixth form in town to do a BTEC in mechanics. She’d asked her maths teacher if they still had that year’s paper, but they didn’t; she’d been told she might get it from the library in town. She’d taken the bus, not with that much hope, but it was something to do, a day out. There wasn’t a lot to do in Manse Newton. A postbox, a telephone box, a pub and a newsagent; it was hardly Disneyland.

  The librarian in town had been surprisingly helpful. She’d seemed to think the request for past maths papers was totally reasonable. She went away and photocopied them in a little office; Alison could hear the clink and whirl of the machine. It took ages. When the librarian came back with a whole heap of printed sheets she asked for seven pound twenty. A breathtaking amount of money, but they were copied now; she had to take them. She had counted out the money on to the counter, her hands shaking a bit. She’d had to walk the four miles home because she didn’t have enough now for the bus fare, but it was worth it because the librarian also showed her these clever books called York Notes. They were basically books about her set texts in English which had analyses of everything: themes, characters, plot
and language. Who knew? There were sample answers, essay plans, handy quotes and study tips. Alison had said that it seemed a lot like cheating but the librarian had just laughed and said it was all about being prepared.

  ‘Prepared’. The word had seemed strange to Alison. Obviously, she knew what it meant, but preparedness seemed elusive, luxurious, ultimately unobtainable. How could she have prepared for her mother leaving, taking Alison’s three younger brothers with her but leaving Alison behind? It had been a monumental shock. Her gran had said it was because there were only two bedrooms where her mother was going and, while all the brothers could pile in together, Alison couldn’t very well share with them, could she? Gran was trying to be kind, but Alison knew she could have slept with her mother, if her mother had wanted her enough. When she’d said as much, Gran had looked embarrassed, put out that the child had seen through the flimsy, careless excuse, the flimsy, careless actions. Stuttering, she had replied, ‘But what about your daddy? What about me? We’d have missed you.’ Alison didn’t think it was right. She didn’t believe her dad would have missed her, not that much. He never seemed to notice she was there. Besides, shouldn’t her mother have missed her more; more than a father or a gran could? More than anyone? More than she could bear? Wasn’t that normal?

  Alison had been propelled into a perpetual feeling of chaos and disarray. She had felt uncertain of the things most eight year olds take for granted: the supply of clean socks and knickers, the reliability of the tooth fairy and even Santa Claus. From that moment on it seemed to Alison that all she could hope for was just to get by. All she could hope for was finding a swimming costume that just about fitted in the pile of second-hand clothes someone had given her dad, there being eggs in the fridge, beans in the cupboard and, if not that, then maybe a pound note propped behind the clock on the mantelpiece, so that she wouldn’t have to wait until nine or ten o’clock, when her dad finished his shift, before she could eat. As she got older, she got better at getting by. She did the shopping so that she never again had to resort to using washing-up liquid on her hair, she wound sticky tape around the strap of her school bag the minute she saw the plastic begin to fail, she washed through her school shirt every night.