Whatever it takes, p.39
Whatever It Takes, page 39
‘Yes. Katherine; her birthday is the 27th.’ I’m so used to being honest and straightforward that I splutter out this response before I consider whether this is the sort of info that should be routinely exchanged, on the doormat, with a total stranger. He swaps his expression of awkwardness for one of panic. ‘Is Katherine in some sort of trouble?’ I ask, fearful.
His mouth twists as though the words he has to spit out taste foul. ‘Can I come in? This isn’t something we can talk about on the doorstep.’
Fifteen Years Ago
The smell of hospital disinfectant and her own blood lingered in the air, but she hardly noticed. They swaddled the mewling, delicate baby and placed her in Alison’s outstretched arms. As she took hold and folded the small bundle into her, she knew that this is what her arms had ached for for so long.
People came and went: the nurses popped by to help her into a clean nightie, check she was comfortable; Jeff floated in and out of the ward, dashing off to make euphoric phone calls to family and friends, returning to relay their messages of joy and their congratulations. Alison and the baby were still, steady. They locked eyes – held each other’s gaze and hearts – until the baby’s lids grew heavy and sleep took hold. Even when the baby slept Alison couldn’t tear her eyes away. She was so perfect. Alison gently moved aside the blanket so she could gaze at her child’s legs, her arms, kiss the crook of her elbow and her butter-soft toes. She slept on and Alison continued to stare, mesmerised. It was love. Pure, unadulterated, unconditional, unending.
She had had an especially easy birth. In her birth plan she’d specified that she’d try any and all drugs to ease the pain and that she’d have a Caesarean if the experts thought that was the route to go; she trusted them to make the decision: they had the experience. As it happened, none of that was necessary; the baby took only four hours to arrive from start to finish as though keen to make her way into the world. Jeff smuggled in a mini-bottle of Moët. They secretly drank it together from plastic cups pinched from the water fountain. Naturally, he had the lion’s share; Alison managed just a couple of mouthfuls, as she fretted it would affect her milk. Under most circumstances, she’d have been discharged late that afternoon, but she was allowed to stay in hospital overnight. She’d been chatting to the nurses during labour – it really had been that comfortable – and told them she’d only just started her maternity leave the day before. She’d thought she might go back to work at some point and so she’d left it as late as possible before stopping, planning to maximise her time off with her baby, although from the moment she gave birth she guessed that had been unnecessary. She would never go back. Others might think that the mediocrity of her career and her paltry pay meant it wasn’t worth her while. The truth was, it was the amount she worshipped Katherine that meant it couldn’t be worth her while. She didn’t want to miss a moment.
She’d had ambitious, unrealistic nesting plans. In the two weeks she’d allotted between stopping work and the due date, she’d planned to have new windows put in the house. The rattling ones were not good enough now they were to have an infant at home. She knew the timing of her plans was tight but she had thought she was in control. The baby showed her she wasn’t by appearing eleven days early. The big relief was that their daughter was completely healthy, weighing in at an impressive seven pounds, two ounces; the nurses joked about how big she might have been if she’d gone full term! Still, Jeff had to rush home to chivvy along the window fitters and he returned crestfallen; the house was freezing, and the glaziers couldn’t possibly complete the job in a day. They said, at the hospital, as they weren’t busy, Alison could have the bed for the night; stay in for observation. They were doing her a favour. A kindness. The nurses insisted the baby went to the nursery because Alison almost fell to sleep holding her. They said she needed her rest.
‘Do you know, killer-whale and bottlenose-dolphin calves don’t sleep for a whole month after they’re born and, therefore, neither do their mothers?’ Jeff informed the nurses.
‘But the mother of your baby is not a killer whale,’ they replied with mock-sternness. In fact, the midwife and the nurses were charmed by Jeff, by Alison, by the baby. An easy birth, a besotted mum, a supportive dad, a beautiful, healthy baby. So much bonhomie swilled around the ward you could smell it on the bouquets, hear it in the cries, the mewlings, the laughter, taste it in the cosy cups of tea.
They carried her away into the nursery, where there were a number of bassinets, a number of newborn babies.
Each one of these tiny, seemingly inconsequential acts sets destinies.
They brought the baby to her three times in the night. By the third time Alison barely opened her eyes; she was surprised at the depth of sluggishness her body had dived into, following the euphoria of the birth. She felt her daughter’s head, then her cheek against her, then nuzzling, tugging. Hungry, animalistic rooting. She fastened so tightly to Alison’s flesh and Alison wept with relief and delight. At last, at last.
Jeff returned to the hospital at eleven the next morning. He had the car seat and several sets of baby clothes because he wasn’t sure which of the many squeezed into the little wardrobe Alison might prefer. She sensibly opted for a simple Babygro and a grey-and-white striped beanie hat; they could play with frills, bows and ribbons later.
‘Darling, can you bear the idea of staying with my parents for a day or so? The house is so draughty, but the glaziers swear they’ll be done by the end of the week.’
Alison nodded happily. She didn’t care where she was, as long as she was with her baby. Her mother-in-law would be a help, she was sure of it. ‘I feel sorry for you,’ she said to Jeff as he kissed first the baby’s head, then hers.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Sleeping in that cold house, all alone last night, when we had each other to snuggle.’ She brought the baby a fraction closer, kissed her cheek. ‘I couldn’t bear to miss a moment. She’s changed already. Don’t you think?’ Jeff smiled and sort of shrugged. ‘She seems a little longer, certainly smoother.’
He kissed Alison’s head again. ‘Maybe she’s stretched out a bit. That’s all the wonderful mothering you’ve been doing overnight. Now, are you going to feed her before we set off?’
‘Yes, I think I’ll try.’ Again the baby latched on to Alison’s breast with a natural ease which so many mothers would envy. She fed and fed until she wore a peculiar expression, a little like a satiated, happy drunk. She only, finally, let her mother go when her lids fluttered and closed and her small black hole of a mouth slipped to the side, when her cheeks were flushed and shiny with milk. Her dark eyelashes fanned out like a peacock’s tail.
1
‘Mum? Mum, is that you?’
‘Who else would it be? You should be asleep.’ But as I say this I push my daughter’s bedroom door and the hall light falls in a shaft across her room and lands on her bed. She’s lying down but her eyes are bright and wide; she’s beaming, holding an open book. This is how my fifteen year old rebels: she might occasionally read instead of turning the lights out. I know – I’m blessed.
‘It’s been a great day. Hasn’t it?’
‘It has,’ I agree.
Lingering, for even a moment, is all the encouragement she needs; she scoots over to one side of the bed, allowing me room to sit down. I don’t take much persuading, even though I know I ought to be insisting on lights out because there’s school tomorrow and, because Jeff and I seem to have less and less time to ourselves as Katherine gets older, I ought to go downstairs and make time for him. However, mum–daughter pre-sleep chats have always been irresistible to me. It seems only five minutes since we’d lie on this bed, her infant body, warm and uninhibited, curled tightly into me, and I’d read Each Peach Pear Plum to her. Now I can’t take such intimacy as an absolute given. Everything has to be continually renegotiated as she moves towards adulthood. I sit on the bed, then swing my legs up, lying flat and next to her now taut almost-woman body. I put my arm around her and she doesn’t object; to my delight, she squirms closer. I’ve been gifted another day of her childhood. I live in fear of the moment when she shrugs me off and feel like punching the air every time I get away with the joy of dousing her in affection.
‘What was your favourite bit of the match?’ she asks.
‘You winning,’ I reply automatically. Her beam, which already stretched across her entire face, widens a fraction more. That was the right answer. It’s always the right answer. Katherine, like all children, wants to know that her parents have noticed she’s fabulous. That doesn’t stop at five, fifteen or forty-five: it’s eternal. She is fabulous, though, and I’m more than happy to chuck out endless compliments and affirmations. She scored two goals today; what a great start to the season. If she carries on like this then her team will certainly qualify for the finals of Rathbones National Schools Championship. I never played a team sport at school, let alone scored a winning goal. I live in awe of my talented daughter who, people say, might one day play lacrosse for GB.
Katherine starts to tell me what’s going on in her book. It’s set in a horrifying post-apocalyptic world, the sort that seems to fascinate so many teens. Some feisty heroine is plotting to murder a political tyrant in order to safeguard her family, who are all being exploited or tortured; it sounds pretty gory and a lot like the plot of the last book she read. I try to follow and show due interest but I can feel tiredness set into my limbs. It’s not yet ten o’clock but I could fall to sleep here next to her.
Jeff puts his head around the door. ‘I thought I’d find you in here.’ I know he’s mildly chastising me because he’s itching to pour himself a gin and tonic and see what’s new on Netflix. However, he’s putty in Katherine’s hands, too, and is also always up for a chat with her.
‘We’re just talking about the game.’
‘You were extraordinary,’ he says simply.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘You always are,’ I add. Katherine grins and blushes with that complicated teen mix of pleasure and embarrassment, whilst she tries to turn the subject from her achievements.
‘What’s your book, Dad?’ Jeff looks at the book in his hand. He appears to be somewhat surprised it’s there, but we’re not. He’s a novelist and, when he’s not sitting in front of his computer writing, then he is vociferously reading. He always has reading matter with him, it’s as though it’s surgically attached.
‘It’s about evolution.’
‘Oh.’ Katherine doesn’t actually roll her eyes but I can tell she’s not especially fascinated. Jeff apparently can’t, or at least chooses not to, acknowledge her disinterest.
‘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 fifty thousand and two hundred thousand 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 flat-screen 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.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Contents
About the Author
Praise for Adele Parks
Also by Adele Parks
About the Book
Dedication
July Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
August Chapter 5
September Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
October Chapter 10
Chapter 11
November Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
January Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
February Chapter 37
Chapter 38
July Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
September Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
October Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgements
Preview of The Stranger In My Home
Adele Parks, Whatever It Takes
