Page 73 of Days You Were Mine

As I walk towards the stairs, I pick up an apple from the fruit bowl – an unusual Snow Whitish red – and take a bite of it, thinking only of Jake and how much I already miss him. I fling open the front door, and there, hovering on the doorstep, black shirt and trousers, the off-duty-vicar garb he favours, is my father. The apple falls from my hand, bounces onto the doorstep and rolls to a stop at his feet.

‘Are you going to invite me in to the love nest?’ His mouth twists on the words.

I am eight months pregnant, no Jake or Rick to protect me, alone with this man who has cowed and persecuted me for most of my life. I don’t say no, I don’t slam the door in his face and double-lock it from the inside. I stand aside and let him into the dark corridor where once upon a time Jake kissed me so passionately my sketchbook slammed to the floor.

He follows me upstairs and into our flat, door opening into the orange, red and purple room that has become my home.

‘Dear God,’ he says. ‘It’s even worse than I thought. Like some kind of bordello, I’d imagine.’

‘It’s called fashion, but it probably hasn’t reached Essex yet.’

‘If you can’t be civil, I’ll just come straight out with it. Sit down, Alice.’

‘I’d rather stand.’

‘In your condition?’ Again the twist of distaste. ‘I’ll cut to the chase, shall I? Your mother and I want you to have this child adopted so you can get on and finish your degree. After all, you’re doing rather well, aren’t you, according to the papers. There will be plenty of time for children with thismusicianof yours if that’s what you want. But you must not throw your life away. We won’t allow it. You’re not quite twenty and you have many opportunities ahead.’

‘Since when did you care about my opportunities? I thought I was a disappointment – academically and otherwise, according to you.’ I am clasping my stomach as I speak, for comfort, for reassurance, but aside from that, I feel calm. For the first time in my life I’m not afraid.

My father has his leather folder with him, a zipped thing he takes wherever he goes. I watch as he unzips it and brings out some kind of document.

‘Sure you won’t sit down?’ he says.

He is in his late forties – twenty-eight when I was born – but he looks much older. His hair has thinned since I last saw him, greased wisps combed over a naked pate, the lower half of his face dragged downwards, too much flesh around his chin.

‘No thanks.’

He hands over the papers.

‘Have a look through these forms. I’ve taken the trouble to get in touch with a very good adoption agency, one with an excellent reputation. They have a couple in mind, respectable middle-class people from Yorkshire who would be perfect. So if you and your … lover decide you want to have the baby adopted, which in my mind—’

My scream, long and shrill, surprises me as much as him.

‘Get out! Get out of here.’

‘For goodness’ sake. Don’t overreact.’

‘How dare you? How fucking dare you?’

My father strikes me hard with the back of his hand, a sharp smack to my left cheek that lands just beneath my eye, the sound of flesh meeting flesh. I crumple to the floor. He hauls me up.

‘Foul-mouthed little …whore.’

Violent eyes too prominent for their sockets, skin an alcoholic purple. I have seen my father’s rages many times, but this is the first time he has hit me. And the strength of the blow, his choice of insult, reveals the depth of his scorn.

I turn away from him, throw myself down on the sofa, face buried in the cushions. My sorrow is acute.

‘Just go.’

When I force myself to look up again, he is still there, staring at me, a concentration of disgust gathered in his face.

‘You will leave,’ I tell him, ‘or I will call the police. You are not welcome here.’

I curve my hands around my stomach. I do not think the fall will have hurt my baby, but the surge of poison, the stress and anger coursing through my blood, what of that?

My father points at the papers before he leaves.

‘I’d advise you to look over these,’ he says, and I hold my breath until I hear the click of the front door closing behind him.

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