Page 18 of Statistically Speaking
She has already settled into the group and chats to the other pupils with a sense of ease that is infectious. One of them is giving her Scouse lessons in Liverpool slang so she doesn’t get confused as a big southern softie. Among the usual “go ’eds” and “made ups” are more specific additions, such as “ket wig,” “jarg,” and “trabs.” I don’t even know what some of it means and I live here.
“So,” she says, frowning as she tries to take in all the information, “if I got some boss clobber and found out it was jarg, I’d be proper devoed, lad?” I think this means “if I got some nice designer clothing and found out it was fake, I’d be devastated.” She receives a round of applause and takes a small bow. I have worked in many different places, and they all have their own slang and dialect—but Liverpool really does take it to the next level. There’s a whole different language out there.
I smile and let them carry on chatting while I arrange my pens. I count them, several times, as though somehow they might have either bred or escaped in the last five minutes. Without any of the students noticing, I take some deep and calming breaths and prepare to begin.
It is Monday, and I have survived the day only through rigid compartmentalization. I have neatly cordoned my brain off into different sectors, putting everything to do with Katie into one room and locking it tightly. I needed to do that so I could focus on work, and also so I don’t actually pick at it all so much that I have some kind of meltdown.
My mum, I remember, used to have meltdowns that started over something trivial—like losing a coin, or running out of cigarette papers for her roll-ups—and escalated with bewildering speed. I think as an adult I’d be able to spot the signs, maybe help her, calm things down. Or maybe not—who knows? My heart breaks for her now, knowing what she must have gone through, knowing how scared she must have been. That she was all alone, dealing with illness and addiction, raising a child.
As that child, though, I was helpless and afraid. I would see those signs—a sideways look, a sudden change in tone of voice, a clenching of fists, a certain way she had of clearing her throat that was quiet but somehow still sounded angry—and know what was coming. Straightaway, I’d feel a tiny seed of tension growing inside me. That seed would grow and expand and blossom into a full-blown poison ivy, until I could barely move or speak.
I’d watch and listen and try to make myself as small as possible, and hope it would be over quickly. I’d know that I would be left alone or, even worse, taken with her when she wentoff on random visits to friends, to the shops, to the park. I’d look on as she harassed everyone around her for whatever she thought she needed, as she shouted and yelled and became a whirlwind of pointless fury. Of course nobody did help her. She was terrifying. I’d be her shadow, silent and still, having learned from experience that anything I did to intervene would result in some of that fury being turned on me.
Instead, I would gaze around and count how many trees I could see, or how many red cars I could find, or time how long it took for the traffic lights to change. I would use what I later learned were breathing techniques, without even knowing what they were called—I just knew they helped.
I still do all of those things now. I count, I breathe, I close down the parts of me that are soft and vulnerable. I give myself the space to function.
Sometimes I wonder if that ability is a curse—if it has held me back in ways I can’t even let myself imagine, including my failed relationships. But at times like this, it is a blessing. I have had a busy day, and I have promised myself that once history club is over, and I am alone and the world around me is quiet, I will get the information I need. I will check Katie’s date of birth.
I could have done it at the start of the day, but I forced myself not to. There may be a tiny part of me that simply wants to carry on enjoying the fantasy that she is mine. There may be a part of me that is scared to find out she is—but either way, I knew it was going to shake my world and render me useless for the rest of the day. If I’m going to have a meltdown, it would be better done on my own time. History club, then knowledge, then home to deal with whatever it is I discover.
“So,” I say, standing up to gain their attention, feeling twelve pairs of eager eyes turn toward me. “How are we all getting on with our research projects?”
I’d set them the topic at the end of the last term, before the summer holidays, though I am under no illusions that they will have been feverishly working away on it during their break—it was more so that they could think about it, explore some ideas.
I hope it’s going to be both fun and useful, develop their research skills, help them become better historians. I’ve asked them to present a short talk on the history of their own families, and the way it illustrates historical events and the society of the day, in a format where we can all share their findings and learn about different aspects of life and the past.
We are going to make an event of it, combining it with a tour around the Royal Albert Dock and inviting friends and family to the actual presentations, which we’ll hold in a small function room that I’ve booked in one of the museums.
“Miss,” says Hannah Maguire, hand in the air, “I found out that my great-granddad was at Dunkirk! He’s dead now, obvs, but nobody in the family had ever talked about it much, said he hated even mentioning it.”
“So it’s like a story that’s been passed down?”
“Yeah, but kind of in whispers? Because my grandma knew not to talk about it, because it upset him, so she didn’t exactly hide it but also didn’t say much. Apparently, he was never the same after.”
“That’s really interesting, Hannah. Maybe you could do some work around Dunkirk and how terrible it was—a lot of men were left traumatized by it; they lost friends and comrades, probably even felt guilty for surviving.”
“I watched the film the other night,” she says in tried-and-tested teenage form. “The one with Harry Styles in it.”
“Well, that’s a good start, but maybe do some reading as well?”
She pulls a face but nods, and I hope she does. There’s been a distinct reduction in attention span over the last few years, and I do sometimes worry that if the entire history of the world can’t be compressed into a TikTok video, then it is too difficult for them.
One of the other students puts his hand up and says: “Miss, I want to do something about immigration. My grandparents moved here from Hong Kong in the sixties.”
“Great idea,” I confirm, knowing that his family started off working in restaurants, eventually opened their own, and are now hoping that the current generation will be even more successful. “If they’re willing, perhaps you could interview them? Make it an oral history project? Storytelling is one of the most important parts of this subject—today’s stories are tomorrow’s history.”
A few more ideas are discussed, and I try to steer them in the right direction, offering suggestions and ways to find out more. Katie simply tells me she’s “still working on it,” and I do wonder if this is hard for her—the assignment was set before she was at this school, and before I knew about her being adopted. It might also be painful because of her dad, and I feel a rush of protective sympathy.
“Katie,” I say, quickly making up an excuse for her, “you’ve only just started here, and the others have had months to think—or not—about this. I know it takes a while to settle in and find your feet—so really, if you don’t want to do this project, it’s absolutely fine.”
She looks surprised and shakes her head, red plaits swaying.
“No, miss, it’s okay—I’m enjoying it, honestly. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to think I was a slacker.”
I smile at that, because we both know she is a million miles away from being a slacker. Her grades are right up there in the top percentages, in history and her other subjects. She is a brain pie with a cherry on top.
We wrap up the meeting, arrange the next one, and I wave goodbye as they trail out of the classroom, backpacks hoisted onto shoulders. I hear them chatting and singing as they wander down the corridor, a minor scuffle of feet on linoleum, one of them suggesting a trip to the local milkshake place. They are young, and the world lies ahead of them, and they will soon be drinking milkshakes while they sit at a table together looking at their phones in a communal trance.
