I had a tin. It was my father’s. I found it on a shelf. In my father’s garage. It had had shoe polish in it. I took it. I liked it. It was too special to be in my father’s garage. It used to be shoved on a shelf. Shelves of half empty cans of paint. Brushes. Turpentine. Buckets. Jars of screws. Tins of nuts and bolts. Rakes. Brooms. Hammers. Screwdrivers. Saws. Spades. It was too special for that. I rescued it. I had taken it five months and four days before. The day that the hammer helped me. My father hadn’t noticed. Rita hadn’t noticed. I kept it under my bed. Right at the top. Just below the wooden headrest. Just below my head. Safe. Hidden.
I lay onto the floor.
Stomach flat to the blue carpet.
I stretched out my arms.
I dived under the bed.
My fingers brushed against my cold tin.
Too far away.
I dug my toes into the carpet.
Edged myself forward.
Ducked my face to the floor.
Breathed in the cloud of dust.
It tickled the inside of my nose.
Scrambled a little further under.
Half a head under.
My hand grabbed the dusty tin and brought it out.
A navy blue cylinder tin. It used to have tea in it. Before the polishes, before the dirty rag and before the bristly brush. Now it enclosed my secrets. Safe. It kept two secrets already. My tin was rough to touch. Dented and scratched. It had a gold trim and EIIR in gold lettering. Queen Elizabeth II. Silver Jubilee tin. Three crowns and two images of the Queen and her husband. I didn’t know his name. I thought that he was a king, but he didn’t wear a crown. It didn’t matter. The tin was old. Four years old. An antique. It was mine now.
The lid came off. It had a handle to grip. Had to pull hard. It was tight. It was perfect. Around the lid. In gold capital letters. Queen Elizabeth II. 1952-1977. I pulled and pulled the lid. I pulled and pulled and pulled. Pop. The lid into my left hand. Bang. The cylinder base flew across the room. Bashed against the wall. Banged off the wall that I shared with my father. Hush shush. I dared not move. I held my breath. Waiting. Waiting for my father to shout. Silence. Nothing. I crept to pick it up. Mustn’t wake my father. Mustn’t wake Rita. Hush shush.
Tiptoe. Tiptoe. Tiptoe.
I sneaked back to my pillow. I took Eddie’s cigar. I held Eddie. I placed it in the tin. Next to the note from my mother. jude, i have gone in search of adam. i love you baby. Creased and crumpled. Ragged with folds. It lived next to the shiny sticker. A brown teddy bear with a golden star on his round tummy. Fluffy-backed. Eddie would live in there too. I would never forget his smell. I pushed the lid back onto the tin. I kneeled back onto the floor. I lay flat on my tummy. I pushed my tin. Back under the bed. I pushed my secrets to where they would be safe. Safe in the darkness. Just under the wooden headrest. Near the wall. Back to their place where the Queen of England would look after them for me.
1982
He is still outside.
Still wearing your hat and coat.
I saw him.
Just now.
In the darkness he waved with his twig arm.
Told me to tell you to
Sleep tight.
Night night.
Snow. January 9 1982. One year, nine months and fourteen days since the death of my mother. Eleven months four days since my walk with Eddie. One month sixteen days since my eighth birthday.
I woke. There were squeals outside. I sat up in bed. Then onto my folded knees. I pulled open the orange velvet curtains. I peered outside. A halo of white. Sparkling. Dazzling. Snow in New Lymouth. It was a miracle. A perfectly smooth blanket. Thick thick snow. Quick. Quick. The sea air would take the snow away. It would steal the snow. Robbery. Thievery. Would leave a melted trail all the way down to its shore. All the way down the Coast Road. No time to waste. A day in the snow. A Saturday in the snow.
My father had already left for work. The driveway showed the tracks where his Mini had reversed from the garage. Two parallel trails. A bit wibbly wobbly. Out of the path and curving onto the snow-covered road. Away to Rumbelows. He had forgotten to wake me. He hadn’t told me about the snow. I looked at the broken snow. My father’s footprints. The postman’s or maybe the milkman’s footprints. Trailing to and from my mother’s front door. They had ruined my snow.
I watched from my window. I saw the neighbours. I saw them in my snow. Mr Russell (Number 10) was raising his arms and shouting at the sky. The snow had come as a surprise. An unwelcome guest. A nuisance. He was a grumpy old man. He had two girls. I didn’t know their names. They had come to live there only a few weeks before. They were staying forever, but I didn’t know where they had come from. I heard Mrs Ward (Number 12) telling Mrs Hodgson (Number 2 ) all about it. It was when I was in Brian’s getting a ten-pence mix up. Apparently. Their ma and pa were pot heads and the poor bairns were bags of bones. I didn’t understand. Mrs Hodgson wasn’t to tell anyone about it. Hush hush. Twirling swirling. Round and round.
Snow. Paul Hodgson (Number 2) was chasing Karen Johnson (Number 19). He had a round ball of snow in each of his gloved hands. Chasing. Running from Number 2 to just beneath the lamppost that flamed outside of my mother’s house. Skidding to the white floor as he ran. Clenched gloved hands stopping his fall. In his school shoes. Slip sliding along. Laughing. Karen was squealing. Running. Looking over her shoulder. Pink hat pulled over her ears. Pink head turning. Forwards. Backwards. Forwards. Nowhere to go.
Multicoloured fingerless gloves and a matching scarf. Her cheeks were red. Rosy. A reet pretty bairn. She was running. Running slowly in the snow like a flippy floppy scarecrow. Outside Number 14. Paul Hodgson took his shot. Landed the snowball on her neck. Thick snow stuck to the hair that straddled from the bottom of her pink hat. Paul Hodgson turned a slippery circle and ran back up the street towards his house. Number 2. I watched from my window. Karen Johnson tried to pick the lumps of snow from her hair. Her lips were moving. She was saying something. I couldn’t hear. Crying. I think she was crying. I watched her from my bedroom window. Kneeling on my bed. Peering out. Curtains pulled open. I watched it all. I placed my right palm flat against the pane. I wanted her to look up and see me. She didn’t look up. She turned and walked back to her house. Slip slide slip slide. Gloved hand wiping under her nose. Back to Number 19. Back to Mr Johnson. He would make everything better.
Snow. Real snow. Disraeli Avenue was covered in snow. No time to waste.
I had a coat that used to be Rita’s. It was silver plastic. Like a spaceman. Padded and with a silver furry hood. I liked it. It was shiny. Rita said it made her look chubby. She gave it to me. My father bought her a new coat. It was red. It was fake fur. She looked like a fat fox. I put on the silver coat. No gloves. No scarf. I didn’t have any. It didn’t matter. I put on a red and white stripy hat that Aunty Maggie had knitted. Jeans. A jumper. Quick. Quick. It didn’t matter. As long as I wore my coat. My silver spaceman coat. I opened the green front door. Fresh. Clean. White. White. White.
Crunch.
A firm step onto the thick snow. Footprint. Marking. Capturing my first steps. One small step for man. The square of grass had gone. Instead a bedspread of snow. Covering. Swallowing up Disraeli Avenue. Making it different. Making it magical. I bent over. Scooped a handful of fluffiness into my hand. Fingertips tingling. Wiggling. Coldness seeped in through the tips. Freezing them. Prickling the tips. Fingers alive. Tickled. Shocked to red. Fresh. I watched the fluffy flakes resting on my fingers. Floating on my palm. Decorating my naked hand. Weightless. Delicate. Perfect. Pure. Untouched until now. I scrunched my fingers into the snow. The feathery flakes folded. Rounded. Hardened. I turned the downy flakes into a hardened ball. Ready. Ready for Paul.
Snow. Jack Frost had been kind to us. A day of snow. Make the most of the bugger. Be nowt left the morrow. Thank fuck we live next to coast. Disraeli Avenue looked magical. Disraeli Avenue was magical.
I built him. Crouched on all fours. Knees sodden and cold.
Water seeped into the knees of my jeans. I pushed snow. Packed snow on snow. The fluffy flakes blended. Transformed into his body. I pulled the snow. Used my forearms like a shovel. Trawled the snow. His body grew. It became fatter and fatter and fatter. Burning hands. Not a smooth round. Not a perfect circle. I packed snow on snow. Up and up and up. My hands stopped tingling. My hands stopped burning. Stained red. Ruby red. They no longer felt the snow. Numbness. Nothing. Up and up. Shoulders. Flat. Smooth. He had a body.
I took a handful of flakes. Packed them into my fingers. Hardened. Rolled in my palm. A circle. Rolled in the snow.Round and round. The snow clung. Frightened snow. Round and round the garden. It got bigger and bigger and bigger. Round and round. Stealing the snow. Touching the snow. Leaving a trail. A snowman trail. Changing the snow. Round and round the garden. He had a head.
I went into my father’s garage. Walked across the snow. Over the driveway. Through the green garage doors. I stood in the open doorway, scanned the room for something. Something to help me. The walls of the garage were my father’s. Shelves of goodies and racks of tools. Half empty cans of paint. Brushes. Turpentine. Buckets. Jars of screws. Tins of nuts and bolts. Rakes. Brooms. Hammers. Screwdrivers. Saws. Spades. Never just one of a sort. My father liked his garage. His special things were kept there. I was looking for something to help me. I was standing in the doorway, scanning the room for something. Then I saw it. In the far right corner. A red bucket. A bucket of coal. I had never noticed it before. I took it. I closed the doors behind me.
He was evil.
He was made evil. Black coal for eyes. The dust off the coal spread around the lump. The dirt from the coal stained my fingers. Made the snow dirty. Big black circles around his dead eyes. Coal for nose. Mucky. Dirty. Four lumps for the mouth. Perfectly straight line. A black line. A dirty black mouth. Two twigs for arms. He would not touch. No hands. No fingers. No legs. He would not move. He could not move. Five lumps of coal down his front. Five buttons. A straight line. Five buttons that would not open. The insides were locked away behind the five lumps of grubby coal. I dug into the body with my frozen index finger. Worked around the body. Into him. I wrote. Sunderland AFC forever.
I took off my red and white stripy hat. I gave it to him. He would support Sunderland AFC. I didn’t like Sunderland AFC. Sunderland made my father angry. Sunderland made my father hit me. When Sunderland lost, I knew to stay away from my father. Sunderland made my father cross. He would shout if I looked at him in the wrong way. I didn’t know the right way. He would hit me. Fists clenched. He would punch punch punch. I knew to stay away from him. I always knew the match results. Always. I didn’t want the red and white stripy hat. He could have it. The evil snowman would support Sunderland.
6:10pm
My father was due in from work. I sat on my bed. Waiting. Kneeling at my bedroom window. The sky was black. A single star. I wish I may, I wish I might. Darkness had arrived without me realising.The lamppost flamed outside my mother’s house. The lamppost flamed into my bedroom. I waited. Peering. Scared. Really scared. I watched for my father’s yellow Mini. He was late. He was never ever late. I thought that he had gone. That he had left me too. That I would have to go to another funeral. That I would have to live with the hacky lad. In the huge house. On the sea front. I stayed at the window. Watching. Watching. Watching.
I heard it. 6:36pm. My father’s Mini. Home from a day at Rumbelows. My father slowed down to turn onto the small driveway. I watched my father. He looked at the snowman. A smile. A real smile. My father liked the snowman. My father liked the Sunderland-supporting snowman. My father looked up to the window. Smiling eyes. Through the windscreen. Under the flame. Through my bedroom window. Connecting to my eyes. Joined. A real smile. I placed my right palm. Flat onto the window. No smile from me. I reached to my father. He drove onto the drive.
My father came in. Rita was hustling and bustling. Whispered tones. Hush hush. I couldn’t hear. I strained to hear. Nice fucking snowman Jude. Best one on the street. He shouted to me. He liked the snowman. The snowman made my father smile. I had been mean to the snowman. I didn’t like the snowman. I was silly. The snowman was my best friend. The snowman had special powers. I had made my father happy. The snowman had made my father happy.
The snow was magical.
Just before midnight. I should have been asleep. The house was quiet. I had been watching him from my window. On my folded knees. Peering out between the orange velvet curtains. His twiggy arms moved. He was trying to wave. The flaming light was keeping him awake. I crept down the red stairs. Squeak squeak. I unlocked the door. Shush. Hush. A gust of cold air. I shivered. I grabbed hold of my silver spaceman coat. Grabbed it from the coat stand that Rita had brought to my mother’s house. My tiny pink nightie stretched across my skin. Polyester. Scratchy. Clingy. The gust of ice wind swirled and twirled around me and into my mother’s house. I left the front door open. So I could come straight back in. I had to be quick. The flaming street light would help me. I could not be scared. Scaredy cat scaredy cat. Hopping off the door mat. Bare feet. Gasping as I stepped onto the hard snow. My toes tingled. I hopped from foot to foot. A cold cold blanket. Hop hop hop. Outside. He was still there. His perfectly straight mouth had curled slightly. His eyes had brightened. He looked at me. He looked into my eyes. I placed my silver spaceman coat over his shoulders. He must have been cold. I knew that he was cold. I had been watching him from the window. He was shivering under the flaming light. He nodded. Just slightly. Too cold to talk. I hop skip jumped back inside. Night night Mr Snowman.
Two days later. My silver jacket and my red and white stripy hat lay crumpled over a stump of melting snow. On the front lawn. Abandoned. Get ye fuckin coat and hat in from the garden. Yeeshould take better care of ye stuff. I divvent nah why wi bother getting ye anythin.
On August 26, 1910 Margaret Jones came into being. She was born within the same hour, the same day and the same year as Mother Teresa. She told me that while Mother Teresa was arriving into Yugoslavia, she was being pushed onto an iron bed in a terraced house in North Shields. She said that they were practically twins. I called her Aunty Maggie. She wasn’t my mother’s sister. She wasn’t my father’s sister. She was an old woman who lived at Number 30 Disraeli Avenue, New Lymouth.
I sat in front of the garden wall. Street side. Two years and four months and five days from my mother’s death. One year and five months and twenty-six days since my walk with Eddie. I was eight. I liked to sit. Back to the wall. As still as a statue. I liked to be invisible. I liked to listen. Mrs Clark (Number 14) and Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) were talking about Aunty Maggie. Mrs Clark knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew. Mrs Clark had a canny jem of tattle. It turned out that Aunty Maggie had never been married. Never been blessed with children. My darling husband Samuel passed away in his prime. Apparently. Darling husband Samuel was a man called Samuel Cleggit, who lived with his real missus of 30 years, in a council house in Wallsend. That was a bus ride away. She could go and visit. I wanted to go and tell Aunty Maggie. I had found her darling Samuel for her. But.Mrs Clark (Number 14) hadn’t finished her tittle-tattle. Apparently. Samuel Cleggit was a bit of a lady’s man. I didn’t understand. He had served a bit of time for something minor. I didn’t understand. But now he had come back to life. He must have come back to life. Aunty Maggie liked the Bible. Aunty Maggie was a good lady and maybe she was being given a reward. Maybe her Bible Fuzzy Felts had magical powers. Apparently. Aunty Maggie was a bit of a tart who was stupid enough to get herself knocked up before Samuel Cleggit had done one, refusing to wed her. I didn’t understand. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Hush hush. Mrs Clark told Mrs Hodgson that Aunty Maggie had had the bairn and hoyed it at some nun or other to care for. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Apparently. The black and white photographs of my darling husband Samuel passed away in his prime. The ones that jam packed the walls of her hallway, well they were of Samuel Cleggit back when they were courting. Apparently.
He didn’t look like that now. Mrs Clark knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew. Said he was a fat bloke who was on a stick and spent most of his time in the Club playing dominos.
Mrs Clark and Mrs Hodgson drifted onto another yarn, about the barmaid in The Traveller’s Rest. I didn’t want to listen. My head was swirling. Twirling. Whirling. Aunty Maggie spoke with a swish accent. I always thought that she was exotic. That she was rich. That she was different from all of the other neighbours. She never called me bairn. She said alright instead of alreet. Never said divvent or canny. Her voice was all sing songy and loopy. It went up and down. It looped and hooped. Aunty Maggie had a nice voice and she smelled sophisticated. On Sundays she wore Youth Dew perfume from a curvy bottle. Strong. Musky. Lingering. Wafted into the room before she did. She wore it for church. Every Sunday morning. 8:45am service.
Aunty Maggie’s house was always tidy. Everything was neat. Perfect. No dust. No clutter. Each room had a single colour. Aunty Maggie liked everything to be perfect. I was only ever allowed into the pink room, where everything was pink. But I had heard tales of the green and the gold rooms. They were special rooms. Aunty Maggie liked to watch me from her window and I knew that she longed to be my mother. I was glad that she was not my mother. But. As Mrs Clark and Mrs Hodgson talked, I thought about Aunty Maggie’s baby and the nun. I thought about the cupboard of toys. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Hush hush.
Mrs Clark (Number 14) and Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) returned to the topic of Margaret Jones. Apparently. Aunty Maggie and her brother Eddie had inherited a canny bit of money when their ma and pa had died. My tummy tightened. Apparently. Aunty Maggie had used the money well and bought a house, but that waste of space brother of hers had drank his away. I felt sick. My insides flip flopped. Over and over. Gurgled and churned as they turned. I was going to be sick. I couldn’t move. Mrs Clark told Mrs Hodgson that Eddie Jones had been in the paper. He’s a dirty bastard an I hope that thee chop his balls off. I didn’t understand. Inside the flip flapping was at the bottom of my throat. I was trying to stop myself from being sick. I thought about Eddie. Dirty dirty. I didn’t want him to visit. He would be coming again soon. Such a nice man. A real gent and the perfect house guest. Inside my head, inside my body, it was all too loud. Inside I was making too much noise. Flip flap flip flap flip flap. I couldn’t hear what Mrs Clark and Mrs Hodgson were saying. The flip flaps yodelled up my throat and bounced off the insides of my head.
In Search of Adam Page 7