Disappearing Home

by Deborah Morgan

  I spit on the tip of my finger and dab two dark eyes and a smiley mouth in the middle of a tile. The spit runs out before I finish. Mrs Naylor turns her eyes towards me. I dip my finger onto my tongue for more spit and shudder at the sour taste. She smirks, satisfied; then walks away, the back of her skirt sucked too far up her chocolate brown tights. Before she goes inside her flat she looks back at me like I remind her of something.

  Once our front door is open, you step straight into the lobby. It takes two cartwheels from here to get to the living room. It takes half a cartwheel to get from one side of the kitchen to the other. You have to finish the cartwheel with the soles of your feet facing the ceiling, then bring them straight back down to the position they started in, so it’s not really even half a cartwheel. It’s probably more like a handstand. The cooker is the only thing in the kitchen that’s not cupboards or a sink. It has four grey electric rings that swirl round like licked liquorice.

  The living room is big enough to fit a dining table and sideboard. The dining table is pushed right up against the wall so that only three sides are used. It is covered with a white tablecloth that has holes in the weave. Once the table is set, the sugar bowl, salt, vinegar and plates cover the holes up.

  Beside the table is Nan’s dresser. It annoys her that she can’t see into the mirror to comb her hair, or open the drawers, because our settee is pushed up tight against it. My dad moves the settee for himself, looks in the mirror for ages, glides the comb backwards across his black hair until he gets the quiff sitting just right.

  ‘All done.’ Nan smiles, drying her hands on the hem of her skirt. She rubs her bad leg. ‘It’s going to rain,’ she says. Nan can feel how the weather’s going to be in her bones. She spoons sugar into her tea, dips the warm spoon back into the bowl. I pick it up and suck the sugar clumps off the spoon to take away the sour taste on my tongue.

  She takes her sweet, milky tea back into the bedroom. I wait a few minutes then knock. ‘Come in.’ Her room is my favourite. Her bed is new, a divan, with a gold, quilted headboard. Her radio is on a small table next to her bed. She turns it on for the news, nothing else. A small dressing table without a mirror has a photograph of a boy wearing a flat cap, a knee-length tweed coat and long grey socks that stretch all the way up to his short trousers. He is looking away from the camera, leaning against a low wall. There are tall trees in the distance.

  ‘Is that the little boy who lives down the lane?’ I ask.

  Nan laughs. ‘No, he belonged to a couple … I used to clean for them. Paul, I think his name was.’

  ‘Can I go with you next time?’

  ‘That place is long gone.’ She picks up the photograph. ‘He died in the war, just a lad, terrible, so young. He was ready to go even before he was called up, wanting to be like everybody else.’

  She places it back on the dresser. ‘Does no good thinking too much about it. No good at all.’ She drinks her tea then puts on her cream camel coat.

  ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘On a message to the housing.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To hurry them up with a place of my own now Christmas is out of the way. Three weeks your mother said you’d be here. It’s been four months. It pays to pester sometimes. You’ve seen how bad I am trying to climb the stairs on this block. Last time I was at the housing they said they had a flat for me, Scotland Road, ground floor.’

  ‘Not the ground floor, with a front yard?’

  ‘No. Inside a block with lots of other people, with one back yard for us all. They’re brand new.’

  ‘Where’s Scotland Road?’

  Her light blue eyes look into mine and she smiles.

  ‘Not far. You could gallop there with your strong legs if you wanted to visit.’

  ‘I want to,’ I say.

  ‘Then as soon as I’ve got the keys you can come and see it.’

  ‘Can’t I live with you?’

  ‘It only has one bedroom.’ She tilts her head towards their room. ‘Besides, they won’t let you.’

  ‘But if you don’t tell them where you live, how will they find me?’

  ‘They can go to the council and get my new address.’

  She pats the space beside her on the bed and I sit down. Her arms wrap around me for a few minutes before she speaks.

  ‘Don’t for one minute think you’re like them, you’re not. You’re cut from a different piece of cloth altogether. Don’t forget that, promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  She picks up her brown scarf from the dresser and folds it into a triangle, lowering it over her head. She ties both ends into a knot under her chin. Only her white fringe is visible. She holds the scarf in place, pushes her fringe over to the side.

  ‘Can’t I go with you?’

  ‘You can’t. I’ll meet you back here later. Tell you all about it. Okay?’

  I nod.

  She cups my face between her hands.

  ‘We all have to grow up some time, Robyn. You’re going to have to do it sooner than others. I know it’s tough. Better times will come. You’ll see.’

  She picks up her bag, drops in the keys, then leaves. When Nan goes out, the air feels different on my skin, like shoes on the wrong feet. I pick up the photograph and cover myself with her warm blankets, the smell of Nan right up under my chin. The lazy tick of her clock fills the room. And I think about what she said about me being different, but all I want is to be like everybody else. I look down at the photograph of the boy, who wanted to be like everybody else. He is staring into the distance, with no expression on his face. I’d like to whisper a thought into his ear. Somehow make it possible for him not to go to the war. But if he can do that, then I shouldn’t be scared of going to the chute and pegging out washing.

  3

  In school, it’s not the same between me and Angela. She tells Anthony Greenbank, who sits next to me, that I ran off with my mum and never gave her mum a thank you or nothing for my tea, or for letting me come over. Angela says, ‘That’s cheeky, that. Isn’t that cheeky, Anthony?’

  Anthony nods.

  She speaks across me but doesn’t look. ‘My mum said manners don’t cost a penny. She won’t get invited again. Lesley never leaves mine without saying thanks.’

  She’s always been friends with Lesley. For a while, that day I played at her house, I thought it might become the three of us.

  Before play, Angela drops her pencil. ‘Where’s that pencil gone?’ She says this to Anthony. As I hold it up she turns away as if it’s my fault. I feel the turn of her body like a pin prick. Anthony watches with sideways glances, like he’s used to it. He takes the pencil and places it on Angela’s desk. Sits back down, all smiles, and waits.

  At playtime, while we play catch the girls, kiss the girls, Angela and Lesley kneel on their coats, faces towards the wall, playing with the vanity case. The bottom of Angela’s braids curl up either side of her neck, like a pair of brackets.

  Lesley wears a red Alice band in her black hair, a red that perfectly matches the vanity case. They catch me watching, then look away. And I think how kneeling like that must hurt your knees after a while. If I had my pillow with me they’d let me play. I’d push it against the wall so we could all kneel on it. I watch them putting on lipstick in the hand mirror, then braiding and unbraiding each other’s hair.

  My hair is too thick and too short to braid. I tried it once, using the wide elastic bands my parents wrap around their Embassy coupons. The braids felt heavy and stiff and wrong.

  I carry on looking. I don’t mind being ignored. I mind that I can’t ask her why. Being ignored has no words, nothing. Once words are involved there’s no going back. That’s why I don’t ask her why. Instead, I use my own distractions like the itch in my scalp, or the false turn of a heel that makes me fall. I can hear them laugh.

  ‘Ugly mug fell over,’ Angela shouts. Then I remember the game. That’s how I get caught.

  Gavin Rossiter plants his soggy lips d
irectly onto mine. ‘I’ve got one,’ he shouts to the other boys, who ignore him, still zigzagging across the playground after a random pair of lips. Nobody else has been caught.

  ‘Eee!’ Angela squeals. ‘Gavin kissed ugly mug.’

  By the time Gavin turns back round I am on my feet. Hands balled into fists. I lunge at him, pounding into his chest until he crashes backwards against the toilet wall. He starts to wail, one hand on his chest, the other on his back, holding himself up. I run across the playground and lock myself in the girls’ toilet until I hear the bell.

  Inside the classroom Gavin’s red eyes glare at me. From behind his times-table card he mouths, Stupid skinny cow.

  Gonna get you.

  The lesson starts and we begin chanting:

  One six is six, two sixes are twelve, three …

  Our teacher is called Mr Thorpe. His hair is light brown. He has a moustache that he strokes. He has two deep number eleven lines at the top of his nose. When he gets angry, they join together at the bottom and make a V.

  We turn our cards face down for the test. He points a long stick around the room, firing questions.

  ‘Two times six?’

  Gavin flips his eyes to the ceiling, head tilted to the side. ‘Erm …’

  ‘Too slow.’ Mr Thorpe points the ruler at me. ‘Seven sixes?’

  ‘Forty-two,’ I answer immediately. He smiles, before striding over to the other side of the room. I catch Gavin looking. He mouths Swot, then turns away.

  Nan says if you’re asked a question and you know the answer it’s bad manners to keep it to yourself. There’s something about knowing the right answer to a question that makes kids like Anthony Greenbank nearly burst with wanting to tell it. I never shout out answers or put my hand up. I wait until I’m asked. I’m good at waiting.

  At dinner time we line up in pairs, hand in hand. Mrs Black, the dinner lady, pokes us into a perfect train. It’s a ten-minute walk to the canteen, a couple of blocks down from Father O’Malley’s house. She checks her watch. Looks down the line at Gavin, one shoe slipped off. ‘Come on, Cinderella, we’re going to be late for the ball.’

  Everyone laughs. Everyone calls her Blackbeard because of the dark hairs on her chin.

  We file inside a corrugated-iron hut filled with tables and chairs. A gold jug of water and six small glasses are in the centre of each table. It’s only gold on the outside; inside it’s black.

  I join the long queue for dinner. Steak and kidney pie, mashed potato, peas, carrots and gravy. I carry my plate carefully, intending to eat every last scrap. Before I pick up the knife and fork, Gavin is at my ear.

  ‘Stupid skinny cow,’ he whispers, pulling the jug across the table towards me. It glides, as if on ice, hitting my plate with a crash. The cold water tips, into my dinner, then seeps inside my knickers. I stand up sobbing. I can feel it run down my leg, soaking my socks.

  Gavin sings, ‘Robyn’s wet her knickers.’

  Blackbeard grabs my wrist and marches me across the canteen towards the kitchen. My shoes squelch as I walk. Everybody stops and laughs.

  ‘Clumsy cow,’ Blackbeard tells the cook. ‘Only gone and soaked herself, hold us all up now.’

  I don’t speak.

  The ladies who served us dinner don’t speak either.

  Once she goes back into the canteen, they all help me to dry off. One of them smiles then touches my arm.

  ‘You ate anything, love?’

  I shake my head, not feeling hungry any more. ‘I’ll save you something back.’ She walks to the other side of the kitchen, her Dr Scholl’s flip-flopping against the soles of her feet. The cook hands me a towel and tells me to dry my legs. I take off my socks and she rolls them about in a dry towel.

  ‘Is your underwear wet?’

  ‘No,’ I lie, pushing the towel deep down into my shoes. She hands back my socks. ‘There, that’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling better.

  The lady wearing the Dr Scholl’s returns with a plate of food. One scoop of mashed potato sits in the middle of the plate. It has two peas for eyes, two small carrots for horns and straight fork tracks make a wide mouth. Dark gravy has been poured over the top for hair.

  ‘Remind you of anybody?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I say.

  She takes a pair of scissors from the drawer and cuts off tiny ends of her dark hair. She takes a few then pushes them into the potato head, just below the mouth. ‘Remind you of anyone now?’

  I nod, smiling.

  Before taking the plate away, she uses the wrong side of a spoon to squash the head down flat.

  ‘Better get rid of the evidence, eh?’

  We laugh together.

  She returns with a plate of apple crumble and custard. ‘Finish putting your shoes on, then tuck in.’

  During afternoon play I find Lesley alone with the vanity case. ‘Where’s Angela?’ I ask.

  ‘Inside, reading with our sir. Will you mind this while I go to the toilet?’ She hands me the vanity case.

  ‘Me?’ I reply, trying not to sound too excited.

  The contents of the case are lined up neatly on the playground floor, ready for a game. I sit down, cross-legged on the cold concrete, and stare. Unsure where to begin, I take too long thinking and the bell rings.

  When we get back to class we are given handwriting practice. We are not allowed to talk. I don’t look at Lesley or Angela. I grip the case between my ankles.

  The final bell rings and I grab my duffel coat then leg it to the main gate. I don’t cross with the lollipop man. I head towards a quiet spot further up. For a second I think about going back. Tell Angela I forgot the case was in my hand. Say sorry. Then I realize she won’t believe me because I don’t believe myself.

  Once I am home I check Nan’s room. She’s not in. Up on her bed, the case in my lap, I lay each item out side by side. The white bristles on the brush look glossy and soft. I trace my fingers around its edges. Let the tip of one finger sail across the top, only half-touching, like a whisper. Slide slowly deeper and deeper inside the bristles, easing them back towards the handle, feel them slip forwards. In circular movements on my palm, round and round they swirl. I close my eyes, sink inside Nan’s covers.

  From the tip of my scalp I brush, in long strokes, to the ends of my hair, over and over. Shoulders drop, legs stretch. Lips smile. I purr like a cat. Let slide-away thoughts melt to nothing.

  The light from the hand mirror is a dragon’s tongue licking the ceiling, the walls. It finds tiny tears in the candyfloss wallpaper.

  A sticky patch on the lipstick twisted away in the sheet. Gazing in the hand mirror, I run the cold, pink hardness across my lips, expecting something to happen. Nothing does. The sound of a knock on the front door makes me drop the mirror. When I pick it up it has a small crack at the top.

  My mum opens the door.

  Angela stands on our step with her mother.

  ‘Robyn, Angela would like her case back.’ She looks at me, lips pulled tightly together.

  I hand the case to Angela.

  ‘You shouldn’t take things that don’t belong to you. That’s stealing,’ Angela’s mum shouts.

  Mrs Naylor walks past going the wrong way.

  I shout back. ‘Angela shouldn’t say things …’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘She said I could play with it.’

  ‘Did you say that?’

  Angela shakes her head.

  ‘Liar, you did, when I was at yours. Anyway, I was only minding it till tomorrow.’

  Mum nods. ‘Course she was. Making a big deal out of nothing,’ she says, pushing her face towards them, ‘aren’t you?’

  They turn to leave. Mum bolts down the stairs shouting after them. ‘Thinks she’s too good for everyone, that Pamela Jennings; stuck-up cow.’

  Mrs Naylor walks back along the landing. She points at me and Mum. ‘It’s the likes of you lot that gets this area a bad name.’

  ‘
Fuck off. Mind your own business.’ Mum slams the door in Mrs Naylor’s face.

  The creak from the letterbox makes us both jump.

  ‘For your information, it is my business. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Just you wait,’ she shouts through the letterbox.

  Mum grabs my arm and closes the living-room door. She catches her breath. ‘She doesn’t know who the fuck she’s dealing with.’ She grabs my arms tighter. ‘You keep away from that lot. You hear?’

  I nod, head into the kitchen to help set the table.

  4

  They take me into town on the number 17C bus. The seats are comfy and I get to sit by the window. My mum takes out a box of Players No.6 and lights one. When it’s lit, she puts another one in her mouth and lights it from the already burning tip, sucking like a baby with a dummy. She hands one to my dad. He has LOVE tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand and HATE tattooed on the knuckles of his right. He takes the cigarette with his love hand. Mum crumples up the empty box, throws it on the floor. Dad blows smoke into Mum’s short brown curls. ‘That’s the last of our fags. We’ll be gasping later.’

  We stop at St George’s church. Mum glares over my shoulder, out of the window. There’s a group of people standing outside the church, hair lifted by the wind. Some have orange sashes draped from their shoulders. Women pushing prams; one licking her thumb and stooping to rub away at a mucky face, purse falling from her pocket. Coins roll across the pavement, bounce off a huge drum balanced against the church wall. Children squeal, scoop them all up in a race and push each other out of the way. Then hand them back. Men huddle, heads together, lighting their cigarettes. The driver beeps his horn and waves across the other side of the road at somebody who waves back, before he pulls away, past the graveyard.

  My dad speaks without taking his eyes from his reflection in the glass. His sideburns are thick and black; they stick out like they’re trying to grow away from him. He turns his face to the side, wets a fingertip and presses one of them back down. He does the same with the other one then looks out of the window. ‘Proddy bastards, getting ready to march.’ He puts two fingers up at a man wearing a sash. The man sends two fingers back. Dad turns to Mum. ‘Tell her what she’s got to do.’