Mrs Cliff hands her the money. ‘Let your mam know where you’re going,’ she tells us.
When we get to the bottom of the block I hear Mum shouting my name. I tell Carol to knock up for me when she gets back. ‘Time me,’ she says. ‘Count like this, so it’s fair. One, piddle piddle, two, piddle piddle.’ I join in and we both laugh.
‘Be careful, it makes you want to wet yourself,’ Carol shouts, running across the big square towards Dolly’s shop. ‘We should end up on the same number when I get back. So don’t cheat.’
I think about playing two balls with Carol, maybe going to the park to play on the swings. Be best mates like Angela and Lesley. I picture Angela seeing me and Carol together, telling Lesley all about us.
On the way home I look up at Carol’s landing. Angela’s mum is talking to Carol’s mum. When they see me Angela’s mum shouts, ‘Talk of the devil, there she is, look.’ She points a finger at me and shouts louder. ‘Robbing little cow.’ I put my head down and run past the block as fast as I can.
On a pay day, the air changes in our flat. Dad gets out the record player and his LPS, turns up the volume. Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jim Reeves, Dean Martin. All singing about bad times, wine, love, and how they just can’t help most of the things they do. He’s singing extra loud. He’s just got it back from the pawn shop. Everything’s okay.
Dad drinks anything. Mum drinks cider. When he’s nice-drunk, like he is now, his face grows kinder the way it once started out. He jumps in with the words before the singer, pointing and laughing at the speakers like they can see him, making it a competition he always wins. Then, the needle gets stuck. The same word is sung over and over again, like it’s in an argument and not being heard. Just for a moment, his face is back to the way it was.
I race to the record player, lift the arm and flip it up, like a dog’s paw. You can blow on the needle, to clean it. I like to pinch away the soft Brillo pad of fluff. The scratch of the needle, as I ease it onto the record followed by the smooth, smoochy voice, makes everything okay again. I’ve jumped the arm too far ahead and words are missing. He doesn’t notice. He’s not interested any more.
He pulls Mum up close to dance. She rests her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He tries to lift her at a high point in the song. She laughs a forced, dusty laugh that blows itself out before it gets warm.
Mostly, I steal glances. When they get drunk I can look for longer. Sometimes when they are really drunk, they fall. End up with cut heads and black eyes. Drink takes away their tongues. I feel older than they are. Carol doesn’t knock for me.
Next morning they get up late. Holding their heads like wounded soldiers, looking out through empty-barrelled eyes. When you don’t say much, you learn to listen better, to read the sounds other people make without words. Mum can make you feel bad without saying a word, without looking at you. I haven’t set the table yet. She tuts and walks away into the kitchen. Dad gets edgy when there’s no money left. He shifts in the chair onto his other hip, crosses one leg over; rattles the newspaper until it nearly rips.
Dad turns on the telly. It’s the news. A little girl has gone missing somewhere near Liverpool. Dad turns to Mum. ‘I bet I know who murdered that little girl.’
Mum shushes him. With a toss of her head, I’m sent out of the room. I close the living-room door and listen through the gap.
‘It’ll be that prick,’ Dad says.
‘Who?’
‘Whatsaname, talks funny, Dolly’s fella with the beard. Somebody in the pub told me he came here from Manchester. I’ve seen him with the kids, all smiles and fucking free sweets.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot about him, dirty bastard. She might not be dead.’
‘She’s dead all right.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Gone all night, no word? Use your brain.’
‘If that’s true, someone should burn that bastard.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
The kitchen door opens. The heavy sound of a kettle being filled, the crackle of a match against the side of a box. The smell of fresh smoke, Dad’s voice slow and clear.
‘Someone needs to torch that shop, with him in it.’
Mum catches her breath. ‘What about poor Dolly?’
Dad sneers. ‘Poor Dolly? She’ll be in on it.’
Without me even touching the door it creaks. He’s there in a flash, cigarette clamped to the side of his mouth, dragging me into the room by my ear.
‘Look what I found listening at the door. What have you heard?’
‘Nothing, I only wanted a drink.’
‘Little girls with big ears shouldn’t listen at doors. If I find out …’
Mum interrupts. ‘Leave her. Back to your room now.’ Her voice is panicked. ‘She hasn’t heard anything.’
7
Mr Wainwright is standing at the office door. He tells me he’s a social worker and all he wants is a little chat. He turns; walks with rounded shoulders that make the back of his jacket swing too far up. He sits in Mr Merryville’s chair and I sit opposite him.
He unzips his black leather bag and takes out a pad, pushes a small bottle of lemonade out of the way, careful not to let me see. Behind his round glasses, two slits for eyes. He doesn’t have many lines on his face but he has smoky, old man’s hair.
I look at his pen. It got here in its own black box. It is dark blue, with a gold belt around its middle and a gold clip to grip onto a pocket. He twists off the lid, flips open his writing pad. The part of the pen you write with looks more like a dagger than a pen. He begins to write, a giant blob of blue ink appears on the page. He rips that page out, balls it up and throws it into the bin, starts again.
‘So, Robyn, do you like school?’
I do not speak.
He fills my silence with the crisp sound of his pen gliding across the page. Taking a deep breath in, he smiles. It is a small smile I have seen before. Mr Thorpe saves that smile for Gavin Rossiter when he has shown him for the fifth time how to add without using his fingers. Mr Thorpe looks to the classroom ceiling and says, Jesus tonight, sends Gavin to tidy the books in the library for the rest of the morning. After dinner Mr Thorpe is nice again. He nods at the cupboard for Gavin to get out the toy cars. Tells him to pass the biscuit tin over and hands Gavin a Rich Tea. Inside the tin is where he finds the note: Dolly’s shop will go on fire.
Mr Wainwright shuffles his bottom all the way back into the chair and leans forward. ‘Would you say you liked school, Robyn?’
I nod.
He writes.
‘What do you like best about it?’
‘The dinners.’
He writes.
I think he writes greedy cow, and I smile.
‘So, you like school dinners. What’s your favourite?’
‘Everything.’
He writes.
I scratch my head.
He writes.
I think he writes Robyn has nits, and I smile.
‘Who are your friends in school?’
I shrug.
He writes.
I shiver. Somebody’s walking over your grave, Nan says.
‘Is there anything you’re scared of in school or at home?’
Burning water fills up my eyes. I blink it away, looking down. I think: I’m scared to wake up in the mornings, scared to breathe too loud, scared to be left in with my dad on my own. But I can’t say it. I could never say it out loud, to anybody, or he’d kill me.
When I look back up, Mr Wainwright’s face is all white, like he’s going to drop down dead. He has sweat on his forehead. On the telly, when anyone takes a funny turn, people give them a drink. I grab his black bag and search inside for the lemonade. It’s not there. Then I see the zip on the other side.
Mr Merryville walks in the room and catches me, elbow-deep in the bag.
‘Robyn Mason, what are you doing?’
I ignore him, panicking to get the zip open.
It’s there. I twist off the
top and tilt it up to Mr Wainwright’s lips. He makes a good noise in his throat, all the red coming back into his face. Mr Merryville stands by the open door stiff as the statue of Mary.
Mr Wainwright loosens his tie.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Mason?’ Mr Merryville shouts. ‘Rummaging around in an adult’s bag?’
‘Sir, I …’
‘Don’t deny it. I saw you with my own eyes.’
Mr Wainwright says, ‘It’s okay, really, she helped.’
‘Get back to class. I’ll come and deal with you later.’
For the rest of the day I can’t concentrate on my work. Every time the door handle squeaks my belly does a handstand. Just before home time Mr Merryville calls me out of class. On the way to the door I spit on my palms and rub them together thinking maybe the cane won’t hurt as much. Outside, Mr Merryville smiles at me. ‘Robyn, I didn’t understand what you were doing before. Mr Wainwright explained and he sends his thanks.’ Then he walks away. Easy as that. No telling off and no cane. I realize I’ve worried all day for nothing.
*
A couple of days later, when Dad’s not home, I tell Mum about Mr Wainwright. ‘That’s not all you’ve got to worry about,’ she says. ‘The headmaster sent a letter, wants to see me. Good job I opened it and not your father.’
Mum says I’m to stop taking things from school, otherwise they’ll be knocking on the door next and, if that happens (she whispers, nodding at Dad’s empty chair), he’ll go mad.
8
I haven’t seen Nan for ages. It is Chris who hands me a piece of paper with her address written on it.
17 VESCOCK STREET (OFF SCOTLAND ROAD)
LIVERPOOL 5
(OPPOSITE ST SYLVESTER’S CLUB)
I read the address over and over again. Chris laughs, says I’ll read the words right off the page if I’m not careful.
‘She wants to see you Saturday.’ February is my favourite month of the year. Saturday is my eleventh birthday.
‘How do I get there?’
‘You walk fifteen, twenty minutes away. Round the back of St George’s church, to the grass hills, down them, all the way to Netherfield Road, cross that, down to Great Homer Street, then on to Scotland Road.’ Chris can’t stop coughing, his face bright red. ‘Ask anyone on Scottie where St Sylvester’s Club is. You’ll find it.’
As he walks down the steps I can hear his wheezy chest.
I follow Chris’s directions, and once I’m on Scotland Road I show a girl a bit older than me the address. After that, Nan’s block is easy to find. I knock at the door, half thinking a stranger will answer. But it is May, my nan. Blue-eyed May, stick swinging over her arm, legs half-past five on a clock.
‘Look at you, happy birthday.’ She hugs me around the waist. ‘Still as thin as a straw. Come in, I’ll show you around.’
I love the place. The feel of smooth new walls painted clean, like mint imperials. The kitchen is double the size of the one in Tommy Whites. Brand new cupboards, cream, brown wooden handles and a baby blue worktop. Even room for a small table and two chairs in the corner.
Her bedroom is lovely. She has a cream furry rug by her bed to step out on when she gets up. Above her bed, Jesus lies, arms open wide, on a wooden cross. Nan’s special prayer: Goodnight all the Angels in Heaven. God keep me safe till morning.
Without asking, I take my shoes and socks off, sit on the bed and wriggle my toes in the furriness.
Nan laughs. ‘You look like an escaped lunatic.’
The toilet and bath are brand new, her mangle slotted in the corner.
I don’t like the smell. It’s a dry, gassy smell that Nan says is caused by the blow-out central heating. She points to a grid low down on the wall. I notice them in every room. ‘I’m not using it. I’d rather throw my coat on if I feel cold. Save on the bills. Save on the dust as well.’
Just across from her front door she takes me up a narrow staircase to the first floor, two front doors opposite each other. Then we climb more steps to the second floor where Lily and her husband, Frank, live. Lily opens the door, looking too young to be a pensioner. She has long nails and short words.
‘May?’
‘Just the key, Lily, to show my granddaughter the back yard.’
‘A minute.’ She disappears down her lobby. ‘Here we are. Pass it back through the letterbox soon as.’ With a quick smile, she closes the door.
There’s not much to see. An empty washing line, a square of concrete with a couple of trees planted around the edges. Beyond the back fence there is a playground attached to a school. ‘We’re going to get benches out here, Lily says. So we can sit. There are better places to sit.’
Nan locks the back door and I run upstairs to give the key back to Lily. It’s her husband Frank who opens the door with no shirt on. He takes the key from my hand. ‘Just getting a shave,’ he says, pressing his neck too close to my face. ‘Smell?’ I don’t move. He kisses my cheek. I run away, take the stairs two at a time. I hear him laughing behind me. Downstairs, Nan has the radio on. ‘I might put a little bet on, Robyn. I’ve had a tip. Your face is as pink as a tongue.’
She switches the radio off, and puts on her coat and scarf, ready to go out. Folds a handkerchief around a piece of red cheese, another around a knife, pushes them into a black shopping bag. ‘Coming?’ she asks.
I nod.
After Nan puts her bet on, we head off to Soho Street. On a Saturday, down on Soho Street, Sayers the bakers sell day-old cakes and bread at less than half price. There’s a queue that stretches all the way down the street; people don’t seem to mind waiting.
Mrs Naylor comes out of the shop carrying a pile of white cake boxes stacked on top of one another, tied together with red ribbon. She parades them along the queue. The lady in front of us shouts to Mrs Naylor.
‘Feeding the five thousand, love? I hope you left something in there for us.’
Mrs Naylor nods in her direction. ‘These are a special treat for my grandchildren.’ She throws a nasty look right at my nan.
I turn to Nan. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘She knows the game’s up with me.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I know what she’s up to. I can read between the lines.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means nobody can pull the wool over my eyes.’
‘How do you read between the lines?’
‘You need to think about why people do what they do.’
‘Oh.’
‘And what’s in it for them.’
I watch Mrs Naylor walk away. ‘Will she give all those cakes to her grandkids?’
‘Have you ever seen her grandkids visit?’
‘No, never.’
‘She might eat a couple herself. But most of them will stay in their boxes and rot. I caught her the other week, tipping loads of cakes down the chute. As far as I know she fell out with her son years ago. Her grandkids don’t even know she exists.’
‘Why did she buy them and say they were for her grandkids?’
‘Why do you think she bought them?’
‘Because they’re cheap?’
‘People make up games all the time, Robyn. She’s made up a little game to amuse herself. This one is to fire up the envy in people.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why would she want people to hate her?’
‘Not hate her, remember her. Nobody around here looked twice at Mrs Naylor before she started buying that many cakes.’
Inside the shop, the shelves are nearly empty. The ladies serving behind the counter wear white overalls, with an orange Sayers badge on the pocket. Nan buys four egg custards and two Vienna loaves, one loaf for us and one for the birds.
We head off down to the Pier Head to watch the boats come in. It’s busy when we get there. Two men coughing up their guts shuffle along on a bench to let us sit down. They stamp out cigarette stumps. There’s nothing much left of their shoes but holes.
>
It’s breezy by the river and Nan asks me where my coat is. I can’t tell her I haven’t got one, so I tell her I forgot it. I surprise myself at how easily I am learning to lie. ‘We won’t stay long,’ she says. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
This is my favourite part of Liverpool. The Liver Building sits on the edge of the Mersey like a palace. A palace guarded by two magnificent birds. I like the idea of being watched over by something that has wings. Something that can pick itself up and leave if it feels like it, and doesn’t have to tell nobody where it’s going.
Nan looks towards the water. ‘I got off the boat in this very place from Ireland with no shoes on my feet. I couldn’t have been much more than three years of age.’ She turns to me. ‘Hungry?’
I nod, shivering. The wind blows drops of salty water to my lips.
She unbuttons her coat and tells me to put it on. Cuts open the Vienna loaf and cheese on a tea towel, her body curved into the wind. She has a pink cardigan with rows of little holes down the front. A slice of white fringe blows out from her scarf, flapping like a wing. She flicks it out of her eye with her knuckles.
The bread and cheese taste chewy and creamy and delicious. I huddle inside the coat, watching the pigeons flock around us, let the eeeeeing of the seagulls above us take my sad thoughts away. I watch the water foam up against itself.
Taking a bite out of her butty, Nan picks off bits from the other loaf for the birds. She throws the bread out towards the railings, as far away from us as she can.
One of the men next to us frowns. ‘That’s good bread you’re throwing, lady.’
‘Would a custard pie stop your moaning?’
He smiles and nudges the man next to him.
Nan hands the box over like a prize.
‘Is it all right to give me mate one?’
Nan nods at him, mouth full.
They take one custard each and hand the box back.
When we have finished eating, both of us share the coat, one sleeve each. With the empty cake box, we shuffle over to the bin, laughing, rolled tightly together, like a Twix. Three women push babies in prams backwards against the wind. Behind them, little boys pull off sweaters and twirl them above their heads, long strands of springy navy wool flying from their cuffs.
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