Disappearing Home

by Deborah Morgan

  Cupping her face in her hands to warm it, Nan says she’d love a cup of tea. We head off for the number 3 bus. On the bus it’s warm. Nan asks me if I want to stay on until the last stop then get back on again. I say yes. It’s a free ride all the way with a bus pass, one penny for me.

  We take the front two seats downstairs. I have the window seat so I can see everything. Nan takes her scarf off and smooths down her hair. We ride across the city. Nan points churches out to me, tells me their names. St Anthony’s, St John’s, I can’t remember all the names. And pubs she used to go to with Jack when she was younger, and washing lines. You can tell a lot about a person from their washing line, she says.

  The bus stops at a block of flats like ours. Nan points to a flat on the first floor. A pair of men’s blue jeans and a pair of knickers hang on the line.

  ‘Newly married woman, no children yet.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  She shakes her head. ‘The jeans will never dry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s pegged them out by the waistband. And lace frillies? It’s their first six months of marriage, I’d say.’

  With two fingers, she taps out a tune on my arm, sings it out loud.

  What’s the time? Half past nine.

  Hang your knickers on the line.

  When they’re dry, bring them in.

  Iron them with a rolling pin.

  ‘It’s like being a detective.’

  Nan nods. ‘Okay, Robyn, you have a go.’

  Squishing my nose against the window, I look across at a line that has too many clothes on it.

  ‘Second floor, third door on the left: too many clothes on it. A family of six, maybe? Four kids, man and wife?’

  Nan shakes her head. The bus starts to pull away.

  ‘It takes practice. Two kids, man and wife. Everything looks brand new. Maybe her man’s had a big win on the horses and she’s showing off.’

  Nan points to a line full of towels. ‘The woman who pegged that lot out has got terrible worries. Look how each towel is folded again and again before it’s been pegged. They’ll never dry. Mind somewhere else, I’ll bet.’

  The bus pulls away. Nan closes her eyes and drifts off until the last stop. We get off, board another bus and begin our journey home. On a wall behind the bus stop there’s a small black and white poster advertising a boxing match. Nan sees it, smiles to herself. I say, ‘Nan, tell me more about Granddad Jack.’

  Nan rubs her leg, scrunches her face up with the pain.

  ‘Jack couldn’t sleep the night before a fight. He’d walk from Crosby to Liverpool town centre and back again. That’s what he was doing the night I met him. He said walking helped to clear his head.

  ‘Jack’s passion was boxing. His father, Mick, trained him in a barn during the night while Rosie was asleep. They had to train in secret because Rosie didn’t want Jack to fight. She’d lost her brother, John. He died after being in the ring. The referee didn’t stop the fight in time. Rosie was there. She saw everything and she never got over it.

  ‘One night, Rosie followed them to the barn and saw them both with their gloves on. She was furious; went at Mick with a pitchfork. Jack said she wouldn’t speak to either of them for months. When he saw how much he’d upset his mam, Jack made her a promise he’d pack in boxing.’

  ‘For ever?’

  ‘For ever.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘Jack was never the same man once he gave up his passion. At first, he told me his promise to Rosie was more like an interruption to his career. He said give it a year or so, Rosie will come around. But that’s not how things worked out. I lost three boys before I had your mam; I couldn’t carry them. When she was born she only weighed two pounds. We didn’t think she’d survive. Jack spoiled her rotten. Took her everywhere, gave her anything she wanted. People said she was spoiled. And she was. I had murder with Jack over it; your mum ended up a spoilt madam. And maybe she got what she deserved with that lazy good-for-nothing.’

  When we get off the bus on Scotland Road, I ask Nan if I can come back to her flat. I think about her two-seater settee, me fast asleep on it, my legs dangling over the side.

  ‘It’s getting late, Robyn. Off home now before it gets dark. Come down and see me whenever you like. Wear your coat next time.’ Nan starts to walk away.

  ‘Just for half an hour?’

  She stops. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ I panic. ‘It is late. I’ll come down next Saturday.’

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  I shake my head, turn away and start to run home. ‘Nah, see you Saturday.’

  ‘C’mon now, don’t make me wring it out of you.’

  ‘It’s nothing, honest. See you Saturday.’

  In bed, covering myself up, I think about my nan with her lovely new flat. I think about having a place I can go and visit whenever I like. A place I can go and not have to think about stuff.

  Nan still thinks I’m the old Robyn, the Robyn who tries her very best to be good. If she finds out what I’m really like now, she’ll probably tell me to stay away. If I talk about stuff to Nan, I know it will spoil everything. Talking about stuff, like my stealing, would be the same as pegging out dirty nappies beside clean white towels.

  On the morning of my birthday, Mum said my present hadn’t arrived. She said I’d have to wait until Monday. After school, I race home and find a Raleigh Chopper in the hall. It is bright yellow, with a black L-shaped seat that smells like sunshine. The handle bars are high, with yellow and red tassels at the edge. Dad says he’ll carry it downstairs for me into the square. I’m so excited I take the stairs three at a time.

  Once I’m on it a group of kids surrounds me. One of them pats the back bit of seat behind me. ‘Giz a takey?’ she says.

  I look up to the second landing where Dad and Mum watch.

  ‘Can’t, I’m not allowed.’

  The kid looks up too and backs away.

  I ride off into the big square. The bike doesn’t feel like it’s mine. I try to ride it the way I’ve seen the other kids ride. I get off and walk it around in a circle. Push it straight, faster and faster, jumping on bum-first while it rushes away from me. I ride standing up on the pedals until my legs ache, the seat a soft place to rest.

  I ride through an old puddle with the front tyre, draw an S over and over, until there’s a chain of them the length of the square. Lift the handlebars up, ride with just the back wheel on the ground, until it slams down like a horse refusing a fence. Pedal backwards round and round again and again in a complete circle, until I’m dizzy.

  Use the tip of my sole to spin down one pedal fast, listen to the whirr and watch the edges blur. Make it go fast without using the pedals. Bum off the seat, run it down a hill, jump back on, legs out to the side screaming wheeee wheeee. Trace the way thick rubber zigzags across the tyres.

  When I get back, I lift the Chopper up the stairs, careful not to bash it against the walls when I turn a corner. I get to our door all out of puff. Before I can knock, the door is flung open. He grabs the bike into the lobby and turns on the light. Slams the front door shut. Gets down on his knees, feels the tyres, spins the wheels around and checks the yellow paintwork. Licks the tip of his finger, rubs away dark splashes. Spins the pedals forwards and backwards, pulling the brakes hard.

  He looks up at me, his dark eyes small. ‘You’ve hammered this, you ungrateful bastard.’

  I look down at the floor. He stands, pushes his face too close to mine. I can smell beer and smoke on his breath and it makes me feel sick. ‘You don’t deserve to have it. It isn’t even paid for yet. Get to bed now.’

  In the last year of junior school, we get to go on a trip away from home, for a whole week in May, to a place called Colomendy. Mr Thorpe gives us all a letter to take home, saying a small deposit is needed as soon as possible. We will be given a payment card and we can pay whatever we like off the trip, as long as it is all paid two week
s before we go. The classroom buzzes with the news. Outside, letters are waved high at the gate.

  When I get home Dad puts my letter on the mantelpiece. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What’s all this then?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I lie.

  Mum takes the thick glossy catalogue off her knee and puts it on the floor. ‘I’ll open it,’ she says.

  She tells him it’s about a trip away for a week.

  ‘How much?’

  She tells him and he says bloody schools and their bloody money. ‘If she carries on wrecking that bike the way she has been doing, she’s got no chance.’

  Mum shouts at Dad. ‘Don’t dictate to me what Robyn can and can’t do. She is going, and I’ll make sure of it.’ I’m going away soon, I’ll be able to tell Nan. A tiny balloon painted rainbow colours swirls in my chest. It fills me, from my toes right up to my head. I rub my hands together and feel it inside them. This, I think, is what happy feels like.

  The next time I take the bike out I ride it through to a square I have never been in before. This square is darker than ours, calmer, with less wind. It smells stuffy, like a slept in bedroom. I sit on the seat and look up at the early morning washing lines. A couple of shirts wave their arms at me; a skirt flips up a whoops-a-daisy hem.

  On the top landing, last door on the right, heavy jeans in three different sizes with their pockets hanging open touching the wind. Cream sweaters, with three brown stars on the front and knitted collars. Three lads I’d say: a toddler, one a bit younger than me and a bigger one.

  Going into this new square is like entering a different country. Heads above the landings are familiar but different. Reading the washing lines makes me feel like I am visiting a relative. I don’t have any aunties or uncles. The only homes I have ever been in, apart from our flat, is Joan’s house, Angela’s house and Nan’s new flat. It is a perfect way for me to find out about other people’s lives, without them knowing anything at all about me.

  I ride the bike back into our square. Dad watches over the landing. He tosses his head towards the stairs for me to come up. I stand up, try to get off the bike, but the pedals dig into the backs of my legs, trapping me. He carries on watching. The tip of the seat pushes into my back like a gun.

  9

  Before the end of morning assembly, Mr Merryville asks us to put our hands together. We are to say an Eternal Rest, for Arthur Raynard who died last weekend. When we have finished, Mr Merryville’s shoes squeak, squeak across the polished floor, like there’s an army of mice inside. They stop at Angela. He tells everyone how Angela, a valued member of our school, and her mother, are to be commended for being of great comfort to Mrs Raynard during her time of need. He pats Angela’s head. Angela’s red face disappears behind her hands.

  Later that morning when we are in the middle of doing collective nouns, Mr Merryville comes into our classroom. Mr Thorpe’s face brightens. He picks a brand new stick of chalk from the box. ‘Ah, you’re just in time to witness how well the class is doing with their collective nouns.’ He turns to the board.

  Mr Merryville scans the room. ‘Yes, yes, wonderful I’ll bet. I’m here to borrow Angela. Ah, there you are.’ He’s managed to get a man from the local paper, to interview Angela and her mother. They’re in his office right now. ‘Exciting stuff,’ he says, mainly to himself, rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to start a fire.

  Mr Thorpe says nothing. The chalk drops to his side. He watches Mr Merryville leave the room, pat, patting Angela’s head. When the door closes, Mr Thorpe snaps the chalk in half and throws it on the floor. Rubbing his hands together to remove the chalk, he looks around the room. This happens sometimes, when Mr Merryville has interrupted the lesson. He will stand up, walk around the room trying to find things, things that didn’t bother him before. The number eleven at the top of his nose has changed into a V.

  ‘Tommy Taylor, have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then why are you eating your cuff? Maureen Clarke?’

  Maureen looks astonished. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Stop chewing your hair. You’ll drown the nits.’

  Her face flushes pink. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  He spies the lid off the biscuit tin. ‘Who has been at the tin?’

  Faces drop under Mr Thorpe’s eyes.

  ‘Anybody?’

  Silence.

  He looks inside the tin. ‘They must have eaten themselves then.’ His head shakes. He lifts the tin up, bends his knees and tilts his head to look underneath. Like a magician, he taps the side of the tin with a ruler. Shakes his head again, tips the tin upside-down. A few crumbs and an empty packet of Rich Tea spill to the floor.

  ‘I placed a packet of biscuits in here yesterday. A full packet. Now they’ve gone. We must have a mouse. Don’t you think?’

  No answer.

  ‘Cat got your tongues?’

  Silence.

  Mr Thorpe picks up the empty packet, walks over to Tommy Taylor and scrunches it under his nose.

  He found a fistful of broken biscuits once, in Tommy’s pocket. Tommy blinks his eyes away inside his head. When he opens them again, Mr Thorpe digs him in the ribs with the ruler. Tommy knows what’s coming so he rolls to the floor with a thud. Mr Thorpe walks back to the tin.

  ‘No more biscuit money out of my pockets for greedy mice.’ He picks the tin up and drops it clang into the bin under his desk.

  Tommy starts to get up.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  Trisha Fisher raises her hand.

  Mr Thorpe ignores her.

  He walks back over to Tommy. ‘Open your mouth.’

  Tommy opens his mouth and Mr Thorpe pokes his nose too close inside and sniffs. I imagine Tommy sinking his teeth deep into the nose, while we all pile in and thump Mr Thorpe until he drops to the floor, staring up at something that looks like his nose sticking out of Tommy Taylor’s teeth. He grasps at the place on his face where it once was. We watch him watch Tommy swallow it down whole.

  Mr Thorpe starts to shake Tommy’s sleeves. Up and down they go, like a scarecrow in a windy field.

  ‘Maybe they’re up his sleeve, crumbs hidden inside his ripped cuffs? Is that why you nibble them?’

  He bends down, drags the jumper up over Tommy’s head. His ears get stuck in the neck and he lets out a moan. Mr Thorpe pulls harder; they spring pinky-red back into view. Once the jumper is off, Mr Thorpe shakes it, throws it to the floor.

  Trisha Fisher puts up her hand again.

  ‘What, girl?’

  ‘I need the toilet, sir.’

  He checks the clock on the wall. ‘You can wait until break.’

  Trisha Fisher leans forward ready to pounce at the clock.

  ‘A scabby little mouse has poked its greedy nose into my biscuit tin and ate the lot. What’s to be done?’

  Gavin Rossiter puts his hand up.

  ‘What is it, Rossiter?’

  ‘You could lock them away, sir, so scabby little mice can’t get them.’

  ‘Lock them away? What do you think they are, prisoners of war?’

  Trisha Fisher’s hand goes up again. Her wide scribbly mouth is closed tight. Her mum’s been up to the school before; she told Mr Merryville Trisha’s got to go to the toilet whenever she needs to cos she’s got a weak bladder.

  Mr Thorpe looks at her, his voice has risen to a scream. ‘I said wait.’

  He walks back over to Tommy. ‘I know who to lock away in a cupboard. Dirty little thieves who steal things that don’t belong to them.’

  My face burns.

  Somebody squeaks pissy wissy at Trisha Fisher.

  She bursts into tears.

  Mr Thorpe walks back to his desk and leans against it, like it’s an old friend.

  I look across at Stephen Foley; he’s got his palms over his ears. The sound of the bell makes us all look at the clock.

  Tommy Taylor jumps up, wearing just his vest. S
lips back into his seat. He stoops, not taking his eyes off Mr Thorpe, paws around the floor for his jumper, finds it, holds it to his chest. The bell rings again. Breathless, we wait to be dismissed. With a careless hand, Mr Thorpe waves us away. Tommy legs it across the room, wriggling back inside his jumper. Trisha Fisher, cupping the middle of her skirt, knees locked, takes baby steps towards the door.

  Once we are on the playground, I hear Anthony Greenbank talking to Gavin about Mr Thorpe. ‘He’s a loony.’

  ‘I know,’ Gavin says. ‘All over a crummy biscuit.’ They don’t laugh. It’s too soon to pretend it was funny.

  Anthony tells Gavin about Arthur Raynard. ‘He used to let me off if I never had enough money. Once, these big kids robbed my dad’s paper money off me. When I told him what had happened, he gave me the Echo for free. Dolly would never let you off like that.’

  I turn to Kevin and whisper. ‘Who was Arthur Raynard?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Dolly’s husband, you nit.’

  I can hear Dad’s shiny cherry blossom shoes clit-clat down the stairs. Stop halfway. He taps his pockets but the matches aren’t there, so he turns around, shoes shish shish back up the stairs.

  The scrape of the key in the lock then his voice from the hall: ‘Get my matches off the mantelpiece.’

  And Mum, handing them to me out of her pocket.

  In the hall, holding open the front door, see him shake them to his ear. ‘They’re not mine. Off the mantelpiece, I said.’

  Back into the living room, Mum’s already got them open. Takes out a pinchful, tucks them, goodnight God bless, inside the box I hold.

  When he’s gone, I walk into the kitchen. Mum is rolling the tip of her cigarette across the electric ring. Little sparks of fire fall to the floor, burn themselves out halfway down. She draws on the tip, blows out a mouthful of smoke that fills the tiny room. ‘Bastard,’ she says in a quiet voice.

  He’s just flung his tea all up the wall. Said he didn’t like liver and onions, she should know that by now.

  She told him to fuck off. He sprang up out of the chair. Got the shoe polish and brush from his all-dolled-up box under the sink, said he’d do just that.