Disappearing Home

by Deborah Morgan

  On the playground, freezing winds blow up from the Mersey, rattling the open windows. The sound of his name, Arthur Raynard, blown inside classrooms like dead leaves. Something bad has happened to Mr Dolly and I didn’t catch it in time.

  Trisha Fisher skips around the playground, her face unscrewed. Tommy Taylor sits on the ground, back against the wall, eyes everywhere, as if something of his has been stolen. There’s a crowd around Angela. I stand right at the back where she can’t see me. Since the vanity case thing happened, there’s a part of me that thinks if she doesn’t see me, she’ll forget all about me, and what I did.

  Angela tells everybody, like she’s on the telly: she was in Dolly’s shop with her mum when the police came. Dolly was standing on her little ladder, reaching to the top shelf to weigh two ounces of jelly babies.

  Tipping them into the scale, she said she might take a nap, in about half an hour, when Arthur got back.

  Dolly split open a box of Galaxy Counters, stood them to attention behind each other inside the glass counter.

  And the police officers who walked in, saying her name like a question. Dolly Raynard? Asked her if there was somewhere private. Somewhere they could talk?

  Handing over the jelly babies to Angela’s mum, Dolly said she couldn’t leave the shop, so they could say what they had to say right there.

  They told her there had been an accident. Mr Raynard.

  Angela’s mum handed the coins over, took the white paper bag. Asked Dolly if there was anything she could do.

  Dolly twisted the lid back on the jar, left it on the side; lifted the end bit of the counter up in her hand so they could pass through to the other side.

  At the shop door, Mrs Leary, ooeeeing to Dolly that she’d meet her at seven o’clock, outside the bingo.

  Dolly handed Angela’s mum the keys, told her to lock the door. Just for a little while.

  Angela and her mum guarded the shop on their own, while Dolly took the officers upstairs.

  People banged on the door. Her mum said clear off under her breath and wrote on a ripped paper bag BACK IN TEN MINUTES then taped it to the front door.

  When the police had gone, Dolly sat on the brown stool in the corner, picked the bobbles off her cream Arran cardigan.

  I turn to the girl beside me on the playground, who is in the year below me. Her mouth open wide. ‘Has she said how he died?’

  The girl shrugs.

  ‘Will you ask her? Go over and say, how did he die?’

  The girl pushes to the front and taps Angela on the arm.

  ‘On his way home from playing golf in Crosby, Arthur Raynard died in a car crash.’

  That afternoon, Mr Thorpe is a pale ghost of his morning self. He calls the register with a voice that sounds like it doesn’t believe itself. He says Mr Merryville wants us in the hall, for a special presentation.

  Mr Merryville holds a small silver trophy. He reads out what’s written on it, Special Pupil Award. He shakes Angela’s hand, gives her the shiny cup. She stands in front of the whole school, holds the cup up to her chest and grins.

  10

  Mum is peeling potatoes with a long knife. It has a brown handle with silver studs. She can take the skin off a whole potato without stopping. It looks easy. An old sheet of newspaper is laid out on the draining board; the peelings coil around each other like dark snakes. There’s a pan of salty water ready on the worktop. In the living room Dad watches horse racing on the telly. She hands me the knife. ‘It’s time you knew how to peel spuds.’

  I hold the knife in one hand, the potato in the other. The potato feels gritty and rough. Bits of soil cling to my nails. I pierce the skin on the potato, but I can’t get the knife to budge.

  ‘You’ve gone too deep,’ Mum says. ‘Just lightly take off the top, or there’ll be nothing of any good left.’

  I try again. This time, the bit that drops onto the paper looks more like Mum’s peelings, only shorter.

  ‘That’s it. Now.’ She points at a small black lump. ‘Make sure you cut all the eyes out, all the bad bits. See if you can peel the lot by the time I get back from Dolly’s. I need a packet of fags and fancy the walk.’

  It takes me ages to peel one. The knife keeps slipping off the side bit of the spud. I cut deep then shallow bits out. Try to get the eyes and get the roundness back but it gets smaller and smaller. In the end, the shape it started out as has disappeared. It’s all corners and triangles now. It would fit neatly on a teaspoon.

  I pick up another one and try again. I start it okay. It’s the roundness that’s hard to hold. I cut it in half. Then lay it flat, like an upside-down cup without a handle. I slice away like I’ve seen Nan do, when she cuts a Vienna loaf. It’s easier to take the skin off in thin slices. I speed up. Cut more and more potatoes. It’s fun hearing them plop into the pan of icy water; they leave a trail of white mist behind them.

  Dad comes into the kitchen behind me. He dips his hand into the pan and pulls out a handful of potatoes. ‘What’s this?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘I said what the fuck’s this?’

  ‘I’ve peeled the spuds.’

  ‘Call these crumbs spuds? We’re having a roast, you stupid bitch. That’s good money you’ve wasted.’

  I’m not sure at first what the burning is in my ear. I hit my head on the way down, legs sprawled, ears ringing. I think I’ve slipped. I cup my ear in the palm of my hand and it’s soaking wet. So is my hair. I see his raised hand above my head, water dripping. When I look up again he’s gone back into the living room.

  I stare at cupboards I think could have jumped up without moving. He’s back in the kitchen, standing over me.

  We hear the front door slam. Mum is in the kitchen.

  ‘She slipped,’ Dad says. ‘Must be water on the floor.’

  I stare at his navy blue slippers with their thin yellow stripe and the knife on the floor next to them.

  He catches me looking then stoops to pick up the knife.

  Mum throws her cigarettes on the worktop, gives me a hand up, my other hand still on my ear.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Mum says.

  Dad takes a cigarette out of the box and strikes a match.

  I take my hand away and Mum says it’s all red.

  Mum grabs a tea towel and wets it under the cold tap. ‘Here, press that on it. You must have banged it on the cupboard.’ She looks at Dad lighting his cigarette. ‘For fuck’s sake get out, there’s no room in here as it is. Standing there gawping.’

  Dad gives Mum a bad look.

  ‘She’s just being a baby,’ Dad says.

  ‘I told you to get out.’

  He stays exactly where he is. Smoke curls around his mouth.

  I go to my room and lie on my good ear. My good ear. I say it like it’s something I need to take better care of. Like Nan’s Sunday tablecloth.

  I feel safe in my room, just my bed and me, the pillow a soft place to think. I toss around what happened. I didn’t see him hit me. I must have slipped. But I felt the sting before I fell. The sting was what made me fall. But I might have slipped, I’m not sure. The story changes so many times in my head until I don’t really see it myself any more. To stop thinking so much I walk my fingers across the candy-striped sheets; I count thirty stripes across. The drumming in my ear won’t stop and I want to scream at it.

  Mum’s head is at the door. ‘All right?’

  I nod.

  She checks my ear. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘No, tired.’

  ‘I’ll let you sleep then.’

  You shouldn’t have gone the shop and left me with him, I want to say. The door closes and burning water fills my eyes. ‘Mum,’ I say out loud. ‘Mum.’ But she doesn’t hear. I should have told her then. But what could she do? He wouldn’t even leave the kitchen when she asked him to and she had a look in her eyes I’ve never seen before.

  The flush of the toilet, then Dad’s face at the door, his voice low. ‘Be very careful what you say. Kids w
ith big mouths get taken away, where nobody can find them.’

  I turn away onto my bad ear and it hurts. ‘Fuck off,’ I say in my head. The door closes. I turn back around to check he’s gone.

  Next morning, Mum checks my ear. ‘You’ll live,’ she says.

  I nod.

  ‘How did you manage to do that?’

  ‘I tried to lift the pan. Water tipped out. I slipped.’

  She walks away. Takes out a cigarette and lights it.

  11

  I am sitting on the step. There are noises in our square, shouting. I look over the landing and see nine stars. I’ve seen them before, somewhere. I think of my bike, the new square with no wind. That’s it, the washing line, last house on the right. Three boys, with mops of wild curly hair shout. Rubbish. Rubbish taken. Any rubbish?

  They push an old Silver Cross pram that has bags of rubbish inside. The smallest boy is pulling a toddler along by a dirty rope attached to a go-kart. I run downstairs to take a closer look. The toddler has an old bicycle wheel between his hands which he uses as a pretend steering wheel. Two lines of bright green snot hang from his nose, propped up by his thick upper lip. The tip of his tongue curls up to take a lick.

  Rubbish. Rubbish taken. Any rubbish?

  Mrs Kinsella, who has a front yard, comes out carrying two bags. ‘Here you go, lads.’ She swings the bags onto the pram, hands a coin to the tallest kid. ‘Here’s a penny for your trouble, Bernie lad.’

  She walks over to the toddler in the go-kart, lifts the hem of her pinny to his nose, pulls the green number eleven away. ‘There. That’s better, Johnny.’ She walks away, the hem of her pinny pressed into a pinch. Bernie drops the coin inside a black sock and tucks it back in his trouser pocket.

  Dad comes out of the block. ‘What’re you up to?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  He twists my bad ear between his fingers. ‘Don’t move out of the square. Remember what I said.’ When he lets go, it starts to throb all over again.

  Behind a cloud of smoke Mr Sanderson wheezes down over the third landing. ‘Hold on there, lads, giz a minute.’

  The boys shuffle the bags around on the pram to make more room.

  Dad walks away through the arch towards the Stanley.

  From her step, Mrs Kinsella pulls a face. ‘You’ll get nothing off that tight sod. Sanderson wouldn’t part with daylight.’

  Bernie passes me as he races up the stairs to give Mr Sanderson a hand. They load three more bags onto the pram and Bernie says to the oldest lad, ‘Come on, Ged, we’re done.’

  Mrs Kinsella watches Mr Sanderson walk away without giving the boys a coin.

  She calls over to him. ‘Ahh, eh, Billy lad. Give the lads a penny, for their trouble.’

  ‘Look, love,’ he says. ‘If I had a penny I’d give it.’ He turns to the brothers. ‘The lads know I’ll see them all right when I get my dole.’

  She puts a hand in her pinny pocket. ‘I’ve a penny to lend you.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t lend trouble.’

  Before she closes the door, she whispers across to Bernie. ‘Told you. Wouldn’t part with his own shite.’ Her voice sounds pleased.

  I follow them up St Domingo Road, past the wash house behind St George’s church to a piece of wasteland. They pile the rubbish in the middle of the ground, brown paper coal bags tipped upside down then laid flat. From Ged’s pockets, tiny pieces of coal are sprinkled on top. Bernie takes a box of matches out of his pocket.

  ‘Move our Johnny further back, Ged,’ Bernie tells his brother, before striking the match. He bends, moving the flame from side to side until a piece of paper catches light. He looks over to the wall where I’m hiding. I jump back. Hope he hasn’t seen me.

  ‘You can come and watch if you like,’ Bernie calls.

  I walk over towards the fire. Yellow, red, blue and orange flames nudge against each other. The smoky smell of burning: the wind carries it away, changes its mind, blows it back against my cheek like a kiss.

  Heat burns through my trousers and warms my bones. Johnny’s hands reach out to me; squishy fingers wriggle for my attention.

  Bernie laughs. ‘He wants you to pick him up.’

  I hold him in my arms, not too close to the fire. He points, face lit up, leaning forward, like all of us, wanting to touch it. He grips my bad ear and I cry out. He laughs, tries to do it again, but I pull my head right back. He’s heavy, like a bag of wet washing, thumb inside his mouth, fingernails no bigger than a tear. His everywhere eyes are green and he takes in everything. He stinks to high heaven.

  Bernie notices my face change.

  He holds out his hands. ‘Pass him.’

  I try to hand him over but he won’t go. He presses his head into my shoulder and it feels good that he doesn’t want to let go.

  ‘He likes you,’ Bernie says, pulling him away.

  Bernie throws Johnny up in the air and catches him. Puts Johnny’s back into his belly, clasps him around the waist and twirls around and around. Johnny squeals in bubbles, catching his breath again out of the wind. Still holding Johnny tight, Bernie opens his legs and swings him through them singing, What’s the time, Mr Wolf? One o’clock, two o’clock.

  Ged stands in front of the baby, sticks out his bum, the baby kicks it. Three o’clock, four o’clock.

  Bernie looks at the clock on top of St George’s church.

  ‘Find more sticks, Ged. Let’s build the fire up a bit before we go.’

  Ged doesn’t move.

  ‘Go on,’ Bernie says.

  Ged finds a few sticks and throws them on the fire.

  Bernie puts Johnny back in the cart. Takes a few steps back and runs towards the fire. He leaps over it; flames lick the soles of his shoes. On the other side of the fire he rolls to the ground, rips off his shoes and swears. I walk over and see the sides of his shoes wrinkled up from the flames. Ged gets hold of the rope and starts to pull the baby away.

  ‘Your turn,’ Bernie shouts over to him.

  ‘Piss off,’ Ged shouts. ‘Stupid loony. One of these days you won’t make it to the other side.’

  Bernie looks at me. ‘How about you?’

  Ged stops pulling the kart, shakes his head. ‘Leave it, Bernie.’

  ‘No way,’ I say.

  ‘A couple of scaredy cats, Johnny lad, that’s what they are.’

  ‘Am not,’ I say.

  Johnny starts to cry.

  ‘Go on then, no dodging to the side, right over the middle.’

  ‘Time to get him home for a nappy,’ Ged says.

  I take a few steps back, run up to the fire as quick as I can and leap. I clear it, roll onto my back at the other side.

  ‘Another stupid loony, Johnny lad.’

  Bernie looks at the burning fire then back at me and grins.

  Ged is shouting now. ‘Come on, time to go.’

  But we don’t move. We stay and watch the fire burn itself out until there’s only ashes. We watch their dark feathery shapes flicker and melt to nothing. Johnny screams inside the kart, green number eleven drawn on again. Bernie hands him the wheel, the tip of Johnny’s tongue takes a lick of green, using the tyre to wipe the rest away. Finally they head off home.

  Bernie limps away, looks back at me. ‘Coming?’ He grins.

  Bernie’s mum sits, legs tucked to the side, waiting on the step, dark red hair, half-empty jar at her feet. Johnny’s squishy fingers reach out. ‘Come on, gorgeous lad.’ She rocks him in her arms. Face right up to his, touches his cheek, beetroot-stained finger rests on the dimple in his chin. She sings to him.

  Nebuchadnezzar, king of the Jews

  sold his wife for a pair of shoes.

  When the shoes began to pinch

  Nebuchadnezzar began to flinch.

  When the shoes began to wear

  Nebuchadnezzar began to swear.

  When the shoes began to leak

  Nebuchadnezzar began to squeak.

  When the shoes began to cra
ck

  Nebuchadnezzar said ‘Take them back.’

  On ‘back’ she lets Johnny’s head fall back in her arms, chases his giggles into the lobby. Ged barges past them, goes inside. I move closer. Bernie smells musty like his lobby. Bernie’s mum pulls a face.

  ‘Who stinks then? Who’s pooh-poohed then? Come on, stinky pants, in you come.’ She holds her nose.

  ‘Jesus, I’ll never get used to the smell.’ She looks at the empty pram. ‘How did you do?’

  Bernie takes the sock out of his pocket. ‘I haven’t had a chance to count it. Not as many bags, though. Things are getting back to normal again.’

  ‘Never mind. At least you’ve got something.’ She notices me. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  I realize they don’t know my name. ‘Robyn. I live in the front square.’

  ‘The one by the church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know a soul in that square.’ She smiles, takes Johnny inside. ‘Nice to meet you, Robyn from the front square.’

  Bernie counts out the pennies on the step and piles them up into stacks of ten. I remember Dad told me to stay in our square.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ I say.

  He picks up a penny. ‘Want one?’

  I think about taking it, could leave it on the mantelpiece for Dad so he’ll stay in the pub longer.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  ‘What number do you live in?’

  ‘33B.’

  ‘I’ll knock up. Later.’

  ‘Later,’ I say, and head off home, a thought hot inside my head. It makes me want to scream the words out loud so I can hear my own voice saying them. I jumped over a real fire.

  12

  Packages are being delivered to our flat, huge packages and tiny packages in brown cardboard boxes. Record players, radios, watches and rings. None of the stuff is for us. No sooner has it been unwrapped than it’s sold. People knocking all the time, searching through the glossy-paged catalogue, asking can you get me this or that. Mum has a list on the mantelpiece and money in her purse.

  She tells me it’s time I had some new clothes, hands me the Colomendy deposit in a white envelope. It’s March now; Trisha Fisher paid her deposit last month, but loads of kids still haven’t paid. I can’t wait for Monday when Mr Thorpe gets the payment book out. I’ll be one of the first to pay mine. We get a taxi to Great Homer Street Market. I have never been in a taxi before. I have never been to a market before. The seats in the taxi are ripped; it smells of cigarette smoke and sick. Mum winds her window all the way down.