Disappearing Home

by Deborah Morgan

  Mr Thorpe takes over the prayers; they end fast, with everyone being ushered safely back to class.

  In my classroom, I sink low into the chair, eyes in line with the desk. Angela whispers to Kevin, Ugly mug’s dad’s an alky who pisses his kecks.

  I don’t look up until the bell rings. Mr Merryville comes into the room and speaks to Mr Thorpe.

  ‘Right, time to get your coats.’

  I stand.

  Mr Thorpe says, ‘Robyn, a word.’

  I wait by his desk until the room is empty.

  ‘Was that man your father?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Robyn, you won’t be coming to Colomendy after all. Your father just took the deposit back off Mr Merryville.’

  The way he looks at me makes me feel small, like a part of me has fallen away and been scattered around the whole school. Now Mr Thorpe knows I’m different to the other kids and so does everybody else.

  I get home and Mum says she didn’t know anything about him going up to the school to get the money back. ‘He’s probably pissing it up the wall in the Stanley.’

  Dad gets home late. He’s too drunk to stand up. He falls over the couch and bangs his head on the fireplace. Mum tells me to leave him there. We close the door and go to bed.

  I was pleased when I told her about him coming to the school and she made her eyes small. She was on my side and I didn’t want that to change. He’d embarrassed me in school and I wanted her to punish him so he’d never do that again.

  Next morning when I get up, I find Dad asleep on the living-room floor. I knock at Mum’s bedroom door. No answer. I open the door, but she’s not there. I open her wardrobe and her clothes are gone. I don’t go to school; instead I leg it down to my nan’s.

  She has her coat and scarf on when I get there, ready to go out. ‘No school?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘We’re off today.’

  Nan is going to the shops. She tells me I can come with her if I want. Nan orders loads of stuff. Eggs, bread, milk, cheese, ginger biscuits, sugar. She puts a two pence coin on the counter. The man behind the counter says, ‘Not e-nuff, not e-nuff.’

  ‘Robbing sods, these Pakistans,’ Nan says. ‘This decimal business means they can charge whatever they like.’

  A long queue forms behind Nan.

  I try to figure out what to do next. If I tell Nan about Mum she’ll worry. If I don’t tell Nan, I’ll worry. If I go home and she’s not back I’ll be stuck with Dad. The safest bet is to stay here and say nothing.

  Nan throws more coins on the counter.

  Somebody shouts from behind. ‘Let the woman off, you robbing Paki bastard. She’s a fucking pensioner.’

  Then somebody else shouts, ‘Yeah, isn’t it enough that you’ve taken our jobs?’

  The man behind the counter says nothing.

  Nan turns around. ‘I’m no charity case. I can pay for my own messages, thanks very much.’ She bags her shopping and storms out of the shop.

  When we get back, I can hear the kids in the playground behind her back wall. I miss school. The lining up, the milk, the dinners, running around on the windy playground. It’s the only place I know what’s going to happen next. Dad coming in messed that up. But there’s no more money in school. No reason that I can think of for him to come up again.

  At twelve o’clock Nan gets changed into her best cream blouse. She pins a cameo brooch to her collar, brushes her hair, puts on her camel coat. ‘I’m going to the club for a bit of dinner.’

  ‘The club?’

  ‘The League of Welldoers around the corner.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a club.’

  ‘Twelve until two. I’ve made you a jam sandwich, it’s in the kitchen.’

  I follow her into the hall.

  ‘Lock this after me. Don’t let anyone in, even if it’s the devil himself. I’ll shout through the letterbox so you’ll know it’s me.’

  I lean over the kitchen sink and eat my sandwich waiting for Nan. The flat seems creepy without her and I can hear all sorts of strange noises. A delivery van pulls up opposite, at St Sylvester’s Club. Two men get out wearing brown leathery aprons. They sit down on the kerb and have a smoke and a chat. After a few minutes, the rumble and clink of crates and barrels carted and rolled into the cellar. When they’ve finished, the back doors of the van are locked and they drive off.

  I spot him as he turns the corner. He’s wearing the same faded blue jeans and black polo neck that he wore this morning. He’s smoking a cigarette. I run from the kitchen and close all of the doors. I sit on the settee, pull my knees up under my chin. The block door bangs.

  He uses the knocker first.

  Polite little tap, tap, taps.

  Silence.

  Then his fist.

  The letterbox squeaks. ‘Open the door, Babs. I know you’re in there.’

  Fists again.

  The block door slams.

  I stay where I am in case he’s looking in through the kitchen window. I remember: he can’t look through the back window. Lily upstairs has the key.

  Much later, I hear a gentle knock. Nan’s voice through the letterbox. ‘Robyn, it’s me love. Open the door.’

  I race to the door. Nan steps in and I slam it shut behind her. Fasten the chain, lock, bolt.

  Nan looks shocked. ‘Now then, what’s all this? That teacher hasn’t been trying to get back in, has she?’

  I tell her everything. About Dad coming to the school for the money, about him coming in drunk and about Mum gone, but I don’t tell her about him hitting Mum.

  ‘He had no right to go up to the school and take that money. No right at all, that conniving lazy good-for-nothing.’ She picks up her purse. ‘How much was the deposit?’

  ‘No. Nan, I don’t want to go, honest.’

  ‘You sure? That’s no problem. I’ll give it. I won a bit on the horses.’

  ‘I’m sure. I was dreading it, to be honest.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about your mother, she’ll be back.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Mark my words; she’ll be back all right. You want to stay here tonight?’

  ‘Dunno. What if Mum’s back? She won’t know where I am.’

  ‘Go to Tommy Whites and see. If she’s not in, you’re welcome to stay here tonight.’

  ‘Thanks, Nan. I will.’

  ‘If I don’t see you later, I’ll know she’s home.’

  ‘But how has he found out where you live?’

  ‘I’m not bothered about that. There’s only one way he’ll get in here, over my dead body.’

  When I get to my wall, a group of kids kneel down facing it. I walk over to take a look. They poke at something with a long thin stick, toss it up in the air, it lands in the gutter. It is a mouse. A stiff, brown, long-tailed mouse; it has pretty ears, round and curvy. So small, I think it’s a girl mouse. It moves like a stone when they poke it, flies play leap frog on it. Bits of fur are missing and it’s all scabbed up. The kids take turns to flick it against the wall, to see who can get it the highest.

  When I get in Mr Wainwright is sitting on our settee. At first I think he’s told my dad I haven’t been to school. There is no sign of my mum. Dad sits in his chair, reading the paper. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

  Mr Wainwright nods at me then leans in towards Dad. His mouth is open, but he doesn’t say anything for a while. Dad acts like Mr Wainwright isn’t there, newspaper up over his face.

  Finally Mr Wainwright says in a low voice, ‘Can I talk with Robyn, please?’

  Dad rattles the paper. ‘There she is,’ he answers, without looking up.

  Mr Wainwright pulls away; the back of his head touches the wall. ‘Yes, of course, exactly, there she is.’

  Then silence again. Mr Wainwright looks at the floor, rubs a thumb knuckle across his bottom teeth.

  Dad turns the page, gives him a bad look, shakes his head.

  I hear the squashed sound of voices from ne
xt door’s telly coming through the wall.

  Mr Wainwright coughs, picks up his case, tries to open the zip but it won’t budge. He puts it back down on the floor, pinches the crease line down the front of his trousers. He opens his mouth; words fly through the still air like peas coming out of a shooter. ‘No, I mean talk to her somewhere private.’

  Dad puts the paper down and fixes his eyes on Mr Wainwright. ‘Are you telling me to get out of my own living room?’

  ‘No, no. I’m not. Can I speak with Robyn in another room is, I suppose, what I’m saying.’

  Dad looks at me and nods.

  I walk towards my bedroom. Mr Wainwright follows.

  ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ Dad shouts after him.

  I walk over to the window and open it as wide as I can.

  ‘How are you, Robyn?’

  I look at his hands. No pen.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Look, before we start, I’d like to say thanks for …’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Look, if there’s anything you need to tell me, I’ll listen.’

  No answer.

  ‘Is there anything?’

  I sit down on the bed. I want to tell him everything. To tell some stranger all about how my dad hates me because I am not like the other kids. I am a clumsy, lanky always-in-the-way cow. And how I’m so thick, I don’t even know what it is I’ve done. All I know is that it makes him hit me. I make him hit me.

  ‘Robyn?’

  There’s a creak outside my room door.

  Mr Wainwright looks at the door then back at me. The moment has gone.

  ‘So, Robyn, what is your favourite subject in school?’

  ‘I like all subjects, probably reading stories best.’

  ‘Can I use the bathroom please?’

  I get up. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’

  Mr Wainwright opens the door fast but there’s nobody there.

  He comes back from the bathroom and whispers, ‘Robyn, Mr Merryville rang me. He wanted me to make sure you’re all right. I’m here to make sure you’re okay. Does your father ever lose his temper with you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, disgusted with myself.

  ‘Has he ever hit you?’

  ‘I just told you. No.’

  ‘Has he hit your mum?’

  My throat cracks. ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Is there anything else you’re scared of?’

  For a minute I say nothing.

  ‘I used to be scared … of faces I saw in the wallpaper.’

  ‘Used to be?’

  I nod.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I think if they were going to get me they’d have done it by now.’

  It’s Mr Wainwright’s turn to go quiet. I want to scream at him to leave me alone. There’s nothing he can do to help me. In the end he says, ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘Gone on a message for a few bits; she’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Right.’ His eyes behind the glasses are two bits of stone.

  ‘If you need to talk, tell Mr Merryville and he’ll contact me. I’m on your side, you know. I can help.’

  Once he’s gone Dad calls me into the living room.

  ‘You did good telling that prick nothing. Tell them too much and they’ll turn it against you. Take you away. Into a home, God knows where, Scotland, or some other miserable hole. You’ll never see your mum or your nan again.’ He presses a finger to his lip. ‘So make sure you keep that shut.’ He stands, pokes a finger into my cheek. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘You seen your mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’ll be back,’ he says to himself, then sits back down in the chair with his paper.

  ‘Can I play out?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Can I play out for a bit?’

  ‘Don’t move out of the square.’

  14

  Bernie is walking through our square.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Cool bike, Robyn. Mad colour though. Giz a takey through to our square?’

  I look up at our landing. Dad’s not there. He must be still reading the paper. I push my belly right up to the front of the bike. ‘Get on.’ I have never given a takey before and I’m surprised by the added weight. When I try to pedal away the bike wobbles all over the place and Bernie starts laughing his head off.

  ‘Can’t you give takeys?’ he says.

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Like you can’t.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, get to the back of the seat and I’ll show you.’

  ‘In a minute,’ I say.

  I stand up and walk the bike through to the big square. Bernie follows me. When we are far enough away, I get back on, Bernie grips the handlebars. He makes it seem so easy. I tuck my feet up on the bar, knees out to the side, holding onto the backrest behind. It’s brilliant. I lean in when Bernie does, lean out again, unable to see what’s ahead. Racing across the big square, the middle of Bernie’s neck hidden under the greasy feathers of his hair, the wind wipes away his lobby smell. ‘You okay?’ he shouts.

  ‘Yes,’ I shout back, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. We’re in his square in no time. He gets off the bike, hands it back to me.

  ‘See, easy. It was like I was riding it on my own. You must have hollow bones,’ he says. ‘Try again.’

  ‘You’re heavier than me, though.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s about skill.’ He gets on the bike behind me.

  I try to pedal away, but the bike tilts sideways.

  ‘It does matter. A heavy person is harder to pull.’

  He jumps off, stamps one foot in front, pretends to run at me.

  ‘Are you trying to say I’m fat?’

  I laugh at his bony frame.

  ‘Are yer? Cos if yer are, you’d better run.’

  Bernie’s mum shouts him from over the landing.

  ‘Coming?’ he asks.

  He lifts my bike all the way up the stairs. He’s out of breath by the time we get to the top landing, four flights up. Bernie’s mum is waiting on the step. She smiles at me.

  ‘Hiya, Robyn from the front square.’

  I smile.

  Bernie’s face is red and blotchy.

  ‘Jesus, Bernie, get yourself a drink of water before you die.’

  Bernie disappears inside the flat.

  ‘I hear you know Joan, a friend of mine.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It is you, who got her grandson that lovely suit he wore for his christening, isn’t it?’

  I can feel my face redden.

  ‘It’s Johnny’s shoes. They’ve only gone too small. Do you know that shop around by Dolly’s that sells kids’ stuff? The little wool shop?’

  I nod.

  ‘There’s some in there. He’s a little size ten. Would you run around and see what’s what? I’ll pay you.’

  Bernie comes back on the landing.

  ‘Bernie, check on Johnny for me.’

  When he’s gone back in she starts to talk again. ‘I have all lads. They won’t look twice at a girl. Here.’ She shoves five pence in my hand. ‘Buy him a pair of socks. I’ll mind your bike.’

  ‘Can I lend a coat?’ I say.

  She passes me a green anorak that fits fine. ‘Go on now, be careful.’

  When I get around to the wool shop I look through the window. There are no customers inside. I wait for a while, until a couple of women go in together. I walk in behind them and see the little shoes in a box on the counter. The size is printed in blue ink on the side of each box. Inside the size ten box there is a pair of navy blue sandals with a silver buckle and tiny little pin holes that make a half-moon across the front.

  The woman behind the counter
turns her back to find wool for one of the women. I don’t listen to what they say, I’m only checking in which direction they are looking. My hand reaches inside the box, I grab one shoe, stuff it in the side pocket of the anorak. I wait for her to turn again, my hand ready to pounce. The other lady orders some blue wool and the woman behind the counter turns again. I’m fast. I have both shoes in my pockets and I’m not stopping to buy any socks. The lady behind the counter smiles at me. ‘I’ll be with you now.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I turn towards the door.

  One of the women says, ‘She’s probably forgotten the message.’

  ‘Kids,’ the woman behind the counter says. ‘Who’d have ’em?’

  They all laugh.

  When I get back to Bernie’s, his mum is waiting. ‘How did you do?’

  I pull the two shoes from my pockets at the same time, like a magician.

  ‘Clever girl, Robyn.’ She strokes their bubbly cream soles.

  ‘I didn’t need to get the socks.’ I hand the five pence back.

  ‘Oh, you’re an angel. Keep that for sweets. Do you want to come in for some bread and jam?’

  I want to say yes but I remember I’m supposed to stay in my square, and I want to see if Mum’s back. ‘No thanks. I’ll have to go. Tell Bernie I’ll see him later.’

  ‘See you later then. I’m going to try these on Johnny. He’ll love them.’

  And I love doing something that helps Bernie’s mum, Sylvia, out.

  A white van is in our square. Gangs of kids surround it. On tiptoes, they peer in its windows, try handles, pinch tyres, lift up windscreen wipers like arms, wave goodbye with them. On my landing, two men are edging their way out of our door, carrying the television. Everyone is out looking down over their landings. I take the stairs two at a time to find out what’s happening.

  Mum is back. I wrap my arms around her, the smell of smoke in her hair. Dad is shouting at the men. Mum smiles at me. ‘I only went to my mate Eileen’s house for the night, give that bastard a scare. Let him know what side his bread’s buttered on.’ She winks. ‘It seems to have worked. And, anyway, I can be a pain in the neck myself at times, no wonder he gets a cob on. He won’t lay a finger on me again, Robyn. I mean it. If he does, I’ve told him, I’m walking.’

  ‘I don’t like it when you go without telling me.’