I look around the room. Plenty of faces I don’t know, some I do. Trisha Fisher is in my class and so is Angela, the girl from the hall with the wonky parting, and Tina Egan from my old school. When the register is finished a bell rings and Mrs O’Connor stands.
‘After play, make your way back to this room; you’re staying with me all day. Tomorrow you’ll begin school properly with a timetable.’
I don’t know what a timetable is.
On the playground behind a wall big girls smoke one cigarette between them. One, two, three pulls each and pass it on. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mandy, you’ve soaked the tip. I’m first on at lunch.’ Mandy has a big chest with a badge pinned to it that says MONITOR. She has the feather cut. She catches me watching. ‘Piss off, you. You’ll get us caught.’
I watch the teacher patrol the playground, but she doesn’t go near the wall. She stops and talks to the little kids, points the way to here and there. She doesn’t look at the wall, not once. Our classroom window opens and two girls sell drinks and sweets out of it. There’s a long queue and the bell goes before everyone is served.
Back inside the classroom, Mrs O’Connor hands us a book each: Anne of Green Gables. We spend the rest of the morning reading aloud around the room, one paragraph each. Mrs O’Connor listens to us all read and writes things down in a big book. Sometimes she stops a reader and says, speak up, or slow down, but most of the time she writes.
Next day we are given a timetable. It has names, times and classroom numbers on it. Mrs O’Connor explains how, if we get lost, we are to ask a monitor to show us the way. You can easily spot them, she says. They wear a badge that says monitor. ‘Watch how the monitors behave, and you can’t go wrong.’ Mrs O’Connor leads us to our first maths lesson with Mrs Much. ‘Don’t want you being late for that,’ she says.
Mrs Much has red hair and cat glasses. She’s the deputy head, she tells us, and homework is compulsory in her class. She fires times tables questions at us; a squeeze on the shoulder means it’s your turn to answer. As the weeks go by the questions get harder and so do the squeezes.
Mrs Jones teaches RE. She’s a big woman with thick ankles and a thin smile. We sit in alphabetical order, which means I always end up sitting next to sticky-out bunches and nostrils, Rose Mooney. Mrs Jones tells us to copy passages from books into our exercise books. Rose Mooney rolls the pages of her exercise book around her pencil. ‘I’m going to be a hairdresser when I leave school like our Rita,’ she whispers. ‘What are you going to be?’
I carry on copying the story of Lazarus and say nothing.
‘Where did you get that feather cut done?’
‘Great Homer Street.’
‘Our Rita says it’s too dear there. You should go to her shop next time; it’s dead cheap.’
Mrs Jones looks up. ‘Something wrong, Mooney?’
I carry on copying and Rose finds a new page to roll her pencil around. ‘Big bones Jones, our Rita calls her; locked our Rita in that cupboard once for talking.’
I look over at the brown cupboard door near the window.
‘She found big bones Jones’s lunch box in there and scoffed it.’
‘She never.’
She dabs the tip of her finger on her tongue, crosses her heart.
‘Honest to God,’ she says. ‘Cheese and pickle sandwich on brown bread, an apple, a KitKat and a bottle of lemonade.’
‘What did Mrs Jones say?’
‘Sent her to Bullock for the cane; six of the best she got. Big bones Jones had to go the chippy.’
‘Rose Mooney, one more peep out of you and you can stand outside for the rest of the morning.’
Rose cocks her head down to the side, pretends to write in her exercise book. ‘She hates me,’ she says, hardly moving her lips. ‘She knows Rita’s my sister.’
On the playground I walk around with Rose. We watch the girls smoke behind the wall. I queue up for a carton of orange juice while Rose talks about hairdressing and things her Rita told her about the teachers. Mrs Much once hit her Rita over the head with a text book and called her a dunce. Her mum came up to the school and dragged Mrs Much out of the classroom and gave her a good kicking in the corridor. She didn’t pick on Rita again after that. ‘Mrs O’Connor’s the best,’ Rose says. ‘Our Rita says she’s kind and we’re lucky to have her.’
Rita is right. English is my favourite lesson. Not just because Mrs O’Connor is kind to all of us. We get to read books and stories and poems. On Friday, Mrs O’Connor says that we can take Anne of Green Gables home with us to read if we promise to bring it back on Monday in one piece. She asks those who want to take it home to show hands. Half of the class show hands and Mrs O’Connor smiles. ‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘If you don’t bring it back on Monday though, you have to pay for it.’
On Sunday morning while Mum and Dad are still asleep, I race down to my nan’s with Anne of Green Gables. ‘What’s it about?’ Nan asks.
‘I’ll tell you a bit about it in an hour when I know more,’ I say, curling up on the settee with my book.
When she’s in her flat, Nan listens to the news on her radio on the hour of every hour.
‘We’ve read some of it around the class, but I’ll start again from the beginning because some of the girls who read out loud stumbled over words and mumbled them so it didn’t make sense. The main character is a twelve-year-old girl, Anne-Shirley. She is an orphan sent to work on a farm for a brother and sister, Matthew and Marilla. They asked for a boy, but the orphanage sent a girl by mistake.’
‘They’re not going to send the poor beggar back, are they?’ Nan says.
‘Dunno.’
Nan goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘They want shooting if they do.’ She waves her hand at me. ‘You read on and find out.’
After an hour, Nan points at the clock. ‘Well?’ she says.
‘They’re going to give her a chance. Marilla didn’t want her but Matthew said it’s only fair to give her a chance.’
‘He’s a smart man.’
‘She’s got to stay out of trouble and help them around the farm.’
‘That’s not hard. Do you think she can?’
I shrug.
‘Well, read on and find out,’ she says.
Every time I read a chapter I have to tell Nan what’s happened. When it’s time for me to go, Nan says I’m to bring the book back on Sunday, so she can find out what happens next.
‘It’s better than the bloody news. The news has done nothing but depress me lately.’
The following Sunday, from St George’s church, I run down the grass hill until I reach Netherfield Road. The sideways rain pelts through my duffel coat giving off a horrible nail-varnish smell. My socks and shoes are soaked. I pull up my hood but it falls back down, too big for my head. My ears sting with the cold. I take Anne of Green Gables out of my pocket and slip it inside the coat. I cross the road, run down another grass hill until I reach Great Homer Street. It’s Sunday. There’s no market today. It looks bigger when the stalls are here.
I walk up to Scotland Road. The sign above the Throstle’s Nest pub creaks over my head. I walk up to Limekiln Lane, across the caged tarmac where the lads play football. Her front door is open. Nan sits in her straight-backed chair by the radio. I sit down on the settee. I’m soaked through. She gets me a towel, hangs my coat up in the bathroom.
She’s back in the living room. ‘I’ve been thinking, if you read it out loud, then I won’t have to wait to find things out. I could find things out when you do.’
I don’t want to share it, have it taken over. Nan shuffles back in her chair, pats her hair into shape, eases the hem of her pinny down.
‘Sorry, love,’ she says. ‘I’m ready now.’ Gives me the nod to begin. I open the book and start to read. I take her through fields, schools, classrooms, bedrooms, markets and ministries, forwards, backwards, up and down stairs, into stables. She sits and listens and laughs and sighs. I watch her listen to the words, le
t my eyes read on a little faster, find out something new seconds before she does, and wonder how she’ll react, even guess how she’ll react, watch how she takes the news and, bit by bit, I begin to enjoy it.
When each character speaks I give them their own special voice; deep and kind for Matthew, sharp and brisk for Marilla, bright and funny for Anne. These characters take over my mind and I can see and hear them live and breathe in the room. It’s as if they are living next door and we get to see right inside their lives, without ever having to reveal anything about ourselves.
Every couple of chapters Nan rushes around the kitchen and makes tea, brings out a box of Family Favourites, says wait, so she can settle herself back into the chair before a new chapter begins. Sometimes, she asks me to go back and read chapters all over again. Especially the ones that describe the countryside. ‘Makes me feel like I’ve been on a day out,’ she says.
When it’s time for me to go I close the book. Nan’s eyes are glittery. ‘One more chapter?’
‘Can’t, I’ve got school tomorrow. Next Sunday?’
Nan nods. ‘Next Sunday.’
When I get to the front door I can hear Nan’s voice.
‘She’s a real livewire that Anne-Shirley, isn’t she?’
23
BLACK LACE-UP SHOES, SIZE 9
I BOX OF FAIRY SNOW
I JAR OF COFFEE
I BOTTLE OF LOXENE SHAMPOO
ROBINSONS LEMON & LIME JUICE
‘Do me a favour?’ Sylvia hands me a shopping list. ‘Big Bernie’s not going back to sea. He misses me and the kids too much. We’re down to our last few bob.’ She opens her purse, gives me three pence. ‘Buy yourself a Curly Wurly or something.’ She roots in her purse again, gives me an extra two pence for my bus fare. ‘See what you can do. He needs shoes to go looking for work, eight and a half, even if there’s no nines.’ She hands me a blue shopping bag; the handles are attached with gold rings. It makes me think of Mr Wainwright’s pen. It costs one pence there on the bus to County Road and one pence back. ‘You’ll have to be quick. The shops close in an hour.’
I look up St Domingo Road but there’s no bus in sight. I start to walk, look back when I reach the next stop to check for a bus. There’s no sign of one so I run all the way, bet myself I can get there before it. By the time I get to County Road, no bus has passed me. Inside Timpson’s shoe shop it’s busy. The shoes are in boxes stacked up against the wall. Every box has the shoe size printed on the front. I look for size nine. Open a box and look inside: brown slip-on shoes. I take the note out of my duffel coat pocket and check: black lace-up. I lift up lids on loads of size nine boxes before I find a pair of black lace-up shoes.
I take a walk around the shop. Pretend to look at a pair of shoes for myself. I try one on, walk about in it. Check to see what the staff are doing. Two ladies and one man, all serving. My heart starts to flip in my chest. I unzip the bag. Look around to see who still needs serving. A lady holding a little girl’s hand waits by the handbag rail. One of the staff is behind the counter taking money. I have to be quick while they’re all busy. I slip my own shoe back on.
I lift the lid, reach inside and grab the first one. My back to everyone, bag against my belly, I drop the shoe inside. I can feel my face burn, breath stuck in my throat. A quick look behind: all clear. I slip the second shoe into the bag and close the lid on the box. Bag zipped, my eyes fix on the door. The walk from the boxes to the door seems to take for ever.
Outside, I breathe out. Walk fast steps towards the supermarket, pull the list out. It takes me ages, but I get everything. I can’t stand still at the bus stop, can’t stop looking behind. I leg it back all the way along County Road and Walton Road. By the time I reach the bottom of St Domingo Road I’m breathless. The number 25 bus pulls up behind me. I put out my hand, the bus stops and I step on board. ‘One stop, please,’ I say.
The driver laughs. ‘I could spit further. Go on, get on.’ He doesn’t take my money. Nellie is sitting on the front seat. I sit next to her, push the penny back into my pocket.
‘Your face’ll get you the parish,’ she says. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘On a message for Sylvia, Bernie’s mum.’
She looks at the blue bag on the floor. ‘Well, I don’t know who Sylvia is, but I do know you’re a good girl, Robyn,’ she says. ‘Your mum’s lucky to have you.’ She taps my knee, taps my sins away.
I look at the bag on the floor. No, I’m not a good girl, I think. I’m a thief, a rotten sly bastard thief.
Sylvia is taking washing in off the line. Her face brightens when she sees me. ‘How did you do?’ she says. I open the bag and show her. ‘Soap powder, shampoo, juice, coffee and the shoes?’ She lifts one out. ‘You got the shoes.’ She gives me a hug. ‘You clever, clever girl.’
‘Is Bernie in?’
‘No, love, his dad’s taken him to join a boxing club.’
I was looking forward to going to the park with Bernie. I’ve knocked up a couple of times now and he’s always out boxing.
‘Ahh, look at that face, it’s not the end of the world. He’ll be back soon. Call back in a couple of hours.’
I remember the bus fare; hold out the coins to Sylvia.
‘Keep that, Robyn. You’ve saved me a fortune.’
I go back to my square. There’s a gang of girls sitting on the bottom of our block having a sly smoke. I recognize one of them, Mandy, the monitor from my school. Mum stands on the landing with Nellie. I go inside and get a drink of water. Dad’s not in. Me and Mum have cheese sandwiches and lemonade, watch television for a bit. I can’t be bothered now knocking back for Bernie; he’ll probably be out anyway. After a couple of hours Mum tells me it’s time for bed. I cover myself up with the blanket, hear the front door open. ‘Won’t be a minute, Robyn,’ Mum says. ‘Just running to the offy for a bottle of cider and some fags.’
I listen for ages but Mum doesn’t come back in. I get up, go out onto the landing. Mum is there chatting and smoking with Mandy and her mob. Mum turns around. ‘You all right, Robyn? I’ll be in now, love.’
‘Oh, I know her,’ Mandy says. ‘She’s one of the new kids in our school.’
‘She’s my daughter, Robyn. Keep an eye on her for me.’
Mandy smiles at me. ‘I will.’ I smile back, then go inside to bed and fall fast asleep.
Next day on the playground, I walk around with Rose. From behind the wall, Mandy sees me, calls me over. Rose looks behind us, then back at me. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Robyn,’ Mandy shouts. ‘Over here.’
The way Rose looks at me makes me feel like I’m somebody important. We walk over. They are just about to light up. ‘Her mum’s brilliant,’ Mandy says. ‘Dead funny, isn’t she?’
I stand next to Mandy and think about how we look the same with our feather cuts.
‘Keep dixie for us, Robyn, you and your mate. We’ll let you have last drag on it.’ Mrs O’Connor is on playground duty. She’s right over on the other side of the yard; steam rises from a blue cup in her hand.
‘It’s all clear,’ I say.
They huddle into a circle, one, two, three pulls and pass. The fag burns down fast, it’s nearly down to the brown tip by the time they pass it to me. ‘Here,’ Mandy says. ‘Take the last pull.’ She clamps it between my fingers. I put it to my lips; the tip is soggy. I push my breath out. The end lights up. ‘You’re not taking it back. Taking it back is what matters.’
One of the other girls holds out her hand. ‘Give it here. She’s wasting it.’
Mandy knocks her hand away. ‘Let her have another go.’ She looks at me. ‘Suck it back right down your throat,’ she says. ‘Go on, it’s easy.’ Everybody gathers around me to watch. It’s right down to the brown tip now. I put it to my lips, breathe it back hard. My lip burns. The smoke takes my breath away. I cough and choke, hold the cigarette away from me, eyes watering. Somebody takes it from my hand. When I stop coughing, I see Mrs O’Connor throw the tip to the floor and s
tamp on it.
Her face is in Mandy’s face. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She looks at me and Rose. ‘These are first years.’
Mandy’s face turns pink.
‘Wait for me outside Mrs Bullock’s office.’ She glares around the broken circle. ‘All of you.’
I walk behind Mandy. ‘Robyn Mason, Rose Mooney, not you. You go to my room.’
We stand in front of Mrs O’Connor’s desk and wait. The taste of smoke in my mouth makes me feel sick. She comes into the room, throws her bag to the floor and leans back on her desk, arms folded. ‘What were you thinking of?’
We say nothing.
‘You don’t have to do the same thing everybody else does, if you know it’s wrong.’
‘Sorry, Mrs O’Connor,’ Rose says.
Mrs O’Connor looks at me. ‘And next time?’
‘I’ll say no.’
‘I hope that’s true, Robyn, because next time you’ll be sent to Mrs Bullock.’ She looks up at the clock on the wall. ‘Better get a move on. You’re late for class.’
There’s no sign of Mandy and her gang on the playground at dinner time. ‘They all got six of the best,’ Rose says. ‘Mandy’s had her monitor’s badge taken away. None of them are allowed on the playground for a week.’
In English, I can’t look at Mrs O’Connor. I feel like I’ve let her down. When it’s my turn to read out loud, I say I need the toilet so I can get out of the room. I’ve read well past them all anyway. When the class is over Mrs O’Connor tells me to stay behind. ‘It’s okay to make mistakes, Robyn. That’s how we learn. You haven’t killed anybody. The only one you’ve hurt is yourself. No more sulking.’
If I had stayed in bed last night Mandy would never have seen me. I would just be another nobody on the playground she could tell to piss off. It was a mistake to get up and find out what was going on. It was a mistake to go over to the wall and smoke.
On the way home I wonder who taught Lizzie to smoke. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder if she ever thinks about me. The more I think about it all, the more I convince myself I’m probably better off not knowing.
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