Disappearing Home (6 page)

I couldn't help but look back and give him a smile. Palms up, he sent me a wriggly finger wave. When we reached the end of the corridor I looked again, and saw him flop down on a bench, sitting on his hands.

A couple of weeks later, the scar looked like those waves we make between the lines, before our real handwriting practice starts. It edged my fingers like a frill.

Carol sits down next to me on the stone steps of our block. Carol's got a bike so when she plays out she usually rides off with the other kids who have bikes. I've played skipping with her once before, ages ago. She's nice.

I'm just home from school, but there's nobody in. She's been to the first landing to give Mrs Frost an envelope from her mum.

‘Locked out?' she says. ‘Come over to ours to play.'

We want six pence to buy two balls. Carol's mum sits in a dark wooden chair on her landing. She wears Baby Bonnet pink on her toenails. Her bare feet grip the concrete. She has beautiful toes that slant downwards, like the edge of a roof. She eyes Carol twirling her red plaits round and round her first fingers. Carol looks defeated before she opens her mouth. ‘Can I –?'

‘If it's money, there is none.'

Carol turns on her heels and I follow her down the steps.

‘I hate her,' she says. ‘If our Colette was asking though it'd be different; she gets anything she wants, spoilt cow. She has got money: I shook her purse this morning and it rattled.'

Carol says she needs to think. Singing helps her think. I laugh at the way she's not afraid to sing out loud.

I asked my love, to take a walk.

To take a walk, just a little walk.

Down beside, where the waters flow.

Down by the banks, of the Ohio.

‘Do you have any secrets?' she asks.

I think about the shopping bag with the frayed handles and the vanity case. My face feels hot. ‘No.'

‘Giz your hand,' she says.

‘What?'

‘I'll read your fortune, giz it.'

I give her my left palm, curl my fingers around the scar on my right hand. I look at the pink line of scalp that parts her hair. We are the same age, but when she looks up, her forehead only reaches my neck.

‘This is your lifeline.' She strokes a long curvy line that ends at my wrist. ‘You're going to live a long life. But there's a break here. That means a big change will happen. Look, I've got one, but mine's broken well after yours. Now, squeeze your thumb up towards your first finger. See those lines, you have four. That means you're going to have four kids, two girls and two boys.'

I am amazed. ‘How do you know that?'

She laughs. ‘My nanna Rose showed me. There's your travel line. It's deep. You'll go on a plane, no, lots and lots of planes.'

‘Did she show you any more lines?'

‘No. Nanna Rose says if you know too much about what life has in store, you'll never get up in the morning.' Carol looks up to the second landing. A lady is pegging out her washing. ‘I've got it.' Carol claps.

Mrs Cliff is a tall lady with tiny silver hoops in her ears that match her tiny silver curls. She answers the door with a fistful of pegs that she stuffs into the pocket of a flowery pinny. ‘Do you want anything from the shop, Mrs Cliff?' Carol asks.

‘You must have been reading my mind. I could use a five packet of Woodbines, and a box of matches from Dolly's.' She walks down the lobby to fetch the money. Carol whispers in my ear. ‘Last time I got her a fish from the chippy she gave me five pence.'

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.'

M
r 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, s
ends 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.

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.'