Disappearing Home (7 page)

As he walks down the steps I can hear his wheezy chest.

I follow Chris's directions, and once I'm on Scotland Road I show a girl a bit older than me the address. After that, Nan's block is easy to find. I knock at the door, half thinking a stranger will answer. But it is May, my nan. Blue-eyed May, stick swinging over her arm, legs half-past five on a clock.

‘Look at you, happy birthday.' She hugs me around the waist. ‘Still as thin as a straw. Come in, I'll show you around.'

I love the place. The feel of smooth new walls painted clean, like mint imperials. The kitchen is double the size of the one in Tommy Whites. Brand new cupboards, cream, brown wooden handles and a baby blue worktop. Even room for a small table and two chairs in the corner.

Her bedroom is lovely. She has a cream furry rug by her bed to step out on when she gets up. Above her bed, Jesus lies, arms open wide, on a wooden cross. Nan's special prayer:
Goodnight all the Angels in Heaven. God keep me safe till morning.

Without asking, I take my shoes and socks off, sit on the bed and wriggle my toes in the furriness.

Nan laughs. ‘You look like an escaped lunatic.'

The toilet and bath are brand new, her mangle slotted in the corner.

I don't like the smell. It's a dry, gassy smell that Nan says is caused by the blow-out central heating. She points to a grid low down on the wall. I notice them in every room. ‘I'm not using it. I'd rather throw my coat on if I feel cold. Save on the bills. Save on the dust as well.'

Just across from her front door she takes me up a narrow staircase to the first floor, two front doors opposite each other. Then we climb more steps to the second floor where Lily and her husband, Frank, live. Lily opens the door, looking too young to be a pensioner. She has long nails and short words.

‘May?'

‘Just the key, Lily, to show my granddaughter the back yard.'

‘A minute.' She disappears down her lobby. ‘Here we are. Pass it back through the letterbox soon as.' With a quick smile, she closes the door.

There's not much to see. An empty washing line, a square of concrete with a couple of trees planted around the edges. Beyond the back fence there is a playground attached to a school. ‘We're going to get benches out here, Lily says. So we can sit. There are better places to sit.'

Nan locks the back door and I run upstairs to give the key back to Lily. It's her husband Frank who opens the door with no shirt on. He takes the key from my hand. ‘Just getting a shave,' he says, pressing his neck too close to my face. ‘Smell?' I don't move. He kisses my cheek. I run away, take the stairs two at a time. I hear him laughing behind me. Downstairs, Nan has the radio on. ‘I might put a little bet on, Robyn. I've had a tip. Your face is as pink as a tongue.'

She switches the radio off, and puts on her coat and scarf, ready to go out. Folds a handkerchief around a piece of red cheese, another around a knife, pushes them into a black shopping bag. ‘Coming?' she asks.

I nod.

After Nan puts her bet on, we head off to Soho Street. On a Saturday, down on Soho Street, Sayers the bakers sell day-old cakes and bread at less than half price. There's a queue that stretches all the way down the street; people don't seem to mind waiting.

Mrs Naylor comes out of the shop carrying a pile of white cake boxes stacked on top of one another, tied together with red ribbon. She parades them along the queue. The lady in front of us shouts to Mrs Naylor.

‘Feeding the five thousand, love? I hope you left something in there for us.'

Mrs Naylor nods in her direction. ‘These are a special treat for my grandchildren.' She throws a nasty look right at my nan.

I turn to Nan. ‘What's the matter with her?'

‘She knows the game's up with me.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘I know what she's up to. I can read between the lines.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means nobody can pull the wool over my eyes.'

‘How do you read between the lines?'

‘You need to think about why people do what they do.'

‘Oh.'

‘And what's in it for them.'

I watch Mrs Naylor walk away. ‘Will she give all those cakes to her grandkids?'

‘Have you ever seen her grandkids visit?'

‘No, never.'

‘She might eat a couple herself. But most of them will stay in their boxes and rot. I caught her the other week, tipping loads of cakes down the chute. As far as I know she fell out with her son years ago. Her grandkids don't even know she exists.'

‘Why did she buy them and say they were for her grandkids?'

‘Why do you think she bought them?'

‘Because they're cheap?'

‘People make up games all the time, Robyn. She's made up a little game to amuse herself. This one is to fire up the envy in people.'

‘But it doesn't make sense. Why would she want people to hate her?'

‘Not hate her, remember her. Nobody around here looked twice at Mrs Naylor before she started buying that many cakes.'

Inside the shop, the shelves are nearly empty. The ladies serving behind the counter wear white overalls, with an orange Sayers badge on the pocket. Nan buys four egg custards and two Vienna loaves, one loaf for us and one for the birds.

We head off down to the Pier Head to watch the boats come in. It's busy when we get there. Two men coughing up their guts shuffle along on a bench to let us sit down. They stamp out cigarette stumps. There's nothing much left of their shoes but holes.

It's breezy by the river and Nan asks me where my coat is. I can't tell her I haven't got one, so I tell her I forgot it. I surprise myself at how easily I am learning to lie. ‘We won't stay long,' she says. ‘You'll catch your death.'

This is my favourite part of Liverpool. The Liver Building sits on the edge of the Mersey like a palace. A palace guarded by two magnificent birds. I like the idea of being watched over by something that has wings. Something that can pick itself up and leave if it feels like it, and doesn't have to tell nobody where it's going.

Nan looks towards the water. ‘I got off the boat in this very place from Ireland with no shoes on my feet. I couldn't have been much more than three years of age.' She turns to me. ‘Hungry?'

I nod, shivering. The wind blows drops of salty water to my lips.

She unbuttons her coat and tells me to put it on. Cuts open the Vienna loaf and cheese on a tea towel, her body curved into the wind. She has a pink cardigan with rows of little holes down the front. A slice of white fringe blows out from her scarf, flapping like a wing. She flicks it out of her eye with her knuckles.

The bread and cheese taste chewy and creamy and delicious. I huddle inside the coat, watching the pigeons flock around us, let the
eeeee
ing of the seagulls above us take my sad thoughts away. I watch the water foam up against itself.

Taking a bite out of her butty, Nan picks off bits from the other loaf for the birds. She throws the bread out towards the railings, as far away from us as she can.

One of the men next to us frowns. ‘That's good bread you're throwing, lady.'

‘Would a custard pie stop your moaning?'

He smiles and nudges the man next to him.

Nan hands the box over like a prize.

‘Is it all right to give me mate one?'

Nan nods at him, mouth full.

They take one custard each and hand the box back.

When we have finished eating, both of us share the coat, one sleeve each. With the empty cake box, we shuffle over to the bin, laughing, rolled tightly together, like a Twix. Three women push babies in prams backwards against the wind. Behind them, little boys pull off sweaters and twirl them above their heads, long strands of springy navy wool flying from their cuffs.

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.

O
n 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.