Disappearing Home (18 page)

I'm going to St Josephine's all girls' school on Westminster Road. So are most of the girls from Our Lady's. The boys are going to the English Martyrs, an all boys' school, which is across the road from us. Anthony Greenbank is going to a different school. His mum and dad are teachers.

Nitty Nora pays us one last visit. If we need a letter, we line up in the hall. Most of us do. Mum takes me to a clinic up on Everton Road, says she's fed up using lotions that don't work. ‘You're a carrier,' she says, ‘so the lotions that work on everybody else won't work on you.' She says carriers attract nits then give the dirty bastards to everyone. Colette Crace said when you're asleep, if there's enough of them, they plait your hair and drag you down to the river Mersey so you'll drown.

I sit on a wooden chair and lean forward while the lady in the white coat washes my hair. Mum sits on a seat by the door. ‘She's walking alive,' the woman says, rubbing my hair with a towel. ‘Her hair's thick. Is it okay if I cut it first?' Mum nods at her. She covers my shoulders with the towel, takes a pair of scissors out of the drawer. She click, clicks the back first, clumps of thick dark hair all over the floor.

I close my eyes. Feel cold shakes of lotion seep into my scalp. The terrible painty smell takes my breath away. She catches the top of my ear with a scrape of the steel comb. I moan. She holds my head in her hands. ‘Keep still.' The tinkle of a steel comb on the bowl, loads of dark nits float dead on the top of the water. White gloved fingers pull the rest off the comb. Rub them into a piece of newspaper spread out on the table. ‘Got you,' she says, like they knew all along they needed to hide.

On the newspaper I can see lots of dark little creatures walking over each other, some bigger than others. I shiver to think they've been living in my hair and I didn't know. ‘How come they're still alive?' I ask.

‘They're called survivors. The ones the lotion didn't get.' She takes a bottle of lotion and sprinkles it on top of them until they stop moving. ‘Dead survivors now.' She laughs.

She carries on dragging the comb across my scalp. ‘I'll be here till next week with this lot,' she says, looking at Mum. ‘Walking alive she is. I've never seen anything this bad.'

Mum lights a fag, shakes her head.

When we get back to the flat my head throbs. I go to my room and get into bed, Dad's face at the door. ‘Putting your mother through that, don't let it get that bad again, or next time I'll take you myself, and they can shave the fucking lot off.'

Maybe I should have been given away. Anything's got to be better than this.

Next morning, before he gets up, Mum takes me on a bus to a place that looks like a warehouse. ‘You'll be off to big school before you know it,' she says. ‘We need to get you a coat.'

We climb an endless flight of metal stairs that lead to a huge room with tiny square windows. Long bare bulbs spread out across the ceiling. Mum hands the lady behind the counter a letter and she leans over the counter to look at my feet. High shelves stacked with clothes and boxes are behind her. She returns with three shoe boxes and two coats draped over her arms.

‘Six or seven?' she says, looking at my feet.

‘Six,' I say.

She opens a box. White tissue paper covers the shoes. They smell like paint. She peels the paper back to reveal a brown pair of laceups. I have to try them on. They feel a bit tight across my toes.

‘Have a walk on the paper in them,' she says.

When I walk around on the brown paper, the shoes don't crease across the front. They seem to push my feet backwards. I think the shoes feel ugly and wrong.

‘How are they?' the lady says.

I nod.

‘Good. Take them off.'

But they're not good, these shoes that won't bend. The laces are stiff; they make a loop that won't soften into a knot.

Mum kneels down, feels through the shoe to my big toe.

‘Give her the seven,' she tells the lady. ‘Her toes are right on the edge.'

I try the seven on. My feet slip in and out of them as I walk.

‘They're better,' Mum says. ‘Try the coat on next.'

The black duffel coat has no lining inside. I look in the mirror, turn to the side. The hood is lined with thin red tartan, that's the only part that stops me looking like a coal man. If I undid the buttons and let it fall back, it could stand behind me on its own. The hem falls just above my knee, scratching against my skin as I walk.

‘Give her the next size up,' Mum says. ‘She's got all summer to grow yet.'

I try a coat on the next size up. The lady fastens it up to my neck and it feels scratchy. I pull my body away. ‘Straighten the face,' Mum says. ‘Beggars can't be choosers.' The hem falls below my knee and the sleeves cover my knuckles. I look up at the lady, who looks away.

‘Right, that's it, we're done.' Mum walks over to the counter where the lady stamps her letter.

Outside, I'm carrying the shoes and coat wrapped up in brown paper when I see Angela getting on the bus with her mum. She carries big bags with Blacklers written on the side. Angela is not a beggar. Angela is a chooser. What if beggars could be choosers? I'd choose to be somebody everyone else wants to be, instead of somebody I don't even want to be myself.

‘L
ook how wonky the fringe is. It's a living disgrace. She's butchered you, that's what she's done. You'll be a laughing stock in that new school.'

Nan opens her purse. ‘There's a new hairdresser's opened on Great Homer Street. All the young ones go there; I've seen them, when I queue up for my pension. Here, take this.' She hands me a five pound note. ‘Go down there, see what they can do. Wear one of my rain hoods if you like, to hide it. And don't forget my change, that's a five pound note.' She takes a clear plastic hood out of her bag. It has two white pieces of ribbon either side. Nan ties it in a knot under my chin, pulls it forward with a swish to cover the wonky fringe. ‘Tell them you want it shaped,' she says. Outside, once I am around the corner, I untie the hood and push it in my pocket.

In the hairdresser's I sit on a leather seat and wait. Both sides of the room are covered with mirrors, a black leather seat opposite each one. Three hairdressers are busy cutting hair, one lady stands behind a desk. ‘Can I help you?'

‘Can I have my hair shaped?'

She smiles. ‘Okay, won't be long.' She hands me a magazine. ‘See if there's anything in there you like.'

I do see something I like, on the first page. It's the same style as the one Sue showed me. The girl behind the desk is back.

‘What's that called?' I ask.

‘The feather cut.'

‘Thanks.'

The towel around my neck is soft and fluffy. The shampoo smells like fruit salads, the girl's fingers glide across my scalp and make me smile.

I have the magazine on my knee open on the picture of the feather cut. Another lady slips a rubber cape across my shoulders. She smiles when she sees the picture. ‘Feather cut?'

I nod.

‘You'll suit that,' she says, combing my hair back. ‘I'd kill to have hair this thick.' And away she goes. Not much hair on the floor, tiny ends, nothing more. The blast of a hairdryer, a flick through her fingers and I'm done. Here I am. It looks like the picture, the fringe is a little shorter but there's no mistaking it, the feather cut. I can't wait to show Nan.

‘Like it?' the lady says, looking at me.

I nod.

‘Told you,' she says.

When I get back, Nan is sitting outside her block on the wall. I hand her her change. ‘That's better,' she says. ‘It's a proper shape now, shows off your face.'

I'm sitting on the Southport train on my way to visit Lizzie. It's the middle of August. I can't believe we're halfway through the summer holidays already. It's early in the morning, the sun is shining and I've got a carrier bag full of drinks and sweets so we
can have a picnic. Nan gave me some money and told me where to get the train. I told her Lizzie was in my school and she was in a home because her mum ran away. Mum's not speaking to Nan and Nan wants nothing to do with my mum. I don't want Nan to know I met Lizzie in a hostel, in case it causes any more trouble. I get off the train in Formby. The man in the ticket office tells me St Theresa's is only a few minutes' walk down the lane.

It's a huge place, bigger than the hostel. I have to push a bell next to a pair of tall metal gates. A lady looks at me through the black curly metal. ‘Can I help you?' she says.

‘I'm Lizzie's friend. Can I see her?'

‘Are you on your own?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm not supposed to let you in without an adult. But Lizzie hasn't had a visit yet, apart from her social worker.' She unlocks the gate. ‘What's in the bag?'

‘Drinks and sweets.'

She takes the bag and tips it out onto the grass. Kneels down, puts each item back inside the bag. ‘Follow me,' she says. Once we are in the hallway, she asks me to empty out my pockets. ‘I'll have to search you, before we go any further.' She taps my arms, tummy, back, legs, socks. ‘Slip your shoes off,' she says. Once that's all done, she smiles. ‘I'll tell Lizzie she's got a visitor.'

Lizzie stands on the other side of the room. The lady closes the door on her way out. Lizzie leans back against the door. ‘What do you want?' she says.

‘I said I'd visit.' I hold up the bag. ‘I've brought sweets.'

‘Big deal,' she says. ‘Any fags?'

I shake my head and think about how I could have taken a couple of fags from Mum's box if I'd have known. ‘I thought we could have a picnic.'

Lizzie bursts out laughing. ‘A picnic?'

I want to go back to the train station. My idea to visit Lizzie, a girl I spent a few days with in a hostel, a girl I don't really know, seems wrong. I want the lady to come back in the room so that I can ask her to let me out. I stand on the other side of the room from Lizzie and I don't know what to do. So I say, ‘Remember that day, me and you in the front with all the little ones, giving them swings and …'

‘A girl got stabbed in here last week.' Lizzie's voice is cold. ‘She was my mate. And you turn up wanting to go for a picnic.' She laughs. ‘Don't you think that's funny?'

I don't speak.

‘I said, don't you think that's funny?'

‘No. It's not funny. Is your mate okay?'

Lizzie knocks on the wrong side of the door and the lady opens it. ‘This visit's over,' she says. ‘Take me back to my dorm.'

My eyes start to fill. I don't want to leave. Not like this. I hold out the bag to Lizzie. ‘Keep them for your mate then, for when she's better.'

Lizzie leaves the room. I feel like she might have done when her mum left her in the hostel and never came back. The lady shows me and my bag the way out. I wonder how things would have turned out if I had brought fags. They must be important to Lizzie, especially after what happened to her mate. I dump the sweets in the first bin I see, get back on the train and go home.

A couple of weeks later I go back. I've got a packet of Mum's fags with four left inside. The same lady comes to the gate. ‘I've come to see Lizzie,' I say.

‘She's not here any more. Her mum came.'

‘When?'

‘Yesterday. Sorry about that, love. Have you come far?'

‘It's okay. Only a few stops on the train. Thanks anyway.'

I walk back to the train station and sit down on a bench. I watch a passenger drag her luggage onto the platform like it's the most important thing in the world. I wonder about her high-heeled shoes and that little gap between the platform and the train; a pointy heel could easily slip down there and get stuck. That would change how she saw everything. That would become more important than the luggage. I think about Lizzie, and how she might have sat on this bench next to her mother, waiting for the train. I wonder how long her mum will stay with her.

Except for Saturdays, I spend the last couple of weeks in August going to Stanley Park with Bernie. We play on the swings, play hide and seek or just sit on a bench and talk. Sometimes we bring Johnny and Ged with us. One day, Sylvia gives us a pound note and an old bed sheet. We buy loads of sweets, cans of Coke and crisps. We get to the park early in the morning, spread the sheet out on the grass under a massive tree, and have a picnic. In the afternoon, Johnny falls asleep in his pram. Out of the whole summer, that day was my favourite, because even when it got dark we never went home. We went home when we felt like.

S
eptember is here. I'm in Bernie's square. Mum and Dad are still in bed. I've got my new uniform on ready to walk down St Domingo Road with Bernie, like we've arranged. I shout his name up to the landing. He opens the front door. ‘Come up,' he shouts. ‘I'm not dressed yet. It's only seven o'clock.'

I haven't slept all night, haven't bothered to look at the clock this morning; I saw daylight and got up. I sit on his step and wait. Johnny comes down the lobby in just his vest. I pick him up, bounce him up and down in my arms. He giggles, clenches his knuckles, stuffs them inside his mouth, slobbers all over his vest. Bernie dresses him in the hall, wakes up Ged. When they are all ready he shouts down the lobby to Sylvia, ‘Taking the kids out, Mum, for a walk.'

‘All right, lad,' she shouts back. ‘Don't go far.'

We sit at the bottom of Bernie's block. Johnny is in the pram. ‘What do you wanna do?' Bernie says.

I shrug.

Ged yawns, rubs the sleep out of his eyes. ‘Dunno.'

A man with black hair and a black beard walks towards us. He wears a donkey jacket, a blue cloth bag flung over his shoulder. ‘All right, lads,' he says. ‘I've brought you something.' He grabs Johnny out of the pram, throws him up in the air and catches him. ‘Look at the size of you,' he says, rubbing his nose against Johnny's nose.