Disappearing Home (3 page)

Inside the classroom Gavin's red eyes glare at me. From behind his times-table card he mouths,
Stupid skinny cow.

Gonna get you.

The lesson starts and we begin chanting:

One six is six, two sixes are twelve, three …

Our teacher is called Mr Thorpe. His hair is light brown. He has a moustache that he strokes. He has two deep number eleven lines at the top of his nose. When he gets angry, they join together at the bottom and make a V.

We turn our cards face down for the test. He points a long stick around the room, firing questions.

‘Two times six?'

Gavin flips his eyes to the ceiling, head tilted to the side. ‘Erm …'

‘Too slow.' Mr Thorpe points the ruler at me. ‘Seven sixes?'

‘Forty-two,' I answer immediately. He smiles, before striding over to the other side of the room. I catch Gavin looking. He mouths
Swot,
then turns away.

Nan says if you're asked a question and you know the answer it's bad manners to keep it to yourself. There's something about knowing the right answer to a question that makes kids like Anthony Greenbank nearly burst with wanting to tell it. I never shout out answers or put my hand up. I wait until I'm asked. I'm good at waiting.

At dinner time we line up in pairs, hand in hand. Mrs Black, the dinner lady, pokes us into a perfect train. It's a ten-minute walk to the canteen, a couple of blocks down from Father O'Malley's house. She checks her watch. Looks down the line at Gavin, one shoe slipped off. ‘Come on, Cinderella, we're going to be late for the ball.'

Everyone laughs. Everyone calls her Blackbeard because of the dark hairs on her chin.

We file inside a corrugated-iron hut filled with tables and chairs. A gold jug of water and six small glasses are in the centre of each table. It's only gold on the outside; inside it's black.

I join the long queue for dinner. Steak and kidney pie, mashed potato, peas, carrots and gravy. I carry my plate carefully, intending to eat every last scrap. Before I pick up the knife and fork, Gavin is at my ear.

‘Stupid skinny cow,' he whispers, pulling the jug across the table towards me. It glides, as if on ice, hitting my plate with a crash. The cold water tips, into my dinner, then seeps inside my knickers. I stand up sobbing. I can feel it run down my leg, soaking my socks.

Gavin sings, ‘Robyn's wet her knickers.'

Blackbeard grabs my wrist and marches me across the canteen towards the kitchen. My shoes squelch as I walk. Everybody stops and laughs.

‘Clumsy cow,' Blackbeard tells the cook. ‘Only gone and soaked herself, hold us all up now.'

I don't speak.

The ladies who served us dinner don't speak either.

Once she goes back into the canteen, they all help me to dry off. One of them smiles then touches my arm.

‘You ate anything, love?'

I shake my head, not feeling hungry any more. ‘I'll save you something back.' She walks to the other side of the kitchen, her Dr Scholl's flip-flopping against the soles of her feet. The cook hands me a towel and tells me to dry my legs. I take off my socks and she rolls them about in a dry towel.

‘Is your underwear wet?'

‘No,' I lie, pushing the towel deep down into my shoes. She hands back my socks. ‘There, that's the best I can do.'

‘Thanks,' I say, feeling better.

The lady wearing the Dr Scholl's returns with a plate of food. One scoop of mashed potato sits in the middle of the plate. It has
two peas for eyes, two small carrots for horns and straight fork tracks make a wide mouth. Dark gravy has been poured over the top for hair.

‘Remind you of anybody?'

‘Don't know,' I say.

She takes a pair of scissors from the drawer and cuts off tiny ends of her dark hair. She takes a few then pushes them into the potato head, just below the mouth. ‘Remind you of anyone now?'

I nod, smiling.

Before taking the plate away, she uses the wrong side of a spoon to squash the head down flat.

‘Better get rid of the evidence, eh?'

We laugh together.

She returns with a plate of apple crumble and custard. ‘Finish putting your shoes on, then tuck in.'

During afternoon play I find Lesley alone with the vanity case. ‘Where's Angela?' I ask.

‘Inside, reading with our sir. Will you mind this while I go to the toilet?' She hands me the vanity case.

‘Me?' I reply, trying not to sound too excited.

The contents of the case are lined up neatly on the playground floor, ready for a game. I sit down, cross-legged on the cold concrete, and stare. Unsure where to begin, I take too long thinking and the bell rings.

When we get back to class we are given handwriting practice. We are not allowed to talk. I don't look at Lesley or Angela. I grip the case between my ankles.

The final bell rings and I grab my duffel coat then leg it to the main gate. I don't cross with the lollipop man. I head towards a quiet spot further up. For a second I think about going back. Tell
Angela I forgot the case was in my hand. Say sorry. Then I realize she won't believe me because I don't believe myself.

Once I am home I check Nan's room. She's not in. Up on her bed, the case in my lap, I lay each item out side by side. The white bristles on the brush look glossy and soft. I trace my fingers around its edges. Let the tip of one finger sail across the top, only half-touching, like a whisper. Slide slowly deeper and deeper inside the bristles, easing them back towards the handle, feel them slip forwards. In circular movements on my palm, round and round they swirl. I close my eyes, sink inside Nan's covers.

From the tip of my scalp I brush, in long strokes, to the ends of my hair, over and over. Shoulders drop, legs stretch. Lips smile. I purr like a cat. Let slide-away thoughts melt to nothing.

The light from the hand mirror is a dragon's tongue licking the ceiling, the walls. It finds tiny tears in the candyfloss wallpaper.

A sticky patch on the lipstick twisted away in the sheet. Gazing in the hand mirror, I run the cold, pink hardness across my lips, expecting something to happen. Nothing does. The sound of a knock on the front door makes me drop the mirror. When I pick it up it has a small crack at the top.

My mum opens the door.

Angela stands on our step with her mother.

‘Robyn, Angela would like her case back.' She looks at me, lips pulled tightly together.

I hand the case to Angela.

‘You shouldn't take things that don't belong to you. That's stealing,' Angela's mum shouts.

Mrs Naylor walks past going the wrong way.

I shout back. ‘Angela shouldn't say things …'

‘What things?'

‘She said I could play with it.'

‘Did you say that?'

Angela shakes her head.

‘Liar, you did, when I was at yours. Anyway, I was only minding it till tomorrow.'

Mum nods. ‘Course she was. Making a big deal out of nothing,' she says, pushing her face towards them, ‘aren't you?'

They turn to leave. Mum bolts down the stairs shouting after them. ‘Thinks she's too good for everyone, that Pamela Jennings; stuck-up cow.'

Mrs Naylor walks back along the landing. She points at me and Mum. ‘It's the likes of you lot that gets this area a bad name.'

‘Fuck off. Mind your own business.' Mum slams the door in Mrs Naylor's face.

The creak from the letterbox makes us both jump.

‘For your information, it is my business. You don't know who you're dealing with. Just you wait,' she shouts through the letterbox.

Mum grabs my arm and closes the living-room door. She catches her breath. ‘
She
doesn't know who the fuck
she's
dealing with.' She grabs my arms tighter. ‘You keep away from that lot. You hear?'

I nod, head into the kitchen to help set the table.

T
hey take me into town on the number 17C bus. The seats are comfy and I get to sit by the window. My mum takes out a box of Players No.6 and lights one. When it's lit, she puts another one in her mouth and lights it from the already burning tip, sucking like a baby with a dummy. She hands one to my dad. He has
LOVE
tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand and
HATE
tattooed on the knuckles of his right. He takes the cigarette with his love hand. Mum crumples up the empty box, throws it on the floor. Dad blows smoke into Mum's short brown curls. ‘That's the last of our fags. We'll be gasping later.'

We stop at St George's church. Mum glares over my shoulder, out of the window. There's a group of people standing outside the church, hair lifted by the wind. Some have orange sashes draped from their shoulders. Women pushing prams; one licking her thumb and stooping to rub away at a mucky face, purse falling from her pocket. Coins roll across the pavement, bounce off a huge drum balanced against the church wall. Children squeal, scoop them all up in a race and push each other out of the way. Then hand
them back. Men huddle, heads together, lighting their cigarettes. The driver beeps his horn and waves across the other side of the road at somebody who waves back, before he pulls away, past the graveyard.

My dad speaks without taking his eyes from his reflection in the glass. His sideburns are thick and black; they stick out like they're trying to grow away from him. He turns his face to the side, wets a fingertip and presses one of them back down. He does the same with the other one then looks out of the window. ‘Proddy bastards, getting ready to march.' He puts two fingers up at a man wearing a sash. The man sends two fingers back. Dad turns to Mum. ‘Tell her what she's got to do.'

She stands up and sits next to me, her voice low in my ear. ‘Joan's new baby grandson is getting christened soon and Joan's got no money for the suit.' She takes a big suck on her cigarette. ‘She's seen one in town, but it's too dear. I told her we'd help.' Clouds of smoke escape from her mouth as she talks. ‘I'll show you the one she wants when we get there.'

Once we get into town we make our way to a shop called Blacklers. Mum says, ‘If anyone's looking, don't bag it. Wait.' She hands me the bag.

‘Can we get a new bag?' I ask.

‘Not today, Robyn. Pay attention.'

A line of children wait to ride a black and white rocking horse. There's something fantastic about this high-up indoor horse. How it creaks under a shiny body and black eyes. Once the boy that's riding is finished his voice trembles when he asks for another go. His nan runs him to the back of the queue.

I follow them further into the children's department, towards a rail full of white clothes.

‘How are you going to find it in this lot?' I ask.

Mum bends her knees a little to see the sizes better. Her fingers walk across the hangers, like Mr Thorpe finding my next reading book.

‘This is the one.' She grins. ‘Three pearl buttons up the front and a sailor collar. This one's nought to three months. We need to find six to twelve.'

Dad joins in the search along the rail while I stand and watch. The handles on the bag burn my skin.

‘Got it. Now watch carefully, Robyn, I'm putting it right at the very back of the rail. That way you can go straight to it. Remember, the very back.'

‘But it'll get all dirty in this bag.'

‘No, it won't. Your dad's lined it with paper. Make sure you put it on the paper.'

A lady with tangerine lips and a green floaty scarf smiles beside Mum. ‘Darling, aren't they? Who's being christened?'

Dad walks away.

Mum's face flushes red. ‘We're just looking.'

The lady looks disappointed. ‘If you need anything, I'm over here,' she calls over her shoulder as she walks away.

‘Watch her, nosy cow.'

Mum takes my hand. We follow Dad down the stairs.

‘What did she say?' he asks when we catch up with him.

‘Nosy, that's all. Best waiting for a bit, till it gets busier.'

We walk around town looking in shop windows. The sun burns down on my head. I unbutton my duffel coat.

‘Can I have a drink, please?' I ask.

‘There's no money. If you get the suit for Joan, we'll buy you a Thirsty Pack,' Mum says, holding the bag for me.

‘Dandelion and burdock?'

‘Whatever flavour you like and a bar of chocolate. We'll head off to Dolly's shop, eh? You'll like that.'

‘Yes.'

‘Let's go back to Blacklers; with any luck that cow'll be on her break.'

It doesn't take us long to get to Blacklers. Once we're outside, they hand me back the bag.

‘Now, what floor are you going to?'

‘Second.'

‘Where's the suit?'

‘Right at the back of the rail.'

‘What size?'

This is stupid. She's already put the suit where I can find it. I want to scream. ‘Six to twelve months.'

‘Good. Don't bag it if anyone's looking. Try to get it as quick as you can, on the paper.'

Upstairs, I head straight to the christening rail. The bag is unzipped. I take a look around. The shop is much busier than before and tangerine lips is nowhere to be seen. I find the suit exactly where we left it, check the size; slip it inside the bag. One of the pearl buttons gets stuck in the zip and I try to pull it out. I free it, but the button hangs by a thin thread like a wobbly tooth.

When I look up there's a lady staring at me, eyes wide. What amazes me is that I see her looking but still shove the suit inside the bag like I think she can't really see me or something. She looks at me, mouth open. I hurry away from her as fast as I can, bump into another lady with a pram.

‘Watch it!' she shouts after me.

‘Stop, thief!' a woman's voice behind me shouts. ‘That kid's got something in her bag.'

I look nowhere but straight ahead. On the third stair down I feel a tug on the hood of my coat. I get yanked back one, two stairs then fall down on my bum. I stand up and hurl the bag down the
stairs. Nothing falls out, another tug at my hood. I wriggle out of my coat sleeves, take the stairs two at a time, scoop the bag up on my way. At the bottom, a quick look behind, tangerine lips on the stairs, a duffel coat held high in her hands. I head for the door, bump into children queuing for the rocking horse.