Disappearing Home (15 page)

It's nearly light when I hear the final ‘see yer', the final click of the front door latch. I get into bed and drift off. In my dream I am on the landing. I see Chris come out of his flat, tap, tapping the side of his nose, telling me I'm strong like Granddad Jack. I turn away from him; rub the skin on my finger against the wall until I get to the bone. The bones stick out ugly and white. I go back to the wall and rub until there's nothing left but a pile of white powder on the landing floor.

After Chris's funeral we don't see much of Nellie. I see her a few times when she leans over the landing at night, looking up
at the stars. I wonder if she's checking that Chris has thrown the rest of his fags away for good. I look where she looks and see him standing inside a crowd shouting over at Granddad Jack, ‘That's it. Give him a taste of Thor's hammer.'

Mr Thorpe sits at his desk reading rules from a piece of paper. It's May already and everybody's off to Colomendy today. They get to choose partners. Halfway through the morning, Mr Thorpe says
Jesus tonight
when Gavin Rossiter throws rolled-up bits of paper at Anthony Greenbank. He opens the classroom door and tells the class to run it off on the playground. He asks me to stay behind. When the rest of the class has left Mr Thorpe takes off his glasses, sits on his desk, hands under his legs. ‘I've arranged for you to go in with Miss Fennel while we're away, Robyn. I told her you'll be a great help to her with the little ones. I'll be expecting a full report when I get back. Don't let me down.'

For the next half an hour the talk is of partners. Angela's sneaking loads of black jacks and fruit salads because Dolly sent a load round to her mum. All of the girls want to be her partner. She makes an on-the-way-there list, and an on-the-way-back list, of people who are allowed to play with the vanity case on the bus. They ignore me, which makes me feel better. By the time their bus arrives, I can't wait to see the back of them. I go out onto the playground to join Miss Fennel. At the gate Angela shouts, ‘Hey, ugly mug, you'll scare the little ones sick.'

Miss Fennel teaches five-year-olds. They sit on the carpet for register and need help with coat buttons, name tags, hooks and milk, which they spill all over the tables. They twiddle hair and stare at me, nudge each other and giggle. Miss Fennel has asked
me to get the straws and milk ready for break and I have to tidy the books in the library. A little boy with slicked-down hair comes in late, points at me and says, ‘Who are these?' I look at Miss Fennel and smile. She smiles back.

In the morning the children sing the alphabet and do sounds. There's a smell like vinegar in the room. ‘Tell me a word that begins with
b
?
'
Miss Fennel asks.

Hands go up and she chooses a little girl. ‘Bernadette?'

‘Bottle, b for bottle.'

‘Well done. Anybody else?'

Hands go up again and again.

‘Find me something in this room that begins with
n
.'

The little boy who came in late stands up. ‘I know, Miss Fennel.' He climbs over sticky-out knees and untied tongues to get to the front, scratches his head and puts something in Miss Fennel's hand. Miss Fennel shushes everyone, checks her hand. ‘Nits, n for nits,' he says. Miss Fennel jumps up, runs over to the sink turns on the tap. The children laugh. At break there's milk left over. Miss Fennel says I can take one. She checks the library is neat and the milk spills have been wiped, smiles, tells me to go out and play.

On the playground, the little ones crowd around me. They link arms and lock me inside a tight circle. I try to escape but they push their elbows up higher and higher. I laugh and laugh until the tears fall down my face and I can't stop. They move around me and sing.
The farmer's in his den, the farmer's in his den, eeee, aye, the, adio, the farmer's in his den. The farmer wants a wife …

At dinner time I help Blackbeard take the little ones to the canteen. She doesn't ask me why I haven't gone on the trip; she doesn't speak to me at all.

In the afternoon I watch Miss Fennel's reflection in the window. She has long straight hair that flicks out at the end. Miss Fennel sings the afternoon register; every name falls into place. I sit with four kids. They put on old shirts and dip their fingertips in paint pots then print them onto the paper.

The classroom fills with the warmth from the afternoon sun. Miss Fennel stops the class and holds two of the paintings up. ‘Look, Class Three, aren't these wonderful?' The children look up and tinkle, ‘Yes, Miss Fennel.'

A few minutes before the bell rings, it's story time: Hansel and Gretel. I sit down next to Bernadette in case she's scared. This story gave me nightmares for weeks after I first heard it. ‘You okay?' I whisper.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Have you seen houses made from sweets?'

‘No.'

She shakes her head, makes her hand into a beak. ‘The birds would come down and peck, peck, peck them.'

‘They'd get fat.'

‘Too fat to fly or walk.'

‘They'd have to roll.'

‘Rock ‘n' roll.' She giggles. ‘A rock ‘n' roll bird, like my mum in the Grafton on Saturday night.'

Mum and Dad didn't go out Saturday night. His stomach got bad again. Mum said he didn't give it time to heal. She said he needs to leave the beer alone for a bit so it clears up properly. He hasn't been near St Michael's Market, Mum says. So he must be sick. I think about the all-dolled-up box down the chute. Maybe he'll be sick for weeks.

The week passes too fast and they're back. Angela got sent home with a rash on the second day. Anthony Greenbank was sick all
over his bed. ‘I was gonna let him have top bunk as well,' Tommy Taylor says. Back in Mr Thorpe's class it's still collective nouns, times tables and long multiplication. He calls me to his desk. ‘Miss Fennel said you were a great help to her, a great help. That's good news.' He stands, pats me on the head and opens a brand new tin of biscuits.

Everybody watches me choose one.

I
n the café it's early. Edna turns on the radio, blows tiny cream bubbles that won't grow, gathers up her cigarettes and lighter, tells Jimmy she's going the toilet. Jimmy spoons two sugars into a cup for the only customer in the place. He sits down opposite the woman and hands her a cup of tea. She has blond hair that falls down in curls to her shoulders. Her skin is almost see-through, scrubbed clean and shiny.

I grab a dishcloth, wipe blobs of hard red and brown sauce off the plastic tablecloths. I tip ashtrays overflowing with cigarette stumps into the bin, slide a brush over the floor. Scoop crumbs, a few chips and cigarette stumps up onto a shovel and bin them. Jimmy talks to the woman in a low voice; I can't hear what he's saying. A swingy trumpet song plays over the radio. Something about
Blueberry Hill.
Jimmy jiggles his shoulders up and down in time with the music. ‘Daft sod,' the woman says. Jimmy stands up, opens the glass box on the counter, brings her a chocolate éclair on a plate. Edna is back; she watches them.

‘I'll get fat.'

‘So?'

She breaks it in two, leans forward and pushes one half between Jimmy's lips. Edna lets out, ‘Oh, for Christ's sake,' too loud and there's nowhere for it to go.

Jimmy turns to face the counter. ‘What's wrong, Edna?'

‘Nothing, dropped something that's all.' She busies herself, lifting packs of bacon and trays of eggs out of the fridge, slaps the streaky bacon down on the counter. Unwraps a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit, drops it on the floor, says
shit 'n' hell
under her breath. ‘What are you gawping at?' she says to me. ‘Take table five's order.' I turn around and see that we have our next customer. I take out my pad, walk over to the table.

It gets busy so Jimmy goes behind the counter to help Edna. The woman at the table takes a magazine out of her bag and reads.

It's so busy that we don't stop all morning. At one point people are standing outside waiting for a table. I can feel the thick strap on my ski pants twisted inside my shoe. It stabs into the arch of my foot. I walk on my toes around the café to ease the pain. They used to fit, but now, when I walk in them, the elastic waistband rolls too far down. I have to scrunch at the sides of my overall to pull the stirrup back up. Edna said it gets on her nerves. She said if she catches me doing it one more time she'll cut my water off. I want to take them out of my shoes but Mum says they look daft like that.

A few minutes ago they ended up around my ankles. Everyone laughed. Jimmy gave me a large safety pin, told me to go to the toilet and sort myself out. I thought about everyone laughing and how I must have looked, like gormless Gail. I thought about not going back. I thought about Mum on the stall opposite and how she might have seen me mess up. I thought about how easy it would be for me to walk home to Dad in bed sick, or sitting in his chair reading the paper, and that's when I went back to the cafe.

It's past lunchtime and I haven't had a break. Jimmy asks me what I want and sets my plate down opposite his woman. ‘Sit down, then,' Jimmy says. ‘She won't bite.'

I sit.

‘Hello, Robyn, I'm Sue, Jimmy's wife.' She looks at my plate. ‘Tuck in, love, before it gets cold.'

Her eyes are a warm grey colour. She pulls a magazine out of her bag, wets her fingers, flicks through the pages. She looks like some of the women on the pages, only better. ‘You work hard, Robyn,' she says, without looking up. ‘I've been watching.'

I put down my knife and fork.

‘Sorry. Me rabbiting on. Eat your dinner.'

Sue carries on flicking through the pages.

When I've finished my dinner I feel better. Jimmy brings me a glass of orange juice and says I've got ten more minutes.

‘You like it here?' Sue asks.

I can see a black polo neck, sleeves rolled up past the elbow: Dad, in Mum's queue at the Nut Centre.

‘Robyn?'

‘Yes, yes I do.'

‘Better than being at home?'

‘Yes.'

‘You have nice eyes, Robyn, nice bright eyes.'

My face burns.

‘Jimmy loves this place. He works like a dog here.'

I watch Dad move to the front. Mum turns to the scales with a scoop full of peanuts.

‘Stop looking so serious. For a young girl you need to laugh more. You seen this?'

Sue shows me a picture of a woman in her magazine. She is dressed in a white blouse and blue jeans.

‘You'd look smart in this outfit. And her hair, the feather cut. You'd suit that style, it'd make you look older, more with it.'

Edna shouts
shit 'n' hell
louder than usual. I look over at her, she's running her hand under the tap.

‘Edna giving you a bad time?'

‘No,' I lie.

I watch Mum hand him the bag.

Sue closes the magazine. ‘Maybe she's giving herself a bad time, depends how you choose to look at it.'

I don't understand.

Dad takes the change from Mum's hand, pushes it into his pocket. I think about Dad's all-dolled-up box and how he doesn't know it's lying in a bin at the bottom of the chute.

‘Edna lost her little lad. He choked on a sweet. She blames herself.'

‘Oh, I didn't know.' And I think about Sylvia, and how sad she'd be if that happened to Johnny.

‘She hates everybody right now. Edna needs somebody to blame for how bad things are for her. It matters to Jimmy that you know about Edna and why Jimmy lets her get her own way. It helps, I think, to know?'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘It does.'

I finish my drink and take out my pad. It gets quiet in the afternoon. Jimmy sits with Sue. I've never seen a person look at someone the way he looks at her. Seeing it makes me feel warm inside, like a little bit of that feeling has accidentally sprinkled onto me. I hope I find somebody (a boyfriend or a husband I haven't met yet), somebody who will look at me that way. I feel pleased I've found myself something to look for when I'm older, something that will make me a chooser.

Edna gets in close to me. ‘What's runaround Sue been saying?'

‘Nothing.'

‘She say anything about me?'

‘No.'

‘Ask anything about me?'

‘No.'

‘You berra not be lying.'

‘I'm not.'

‘Clear table nine now. Don't mess up.'

The last thing I want is to mess up. I have a dishcloth I'm in charge of, tables to clean, a floor to brush and I have Sue who thinks I have nice eyes.

I worry about things before they happen. Sometimes I worry and things never happen. This worry does happen. And it happens fast. After work, Mum says we're not going home because it's her birthday tomorrow, so we're getting the bus to my nan's flat.

Nan opens the door, not surprised to see Mum and me standing there. ‘Long time no see,' Mum says. She sits down on Nan's settee and looks around the living room. Nan sits in her straight-backed chair by the radio.

‘I can guess what you want,' she says.

‘Who says I want anything?'

‘There's a drop of lemonade, Robyn, in the kitchen if you want some.'

I get up and pour myself half a glass of lemonade. Nan buys it in for her port. It must have been there a while; without the fizz it tastes like sugar and water. From the living room I hear Mum's voice. ‘Don't bite my head off.' More words from Mum that I can't make out and Nan says, ‘Oh, is that right?' I root around in Nan's kitchen drawers. The stirrup pain is worse now, but Mum says I've got to keep them in because they look a disgrace
hanging out. I find a pair of scissors, roll off my leggings and cut the tab in half. I'll tell Mum they ripped. I put them back on. The tabs flap either side of my ankles like ears. I put the scissors back in the drawer on top of a pink envelope with
Babs
written on it.