Disappearing Home (16 page)

Nan shouts. ‘Don't start this malarkey with me, coming in here on your high horse. You should be ashamed of yourself, supporting a lazy good-for-nothing like him. He should be shot.'

‘You don't have to say I disappoint you. I can hear the sting in your voice.'

‘You're not disappointing me, you're disappointing yourself. Giving money over, paying him, for what? It's backwards …'

‘You'd rather I stayed on the shelf, damaged goods.'

‘You're on a shelf, not the one you jumped off, but a shelf all the same. You just couldn't wait, could you? The problem was Jack spoiled you. You got everything you wanted at the click of a finger and it's done you no good.'

‘Nothing I ever did was any good. Picking at the way I did my hair, when I see the way you are with Robyn … I only did my hair so you'd say I looked nice. You didn't have the time. My dad always made time for me.'

‘Robyn needs to know the truth about her dad.'

‘What's that got to do with anything? I'll tell her, when she's old enough.'

I can hear the shish of a match being struck. Smell Mum's smoke drift into the kitchen. Mum turns on Nan.

‘You've got a cheek. What about your own daughter? It's once a year a birthday, you tight cow.'

I move closer to the door.

‘And rearing a child's for life. I told you that when you chose to keep her, told you what it'd be like for a bastard.'

I sit down on a chair in Nan's kitchen. Mum had a choice about whether or not to keep me. Mum chose to keep me even though I was born a bastard. I remember she told that woman in the flat I was a bastard just before she threw up. I thought it was just a swear word, but it's more than that. It must be. When I was born, they saw me and saw that I was a bastard. They saw something about me that every bastard has.

Nan has a mirror on her windowsill. I look carefully at my face. Two eyes, a nose and a mouth, all in the right place. A few freckles on my nose, dark hair, lots of people have dark hair, a pink tongue. I'm tall for my age, but so are plenty of people. I take off my shoes and socks and look at my toes. My second toe is much longer than my first. Am I different because of my toes? Bastards have freaky toes. I didn't know you could give babies away just because of the size of their second toes. Nan said it means I'm going to be a ballet dancer; she must've said that so I wouldn't find out what it really means.

‘You'd have been happy to let me stay on my own; a reject on a shelf. And Robyn would have had a dog's life from the other kids, skitting her. Yes, you can call him a lazy good-for-nothing, but at least he didn't run away once he found out I had a kid.'

‘That man only wanted a bit of time to think things over, but no, that was too much for you, wasn't it?'

‘A bit of time? When it really mattered, he didn't wanna know. He made his choice and I had to act fast. I had to put Robyn first. No other fucker did. They weren't exactly queuing up to marry me. I was lucky to get him. If it was up to you I'd never have married. You just wanted me to live with you, be on my own like you, look after you, you jealous cow. Wear a keeper's ring. Have every nosy fucker in Tommy Whites feel sorry for me because I
couldn't keep a man. Well, I showed you, showed the lot of you. You wouldn't understand.'

‘I know what it's like to be on your own. When Jack was away in the army …'

‘That's different. My dad
had
to leave.'

‘I don't care what you say; he's no man, taking a kid's deposit for a school trip.'

‘How do you know about that?'

‘Never mind how I know, but I know you're not happy.'

‘I'm happy enough now you've left. Robyn, get in here, now,' Mum shouts.

Nan shouts back at her. ‘Liar, you're not happy. I'd rather have a thief than a liar. Any woman with half a brain would leave.'

‘I won't give up and run away, not without trying.'

I walk in from the kitchen.

Mum stands. ‘We're going. And if I ever find out you've been down here, I'll kill you, understand? You had no right.'

Nan stands up. ‘No,
he
had no right,' she says, pointing her stick at Mum, ‘and you letting him. Get out. It wouldn't bother me if I never set eyes on you again.'

We leave. Mum looks back, sees Nan on the step, shouts at her. ‘Nice mother you are, not even a fucking birthday card, you tight cow.'

Nan is in the street shouting after us. ‘Robyn, you're welcome down here any time, love. Any time at all.'

I have to run to keep up, stirrups flapping up and down like wings at my ankles. ‘What the fuck have you done to them?' Mum says when she sees them.

‘They're all the go, them, Babs,' I want to say, but don't. We walk home without saying another word. Mum lights one cigarette after the other, stabs me with her sideways glances. I don't care.
She can bounce me off every lamp post on Scotland Road if she likes. She could have given me away, but she never. That's all that matters now.

Mum buys a bag of chips and a loaf. We get back home, but Dad isn't in. Mum checks the mantelpiece for money; it's empty. I go to the toilet. When I get back in the room Mum has Nan's picture outside the gilt frame, cuts it in half with the scissors. ‘I'll show her.' I hear the front door slam and I know she's gone to throw it down the chute.

Mum dishes up the chips with two slices of thin bread and margarine. We eat at the table with a knife and fork. Top the chips with a blob of Daddies brown sauce. We're halfway through when the front door slams. Mum's face lights up. It's Dad, drunk. Not wobbly can't-stand-up drunk; just drunk. He sits in his chair. ‘Want some chips?' Mum says.

No answer.

Mum looks at me. Eyes tell me to leave the room.

I stay where I am. Pretend I haven't seen.

He sits in his chair, strums the wooden arms with
LOVE HATE
fingers, dark eyes on Mum. ‘Where's my fucking box gone from under the sink?'

Mum shakes her head. ‘Don't ask me.'

‘What about her?' he asks Mum, nodding at me.

‘Robyn, you know anything about the box?'

‘No.'

He stands up.

Mum puts down her bread.

He walks towards her.

Mum stands, picks up the knife from her plate.

He grabs her wrist, twists it hard; bangs it again and again against the table.

I jump up from my seat and run at him.

I punch him in the mouth, feel his teeth scrape my knuckles. I scream at him to leave her alone. He gets me in the face with his elbow. My eyes fill with water. I can't see properly. He forces Mum to the floor by the hair. She still has hold of the knife. Mum is screaming at him, ‘I'll kill you, you bastard.' I jump on his back, pound my fist into his neck. He pushes me off. I fall back against the table, grab hold of the cloth. Everything falls to the floor. I get back up but he's got the knife. I step towards him. He points the knife too close to my face. ‘Try it, you little bastard,' he says, ‘I'll slice right through you.' Mum is back up. She twists his face in her fingers. He bites her hand, she screams; he knees her in the stomach; she falls to the floor and that's when he kicks her in the face. Blood seeps from her nose, mouth. Seeing the blood is what makes him stop. He throws the knife on the floor and runs out of the room, slams the front door shut.

I help her up. There's blood all over her clothes. She's still bleeding from her nose. It won't stop. Dots of red all over the brown lino, they splat out around the edges like tiny explosions. She holds her stomach and cries out with the pain. I run to the bathroom, wet a towel; she dabs away the blood. ‘Get my fags, girl,' she says. ‘And put the latch on the front door and the bolt. That bastard's not getting back in.'

I lock and bolt the front door. Give Mum her fags and matches. Her hands shake. I take the matches off her, strike one and light her cigarette. ‘You all right, Mum?'

She nods.

I pick the mess up from the floor. Take everything out into the kitchen. I spread the tablecloth back over the table. I don't cover the holes. Some of them have torn so bad they've become part of another hole, a much bigger one that's difficult to cover.
Through it I can see dark wood. It looks like a dirty pool of water inside the white of the cloth. It looks like something that shouldn't be seen.

‘Leave that, Robyn, go to bed,' Mum says. ‘Everything's going to be all right.'

I slide the knife that Dad dropped under my pillow. I open the bedroom window and stick my head outside, feel sweat cool on my skin, take in a deep breath and blink away the tears I don't want to come. I feel them burn hot down my face. When it gets cold I close the window, unhook all of the coats in the hall, lie on top of the bed and cover myself up. In the dark, shadows play tricks by the window. I think I see Chris, tap, tapping the side of his nose.
Come on now, Robyn. It's all right, you're made of strong stuff, strong, like Granddad Jack.
And I wish my dad could have died instead of Chris.

‘H
e fell on his arse outside the Stanley last night,' Nellie says. ‘A couple of the lads tried to help him up, but he was swinging punches at them. In the end they stopped trying.'

Mum touches her face, squints her eyes with the pain.

‘You need to get the Bobbies involved, Babs, in case he tries it again. The likes of him will try it again. Next time, you might not be so lucky.'

Mum nods. ‘I'll sort it.' She opens her fags and lights one, leans her head back on the settee and blows the smoke high; it touches the ceiling.

‘It looks bad,' Nellie says.

‘I'll put make-up on now. It'll be fine.'

‘A bucket of panstick wouldn't hide that lot.'

Nellie's right. Mum's eyes, cheeks and one side of her lip are swollen. Nellie fusses around in the kitchen making Mum a cup of tea. She comes back into the living room. ‘Mark my words, by the time that kettle boils, the whole of Tommy Whites will know.'

‘Let them know, nosy fuckers. I'll announce it on the landing so there's no need for talk.'

Nellie goes back into the kitchen.

Mum turns to me. ‘We'll find our own place, just me and you. A little flat somewhere, maybe in the South end, where he won't find us.'

I nod. Everything is going to be all right.

Nellie comes in the living room with the hot tea. She takes something from her pinny pocket. ‘Here, Babs, take this couple of quid and go out for the day. New Brighton's nice on a Sunday.'

‘Ahh, thanks, love. You sure?' Mum says. ‘At least somebody's being nice to me on my birthday.'

Nellie smiles at me. ‘Get yourself washed and dressed, Robyn. You and your mum are going out.'

Nellie nods at Mum. ‘Give yourself time to think.'

Mum takes me to New Brighton on the ferry. We have to queue for ages to get on board. Mum walks slow, rubs her side, her belly, catches her breath. People are all dressed up; babies gleam inside blue prams, some with Silver Cross written on the side. The wind out on the river whips up hair, skirts have to be kept down with both hands. A man holds down a flat cap, tries to light his cigarette against the wind. He ends up sliding a door across and going inside a room with benches.

With her make-up spread on too thick, Mum's skin looks like a smudged chalk drawing hung on the wall in Miss Fennel's class. Two women pushing prams nudge each other, give Mum sideways glances, crinkle their noses and say
ahhh.
I look away, hope Mum doesn't see or she'll go for them.

We walk along the front. The sun makes the top of the water sparkle. I'd like to cut out a piece of it, make a twinkly tablecloth to cover the dark holes.

Men with yellow and red buckets and spades at their feet hold up pinwheels, which spin and whirr in the wind. I can smell onions and fish and chips and it makes me hungry. Mum is quiet. She smokes more and more fags, asks me if I want something to eat. We queue for curry and chips. Mum takes out another fag while I eat, flicks ash to the ground everywhere we walk, like a trail for somebody to follow. She picks one or two chips out of my tray, dips them in the curry and blows on them before she eases them in to the good side of her mouth.

‘Take another,' I say.

She shakes her head, takes out her fags.

She pays for me to go on the bumper cars and the carousel. I watch Mum sit on a bench and smoke. A couple walk by holding hands and Mum's head goes down so I can't see her eyes. On the way back to the ferry she buys me an ice cream with raspberry sauce. It drips down the inside of my wrist like blood. I lick it away before Mum sees. On the ferry home she catches a woman arm in arm with a man staring over at her. ‘Want a fucking picture?' Mum says. We glare at them until they look away.

After school the next day Mum is waiting at the gate. She has two Kwik Save carrier bags full of clothes. ‘I've found somewhere for us to stay,' she says. ‘Come on, I'll show you.'

She takes me on the number 25 bus. When we get off we walk for ages. There are no flats like Tommy Whites here, just tall houses with massive windows and doors. Some of the windows have no net curtains, so you can see right in. I have already seen a man through one of the windows, sitting at a piano.

There are lots and lots of trees, rising up out of the concrete in a line along the streets, as well as front gardens. Around here, even on the streets, it smells different, like Stanley Park.

After a while Mum stops at a house. I put my fingers on the tall metal gate and it feels rough; there is dark orange stuff inside the twists. Mum puts the carrier bags down, lights a cigarette. For a long time we just stand at the gate. Mum picks the bags up again and pushes open the gate.

The front door looks like a gigantic bar of chocolate. It has a gold knocker and a gold knob on the middle. The woman who opens the door has a baby in her arms. She takes us through a huge hallway with black and white tiles on the floor. Some of the tiles have cracks in them and edges missing. If I'd been born in a house like this I'd never go out.