Disappearing Home (22 page)

I could go and see Jimmy. To ask him if I could still have a job. If Mum found out, she'd go mad. Jimmy will be tuning the radio to listen to the game right now. Edna will roll her eyes when she comes back from the toilet. It will have eased off, the rush. Edna will fill the mop bucket; glide the sweet flowery smell across the floor. One or two cakes will be left sitting in the glass cabinet, maybe a chocolate éclair and a jam doughnut. She'll check the tables and shout my name to clear the one left behind on purpose. Jimmy will catch my eye and send me a smile.

I think of my dad somewhere inside that massive crowd enjoying the game with his new kids. I think of Jimmy's sign above the till in his café:
NO MISTAKES CAN BE RECTIFIED AFTER YOU LEAVE.

*

We walk around the playground. Rose wraps her scarf across her mouth. The air stinks of smoke from the fireworks and bonfires that were lit last night. I wasn't allowed out. Mum and Dad had no money to go to the pub. I could see the bonfire in the big square from my bedroom window. Gangs of kids had been collecting for weeks; a settee, chairs, stained mattresses, doors without handles. I watched the low heap grow into a high tower. A crowd stood around it, watched the flames stretch up towards the sky. Bernie was there; I could make out his shape in the crowd. Ged beside him, Johnny in front sitting in the pram waving a sparkler. In the dark, the flames lit up the square orange.

Mandy got her monitor badge taken off her, but they are allowed back on the playground. They sit on steps where the teacher on duty can keep an eye on them. Nobody is allowed to go behind the wall. The punishment will be six of the best.

It's cold. Rose keeps her hands inside her pockets. ‘Want to come to a disco on Friday?' she asks.

‘A disco?'

‘You know, dancing.'

‘Where?'

‘Walton Youth Centre.'

‘Where's that?'

‘You know Timpson's shoe shop, on County Road?'

My face turns red. ‘Yes.'

‘Just across the road from there.'

‘Okay. Who's going?'

‘Me, you, our Rita, Anne, Paula and Linda, our Rita's mates.'

‘What time?'

‘Seven, on Friday; it's fifty pence. You live in Tommy Whites, don't you? We'll knock up about half six. What number is it?'

‘Erm, I think I'm in my nan's Friday. Why don't I meet you at the disco?'

‘Oh, okay then.'

I never speak about home like the other kids do. They talk about holidays they're going on to Butlin's, or in a caravan, things they laugh at on telly with Mum or Dad, the new bedside lamp and table in the bedroom. I nod as if I know. In this school I want to keep them thinking I'm like them. If I don't talk about it, I can keep my home life invisible. The way to stop them knowing about me is to listen and nod and say
I know.

I
t's dark inside. The music is loud and the dance floor is full of girls dancing and twirling to the rhythm. Rose waves at me from across the hall. She grabs my wrist, pulls me over to meet her Rita. ‘All right, Robyn,' Rita says. Rita looks like a mum in lipstick and high heels. She sits on a low stool next to the man who plays the records. He has a spiky beard growing on his chin. I can smell shampoo and soap.

‘Come on, let's go,' Rose says. She pulls me onto the dance floor. We are the only two dancing. It's not long before two other girls get up. I watch what Rose does and copy her. Red, blue, green and orange lights flash across the walls. The music is so loud I can feel it like thumps trapped inside my chest. Rose looks great. She wears blue jeans with a green checked shirt. Her hair is loose to her shoulders, bouncy fringe. I sing along to every song that comes on.

‘How do you know all the words?' Rose shouts.

‘From where I worked,' I shout back, but I don't think she hears. Rose points over to a boy standing by a wall.

‘The boys don't get up until the end for the slowys.'

Skinny boys stand like smudges against the wall; some tap their feet along to the beat. Others point at a girl and snigger.

‘What time does it end?'

‘Nine. It's worth staying, though, especially if the talent's good.'

‘Talent?'

‘The boys.'

I can't stay until the end. Dad said I've got to be home for eight.

Rose is close to my ear. ‘Don't look, but see that lad in the blue jumper, he's staring holes through you.'

I turn and look for the jumper. ‘Bet he gets you up for a slowy at the end.' She grins.

It takes fifteen minutes to get home. I have to leave at a quarter to eight the latest. I don't know what to say to Rose. She's got my wrist. ‘Come on, let's get a drink.' In another room, there's a man behind a hatch selling crisps and drinks. Rose squeezes coins out of her jeans pocket. She slaps them on the counter. ‘An orange cup drink and a packet of cheese and onion please, mate.' She turns to me. ‘Want anything?'

I shake my head. There's a big clock up on the wall. It's only twenty past seven, I've got loads of time. A woman wearing white bib-and-brace jeans asks the man for a mop. ‘Somebody's been sick in the toilets,' she says.

We go back to the dance floor. The sound of the music is fantastic. More people fill the floor, the room gets warmer and warmer. Rose's fringe is stuck to her face. The room stinks of sweat and bleach. When a song ends we start to walk off the dance floor. Another begins and Rose pulls me back on again. ‘I love this one,' she says. Finally, I get her to come with me for a drink. I glance up at the clock. Ten to eight. Clutching my stomach, I turn to Rose. ‘I feel sick,' I say.

‘You can't go yet. The slowys haven't been on.'

I start to walk away. ‘I said I feel sick and, anyway, the talent's crap.'

Outside the air is cold and I can see my breath ahead of me. I leg it to the number 25 bus stop, looking back every few seconds. There's no sign of it. I feel for the penny in my pocket in case it comes. At the bottom of St Domingo Road I take a rest at the bus stop. It's well gone eight by now. I'll get killed when I get in. They'll never let me out again. Behind me there's no sign of a bus. I walk as fast as I can up the hill. Get to our front door and knock. There's no answer. I knock louder. ‘They went out, couple of hours ago,' Mrs Naylor shouts from further along the landing. I slide down against the wall, the step cold on my bum, get my breath back and wait.

A few minutes later they're back from the pub. ‘I've been waiting here for ages,' I lie.

Mrs Naylor's behind them, she nods a head towards me. ‘She's only just arrived.'

I stare at Mrs Naylor, eyes big.

‘What?' Dad says.

‘She's lying.'

Dad narrows his eyes at me.

The air tastes like paper in my mouth.

Mum lights a cigarette, walks over to Mrs Naylor, blows smoke in her face. ‘You shut the fuck up.'

Mrs Naylor backs away, heads towards her own front door. Mum follows after her. I hear the front door slam shut. Mum kicks the door, bang bang bang, opens Mrs Naylor's letterbox and shouts through it. ‘You want to mind your own business.'

Mum's standing on our step. Mrs Naylor comes back out, shouts over at us. ‘And she's a big hit with the lads.'

Dad's face turns white. ‘The what?'

‘She's had that queer heel in from the back square, and his brother and the lads I haven't seen. There's no way I'd allow a granddaughter of mine to walk the streets with lads.' She looks at Dad. ‘Not doing a very good job with her, are you?'

Mum says, ‘What's it to you? You're not keeping her.'

Dad shouts at Mrs Naylor. ‘No, I'm the only gobshite doing that. Cheeky bastard.'

Mum's face is in Mrs Naylor's face. She makes her voice small. ‘You're not likely to know any granddaughter of yours, seeing as your only son wants fuck all to do with you. In fact, you wouldn't recognize her even if she was standing under that big fat nose.'

Inside, I go straight to my room. He follows me, pushes his face into mine. ‘Don't open the door, I said.' His lips move but his teeth are clamped shut.

‘I didn't.'

‘Liar. You're a fucking whore. Sneaky little cow.'

‘Naylor's the liar. Robyn's only eleven, for fuck's sake …'

‘Since day one I took her on, and now she repays you with
whoring
.'

‘Go to bed, have a lie down.'

‘Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up. Thinking I wouldn't find out, people looking at me like I've done something wrong, getting that shit thrown in my face.'

Mum grabs his arm to get him away from me. ‘Nobody's lookin' at you.'

‘Me, left with somebody else's shit.'

‘C'mon, I've got a bottle of beer in the kitchen. C'mon.'

Mum's face looks pinched. She pulls him out of my room. I can hear them arguing in the other room. Dad saying I'm more trouble than I'm worth. My body flops down onto the bed. Curled up in a ball, I wrap the pillow around my ears to drown out the noise.
The tears run down my face, make dark spots on the candy-striped sheets. I try hard to think of a safe place I could go to before it's too late. I can tell by the way he looked at me, by the way he spoke, that if Mum wasn't here, he'd have murdered me tonight. No more messing about. I have to get out of here. I need to be the one in charge of me.

On Monday in school Rose tells me the boy with the blue jumper got her up for a slowy. She tells me how he must have been staring at her all along and not me.

‘To be honest,' I say, ‘I couldn't care less.'

Angela and two other girls walk over to us. They all wear pink lipstick and blue mascara. Angela has a pad and a pen in her hand. ‘I'm collecting,' she says, ‘for Mrs O'Connor's Christmas present.' She shows me and Rose a list of names, some have ticks next to them. She taps a finger at my name. ‘You get a tick every time you pay and you get to sign the card.'

Rose hands Angela coins from her pocket. ‘I've got my snack money. Take that towards it.'

Angela drops it into a purse, puts a tick next to Rose's name. She turns to me. ‘I'll bring something tomorrow,' I say.

‘Make sure you do, ugly.'

Angela and her two friends walk away giggling.

‘Bitch,' Rose says too loud.

I burst out laughing.

Rose grins, shouts even louder. ‘Smarmy little bitch.'

Angela turns around, with the other two girls, walks back to where we stand. She puts her face in mine. ‘What did you just say?'

I look at Rose then back to Angela. ‘Bitch,' I say. ‘Smarmy little bitch.'

Rose giggles.

Angela hands her pad and pen to one of the girls. She turns back to me, rolls up her sleeves. ‘Don't get me started you, you ugly robbing little cow.'

Hit them before they hit you, Nan says.

I ball my hands into fists. Feel the crack of her jaw on my knuckles. She goes down moaning. One of the other girls punches me hard near my eye. Rose is all over her like a bear, drags her hair down to the floor. The other girl with the pad clears off across the playground. Two teachers drag all four of us down to Mrs Bullock's office. ‘This is a school for girls,' one of them yells. ‘First-year girls, behaving like a gang of football hooligans.'

While we are waiting Rose says, ‘How come she called you a robbing cow?'

I feel like somebody has lifted up my skirt and stared at my knickers. ‘Dunno,' I say. ‘I found a pencil in our old school and she said it belonged to her.'

‘Tight cow,' Rose says out of the corner of her mouth.

Mrs Bullock tells us to line up next to each other. She takes the cane out of her desk, uses it to push up under our hands until all eight of them are on the same level. Steam rises from a cup on the desk, a thin smudge of red around the rim.

I'd forgotten how much that first sting hurts and the slow burning sensation that follows, finally the tingling numbness. None of us cries. We have to stand and listen to her rant on and on. I hear none of it. All I can think about is thick green spit spreading across lips, and getting my hands under a cold tap.

It's three weeks before Christmas, a Saturday morning, when I find Angela sitting on the bottom of our block. At first I go to walk right past her. ‘Robyn,' she says. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?'

I walk across our square away from her. She runs after me. ‘Please, Robyn, I need a favour.' We walk down St Domingo Road together. ‘It's the money, for Mrs O'Connor, I've lost it.'

‘Liar; you mean you've spent it.'

‘I have not. Well, I just borrowed a bit for make-up and stuff. I was putting it back but then I borrowed another bit and …'

‘You've spent the lot?'

‘About thirty-five pence left.'

‘Out of how much?'

‘About two.'

‘Pounds?'

She nods. I walk down St Domingo Road. She catches up. I walk my fastest. She keeps up with me. ‘Please, Robyn.' She takes a handful of coins out of her pocket. ‘You can have what I've got left. I'll get expelled,' she says. ‘You know what Bullock's like.'

‘So?'

‘Could you get her something worth about two pounds?'

‘So you want me, an ugly robbing little cow, to rob something for you?'

‘I still have the vanity case.'

I stop. ‘What?'

‘You can play with the vanity case.'

I can't help it. I laugh in her face.

‘Have the vanity case. You can keep it.'

I laugh louder.

She looks away. ‘It doesn't matter. It was a stupid idea.' She walks away, back up St Domingo Road. I think about the time I went to visit Lizzie in Formby, and that horrible empty feeling in my stomach.

‘Angela,' I shout. ‘Okay, I'll do it as long as you come with me.'