Disappearing Home (26 page)

I pack my stuff inside two carrier bags, leave the bits Jackie gave me behind in the airing cupboard. Back in the living room I turn to Mum. ‘If you take me back to Tommy Whites, I'll knife that bastard. I mean it. Then I'll run away again and you'll never find me.'

Mum says nothing.

‘I know he's not my dad. Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Who told you?'

‘That doesn't matter.'

‘I'll make some tea.' Jackie walks into the kitchen and closes the door.

‘I was going to tell you in a couple of years.'

‘Why didn't you marry my real dad?'

‘I thought he didn't want to marry me. He knew I was pregnant with you and he was in the army. I wrote to him, but he didn't reply.'

‘Why?'

She shakes her head. ‘I don't know. I suppose he got cold feet or something. He asked me to give him a year to think things over.'

‘But he came back before that?'

‘He came back when it was too late.'

‘Why didn't you wait and talk to him before you got married?'

‘I would have been left on the shelf, Robyn. That's what everyone expected when he never came back. Nobody wants somebody else's cast-off with a kid on board as well. I saw an opportunity for us and I took it. Sometimes you have to take whatever you can get.'

‘But you must have liked him.'

‘I did. We had a laugh when we went out. I met him in a pub in town by Lime Street, the Legs of Man it was called. We met while he was on leave from the army. He had his own flat on County Road. We'd sit there some nights watching telly. He took me to the pictures, took me dancing. Your nan thought he was great. I thought he was great. It all happened so fast, the pregnancy and everything, and I think he panicked, said he needed some time to think. I don't regret meeting him. When I had you they wanted to take you away somewhere, they said you'd be better off. I told them I was keeping you. I caused murder on that maternity ward, told the bastard nurse that tried to take you from me to fuck off. I don't regret keeping you. I'll never regret keeping you.'

‘Does Mrs Naylor know about me?'

She shakes her head. ‘I know Bob didn't say a word. When I met him, he told me he had nothing to do with her. And I certainly didn't tell her. She's a nosy cow, though, so who knows?' Mum squashes her fag into the saucer and stands up ready to go. What surprises me is how my mum put up with the way he treated her. I'm still stunned that she didn't find a way to get away from him. When I ask her why she stayed, her answer sounds so simple. Mum said she had nowhere else to go. If she left and he found her she didn't have a doubt in her mind that he'd kill her.

Jackie opens the front door wide. ‘You can come and visit me any time, Robyn. I'd like you to.'

I don't answer. Mum takes one of my bags, presses the silver button and we wait for the lift. When it comes I turn around. Jackie smiles at me. I don't smile back. On the way to the bus stop I walk close to the walls, away from Mum. I look up, see Jackie's face at the window, her hand waving me goodbye. I stop. How could
I ignore her? She knows stuff about me. She knows my favourite colour is sky blue and my favourite soap is Palmolive. She knows I like all the windows open, she knows who scares me most in the world. She was even going to take me to see her Dave. I drop my bag to the floor, lift both hands high and wave back.

I wake up in the hostel on Christmas Eve next to my mum. The room feels smaller than I remember. I get up and look out of the window. It's foggy outside. I can hear the thud of footsteps above my head. Kids racing all around the place shouting, the heavy smell of bacon from the kitchen reminds me of Jimmy's Café. Mum is still asleep.

Wearing the clothes she got me in Greaty Market I go back to the window. The fog is lifting. Lines and lines of tall trees behind a low wall. The branches are bare; without leaves to soften them they look dead to me.

Seeing these trees makes me think of the picture of the little boy, in Nan's room, the boy who died wanting to be like everybody else. If I'd have stayed in Tommy Whites with Mum and Dad like kids are supposed to I would have died.

Downstairs I stand next to Carmel at the cooker. It feels warm against my belly. Carmel cracks an egg into the frying pan. She has a white shirt on and silver tinsel tied up in her hair. She looks like the Angel Gabriel. A few little kids I don't know sit around the big table singing, ‘Jingle bells, batman smells, Robyn flew away.' Carmel catches my eye and we both laugh. I pick up a fork and push holes into the pink sausages. Carmel says, ‘Can you cook?'

‘I can cook bacon, sausages, eggs and scouse.'

The doorbell rings.

‘Here you go,' she says, handing me the spatula. ‘Knock yourself out.'

I stand over the pan, push the sausages about, flick them over onto the other side; a bit of fat spits out of the pan onto the top of my hand and I whisper
shit 'n' hell.
Behind me the kids giggle.

When the kitchen door opens I can see her behind Carmel. Blue-eyed May, stick in her hand, legs half-past five on a clock. I drop everything, throw my arms around her, squeeze her a little bit too hard and she squeezes me back a little bit too hard. ‘Let me look at you, Robyn. Still as thin as a straw. I missed you.' She traces her finger across my T-shirt and says, ‘Three Blind Mice.' I am amazed. Nan laughs. ‘My new friend Eddie is teaching me. You can meet him if you promise not to disappear again.'

M
um takes me to Margy's new place. She lives on the first floor. It's like Tommy Whites, but it's called Kent Gardens. With a black marker somebody has changed the K in Kent to a B. The pavements are filled with kids. A few play on tricycles and scooters. Most of the boys are playing football. ‘Maybe we can get a place here, near Margy?' Mum says. The stairs stink of sweet disinfectant and piss.

I try to imagine living here with Mum. It looks like Tommy Whites but the heads above landings and the kids playing out don't interest me and I don't interest them. In Tommy Whites every square knows me, knows the feel of my shoes on its tarmac, remembers the patterns my bike tyres made on concrete, the slap of rubber against brick from playing two balls, the sound of my voice shouting up to Bernie's landing. My marks are all over it and its marks are inside my head, my body.

Late afternoon, Margy has the bare light bulb on in the living room. It's a dull, faded white. From under the table she pulls a tucked-away leg out to make the table bigger. ‘Sit down. I'll make a pot of tea.'

The place is a mess. Muddy socks pushed inside black pumps, paper bags still unpacked with holes torn out of the sides. Somebody has ripped strips off half of the brown wallpaper, but left the rest untouched. Through the torn parts you can see what was there before and it looks better than what's there now. I can see a gold leaf pattern. The lino has cigarette burns all over it. The fire's not lit and the room feels cold. Mum sits in the straight-backed chair and takes out her cigarettes. Margy brings in the tea and Mum passes her a fag. Margy looks around the room, lets out a breath and says, ‘You know, Babs, I can't think where to start.' Her eyes fill with tears.

‘You start where that bastard finished,' Mum says. ‘You start here, with your kids and your new place.' Mum rests her cigarette on the side of the ashtray. Margy's face is down low, tears plop onto her blue skirt, cigarette unlit between her fingers. I look at Mum and expect to be given the eye to leave but she is staring straight at Margy. She takes the unlit cigarette, lights it off her own and hands it to Margy.

‘If it wasn't for my kids I'd go under, Babs. They're the reason I get up every morning.'

‘He hasn't been around here, has he?'

‘No.'

‘Then what is it?'

‘He's not handing over a penny. A decent wage he's on in that barber's shop and tips on top.'

‘Take the bastard to court. Rita Fairbrother did it when Terry Dyer denied that her Brian was his, made him get tests and everything. He had to pay up when the judge ordered him to.'

‘I can't be bothered with it all, Babs; don't want nothing to do with him. I mean, the one he's with now, let's face it, I wouldn't be surprised if she's already got one in the oven.'

‘Oh, fuckin' hell.'

‘I know. So where would that leave me?'

‘He can still pay something to you. You've got four mouths to feed.'

Margy leaves her fag burning in the ashtray, gets up and goes into the kitchen. I can hear the swish of a tap. She comes back into the room, rubs her face with a towel.

‘I'd get a job, but there's nobody to mind the kids.'

‘What about your mum?'

‘Her health's bad. I wouldn't leave the twins with her. She couldn't cope.'

‘There must be somebody you could ask. Even a little cleaning job would do for a couple of hours a night.'

‘I'd have to pay that somebody, Babs. They wouldn't mind them for nothing.'

‘Yes but you'd have more than you have now. Once you get to know the people on your block I'm sure you'll find someone. Don't worry.'

It makes me feel good to hear my mum talk like this. To see her helping somebody else put all the pieces back together again. But there is something so angry about her, like it's trying to burst out of her skin but can't. Whatever it is I'm glad she can keep it back.

Margy gets up and looks out of the window. ‘They'll be in soon for their tea. I haven't had time to …'

‘I saw a chippy on the way up here, right opposite.' Mum takes a pound note out of her purse and hands it to me. ‘Run over for us. Get two portions of chips and a loaf. Plenty of salt and vinegar and a bottle of lemo for the kids.'

Margy gives Mum a smile.

When I get to the bottom of the block I bump into Margy's kids. They have a look in their eyes that I have seen in my own and
in my mum's. It's called scared. Scared is when a little bit of you falls out and shows itself to the whole world. It makes me feel warm in a strange way to see it in somebody else's eyes. ‘You're having chips for tea,' I say, like chips will take all the bad things away. ‘And lemonade.'

We stay at Margy's for a couple of hours. I take the kids out on the step with some marbles in a dented tobacco tin. We play for a bit but it gets cold so we go into the bedroom and make a den out of the mattresses on the floor. We pretend the enemy are coming and make sounds like guns. We fight them off with fake swords and high kicks and loud noises. After a while the twins get restless and start to cry for Margy. She says they are tired and Mum says it's about time we got the bus back to the hostel.

‘Listen,' Mum says. ‘We'll have a night out. We'll go to the pictures or something in a couple of weeks. Maybe nip somewhere nice for a drink after and a little bit of rock ‘n' roll?'

Margy shushes one of the twins in her arms. ‘Rock ‘n' roll, me? I don't think so, Babs.'

‘You're coming and that's that.' Mum looks at me. ‘Robyn can mind the kids for a couple of hours.'

I say nothing.

There's nobody at the bus stop and the roads are empty. We sit at the front of the bus and look out of the window.

I'd like to go somewhere nice with Mum, maybe to New Brighton or Southport for the day. I get up and sit away from her on a seat by myself. I don't want to mind the stupid kids. I hope we never go to Margy's again.

M
um opens her make-up bag, takes out her compact and looks into the mirror. The glass steams up with her breath; she rubs away a smudge with toilet roll, then presses powder onto her face. She wears a black and white flared skirt and a black shirt. Her hair is loose in curls to her shoulders, lips pillar-box red. She steps into her slingbacks, pushes money into a black clutch bag. I follow her downstairs. In the kitchen she tells Carmel we'll be staying out tonight, at Margy's. Outside on the road Mum pulls a taxi and says, ‘Kent Gardens, mate,' to the driver.

Mum has a new job in a chippy down the road from the hostel. She works every night except tonight, Saturday. Sometimes she brings pies home and big bags of warm chips. She puts them on the kitchen table and Carmel shares them between the kids. They have started to wait for her on the step, but sometimes when they've been extra busy, she brings nothing. She smells of greasy chips and vinegar. Carmel says the housing have a place for us to look at. Mum says we can go as soon as she gets the keys.

Margy's kids are in bed when we get there. Finger on her lips, she shushes Mum's kitten heels.

Margy turns to me. ‘I tired them out for you, love, had them in the park all day. Run themselves right out of puff. You shouldn't hear a peep. Had to sit there all day in me rollers.'

She looks different, younger, in a shiny gold dress and gold high heels. Her hair pinned up on top in waves, creamy peach lips. Margy has new false teeth. ‘I got you a magazine.' She goes into the kitchen. ‘Here it is. Some teenage girls left it on a bench so I picked it up for you.'

‘Thanks.'

‘If the twins wake up give them a drink of water and take them back to bed. Lie next to them until they drop off. It won't take long if you stroke dead light on their foreheads in swirls, sends them right off again.'

Mum heads for the door. ‘She's not soft, Margy. Come on, it's half eight now. We'll have to skip the flicks.'

‘Oh and if anyone knocks, don't open the door.'

Not even for the devil himself.

Margy doesn't have a telly so I read the magazine over and over until my eyes begin to sting. I check in on the kids twice but they're fast asleep.

I must have fallen asleep for a bit because Margy has to shake me. ‘Have they been all right for you?' Margy's lips are red, her breath smoky and dry on my face. ‘Did they wake up?'